บทที่ บทที่ 18 · Chapter XVIII

Souls in Torment

It was about seven o'clock in the morning when Fray Salvi finished

celebrating his last mass, having offered up three in the space of

an hour. "The padre is ill," commented the pious women. "He doesn't

move about with his usual slowness and elegance of manner."

He took off his vestments without the least comment, without saying

a word or looking at any one. "Attention!" whispered the sacristans

among themselves. "The devil's to pay! It's going to rain fines,

and all on account of those two brothers."

He left the sacristy to go up into the rectory, in the hallway of

which there awaited him some seven or eight women seated upon benches

and a man who was pacing back and forth. Upon seeing him approach,

the women arose and one of them pressed forward to kiss his hand,

but the holy man made a sign of impatience that stopped her short.

"Can it be that you've lost a real, _kuriput?_" exclaimed the woman

with a jesting laugh, offended at such a reception. "Not to give

his hand to me, Matron of the Sisterhood, Sister Rufa!" It was an

unheard-of proceeding.

"He didn't go into the confessional this morning," added Sister Sipa,

a toothless old woman. "I wanted to confess myself so as to receive

communion and get the indulgences."

"Well, I'm sorry for you," commented a young woman with a frank

face. "This week I earned three plenary indulgences and dedicated

them to the soul of my husband."

"Badly done, Sister Juana," said the offended Rufa. "One plenary

indulgence was enough to get him out of purgatory. You ought not to

squander the holy indulgences. Do as I do."

"I thought, so many more the better," answered the simple Sister Juana,

smiling. "But tell me what you do."

Sister Rufa did not answer at once. First, she asked for a buyo and

chewed at it, gazed at her audience, which was listening attentively,

then spat to one side and commenced, chewing at the buyo meanwhile: "I

don't misspend one holy day! Since I've belonged to the Sisterhood I've

earned four hundred and fifty-seven plenary indulgences, seven hundred

sixty thousand five hundred and ninety-eight years of indulgence. I

set down all that I earn, for I like to have clean accounts. I don't

want to cheat or be cheated."

Here Sister Rufa paused to give more attention to her chewing. The

women gazed at her in admiration, but the man who was pacing back and

forth remarked with some disdain, "Well, this year I've gained four

plenary indulgences more than you have, Sister Rufa, and a hundred

years more, and that without praying much either."

"More than I? More than six hundred and eighty-nine plenary indulgences

or nine hundred ninety-four thousand eight hundred and fifty-six

years?" queried Rufa, somewhat disgruntled.

"That's it, eight indulgences and a hundred fifteen years more and

a few months over," answered the man, from whose neck hung soiled

scapularies and rosaries.

"That's not strange!" admitted Rufa, at last admitting defeat. "You're

an expert, the best in the province."

The flattered man smiled and continued, "It isn't so wonderful that I

earn more than you do. Why, I can almost say that even when sleeping

I earn indulgences."

"And what do you do with them, sir?" asked four or five voices at

the same time.

"Pish!" answered the man with a gesture of proud disdain. "I have

them to throw away!"

"But in that I can't commend you, sir," protested Rufa. "You'll go

to purgatory for wasting the indulgences. You know very well that

for every idle word one must suffer forty days in fire, according to

the curate; for every span of thread uselessly wasted, sixty days;

and for every drop of water spilled, twenty. You'll go to purgatory."

"Well, I'll know how to get out," answered Brother Pedro with sublime

confidence. "How many souls have I saved from the flames! How many

saints have I made! Besides, even _in articulo mortis_ I can still

earn, if I wish, at least seven plenary indulgences and shall be able

to save others as I die." So saying, he strode proudly away.

Sister Rufa turned to the others: "Nevertheless, you must do as I do,

for I don't lose a single day and I keep my accounts well. I don't

want to cheat or be cheated."

"Well, what do you do?" asked Juana.

"You must imitate what I do. For example, suppose I earn a year

of indulgence: I set it down in my account-book and say, 'Most

Blessed Father and Lord St. Dominic, please see if there is anybody

in purgatory who needs exactly a year--neither a day more nor a day

less.' Then I play heads and tails: if it comes heads, no; if tails,

yes. Let's suppose that it comes tails, then I write down _paid_; if it

comes heads, then I keep the indulgence. In this way I arrange groups

of a hundred years each, of which I keep a careful account. It's a pity

that we can't do with them as with money--put them out at interest,

for in that way we should be able to save more souls. Believe me,

and do as I do."

"Well, I do it a better way," remarked Sister Sipa.

"What? Better?" demanded the astonished Rufa. "That can't be! My

system can't be improved upon!"

"Listen a moment and you'll be convinced, Sister," said old Sipa in

a tone of vexation.

"How is it? Let's hear!" exclaimed the others.

After coughing ceremoniously the old woman began with great care:

"You know very well that by saying the _Bendita sea tu pureza_ and

the _Señor mío Jesucristo, Padre dulcísimo por el gozo_, ten years

are gained for each letter--"

"Twenty!" "No, less!" "Five!" interrupted several voices.

"A few years more or less make no difference. Now, when a servant

breaks a plate, a glass, or a cup, I make him pick up the pieces;

and for every scrap, even the very smallest, he has to recite for

me one of those prayers. The indulgences that I earn in this way

I devote to the souls. Every one in my house, except the cats,

understands this system."

"But those indulgences are earned by the servants and not by you,

Sister Sipa," objected Rufa.

"And my cups and plates, who pays for them? The servants are glad to

pay for them in that way and it suits me also. I never resort to blows,

only sometimes a pinch, or a whack on the head."

"I'm going to do as you do!" "I'll do the same!" "And I!" exclaimed

the women.

"But suppose the plate is only broken into two or three pieces,

then you earn very few," observed the obstinate Rufa.

"_Abá!_" answered old Sipa. "I make them recite the prayers

anyhow. Then I glue the pieces together again and so lose nothing."

Sister Rufa had no more objections left.

"Allow me to ask about a doubt of mine," said young Juana timidly. "You

ladies understand so well these matters of heaven, purgatory, and

hell, while I confess that I'm ignorant. Often I find in the novenas

and other books this direction: three paternosters, three Ave Marias,

and three Gloria Patris--"

"Yes, well?"

"Now I want to know how they should be recited: whether three

paternosters in succession, three Ave Marias in succession, and

three Gloria Patris in succession; or a paternoster, an Ave Maria,

and a Gloria Patri together, three times?"

"This way: a paternoster three times--"

"Pardon me, Sister Sipa," interrupted Rufa, "they must be recited in

the other way. You mustn't mix up males and females. The paternosters

are males, the Ave Marias are females, and the Gloria Patris are

the children."

"Eh? Excuse me, Sister Rufa: paternoster, Ave Maria, and Gloria are

like rice, meat, and sauce--a mouthful for the saints--"

"You're wrong! You'll see, for you who pray that way will never get

what you ask for."

"And you who pray the other way won't get anything from your novenas,"

replied old Sipa.

"Who won't?" asked Rufa, rising. "A short time ago I lost a little

pig, I prayed to St. Anthony and found it, and then I sold it for a

good price. _Abá!_"

"Yes? Then that's why one of your neighbors was saying that you sold

a pig of hers."

"Who? The shameless one! Perhaps I'm like you--"

Here the expert had to interfere to restore peace, for no one

was thinking any more about paternosters--the talk was all about

pigs. "Come, come, there mustn't be any quarrel over a pig,

Sisters! The Holy Scriptures give us an example to follow. The

heretics and Protestants didn't quarrel with Our Lord for driving

into the water a herd of swine that belonged to them, and we that

are Christians and besides, Brethren of the Holy Rosary, shall we

have hard words on account of a little pig! What would our rivals,

the Tertiary Brethren, say?"

All became silent before such wisdom, at the same time fearing what

the Tertiary Brethren might say. The expert, well satisfied with

such acquiescence, changed his tone and continued: "Soon the curate

will send for us. We must tell him which preacher we've chosen of

the three that he suggested yesterday, whether Padre Damaso, Padre

Martin, or the coadjutor. I don't know whether the Tertiary Brethren

have yet made any choice, so we must decide."

"The coadjutor," murmured Juana timidly.

"Ahem! The coadjutor doesn't know how to preach," declared Sipa. "Padre

Martin is better."

"Padre Martin!" exclaimed another disdainfully. "He hasn't any

voice. Padre Damaso would be better."

"That's right!" cried Rufa. "Padre Damaso surely does know how to

preach! He looks like a comedian!"

"But we don't understand him," murmured Juana.

"Because he's very deep! And as he preaches well--"

This speech was interrupted by the arrival of Sisa, who was carrying

a basket on her head. She saluted the Sisters and went on up the

stairway.

"She's going in! Let's go in too!" they exclaimed. Sisa felt her heart

beating violently as she ascended the stairs. She did not know just

what to say to the padre to placate his wrath or what reasons she

could advance in defense of her son. That morning at the first flush

of dawn she had gone into her garden to pick the choicest vegetables,

which she placed in a basket among banana-leaves and flowers; then she

had looked along the bank of the river for the _pakó_ which she knew

the curate liked for salads. Putting on her best clothes and without

awakening her son, she had set out for the town with the basket on her

head. As she went up the stairway she, tried to make as little noise

as possible and listened attentively in the hope that she might hear

a fresh, childish voice, so well known to her. But she heard nothing

nor did she meet any one as she made her way to the kitchen. There

she looked into all the corners. The servants and sacristans received

her coldly, scarcely acknowledging her greeting.

"Where can I put these vegetables?" she asked, not taking any offense

at their coldness.

"There, anywhere!" growled the cook, hardly looking at her as he

busied himself in picking the feathers from a capon.

With great care Sisa arranged the vegetables and the salad leaves on

the table, placing the flowers above them. Smiling, she then addressed

one of the servants, who seemed to be more approachable than the cook:

"May I speak with the padre?"

"He's sick," was the whispered answer.

"And Crispin? Do you know if he is in the sacristy?" The servant

looked surprised and wrinkled his eyebrows. "Crispin? Isn't he at

your house? Do you mean to deny it?"

"Basilio is at home, but Crispin stayed here," answered Sisa, "and

I want to see him."

"Yes, he stayed, but afterwards he ran away, after stealing a lot of

things. Early this morning the curate ordered me to go and report it

to the Civil Guard. They must have gone to your house already to hunt

for the boys."

Sisa covered her ears and opened her mouth to speak, but her lips

moved without giving out any sound.

"A pretty pair of sons you have!" exclaimed the cook. "It's plain

that you're a faithful wife, the sons are so like the father. Take

care that the younger doesn't surpass him."

Sisa broke out into bitter weeping and let herself fall upon a bench.

"Don't cry here!" yelled the cook. "Don't you know that the padre's

sick? Get out in the street and cry!"

The unfortunate mother was almost shoved down the stairway at the

very time when the Sisters were coming down, complaining and making

conjectures about the curate's illness, so she hid her face in her

pañuelo and suppressed the sounds of her grief. Upon reaching the

street she looked about uncertainly for a moment and then, as if

having reached a decision, walked rapidly away.