The only rival of this spiritual power, with tendencies toward the temporal, was, as we have said, the alferez: the only one, since the women told how the devil himself would flee from the curate, because, having one day dared to tempt him, he was caught, tied to a bedpost, soundly whipped with a rope, and set at liberty only after nine days. As a consequence, any one who after this would still be the enemy of such a man, deserved to fall into worse repute than even the weak and unwary devils.
But the alferez deserved his fate. His wife was an old Filipina of abundant rouge and paint, known as Doña Consolacion--although her husband and some others called her by quite another name. The alferez revenged his conjugal misfortunes on his own person by getting so drunk that he made a tank of himself, or by ordering his soldiers to drill in the sun while he remained in the shade, or, more frequently, by beating up his consort, who, if she was not a lamb of God to take away one's sins, at least served to lay up for her spouse many torments in Purgatory--if perchance he should get there, a matter of doubt to the devout women. As if for the fun of it, these two used to beat each other up beautifully, giving free shows to the neighborhood with vocal and instrumental accompaniments, four-handed, soft, loud, with pedal and all.
Whenever these scandals reached the ears of Padre Salvi, he would smile, cross himself, and recite a paternoster. They called him a grafter, a hypocrite, a Carlist, and a miser: he merely smiled and recited more prayers. The alferez had a little anecdote which he always related to the occasional Spaniards who visited him:
"Are you going over to the convento to visit the sanctimonious rascal there, the little curate? Yes! Well, if he offers you chocolate which I doubt--but if he offers it remember this: if he calls to the servant and says, 'Juan, make a cup of chocolate, eh!' then stay without fear; but if he calls out, 'Juan, make a cup of chocolate, ah!' then take your hat and leave on a run."
"What!" the startled visitor would ask, "does he poison people? Carambas!"
"No, man, not at all!"
"What then?"
"'Chocolate, eh!' means thick and rich, while 'chocolate, ah!' means watered and thin."
But we are of the opinion that this was a slander on the part of the alferez, since the same story is told of many curates. At least, it may be a thing peculiar to the Order.
To make trouble for the curate, the soldier, at the instigation of his wife, would prohibit any one from walking abroad after nine o'clock at night. Doña Consolacion would then claim that she had seen the curate, disguised in a piña camisa and salakot, walking about late. Fray Salvi would take his revenge in a holy manner. Upon seeing the alferez enter the church he would innocently order the sacristan to close all the doors, and would then go up into the pulpit and preach until the very saints closed their eyes and even the wooden dove above his head, the image of the Holy Ghost, murmured for mercy. But the alferez, like all the unregenerate, did not change his ways for this; he would go away cursing, and as soon as he was able to catch a sacristan, or one of the curate's servants, he would arrest him, give him a beating, and make him scrub the floor of the barracks and that of his own house, which at such times was put in a decent condition. On going to pay the fine imposed by the curate for his absence, the sacristan would explain the cause. Fray Salvi would listen in silence, take the money, and at once turn out his goats and sheep so that they might graze in the alferez's garden, while he himself looked up a new text for another longer and more edifying sermon. But these were only little pleasantries, and if the two chanced to meet they would shake hands and converse politely.
When her husband was sleeping off the wine he had drunk, or was snoring through the siesta, and she could not quarrel with him, Doña Consolacion, in a blue flannel camisa, with a big cigar in her mouth, would take her stand at the window. She could not endure the young people, so from there she would scrutinize and mock the passing girls, who, being afraid of her, would hurry by in confusion, holding their breath the while, and not daring to raise their eyes. One great virtue Doña Consolation possessed, and this was that she had evidently never looked in a mirror.
These were the rulers of the town of San Diego.
CHAPTER XII
All Saints
The one thing perhaps that indisputably distinguishes man from the brute creation is the attention which he pays to those who have passed away and, wonder of wonders! this characteristic seems to be more deeply rooted in proportion to the lack of civilization. Historians relate that the ancient inhabitants of the Philippines venerated and deified their ancestors; but now the contrary is true, and the dead have to entrust themselves to the living. It is also related that the people of New Guinea preserve the bones of their dead in chests and maintain communication with them. The greater part of the peoples of Asia, Africa, and America offer them the finest products of their kitchens or dishes of what was their favorite food when alive, and give banquets at which they believe them to be present. The Egyptians raised up palaces and the Mussulmans built shrines, but the masters in these things, those who have most clearly read the human heart, are the people of Dahomey. These negroes know that man is revengeful, so they consider that nothing will more content the dead than to sacrifice all his enemies upon his grave, and, as man is curious and may not know how to entertain himself in the other life, each year they send him a newsletter under the skin of a beheaded slave.
We ourselves differ from all the rest. In spite of the inscriptions on the tombs, hardly any one believes that the dead rest, and much less, that they rest in peace. The most optimistic fancies his forefathers still roasting in purgatory and, if it turns out that he himself be not completely damned, he will yet be able to associate with them for many years. If any one would contradict let him visit the churches and cemeteries of the country on All Saints' day and he will be convinced.
Now that we are in San Diego let us visit its cemetery, which is located in the midst of paddy-fields, there toward the west--not a city, merely a village of the dead, approached by a path dusty in dry weather and navigable on rainy days. A wooden gate and a fence half of stone and half of bamboo stakes, appear to separate it from the abode of the living but not from the curate's goats and some of the pigs of the neighborhood, who come and go making explorations among the tombs and enlivening the solitude with their presence. In the center of this enclosure rises a large wooden cross set on a stone pedestal. The storms have doubled over the tin plate for the inscription INRI, and the rains have effaced the letters. At the foot of the cross, as on the real Golgotha, is a confused heap of skulls and bones which the indifferent grave-digger has thrown from the graves he digs, and there they will probably await, not the resurrection of the dead, but the coming of the animals to defile them. Round about may be noted signs of recent excavations; here the earth is sunken, there it forms a low mound. There grow in all their luxuriance the tarambulo to prick the feet with its spiny berries and the pandakaki to add its odor to that of the cemetery, as if the place did not have smells enough already. Yet the ground is sprinkled with a few little flowers which, like those skulls, are known only to their Creator; their petals wear a pale smile and their fragrance is the fragrance of the tombs. The grass and creepers fill up the corners or climb over the walls and niches to cover and beautify the naked ugliness and in places even penetrate into the fissures made by the earthquakes, so as to hide from sight the revered hollowness of the sepulcher.
At the time we enter, the people have driven the animals away, with the single exception of some old hog, an animal that is hard to convince, who shows his small eyes and pulling back his head from a great gap in the fence, sticks up his snout and seems to say to a woman praying near, "Don't eat it all, leave something for me, won't you?"
Two men are digging a grave near one of the tottering walls. One of them, the grave-digger, works with indifference, throwing about bones as a gardener does stones and dry branches, while the other, more intent on his work, is perspiring, smoking, and spitting at every moment.
"Listen," says the latter in Tagalog, "wouldn't it be better for us to dig in some other place? This is too recent."
"One grave is as recent as another."
"I can't stand it any longer! That bone you're just cut in two has blood oozing from it--and those hairs?"
"But how sensitive you are!" was the other's reproach. "Just as if you were a town clerk! If, like myself, you had dug up a corpse of twenty days, on a dark and rainy night--! My lantern went out--"
His companion shuddered.
"The coffin burst open, the corpse fell half-way out, it stunk--and supposing you had to carry it--the rain wet us both--"
"Ugh! And why did you dig it up?"
The grave-digger looked at him in surprise. "Why? How do I know? I was ordered to do so."
"Who ordered you?"
The grave-digger stepped backward and looked his companion over from head to foot. "Man, you're like a Spaniard, for afterwards a Spaniard asked me the same questions, but in secret. So I'm going to answer you as I answered the Spaniard: the fat curate ordered me to do so."
"Ah! And what did you do with the corpse afterwards?" further questioned the sensitive one.
"The devil! If I didn't know you and was not sure that you are a man I would say that you were certainly a Spaniard of the Civil Guard, since you ask questions just as he did. Well, the fat curate ordered me to bury it in the Chinamen's cemetery, but the coffin was heavy and the Chinese cemetery far away--"
"No, no! I'm not going to dig any more!" the other interrupted in horror as he threw away his spade and jumped out of the hole. "I've cut a skull in two and I'm afraid that it won't let me sleep tonight." The old grave-digger laughed to see how the chicken-hearted fellow left, crossing himself.
The cemetery was filling up with men and women dressed in mourning. Some sought a grave for a time, disputing among themselves the while, and as if they were unable to agree, they scattered about, each kneeling where he thought best. Others, who had niches for their deceased relatives, lighted candles and fell to praying devoutly. Exaggerated or suppressed sighs and sobs were heard amid the hum of prayers, orapreo, orapreiss, requiem-aeternams, that arose from all sides.
A little old man with bright eyes entered bareheaded. Upon seeing him many laughed, and some women knitted their eyebrows. The old man did not seem to pay any attention to these demonstrations as he went toward a pile of skulls and knelt to look earnestly for something among the bones. Then he carefully removed the skulls one by one, but apparently without finding what he sought, for he wrinkled his brow, nodded his head from side to side, looked all about him, and finally rose and approached the grave-digger, who raised his head when the old man spoke to him.
"Do you know where there is a beautiful skull, white as the meat of a coconut, with a complete set of teeth, which I had there at the foot of the cross under those leaves?"
The grave-digger shrugged his shoulders.
"Look!" added the old man, showing a silver coin, "I have only this, but I'll give it to you if you find the skull for me."
The gleam of the silver caused the grave-digger to consider, and staring toward the heap of bones he said, "Isn't it there? No? Then I don't know where it is."
"Don't you know? When those who owe me pay me, I'll give you more," continued the old man. "It was the skull of my wife, so if you find it for me--"
"Isn't it there? Then I don't know! But if you wish, I can give you another."
"You're like the grave you're digging," apostrophized the old man nervously. "You don't know the value of what you lose. For whom is that grave?"
"How should I know?" replied the other in bad humor.
"For a corpse!"
"Like the grave, like the grave!" repeated the old man with a dry smile. "You don't know what you throw away nor what you receive! Dig, dig on!" And he turned away in the direction of the gate.
Meanwhile, the grave-digger had completed his task, attested by the two mounds of fresh red earth at the sides of the grave. He took some buyo from his salakot and began to chew it while he stared stupidly at what was going on around him.
CHAPTER XIII
Signs of Storm
As the old man was leaving the cemetery there stopped at the head of the path a carriage which, from its dust-covered appearance and sweating horses, seemed to have come from a great distance. Followed by an aged servant, Ibarra left the carriage and dismissed it with a wave of his hand, then gravely and silently turned toward the cemetery.
"My illness and my duties have not permitted me to return," said the old servant timidly. "Capitan Tiago promised that he would see that a niche was constructed, but I planted some flowers on the grave and set up a cross carved by my own hands." Ibarra made no reply. "There behind that big cross, sir," he added when they were well inside the gate, as he pointed to the place.
Ibarra was so intent upon his quest that he did not notice the movement of surprise on the part of the persons who recognized him and suspended their prayers to watch him curiously. He walked along carefully to avoid stepping on any of the graves, which were easily distinguishable by the hollow places in the soil. In other times he had walked on them carelessly, but now they were to be respected: his father lay among them. When he reached the large cross he stopped and looked all around. His companion stood confused and confounded, seeking some mark in the ground, but nowhere was any cross to be seen.
"Was it here?" he murmured through his teeth. "No, there! But the ground has been disturbed."
Ibarra gave him a look of anguish.
"Yes," he went on, "I remember that there was a stone near it. The grave was rather short. The grave-digger was sick, so a farmer had to dig it. But let's ask that man what has become of the cross."
They went over to where the grave-digger was watching them with curiosity. He removed his salakot respectfully as they approached.
"Can you tell me which is the grave there that had a cross over it?" asked the servant.
The grave-digger looked toward the place and reflected. "A big cross?"
"Yes, a big one!" affirmed the servant eagerly, with a significant look at Ibarra, whose face lighted up.
"A carved cross tied up with rattan?" continued the grave-digger.
"That's it, that's it, like this!" exclaimed the servant in answer as he drew on the ground the figure of a Byzantine cross.
"Were there flowers scattered on the grave?"
"Oleanders and tuberoses and forget-me-nots, yes!" the servant added joyfully, offering the grave-digger a cigar.
"Tell us which is the grave and where the cross is."
The grave-digger scratched his ear and answered with a yawn: "Well, as for the cross, I burned it."
"Burned it? Why did you burn it?"
"Because the fat curate ordered me to do so."
"Who is the fat curate?" asked Ibarra.
"Who? Why, the one that beats people with a big cane."
Ibarra drew his hand across his forehead. "But at least you can tell us where the grave is. You must remember that."
The grave-digger smiled as he answered quietly, "But the corpse is no longer there."
"What's that you're saying?"
"Yes," continued the grave-digger in a half-jesting tone. "I buried a woman in that place a week ago."
"Are you crazy?" cried the servant. "It hasn't been a year since we buried him."
"That's very true, but a good many months ago I dug the body up. The fat curate ordered me to do so and to take it to the cemetery of the Chinamen. But as it was heavy and there was rain that night--"
He was stopped by the threatening attitude of Ibarra, who had caught him by the arm and was shaking him. "Did you do that?" demanded the youth in an indescribable tone.
"Don't be angry, sir," stammered the pale and trembling grave-digger. "I didn't bury him among the Chinamen. Better be drowned than lie among Chinamen, I said to myself, so I threw the body into the lake."
Ibarra placed both his hands on the grave-digger's shoulders and stared at him for a long time with an indefinable expression. Then, with the ejaculation, "You are only a miserable slave!" he turned away hurriedly, stepping upon bones, graves, and crosses, like one beside himself.
The grave-digger patted his arm and muttered, "All the trouble dead men cause! The fat padre caned me for allowing it to be buried while I was sick, and this fellow almost tore my arm off for having dug it up. That's what these Spaniards are! I'll lose my job yet!"
Ibarra walked rapidly with a far-away look in his eyes, while the aged servant followed him weeping. The sun was setting, and over the eastern sky was flung a heavy curtain of clouds. A dry wind shook the tree-tops and made the bamboo clumps creak. Ibarra went bareheaded, but no tear wet his eyes nor did any sigh escape from his breast. He moved as if fleeing from something, perhaps the shade of his father, perhaps the approaching storm. He crossed through the town to the outskirts on the opposite side and turned toward the old house which he had not entered for so many years. Surrounded by a cactus-covered wall it seemed to beckon to him with its open windows, while the ilang-ilang waved its flower-laden branches joyfully and the doves circled about the conical roof of their cote in the middle of the garden.
But the youth gave no heed to these signs of welcome back to his old home, his eyes being fixed on the figure of a priest approaching from the opposite direction. It was the curate of San Diego, the pensive Franciscan whom we have seen before, the rival of the alferez. The breeze folded back the brim of his wide hat and blew his guingón habit closely about him, revealing the outlines of his body and his thin, curved thighs. In his right hand he carried an ivory-headed palasan cane.
This was the first time that he and Ibarra had met. When they drew near each other Ibarra stopped and gazed at him from head to foot; Fray Salvi avoided the look and tried to appear unconcerned. After a moment of hesitation Ibarra went up to him quickly and dropping a heavy hand on his shoulder, asked in a husky voice, "What did you do with my father?"
Fray Salvi, pale and trembling as he read the deep feelings that flushed the youth's face, could not answer; he seemed paralyzed.
"What did you do with my father?" again demanded the youth in a choking voice.
The priest, who was gradually being forced to his knees by the heavy hand that pressed upon his shoulder, made a great effort and answered, "You are mistaken, I did nothing to your father."
"You didn't?" went on the youth, forcing him down upon his knees.
"No, I assure you! It was my predecessor, it was Padre Damaso!"
"Ah!" exclaimed the youth, releasing his hold, and clapping his hand desperately to his brow; then, leaving poor Fray Salvi, he turned away and hurried toward his house. The old servant came up and helped the friar to his feet.
CHAPTER XIV
Tasio: Lunatic or Sage
The peculiar old man wandered about the streets aimlessly. A former student of philosophy, he had given up his career in obedience to his mother's wishes and not from any lack of means or ability. Quite the contrary, it was because his mother was rich and he was said to possess talent. The good woman feared that her son would become learned and forget God, so she had given him his choice of entering the priesthood or leaving college. Being in love, he chose the latter course and married. Then having lost both his wife and his mother within a year, he sought consolation in his books in order to free himself from sorrow, the cockpit, and the dangers of idleness. He became so addicted to his studies and the purchase of books, that he entirely neglected his fortune and gradually ruined himself. Persons of culture called him Don Anastasio, or Tasio the Sage, while the great crowd of the ignorant knew him as Tasio the Lunatic, on account of his peculiar ideas and his eccentric manner of dealing with others.
As we said before, the evening threatened to be stormy. The lightning flashed its pale rays across the leaden sky, the air was heavy and the slight breeze excessively sultry. Tasio had apparently already forgotten his beloved skull, and now he was smiling as he looked at the dark clouds. Near the church he met a man wearing an alpaca coat, who carried in one hand a large bundle of candles and in the other a tasseled cane, the emblem of his office as gobernadorcillo.
"You seem to be merry?" he greeted Tasio in Tagalog.
"Truly I am, señor capitan, I'm merry because I hope for something."
"Ah? What do you hope for?"
"The storm!"
"The storm? Are you thinking of taking a bath?" asked the gobernadorcillo in a jesting way as he stared at the simple attire of the old man.
"A bath? That's not a bad idea, especially when one has just stumbled over some trash!" answered Tasio in a similar, though somewhat more offensive tone, staring at the other's face. "But I hope for something better."
"What, then?"
"Some thunderbolts that will kill people and burn down houses," returned the Sage seriously.
"Why don't you ask for the deluge at once?"
"We all deserve it, even you and I! You, señor gobernadorcillo, have there a bundle of tapers that came from some Chinese shop, yet this now makes the tenth year that I have been proposing to each new occupant of your office the purchase of lightning-rods. Every one laughs at me, and buys bombs and rockets and pays for the ringing of bells. Even you yourself, on the day after I made my proposition, ordered from the Chinese founders a bell in honor of St. Barbara, when science has shown that it is dangerous to ring the bells during a storm. Explain to me why in the year '70, when lightning struck in Biñan, it hit the very church tower and destroyed the clock and altar. What was the bell of St. Barbara doing then?"
At the moment there was a vivid flash. "Jesús, María, y José! Holy St. Barbara!" exclaimed the gobernadorcillo, turning pale and crossing himself.
Tasio burst out into a loud laugh. "You are worthy of your patroness," he remarked dryly in Spanish as he turned his back and went toward the church.
Inside, the sacristans were preparing a catafalque, bordered with candles placed in wooden sockets. Two large tables had been placed one above the other and covered with black cloth across which ran white stripes, with here and there a skull painted on it.
"Is that for the souls or for the candles?" inquired the old man, but noticing two boys, one about ten and the other seven, he turned to them without awaiting an answer from the sacristans.
"Won't you come with me, boys?" he asked them. "Your mother has prepared a supper for you fit for a curate."
"The senior sacristan will not let us leave until eight o'clock, sir," answered the larger of the two boys. "I expect to get my pay to give it to our mother."
"Ah! And where are you going now?"
"To the belfry, sir, to ring the knell for the souls."
"Going to the belfry! Then take care! Don't go near the bells during the storm!"
Tasio then left the church, not without first bestowing a look of pity on the two boys, who were climbing the stairway into the organ-loft. He passed his hand over his eyes, looked at the sky again, and murmured, "Now I should be sorry if thunderbolts should fall." With his head bowed in thought he started toward the outskirts of the town.
"Won't you come in?" invited a voice in Spanish from a window.
The Sage raised his head and saw a man of thirty or thirty-five years of age smiling at him.
"What are you reading there?" asked Tasio, pointing to a book the man held in his hand.
"A work just published: 'The Torments Suffered by the Blessed Souls in Purgatory,'" the other answered with a smile.
"Man, man, man!" exclaimed the Sage in an altered tone as he entered the house. "The author must be a very clever person."
Upon reaching the top of the stairway, he was cordially received by the master of the house, Don Filipo Lino, and his young wife, Doña Teodora Viña. Don Filipo was the teniente-mayor of the town and leader of one of the parties--the liberal faction, if it be possible to speak so, and if there exist parties in the towns of the Philippines.
"Did you meet in the cemetery the son of the deceased Don Rafael, who has just returned from Europe?"
"Yes, I saw him as he alighted from his carriage."
"They say that he went to look for his father's grave. It must have been a terrible blow."
The Sage shrugged his shoulders.
"Doesn't such a misfortune affect you?" asked the young wife.
"You know very well that I was one of the six who accompanied the body, and it was I who appealed to the Captain-General when I saw that no one, not even the authorities, said anything about such an outrage, although I always prefer to honor a good man in life rather than to worship him after his death."
"Well?"
"But, madam, I am not a believer in hereditary monarchy. By reason of the Chinese blood which I have received from my mother I believe a little like the Chinese: I honor the father on account of the son and not the son on account of the father. I believe that each one should receive the reward or punishment for his own deeds, not for those of another."
"Did you order a mass said for your dead wife, as I advised you yesterday?" asked the young woman, changing the subject of conversation.
"No," answered the old man with a smile.
"What a pity!" she exclaimed with unfeigned regret.
"They say that until ten o'clock tomorrow the souls will wander at liberty, awaiting the prayers of the living, and that during these days one mass is equivalent to five on other days of the year, or even to six, as the curate said this morning."
"What! Does that mean that we have a period without paying, which we should take advantage of?"
"But, Doray," interrupted Don Filipo, "you know that Don Anastasio doesn't believe in purgatory."
"I don't believe in purgatory!" protested the old man, partly rising from his seat. "Even when I know something of its history!"
"The history of purgatory!" exclaimed the couple, full of surprise. "Come, relate it to us."
"You don't know it and yet you order masses and talk about its torments? Well, as it has begun to rain and threatens to continue, we shall have time to relieve the monotony," replied Tasio, falling into a thoughtful mood.
Don Filipo closed the book which he held in his hand and Doray sat down at his side determined not to believe anything that the old man was about to say.
The latter began in the following manner: "Purgatory existed long before Our Lord came into the world and must have been located in the center of the earth, according to Padre Astete; or somewhere near Cluny, according to the monk of whom Padre Girard tells us. But the location is of least importance here. Now then, who were scorching in those fires that had been burning from the beginning of the world? Its very ancient existence is proved by Christian philosophy, which teaches that God has created nothing new since he rested."
"But it could have existed in potentia and not in actu," observed Don Filipo.
"Very well! But yet I must answer that some knew of it and as existing in actu. One of these was Zarathustra, or Zoroaster, who wrote part of the Zend-Avesta and founded a religion which in some points resembles ours, and Zarathustra, according to the scholars, flourished at least eight hundred years before Christ. I say 'at least,' since Gaffarel, after examining the testimony of Plato, Xanthus of Lydia, Pliny, Hermippus, and Eudoxus, believes it to have been two thousand five hundred years before our era. However that may be, it is certain that Zarathustra talked of a kind of purgatory and showed ways of getting free from it. The living could redeem the souls of those who died in sin by reciting passages from the Avesta and by doing good works, but under the condition that the person offering the petitions should be a relative, up to the fourth generation. The time for this occurred every year and lasted five days. Later, when this belief had become fixed among the people, the priests of that religion saw in it a chance of profit and so they exploited 'the deep and dark prison where remorse reigns,' as Zarathustra called it. They declared that by the payment of a small coin it was possible to save a soul from a year of torture, but as in that religion there were sins punishable by three hundred to a thousand years of suffering, such as lying, faithlessness, failure to keep one's word, and so on, it resulted that the rascals took in countless sums. Here you will observe something like our purgatory, if you take into account the differences in the religions."
A vivid flash of lightning, followed by rolling thunder, caused Doray to start up and exclaim, as she crossed herself: "Jesús, María, y José! I'm going to leave you, I'm going to burn some sacred palm and light candles of penitence."
The rain began to fall in torrents. The Sage Tasio, watching the young woman leave, continued: "Now that she is not here, we can consider this matter more rationally. Doray, even though a little superstitious, is a good Catholic, and I don't care to root out the faith from her heart. A pure and simple faith is as distinct from fanaticism as the flame from smoke or music from discords: only the fools and the deaf confuse them. Between ourselves we can say that the idea of purgatory is good, holy, and rational. It perpetuates the union of those who were and those who are, leading thus to greater purity of life. The evil is in its abuse.
"But let us now see where Catholicism got this idea, which does not exist in the Old Testament nor in the Gospels. Neither Moses nor Christ made the slightest mention of it, and the single passage which is cited from Maccabees is insufficient. Besides, this book was declared apocryphal by the Council of Laodicea and the holy Catholic Church accepted it only later. Neither have the pagan religions anything like it. The oft-quoted passage in Virgil, Aliae panduntur inanes, which probably gave occasion for St. Gregory the Great to speak of drowned souls, and to Dante for another narrative in his Divine Comedy, cannot have been the origin of this belief. Neither the Brahmins, the Buddhists, nor the Egyptians, who may have given Rome her Charon and her Avernus, had anything like this idea. I won't speak now of the religions of northern Europe, for they were religions of warriors, bards, and hunters, and not of philosophers. While they yet preserve their beliefs and even their rites under Christian forms, they were unable to accompany the hordes in the spoliation of Rome or to seat themselves on the Capitoline; the religions of the mists were dissipated by the southern sun. Now then, the early Christians did not believe in a purgatory but died in the blissful confidence of shortly seeing God face to face. Apparently the first fathers of the Church who mentioned it were St. Clement of Alexandria, Origen, and St. Irenaeus, who were all perhaps influenced by Zarathustra's religion, which still flourished and was widely spread throughout the East, since at every step we read reproaches against Origen's Orientalism. St. Irenaeus proved its existence by the fact that Christ remained 'three days in the depths of the earth,' three days of purgatory, and deduced from this that every soul must remain there until the resurrection of the body, although the 'Hodie mecum eris in Paradiso' seems to contradict it. St. Augustine also speaks of purgatory and, if not affirming its existence, yet he did not believe it impossible, conjecturing that in another existence there might continue the punishments that we receive in this life for our sins."
"The devil with St. Augustine!" ejaculated Don Filipo. "He wasn't satisfied with what we suffer here but wished a continuance."
"Well, so it went" some believed it and others didn't. Although St. Gregory finally came to admit it in his de quibusdam levibus culpis esse ante judicium purgatorius ignis credendus est, yet nothing definite was done until the year 1439, that is, eight centuries later, when the Council of Florence declared that there must exist a purifying fire for the souls of those who have died in the love of God but without having satisfied divine Justice. Lastly, the Council of Trent under Pius IV in 1563, in the twenty-fifth session, issued the purgatorial decree beginning Cura catholica ecclesia, Spiritu Santo edocta, wherein it deduces that, after the office of the mass, the petitions of the living, their prayers, alms, and other pious works are the surest means of freeing the souls. Nevertheless, the Protestants do not believe in it nor do the Greek Fathers, since they reject any Biblical authority for it and say that our responsibility ends with death, and that the 'Quodcumque ligaberis in terra,' does not mean 'usque ad purgatorium,' but to this the answer can be made that since purgatory is located in the center of the earth it fell naturally under the control of St. Peter. But I should never get through if I had to relate all that has been said on the subject. Any day that you wish to discuss the matter with me, come to my house and there we will consult the books and talk freely and quietly.
"Now I must go. I don't understand why Christian piety permits robbery on this night--and you, the authorities, allow it--and I fear for my books. If they should steal them to read I wouldn't object, but I know that there are many who wish to burn them in order to do for me an act of charity, and such charity, worthy of the Caliph Omar, is to be dreaded. Some believe that on account of those books I am already damned--"
"But I suppose that you do believe in damnation?" asked Doray with a smile, as she appeared carrying in a brazier the dry palm leaves, which gave off a peculiar smoke and an agreeable odor.
"I don't know, madam, what God will do with me," replied the old man thoughtfully. "When I die I will commit myself to Him without fear and He may do with me what He wishes. But a thought strikes me!"
"What thought is that?"
"If the only ones who can be saved are the Catholics, and of them only five per cent--as many curates say--and as the Catholics form only a twelfth part of the population of the world--if we believe what statistics show--it would result that after damning millions and millions of men during the countless ages that passed before the Saviour came to the earth, after a Son of God has died for us, it is now possible to save only five in every twelve hundred. That cannot be so! I prefer to believe and say with Job: 'Wilt thou break a leaf driven to and fro, and wilt thou pursue the dry stubble?' No, such a calamity is impossible and to believe it is blasphemy!"
"What do you wish? Divine Justice, divine Purity--"
"Oh, but divine Justice and divine Purity saw the future before the creation," answered the old man, as he rose shuddering. "Man is an accidental and not a necessary part of creation, and that God cannot have created him, no indeed, only to make a few happy and condemn hundreds to eternal misery, and all in a moment, for hereditary faults! No! If that be true, strangle your baby son sleeping there! If such a belief were not a blasphemy against that God, who must be the Highest Good, then the Phenician Moloch, which was appeased with human sacrifices and innocent blood, and in whose belly were burned the babes torn from their mothers' breasts, that bloody deity, that horrible divinity, would be by the side of Him a weak girl, a friend, a mother of humanity!"
Horrified, the Lunatic--or the Sage--left the house and ran along the street in spite of the rain and the darkness. A lurid flash, followed by frightful thunder and filling the air with deadly currents, lighted the old man as he stretched his hand toward the sky and cried out: "Thou protestest! I know that Thou art not cruel, I know that I must only name Thee Good!"
The flashes of lightning became more frequent and the storm increased in violence.
CHAPTER XV
The Sacristans
The thunder resounded, roar following close upon roar, each preceded' by a blinding flash of zigzag lightning, so that it might have been said that God was writing his name in fire and that the eternal arch of heaven was trembling with fear. The rain, whipped about in a different direction each moment by the mournfully whistling wind, fell in torrents. With a voice full of fear the bells sounded their sad supplication, and in the brief pauses between the roars of the unchained elements tolled forth sorrowful peals, like plaintive groans.
On the second floor of the church tower were the two boys whom we saw talking to the Sage. The younger, a child of seven years with large black eyes and a timid countenance, was huddling close to his brother, a boy of ten, whom he greatly resembled in features, except that the look on the elder's face was deeper and firmer.
Both were meanly dressed in clothes full of rents and patches. They sat upon a block of wood, each holding the end of a rope which extended upward and was lost amid the shadows above. The wind-driven rain reached them and snuffed the piece of candle burning dimly on the large round stone that was used to furnish the thunder on Good Friday by being rolled around the gallery.
"Pull on the rope, Crispin, pull!" cried the elder to his little brother, who did as he was told, so that from above was heard a faint peal, instantly drowned out by the reechoing thunder.
"Oh, if we were only at home now with mother," sighed the younger, as he gazed at his brother. "There I shouldn't be afraid."
The elder did not answer; he was watching the melting wax of the candle, apparently lost in thought.
"There no one would say that I stole," went on Crispin. "Mother wouldn't allow it. If she knew that they whip me--"
The elder took his gaze from the flame, raised his head, and clutching the thick rope pulled violently on it so that a sonorous peal of the bells was heard.
"Are we always going to live this way, brother?" continued Crispin. "I'd like to get sick at home tomorrow, I'd like to fall into a long sickness so that mother might take care of me and not let me come back to the convento. So I'd not be called a thief nor would they whip me. And you too, brother, you must get sick with me."
"No," answered the older, "we should all die: mother of grief and we of hunger."
Crispin remained silent for a moment, then asked, "How much will you get this month?"
"Two pesos. They're fined me twice."
"Then pay what they say I've stolen, so that they won't call us thieves. Pay it, brother!"
"Are you crazy, Crispin? Mother wouldn't have anything to eat. The senior sacristan says that you've stolen two gold pieces, and they're worth thirty-two pesos."
The little one counted on his fingers up to thirty-two. "Six hands and two fingers over and each finger a peso!" he murmured thoughtfully. "And each peso, how many cuartos?"
"A hundred and sixty."
"A hundred and sixty cuartos? A hundred and sixty times a cuarto? Goodness! And how many are a hundred and sixty?"
"Thirty-two hands," answered the older.
Crispin looked hard at his little hands. "Thirty-two hands," he repeated, "six hands and two fingers over and each finger thirty-two hands and each finger a cuarto--goodness, what a lot of cuartos! I could hardly count them in three days; and with them could be bought shoes for our feet, a hat for my head when the sun shines hot, a big umbrella for the rain, and food, and clothes for you and mother, and--" He became silent and thoughtful again.
"Now I'm sorry that I didn't steal!" he soon exclaimed.
"Crispin!" reproached his brother.
"Don't get angry! The curate has said that he'll beat me to death if the money doesn't appear, and if I had stolen it I could make it appear. Anyhow, if I died you and mother would at least have clothes. Oh, if I had only stolen it!"
The elder pulled on the rope in silence. After a time he replied with a sigh: "What I'm afraid of is that mother will scold you when she knows about it."
"Do you think so?" asked the younger with astonishment. "You will tell her that they're whipped me and I'll show the welts on my back and my torn pocket. I had only one cuarto, which was given to me last Easter, but the curate took that away from me yesterday. I never saw a prettier cuarto! No, mother won't believe it."
"If the curate says so--"
Crispin began to cry, murmuring between his sobs, "Then go home alone! I don't want to go. Tell mother that I'm sick. I don't want to go."
"Crispin, don't cry!" pleaded the elder. "Mother won't believe it--don't cry! Old Tasio told us that a fine supper is waiting for us."
"A fine supper! And I haven't eaten for a long time. They won't give me anything to eat until the two gold pieces appear. But, if mother believes it? You must tell her that the senior sacristan is a liar but that the curate believes him and that all of them are liars, that they say that we're thieves because our father is a vagabond who--"
At that instant a head appeared at the top of the stairway leading down to the floor below, and that head, like Medusa's, froze the words on the child's lips. It was a long, narrow head covered with black hair, with blue glasses concealing the fact that one eye was sightless. The senior sacristan was accustomed to appear thus without noise or warning of any kind. The two brothers turned cold with fear.
"On you, Basilio, I impose a fine of two reals for not ringing the bells in time," he said in a voice so hollow that his throat seemed to lack vocal chords. "You, Crispin, must stay tonight, until what you stole reappears."
Crispin looked at his brother as if pleading for protection.
"But we already have permission--mother expects us at eight o'clock," objected Basilio timidly.
"Neither shall you go home at eight, you'll stay until ten."
"But, sir, after nine o'clock no one is allowed to be out and our house is far from here."
"Are you trying to give me orders?" growled the man irritably, as he caught Crispin by the arm and started to drag him away.
"Oh, sir, it's been a week now since we're seen our mother," begged Basilio, catching hold of his brother as if to defend him.
The senior sacristan struck his hand away and jerked at Crispin, who began to weep as he fell to the floor, crying out to his brother, "Don't leave me, they're going to kill me!"
The sacristan gave no heed to this and dragged him on to the stairway. As they disappeared among the shadows below Basilio stood speechless, listening to the sounds of his brother's body striking against the steps. Then followed the sound of a blow and heartrending cries that died away in the distance.
The boy stood on tiptoe, hardly breathing and listening fixedly, with his eyes unnaturally wide and his fists clenched. "When shall I be strong enough to plow a field?" he muttered between his teeth as he started below hastily. Upon reaching the organ-loft he paused to listen; the voice of his brother was fast dying away in the distance and the cries of "Mother! Brother!" were at last completely cut off by the sound of a closing door. Trembling and perspiring, he paused for a moment with his fist in his mouth to keep down a cry of anguish. He let his gaze wander about the dimly lighted church where an oil-lamp gave a ghostly light, revealing the catafalque in the center. The doors were closed and fastened, and the windows had iron bars on them. Suddenly he reascended the stairway to the place where the candle was burning and then climbed up into the third floor of the belfry. After untying the ropes from the bell-clappers he again descended. He was pale and his eyes glistened, but not with tears.
Meanwhile, the rain was gradually ceasing and the sky was clearing. Basilio knotted the ropes together, tied one end to a rail of the balustrade, and without even remembering to put out the light let himself down into the darkness outside. A few moments later voices were heard on one of the streets of the town, two shots resounded, but no one seemed to be alarmed and silence again reigned.
CHAPTER XVI
Sisa
Through the dark night the villagers slept. The families who had remembered their dead gave themselves up to quiet and satisfied sleep, for they had recited their requiems, the novena of the souls, and had burned many wax tapers before the sacred images. The rich and powerful had discharged the duties their positions imposed upon them. On the following day they would hear three masses said by each priest and would give two pesos for another, besides buying a bull of indulgences for the dead. Truly, divine justice is not nearly so exacting as human.
But the poor and indigent who earn scarcely enough to keep themselves alive and who also have to pay tribute to the petty officials, clerks, and soldiers, that they may be allowed to live in peace, sleep not so tranquilly as gentle poets who have perhaps not felt the pinches of want would have us believe. The poor are sad and thoughtful, for on that night, if they have not recited many prayers, yet they have prayed much--with pain in their eyes and tears in their hearts. They have not the novenas, nor do they know the responsories, versicles, and prayers which the friars have composed for those who lack original ideas and feelings, nor do they understand them. They pray in the language of their misery: their souls weep for them and for those dead beings whose love was their wealth. Their lips may proffer the salutations, but their minds cry out complaints, charged with lamentations. Wilt Thou be satisfied, O Thou who blessedst poverty, and you, O suffering souls, with the simple prayers of the poor, offered before a rude picture in the light of a dim wick, or do you perhaps desire wax tapers before bleeding Christs and Virgins with small mouths and crystal eyes, and masses in Latin recited mechanically by priests? And thou, Religion preached for suffering humanity, hast thou forgotten thy mission of consoling the oppressed in their misery and of humiliating the powerful in their pride? Hast thou now promises only for the rich, for those who, can pay thee?
The poor widow watches among the children who sleep at her side. She is thinking of the indulgences that she ought to buy for the repose of the souls of her parents and of her dead husband. "A peso," she says, "a peso is a week of happiness for my children, a week of laughter and joy, my savings for a month, a dress for my daughter who is becoming a woman." "But it is necessary that you put aside these worldly desires," says the voice that she heard in the pulpit, "it is necessary that you make sacrifices." Yes, it is necessary. The Church does not gratuitously save the beloved souls for you nor does it distribute indulgences without payment. You must buy them, so tonight instead of sleeping you should work. Think of your daughter, so poorly clothed! Fast, for heaven is dear! Decidedly, it seems that the poor enter not into heaven. Such thoughts wander through the space enclosed between the rough mats spread out on the bamboo floor and the ridge of the roof, from which hangs the hammock wherein the baby swings. The infant's breathing is easy and peaceful, but from time to time he swallows and smacks his lips; his hungry stomach, which is not satisfied with what his older brothers have given him, dreams of eating.
The cicadas chant monotonously, mingling their ceaseless notes with the trills of the cricket hidden in the grass, or the chirp of the little lizard which has come out in search of food, while the big gekko, no longer fearing the water, disturbs the concert with its ill-omened voice as it shows its head from out the hollow of the decayed tree-trunk.
The dogs howl mournfully in the streets and superstitious folk, hearing them, are convinced that they see spirits and ghosts. But neither the dogs nor the other animals see the sorrows of men--yet how many of these exist!
Distant from the town an hour's walk lives the mother of Basilio and Crispin. The wife of a heartless man, she struggles to live for her sons, while her husband is a vagrant gamester with whom her interviews are rare but always painful. He has gradually stripped her of her few jewels to pay the cost of his vices, and when the suffering Sisa no longer had anything that he might take to satisfy his whims, he had begun to maltreat her. Weak in character, with more heart than intellect, she knew only how to love and to weep. Her husband was a god and her sons were his angels, so he, knowing to what point he was loved and feared, conducted himself like all false gods: daily he became more cruel, more inhuman, more wilful. Once when he had appeared with his countenance gloomier than ever before, Sisa had consulted him about the plan of making a sacristan of Basilio, and he had merely continued to stroke his game-cock, saying neither yes nor no, only asking whether the boy would earn much money. She had not dared to insist, but her needy situation and her desire that the boys should learn to read and write in the town school forced her to carry out the plan. Still her husband had said nothing.
That night, between ten and eleven o'clock, when the stars were glittering in a sky now cleared of all signs of the storm of the early evening, Sisa sat on a wooden bench watching some fagots that smouldered upon the fireplace fashioned of rough pieces of natural rock. Upon a tripod, or tunko, was a small pot of boiling rice and upon the red coals lay three little dried fishes such as are sold at three for two cuartos. Her chin rested in the palm of her hand while she gazed at the weak yellow glow peculiar to the cane, which burns rapidly and leaves embers that quickly grow pale. A sad smile lighted up her face as she recalled a funny riddle about the pot and the fire which Crispin had once propounded to her. The boy said: "The black man sat down and the red man looked at him, a moment passed, and cock-a-doodle-doo rang forth."
Sisa was still young, and it was plain that at one time she had been pretty and attractive. Her eyes, which, like her disposition, she had given to her sons, were beautiful, with long lashes and a deep look. Her nose was regular and her pale lips curved pleasantly. She was what the Tagalogs call kayumanguing-kaligátan; that is, her color was a clear, pure brown. In spite of her youthfulness, pain and perhaps even hunger had begun to make hollow her pallid cheeks, and if her abundant hair, in other times the delight and adornment of her person, was even yet simply and neatly arranged, though without pins or combs, it was not from coquetry but from habit.
Sisa had been for several days confined to the house sewing upon some work which had been ordered for the earliest possible time. In order to earn the money, she had not attended mass that morning, as it would have taken two hours at least to go to the town and return: poverty obliges one to sin! She had finished the work and delivered it but had received only a promise of payment. All that day she had been anticipating the pleasures of the evening, for she knew that her sons were coming and she had intended to make them some presents. She had bought some small fishes, picked the most beautiful tomatoes in her little garden, as she knew that Crispin was very fond of them, and begged from a neighbor, old Tasio the Sage, who lived half a mile away, some slices of dried wild boar's meat and a leg of wild duck, which Basilio especially liked. Full of hope, she had cooked the whitest of rice, which she herself had gleaned from the threshing-floors. It was indeed a curate's meal for the poor boys.
But by an unfortunate chance her husband came and ate the rice, the slices of wild boar's meat, the duck leg, five of the little fishes, and the tomatoes. Sisa said nothing, although she felt as if she herself were being eaten. His hunger at length appeased, he remembered to ask for the boys. Then Sisa smiled happily and resolved that she would not eat that night, because what remained was not enough for three. The father had asked for their sons and that for her was better than eating.
Soon he picked up his game-cock and started away.
"Don't you want to see them?" she asked tremulously. "Old Tasio told me that they would be a little late. Crispin now knows how to read and perhaps Basilio will bring his wages."
This last reason caused the husband to pause and waver, but his good angel triumphed. "In that case keep a peso for me," he said as he went away.
Sisa wept bitterly, but the thought of her sons soon dried her tears. She cooked some more rice and prepared the only three fishes that were left: each would have one and a half. "They'll have good appetites," she mused, "the way is long and hungry stomachs have no heart."
So she sat, he ear strained to catch every sound, listening to the lightest footfalls: strong and clear, Basilio; light and irregular, Crispin--thus she mused. The kalao called in the woods several times after the rain had ceased, but still her sons did not come. She put the fishes inside the pot to keep them warm and went to the threshold of the hut to look toward the road. To keep herself company, she began to sing in a low voice, a voice usually so sweet and tender that when her sons listened to her singing the kundíman they wept without knowing why, but tonight it trembled and the notes were halting. She stopped singing and gazed earnestly into the darkness, but no one was coming from the town--that noise was only the wind shaking the raindrops from the wide banana leaves.
Suddenly a black dog appeared before her dragging something along the path. Sisa was frightened but caught up a stone and threw it at the dog, which ran away howling mournfully. She was not superstitious, but she had heard so much about presentiments and black dogs that terror seized her. She shut the door hastily and sat down by the light. Night favors credulity and the imagination peoples the air with specters. She tried to pray, to call upon the Virgin and upon God to watch over her sons, especially her little Crispin. Then she forgot her prayers as her thoughts wandered to think about them, to recall the features of each, those features that always wore a smile for her both asleep and awake. Suddenly she felt her hair rise on her head and her eyes stared wildly; illusion or reality, she saw Crispin standing by the fireplace, there where he was wont to sit and prattle to her, but now he said nothing as he gazed at her with those large, thoughtful eyes, and smiled.
"Mother, open the door! Open, mother!" cried the voice of Basilio from without.
Sisa shuddered violently and the vision disappeared.
CHAPTER XVII
Basilio
La vida es sueño.
Basilio was scarcely inside when he staggered and fell into his mother's arms. An inexplicable chill seized Sisa as she saw him enter alone. She wanted to speak but could make no sound; she wanted to embrace her son but lacked the strength; to weep was impossible. At sight of the blood which covered the boy's forehead she cried in a tone that seemed to come from a breaking heart, "My sons!"
"Don't be afraid, mother," Basilio reassured her. "Crispin stayed at the convento."
"At the convento? He stayed at the convento? Is he alive?"
The boy raised his eyes to her. "Ah!" she sighed, passing from the depths of sorrow to the heights of joy. She wept and embraced her son, covering his bloody forehead with kisses.
"Crispin is alive! You left him at the convento! But why are you wounded, my son? Have you had a fall?" she inquired, as she examined him anxiously.
"The senior sacristan took Crispin away and told me that I could not leave until ten o'clock, but it was already late and so I ran away. In the town the soldiers challenged me, I started to run, they fired, and a bullet grazed my forehead. I was afraid they would arrest me and beat me and make me scrub out the barracks, as they did with Pablo, who is still sick from it."
"My God, my God!" murmured his mother, shuddering. "Thou hast saved him!" Then while she sought for bandages, water, vinegar, and a feather, she went on, "A finger's breadth more and they would have killed you, they would have killed my boy! The civil-guards do not think of the mothers."
"You must say that I fell from a tree so that no one will know they chased me," Basilio cautioned her.
"Why did Crispin stay?" asked Sisa, after dressing her son's wound.
Basilio hesitated a few moments, then with his arms about her and their tears mingling, he related little by little the story of the gold pieces, without speaking, however, of the tortures they were inflicting upon his young brother.
"My good Crispin! To accuse my good Crispin! It's because we're poor and we poor people have to endure everything!" murmured Sisa, staring through her tears at the light of the lamp, which was now dying out from lack of oil. So they remained silent for a while.
"Haven't you had any supper yet? Here are rice and fish."
"I don't want anything, only a little water."
"Yes," answered his mother sadly, "I know that you don't like dried fish. I had prepared something else, but your father came."
"Father came?" asked Basilio, instinctively examining the face and hands of his mother.
The son's questioning gaze pained Sisa's heart, for she understood it only too well, so she added hastily: "He came and asked a lot about you and wanted to see you, and he was very hungry. He said that if you continued to be so good he would come back to stay with us."
An exclamation of disgust from Basilio's contracted lips interrupted her. "Son!" she reproached him.
"Forgive me, mother," he answered seriously. "But aren't we three better off--you, Crispin, and I? You're crying--I haven't said anything."
Sisa sighed and asked, "Aren't you going to eat? Then let's go to sleep, for it's now very late." She then closed up the hut and covered the few coals with ashes so that the fire would not die out entirely, just as a man does with his inner feelings; he covers them with the ashes of his life, which he calls indifference, so that they may not be deadened by daily contact with his fellows.
Basilio murmured his prayers and lay down near his mother, who was upon her knees praying. He felt hot and cold, he tried to close his eyes as he thought of his little brother who that night had expected to sleep in his mother's lap and who now was probably trembling with terror and weeping in some dark corner of the convento. His ears were again pierced with those cries he had heard in the church tower. But wearied nature soon began to confuse his ideas and the veil of sleep descended upon his eyes.
