by José Rizal
Basilio went on with his projects, talking with the confidence of achild. Sisa said yes to everything. But little by little sleep cameback to the child's lids, and this time he did not cry in his dreams:that Ole-Luk-Oie, of whom Andersen tells us, unfurled over his headthe umbrella with its lining of gay pictures. But the mother, pastthe age of careless slumbers, did not sleep.
XVI.
AT THE MANSE.
It was seven o'clock when Brother Salvi finished his last mass. Hetook off his priestly robes without a word to any one.
"Look out!" whispered the sacristans; "it is going to rain fines! Andall for the fault of those children!"
The father came out of the sacristy and crossed to the manse. On theporch six or seven women sat waiting for him, and a man was walkingto and fro. The woman rose, and one bent to kiss his hand, but thepriest made such a gesture of impatience that she stopped short.
"He must have lost a real miser," she cried mockingly, when he hadpassed. "This is something unheard of: refuse his hand to the zealousSister Rufa?"
"He was not in the confessional this morning," said a toothlessold woman, Sister Sipa. "I wanted to confess, so as to get someindulgences."
"I have gained three plenary indulgences," said a young woman ofpleasing face, "and applied them all to the soul of my husband."
"You have done wrong," said Sister Rufa, "one plenary is enough;you should not squander the holy indulgences. Do as I do."
"I said to myself, the more there are the better," replied youngsister Juana, smiling; "but what do you do?"
Sister Rufa did not respond at once; she chewed her buyo, and scannedher audience attentively; at length she decided to speak.
"Well, this is what I do. Suppose I gain a year of indulgences; I say:Blessed Senor Saint Dominic, have the kindness to see if there is someone in purgatory who has need of precisely a year. Then I play headsor tails. If it falls heads, no; if tails, yes. If it falls heads,I keep the indulgence, and so I make groups of a hundred years, forwhich there is always use. It's a pity one can't loan indulgences atinterest. But do as I do, it's the best plan."
At this point Sisa appeared. She said good morning to the women,and entered the manse.
"She's gone in, let us go too," said the sisters, and they followedher.
Sisa felt her heart beat violently. She did not know what to say to thecurate in defence of her child. She had risen at daybreak, picked allthe fine vegetables left in her garden, and arranged them in a basketwith platane leaves and flowers, and had been to the river to get afresh salad of pako. Then, dressed in the best she had, the basketon her head, without waking her son, she had set out for the pueblo.
She went slowly through the manse, listening if by chance she mighthear a well-known voice, fresh and childish. But she met no one,heard nothing, and went on to the kitchen.
The servants and sacristans received her coldly, scarcely answeringher greetings.
"Where may I put these vegetables?" she asked, without showing offence.
"There--wherever you want to," replied the cook curtly.
Sisa, half-smiling, placed all in order on the table, and laid ontop the flowers and the tender shoots of the pako; then she asked aservant who seemed more friendly than the cook:
"Do you know if Crispin is in the sacristy?"
The servant looked at her in surprise.
"Crispin?" said he, wrinkling his brows; "isn't he at home?"
"Basilio is, but Crispin stayed here."
"Oh, yes, he stayed, but he ran off afterward with all sorts of thingshe'd stolen. The curate sent me to report it at the quarters. Theguards must be on their way to your house by this time."
Sisa could not believe it; she opened her mouth, but her lips movedin vain.
"Go find your children," said the cook. "Everybody sees you're afaithful woman; the children are like their father!"
Sisa stifled a sob, and, at the end of her strength, sat down.
"Don't cry here," said the cook still more roughly, "the curate is ill;don't bother him! Go cry in the street!"
The poor woman got up, almost by force, and went down the steps withthe sisters, who were still gossiping of the curate's illness. Onceon the street she looked about uncertain; then, as if from a suddenresolution, moved rapidly away.
XVII.
STORY OF A SCHOOLMASTER.
The lake, girt with hills, lies tranquil, as if it had not beenshaken by yesterday's tempest. At the first gleam of light whichwakes the phosphorescent spirits of the water, almost on the boundsof the horizon, gray silhouettes slowly take shape. These are thebarks of fishermen drawing in their nets; cascos and paraos shakingout their sails.
From a height, two men in black are silently surveying the lake. Oneis Ibarra, the other a young man of humble dress and melancholy face.
"This is the place," said the stranger, "where the gravedigger broughtus, Lieutenant Guevara and me."
Ibarra uncovered, and stood a long time as if in prayer.
When the first horror at the story of his father's desecrated gravehad passed, he had bravely accepted what could not be undone. Privatewrongs must go unavenged, if one would not add to the wrongs of thecountry: Ibarra had been trained to live for these islands, daughtersof Spain. In his country, too, a charge against a monk was a chargeagainst the Church, and Crisostomo was a loyal Catholic; if he knewhow in his mind to separate the Church from her unworthy sons, most ofhis fellow-countrymen did not. And, again, his intimate life was allhere. The last of his race, his home was his family; he loved ideally,and he loved the goddaughter of the malevolent priest. He was rich,and therefore powerful still--and he was young. Ibarra had taken uphis life again as he had found it.
His prayer finished, he warmly grasped the young man's hand.
"Do not thank me," said the other; "I owe everything to your father. Icame here unknown; your father protected me, encouraged my work,furnished the poor children with books. How far away that goodtime seems!"
"And now?"
"Ah! now we get along as best we can."
Ibarra was silent.
"How many pupils have you?"
"More than two hundred on the list--in the classes, fifty-five."
"And how is that?"
The schoolmaster smiled sadly.
"It is a long story."
"Don't think I ask from curiosity," said Ibarra. "I have thought muchabout it, and it seems to me better to try to carry out my father'sideas than to weep or to avenge his death. I wish to inspire myselfwith his spirit. That is why I ask this question."
"The country will bless your memory, senor, if you carry out thesplendid projects of your father. You wish to know the obstacles Imeet? In a word, the plan of instruction is hopeless. The childrenread, write, learn by heart passages, sometimes whole books, inCastilian, without understanding a single word. Of what use is sucha school to the children of our peasants!"
"You see the evil, what remedy do you propose?"
"I have none," said the young man; "one cannot struggle alone againstso many needs and against certain influences. I tried to remedythe evil of which I just spoke; I tried to carry out the orderof the Government, and began to teach the children Spanish. Thebeginning was excellent, but one day Brother Damaso sent for me. Iwent up immediately, and I said good-day to him in Castilian. Withoutreplying, he burst into laughter. At length he said, with a sidelongglance: 'What buenos dias! buenos dias! It's very pretty. You knowSpanish?' and he began to laugh again."
Ibarra could not repress a smile.
"You laugh," said the teacher, "and I, too, now; but I assure youI had no desire to then. I started to reply, I don't know what,but Brother Damaso interrupted:
"'Don't wear clothes that are not your own,' he said in Tagal; 'becontent to speak your own language. Do you know about Ciruela? Well,Ciruela was a master who could neither read nor write, yet he keptschool.' And he left the room, slamming the door behind him. Whatwas I to do? What could I, against him, the highest authority of thepueblo, moral
, political, and civil; backed by his order, feared by theGovernment, rich, powerful, always obeyed and believed. To withstandhim was to lose my place, and break off my career without hope ofanother. Every one would have sided with the priest. I should havebeen called proud, insolent, no Christian, perhaps even anti-Spanishand filibustero. Heaven forgive me if I denied my conscience and myreason, but I was born here, must live here, I have a mother, and Iabandoned myself to my fate, as a cadaver to the wave that rolls it."
"And you lost all hope? You have tried nothing since?"
"I was rash enough to try two more experiments, one after our changeof curates; but both proved offensive to the same authority. Sincethen I have done my best to convert the poor babies into parrots."
"Well, I have cheerful news for you," said Ibarra. "I am soon topresent to the Government a project that will help you out of yourdifficulties, if it is approved."
The school-teacher shook his head.
"You will see, Senor Ibarra, that your projects--I've heard somethingof them--will no more be realized than were mine!"
XVIII.
THE STORY OF A MOTHER.
Sisa was running toward her poor little home. She had experiencedone of those convulsions of being which we know at the hour of agreat misfortune, when we see no possible refuge and all our hopestake flight. If then a ray of light illumine some little corner,we fly toward it without stopping to question.
Sisa ran swiftly, pursued by many fears and dark presentiments. Hadthey already taken her Basilio? Where had her Crispin hidden?
As she neared her home, she saw two soldiers coming out of the littlegarden. She lifted her eyes to heaven; heaven was smiling in itsineffable light; little white clouds swam in the transparent blue.
The soldiers had left her house; they were coming away without herchildren. Sisa breathed once more; her senses came back.
She looked again, this time with grateful eyes, at the sky, furrowednow by a band of garzas, those clouds of airy gray peculiar tothe Philippines; confidence sprang again in her heart; she walkedon. Once past those dreadful men, she would have run, but prudencechecked her. She had not gone far, when she heard herself calledimperiously. She turned, pale and trembling in spite of herself. Oneof the guards beckoned her.
Mechanically she obeyed: she felt her tongue grow paralyzed, herthroat parch.
"Speak the truth, or we'll tie you to this tree and shoot you,"said one of the guards.
Sisa could do nothing but look at the tree.
"You are the mother of the thieves?"
"The mother of the thieves?" repeated Sisa, without comprehending.
"Where is the money your sons brought home last night?"
"Ah! the money----"
"Give us the money, and we'll let you alone."
"Senores," said the unhappy woman, gathering her senses again,"my boys do not steal, even when they're hungry; we are used tosuffering. I have not seen my Crispin for a week, and Basilio didnot bring home a cuarto. Search the house, and if you find a real,do what you will with us; the poor are not all thieves."
"Well then," said one of the soldiers, fixing his eyes on Sisa's,"follow us!"
"I--follow you?" And she drew back in terror, her eyes on the uniformsof the guards. "Oh, have pity on me! I'm very poor, I've nothing togive you, neither gold nor jewelry. Take everything you find in mymiserable cabin, but let me--let me--die here in peace!"
"March! do you hear? and if you don't go without making trouble,we'll tie your hands."
"Let me walk a little way in front of you, at least," she cried,as they laid hold of her.
The soldiers spoke together apart.
"Very well," said one, "when we get to the pueblo, you may. March onnow, and quick!"
Poor Sisa thought she must die of shame. There was no one on theroad, it is true; but the air? and the light? She covered her face,in her humiliation, and wept silently. She was indeed very miserable;every one, even her husband, had abandoned her; but until now shehad always felt herself respected.
As they neared the pueblo, fear seized her. In her agony she lookedon all sides, seeking some succor in nature--death in the river wouldbe so sweet. But no! She thought of her children; here was a lightin the darkness of her soul.
"Afterward," she said to herself,--"afterward, we will go to live inthe heart of the forest."
She dried her eyes, and turning to the guards:
"We are at the pueblo," she said. Her tone was indescribable; at oncea complaint, an argument, and a prayer.
The soldiers took pity on her; they replied with a gesture. Sisa wentrapidly forward, then forced herself to walk tranquilly.
A tolling of bells announced the end of the high mass. Sisa hastened,in the hope of avoiding the crowd from the church, but in vain. Twowomen she knew passed, looked at her questioningly; she bowed withan anguished smile, then, to avoid new mortifications, she fixed hereyes on the ground.
At sight of her people turned, whispered, followed with their eyes,and though her eyes were turned away, she divined, she felt, shesaw it all. A woman who by her bare head, her dress, and her mannersshowed what she was, cried boldly to the soldiers:
"Where did you find her? Did you get the money?"
Sisa seemed to have taken a blow in the face. The ground gave wayunder her feet.
"This way!" cried a guard.
Like an automaton whose mechanism is broken she turned quickly, and,seeing nothing, feeling nothing but instinct, tried to hide herself. Agate was before her; she would have entered but a voice still moreimperious checked her. While she sought to find whence the voice came,she felt herself pushed along by the shoulders. She closed her eyes,took two steps, then her strength left her and she fell.
It was the barracks. In the yard were soldiers, women, pigs, andchickens. Some of the women were helping the men mend their clothesor clean their arms, and humming ribald songs.
"Where is the sergeant?" demanded one of the guards angrily. "Hasthe alferez been informed?"
A shrug of the shoulders was the sole response; no one would takeany trouble for the poor woman.
Two long hours she stayed there, half mad, crouched in a corner,her face hidden in her hands, her hair undone. At noon the alferezarrived. He refused to believe the curate's accusations.
"Bah! monks' tricks!" said he; and ordered that the woman be releasedand the affair dropped.
"If he wants to find what he's lost," he added, "let him complain tothe nuncio! That's all I have to say."
Sisa, who could scarcely move, was almost carried out of thebarracks. When she found herself in the street, she set out as fastas she could for her home, her head bare, her hair loose, her eyesfixed. The sun, then in the zenith, burned with all his fire: not acloud veiled his resplendent disc. The wind just moved the leaves ofthe trees; not a bird dared venture from the shade of the branches.
At length Sisa arrived. Troubled, silent, she entered her poor cabin,ran all about it, went out, came in, went out again. Then she ranto old Tasio's, knocked at the door. Tasio was not there. The poorthing went back and commenced to call, "Basilio! Crispin!" standingstill, listening attentively. An echo repeating her calls, the sweetmurmur of water from the river, the music of the reeds stirred bythe breeze, were the sole voices of the solitude. She called anew,mounted a hill, went down into a ravine; her wandering eyes took asinister expression; from time to time sharp lights flashed in them,then they were obscured, like the sky in a tempest. One might have saidthe light of reason, ready to go out, revived and died down in turn.
She went back, and sat down on the mat where they had slept the nightbefore--she and Basilio--and raised her eyes. Caught in the bamboofence on the edge of the precipice, she saw a piece of Basilio'sblouse. She got up, took it, and examined it in the sunlight. Therewere blood spots on it, but Sisa did not seem to see them. She bentover and continued to look at this rag from her child's clothing,raised it in the air, bathing it in the brazen rays. Then, as ifthe last gleam of light within her h
ad finally gone out, she lookedstraight at the sun, with wide-staring eyes.
At length she began to wander about, crying out strange sounds. Onehearing her would have been frightened; her voice had a quality thehuman larynx would hardly know how to produce.
The sun went down; night surprised her. Perhaps Heaven gave hersleep, and an angel's wing, brushing her pale forehead, took awaythat memory which no longer recalled anything but griefs. The nextday Sisa roamed about, smiling, singing, and conversing with all thebeings of great Nature.
Three days passed, and the inhabitants of San Diego had ceased to talkor think of unhappy Sisa and her boys. Maria Clara, who, accompaniedby Aunt Isabel, had just arrived from Manila, was the chief subjectof conversation. Every one rejoiced to see her, for every one lovedher. They marvelled at her beauty, and speculated about her marriagewith Ibarra. On this evening, Crisostomo presented himself at thehome of his fiancee; the curate arrived at the same moment. The housewas a delicious little nest among orange-trees and ylang-ylang. Theyfound Maria by an open window, overlooking the lake, surrounded bythe fresh foliage and delicate perfume of vines and flowers.
"The winds blow fresh," said the curate; "aren't you afraid oftaking cold?"
"I don't feel the wind, father," said Maria.
"We Filipinos," said Crisostomo, "find this season of autumn andspring together delicious. Falling leaves and budding trees inFebruary, and ripe fruit in March, with no cold winter between,is very agreeable. And when the hot months come we know where to go."