Noli Me Tángere

isa

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.