Bab Bab 16 · Chapter XVI

Sisa

Through the dark night the villagers slept. The families who had

remembered their dead gave themselves up to quiet and satisfied sleep,

for they had recited their requiems, the novena of the souls, and had

burned many wax tapers before the sacred images. The rich and powerful

had discharged the duties their positions imposed upon them. On the

following day they would hear three masses said by each priest and

would give two pesos for another, besides buying a bull of indulgences

for the dead. Truly, divine justice is not nearly so exacting as human.

But the poor and indigent who earn scarcely enough to keep themselves

alive and who also have to pay tribute to the petty officials, clerks,

and soldiers, that they may be allowed to live in peace, sleep not

so tranquilly as gentle poets who have perhaps not felt the pinches

of want would have us believe. The poor are sad and thoughtful, for

on that night, if they have not recited many prayers, yet they have

prayed much--with pain in their eyes and tears in their hearts. They

have not the novenas, nor do they know the responsories, versicles,

and prayers which the friars have composed for those who lack original

ideas and feelings, nor do they understand them. They pray in the

language of their misery: their souls weep for them and for those

dead beings whose love was their wealth. Their lips may proffer

the salutations, but their minds cry out complaints, charged with

lamentations. Wilt Thou be satisfied, O Thou who blessedst poverty,

and you, O suffering souls, with the simple prayers of the poor,

offered before a rude picture in the light of a dim wick, or do

you perhaps desire wax tapers before bleeding Christs and Virgins

with small mouths and crystal eyes, and masses in Latin recited

mechanically by priests? And thou, Religion preached for suffering

humanity, hast thou forgotten thy mission of consoling the oppressed

in their misery and of humiliating the powerful in their pride? Hast

thou now promises only for the rich, for those who, can pay thee?

The poor widow watches among the children who sleep at her side. She

is thinking of the indulgences that she ought to buy for the repose

of the souls of her parents and of her dead husband. "A peso,"

she says, "a peso is a week of happiness for my children, a week of

laughter and joy, my savings for a month, a dress for my daughter

who is becoming a woman." "But it is necessary that you put aside

these worldly desires," says the voice that she heard in the pulpit,

"it is necessary that you make sacrifices." Yes, it is necessary. The

Church does not gratuitously save the beloved souls for you nor does

it distribute indulgences without payment. You must buy them, so

tonight instead of sleeping you should work. Think of your daughter,

so poorly clothed! Fast, for heaven is dear! Decidedly, it seems

that the poor enter not into heaven. Such thoughts wander through the

space enclosed between the rough mats spread out on the bamboo floor

and the ridge of the roof, from which hangs the hammock wherein the

baby swings. The infant's breathing is easy and peaceful, but from

time to time he swallows and smacks his lips; his hungry stomach,

which is not satisfied with what his older brothers have given him,

dreams of eating.

The cicadas chant monotonously, mingling their ceaseless notes with

the trills of the cricket hidden in the grass, or the chirp of the

little lizard which has come out in search of food, while the big

gekko, no longer fearing the water, disturbs the concert with its

ill-omened voice as it shows its head from out the hollow of the

decayed tree-trunk.

The dogs howl mournfully in the streets and superstitious folk,

hearing them, are convinced that they see spirits and ghosts. But

neither the dogs nor the other animals see the sorrows of men--yet

how many of these exist!

Distant from the town an hour's walk lives the mother of Basilio and

Crispin. The wife of a heartless man, she struggles to live for her

sons, while her husband is a vagrant gamester with whom her interviews

are rare but always painful. He has gradually stripped her of her

few jewels to pay the cost of his vices, and when the suffering Sisa

no longer had anything that he might take to satisfy his whims, he

had begun to maltreat her. Weak in character, with more heart than

intellect, she knew only how to love and to weep. Her husband was

a god and her sons were his angels, so he, knowing to what point he

was loved and feared, conducted himself like all false gods: daily

he became more cruel, more inhuman, more wilful. Once when he had

appeared with his countenance gloomier than ever before, Sisa had

consulted him about the plan of making a sacristan of Basilio, and

he had merely continued to stroke his game-cock, saying neither yes

nor no, only asking whether the boy would earn much money. She had

not dared to insist, but her needy situation and her desire that the

boys should learn to read and write in the town school forced her to

carry out the plan. Still her husband had said nothing.

That night, between ten and eleven o'clock, when the stars were

glittering in a sky now cleared of all signs of the storm of the

early evening, Sisa sat on a wooden bench watching some fagots that

smouldered upon the fireplace fashioned of rough pieces of natural

rock. Upon a tripod, or _tunko_, was a small pot of boiling rice

and upon the red coals lay three little dried fishes such as are

sold at three for two cuartos. Her chin rested in the palm of her

hand while she gazed at the weak yellow glow peculiar to the cane,

which burns rapidly and leaves embers that quickly grow pale. A sad

smile lighted up her face as she recalled a funny riddle about the pot

and the fire which Crispin had once propounded to her. The boy said:

"The black man sat down and the red man looked at him, a moment passed,

and cock-a-doodle-doo rang forth."

Sisa was still young, and it was plain that at one time she had been

pretty and attractive. Her eyes, which, like her disposition, she

had given to her sons, were beautiful, with long lashes and a deep

look. Her nose was regular and her pale lips curved pleasantly. She

was what the Tagalogs call _kayumanguing-kaligátan_; that is, her

color was a clear, pure brown. In spite of her youthfulness, pain

and perhaps even hunger had begun to make hollow her pallid cheeks,

and if her abundant hair, in other times the delight and adornment of

her person, was even yet simply and neatly arranged, though without

pins or combs, it was not from coquetry but from habit.

Sisa had been for several days confined to the house sewing upon

some work which had been ordered for the earliest possible time. In

order to earn the money, she had not attended mass that morning, as

it would have taken two hours at least to go to the town and return:

poverty obliges one to sin! She had finished the work and delivered

it but had received only a promise of payment. All that day she had

been anticipating the pleasures of the evening, for she knew that her

sons were coming and she had intended to make them some presents. She

had bought some small fishes, picked the most beautiful tomatoes in

her little garden, as she knew that Crispin was very fond of them, and

begged from a neighbor, old Tasio the Sage, who lived half a mile away,

some slices of dried wild boar's meat and a leg of wild duck, which

Basilio especially liked. Full of hope, she had cooked the whitest

of rice, which she herself had gleaned from the threshing-floors. It

was indeed a curate's meal for the poor boys.

But by an unfortunate chance her husband came and ate the rice,

the slices of wild boar's meat, the duck leg, five of the little

fishes, and the tomatoes. Sisa said nothing, although she felt as

if she herself were being eaten. His hunger at length appeased,

he remembered to ask for the boys. Then Sisa smiled happily and

resolved that she would not eat that night, because what remained

was not enough for three. The father had asked for their sons and

that for her was better than eating.

Soon he picked up his game-cock and started away.

"Don't you want to see them?" she asked tremulously. "Old Tasio told

me that they would be a little late. Crispin now knows how to read

and perhaps Basilio will bring his wages."

This last reason caused the husband to pause and waver, but his good

angel triumphed. "In that case keep a peso for me," he said as he

went away.

Sisa wept bitterly, but the thought of her sons soon dried her

tears. She cooked some more rice and prepared the only three fishes

that were left: each would have one and a half. "They'll have good

appetites," she mused, "the way is long and hungry stomachs have

no heart."

So she sat, he ear strained to catch every sound, listening to the

lightest footfalls: strong and clear, Basilio; light and irregular,

Crispin--thus she mused. The _kalao_ called in the woods several times

after the rain had ceased, but still her sons did not come. She put the

fishes inside the pot to keep them warm and went to the threshold of

the hut to look toward the road. To keep herself company, she began

to sing in a low voice, a voice usually so sweet and tender that when

her sons listened to her singing the _kundíman_ they wept without

knowing why, but tonight it trembled and the notes were halting. She

stopped singing and gazed earnestly into the darkness, but no one

was coming from the town--that noise was only the wind shaking the

raindrops from the wide banana leaves.

Suddenly a black dog appeared before her dragging something along the

path. Sisa was frightened but caught up a stone and threw it at the

dog, which ran away howling mournfully. She was not superstitious,

but she had heard so much about presentiments and black dogs that

terror seized her. She shut the door hastily and sat down by the

light. Night favors credulity and the imagination peoples the air

with specters. She tried to pray, to call upon the Virgin and upon

God to watch over her sons, especially her little Crispin. Then she

forgot her prayers as her thoughts wandered to think about them, to

recall the features of each, those features that always wore a smile

for her both asleep and awake. Suddenly she felt her hair rise on her

head and her eyes stared wildly; illusion or reality, she saw Crispin

standing by the fireplace, there where he was wont to sit and prattle

to her, but now he said nothing as he gazed at her with those large,

thoughtful eyes, and smiled.

"Mother, open the door! Open, mother!" cried the voice of Basilio

from without.

Sisa shuddered violently and the vision disappeared.