<div id="d0e3099" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">
</span><h2 class="label">Chapter XVI</h2>
<p>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.
<p>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 <SPAN id="d0e3108"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">[<SPAN href="#d0e3108">107</SPAN>]</span>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?
<p>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.
<p>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.
<p><SPAN id="d0e3115"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">[<SPAN href="#d0e3115">108</SPAN>]</span>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!
<p>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.
<p>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 <i>tunko</i>, 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 <SPAN id="d0e3124"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">[<SPAN href="#d0e3124">109</SPAN>]</span>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.”
<p>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 <i>kayumanguing-kaligátan</i>; 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.
<p>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
<p>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, <SPAN id="d0e3135"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">[<SPAN href="#d0e3135">110</SPAN>]</span>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.
<p>Soon he picked up his game-cock and started away.
<p>“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.”
<p>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.
<p>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.”
<p>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 <i>kalao</i> 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 <i>kundíman</i> 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
<p>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 <SPAN id="d0e3155"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">[<SPAN href="#d0e3155">111</SPAN>]</span>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.
<p>“Mother, open the door! Open, mother!” cried the voice of Basilio from without.
<p>Sisa shuddered violently and the vision disappeared.
<SPAN id="d0e3161"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">[<SPAN href="#d0e3161">112</SPAN>]</span></p>