His real name was Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, but the people called him Mahatma or Great Soul. One of the foremost spiritual and political leaders of the 1900’s, he is honored by the people of India as the father of their nation.
Gandhi helped free India from British control by using a unique method of non-violent resistance. This was a method of social action based upon principles of courage, non-violence and truth. Gandhi called this method Satyagraha. In this method, the way people behave is more important that what they achieve. The philosophy appeared strange to both European and English-educated Indians, but it appealed to ordinary people.
Gandhi was born in Porbandar, India on October 2, 1869. The Gandhis were middle-class Hindus belonging to the Vaisyas (merchant) caste of Hindus. This caste ranked just below the Brahmans, (priests and scholars) and the Kshatriyas (noble men, warriors).
The young, shy and serious Gandhi got married at the age of thirteen. This was an arrangement made by his parents in accordance with the Indian tradition. The young couple had four children.
Gandhi studied law in London and returned to India after passing the examinations.
In 1893, a Moslem company sent him to South Africa to do some legal work. At that time, South Africa was under British control. Almost immediately, he became a victim of discrimination.
It happened this way: For his travel to South Africa, his employer had purchased for him first class tickets. But at the first stop of his journey, a European entered the compartment where he was in. The European was furious at sharing a compartment with a “colored.” He summoned the conductor to order Gandhi to the baggage compartment. Gandhi refused and he was forcibly taken off the train.
According to Gandhi, the humiliation proved to be the “most creative experience” of his life. He said, “My active non-violence began from that date.”
Gandhi saw that most Indians suffered from discrimination. While at South Africa, he led campaigns for Indian rights. As part of Satyagraha, he promoted civil disobedience campaigns and organized a strike among Indian miners. He was arrested many times by the British but his efforts brought important reforms.
Gandhi also worked for the British when he felt justice was on their justice. He was decorated for paramedic work in the Boer War (1899-1902) and the Zulu Rebelliion (1906).
When Gandhi returned to India in 1914, he became the leader of the Indian nationalist movement. He began a program of hand spinning and weaving, believing that the program aided economic freedom by making India self-sufficient in cloth. He also believed that it promoted social freedom through the dignity of labor aside from advancing political freedom by preparing the Indians for self-government.
Meanwhile, he continued his Satyahgraha campaign, In 1930, he led hundred of followers on a 386-kilometer march to the sea where they made salt from seawater. This was a protest against the Salt Acts, which made it a crime to possess salt not brought from the government. During World War II (1939-1945), Gandhi continued his struggle for India’ freedom through non-violent resistance. He spend several years in prison for political activity. But he believed that it was honorable to go to jail for a good cause.
India was granted freedom in 1947. But the partition of the country into India and Pakistan grieved Gandhi. He was saddened also by the rioting between Hindus and Muslims that followed for he had wanted to see a united country. He urged the Hindus and the Muslims to live together in peace.
On January 13, 1948, at the age of seventy-three, Gandhi began to fast. His purpose was to end the bloodshed among the Hindus, Muslims and other groups. On January 18, the leaders of this group pledged to stop fighting and Gandhi broke his fast. Twelve days later, in New Delhi, while on his way to a prayer meeting, Gandhi was assassinated. A Hindu fanatic who opposed Gandhi’s program of tolerance for all creeds and religions, shot him three times.
A shocked India and the rest of the world mourned Gandhi’s death.
Gandhi’s great disciple and chosen successor Jawaharlal Nehru, spoke for millions when he said, “The light has gone out of our lives, and there is darkness everywhere.” The great scientist Albert Einstein, said of Gandhi, “Generation to come will scarcely believe that such a man as this walked the earth in flesh and blood.”
Guide Questions:
1. What is Satyagraha?
2. What specific event for Gandhi started this Satyagraha?
3. What social and political events did Gandhi apply Satyagraha? Describe each.
4. What do Nehru and Einstein say about Gandhi?
5. What do you think they mean about it?
Monday, September 27, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Summary: Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
In a series of letters, Robert Walton, the captain of a ship bound for the North Pole, recounts to his sister back in England the progress of his dangerous mission. Successful early on, the mission is soon interrupted by seas full of impassable ice. Trapped, Walton encounters Victor Frankenstein, who has been traveling by dog-drawn sledge across the ice and is weakened by the cold. Walton takes him aboard ship, helps nurse him back to health, and hears the fantastic tale of the monster that Frankenstein created.
Victor first describes his early life in Geneva. At the end of a blissful childhood spent in the company of Elizabeth Lavenza (his cousin in the 1818 edition, his adopted sister in the 1831 edition) and friend Henry Clerval, Victor enters the university of Ingolstadt to study natural philosophy and chemistry. There, he is consumed by the desire to discover the secret of life and, after several years of research, becomes convinced that he has found it.
Armed with the knowledge he has long been seeking, Victor spends months feverishly fashioning a creature out of old body parts. One climactic night, in the secrecy of his apartment, he brings his creation to life. When he looks at the monstrosity that he has created, however, the sight horrifies him. After a fitful night of sleep, interrupted by the specter of the monster looming over him, he runs into the streets, eventually wandering in remorse. Victor runs into Henry, who has come to study at the university, and he takes his friend back to his apartment. Though the monster is gone, Victor falls into a feverish illness.
Sickened by his horrific deed, Victor prepares to return to Geneva, to his family, and to health. Just before departing Ingolstadt, however, he receives a letter from his father informing him that his youngest brother, William, has been murdered. Grief-stricken, Victor hurries home. While passing through the woods where William was strangled, he catches sight of the monster and becomes convinced that the monster is his brother’s murderer. Arriving in Geneva, Victor finds that Justine Moritz, a kind, gentle girl who had been adopted by the Frankenstein household, has been accused. She is tried, condemned, and executed, despite her assertions of innocence. Victor grows despondent, guilty with the knowledge that the monster he has created bears responsibility for the death of two innocent loved ones.
Hoping to ease his grief, Victor takes a vacation to the mountains. While he is alone one day, crossing an enormous glacier, the monster approaches him. The monster admits to the murder of William but begs for understanding. Lonely, shunned, and forlorn, he says that he struck out at William in a desperate attempt to injure Victor, his cruel creator. The monster begs Victor to create a mate for him, a monster equally grotesque to serve as his sole companion.
Victor refuses at first, horrified by the prospect of creating a second monster. The monster is eloquent and persuasive, however, and he eventually convinces Victor. After returning to Geneva, Victor heads for England, accompanied by Henry, to gather information for the creation of a female monster. Leaving Henry in Scotland, he secludes himself on a desolate island in the Orkneys and works reluctantly at repeating his first success. One night, struck by doubts about the morality of his actions, Victor glances out the window to see the monster glaring in at him with a frightening grin. Horrified by the possible consequences of his work, Victor destroys his new creation. The monster, enraged, vows revenge, swearing that he will be with Victor on Victor’s wedding night.
Later that night, Victor takes a boat out onto a lake and dumps the remains of the second creature in the water. The wind picks up and prevents him from returning to the island. In the morning, he finds himself ashore near an unknown town. Upon landing, he is arrested and informed that he will be tried for a murder discovered the previous night. Victor denies any knowledge of the murder, but when shown the body, he is shocked to behold his friend Henry Clerval, with the mark of the monster’s fingers on his neck. Victor falls ill, raving and feverish, and is kept in prison until his recovery, after which he is acquitted of the crime.
Shortly after returning to Geneva with his father, Victor marries Elizabeth. He fears the monster’s warning and suspects that he will be murdered on his wedding night. To be cautious, he sends Elizabeth away to wait for him. While he awaits the monster, he hears Elizabeth scream and realizes that the monster had been hinting at killing his new bride, not himself. Victor returns home to his father, who dies of grief a short time later. Victor vows to devote the rest of his life to finding the monster and exacting his revenge, and he soon departs to begin his quest.
Victor tracks the monster ever northward into the ice. In a dogsled chase, Victor almost catches up with the monster, but the sea beneath them swells and the ice breaks, leaving an unbridgeable gap between them. At this point, Walton encounters Victor, and the narrative catches up to the time of Walton’s fourth letter to his sister.
Walton tells the remainder of the story in another series of letters to his sister. Victor, already ill when the two men meet, worsens and dies shortly thereafter. When Walton returns, several days later, to the room in which the body lies, he is startled to see the monster weeping over Victor. The monster tells Walton of his immense solitude, suffering, hatred, and remorse. He asserts that now that his creator has died, he too can end his suffering. The monster then departs for the northernmost ice to die.
Victor first describes his early life in Geneva. At the end of a blissful childhood spent in the company of Elizabeth Lavenza (his cousin in the 1818 edition, his adopted sister in the 1831 edition) and friend Henry Clerval, Victor enters the university of Ingolstadt to study natural philosophy and chemistry. There, he is consumed by the desire to discover the secret of life and, after several years of research, becomes convinced that he has found it.
Armed with the knowledge he has long been seeking, Victor spends months feverishly fashioning a creature out of old body parts. One climactic night, in the secrecy of his apartment, he brings his creation to life. When he looks at the monstrosity that he has created, however, the sight horrifies him. After a fitful night of sleep, interrupted by the specter of the monster looming over him, he runs into the streets, eventually wandering in remorse. Victor runs into Henry, who has come to study at the university, and he takes his friend back to his apartment. Though the monster is gone, Victor falls into a feverish illness.
Sickened by his horrific deed, Victor prepares to return to Geneva, to his family, and to health. Just before departing Ingolstadt, however, he receives a letter from his father informing him that his youngest brother, William, has been murdered. Grief-stricken, Victor hurries home. While passing through the woods where William was strangled, he catches sight of the monster and becomes convinced that the monster is his brother’s murderer. Arriving in Geneva, Victor finds that Justine Moritz, a kind, gentle girl who had been adopted by the Frankenstein household, has been accused. She is tried, condemned, and executed, despite her assertions of innocence. Victor grows despondent, guilty with the knowledge that the monster he has created bears responsibility for the death of two innocent loved ones.
Hoping to ease his grief, Victor takes a vacation to the mountains. While he is alone one day, crossing an enormous glacier, the monster approaches him. The monster admits to the murder of William but begs for understanding. Lonely, shunned, and forlorn, he says that he struck out at William in a desperate attempt to injure Victor, his cruel creator. The monster begs Victor to create a mate for him, a monster equally grotesque to serve as his sole companion.
Victor refuses at first, horrified by the prospect of creating a second monster. The monster is eloquent and persuasive, however, and he eventually convinces Victor. After returning to Geneva, Victor heads for England, accompanied by Henry, to gather information for the creation of a female monster. Leaving Henry in Scotland, he secludes himself on a desolate island in the Orkneys and works reluctantly at repeating his first success. One night, struck by doubts about the morality of his actions, Victor glances out the window to see the monster glaring in at him with a frightening grin. Horrified by the possible consequences of his work, Victor destroys his new creation. The monster, enraged, vows revenge, swearing that he will be with Victor on Victor’s wedding night.
Later that night, Victor takes a boat out onto a lake and dumps the remains of the second creature in the water. The wind picks up and prevents him from returning to the island. In the morning, he finds himself ashore near an unknown town. Upon landing, he is arrested and informed that he will be tried for a murder discovered the previous night. Victor denies any knowledge of the murder, but when shown the body, he is shocked to behold his friend Henry Clerval, with the mark of the monster’s fingers on his neck. Victor falls ill, raving and feverish, and is kept in prison until his recovery, after which he is acquitted of the crime.
Shortly after returning to Geneva with his father, Victor marries Elizabeth. He fears the monster’s warning and suspects that he will be murdered on his wedding night. To be cautious, he sends Elizabeth away to wait for him. While he awaits the monster, he hears Elizabeth scream and realizes that the monster had been hinting at killing his new bride, not himself. Victor returns home to his father, who dies of grief a short time later. Victor vows to devote the rest of his life to finding the monster and exacting his revenge, and he soon departs to begin his quest.
Victor tracks the monster ever northward into the ice. In a dogsled chase, Victor almost catches up with the monster, but the sea beneath them swells and the ice breaks, leaving an unbridgeable gap between them. At this point, Walton encounters Victor, and the narrative catches up to the time of Walton’s fourth letter to his sister.
Walton tells the remainder of the story in another series of letters to his sister. Victor, already ill when the two men meet, worsens and dies shortly thereafter. When Walton returns, several days later, to the room in which the body lies, he is startled to see the monster weeping over Victor. The monster tells Walton of his immense solitude, suffering, hatred, and remorse. He asserts that now that his creator has died, he too can end his suffering. The monster then departs for the northernmost ice to die.
I wandered lonely as a cloud by William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
My heart leaps up when I behold by William Wordsworth
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began,
So is it now I am a man,
So be it when I shall grow old
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man:
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began,
So is it now I am a man,
So be it when I shall grow old
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man:
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
Indian epic: Mahabharata
Summary:
Among the descendants of King Bharata (after whose name India was called Bharata-varsha, land of the Bharatas) there were two successors to the throne of Hastinapura. Of these, the elder Dhritharashtra, was blind and gave over the reins of government to his younger brother Pandu. But Pandu grew weary of his duties and retired to hunt and enjoy himself. Again Dhritarashtra took control, sided by the advice and example of his wise old uncle, Bhisra. Upon Pandu’s death, his five sons were put under the care of his younger brother, who had one hundred sons of his own.
At first the king’s household was peaceful and free from strife, but gradually it became apparent that Pandu’s sons were far more capable of ruling than any of Dhritarashtra’s heirs. Of the Pandava’s, the name given to the five descendants of Pandu, all were remarkably able, but the oldest, Yudhisthira, was judged most promising, and therefore was chosen heir-apparent to the throne of the old blind king. To this selection of their cousin as the future king, the king’s own sons took violent exception. Accordingly, they persuaded their father to allow the Pandavas to leave the court and live by themselves. From a trap set by the unscrupulous Duryodhana, leader of the king’s sons, the five brothers escaped to the forest with their mother. There they spent some time in rustic exile.
In the meantime, Kind Draupada had announced that the hand of his daughterm Princess Draupadi, would be given to the hero surpassing all others in a feat of strength and skill, and had invited throngs of noblemen to compete for his daughter’s hand. In disguise, the Pandavas set out for King Draupada’s court.
More than two weeks were spent in celebrating the approaching nuptials of the princess before the trial of strength which would reveal the man worthy of taking the lovely princess as his wife. The test was to grasp a mighty bow, fit an arrow, bend the bow, and hit a metal target with the arrow. Contestant after contestant failed in the effort to bend the huge bow. Finally, Arjuna, third of the sons of Pandu, came forward and performed the feat with little effort to win the hand of the princess. But in curious fashion, Princess Draupadi became the wife of all five of the brothers. At this time also, the Pandavas met their cousin on their mother’s side, Khrishna of Dvaraka. This renowned Yadava nobleman they accepted as their special counselor and friend, and to him they owed much of their future success and power.
Hoping to avert dissension after his death, Kind Dhritarashtra decided to divide his kingdom into two parts, giving his hundred sons, the Kauravas, one portion and the Dhritashtra’s sons ruled in Hastinapur and the five sons of Pandu in Indraprastha.
The dying king’s attempt to settle affairs of government amicably resulted in peace and prosperity for a brief period. Then the wily Duryodhana, leader of the Kauravas, set another trap for the Pandavas. On this occasion, he enticed Yudhishthira, the eldest of the brothers, into a game of skill at dice. When the latter lost, the penalty was that the five brothers were to leave the court and spend the next twelve years in the forest. At the end of that time they were to have their kingdom holdings once again if they could pass another year in disguise, without having anyone recognize them.
The twelve year period of rustication was one many romantic and heroic adventures. All five brothers were concerned in stirring events: Arjuna, in particular, traveled far and long, visited the sacred stream of the Ganges, was courted by several noble ladies and finally married subhadra, sister of Krishna.
When the long time of exile was over, the Pandavas and Kauravas engaged in a war of heroes. Great armies were assembled: mountains of supplies were brought together. Just before the fighting began, Krishna, stepped forth and sang the divine song, the Bhagavad-Gita, in which he set forth such theological truths as the indestructibility of the soul, the necessity to defend the faith, and other fundamental precepts of the theology of Brahma. By means of this song, Arjuna was relieved of his doubts concerning the need to make his trial by battle.
The war lasted for some eighteen consecutive days, each day marked by fierce battles, single combats, and bloody attacks. Death and destruction were everywhere – the battlefields were strewn with broken bodies and ruined weapons and chariots. The outcome was annihilation of all the pretensions of the Kauravas and their allies to rule over the kingdom. Finally, Yudhisthira came to the throne amidst great celebrations, the payment of rich tribute and the ceremonial horse sacrifice.
Later the death of their spiritual and military counselor, Khrisna, led the five brothers to realize their weariness with earthly romp and striving. Accordingly, Yudhisthira gave up his duties as their ruler. The five brothers then banded together, clothed themselves as hermits, and set out for Mount Meru, the dwelling place of the gods on high. They were accompanied by their wife Draupadi and a dog that joined them on their journey. As they proceded, one after the other dropped by the way and perished. At last only Yudhisthira declined to enter without his canine companion. Then the truth was revealed – the dog was in reality the god of justice himself; sent to test Yudhisthira’s constancy.
But Yudhisthira was not content in heaven, for he soon realized that his brothers and Draupadi had been required to descend the Lower regions and their expiate their mortal sins. Lonely and disconsolate, he decided to join them until all could be united in heaven. After he had spent some time in that realm of suffering, and torture, the gods took pity on him. Along with his brothers and Draupadi, he was transported back to heaven, where all dwelt in perpetual happiness.
Among the descendants of King Bharata (after whose name India was called Bharata-varsha, land of the Bharatas) there were two successors to the throne of Hastinapura. Of these, the elder Dhritharashtra, was blind and gave over the reins of government to his younger brother Pandu. But Pandu grew weary of his duties and retired to hunt and enjoy himself. Again Dhritarashtra took control, sided by the advice and example of his wise old uncle, Bhisra. Upon Pandu’s death, his five sons were put under the care of his younger brother, who had one hundred sons of his own.
At first the king’s household was peaceful and free from strife, but gradually it became apparent that Pandu’s sons were far more capable of ruling than any of Dhritarashtra’s heirs. Of the Pandava’s, the name given to the five descendants of Pandu, all were remarkably able, but the oldest, Yudhisthira, was judged most promising, and therefore was chosen heir-apparent to the throne of the old blind king. To this selection of their cousin as the future king, the king’s own sons took violent exception. Accordingly, they persuaded their father to allow the Pandavas to leave the court and live by themselves. From a trap set by the unscrupulous Duryodhana, leader of the king’s sons, the five brothers escaped to the forest with their mother. There they spent some time in rustic exile.
In the meantime, Kind Draupada had announced that the hand of his daughterm Princess Draupadi, would be given to the hero surpassing all others in a feat of strength and skill, and had invited throngs of noblemen to compete for his daughter’s hand. In disguise, the Pandavas set out for King Draupada’s court.
More than two weeks were spent in celebrating the approaching nuptials of the princess before the trial of strength which would reveal the man worthy of taking the lovely princess as his wife. The test was to grasp a mighty bow, fit an arrow, bend the bow, and hit a metal target with the arrow. Contestant after contestant failed in the effort to bend the huge bow. Finally, Arjuna, third of the sons of Pandu, came forward and performed the feat with little effort to win the hand of the princess. But in curious fashion, Princess Draupadi became the wife of all five of the brothers. At this time also, the Pandavas met their cousin on their mother’s side, Khrishna of Dvaraka. This renowned Yadava nobleman they accepted as their special counselor and friend, and to him they owed much of their future success and power.
Hoping to avert dissension after his death, Kind Dhritarashtra decided to divide his kingdom into two parts, giving his hundred sons, the Kauravas, one portion and the Dhritashtra’s sons ruled in Hastinapur and the five sons of Pandu in Indraprastha.
The dying king’s attempt to settle affairs of government amicably resulted in peace and prosperity for a brief period. Then the wily Duryodhana, leader of the Kauravas, set another trap for the Pandavas. On this occasion, he enticed Yudhishthira, the eldest of the brothers, into a game of skill at dice. When the latter lost, the penalty was that the five brothers were to leave the court and spend the next twelve years in the forest. At the end of that time they were to have their kingdom holdings once again if they could pass another year in disguise, without having anyone recognize them.
The twelve year period of rustication was one many romantic and heroic adventures. All five brothers were concerned in stirring events: Arjuna, in particular, traveled far and long, visited the sacred stream of the Ganges, was courted by several noble ladies and finally married subhadra, sister of Krishna.
When the long time of exile was over, the Pandavas and Kauravas engaged in a war of heroes. Great armies were assembled: mountains of supplies were brought together. Just before the fighting began, Krishna, stepped forth and sang the divine song, the Bhagavad-Gita, in which he set forth such theological truths as the indestructibility of the soul, the necessity to defend the faith, and other fundamental precepts of the theology of Brahma. By means of this song, Arjuna was relieved of his doubts concerning the need to make his trial by battle.
The war lasted for some eighteen consecutive days, each day marked by fierce battles, single combats, and bloody attacks. Death and destruction were everywhere – the battlefields were strewn with broken bodies and ruined weapons and chariots. The outcome was annihilation of all the pretensions of the Kauravas and their allies to rule over the kingdom. Finally, Yudhisthira came to the throne amidst great celebrations, the payment of rich tribute and the ceremonial horse sacrifice.
Later the death of their spiritual and military counselor, Khrisna, led the five brothers to realize their weariness with earthly romp and striving. Accordingly, Yudhisthira gave up his duties as their ruler. The five brothers then banded together, clothed themselves as hermits, and set out for Mount Meru, the dwelling place of the gods on high. They were accompanied by their wife Draupadi and a dog that joined them on their journey. As they proceded, one after the other dropped by the way and perished. At last only Yudhisthira declined to enter without his canine companion. Then the truth was revealed – the dog was in reality the god of justice himself; sent to test Yudhisthira’s constancy.
But Yudhisthira was not content in heaven, for he soon realized that his brothers and Draupadi had been required to descend the Lower regions and their expiate their mortal sins. Lonely and disconsolate, he decided to join them until all could be united in heaven. After he had spent some time in that realm of suffering, and torture, the gods took pity on him. Along with his brothers and Draupadi, he was transported back to heaven, where all dwelt in perpetual happiness.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Bread of Salt by NVM Gonzales
The Bread of Salt
by NVM Gonzalez (1958)
sually I was in bed by ten and up by five and thus was ready for one more
day of my fourteenth year. Unless Grandmother had forgotten, the fifteen
centavos for the baker down Progreso Street - and how I enjoyed jingling
those coins in my pocket!- would be in the empty fruit jar in the cupboard. I
would remember then that rolls were what Grandmother wanted because
recently she had lost three molars. For young people like my cousins and myself,
she had always said that the kind called pan de sal ought to be quite all right.
The bread of salt! How did it get that name? From where did its flavor come,
through what secret action of flour and yeast? At the risk of being jostled from the
counter by early buyers, I would push my way into the shop so that I might watch
the men who, stripped to the waist, worked their long flat wooden spades in and
out of the glowing maw of the oven. Why did the bread come nut-brown and the
size of my little fist? And why did it have a pair of lips convulsed into a painful
frown? In the half light of the street, and hurrying, the paper bag pressed to my
chest, I felt my curiosity a little gratified by the oven-fresh warmth of the bread I
was proudly bringing home for breakfast.
Well I knew how Grandmother would not mind if I nibbled away at one piece;
perhaps, I might even eat two, to be charged later against my share at the table.
But that would be betraying a trust; and so, indeed, I kept my purchase intact. To
guard it from harm, I watched my steps and avoided the dark street corners.
For my reward, I had only to look in the direction of the sea wall and the fifty
yards or so of riverbed beyond it, where an old Spaniard's house stood. At low
tide, when the bed was dry and the rocks glinted with broken bottles, the stone
fence of the Spaniard's compound set off the house as if it were a castle. Sunrise
brought a wash of silver upon the roofs of the laundry and garden sheds which
had been built low and close to the fence. On dull mornings the light dripped from
the bamboo screen which covered the veranda and hung some four or five yards
from the ground. Unless it was August, when the damp, northeast monsoon had
to be kept away from the rooms, three servants raised the screen promptly at
six-thirty until it was completely hidden under the veranda eaves. From the sound
of the pulleys, I knew it was time to set out for school.
It was in his service, as a coconut plantation overseer, that Grandfather had
spent the last thirty years of his life. Grandmother had been widowed three years
now. I often wondered whether I was being depended upon to spend the years
ahead in the service of this great house. One day I learned that Aida, a
classmate in high school, was the old Spaniard's niece. All my doubts
disappeared. It was as if, before his death, Grandfather had spoken to me about
her, concealing the seriousness of the matter by putting it over as a joke. If now I
kept true to the virtues, she would step out of her bedroom ostensibly to say
U
Good Morning to her uncle. Her real purpose, I knew, was to reveal thus her
assent to my desire.
On quiet mornings I imagined the patter of her shoes upon the wooden veranda
floor as a further sign, and I would hurry off to school, taking the route she had
fixed for me past the post office, the town plaza and the church, the health center
east of the plaza, and at last the school grounds. I asked myself whether I would
try to walk with her and decided it would be the height of rudeness. Enough that
in her blue skirt and white middy she would be half a block ahead and, from that
distance, perhaps throw a glance in my direction, to bestow upon my heart a
deserved and abundant blessing. I believed it was but right that, in some such
way as this, her mission in my life was disguised.
Her name, I was to learn many years later, was a convenient mnemonic for the
qualities to which argument might aspire. But in those days it was a living voice.
"Oh that you might be worthy of uttering me," it said. And how I endeavored to
build my body so that I might live long to honor her. With every victory at singles
at the handball court the game was then the craze at school -- I could feel my
body glow in the sun as though it had instantly been cast in bronze. I guarded my
mind and did not let my wits go astray. In class I would not allow a lesson to pass
unmastered. Our English teacher could put no question before us that did not
have a ready answer in my head. One day he read Robert Louis Stevenson's
The Sire de Maletroit's Door, and we were so enthralled that our breaths
trembled. I knew then that somewhere, sometime in the not too improbable
future, a benign old man with a lantern in his hand would also detain me in a
secret room, and there daybreak would find me thrilled by the sudden certainty
that I had won Aida's hand.
It was perhaps on my violin that her name wrought such a tender spell. Maestro
Antonino remarked the dexterity of my stubby fingers. Quickly I raced through
Alard-until I had all but committed two thirds of the book to memory. My short,
brown arm learned at last to draw the bow with grace. Sometimes, when
practising my scales in the early evening, I wondered if the sea wind carrying the
straggling notes across the pebbled river did not transform them into Schubert's
"Serenade."
At last Mr. Custodio, who was in charge of our school orchestra, became aware
of my progress. He moved me from second to first violin. During the
Thanksgiving Day program he bade me render a number, complete with pizzicati
and harmonics.
"Another Vallejo! Our own Albert Spalding!" I heard from the front row.
Aida, I thought, would be in the audience. I looked around quickly but could not
see her. As I retired to my place in the orchestra I heard Pete Saez, the
trombone player, call my name.
"You must join my band," he said. "Look, we'll have many engagements soon. It'll
be vacation time."
Pete pressed my arm. He had for some time now been asking me to join the
Minviluz Orchestra, his private band. All I had been able to tell him was that I had
my schoolwork to mind. He was twenty-two. I was perhaps too young to be going
around with him. He earned his school fees and supported his mother hiring out
his band at least three or four times a month. He now said:
"Tomorrow we play at the funeral of a Chinese-four to six in the afternoon; in the
evening, judge Roldan's silver wedding anniversary; Sunday, the municipal
dance."
My head began to whirl. On the stage, in front of us, the principal had begun a
speech about America. Nothing he could say about the Pilgrim Fathers and the
American custom of feasting on turkey seemed interesting. I thought of the
money I would earn. For several days now I had but one wish, to buy a box of
linen stationery. At night when the house was quiet I would fill the sheets with
words that would tell Aida how much I adored her. One of these mornings,
perhaps before school closed for the holidays, I would borrow her algebra book
and there, upon a good pageful of equations, there I would slip my message,
tenderly pressing the leaves of the book. She would perhaps never write back.
Neither by post nor by hand would a reply reach me. But no matter; it would be a
silence full of voices.
That night I dreamed I had returned from a tour of the world's music centers; the
newspapers of Manila had been generous with praise. I saw my picture on the
cover of a magazine. A writer had described how, many years ago, I used to
trudge the streets of Buenavista with my violin in a battered black cardboard
case. In New York, he reported, a millionaire had offered me a Stradivarius violin,
with a card that bore the inscription: "In admiration of a genius your own people
must surely be proud of." I dreamed I spent a weekend at the millionaire's
country house by the Hudson. A young girl in a blue skirt and white middy
clapped her lily-white hands and, her voice trembling, cried "Bravo!"
What people now observed at home was the diligence with which I attended to
my violin lessons. My aunt, who had come from the farm to join her children for
the holidays, brought with her a maidservant, and to the poor girl was given the
chore of taking the money to the baker's for rolls and pan de sal. I realized at
once that it would be no longer becoming on my part to make these morning trips
to the baker's. I could not thank my aunt enough.
I began to chafe on being given other errands. Suspecting my violin to be the
excuse, my aunt remarked:
"What do you want to be a musician for? At parties, musicians always eat last."
Perhaps, I said to myself, she was thinking of a pack of dogs scrambling for
scraps tossed over the fence by some careless kitchen maid. She was the sort
you could depend on to say such vulgar things. For that reason, I thought, she
ought not to be taken seriously at all.
But the remark hurt me. Although Grandmother had counseled me kindly to mind
my work at school, I went again and again to Pete Saez's house for rehearsals.
She had demanded that I deposit with her my earnings; I had felt too weak to
refuse. Secretly, I counted the money and decided not to ask for it until I had
enough with which to buy a brooch. Why this time I wanted to give Aida a brooch,
I didn't know. But I had set my heart on it. I searched the downtown shops. The
Chinese clerks, seeing me so young, were annoyed when I inquired about prices.
At last the Christmas season began. I had not counted on Aida's leaving home,
and remembering that her parents lived in Badajoz, my torment was almost
unbearable. Not once had I tried to tell her of my love. My letters had remained
unwritten, and the algebra book unborrowed. There was still the brooch to find,
but I could not decide on the sort of brooch I really wanted. And the money, in
any case, was in Grandmother's purse, which smelled of "Tiger Balm." I grew
somewhat feverish as our class Christmas program drew near. Finally it came; it
was a warm December afternoon. I decided to leave the room when our English
teacher announced that members of the class might exchange gifts. I felt
fortunate; Pete was at the door, beckoning to me. We walked out to the porch
where, Pete said, he would tell me a secret.
It was about an asalto the next Sunday which the Buenavista Women's Club
wished to give Don Esteban's daughters, Josefina and Alicia, who were arriving
on the morning steamer from Manila. The spinsters were much loved by the
ladies. Years ago, when they were younger, these ladies studied solfeggio with
Josefina and the piano and harp with Alicia. As Pete told me all this, his lips
ash-gray from practising all morning on his trombone, I saw in my mind the
sisters in their silk dresses, shuffling off to church for theevening benediction.
They were very devout, and the Buenavista ladies admired that. I had almost
forgotten that they were twins and, despite their age, often dressed alike. In
low-bosomed voile bodices and white summer hats, I remembered, the pair had
attended Grandfather's funeral, at old Don Esteban's behest. I wondered how
successful they had been in Manila during the past three years in the matter of
finding suitable husbands.
"This party will be a complete surprise," Pete said, looking around the porch as if
to swear me to secrecy. "They've hired our band."
I joined my classmates in the room, greeting everyone with a Merry Christmas
jollier than that of the others. When I saw Aida in one corner unwrapping
something two girls had given her, I found the boldness to greet her also.
"Merry Christmas," I said in English, as a hairbrush and a powder case emerged
from the fancy wrapping. It seemed to me rather apt that such gifts went to her.
Already several girls were gathered around Aida. Their eyes glowed with envy, it
seemed to me, for those fair cheeks and the bobbed dark-brown hair which
lineage had denied them.
I was too dumbstruck by my own meanness to hear exactly what Aida said in
answer to my greeting. But I recovered shortly and asked:
"Will you be away during the vacation?"
"No, I'll be staying here," she said. When she added that her cousins were
arriving and that a big party in their honor was being planned, I remarked:
"So you know all about it?" I felt I had to explain that the party was meant to be a
surprise, an asalto.
And now it would be nothing of the kind, really. The women's club matrons would
hustle about, disguising their scurrying around for cakes and candies as for some
baptismal party or other. In the end, the Rivas sisters would outdo them. Boxes
of meringues, bonbons, ladyfingers, and cinnamon buns that only the Swiss
bakers in Manila could make were perhaps coming on the boat with them. I
imagined a table glimmering with long-stemmed punch glasses; enthroned in that
array would be a huge brick-red bowl of gleaming china with golden flowers
around the brim. The local matrons, however hard they tried, however sincere
their efforts, were bound to fail in their aspiration to rise to the level of Don
Esteban's daughters. Perhaps, I thought, Aida knew all this. And that I should
share in a foreknowledge of the matrons' hopes was a matter beyond love. Aida
and I could laugh together with the gods.
At seven, on the appointed evening, our small band gathered quietly at the gate
of Don Esteban's house, and when the ladies arrived in their heavy shawls and
trim panuelo, twittering with excitement, we were commanded to play the Poet
and Peasant overture. As Pete directed the band, his eyes glowed with pride for
his having been part of the big event. The multicolored lights that the old
Spaniard's gardeners had strung along the vine-covered fence were switched on,
and the women remarked that Don Esteban's daughters might have made some
preparations after all. Pete hid his face from the glare. If the women felt let down,
they did not show it.
The overture shuffled along to its climax while five men in white shirts bore huge
boxes of goods into the house. I recognized one of the bakers in spite of the
uniform. A chorus of confused greetings, and the women trooped into the house;
and before we had settled in the sala to play "A Basket of Roses," the heavy
damask curtains at the far end of the room were drawn and a long table richly
spread was revealed under the chandeliers. I remembered that, in our haste to
be on hand for the asalto, Pete and I had discouraged the members of the band
from taking their suppers.
"You've done us a great honor!" Josefina, the more buxom of the twins, greeted
the ladies.
"Oh, but you have not allowed us to take you by surprise!" the ladies demurred in
a chorus.
There were sighs and further protestations amid a rustle of skirts and the glitter of
earrings. I saw Aida in a long, flowing white gown and wearing an arch of
sampaguita flowers on her hair. At her command, two servants brought out a
gleaming harp from the music room. Only the slightest scraping could be heard
because the servants were barefoot. As Aida directed them to place the
instrument near the seats we occupied, my heart leaped to my throat. Soon she
was lost among the guests, and we played "The Dance of the Glowworms." I
kept my eyes closed and held for as long as I could her radiant figure before me.
Alicia played on the harp and then, in answer to the deafening applause, she
offered an encore. Josefina sang afterward. Her voice, though a little husky,
fetched enormous sighs. For her encore, she gave "The Last Rose of Summer";
and the song brought back snatches of the years gone by. Memories of solfeggio
lessons eddied about us, as if there were rustling leaves scattered all over the
hall. Don Esteban appeared. Earlier, he had greeted the crowd handsomely,
twisting his mustache to hide a natural shyness before talkative women. He
stayed long enough to listen to the harp again, whispering in his rapture:
"Heavenly. Heavenly . . ."
By midnight, the merrymaking lagged. We played while the party gathered
around the great table at the end of the sala. My mind traveled across the seas to
the distant cities I had dreamed about. The sisters sailed among the ladies like
two great white liners amid a fleet of tugboats in a bay. Someone had
thoughtfully remembered-and at last Pete Saez signaled to us to put our
instruments away. We walked in single file across the hall, led by one of the
barefoot servants.
Behind us a couple of hoarse sopranos sang "La Paloma" to the accompaniment
of the harp, but I did not care to find out who they were. The sight of so much
silver and china confused me. There was more food before us than I had ever
imagined. I searched in my mind for the names of the dishes; but my ignorance
appalled me. I wondered what had happened to the boxes of food that the
Buenavista ladies had sent up earlier. In a silver bowl was something, I
discovered, that appeared like whole egg yolks that had been dipped in honey
and peppermint. The seven of us in the orchestra were all of one mind about the
feast; and so, confident that I was with friends, I allowed my covetousness to
have its sway and not only stuffed my mouth with this and that confection but
also wrapped up a quantity of those egg-yolk things in several sheets of napkin
paper. None of my companions had thought of doing the same, and it was with
some pride that I slipped the packet under my shirt. There, I knew, it would not
bulge.
"Have you eaten?"
I turned around. It was Aida. My bow tie seemed to tighten around my collar. I
mumbled something, I did not know what.
"If you wait a little while till they've gone, I'll wrap up a big package for you," she
added.
I brought a handkerchief to my mouth. I might have honored her solicitude
adequately and even relieved myself of any embarrassment; I could not quite
believe that she had seen me, and yet I was sure that she knew what I had done,
and I felt all ardor for her gone from me entirely.
I walked away to the nearest door, praying that the damask curtains might hide
me in my shame. The door gave on to the veranda, where once my love had trod
on sunbeams. Outside it was dark, and a faint wind was singing in the harbor.
With the napkin balled up in my hand, I flung out my arm to scatter the egg-yolk
things in the dark. I waited for the soft sound of their fall on the garden-shed roof.
Instead, I heard a spatter in the rising night-tide beyond the stone fence. Farther
away glimmered the light from Grandmother's window, calling me home.
But the party broke up at one or thereabouts. We walked away with our
instruments after the matrons were done with their interminable good-byes.
Then, to the tune of "Joy to the World," we pulled the Progreso Street
shopkeepers out of their beds. The Chinese merchants were especially
generous. When Pete divided our collection under a street lamp, there was
already a little glow of daybreak.
He walked with me part of the way home. We stopped at the baker's when I told
him that I wanted to buy with my own money some bread to eat on the way to
Grandmother's house at the edge of the sea wall. He laughed, thinking it strange
that I should be hungry. We found ourselves alone at the counter; and we
watched the bakery assistants at work until our bodies grew warm from the oven
across the door. It was not quite five, and the bread was not yet ready.
by NVM Gonzalez (1958)
sually I was in bed by ten and up by five and thus was ready for one more
day of my fourteenth year. Unless Grandmother had forgotten, the fifteen
centavos for the baker down Progreso Street - and how I enjoyed jingling
those coins in my pocket!- would be in the empty fruit jar in the cupboard. I
would remember then that rolls were what Grandmother wanted because
recently she had lost three molars. For young people like my cousins and myself,
she had always said that the kind called pan de sal ought to be quite all right.
The bread of salt! How did it get that name? From where did its flavor come,
through what secret action of flour and yeast? At the risk of being jostled from the
counter by early buyers, I would push my way into the shop so that I might watch
the men who, stripped to the waist, worked their long flat wooden spades in and
out of the glowing maw of the oven. Why did the bread come nut-brown and the
size of my little fist? And why did it have a pair of lips convulsed into a painful
frown? In the half light of the street, and hurrying, the paper bag pressed to my
chest, I felt my curiosity a little gratified by the oven-fresh warmth of the bread I
was proudly bringing home for breakfast.
Well I knew how Grandmother would not mind if I nibbled away at one piece;
perhaps, I might even eat two, to be charged later against my share at the table.
But that would be betraying a trust; and so, indeed, I kept my purchase intact. To
guard it from harm, I watched my steps and avoided the dark street corners.
For my reward, I had only to look in the direction of the sea wall and the fifty
yards or so of riverbed beyond it, where an old Spaniard's house stood. At low
tide, when the bed was dry and the rocks glinted with broken bottles, the stone
fence of the Spaniard's compound set off the house as if it were a castle. Sunrise
brought a wash of silver upon the roofs of the laundry and garden sheds which
had been built low and close to the fence. On dull mornings the light dripped from
the bamboo screen which covered the veranda and hung some four or five yards
from the ground. Unless it was August, when the damp, northeast monsoon had
to be kept away from the rooms, three servants raised the screen promptly at
six-thirty until it was completely hidden under the veranda eaves. From the sound
of the pulleys, I knew it was time to set out for school.
It was in his service, as a coconut plantation overseer, that Grandfather had
spent the last thirty years of his life. Grandmother had been widowed three years
now. I often wondered whether I was being depended upon to spend the years
ahead in the service of this great house. One day I learned that Aida, a
classmate in high school, was the old Spaniard's niece. All my doubts
disappeared. It was as if, before his death, Grandfather had spoken to me about
her, concealing the seriousness of the matter by putting it over as a joke. If now I
kept true to the virtues, she would step out of her bedroom ostensibly to say
U
Good Morning to her uncle. Her real purpose, I knew, was to reveal thus her
assent to my desire.
On quiet mornings I imagined the patter of her shoes upon the wooden veranda
floor as a further sign, and I would hurry off to school, taking the route she had
fixed for me past the post office, the town plaza and the church, the health center
east of the plaza, and at last the school grounds. I asked myself whether I would
try to walk with her and decided it would be the height of rudeness. Enough that
in her blue skirt and white middy she would be half a block ahead and, from that
distance, perhaps throw a glance in my direction, to bestow upon my heart a
deserved and abundant blessing. I believed it was but right that, in some such
way as this, her mission in my life was disguised.
Her name, I was to learn many years later, was a convenient mnemonic for the
qualities to which argument might aspire. But in those days it was a living voice.
"Oh that you might be worthy of uttering me," it said. And how I endeavored to
build my body so that I might live long to honor her. With every victory at singles
at the handball court the game was then the craze at school -- I could feel my
body glow in the sun as though it had instantly been cast in bronze. I guarded my
mind and did not let my wits go astray. In class I would not allow a lesson to pass
unmastered. Our English teacher could put no question before us that did not
have a ready answer in my head. One day he read Robert Louis Stevenson's
The Sire de Maletroit's Door, and we were so enthralled that our breaths
trembled. I knew then that somewhere, sometime in the not too improbable
future, a benign old man with a lantern in his hand would also detain me in a
secret room, and there daybreak would find me thrilled by the sudden certainty
that I had won Aida's hand.
It was perhaps on my violin that her name wrought such a tender spell. Maestro
Antonino remarked the dexterity of my stubby fingers. Quickly I raced through
Alard-until I had all but committed two thirds of the book to memory. My short,
brown arm learned at last to draw the bow with grace. Sometimes, when
practising my scales in the early evening, I wondered if the sea wind carrying the
straggling notes across the pebbled river did not transform them into Schubert's
"Serenade."
At last Mr. Custodio, who was in charge of our school orchestra, became aware
of my progress. He moved me from second to first violin. During the
Thanksgiving Day program he bade me render a number, complete with pizzicati
and harmonics.
"Another Vallejo! Our own Albert Spalding!" I heard from the front row.
Aida, I thought, would be in the audience. I looked around quickly but could not
see her. As I retired to my place in the orchestra I heard Pete Saez, the
trombone player, call my name.
"You must join my band," he said. "Look, we'll have many engagements soon. It'll
be vacation time."
Pete pressed my arm. He had for some time now been asking me to join the
Minviluz Orchestra, his private band. All I had been able to tell him was that I had
my schoolwork to mind. He was twenty-two. I was perhaps too young to be going
around with him. He earned his school fees and supported his mother hiring out
his band at least three or four times a month. He now said:
"Tomorrow we play at the funeral of a Chinese-four to six in the afternoon; in the
evening, judge Roldan's silver wedding anniversary; Sunday, the municipal
dance."
My head began to whirl. On the stage, in front of us, the principal had begun a
speech about America. Nothing he could say about the Pilgrim Fathers and the
American custom of feasting on turkey seemed interesting. I thought of the
money I would earn. For several days now I had but one wish, to buy a box of
linen stationery. At night when the house was quiet I would fill the sheets with
words that would tell Aida how much I adored her. One of these mornings,
perhaps before school closed for the holidays, I would borrow her algebra book
and there, upon a good pageful of equations, there I would slip my message,
tenderly pressing the leaves of the book. She would perhaps never write back.
Neither by post nor by hand would a reply reach me. But no matter; it would be a
silence full of voices.
That night I dreamed I had returned from a tour of the world's music centers; the
newspapers of Manila had been generous with praise. I saw my picture on the
cover of a magazine. A writer had described how, many years ago, I used to
trudge the streets of Buenavista with my violin in a battered black cardboard
case. In New York, he reported, a millionaire had offered me a Stradivarius violin,
with a card that bore the inscription: "In admiration of a genius your own people
must surely be proud of." I dreamed I spent a weekend at the millionaire's
country house by the Hudson. A young girl in a blue skirt and white middy
clapped her lily-white hands and, her voice trembling, cried "Bravo!"
What people now observed at home was the diligence with which I attended to
my violin lessons. My aunt, who had come from the farm to join her children for
the holidays, brought with her a maidservant, and to the poor girl was given the
chore of taking the money to the baker's for rolls and pan de sal. I realized at
once that it would be no longer becoming on my part to make these morning trips
to the baker's. I could not thank my aunt enough.
I began to chafe on being given other errands. Suspecting my violin to be the
excuse, my aunt remarked:
"What do you want to be a musician for? At parties, musicians always eat last."
Perhaps, I said to myself, she was thinking of a pack of dogs scrambling for
scraps tossed over the fence by some careless kitchen maid. She was the sort
you could depend on to say such vulgar things. For that reason, I thought, she
ought not to be taken seriously at all.
But the remark hurt me. Although Grandmother had counseled me kindly to mind
my work at school, I went again and again to Pete Saez's house for rehearsals.
She had demanded that I deposit with her my earnings; I had felt too weak to
refuse. Secretly, I counted the money and decided not to ask for it until I had
enough with which to buy a brooch. Why this time I wanted to give Aida a brooch,
I didn't know. But I had set my heart on it. I searched the downtown shops. The
Chinese clerks, seeing me so young, were annoyed when I inquired about prices.
At last the Christmas season began. I had not counted on Aida's leaving home,
and remembering that her parents lived in Badajoz, my torment was almost
unbearable. Not once had I tried to tell her of my love. My letters had remained
unwritten, and the algebra book unborrowed. There was still the brooch to find,
but I could not decide on the sort of brooch I really wanted. And the money, in
any case, was in Grandmother's purse, which smelled of "Tiger Balm." I grew
somewhat feverish as our class Christmas program drew near. Finally it came; it
was a warm December afternoon. I decided to leave the room when our English
teacher announced that members of the class might exchange gifts. I felt
fortunate; Pete was at the door, beckoning to me. We walked out to the porch
where, Pete said, he would tell me a secret.
It was about an asalto the next Sunday which the Buenavista Women's Club
wished to give Don Esteban's daughters, Josefina and Alicia, who were arriving
on the morning steamer from Manila. The spinsters were much loved by the
ladies. Years ago, when they were younger, these ladies studied solfeggio with
Josefina and the piano and harp with Alicia. As Pete told me all this, his lips
ash-gray from practising all morning on his trombone, I saw in my mind the
sisters in their silk dresses, shuffling off to church for theevening benediction.
They were very devout, and the Buenavista ladies admired that. I had almost
forgotten that they were twins and, despite their age, often dressed alike. In
low-bosomed voile bodices and white summer hats, I remembered, the pair had
attended Grandfather's funeral, at old Don Esteban's behest. I wondered how
successful they had been in Manila during the past three years in the matter of
finding suitable husbands.
"This party will be a complete surprise," Pete said, looking around the porch as if
to swear me to secrecy. "They've hired our band."
I joined my classmates in the room, greeting everyone with a Merry Christmas
jollier than that of the others. When I saw Aida in one corner unwrapping
something two girls had given her, I found the boldness to greet her also.
"Merry Christmas," I said in English, as a hairbrush and a powder case emerged
from the fancy wrapping. It seemed to me rather apt that such gifts went to her.
Already several girls were gathered around Aida. Their eyes glowed with envy, it
seemed to me, for those fair cheeks and the bobbed dark-brown hair which
lineage had denied them.
I was too dumbstruck by my own meanness to hear exactly what Aida said in
answer to my greeting. But I recovered shortly and asked:
"Will you be away during the vacation?"
"No, I'll be staying here," she said. When she added that her cousins were
arriving and that a big party in their honor was being planned, I remarked:
"So you know all about it?" I felt I had to explain that the party was meant to be a
surprise, an asalto.
And now it would be nothing of the kind, really. The women's club matrons would
hustle about, disguising their scurrying around for cakes and candies as for some
baptismal party or other. In the end, the Rivas sisters would outdo them. Boxes
of meringues, bonbons, ladyfingers, and cinnamon buns that only the Swiss
bakers in Manila could make were perhaps coming on the boat with them. I
imagined a table glimmering with long-stemmed punch glasses; enthroned in that
array would be a huge brick-red bowl of gleaming china with golden flowers
around the brim. The local matrons, however hard they tried, however sincere
their efforts, were bound to fail in their aspiration to rise to the level of Don
Esteban's daughters. Perhaps, I thought, Aida knew all this. And that I should
share in a foreknowledge of the matrons' hopes was a matter beyond love. Aida
and I could laugh together with the gods.
At seven, on the appointed evening, our small band gathered quietly at the gate
of Don Esteban's house, and when the ladies arrived in their heavy shawls and
trim panuelo, twittering with excitement, we were commanded to play the Poet
and Peasant overture. As Pete directed the band, his eyes glowed with pride for
his having been part of the big event. The multicolored lights that the old
Spaniard's gardeners had strung along the vine-covered fence were switched on,
and the women remarked that Don Esteban's daughters might have made some
preparations after all. Pete hid his face from the glare. If the women felt let down,
they did not show it.
The overture shuffled along to its climax while five men in white shirts bore huge
boxes of goods into the house. I recognized one of the bakers in spite of the
uniform. A chorus of confused greetings, and the women trooped into the house;
and before we had settled in the sala to play "A Basket of Roses," the heavy
damask curtains at the far end of the room were drawn and a long table richly
spread was revealed under the chandeliers. I remembered that, in our haste to
be on hand for the asalto, Pete and I had discouraged the members of the band
from taking their suppers.
"You've done us a great honor!" Josefina, the more buxom of the twins, greeted
the ladies.
"Oh, but you have not allowed us to take you by surprise!" the ladies demurred in
a chorus.
There were sighs and further protestations amid a rustle of skirts and the glitter of
earrings. I saw Aida in a long, flowing white gown and wearing an arch of
sampaguita flowers on her hair. At her command, two servants brought out a
gleaming harp from the music room. Only the slightest scraping could be heard
because the servants were barefoot. As Aida directed them to place the
instrument near the seats we occupied, my heart leaped to my throat. Soon she
was lost among the guests, and we played "The Dance of the Glowworms." I
kept my eyes closed and held for as long as I could her radiant figure before me.
Alicia played on the harp and then, in answer to the deafening applause, she
offered an encore. Josefina sang afterward. Her voice, though a little husky,
fetched enormous sighs. For her encore, she gave "The Last Rose of Summer";
and the song brought back snatches of the years gone by. Memories of solfeggio
lessons eddied about us, as if there were rustling leaves scattered all over the
hall. Don Esteban appeared. Earlier, he had greeted the crowd handsomely,
twisting his mustache to hide a natural shyness before talkative women. He
stayed long enough to listen to the harp again, whispering in his rapture:
"Heavenly. Heavenly . . ."
By midnight, the merrymaking lagged. We played while the party gathered
around the great table at the end of the sala. My mind traveled across the seas to
the distant cities I had dreamed about. The sisters sailed among the ladies like
two great white liners amid a fleet of tugboats in a bay. Someone had
thoughtfully remembered-and at last Pete Saez signaled to us to put our
instruments away. We walked in single file across the hall, led by one of the
barefoot servants.
Behind us a couple of hoarse sopranos sang "La Paloma" to the accompaniment
of the harp, but I did not care to find out who they were. The sight of so much
silver and china confused me. There was more food before us than I had ever
imagined. I searched in my mind for the names of the dishes; but my ignorance
appalled me. I wondered what had happened to the boxes of food that the
Buenavista ladies had sent up earlier. In a silver bowl was something, I
discovered, that appeared like whole egg yolks that had been dipped in honey
and peppermint. The seven of us in the orchestra were all of one mind about the
feast; and so, confident that I was with friends, I allowed my covetousness to
have its sway and not only stuffed my mouth with this and that confection but
also wrapped up a quantity of those egg-yolk things in several sheets of napkin
paper. None of my companions had thought of doing the same, and it was with
some pride that I slipped the packet under my shirt. There, I knew, it would not
bulge.
"Have you eaten?"
I turned around. It was Aida. My bow tie seemed to tighten around my collar. I
mumbled something, I did not know what.
"If you wait a little while till they've gone, I'll wrap up a big package for you," she
added.
I brought a handkerchief to my mouth. I might have honored her solicitude
adequately and even relieved myself of any embarrassment; I could not quite
believe that she had seen me, and yet I was sure that she knew what I had done,
and I felt all ardor for her gone from me entirely.
I walked away to the nearest door, praying that the damask curtains might hide
me in my shame. The door gave on to the veranda, where once my love had trod
on sunbeams. Outside it was dark, and a faint wind was singing in the harbor.
With the napkin balled up in my hand, I flung out my arm to scatter the egg-yolk
things in the dark. I waited for the soft sound of their fall on the garden-shed roof.
Instead, I heard a spatter in the rising night-tide beyond the stone fence. Farther
away glimmered the light from Grandmother's window, calling me home.
But the party broke up at one or thereabouts. We walked away with our
instruments after the matrons were done with their interminable good-byes.
Then, to the tune of "Joy to the World," we pulled the Progreso Street
shopkeepers out of their beds. The Chinese merchants were especially
generous. When Pete divided our collection under a street lamp, there was
already a little glow of daybreak.
He walked with me part of the way home. We stopped at the baker's when I told
him that I wanted to buy with my own money some bread to eat on the way to
Grandmother's house at the edge of the sea wall. He laughed, thinking it strange
that I should be hungry. We found ourselves alone at the counter; and we
watched the bakery assistants at work until our bodies grew warm from the oven
across the door. It was not quite five, and the bread was not yet ready.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
The Soul of the Great Bell by Lafcadio Hearn
The water-clock marks the hour in the Tachung sz’, in the Tower of the Great Bell: now the mallet is lifted to smite the lips of the metal monster—the vast lips inscribed with Buddhist texts from the sacred Fa-hwa-King, from the chapters of the holy Ling-yen-King! Hear the great bell responding!—how mighty her voice, though tongueless! KO-NGAI! All the little dragons on the high-tilted eaves of the green roofs shiver to the tips of their gilded tails under that deep wave of sound; all the porcelain gargoyles tremble on their carven perches; all the hundred little bells of the pagodas quiver with desire to speak. KO-NGAI—all the green-and-gold tiles of the temple are vibrating; the wooden goldfish above them are writhing against the sky; the uplifted finger of Fo shakes high over the heads of the worshippers through the blue fog of incense! KO-NGAI!—What a thunder tone was that! All the lacquered goblins on the palace cornices wriggle their fire-coloured tongues! And after each huge shock, how wondrous the multiple echo and the great golden moan, and, at last, the sudden sibilant sobbing in the ears when the immense tone faints away in broken whispers of silver, as though a woman should whisper, “Hiai!” Even so the great bell hath sounded every day for well-nigh five hundred years—Ko-Ngai: first with stupendous clang, then with immeasurable moan of gold, then with silver murmuring of “Hiai!” And there is not a child in all the many-coloured ways of the old Chinese city who does not know the story of the great bell, who cannot tell you why the great bell says Ko-Ngai and Hiai!
Now this is the story of the great bell in the Tachung sz’, as the same is related in the Pe-Hiao-Tou-Choue, written by the learned Yu-Pao-Tchen, of the City of Kwang-tchau-fu.
Nearly five hundred years ago the Celestially August, the Son of Heaven, Yong-Lo, of the “Illustrious” or Ming dynasty, commanded the worthy official Kouan-Yu that he should have a bell made of such size that the sound thereof might be heard for one hundred li. And he further ordained that the voice of the bell should be strengthened with brass, and deepened with gold, and sweetened with silver; and that the face and the great lips of it should be graven with blessed sayings from the sacred books, and that it should be suspended in the centre of the imperial capital to sound through all the many-coloured ways of the City of Pe-King.
Therefore the worthy mandarin Kouan-Yu assembled the master-moulders and the renowned bellsmiths of the empire, and all men of great repute and cunning in foundry work; and they measured the materials for the alloy, and treated them skilfully, and prepared the moulds, the fires, the instruments, and the monstrous melting-pot for fusing the metal. And they laboured exceedingly, like giants neglecting only rest and sleep and the comforts of life; toiling both night and day in obedience to Kouan-Yu, and striving in all things to do the behest of the Son of Heaven.
But when the metal had been cast, and the earthen mould separated from the glowing casting, it was discovered that, despite their great labour and ceaseless care, the result was void of worth; for the metals had rebelled one against the other—the gold had scorned alliance with the brass, the silver would not mingle with the molten iron. Therefore the moulds had to be once more prepared, and the fires rekindled, and the metal remelted, and all the work tediously and toilsomely repeated. The Son of Heaven heard and was angry, but spake nothing.
A second time the bell was cast, and the result was even worse. Still the metals obstinately refused to blend one with the other; and there was no uniformity in the bell, and the sides of it were cracked and fissured, and the lips of it were slagged and split asunder; so that all the labour had to be repeated even a third time, to the great dismay of Kouan-Yu. And when the Son of Heaven heard these things, he was angrier than before; and sent his messenger to Kouan-Yu with a letter, written upon lemon-coloured silk and sealed with the seal of the dragon, containing these words:
“From the Mighty Young-Lo, the Sublime Tait-Sung, the Celestial and August, whose reign is called ‘Ming,’ to Kouan-Yu the Fuh-yin: Twice thou hast betrayed the trust we have deigned graciously to place in thee; if thou fail a third time in fulfilling our command, thy head shall be severed from thy neck. Tremble, and obey!”
Now, Kouan-Yu had a daughter of dazzling loveliness whose name—Ko-Ngai—was ever in the mouths of poets, and whose heart was even more beautiful than her face. Ko-Ngai loved her father with such love that she had refused a hundred worthy suitors rather than make his home desolate by her absence; and when she had seen the awful yellow missive, sealed with the Dragon-Seal, she fainted away with fear for her father’s sake. And when her senses and her strength returned to her, she could not rest or sleep for thinking of her parent’s danger, until she had secretly sold some of her jewels, and with the money so obtained had hastened to an astrologer, and paid him a great price to advise her by what means her father might be saved from the peril impending over him. So the astrologer made observations of the heavens, and marked the aspect of the Silver Stream (which we call the Milky Way), and examined the signs of the Zodiac—the Hwang-tao, or Yellow Road—and consulted the table of the Five Hin, or Principles of the Universe, and the mystical books of the alchemists. And after a long silence, he made answer to her, saying: “Gold and brass will never meet in wedlock, silver and iron never will embrace, until the flesh of a maiden be melted in the crucible; until the blood of a virgin be mixed with the metals in their fusion.” So Ko-Ngai returned home sorrowful at heart; but she kept secret all that she had heard, and told no one what she had done.
At last came the awful day when the third and last effort to cast the great bell was to be made; and Ko-Ngai, together with her waiting-woman, accompanied her father to the foundry, and they took their places upon a platform overlooking the toiling of the moulders and the lava of liquefied metal. All the workmen wrought at their tasks in silence; there was no sound heard but the muttering of the fires. And the muttering deepened into a roar like the roar of typhoons approaching, and the blood-red lake of metal slowly brightened like the vermilion of a sunrise, and the vermilion was transmuted into a radiant glow of gold, and the gold whitened blindingly, like the silver face of a full moon. Then the workers ceased to feed the raving flame, and all fixed their eyes upon the eyes of Kouan-Yu; and Kouan-Yu prepared to give the signal to cast.
But ere ever he lifted his finger, a cry caused him to turn his head and all heard the voice of Ko-Ngai sounding sharply sweet as a bird’s song above the great thunder of the fires—“For thy sake, O my father!” And even as she cried, she leaped into the white flood of metal; and the lava of the furnace roared to receive her, and spattered monstrous flakes of flame to the roof, and burst over the verge of the earthen crater, and cast up a whirling fountain of many-coloured fires, and subsided quakingly, with lightnings and with thunders and with mutterings.
Then the father of Ko-Ngai, wild with his grief, would have leaped in after her, but that strong men held him back and kept firm grasp upon him until he had fainted away, and they could bear him like one dead to his home. And the serving-woman of Ko-Ngai, dizzy and speechless for pain, stood before the furnace, still holding in her hands a shoe, a tiny, dainty shoe, with embroidery of pearls and flowers—the shoe of her beautiful mistress that was. For she had sought to grasp Ko-Ngai by the foot as she leaped, but had only been able to clutch the shoe, and the pretty shoe came off in her hand; and she continued to stare at it like one gone mad.
But in spite of all these things, the command of the Celestial and August had to be obeyed, and the work of the moulders to be finished, hopeless as the result might be. Yet the glow of the metal seemed purer and whiter than before; and there was no sign of the beautiful body that had been entombed therein. So the ponderous casting was made; and lo! when the metal had become cool, it was found that the bell was beautiful to look upon and perfect in form, and wonderful in colour above all other bells. Nor was there any trace found of the body of Ko-Ngai; for it had been totally absorbed by the precious alloy, and blended with the well-blended brass and gold, with the intermingling of the silver and the iron. And when they sounded the bell, its tones were found to be deeper and mellower and mightier than the tones of any other bell, reaching even beyond the distance of one hundred li, like a pealing of summer thunder; and yet also like some vast voice uttering a name, a woman’s name, the name of Ko-Ngai.
And still, between each mighty stroke there is a long low moaning heard; and ever the moaning ends with a sound of sobbing and of complaining, as though a weeping woman should murmur, “Hiai!” And still, when the people hear that great golden moan they keep silence, but when the sharp, sweet shuddering comes in the air, and the sobbing of “Hiai!” then, indeed, do all the Chinese mothers in all the many-coloured ways of Pe-King whisper to their little ones: “Listen! that is Ko-Ngai crying for her shoe! That is Ko-Ngai calling for her shoe!”
Now this is the story of the great bell in the Tachung sz’, as the same is related in the Pe-Hiao-Tou-Choue, written by the learned Yu-Pao-Tchen, of the City of Kwang-tchau-fu.
Nearly five hundred years ago the Celestially August, the Son of Heaven, Yong-Lo, of the “Illustrious” or Ming dynasty, commanded the worthy official Kouan-Yu that he should have a bell made of such size that the sound thereof might be heard for one hundred li. And he further ordained that the voice of the bell should be strengthened with brass, and deepened with gold, and sweetened with silver; and that the face and the great lips of it should be graven with blessed sayings from the sacred books, and that it should be suspended in the centre of the imperial capital to sound through all the many-coloured ways of the City of Pe-King.
Therefore the worthy mandarin Kouan-Yu assembled the master-moulders and the renowned bellsmiths of the empire, and all men of great repute and cunning in foundry work; and they measured the materials for the alloy, and treated them skilfully, and prepared the moulds, the fires, the instruments, and the monstrous melting-pot for fusing the metal. And they laboured exceedingly, like giants neglecting only rest and sleep and the comforts of life; toiling both night and day in obedience to Kouan-Yu, and striving in all things to do the behest of the Son of Heaven.
But when the metal had been cast, and the earthen mould separated from the glowing casting, it was discovered that, despite their great labour and ceaseless care, the result was void of worth; for the metals had rebelled one against the other—the gold had scorned alliance with the brass, the silver would not mingle with the molten iron. Therefore the moulds had to be once more prepared, and the fires rekindled, and the metal remelted, and all the work tediously and toilsomely repeated. The Son of Heaven heard and was angry, but spake nothing.
A second time the bell was cast, and the result was even worse. Still the metals obstinately refused to blend one with the other; and there was no uniformity in the bell, and the sides of it were cracked and fissured, and the lips of it were slagged and split asunder; so that all the labour had to be repeated even a third time, to the great dismay of Kouan-Yu. And when the Son of Heaven heard these things, he was angrier than before; and sent his messenger to Kouan-Yu with a letter, written upon lemon-coloured silk and sealed with the seal of the dragon, containing these words:
“From the Mighty Young-Lo, the Sublime Tait-Sung, the Celestial and August, whose reign is called ‘Ming,’ to Kouan-Yu the Fuh-yin: Twice thou hast betrayed the trust we have deigned graciously to place in thee; if thou fail a third time in fulfilling our command, thy head shall be severed from thy neck. Tremble, and obey!”
Now, Kouan-Yu had a daughter of dazzling loveliness whose name—Ko-Ngai—was ever in the mouths of poets, and whose heart was even more beautiful than her face. Ko-Ngai loved her father with such love that she had refused a hundred worthy suitors rather than make his home desolate by her absence; and when she had seen the awful yellow missive, sealed with the Dragon-Seal, she fainted away with fear for her father’s sake. And when her senses and her strength returned to her, she could not rest or sleep for thinking of her parent’s danger, until she had secretly sold some of her jewels, and with the money so obtained had hastened to an astrologer, and paid him a great price to advise her by what means her father might be saved from the peril impending over him. So the astrologer made observations of the heavens, and marked the aspect of the Silver Stream (which we call the Milky Way), and examined the signs of the Zodiac—the Hwang-tao, or Yellow Road—and consulted the table of the Five Hin, or Principles of the Universe, and the mystical books of the alchemists. And after a long silence, he made answer to her, saying: “Gold and brass will never meet in wedlock, silver and iron never will embrace, until the flesh of a maiden be melted in the crucible; until the blood of a virgin be mixed with the metals in their fusion.” So Ko-Ngai returned home sorrowful at heart; but she kept secret all that she had heard, and told no one what she had done.
At last came the awful day when the third and last effort to cast the great bell was to be made; and Ko-Ngai, together with her waiting-woman, accompanied her father to the foundry, and they took their places upon a platform overlooking the toiling of the moulders and the lava of liquefied metal. All the workmen wrought at their tasks in silence; there was no sound heard but the muttering of the fires. And the muttering deepened into a roar like the roar of typhoons approaching, and the blood-red lake of metal slowly brightened like the vermilion of a sunrise, and the vermilion was transmuted into a radiant glow of gold, and the gold whitened blindingly, like the silver face of a full moon. Then the workers ceased to feed the raving flame, and all fixed their eyes upon the eyes of Kouan-Yu; and Kouan-Yu prepared to give the signal to cast.
But ere ever he lifted his finger, a cry caused him to turn his head and all heard the voice of Ko-Ngai sounding sharply sweet as a bird’s song above the great thunder of the fires—“For thy sake, O my father!” And even as she cried, she leaped into the white flood of metal; and the lava of the furnace roared to receive her, and spattered monstrous flakes of flame to the roof, and burst over the verge of the earthen crater, and cast up a whirling fountain of many-coloured fires, and subsided quakingly, with lightnings and with thunders and with mutterings.
Then the father of Ko-Ngai, wild with his grief, would have leaped in after her, but that strong men held him back and kept firm grasp upon him until he had fainted away, and they could bear him like one dead to his home. And the serving-woman of Ko-Ngai, dizzy and speechless for pain, stood before the furnace, still holding in her hands a shoe, a tiny, dainty shoe, with embroidery of pearls and flowers—the shoe of her beautiful mistress that was. For she had sought to grasp Ko-Ngai by the foot as she leaped, but had only been able to clutch the shoe, and the pretty shoe came off in her hand; and she continued to stare at it like one gone mad.
But in spite of all these things, the command of the Celestial and August had to be obeyed, and the work of the moulders to be finished, hopeless as the result might be. Yet the glow of the metal seemed purer and whiter than before; and there was no sign of the beautiful body that had been entombed therein. So the ponderous casting was made; and lo! when the metal had become cool, it was found that the bell was beautiful to look upon and perfect in form, and wonderful in colour above all other bells. Nor was there any trace found of the body of Ko-Ngai; for it had been totally absorbed by the precious alloy, and blended with the well-blended brass and gold, with the intermingling of the silver and the iron. And when they sounded the bell, its tones were found to be deeper and mellower and mightier than the tones of any other bell, reaching even beyond the distance of one hundred li, like a pealing of summer thunder; and yet also like some vast voice uttering a name, a woman’s name, the name of Ko-Ngai.
And still, between each mighty stroke there is a long low moaning heard; and ever the moaning ends with a sound of sobbing and of complaining, as though a weeping woman should murmur, “Hiai!” And still, when the people hear that great golden moan they keep silence, but when the sharp, sweet shuddering comes in the air, and the sobbing of “Hiai!” then, indeed, do all the Chinese mothers in all the many-coloured ways of Pe-King whisper to their little ones: “Listen! that is Ko-Ngai crying for her shoe! That is Ko-Ngai calling for her shoe!”
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
How My Brother Leon Brought Home A Wife by Manuel Arguilla
She stepped down from the carretela of Ca Celin with a quick, delicate grace. She was lovely. SHe was tall. She looked up to my brother with a smile, and her forehead was on a level with his mouth.
"You are Baldo," she said and placed her hand lightly on my shoulder. Her nails were long, but they were not painted. She was fragrant like a morning when papayas are in bloom. And a small dimple appeared momently high on her right cheek. "And this is Labang of whom I have heard so much." She held the wrist of one hand with the other and looked at Labang, and Labang never stopped chewing his cud. He swallowed and brought up to his mouth more cud and the sound of his insides was like a drum.
I laid a hand on Labang's massive neck and said to her: "You may scratch his forehead now."
She hesitated and I saw that her eyes were on the long, curving horns. But she came and touched Labang's forehead with her long fingers, and Labang never stopped chewing his cud except that his big eyes half closed. And by and by she was scratching his forehead very daintily.
My brother Leon put down the two trunks on the grassy side of the road. He paid Ca Celin twice the usual fare from the station to the edge of Nagrebcan. Then he was standing beside us, and she turned to him eagerly. I watched Ca Celin, where he stood in front of his horse, and he ran his fingers through its forelock and could not keep his eyes away from her.
"Maria---" my brother Leon said.
He did not say Maring. He did not say Mayang. I knew then that he had always called her Maria and that to us all she would be Maria; and in my mind I said 'Maria' and it was a beautiful name.
"Yes, Noel."
Now where did she get that name? I pondered the matter quietly to myself, thinking Father might not like it. But it was only the name of my brother Leon said backward and it sounded much better that way.
"There is Nagrebcan, Maria," my brother Leon said, gesturing widely toward the west.
She moved close to him and slipped her arm through his. And after a while she said quietly.
"You love Nagrebcan, don't you, Noel?"
Ca Celin drove away hi-yi-ing to his horse loudly. At the bend of the camino real where the big duhat tree grew, he rattled the handle of his braided rattan whip against the spokes of the wheel.
We stood alone on the roadside.
The sun was in our eyes, for it was dipping into the bright sea. The sky was wide and deep and very blue above us: but along the saw-tooth rim of the Katayaghan hills to the southwest flamed huge masses of clouds. Before us the fields swam in a golden haze through which floated big purple and red and yellow bubbles when I looked at the sinking sun. Labang's white coat, which I had wshed and brushed that morning with coconut husk, glistened like beaten cotton under the lamplight and his horns appeared tipped with fire.
He faced the sun and from his mouth came a call so loud and vibrant that the earth seemed to tremble underfoot. And far away in the middle of the field a cow lowed softly in answer.
"Hitch him to the cart, Baldo," my brother Leon said, laughing, and she laughed with him a big uncertainly, and I saw that he had put his arm around her shoulders.
"Why does he make that sound?" she asked. "I have never heard the like of it."
"There is not another like it," my brother Leon said. "I have yet to hear another bull call like Labang. In all the world there is no other bull like him."
She was smiling at him, and I stopped in the act of tying the sinta across Labang's neck to the opposite end of the yoke, because her teeth were very white, her eyes were so full of laughter, and there was the small dimple high up on her right cheek.
"If you continue to talk about him like that, either I shall fall in love with him or become greatly jealous."
My brother Leon laughed and she laughed and they looked at each other and it seemed to me there was a world of laughter between them and in them.
I climbed into the cart over the wheel and Labang would have bolted, for he was always like that, but I kept a firm hold on his rope. He was restless and would not stand still, so that my brother Leon had to say "Labang" several times. When he was quiet again, my brother Leon lifted the trunks into the cart, placing the smaller on top.
She looked down once at her high-heeled shoes, then she gave her left hand to my brother Leon, placed a foot on the hub of the wheel, and in one breath she had swung up into the cart. Oh, the fragrance of her. But Labang was fairly dancing with impatience and it was all I could do to keep him from running away.
"Give me the rope, Baldo," my brother Leon said. "Maria, sit down on the hay and hold on to anything." Then he put a foot on the left shaft and that instand labang leaped forward. My brother Leon laughed as he drew himself up to the top of the side of the cart and made the slack of the rope hiss above the back of labang. The wind whistled against my cheeks and the rattling of the wheels on the pebbly road echoed in my ears.
She sat up straight on the bottom of the cart, legs bent togther to one side, her skirts spread over them so that only the toes and heels of her shoes were visible. her eyes were on my brother Leon's back; I saw the wind on her hair. When Labang slowed down, my brother Leon handed to me the rope. I knelt on the straw inside the cart and pulled on the rope until Labang was merely shuffling along, then I made him turn around.
"What is it you have forgotten now, Baldo?" my brother Leon said.
I did not say anything but tickled with my fingers the rump of Labang; and away we went---back to where I had unhitched and waited for them. The sun had sunk and down from the wooded sides of the Katayaghan hills shadows were stealing into the fields. High up overhead the sky burned with many slow fires.
When I sent Labang down the deep cut that would take us to the dry bed of the Waig which could be used as a path to our place during the dry season, my brother Leon laid a hand on my shoulder and said sternly:
"Who told you to drive through the fields tonight?"
His hand was heavy on my shoulder, but I did not look at him or utter a word until we were on the rocky bottom of the Waig.
"Baldo, you fool, answer me before I lay the rope of Labang on you. Why do you follow the Wait instead of the camino real?"
His fingers bit into my shoulder.
"Father, he told me to follow the Waig tonight, Manong."
Swiftly, his hand fell away from my shoulder and he reached for the rope of Labang. Then my brother Leon laughed, and he sat back, and laughing still, he said:
"And I suppose Father also told you to hitch Labang to the cart and meet us with him instead of with Castano and the calesa."
Without waiting for me to answer, he turned to her and said, "Maria, why do you think Father should do that, now?" He laughed and added, "Have you ever seen so many stars before?"
I looked back and they were sitting side by side, leaning against the trunks, hands clasped across knees. Seemingly, but a man's height above the tops of the steep banks of the Wait, hung the stars. But in the deep gorge the shadows had fallen heavily, and even the white of Labang's coat was merely a dim, grayish blur. Crickets chirped from their homes in the cracks in the banks. The thick, unpleasant smell of dangla bushes and cooling sun-heated earth mingled with the clean, sharp scent of arrais roots exposed to the night air and of the hay inside the cart.
"Look, Noel, yonder is our star!" Deep surprise and gladness were in her voice. Very low in the west, almost touching the ragged edge of the bank, was the star, the biggest and brightest in the sky.
"I have been looking at it," my brother Leon said. "Do you remember how I would tell you that when you want to see stars you must come to Nagrebcan?"
"Yes, Noel," she said. "Look at it," she murmured, half to herself. "It is so many times bigger and brighter than it was at Ermita beach."
"The air here is clean, free of dust and smoke."
"So it is, Noel," she said, drawing a long breath.
"Making fun of me, Maria?"
She laughed then and they laughed together and she took my brother Leon's hand and put it against her face.
I stopped Labang, climbed down, and lighted the lantern that hung from the cart between the wheels.
"Good boy, Baldo," my brother Leon said as I climbed back into the cart, and my heart sant.
Now the shadows took fright and did not crowd so near. Clumps of andadasi and arrais flashed into view and quickly disappeared as we passed by. Ahead, the elongated shadow of Labang bobbled up and down and swayed drunkenly from side to side, for the lantern rocked jerkily with the cart.
"Have we far to go yet, Noel?" she asked.
"Ask Baldo," my brother Leon said, "we have been neglecting him."
"I am asking you, Baldo," she said.
Without looking back, I answered, picking my words slowly:
"Soon we will get out of the Wait and pass into the fields. After the fields is home---Manong."
"So near already."
I did not say anything more because I did not know what to make of the tone of her voice as she said her last words. All the laughter seemed to have gone out of her. I waited for my brother Leon to say something, but he was not saying anything. Suddenly he broke out into song and the song was 'Sky Sown with Stars'---the same that he and Father sang when we cut hay in the fields at night before he went away to study. He must have taught her the song because she joined him, and her voice flowed into his like a gentle stream meeting a stronger one. And each time the wheels encountered a big rock, her voice would catch in her throat, but my brother Leon would sing on, until, laughing softly, she would join him again.
Then we were climbing out into the fields, and through the spokes of the wheels the light of the lantern mocked the shadows. Labang quickened his steps. The jolting became more frequent and painful as we crossed the low dikes.
"But it is so very wide here," she said. The light of the stars broke and scattered the darkness so that one could see far on every side, though indistinctly.
"You miss the houses, and the cars, and the people and the noise, don't you?" My brother Leon stopped singing.
"Yes, but in a different way. I am glad they are not here."
With difficulty I turned Labang to the left, for he wanted to go straight on. He was breathing hard, but I knew he was more thirsty than tired. In a little while we drope up the grassy side onto the camino real.
"---you see," my brother Leon was explaining, "the camino real curves around the foot of the Katayaghan hills and passes by our house. We drove through the fields because---but I'll be asking Father as soon as we get home."
"Noel," she said.
"Yes, Maria."
"I am afraid. He may not like me."
"Does that worry you still, Maria?" my brother Leon said. "From the way you talk, he might be an ogre, for all the world. Except when his leg that was wounded in the Revolution is troubling him, Father is the mildest-tempered, gentlest man I know."
We came to the house of Lacay Julian and I spoke to Labang loudly, but Moning did not come to the window, so I surmised she must be eating with the rest of her family. And I thought of the food being made ready at home and my mouth watered. We met the twins, Urong and Celin, and I said "Hoy!" calling them by name. And they shouted back and asked if my brother Leon and his wife were with me. And my brother Leon shouted to them and then told me to make Labang run; their answers were lost in the noise of the wheels.
I stopped labang on the road before our house and would have gotten down but my brother Leon took the rope and told me to stay in the cart. He turned Labang into the open gate and we dashed into our yard. I thought we would crash into the camachile tree, but my brother Leon reined in Labang in time. There was light downstairs in the kitchen, and Mother stood in the doorway, and I could see her smiling shyly. My brother Leon was helping Maria over the wheel. The first words that fell from his lips after he had kissed Mother's hand were:
"Father... where is he?"
"He is in his room upstairs," Mother said, her face becoming serious. "His leg is bothering him again."
I did not hear anything more because I had to go back to the cart to unhitch Labang. But I hardly tied him under the barn when I heard Father calling me. I met my brother Leon going to bring up the trunks. As I passed through the kitchen, there were Mother and my sister Aurelia and Maria and it seemed to me they were crying, all of them.
There was no light in Father's room. There was no movement. He sat in the big armchair by the western window, and a star shone directly through it. He was smoking, but he removed the roll of tobacco from his mouth when he saw me. He laid it carefully on the windowsill before speaking.
"Did you meet anybody on the way?" he asked.
"No, Father," I said. "Nobody passes through the Waig at night."
He reached for his roll of tobacco and hithced himself up in the chair.
"She is very beautiful, Father."
"Was she afraid of Labang?" My father had not raised his voice, but the room seemed to resound with it. And again I saw her eyes on the long curving horns and the arm of my brother Leon around her shoulders.
"No, Father, she was not afraid."
"On the way---"
"She looked at the stars, Father. And Manong Leon sang."
"What did he sing?"
"---Sky Sown with Stars... She sang with him."
He was silent again. I could hear the low voices of Mother and my sister Aurelia downstairs. There was also the voice of my brother Leon, and I thought that Father's voice must have been like it when Father was young. He had laid the roll of tobacco on the windowsill once more. I watched the smoke waver faintly upward from the lighted end and vanish slowly into the night outside.
The door opened and my brother Leon and Maria came in.
"Have you watered Labang?" Father spoke to me.
I told him that Labang was resting yet under the barn.
"It is time you watered him, my son," my father said.
I looked at Maria and she was lovely. She was tall. Beside my brother Leon, she was tall and very still. Then I went out, and in the darkened hall the fragrance of her was like a morning when papayas are in bloom.
"You are Baldo," she said and placed her hand lightly on my shoulder. Her nails were long, but they were not painted. She was fragrant like a morning when papayas are in bloom. And a small dimple appeared momently high on her right cheek. "And this is Labang of whom I have heard so much." She held the wrist of one hand with the other and looked at Labang, and Labang never stopped chewing his cud. He swallowed and brought up to his mouth more cud and the sound of his insides was like a drum.
I laid a hand on Labang's massive neck and said to her: "You may scratch his forehead now."
She hesitated and I saw that her eyes were on the long, curving horns. But she came and touched Labang's forehead with her long fingers, and Labang never stopped chewing his cud except that his big eyes half closed. And by and by she was scratching his forehead very daintily.
My brother Leon put down the two trunks on the grassy side of the road. He paid Ca Celin twice the usual fare from the station to the edge of Nagrebcan. Then he was standing beside us, and she turned to him eagerly. I watched Ca Celin, where he stood in front of his horse, and he ran his fingers through its forelock and could not keep his eyes away from her.
"Maria---" my brother Leon said.
He did not say Maring. He did not say Mayang. I knew then that he had always called her Maria and that to us all she would be Maria; and in my mind I said 'Maria' and it was a beautiful name.
"Yes, Noel."
Now where did she get that name? I pondered the matter quietly to myself, thinking Father might not like it. But it was only the name of my brother Leon said backward and it sounded much better that way.
"There is Nagrebcan, Maria," my brother Leon said, gesturing widely toward the west.
She moved close to him and slipped her arm through his. And after a while she said quietly.
"You love Nagrebcan, don't you, Noel?"
Ca Celin drove away hi-yi-ing to his horse loudly. At the bend of the camino real where the big duhat tree grew, he rattled the handle of his braided rattan whip against the spokes of the wheel.
We stood alone on the roadside.
The sun was in our eyes, for it was dipping into the bright sea. The sky was wide and deep and very blue above us: but along the saw-tooth rim of the Katayaghan hills to the southwest flamed huge masses of clouds. Before us the fields swam in a golden haze through which floated big purple and red and yellow bubbles when I looked at the sinking sun. Labang's white coat, which I had wshed and brushed that morning with coconut husk, glistened like beaten cotton under the lamplight and his horns appeared tipped with fire.
He faced the sun and from his mouth came a call so loud and vibrant that the earth seemed to tremble underfoot. And far away in the middle of the field a cow lowed softly in answer.
"Hitch him to the cart, Baldo," my brother Leon said, laughing, and she laughed with him a big uncertainly, and I saw that he had put his arm around her shoulders.
"Why does he make that sound?" she asked. "I have never heard the like of it."
"There is not another like it," my brother Leon said. "I have yet to hear another bull call like Labang. In all the world there is no other bull like him."
She was smiling at him, and I stopped in the act of tying the sinta across Labang's neck to the opposite end of the yoke, because her teeth were very white, her eyes were so full of laughter, and there was the small dimple high up on her right cheek.
"If you continue to talk about him like that, either I shall fall in love with him or become greatly jealous."
My brother Leon laughed and she laughed and they looked at each other and it seemed to me there was a world of laughter between them and in them.
I climbed into the cart over the wheel and Labang would have bolted, for he was always like that, but I kept a firm hold on his rope. He was restless and would not stand still, so that my brother Leon had to say "Labang" several times. When he was quiet again, my brother Leon lifted the trunks into the cart, placing the smaller on top.
She looked down once at her high-heeled shoes, then she gave her left hand to my brother Leon, placed a foot on the hub of the wheel, and in one breath she had swung up into the cart. Oh, the fragrance of her. But Labang was fairly dancing with impatience and it was all I could do to keep him from running away.
"Give me the rope, Baldo," my brother Leon said. "Maria, sit down on the hay and hold on to anything." Then he put a foot on the left shaft and that instand labang leaped forward. My brother Leon laughed as he drew himself up to the top of the side of the cart and made the slack of the rope hiss above the back of labang. The wind whistled against my cheeks and the rattling of the wheels on the pebbly road echoed in my ears.
She sat up straight on the bottom of the cart, legs bent togther to one side, her skirts spread over them so that only the toes and heels of her shoes were visible. her eyes were on my brother Leon's back; I saw the wind on her hair. When Labang slowed down, my brother Leon handed to me the rope. I knelt on the straw inside the cart and pulled on the rope until Labang was merely shuffling along, then I made him turn around.
"What is it you have forgotten now, Baldo?" my brother Leon said.
I did not say anything but tickled with my fingers the rump of Labang; and away we went---back to where I had unhitched and waited for them. The sun had sunk and down from the wooded sides of the Katayaghan hills shadows were stealing into the fields. High up overhead the sky burned with many slow fires.
When I sent Labang down the deep cut that would take us to the dry bed of the Waig which could be used as a path to our place during the dry season, my brother Leon laid a hand on my shoulder and said sternly:
"Who told you to drive through the fields tonight?"
His hand was heavy on my shoulder, but I did not look at him or utter a word until we were on the rocky bottom of the Waig.
"Baldo, you fool, answer me before I lay the rope of Labang on you. Why do you follow the Wait instead of the camino real?"
His fingers bit into my shoulder.
"Father, he told me to follow the Waig tonight, Manong."
Swiftly, his hand fell away from my shoulder and he reached for the rope of Labang. Then my brother Leon laughed, and he sat back, and laughing still, he said:
"And I suppose Father also told you to hitch Labang to the cart and meet us with him instead of with Castano and the calesa."
Without waiting for me to answer, he turned to her and said, "Maria, why do you think Father should do that, now?" He laughed and added, "Have you ever seen so many stars before?"
I looked back and they were sitting side by side, leaning against the trunks, hands clasped across knees. Seemingly, but a man's height above the tops of the steep banks of the Wait, hung the stars. But in the deep gorge the shadows had fallen heavily, and even the white of Labang's coat was merely a dim, grayish blur. Crickets chirped from their homes in the cracks in the banks. The thick, unpleasant smell of dangla bushes and cooling sun-heated earth mingled with the clean, sharp scent of arrais roots exposed to the night air and of the hay inside the cart.
"Look, Noel, yonder is our star!" Deep surprise and gladness were in her voice. Very low in the west, almost touching the ragged edge of the bank, was the star, the biggest and brightest in the sky.
"I have been looking at it," my brother Leon said. "Do you remember how I would tell you that when you want to see stars you must come to Nagrebcan?"
"Yes, Noel," she said. "Look at it," she murmured, half to herself. "It is so many times bigger and brighter than it was at Ermita beach."
"The air here is clean, free of dust and smoke."
"So it is, Noel," she said, drawing a long breath.
"Making fun of me, Maria?"
She laughed then and they laughed together and she took my brother Leon's hand and put it against her face.
I stopped Labang, climbed down, and lighted the lantern that hung from the cart between the wheels.
"Good boy, Baldo," my brother Leon said as I climbed back into the cart, and my heart sant.
Now the shadows took fright and did not crowd so near. Clumps of andadasi and arrais flashed into view and quickly disappeared as we passed by. Ahead, the elongated shadow of Labang bobbled up and down and swayed drunkenly from side to side, for the lantern rocked jerkily with the cart.
"Have we far to go yet, Noel?" she asked.
"Ask Baldo," my brother Leon said, "we have been neglecting him."
"I am asking you, Baldo," she said.
Without looking back, I answered, picking my words slowly:
"Soon we will get out of the Wait and pass into the fields. After the fields is home---Manong."
"So near already."
I did not say anything more because I did not know what to make of the tone of her voice as she said her last words. All the laughter seemed to have gone out of her. I waited for my brother Leon to say something, but he was not saying anything. Suddenly he broke out into song and the song was 'Sky Sown with Stars'---the same that he and Father sang when we cut hay in the fields at night before he went away to study. He must have taught her the song because she joined him, and her voice flowed into his like a gentle stream meeting a stronger one. And each time the wheels encountered a big rock, her voice would catch in her throat, but my brother Leon would sing on, until, laughing softly, she would join him again.
Then we were climbing out into the fields, and through the spokes of the wheels the light of the lantern mocked the shadows. Labang quickened his steps. The jolting became more frequent and painful as we crossed the low dikes.
"But it is so very wide here," she said. The light of the stars broke and scattered the darkness so that one could see far on every side, though indistinctly.
"You miss the houses, and the cars, and the people and the noise, don't you?" My brother Leon stopped singing.
"Yes, but in a different way. I am glad they are not here."
With difficulty I turned Labang to the left, for he wanted to go straight on. He was breathing hard, but I knew he was more thirsty than tired. In a little while we drope up the grassy side onto the camino real.
"---you see," my brother Leon was explaining, "the camino real curves around the foot of the Katayaghan hills and passes by our house. We drove through the fields because---but I'll be asking Father as soon as we get home."
"Noel," she said.
"Yes, Maria."
"I am afraid. He may not like me."
"Does that worry you still, Maria?" my brother Leon said. "From the way you talk, he might be an ogre, for all the world. Except when his leg that was wounded in the Revolution is troubling him, Father is the mildest-tempered, gentlest man I know."
We came to the house of Lacay Julian and I spoke to Labang loudly, but Moning did not come to the window, so I surmised she must be eating with the rest of her family. And I thought of the food being made ready at home and my mouth watered. We met the twins, Urong and Celin, and I said "Hoy!" calling them by name. And they shouted back and asked if my brother Leon and his wife were with me. And my brother Leon shouted to them and then told me to make Labang run; their answers were lost in the noise of the wheels.
I stopped labang on the road before our house and would have gotten down but my brother Leon took the rope and told me to stay in the cart. He turned Labang into the open gate and we dashed into our yard. I thought we would crash into the camachile tree, but my brother Leon reined in Labang in time. There was light downstairs in the kitchen, and Mother stood in the doorway, and I could see her smiling shyly. My brother Leon was helping Maria over the wheel. The first words that fell from his lips after he had kissed Mother's hand were:
"Father... where is he?"
"He is in his room upstairs," Mother said, her face becoming serious. "His leg is bothering him again."
I did not hear anything more because I had to go back to the cart to unhitch Labang. But I hardly tied him under the barn when I heard Father calling me. I met my brother Leon going to bring up the trunks. As I passed through the kitchen, there were Mother and my sister Aurelia and Maria and it seemed to me they were crying, all of them.
There was no light in Father's room. There was no movement. He sat in the big armchair by the western window, and a star shone directly through it. He was smoking, but he removed the roll of tobacco from his mouth when he saw me. He laid it carefully on the windowsill before speaking.
"Did you meet anybody on the way?" he asked.
"No, Father," I said. "Nobody passes through the Waig at night."
He reached for his roll of tobacco and hithced himself up in the chair.
"She is very beautiful, Father."
"Was she afraid of Labang?" My father had not raised his voice, but the room seemed to resound with it. And again I saw her eyes on the long curving horns and the arm of my brother Leon around her shoulders.
"No, Father, she was not afraid."
"On the way---"
"She looked at the stars, Father. And Manong Leon sang."
"What did he sing?"
"---Sky Sown with Stars... She sang with him."
He was silent again. I could hear the low voices of Mother and my sister Aurelia downstairs. There was also the voice of my brother Leon, and I thought that Father's voice must have been like it when Father was young. He had laid the roll of tobacco on the windowsill once more. I watched the smoke waver faintly upward from the lighted end and vanish slowly into the night outside.
The door opened and my brother Leon and Maria came in.
"Have you watered Labang?" Father spoke to me.
I told him that Labang was resting yet under the barn.
"It is time you watered him, my son," my father said.
I looked at Maria and she was lovely. She was tall. Beside my brother Leon, she was tall and very still. Then I went out, and in the darkened hall the fragrance of her was like a morning when papayas are in bloom.
Air Castles by Juan Salazar
My life's tommorow beckons me
From distant mountains, high and low;
My future seems a boundless sea,
Where moving passions come and go.
Deep in my heart ambitions dwells;
He cheers me up the highland,
And guides me through the hills and dells
Wherein I pass the busy day.
I cannot write with Shakespeare's pen,
But I can love with Shakespeare's heart;
I love his skill his craft of men,
His mastery of poet's art.
I do not care for fame, has he,
Enthroned, was like unto a god:
The depths he reached are dark to me.
But I will grope the ways he tried.
I wear achievement’s coronet,
For best are they who see things done!
And all my cares I soon forget
When I have wrought my work alone.
If I be met by adverse fate,
And all my dreams be but in vain;
Then, must I work the harder yet
With high resolve to try again.
From distant mountains, high and low;
My future seems a boundless sea,
Where moving passions come and go.
Deep in my heart ambitions dwells;
He cheers me up the highland,
And guides me through the hills and dells
Wherein I pass the busy day.
I cannot write with Shakespeare's pen,
But I can love with Shakespeare's heart;
I love his skill his craft of men,
His mastery of poet's art.
I do not care for fame, has he,
Enthroned, was like unto a god:
The depths he reached are dark to me.
But I will grope the ways he tried.
I wear achievement’s coronet,
For best are they who see things done!
And all my cares I soon forget
When I have wrought my work alone.
If I be met by adverse fate,
And all my dreams be but in vain;
Then, must I work the harder yet
With high resolve to try again.
God said, “I made a man” by Jose Garcia Villa
God said, “I made a man out of clay-
But so bright he, he spun Himself to the brightest Day
Till he was all shining gold, and oh,
He was handsome to behold!
But in his hands held he a bow
Aimed at me who created him.
And said, “Wouldst murder me
Who am thy Fountainhead?”
Then spole he the man of gold:
I will not Murder thee! I do but
Measure thee. Hold Thy peace!”
And this I did, But I was curious of this so regal head.
“Give thy name! - “Sir! Genius.”
But so bright he, he spun Himself to the brightest Day
Till he was all shining gold, and oh,
He was handsome to behold!
But in his hands held he a bow
Aimed at me who created him.
And said, “Wouldst murder me
Who am thy Fountainhead?”
Then spole he the man of gold:
I will not Murder thee! I do but
Measure thee. Hold Thy peace!”
And this I did, But I was curious of this so regal head.
“Give thy name! - “Sir! Genius.”
Song of the Tear-gassed Man by Cirilio F. Bautista
I love it! I love it!
This teargas sanctifies my corrupted soul.
Oh! The divine odor of it, the excitement
better than demos or rock and roll.
Get a load of it, brother, while it’s free,
you may never get another chance;
this is the right stuff, the real McCoy,
pure, imported chemicals from France.
We may not have money in the bank,
no food on the table, no seat on the Love Bus,
but we have secret marshals and policemen
and most of all, we have a lot of teargas.
Get a load of it, brother, while it’s free,
you may never get another chance;
this is the right stuff, the real McCoy,
pure, imported chemicals from France.
We may not have houses and running water,
the taxmen may be running after us,
but we have floods, garbage, Amendment 6,
and most of all, we have a lot of teargas.
Get a load of it, brother, while it’s free,
you may never get another chance;
this is the right stuff, the real McCoy,
pure, imported chemicals from France.
Don’t save your tears, brother, they are meant
to be shed, you cannot turn them into cash,
but if you join me in this martial festival
you’ll get a taste of refreshing teargas.
Get a load of it, brother, while it’s free,
you may never get another chance;
this is the right stuff, the real McCoy,
pure, imported chemicals from France.
This teargas sanctifies my corrupted soul.
Oh! The divine odor of it, the excitement
better than demos or rock and roll.
Get a load of it, brother, while it’s free,
you may never get another chance;
this is the right stuff, the real McCoy,
pure, imported chemicals from France.
We may not have money in the bank,
no food on the table, no seat on the Love Bus,
but we have secret marshals and policemen
and most of all, we have a lot of teargas.
Get a load of it, brother, while it’s free,
you may never get another chance;
this is the right stuff, the real McCoy,
pure, imported chemicals from France.
We may not have houses and running water,
the taxmen may be running after us,
but we have floods, garbage, Amendment 6,
and most of all, we have a lot of teargas.
Get a load of it, brother, while it’s free,
you may never get another chance;
this is the right stuff, the real McCoy,
pure, imported chemicals from France.
Don’t save your tears, brother, they are meant
to be shed, you cannot turn them into cash,
but if you join me in this martial festival
you’ll get a taste of refreshing teargas.
Get a load of it, brother, while it’s free,
you may never get another chance;
this is the right stuff, the real McCoy,
pure, imported chemicals from France.
My Father's Tragedy by Carlos Bulosan
It was one of those lean years of our lives. Our rice field was destroyed by locusts that came from the neighboring towns. When the locusts were gone, we planted string beans but a fire burned the whole plantation. My brothers went away because they got tired working for nothing. Mother and my sisters went from house to house, asking for something to do, but every family was plagued with some kind of disaster. The children walked in the streets looking for the fruit that fell to the ground from the acacia tree. The men hung on the fence around the market and watched the meat dealers hungrily. We were all suffering from lack of proper food.
But the professional gamblers had money. They sat in the fish house at the station and gave their orders aloud. The loafers and other bystanders watched them eat boiled rice and fried fish with silver spoons. They never used forks because the prongs stuck between their teeth. They always cut their lips and tongues with the knives, so they never asked for them. If the waiter was new and he put the knives on the table, they looked at each other furtively and slipped them into their pockets. They washed their hands in one big wooden bowl of water and wiped their mouths with the leaves of the arbor trees that fell on the ground.
The rainy season was approaching. There were rumors of famine. The grass did not grow and our carabao became thin. Father’s fighting cock, Burick, was practically the only healthy thing in our household. Its father, Kanaway, had won a house for us some three years before, and Fathers had commanded me to give it the choicest rice. He took the soft-boiled eggs from the plate of my sister Marcela, who was sick with meningitis that year. He was preparing Burick for something big, but the great catastrophe came to our town. The peasants and most of the rich men spent their money on food. They had stopped going to the cockpit for fear of temptation; if they went at all, they just sat in the gallery and shouted at the top of their lungs. They went home with their heads down, thinking of the money they would have won.
It was during this impasse that Father sat every day in our backyard with his fighting cock. He would not go anywhere. He would not do anything. He just sat there caressing Burick and exercising his legs. He spat at his hackles and rubbed them, looking far away with a big dream. When mother came home with some food, he went to the granary and sat there till evening. Sometimes he slept there with Burick, but at dawn the cock woke him up with its majestic crowing. He crept into the house and fumbled for the cold rice in the pot under the stove. Then, he put the cock in the pen and slept on the bench all day.
Mother was very patient. But the day came when she kicked him off the bench. He fell on the floor face down, looked up at her, and then resumed his sleep. Mother took my sister Francisca with her. They went from house to house in the neighborhood, pounding rice for some people and hauling drinking water for others. They came home with their share in a big basket that Mother carried on her head.
Father was still sleeping on the bench when they arrived. Mother told my sister to cook some of the rice. The dipped a cup in the jar and splashed the cold water on Father’s face. He jumped up, looked at mother with anger, and went to Burick’s pen. He gathered the cock in his arms and went down the porch. He sat on a log in the backyard and started caressing his fighting cock.
Mother went on with her washing. Francisca fed Marcela with some boiled rice. Father was still caressing Burick. Mother was mad at him.
“Is that all you can do?” she shouted at him.
“Why do you say that to me?” Father said, “I’m thinking of some ways to become rich.”
Mother threw a piece of wood at the cock. Father saw her in time. He ducked and covered the cock with his body. The wood struck him. It cut a hole at the base of his head. He got up and examined Burick. He acted as though the cock were the one that got hurt. He looked up at Mother and his face was pitiful.
“Why don’t you see what you are doing?” he said, hugging Burick.
“I would like to wring that cock’s neck,” mother said.
“That’s his fortune,” I said.
Mother looked sharply atme. “Shut up, idiot!” she said. “ You are becoming more like your father every day.”
I watched her eyes move foolishly. I thought she would cry. She tucked her skirt between her legs and went on with her work. I ran down the ladder and went to the granary, where Father was treating the wound on his head. I held the cock for him.
“Take good care of it, son,” he said.
“Yes, Sir,” I said.
“Go to the river and exercise its legs. Come back right away. We are going to town.”
I rand down the street with the cock, avoiding the pigs and dogs that came in my way. I plunged into the water in my clothes and swam with Burick. I put some water in my mouth and blew it into his face. I ran back to our house slapping the water off my clothes. Father and I went to the cockpit.
It was Sunday, but there were many loafers and gamblers at the place. There were peasants and teachers. There was a strange man who had a black fighting cock. He had come from one of the neighboring towns to seek his fortune in our cockpit.
His name was Burcio. He held her our cock above his head and closed one eye, looking sharply at Burick’s eyes. He put it on the ground and bent over it, pressing down the cock’s back with his hands. Burcio was testing Burick’s strength. The loafers and gamblers formed a ring around them, watching Burcio’s deft hands expertly moving around Burick.
Father also tested the cock of Burcio. He threw it in the air and watched it glide smoothly to the ground. He sparred with it. The black cock pecked at his legs and stopped to crow proudly for the bystanders. Father picked it up and spread its wings, feeling the tough hide beneath the feathers.
The bystanders knew that a fight was about to be matched. They counted the money in their pockets without showing it to their neighbors. They felf the edges of the coins with amazing swiftness and accuracy. Only a highly magnified amplifier could have recorded the tiny clink of the coins that fell between deft fingers. The caressing rustle of the paper money was inaudible. The peasants broke from the ring and hid behind the coconut trees. They unfolded their handkerchiefs and counted their money. They rolled the paper money in their hands and returned to the crowd. They waited for the final decision.
“Shall we make it this coming Sunday?” Burcio asked.
“It’s too soon for my Burick,” Father said. His hand moved mechanically into his pocket. But it was empty. He looked around at his cronies.
But two of the peasants caught Father’s arm and whispered something to him. They slipped some money in his hand and pushed him toward Burcio. He tried to estimate the amount of money in his hand by balling it hard. It was one of his many tricks with money. He knew right away that he had some twenty-peso bills. A light of hope appeared in his face.
“This coming Sunday is all right,” he said.
All at once the men broke into wild confusion. Some went to Burcio with their money; others went to Father. They were not bettors, but inventors. Their money would back up the cocks at the cockpit.
In the late afternoon the fight was arranged. We returned to our house with some hope. Father put Burick in the pen and told me to go to the fish ponds across the river. I ran down the road with mounting joy. I found a fish pond under the camachile tree. It was the favorite haunt of snails and shrimps. Then I went home.
Mother was cooking something good. I smelled it the moment I entered the gate. I rushed into the house and spilled some of the snails on the floor. Mother was at the stove. She was stirring the ladle in the boiling pot. Father was still sleeping on the bench. Francisca was feeding Marcela with hot soup. I put the nails and shrimps in a pot and sat on the bench.
Mother was cooking chicken with some bitter melons. I sat wondering where she got it. I knew that our poultry house in the village was empty. We had no poultry in town. Father opened his eyes when he heard the bubbling pot.
Mother put the rice on a big wooden platter and set it on the table she filled our plates with chicken meat and ginger. Father got up suddenly and went to the table. Francisca sat by the stove. Father was reaching for the white meat in the platter when Mother slapped his hand away. She was saying grace. Then we put our legs under the table and started eating.
It was our first tatse of chicken in a long time. Father filled his plate twice and ate very little rice. He usually ate more rice when we had only salted fish and some leaves of tress. We ate “grass” most of the time. Father tilted his plate and took the soup noisily, as though he were drinking wine. He put the empty plate near the pot and asked for some chicken meat.
“It is good chicken,” he said.
Mother was very quiet. She put the breast on a plate and told Francisca to give it to Marcela. She gave me some bitter melons. Father put his hand in the pot and fished out a drumstick.
“Where did you get this lovely chicken?” he asked.
“Where do you think I got it?” Mother said.
The drumstick fell from his mouth. It rolled into the space between the bamboo splits and fell on the ground. Our dog snapped it and ran away. Father’s face broke in great agony. He rushed outside the house. I could hear him running toward the highway. My sister continued eating, but my appetite was gone.
“What are you doing, Son?” Mother said. “Eat your chicken.”
But the professional gamblers had money. They sat in the fish house at the station and gave their orders aloud. The loafers and other bystanders watched them eat boiled rice and fried fish with silver spoons. They never used forks because the prongs stuck between their teeth. They always cut their lips and tongues with the knives, so they never asked for them. If the waiter was new and he put the knives on the table, they looked at each other furtively and slipped them into their pockets. They washed their hands in one big wooden bowl of water and wiped their mouths with the leaves of the arbor trees that fell on the ground.
The rainy season was approaching. There were rumors of famine. The grass did not grow and our carabao became thin. Father’s fighting cock, Burick, was practically the only healthy thing in our household. Its father, Kanaway, had won a house for us some three years before, and Fathers had commanded me to give it the choicest rice. He took the soft-boiled eggs from the plate of my sister Marcela, who was sick with meningitis that year. He was preparing Burick for something big, but the great catastrophe came to our town. The peasants and most of the rich men spent their money on food. They had stopped going to the cockpit for fear of temptation; if they went at all, they just sat in the gallery and shouted at the top of their lungs. They went home with their heads down, thinking of the money they would have won.
It was during this impasse that Father sat every day in our backyard with his fighting cock. He would not go anywhere. He would not do anything. He just sat there caressing Burick and exercising his legs. He spat at his hackles and rubbed them, looking far away with a big dream. When mother came home with some food, he went to the granary and sat there till evening. Sometimes he slept there with Burick, but at dawn the cock woke him up with its majestic crowing. He crept into the house and fumbled for the cold rice in the pot under the stove. Then, he put the cock in the pen and slept on the bench all day.
Mother was very patient. But the day came when she kicked him off the bench. He fell on the floor face down, looked up at her, and then resumed his sleep. Mother took my sister Francisca with her. They went from house to house in the neighborhood, pounding rice for some people and hauling drinking water for others. They came home with their share in a big basket that Mother carried on her head.
Father was still sleeping on the bench when they arrived. Mother told my sister to cook some of the rice. The dipped a cup in the jar and splashed the cold water on Father’s face. He jumped up, looked at mother with anger, and went to Burick’s pen. He gathered the cock in his arms and went down the porch. He sat on a log in the backyard and started caressing his fighting cock.
Mother went on with her washing. Francisca fed Marcela with some boiled rice. Father was still caressing Burick. Mother was mad at him.
“Is that all you can do?” she shouted at him.
“Why do you say that to me?” Father said, “I’m thinking of some ways to become rich.”
Mother threw a piece of wood at the cock. Father saw her in time. He ducked and covered the cock with his body. The wood struck him. It cut a hole at the base of his head. He got up and examined Burick. He acted as though the cock were the one that got hurt. He looked up at Mother and his face was pitiful.
“Why don’t you see what you are doing?” he said, hugging Burick.
“I would like to wring that cock’s neck,” mother said.
“That’s his fortune,” I said.
Mother looked sharply atme. “Shut up, idiot!” she said. “ You are becoming more like your father every day.”
I watched her eyes move foolishly. I thought she would cry. She tucked her skirt between her legs and went on with her work. I ran down the ladder and went to the granary, where Father was treating the wound on his head. I held the cock for him.
“Take good care of it, son,” he said.
“Yes, Sir,” I said.
“Go to the river and exercise its legs. Come back right away. We are going to town.”
I rand down the street with the cock, avoiding the pigs and dogs that came in my way. I plunged into the water in my clothes and swam with Burick. I put some water in my mouth and blew it into his face. I ran back to our house slapping the water off my clothes. Father and I went to the cockpit.
It was Sunday, but there were many loafers and gamblers at the place. There were peasants and teachers. There was a strange man who had a black fighting cock. He had come from one of the neighboring towns to seek his fortune in our cockpit.
His name was Burcio. He held her our cock above his head and closed one eye, looking sharply at Burick’s eyes. He put it on the ground and bent over it, pressing down the cock’s back with his hands. Burcio was testing Burick’s strength. The loafers and gamblers formed a ring around them, watching Burcio’s deft hands expertly moving around Burick.
Father also tested the cock of Burcio. He threw it in the air and watched it glide smoothly to the ground. He sparred with it. The black cock pecked at his legs and stopped to crow proudly for the bystanders. Father picked it up and spread its wings, feeling the tough hide beneath the feathers.
The bystanders knew that a fight was about to be matched. They counted the money in their pockets without showing it to their neighbors. They felf the edges of the coins with amazing swiftness and accuracy. Only a highly magnified amplifier could have recorded the tiny clink of the coins that fell between deft fingers. The caressing rustle of the paper money was inaudible. The peasants broke from the ring and hid behind the coconut trees. They unfolded their handkerchiefs and counted their money. They rolled the paper money in their hands and returned to the crowd. They waited for the final decision.
“Shall we make it this coming Sunday?” Burcio asked.
“It’s too soon for my Burick,” Father said. His hand moved mechanically into his pocket. But it was empty. He looked around at his cronies.
But two of the peasants caught Father’s arm and whispered something to him. They slipped some money in his hand and pushed him toward Burcio. He tried to estimate the amount of money in his hand by balling it hard. It was one of his many tricks with money. He knew right away that he had some twenty-peso bills. A light of hope appeared in his face.
“This coming Sunday is all right,” he said.
All at once the men broke into wild confusion. Some went to Burcio with their money; others went to Father. They were not bettors, but inventors. Their money would back up the cocks at the cockpit.
In the late afternoon the fight was arranged. We returned to our house with some hope. Father put Burick in the pen and told me to go to the fish ponds across the river. I ran down the road with mounting joy. I found a fish pond under the camachile tree. It was the favorite haunt of snails and shrimps. Then I went home.
Mother was cooking something good. I smelled it the moment I entered the gate. I rushed into the house and spilled some of the snails on the floor. Mother was at the stove. She was stirring the ladle in the boiling pot. Father was still sleeping on the bench. Francisca was feeding Marcela with hot soup. I put the nails and shrimps in a pot and sat on the bench.
Mother was cooking chicken with some bitter melons. I sat wondering where she got it. I knew that our poultry house in the village was empty. We had no poultry in town. Father opened his eyes when he heard the bubbling pot.
Mother put the rice on a big wooden platter and set it on the table she filled our plates with chicken meat and ginger. Father got up suddenly and went to the table. Francisca sat by the stove. Father was reaching for the white meat in the platter when Mother slapped his hand away. She was saying grace. Then we put our legs under the table and started eating.
It was our first tatse of chicken in a long time. Father filled his plate twice and ate very little rice. He usually ate more rice when we had only salted fish and some leaves of tress. We ate “grass” most of the time. Father tilted his plate and took the soup noisily, as though he were drinking wine. He put the empty plate near the pot and asked for some chicken meat.
“It is good chicken,” he said.
Mother was very quiet. She put the breast on a plate and told Francisca to give it to Marcela. She gave me some bitter melons. Father put his hand in the pot and fished out a drumstick.
“Where did you get this lovely chicken?” he asked.
“Where do you think I got it?” Mother said.
The drumstick fell from his mouth. It rolled into the space between the bamboo splits and fell on the ground. Our dog snapped it and ran away. Father’s face broke in great agony. He rushed outside the house. I could hear him running toward the highway. My sister continued eating, but my appetite was gone.
“What are you doing, Son?” Mother said. “Eat your chicken.”
I Apologize, Waling-Waling by Peter Solis Nery
I Apologize, Waling-Waling
Peter Solis Nery
i am coming back
for you, waling-waling
listen to me for a moment
and try to understand
however clumsy my explanation
spread out our velvet petals
and let my story gently open
your clenched moist anger
betray you i did not
i was faithful to my promise
i kept the secrecy of your place
my intentions were pure
i only wished...
oh, that the world would
love you and protect you
i trusted that they would protect
your beauty and your peace
but their greed defeated me
and who would ever imagine
that three pictures
would lead the wild throng to you.
i did not betray you, waling-waling
i pleaded on your behalf
but the loggers’ chainsaws were deaf
i never intended greed
i never aimed selfishness
all i ever wanted was a happy forest
and your safety
from the madness of greed
forgive me, waling-waling
for the hastened fall of the forest
it was the luster of money
that my deal partners saw
i tried to stop them
but there were too many of them
and they tied me down
i cry for the orphans of the forest
because believe me
my intentions were pure
Peter Solis Nery
i am coming back
for you, waling-waling
listen to me for a moment
and try to understand
however clumsy my explanation
spread out our velvet petals
and let my story gently open
your clenched moist anger
betray you i did not
i was faithful to my promise
i kept the secrecy of your place
my intentions were pure
i only wished...
oh, that the world would
love you and protect you
i trusted that they would protect
your beauty and your peace
but their greed defeated me
and who would ever imagine
that three pictures
would lead the wild throng to you.
i did not betray you, waling-waling
i pleaded on your behalf
but the loggers’ chainsaws were deaf
i never intended greed
i never aimed selfishness
all i ever wanted was a happy forest
and your safety
from the madness of greed
forgive me, waling-waling
for the hastened fall of the forest
it was the luster of money
that my deal partners saw
i tried to stop them
but there were too many of them
and they tied me down
i cry for the orphans of the forest
because believe me
my intentions were pure
Prayer of a Student by Trinidad L. Tarrosa-Subido
Prayer of a Student
Trinidad L. Tarrosa-Subido
To learn, dear Lord, about these em’rald leaves,
These tendered-petalled blosssoms laved in dew.
From where they came, and how and why they lived;
Or yet to know why ocean waters lash
Their atomed selves against the granite rocks
That senseless lie along the shores; to know
Why rainbows fling their ribboned souls athwart
The eastern skies when sunrays flick the west;
Why lightning furies rage when storm winds still
The thunder echoes hurtling through the dark;
To learn about the earth, about the moon,
The sun and lesser stars and other worlds
That span the cerulescent firmament.
To learn great facts about the little things
And then, while knowing these, not to unlearn-
Never, O God, to unlearn the child-learned truth
That thou art in reality the source,
The Why, the How, the Wherefore, of all things.
Trinidad L. Tarrosa-Subido
To learn, dear Lord, about these em’rald leaves,
These tendered-petalled blosssoms laved in dew.
From where they came, and how and why they lived;
Or yet to know why ocean waters lash
Their atomed selves against the granite rocks
That senseless lie along the shores; to know
Why rainbows fling their ribboned souls athwart
The eastern skies when sunrays flick the west;
Why lightning furies rage when storm winds still
The thunder echoes hurtling through the dark;
To learn about the earth, about the moon,
The sun and lesser stars and other worlds
That span the cerulescent firmament.
To learn great facts about the little things
And then, while knowing these, not to unlearn-
Never, O God, to unlearn the child-learned truth
That thou art in reality the source,
The Why, the How, the Wherefore, of all things.
A Tree By Jose Coazon de Jesus
A Tree
By Jose Coazon de Jesus
Viewed from a distant vantage
I appear as a cross with arms outstretched;
As I stayed on my knees long enduring,
It seems that I am kissing God’s feet.
Like an organ in a church,
Praying amid extreme sorrows,
Is the candle flame of my life
Keeping vigil upon my tomb.
At my feet is a spring
That sobs all day and all night;
Upon my branches lie
The nests of love-birds.
By the sparkling of that spring
You’d think of flowing tears bubbling;
And the Moon that seems to be praying
Greets me with a pale smile.
The bells tolling the vespers
Hint to me their wailing;
Birds on my branches are covered with leaves,
The spring at my feet has tears welling.
But look at my fate,
Dried-up, dying alone comforting myself.
I became the cross of withered love,
And a watcher of tombs in the darkness.
All is ended! Night is a mantle of mourning
That I use to cover my face!
A fallen piece of food am I, and prostrate
Neither bird nor people find any pleasure.
And to think that in the days past
A tree I was of luxuriant and leafy growth;
Now my branches are crosses o’er graves,
My leaves made into wreaths on tombs!
By Jose Coazon de Jesus
Viewed from a distant vantage
I appear as a cross with arms outstretched;
As I stayed on my knees long enduring,
It seems that I am kissing God’s feet.
Like an organ in a church,
Praying amid extreme sorrows,
Is the candle flame of my life
Keeping vigil upon my tomb.
At my feet is a spring
That sobs all day and all night;
Upon my branches lie
The nests of love-birds.
By the sparkling of that spring
You’d think of flowing tears bubbling;
And the Moon that seems to be praying
Greets me with a pale smile.
The bells tolling the vespers
Hint to me their wailing;
Birds on my branches are covered with leaves,
The spring at my feet has tears welling.
But look at my fate,
Dried-up, dying alone comforting myself.
I became the cross of withered love,
And a watcher of tombs in the darkness.
All is ended! Night is a mantle of mourning
That I use to cover my face!
A fallen piece of food am I, and prostrate
Neither bird nor people find any pleasure.
And to think that in the days past
A tree I was of luxuriant and leafy growth;
Now my branches are crosses o’er graves,
My leaves made into wreaths on tombs!
The March of Death By Bienvenido N. Santos
The March of Death
By Bienvenido N. Santos
Were you one of them, my brother
Whom they marched under the April sun
And flogged to bleeding along the roads we knew and loved?
March, my brother, march!
The springs are clear beyond the road
There is rest at the foot of the hill.
We were young together,
So very young and unafraid;
Walked those roads, dusty in the summer sun,
Brown pools and mud in the December rains;
We ran barefoot along the beaten tracks in the canefields
Planted corn after the harvest months.
Here, too, we fought and loved
Shared our dreams of a better place
Beyond those winding trails.
March, my brother march!
The springs are clear beyond the road
There is rest at the foot of the hill.
We knew those roads by heart
Told places in the dark
By the fragrance of garden hedge
In front of uncle’s house;
The clatter of wooden shoes on the bamboo bridge,
The peculiar rustling of bamboo groves
Beside the house where Celia lived.
Did you look through the blood in your eyes
For Celia sitting by the window,
As thousands upon thousands of you
Walked and died on the burning road?
If you died among the hundreds by the roadside
It should have been by the bamboo groves
With the peculiar rustling in the midnight.
No, you have not died; you cannot die;
I have felt your prayer touch my heart
As I walked along the crowded streets of America.
And we would walk those roads again one April morn,
Listen to the sound of working men
Dragging tree trunks from the forests,
Rebuilding homes- laughing again-
Sowing the field with grain, fearless of death
From cloudless skies.
You would be silent, remembering
The many young bodies that lay mangled by the roadside;
The agony and the moaning and the silent tears,
The grin of yellow men, their bloodstained blades opaque in the sun;
I would be silent, too, having nothing to say.
What matters if the winters were bitter cold
And loneliness stalked my footsteps on the snow?
March, my brother, march!
The springs are clear beyond the road
Rest, at the foot of the hill.
And we would walk those roads again on April morn
Hand in hand like pilgrims marching
Towards the church on the hillside,
Only a little nipa house beside the bamboo groves
With the peculiar rustling in the midnight
Or maybe I would walk them yet,
Remembering... remembering
By Bienvenido N. Santos
Were you one of them, my brother
Whom they marched under the April sun
And flogged to bleeding along the roads we knew and loved?
March, my brother, march!
The springs are clear beyond the road
There is rest at the foot of the hill.
We were young together,
So very young and unafraid;
Walked those roads, dusty in the summer sun,
Brown pools and mud in the December rains;
We ran barefoot along the beaten tracks in the canefields
Planted corn after the harvest months.
Here, too, we fought and loved
Shared our dreams of a better place
Beyond those winding trails.
March, my brother march!
The springs are clear beyond the road
There is rest at the foot of the hill.
We knew those roads by heart
Told places in the dark
By the fragrance of garden hedge
In front of uncle’s house;
The clatter of wooden shoes on the bamboo bridge,
The peculiar rustling of bamboo groves
Beside the house where Celia lived.
Did you look through the blood in your eyes
For Celia sitting by the window,
As thousands upon thousands of you
Walked and died on the burning road?
If you died among the hundreds by the roadside
It should have been by the bamboo groves
With the peculiar rustling in the midnight.
No, you have not died; you cannot die;
I have felt your prayer touch my heart
As I walked along the crowded streets of America.
And we would walk those roads again one April morn,
Listen to the sound of working men
Dragging tree trunks from the forests,
Rebuilding homes- laughing again-
Sowing the field with grain, fearless of death
From cloudless skies.
You would be silent, remembering
The many young bodies that lay mangled by the roadside;
The agony and the moaning and the silent tears,
The grin of yellow men, their bloodstained blades opaque in the sun;
I would be silent, too, having nothing to say.
What matters if the winters were bitter cold
And loneliness stalked my footsteps on the snow?
March, my brother, march!
The springs are clear beyond the road
Rest, at the foot of the hill.
And we would walk those roads again on April morn
Hand in hand like pilgrims marching
Towards the church on the hillside,
Only a little nipa house beside the bamboo groves
With the peculiar rustling in the midnight
Or maybe I would walk them yet,
Remembering... remembering
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Atsumori, A Noh play
ATSUMORI
By SEAMI
PERSONS
THE PRIEST RENSEI (formerly the warrior Kumagai).
A YOUNG REAPER, who turns out to be the ghost of Atsumori.
HIS COMPANION.
CHORUS.
PRIEST.
Life is a lying dream, he only wakes
Who casts the World aside.
I am Kumagai no Naozane, a man of the country of Musashi. I have left my home and call myself the priest Rensei; this I have done because of my grief at the death of Atsumori, who fell in battle by my hand. Hence it comes that I am dressed in priestly guise.
And now I am going down to Ichi-no-Tani to pray for the salvation of Atsumori's soul.
(He walks slowly across the stage, singing a song descriptive of his journey.)
I have come so fast that here I am already at Ichi-no-Tani, in the country of Tsu.
Truly the past returns to my mind as though it were a thing of to-day.
But listen! I hear the sound of a flute coming from a knoll of rising ground. I will wait here till the flute-player passes, and ask him to tell me the story of this place.
REAPERS (together).
To the music of the reaper's flute
No song is sung
But the sighing of wind in the fields.
YOUNG REAPER.
They that were reaping,
Reaping on that hill,p. 37
Walk now through the fields
Homeward, for it is dusk.
REAPERS (together).
Short is the way that leads 1
From the sea of Suma back to my home.
This little journey, up to the hill
And down to the shore again, and up to the hill,--
This is my life, and the sum of hateful tasks.
If one should ask me
I too 2 would answer
That on the shores of Suma
I live in sadness.
Yet if any guessed my name,
Then might I too have friends.
But now from my deep misery
Even those that were dearest
Are grown estranged. Here must I dwell abandoned
To one thought's anguish:
That I must dwell here.
PRIEST.
Hey, you reapers! I have a question to ask you.
YOUNG REAPER.
Is it to us you are speaking? What do you wish to know?
PRIEST.
Was it one of you who was playing on the flute just now?
YOUNG REAPER.
Yes, it was we who were playing.
PRIEST.
It was a pleasant sound, and all the pleasanter because one does not look for such music from men of your condition.
YOUNG REAPER.
Unlocked for from men of our condition, you say! Have you not read:--
p. 38
"Do not envy what is above you
Nor despise what is below you"?
Moreover the songs of woodmen and the flute-playing of herdsmen,
Flute-playing even of reapers and songs of wood-fellers
Through poets' verses are known to all the world.
Wonder not to hear among us
The sound of a bamboo-flute.
PRIEST.
You are right. Indeed it is as you have told me.
Songs of woodmen and flute-playing of herdsmen . . .
REAPER.
Flute-playing of reapers . . .
PRIEST.
Songs of wood-fellers
REAPERS.
Guide us on our passage through this sad world.
PRIEST.
Song . . .
REAPER.
And dance
PRIEST.
And the flute . . .
And music of many instruments . . .
REAPER.
CHORUS.
These are the pastimes that each chooses to his taste.
Of floating bamboo-wood
Many are the famous flutes that have been made;
Little-Branch and Cicada-Cage,
And as for the reaper's flute,
Its name is Green-leaf;
On the shore of Sumiyoshi
The Corean flute they play.p. 39
And here on the shore of Suma
On Stick of the Salt-kilns
The fishers blow their tune.
PRIEST.
How strange it is! The other reapers have all gone home, but you alone stay loitering here. How is that?
REAPER.
How is it, you ask? I am seeking for a prayer in the voice of the evening waves. Perhaps you will pray the Ten Prayers for me?
PRIEST.
I can easily pray the Ten Prayers for you, if you will tell me who you are.
REAPER.
To tell you the truth--I am one of the family of Lord Atsumori.
PRIEST.
One of Atsumori's family? How glad I am!
Then the priest joined his hands (he kneels down) and prayed:--
NAMU AMIDABU.
Praise to Amida Buddha!
"If I attain to Buddhahood,
In the whole world and its ten spheres
Of all that dwell here none shall call on my name
And be rejected or cast aside."
CHORUS.
"Oh, reject me not!
One cry suffices for salvation,
Yet day and night
Your prayers will rise for me.
Happy am I, for though you know not my name,
Yet for my soul's deliverance
At dawn and dusk henceforward I know that you will pray."
So he spoke. Then vanished and was seen no more.
(Here follows the Interlude between the two Acts, in which a recitation concerning Atsumori's death takes place. These p. 40 interludes are subject to variation and are not considered part of the literary text of the play.)
PRIEST.
Since this is so, I will perform all night the rites of prayer for the dead, and calling upon Amida's name will pray again for the salvation of Atsumori.
(The ghost of ATSUMORI appears, dressed as a young warrior.)
ATSUMORI.
Would you know who I am
That like the watchmen at Suma Pass
Have wakened at the cry of sea-birds roaming
Upon Awaji shore?
Listen, Rensei. I am Atsumori.
PRIEST.
How strange! All this while I have never stopped beating my gong and performing the rites of the Law. I cannot for a moment have dozed, yet I thought that Atsumori was standing before me. Surely it was a dream.
ATSUMORI.
Why need it be a dream? It is to clear the karma of my waking life that I am come here in visible form before you.
PRIEST.
Is it not written that one prayer will wipe away ten thousand sins? Ceaselessly I have performed the ritual of the Holy Name that clears all sin away. After such prayers, what evil can be left? Though you should be sunk in sin as deep . . .
ATSUMORI.
As the sea by a rocky shore,
Yet should I be salved by prayer.
PRIEST.
And that my prayers should save you . . .
ATSUMORI.
This too must spring p. 41
From kindness of a former life. 1
PRIEST.
Once enemies . . .
ATSUMORI.
But now . . .
PRIEST.
In truth may we be named . . .
ATSUMORI.
Friends in Buddha's Law.
CHORUS.
There is a saying, "Put away from you a wicked friend; summon to your side a virtuous enemy." For you it was said, and you have proven it true.
And now come tell with us the tale of your confession, while the night is still dark.
CHORUS.
He 2 bids the flowers of Spring
Mount the tree-top that men may raise their eyes
And walk on upward paths;
He bids the moon in autumn waves be drowned
In token that he visits laggard men
And leads them out from valleys of despair.
ATSUMORI.
Now the clan of Taira, building wall to wall,
Spread over the earth like the leafy branches of a great tree:
CHORUS.
Yet their prosperity lasted but for a day;
It was like the flower of the convolvulus.
There was none to tell them 3 p. 42
That glory flashes like sparks from flint-stone,
And after,--darkness.
Oh wretched, the life of men!
ATSUMORI.
When they were on high they afflicted the humble;
When they were rich they were reckless in pride.
And so for twenty years and more
They ruled this land.
But truly a generation passes like the space of a dream.
The leaves of the autumn of Juyei 1
Were tossed by the four winds;
Scattered, scattered (like leaves too) floated their ships.
And they, asleep on the heaving sea, not even in dream
Went back to home.
Caged birds longing for the clouds,--
Wild geese were they rather, whose ranks are broken
As they fly to southward on their doubtful journey.
So days and months went by; Spring came again
And for a little while
Here dwelt they on the shore of Suma
At the first valley. 2
From the mountain behind us the winds blew down
Till the fields grew wintry again.
Our ships lay by the shore, where night and day
The sea-gulls cried and salt waves washed on our sleeves.
We slept with fishers in their buts
On pillows of sand.
We knew none but the people of Suma.
And when among the pine-trees
The evening smoke was rising,
Brushwood, as they call it, 3
Brushwood we gathered
And spread for carpet.
Sorrowful we lived
On the wild shore of Suma,
Till the clan Taira and all its princes
Were but villagers of Suma.
p. 43
ATSUMORI.
But on the night of the sixth day of the second month
My father Tsunemori gathered us together.
"To-morrow," he said, "we shall fight our last fight.
To-night is all that is left us."
We sang songs together, and danced.
PRIEST.
Yes, I remember; we in our siege-camp
Heard the sound of music
Echoing from your tents that night,;
There was the music of a flute . . .
ATSUMORI.
The bamboo-flute! I wore it when I died.
PRIEST.
We heard the singing . . .
ATSUMORI.
Songs and ballads . . .
PRIEST.
Many voices
ATSUMORI.
Singing to one measure.
(ATSUMORI dances.)
First comes the Royal Boat.
CHORUS.
The whole clan has put its boats to sea.
He 1 will not be left behind;
He runs to the shore.
But the Royal Boat and the soldiers' boats
Have sailed far away.
ATSUMORI.
What can he do? p. 44
He spurs his horse into the waves.
He is full of perplexity. And then
CHORUS.
He looks behind him and sees
That Kumagai pursues him;
He cannot escape.
Then Atsumori turns his horse
Knee-deep in the lashing waves,
And draws his sword.
Twice, three times he strikes; then, still saddled,
In close fight they twine; roll headlong together
Among the surf of the shore.
So Atsumori fell and was slain, but now the Wheel of Fate
Has turned and brought him back.
(ATSUMORI rises from the ground and advances toward the PRIEST with uplifted sword.)
"There is my enemy," he cries, and would strike,
But the other is grown gentle
And calling on Buddha's name
Has obtained salvation for his foe;
So that they shall be re-born together
On one lotus-seat.
"No, Rensei is not my enemy.
Pray for me again, oh pray for me again."
By SEAMI
PERSONS
THE PRIEST RENSEI (formerly the warrior Kumagai).
A YOUNG REAPER, who turns out to be the ghost of Atsumori.
HIS COMPANION.
CHORUS.
PRIEST.
Life is a lying dream, he only wakes
Who casts the World aside.
I am Kumagai no Naozane, a man of the country of Musashi. I have left my home and call myself the priest Rensei; this I have done because of my grief at the death of Atsumori, who fell in battle by my hand. Hence it comes that I am dressed in priestly guise.
And now I am going down to Ichi-no-Tani to pray for the salvation of Atsumori's soul.
(He walks slowly across the stage, singing a song descriptive of his journey.)
I have come so fast that here I am already at Ichi-no-Tani, in the country of Tsu.
Truly the past returns to my mind as though it were a thing of to-day.
But listen! I hear the sound of a flute coming from a knoll of rising ground. I will wait here till the flute-player passes, and ask him to tell me the story of this place.
REAPERS (together).
To the music of the reaper's flute
No song is sung
But the sighing of wind in the fields.
YOUNG REAPER.
They that were reaping,
Reaping on that hill,p. 37
Walk now through the fields
Homeward, for it is dusk.
REAPERS (together).
Short is the way that leads 1
From the sea of Suma back to my home.
This little journey, up to the hill
And down to the shore again, and up to the hill,--
This is my life, and the sum of hateful tasks.
If one should ask me
I too 2 would answer
That on the shores of Suma
I live in sadness.
Yet if any guessed my name,
Then might I too have friends.
But now from my deep misery
Even those that were dearest
Are grown estranged. Here must I dwell abandoned
To one thought's anguish:
That I must dwell here.
PRIEST.
Hey, you reapers! I have a question to ask you.
YOUNG REAPER.
Is it to us you are speaking? What do you wish to know?
PRIEST.
Was it one of you who was playing on the flute just now?
YOUNG REAPER.
Yes, it was we who were playing.
PRIEST.
It was a pleasant sound, and all the pleasanter because one does not look for such music from men of your condition.
YOUNG REAPER.
Unlocked for from men of our condition, you say! Have you not read:--
p. 38
"Do not envy what is above you
Nor despise what is below you"?
Moreover the songs of woodmen and the flute-playing of herdsmen,
Flute-playing even of reapers and songs of wood-fellers
Through poets' verses are known to all the world.
Wonder not to hear among us
The sound of a bamboo-flute.
PRIEST.
You are right. Indeed it is as you have told me.
Songs of woodmen and flute-playing of herdsmen . . .
REAPER.
Flute-playing of reapers . . .
PRIEST.
Songs of wood-fellers
REAPERS.
Guide us on our passage through this sad world.
PRIEST.
Song . . .
REAPER.
And dance
PRIEST.
And the flute . . .
And music of many instruments . . .
REAPER.
CHORUS.
These are the pastimes that each chooses to his taste.
Of floating bamboo-wood
Many are the famous flutes that have been made;
Little-Branch and Cicada-Cage,
And as for the reaper's flute,
Its name is Green-leaf;
On the shore of Sumiyoshi
The Corean flute they play.p. 39
And here on the shore of Suma
On Stick of the Salt-kilns
The fishers blow their tune.
PRIEST.
How strange it is! The other reapers have all gone home, but you alone stay loitering here. How is that?
REAPER.
How is it, you ask? I am seeking for a prayer in the voice of the evening waves. Perhaps you will pray the Ten Prayers for me?
PRIEST.
I can easily pray the Ten Prayers for you, if you will tell me who you are.
REAPER.
To tell you the truth--I am one of the family of Lord Atsumori.
PRIEST.
One of Atsumori's family? How glad I am!
Then the priest joined his hands (he kneels down) and prayed:--
NAMU AMIDABU.
Praise to Amida Buddha!
"If I attain to Buddhahood,
In the whole world and its ten spheres
Of all that dwell here none shall call on my name
And be rejected or cast aside."
CHORUS.
"Oh, reject me not!
One cry suffices for salvation,
Yet day and night
Your prayers will rise for me.
Happy am I, for though you know not my name,
Yet for my soul's deliverance
At dawn and dusk henceforward I know that you will pray."
So he spoke. Then vanished and was seen no more.
(Here follows the Interlude between the two Acts, in which a recitation concerning Atsumori's death takes place. These p. 40 interludes are subject to variation and are not considered part of the literary text of the play.)
PRIEST.
Since this is so, I will perform all night the rites of prayer for the dead, and calling upon Amida's name will pray again for the salvation of Atsumori.
(The ghost of ATSUMORI appears, dressed as a young warrior.)
ATSUMORI.
Would you know who I am
That like the watchmen at Suma Pass
Have wakened at the cry of sea-birds roaming
Upon Awaji shore?
Listen, Rensei. I am Atsumori.
PRIEST.
How strange! All this while I have never stopped beating my gong and performing the rites of the Law. I cannot for a moment have dozed, yet I thought that Atsumori was standing before me. Surely it was a dream.
ATSUMORI.
Why need it be a dream? It is to clear the karma of my waking life that I am come here in visible form before you.
PRIEST.
Is it not written that one prayer will wipe away ten thousand sins? Ceaselessly I have performed the ritual of the Holy Name that clears all sin away. After such prayers, what evil can be left? Though you should be sunk in sin as deep . . .
ATSUMORI.
As the sea by a rocky shore,
Yet should I be salved by prayer.
PRIEST.
And that my prayers should save you . . .
ATSUMORI.
This too must spring p. 41
From kindness of a former life. 1
PRIEST.
Once enemies . . .
ATSUMORI.
But now . . .
PRIEST.
In truth may we be named . . .
ATSUMORI.
Friends in Buddha's Law.
CHORUS.
There is a saying, "Put away from you a wicked friend; summon to your side a virtuous enemy." For you it was said, and you have proven it true.
And now come tell with us the tale of your confession, while the night is still dark.
CHORUS.
He 2 bids the flowers of Spring
Mount the tree-top that men may raise their eyes
And walk on upward paths;
He bids the moon in autumn waves be drowned
In token that he visits laggard men
And leads them out from valleys of despair.
ATSUMORI.
Now the clan of Taira, building wall to wall,
Spread over the earth like the leafy branches of a great tree:
CHORUS.
Yet their prosperity lasted but for a day;
It was like the flower of the convolvulus.
There was none to tell them 3 p. 42
That glory flashes like sparks from flint-stone,
And after,--darkness.
Oh wretched, the life of men!
ATSUMORI.
When they were on high they afflicted the humble;
When they were rich they were reckless in pride.
And so for twenty years and more
They ruled this land.
But truly a generation passes like the space of a dream.
The leaves of the autumn of Juyei 1
Were tossed by the four winds;
Scattered, scattered (like leaves too) floated their ships.
And they, asleep on the heaving sea, not even in dream
Went back to home.
Caged birds longing for the clouds,--
Wild geese were they rather, whose ranks are broken
As they fly to southward on their doubtful journey.
So days and months went by; Spring came again
And for a little while
Here dwelt they on the shore of Suma
At the first valley. 2
From the mountain behind us the winds blew down
Till the fields grew wintry again.
Our ships lay by the shore, where night and day
The sea-gulls cried and salt waves washed on our sleeves.
We slept with fishers in their buts
On pillows of sand.
We knew none but the people of Suma.
And when among the pine-trees
The evening smoke was rising,
Brushwood, as they call it, 3
Brushwood we gathered
And spread for carpet.
Sorrowful we lived
On the wild shore of Suma,
Till the clan Taira and all its princes
Were but villagers of Suma.
p. 43
ATSUMORI.
But on the night of the sixth day of the second month
My father Tsunemori gathered us together.
"To-morrow," he said, "we shall fight our last fight.
To-night is all that is left us."
We sang songs together, and danced.
PRIEST.
Yes, I remember; we in our siege-camp
Heard the sound of music
Echoing from your tents that night,;
There was the music of a flute . . .
ATSUMORI.
The bamboo-flute! I wore it when I died.
PRIEST.
We heard the singing . . .
ATSUMORI.
Songs and ballads . . .
PRIEST.
Many voices
ATSUMORI.
Singing to one measure.
(ATSUMORI dances.)
First comes the Royal Boat.
CHORUS.
The whole clan has put its boats to sea.
He 1 will not be left behind;
He runs to the shore.
But the Royal Boat and the soldiers' boats
Have sailed far away.
ATSUMORI.
What can he do? p. 44
He spurs his horse into the waves.
He is full of perplexity. And then
CHORUS.
He looks behind him and sees
That Kumagai pursues him;
He cannot escape.
Then Atsumori turns his horse
Knee-deep in the lashing waves,
And draws his sword.
Twice, three times he strikes; then, still saddled,
In close fight they twine; roll headlong together
Among the surf of the shore.
So Atsumori fell and was slain, but now the Wheel of Fate
Has turned and brought him back.
(ATSUMORI rises from the ground and advances toward the PRIEST with uplifted sword.)
"There is my enemy," he cries, and would strike,
But the other is grown gentle
And calling on Buddha's name
Has obtained salvation for his foe;
So that they shall be re-born together
On one lotus-seat.
"No, Rensei is not my enemy.
Pray for me again, oh pray for me again."
Footnote to Youth by Jose Garcia Villa
The sun was salmon and hazy in the west. Dodong thought to himself he would tell his father about Teang when he got home, after he had unhitched the carabao from the plow, and let it to its shed and fed it. He was hesitant about saying it, but he wanted his father to know. What he had to say was of serious import as it would mark a climacteric in his life. Dodong finally decided to tell it, at a thought came to him his father might refuse to consider it. His father was silent hard-working farmer who chewed areca nut, which he had learned to do from his mother, Dodong's grandmother.
I will tell it to him. I will tell it to him.
The ground was broken up into many fresh wounds and fragrant with a sweetish earthy smell. Many slender soft worms emerged from the furrows and then burrowed again deeper into the soil. A short colorless worm marched blindly to Dodong's foot and crawled calmly over it. Dodong go tickled and jerked his foot, flinging the worm into the air. Dodong did not bother to look where it fell, but thought of his age, seventeen, and he said to himself he was not young any more.
Dodong unhitched the carabao leisurely and gave it a healthy tap on the hip. The beast turned its head to look at him with dumb faithful eyes. Dodong gave it a slight push and the animal walked alongside him to its shed. He placed bundles of grass before it land the carabao began to eat. Dodong looked at it without interests.
Dodong started homeward, thinking how he would break his news to his father. He wanted to marry, Dodong did. He was seventeen, he had pimples on his face, the down on his upper lip already was dark--these meant he was no longer a boy. He was growing into a man--he was a man. Dodong felt insolent and big at the thought of it although he was by nature low in statue. Thinking himself a man grown, Dodong felt he could do anything.
He walked faster, prodded by the thought of his virility. A small angled stone bled his foot, but he dismissed it cursorily. He lifted his leg and looked at the hurt toe and then went on walking. In the cool sundown he thought wild you dreams of himself and Teang. Teang, his girl. She had a small brown face and small black eyes and straight glossy hair. How desirable she was to him. She made him dream even during the day.
Dodong tensed with desire and looked at the muscles of his arms. Dirty. This field
work was healthy, invigorating but it begrimed you, smudged you terribly. He turned back the way he had come, then he marched obliquely to a creek.
Dodong stripped himself and laid his clothes, a gray undershirt and red kundiman shorts, on the grass. The he went into the water, wet his body over, and rubbed at it vigorously. He was not long in bathing, then he marched homeward again. The bath made him feel cool.
It was dusk when he reached home. The petroleum lamp on the ceiling already was lighted and the low unvarnished square table was set for supper. His parents and he sat down on the floor around the table to eat. They had fried fresh-water fish, rice, bananas, and caked sugar.
Dodong ate fish and rice, but did not partake of the fruit. The bananas were overripe and when one held them they felt more fluid than solid. Dodong broke off a piece of the cakes sugar, dipped it in his glass of water and ate it. He got another piece and wanted some more, but he thought of leaving the remainder for his parents.
Dodong's mother removed the dishes when they were through and went out to the batalan to wash them. She walked with slow careful steps and Dodong wanted to help her carry the dishes out, but he was tired and now felt lazy. He wished as he looked at her that he had a sister who could help his mother in the housework. He pitied her, doing all the housework alone.
His father remained in the room, sucking a diseased tooth. It was paining him again, Dodong knew. Dodong had told him often and again to let the town dentist pull it out, but he was afraid, his father was. He did not tell that to Dodong, but Dodong guessed it. Afterward Dodong himself thought that if he had a decayed tooth he would be afraid to go to the dentist; he would not be any bolder than his father.
Dodong said while his mother was out that he was going to marry Teang. There it was out, what he had to say, and over which he had done so much thinking. He had said it without any effort at all and without self-consciousness. Dodong felt relieved and looked at his father expectantly. A decrescent moon outside shed its feeble light into the window, graying the still black temples of his father. His father looked old now.
"I am going to marry Teang," Dodong said.
His father looked at him silently and stopped sucking the broken tooth. The silence became intense and cruel, and Dodong wished his father would suck that troublous tooth again. Dodong was uncomfortable and then became angry because his father kept looking at him without uttering anything.
"I will marry Teang," Dodong repeated. "I will marry Teang."
His father kept gazing at him in inflexible silence and Dodong fidgeted on his seat.
"I asked her last night to marry me and she said...yes. I want your permission. I... want... it...." There was impatient clamor in his voice, an exacting protest at this coldness, this indifference. Dodong looked at his father sourly. He cracked his knuckles one by one, and the little sounds it made broke dully the night stillness.
"Must you marry, Dodong?"
Dodong resented his father's questions; his father himself had married. Dodong made a quick impassioned easy in his mind about selfishness, but later he got confused.
"You are very young, Dodong."
"I'm... seventeen."
"That's very young to get married at."
"I... I want to marry...Teang's a good girl."
"Tell your mother," his father said.
"You tell her, tatay."
"Dodong, you tell your inay."
"You tell her."
"All right, Dodong."
"You will let me marry Teang?"
"Son, if that is your wish... of course..." There was a strange helpless light in his father's eyes. Dodong did not read it, so absorbed was he in himself.
Dodong was immensely glad he had asserted himself. He lost his resentment for his father. For a while he even felt sorry for him about the diseased tooth. Then he confined his mind to dreaming of Teang and himself. Sweet young dream....
-------------------------------------------
Dodong stood in the sweltering noon heat, sweating profusely, so that his camiseta was damp. He was still as a tree and his thoughts were confused. His mother had told him not to leave the house, but he had left. He had wanted to get out of it without clear reason at all. He was afraid, he felt. Afraid of the house. It had seemed to cage him, to compares his thoughts with severe tyranny. Afraid also of Teang. Teang was giving birth in the house; she gave screams that chilled his blood. He did not want her to scream like that, he seemed to be rebuking him. He began to wonder madly if the process of childbirth was really painful. Some women, when they gave birth, did not cry.
In a few moments he would be a father. "Father, father," he whispered the word with awe, with strangeness. He was young, he realized now, contradicting himself of nine months comfortable... "Your son," people would soon be telling him. "Your son, Dodong."
Dodong felt tired standing. He sat down on a saw-horse with his feet close together. He looked at his callused toes. Suppose he had ten children... What made him think that? What was the matter with him? God!
He heard his mother's voice from the house:
"Come up, Dodong. It is over."
Suddenly he felt terribly embarrassed as he looked at her. Somehow he was ashamed to his mother of his youthful paternity. It made him feel guilty, as if he had taken something no properly his. He dropped his eyes and pretended to dust dirt off his kundiman shorts.
"Dodong," his mother called again. "Dodong."
He turned to look again and this time saw his father beside his mother.
"It is a boy," his father said. He beckoned Dodong to come up.
Dodong felt more embarrassed and did not move. What a moment for him. His parents' eyes seemed to pierce him through and he felt limp.
He wanted to hide from them, to run away.
"Dodong, you come up. You come up," he mother said.
Dodong did not want to come up and stayed in the sun.
"Dodong. Dodong."
"I'll... come up."
Dodong traced tremulous steps on the dry parched yard. He ascended the bamboo steps slowly. His heart pounded mercilessly in him. Within, he avoided his parents eyes. He walked ahead of them so that they should not see his face. He felt guilty and untrue. He felt like crying. His eyes smarted and his chest wanted to burst. He wanted to turn back, to go back to the yard. He wanted somebody to punish him.
His father thrust his hand in his and gripped it gently.
"Son," his father said.
And his mother: "Dodong..."
How kind were their voices. They flowed into him, making him strong.
"Teang?" Dodong said.
"She's sleeping. But you go on..."
His father led him into the small sawali room. Dodong saw Teang, his girl-wife, asleep on the papag with her black hair soft around her face. He did not want her to look that pale.
Dodong wanted to touch her, to push away that stray wisp of hair that touched her lips, but again that feeling of embarrassment came over him and before his parents he did not want to be demonstrative.
The hilot was wrapping the child, Dodong heard it cry. The thin voice pierced him queerly. He could not control the swelling of happiness in him.
“You give him to me. You give him to me," Dodong said.
-------------------------------------------
Blas was not Dodong's only child. Many more children came. For six successive years a new child came along. Dodong did not want any more children, but they came. It seemed the coming of children could not be helped. Dodong got angry with himself sometimes.
Teang did not complain, but the bearing of children told on her. She was shapeless and thin now, even if she was young. There was interminable work to be done. Cooking. Laundering. The house. The children. She cried sometimes, wishing she had not married. She did not tell Dodong this, not wishing him to dislike her. Yet she wished she had not married. Not even Dodong, whom she loved. There has been another suitor, Lucio, older than Dodong by nine years, and that was why she had chosen Dodong. Young Dodong. Seventeen. Lucio had married another after her marriage to Dodong, but he was childless until now. She wondered if she had married Lucio, would she have borne him children. Maybe not, either. That was a better lot. But she loved Dodong...
Dodong whom life had made ugly.
One night, as he lay beside his wife, he rose and went out of the house. He stood in the moonlight, tired and querulous. He wanted to ask questions and somebody to answer him. He w anted to be wise about many things.
One of them was why life did not fulfill all of Youth's dreams. Why it must be so. Why one was forsaken... after Love.
Dodong would not find the answer. Maybe the question was not to be answered. It must be so to make youth Youth. Youth must be dreamfully sweet. Dreamfully sweet. Dodong returned to the house humiliated by himself. He had wanted to know a little wisdom but was denied it.
When Blas was eighteen he came home one night very flustered and happy. It was late at night and Teang and the other children were asleep. Dodong heard Blas's steps, for he could not sleep well of nights. He watched Blas undress in the dark and lie down softly. Blas was restless on his mat and could not sleep. Dodong called him name and asked why he did not sleep. Blas said he could not sleep.
"You better go to sleep. It is late," Dodong said.
Blas raised himself on his elbow and muttered something in a low fluttering voice.
Dodong did not answer and tried to sleep.
"Itay ...," Blas called softly.
Dodong stirred and asked him what it was.
"I am going to marry Tona. She accepted me tonight."
Dodong lay on the red pillow without moving.
"Itay, you think it over."
Dodong lay silent.
"I love Tona and... I want her."
Dodong rose from his mat and told Blas to follow him. They descended to the yard, where everything was still and quiet. The moonlight was cold and white.
"You want to marry Tona," Dodong said. He did not want Blas to marry yet. Blas was very young. The life that would follow marriage would be hard...
"Yes."
"Must you marry?"
Blas's voice stilled with resentment. "I will marry Tona."
Dodong kept silent, hurt.
"You have objections, Itay?" Blas asked acridly.
"Son... n-none..." (But truly, God, I don't want Blas to marry yet... not yet. I don't want Blas to marry yet....)
But he was helpless. He could not do anything. Youth must triumph... now. Love must triumph... now. Afterwards... it will be life.
As long ago Youth and Love did triumph for Dodong... and then Life.
Dodong looked wistfully at his young son in the moonlight. He felt extremely sad and sorry for him.
I will tell it to him. I will tell it to him.
The ground was broken up into many fresh wounds and fragrant with a sweetish earthy smell. Many slender soft worms emerged from the furrows and then burrowed again deeper into the soil. A short colorless worm marched blindly to Dodong's foot and crawled calmly over it. Dodong go tickled and jerked his foot, flinging the worm into the air. Dodong did not bother to look where it fell, but thought of his age, seventeen, and he said to himself he was not young any more.
Dodong unhitched the carabao leisurely and gave it a healthy tap on the hip. The beast turned its head to look at him with dumb faithful eyes. Dodong gave it a slight push and the animal walked alongside him to its shed. He placed bundles of grass before it land the carabao began to eat. Dodong looked at it without interests.
Dodong started homeward, thinking how he would break his news to his father. He wanted to marry, Dodong did. He was seventeen, he had pimples on his face, the down on his upper lip already was dark--these meant he was no longer a boy. He was growing into a man--he was a man. Dodong felt insolent and big at the thought of it although he was by nature low in statue. Thinking himself a man grown, Dodong felt he could do anything.
He walked faster, prodded by the thought of his virility. A small angled stone bled his foot, but he dismissed it cursorily. He lifted his leg and looked at the hurt toe and then went on walking. In the cool sundown he thought wild you dreams of himself and Teang. Teang, his girl. She had a small brown face and small black eyes and straight glossy hair. How desirable she was to him. She made him dream even during the day.
Dodong tensed with desire and looked at the muscles of his arms. Dirty. This field
work was healthy, invigorating but it begrimed you, smudged you terribly. He turned back the way he had come, then he marched obliquely to a creek.
Dodong stripped himself and laid his clothes, a gray undershirt and red kundiman shorts, on the grass. The he went into the water, wet his body over, and rubbed at it vigorously. He was not long in bathing, then he marched homeward again. The bath made him feel cool.
It was dusk when he reached home. The petroleum lamp on the ceiling already was lighted and the low unvarnished square table was set for supper. His parents and he sat down on the floor around the table to eat. They had fried fresh-water fish, rice, bananas, and caked sugar.
Dodong ate fish and rice, but did not partake of the fruit. The bananas were overripe and when one held them they felt more fluid than solid. Dodong broke off a piece of the cakes sugar, dipped it in his glass of water and ate it. He got another piece and wanted some more, but he thought of leaving the remainder for his parents.
Dodong's mother removed the dishes when they were through and went out to the batalan to wash them. She walked with slow careful steps and Dodong wanted to help her carry the dishes out, but he was tired and now felt lazy. He wished as he looked at her that he had a sister who could help his mother in the housework. He pitied her, doing all the housework alone.
His father remained in the room, sucking a diseased tooth. It was paining him again, Dodong knew. Dodong had told him often and again to let the town dentist pull it out, but he was afraid, his father was. He did not tell that to Dodong, but Dodong guessed it. Afterward Dodong himself thought that if he had a decayed tooth he would be afraid to go to the dentist; he would not be any bolder than his father.
Dodong said while his mother was out that he was going to marry Teang. There it was out, what he had to say, and over which he had done so much thinking. He had said it without any effort at all and without self-consciousness. Dodong felt relieved and looked at his father expectantly. A decrescent moon outside shed its feeble light into the window, graying the still black temples of his father. His father looked old now.
"I am going to marry Teang," Dodong said.
His father looked at him silently and stopped sucking the broken tooth. The silence became intense and cruel, and Dodong wished his father would suck that troublous tooth again. Dodong was uncomfortable and then became angry because his father kept looking at him without uttering anything.
"I will marry Teang," Dodong repeated. "I will marry Teang."
His father kept gazing at him in inflexible silence and Dodong fidgeted on his seat.
"I asked her last night to marry me and she said...yes. I want your permission. I... want... it...." There was impatient clamor in his voice, an exacting protest at this coldness, this indifference. Dodong looked at his father sourly. He cracked his knuckles one by one, and the little sounds it made broke dully the night stillness.
"Must you marry, Dodong?"
Dodong resented his father's questions; his father himself had married. Dodong made a quick impassioned easy in his mind about selfishness, but later he got confused.
"You are very young, Dodong."
"I'm... seventeen."
"That's very young to get married at."
"I... I want to marry...Teang's a good girl."
"Tell your mother," his father said.
"You tell her, tatay."
"Dodong, you tell your inay."
"You tell her."
"All right, Dodong."
"You will let me marry Teang?"
"Son, if that is your wish... of course..." There was a strange helpless light in his father's eyes. Dodong did not read it, so absorbed was he in himself.
Dodong was immensely glad he had asserted himself. He lost his resentment for his father. For a while he even felt sorry for him about the diseased tooth. Then he confined his mind to dreaming of Teang and himself. Sweet young dream....
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Dodong stood in the sweltering noon heat, sweating profusely, so that his camiseta was damp. He was still as a tree and his thoughts were confused. His mother had told him not to leave the house, but he had left. He had wanted to get out of it without clear reason at all. He was afraid, he felt. Afraid of the house. It had seemed to cage him, to compares his thoughts with severe tyranny. Afraid also of Teang. Teang was giving birth in the house; she gave screams that chilled his blood. He did not want her to scream like that, he seemed to be rebuking him. He began to wonder madly if the process of childbirth was really painful. Some women, when they gave birth, did not cry.
In a few moments he would be a father. "Father, father," he whispered the word with awe, with strangeness. He was young, he realized now, contradicting himself of nine months comfortable... "Your son," people would soon be telling him. "Your son, Dodong."
Dodong felt tired standing. He sat down on a saw-horse with his feet close together. He looked at his callused toes. Suppose he had ten children... What made him think that? What was the matter with him? God!
He heard his mother's voice from the house:
"Come up, Dodong. It is over."
Suddenly he felt terribly embarrassed as he looked at her. Somehow he was ashamed to his mother of his youthful paternity. It made him feel guilty, as if he had taken something no properly his. He dropped his eyes and pretended to dust dirt off his kundiman shorts.
"Dodong," his mother called again. "Dodong."
He turned to look again and this time saw his father beside his mother.
"It is a boy," his father said. He beckoned Dodong to come up.
Dodong felt more embarrassed and did not move. What a moment for him. His parents' eyes seemed to pierce him through and he felt limp.
He wanted to hide from them, to run away.
"Dodong, you come up. You come up," he mother said.
Dodong did not want to come up and stayed in the sun.
"Dodong. Dodong."
"I'll... come up."
Dodong traced tremulous steps on the dry parched yard. He ascended the bamboo steps slowly. His heart pounded mercilessly in him. Within, he avoided his parents eyes. He walked ahead of them so that they should not see his face. He felt guilty and untrue. He felt like crying. His eyes smarted and his chest wanted to burst. He wanted to turn back, to go back to the yard. He wanted somebody to punish him.
His father thrust his hand in his and gripped it gently.
"Son," his father said.
And his mother: "Dodong..."
How kind were their voices. They flowed into him, making him strong.
"Teang?" Dodong said.
"She's sleeping. But you go on..."
His father led him into the small sawali room. Dodong saw Teang, his girl-wife, asleep on the papag with her black hair soft around her face. He did not want her to look that pale.
Dodong wanted to touch her, to push away that stray wisp of hair that touched her lips, but again that feeling of embarrassment came over him and before his parents he did not want to be demonstrative.
The hilot was wrapping the child, Dodong heard it cry. The thin voice pierced him queerly. He could not control the swelling of happiness in him.
“You give him to me. You give him to me," Dodong said.
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Blas was not Dodong's only child. Many more children came. For six successive years a new child came along. Dodong did not want any more children, but they came. It seemed the coming of children could not be helped. Dodong got angry with himself sometimes.
Teang did not complain, but the bearing of children told on her. She was shapeless and thin now, even if she was young. There was interminable work to be done. Cooking. Laundering. The house. The children. She cried sometimes, wishing she had not married. She did not tell Dodong this, not wishing him to dislike her. Yet she wished she had not married. Not even Dodong, whom she loved. There has been another suitor, Lucio, older than Dodong by nine years, and that was why she had chosen Dodong. Young Dodong. Seventeen. Lucio had married another after her marriage to Dodong, but he was childless until now. She wondered if she had married Lucio, would she have borne him children. Maybe not, either. That was a better lot. But she loved Dodong...
Dodong whom life had made ugly.
One night, as he lay beside his wife, he rose and went out of the house. He stood in the moonlight, tired and querulous. He wanted to ask questions and somebody to answer him. He w anted to be wise about many things.
One of them was why life did not fulfill all of Youth's dreams. Why it must be so. Why one was forsaken... after Love.
Dodong would not find the answer. Maybe the question was not to be answered. It must be so to make youth Youth. Youth must be dreamfully sweet. Dreamfully sweet. Dodong returned to the house humiliated by himself. He had wanted to know a little wisdom but was denied it.
When Blas was eighteen he came home one night very flustered and happy. It was late at night and Teang and the other children were asleep. Dodong heard Blas's steps, for he could not sleep well of nights. He watched Blas undress in the dark and lie down softly. Blas was restless on his mat and could not sleep. Dodong called him name and asked why he did not sleep. Blas said he could not sleep.
"You better go to sleep. It is late," Dodong said.
Blas raised himself on his elbow and muttered something in a low fluttering voice.
Dodong did not answer and tried to sleep.
"Itay ...," Blas called softly.
Dodong stirred and asked him what it was.
"I am going to marry Tona. She accepted me tonight."
Dodong lay on the red pillow without moving.
"Itay, you think it over."
Dodong lay silent.
"I love Tona and... I want her."
Dodong rose from his mat and told Blas to follow him. They descended to the yard, where everything was still and quiet. The moonlight was cold and white.
"You want to marry Tona," Dodong said. He did not want Blas to marry yet. Blas was very young. The life that would follow marriage would be hard...
"Yes."
"Must you marry?"
Blas's voice stilled with resentment. "I will marry Tona."
Dodong kept silent, hurt.
"You have objections, Itay?" Blas asked acridly.
"Son... n-none..." (But truly, God, I don't want Blas to marry yet... not yet. I don't want Blas to marry yet....)
But he was helpless. He could not do anything. Youth must triumph... now. Love must triumph... now. Afterwards... it will be life.
As long ago Youth and Love did triumph for Dodong... and then Life.
Dodong looked wistfully at his young son in the moonlight. He felt extremely sad and sorry for him.
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