The Reign of Greed
from the whole village or that he would be called the executioner of
his son. But on the third day he again sallied forth with his shotgun.
Murderous intentions were attributed to him, and there were
well-meaning persons who whispered about that he had been heard to
threaten that he would bury the friar-administrator in the furrows of
his fields, whereat the friar was frightened at him in earnest. As a
result of this, there came a decree from the Captain-General forbidding
the use of firearms and ordering that they be taken up. Cabesang Tales
had to hand over his shotgun but he continued his rounds armed with a
long bolo.
“What are you going to do with that bolo when the tulisanes have
firearms?” old Selo asked him.
“I must watch my crops,” was the answer. “Every stalk of cane growing
there is one of my wife’s bones.”
The bolo was taken up on the pretext that it was too long. He then took
his father’s old ax and with it on his shoulder continued his sullen
rounds.
Every time he left the house Tandang Selo and Juli trembled for his
life. The latter would get up from her loom, go to the window, pray,
make vows to the saints, and recite novenas. The grandfather was at
times unable to finish the handle of a broom and talked of returning to
the forest—life in that house was unbearable.
At last their fears were realized. As the fields were some distance
from the village, Cabesang Tales, in spite of his ax, fell into the
hands of tulisanes who had revolvers and rifles. They told him that
since he had money to pay judges and lawyers he must have some also for
the outcasts and the hunted. They therefore demanded a ransom of five
hundred pesos through the medium of a rustic, with the warning that if
anything happened to their messenger, the captive would pay for it with
his life. Two days of grace were allowed.
This news threw the poor family into the wildest terror, which was
augmented when they learned that the Civil Guard was going out in
pursuit of the bandits. In case of an encounter, the first victim would
be the captive—this they all knew. The old man was paralyzed, while the
pale and frightened daughter tried often to talk but could not. Still,
another thought more terrible, an idea more cruel, roused them from
their stupor. The rustic sent by the tulisanes said that the band would
probably have to move on, and if they were slow in sending the ransom
the two days would elapse and Cabesang Tales would have his throat cut.
This drove those two beings to madness, weak and powerless as they
were. Tandang Selo got up, sat down, went outside, came back again,
knowing not where to go, where to seek aid. Juli appealed to her
images, counted and recounted her money, but her two hundred pesos did
not increase or multiply. Soon she dressed herself, gathered together
all her jewels, and asked the advice of her grandfather, if she should
go to see the gobernadorcillo, the judge, the notary, the lieutenant of
the Civil Guard. The old man said yes to everything, or when she said
no, he too said no. At length came the neighbors, their relatives and
friends, some poorer than others, in their simplicity magnifying the
fears. The most active of all was Sister Bali, a great panguinguera,
who had been to Manila to practise religious exercises in the nunnery
of the Sodality.
Juli was willing to sell all her jewels, except a locket set with
diamonds and emeralds which Basilio had given her, for this locket had
a history: a nun, the daughter of Capitan Tiago, had given it to a
leper, who, in return for professional treatment, had made a present of
it to Basilio. So she could not sell it without first consulting him.
Quickly the shell-combs and earrings were sold, as well as Juli’s
rosary, to their richest neighbor, and thus fifty pesos were added, but
two hundred and fifty were still lacking. The locket might be pawned,
but Juli shook her head. A neighbor suggested that the house be sold
and Tandang Selo approved the idea, satisfied to return to the forest
and cut firewood as of old, but Sister Bali observed that this could
not be done because the owner was not present.
“The judge’s wife once sold me her tapis for a peso, but her husband
said that the sale did not hold because it hadn’t received his
approval. Abá! He took back the tapis and she hasn’t returned the peso
yet, but I don’t pay her when she wins at panguingui, abá! In that way
I’ve collected twelve cuartos, and for that alone I’m going to play
with her. I can’t bear to have people fail to pay what they owe me,
abá!”
Another neighbor was going to ask Sister Bali why then did not she
settle a little account with her, but the quick panguinguera suspected
this and added at once: “Do you know, Juli, what you can do? Borrow two
hundred and fifty pesos on the house, payable when the lawsuit is won.”
This seemed to be the best proposition, so they decided to act upon it
that same day. Sister Bali offered to accompany her, and together they
visited the houses of all the rich folks in Tiani, but no one would
accept the proposal. The case, they said, was already lost, and to show
favors to an enemy of the friars was to expose themselves to their
vengeance. At last a pious woman took pity on the girl and lent the
money on condition that Juli should remain with her as a servant until
the debt was paid. Juli would not have so very much to do: sew, pray,
accompany her to mass, and fast for her now and then. The girl accepted
with tears in her eyes, received the money, and promised to enter her
service on the following day, Christmas.
When the grandfather heard of that sale he fell to weeping like a
child. What, that granddaughter whom he had not allowed to walk in the
sun lest her skin should be burned, Juli, she of the delicate fingers
and rosy feet! What, that girl, the prettiest in the village and
perhaps in the whole town, before whose window many gallants had vainly
passed the night playing and singing! What, his only granddaughter, the
sole joy of his fading eyes, she whom he had dreamed of seeing dressed
in a long skirt, talking Spanish, and holding herself erect waving a
painted fan like the daughters of the wealthy—she to become a servant,
to be scolded and reprimanded, to ruin her fingers, to sleep anywhere,
to rise in any manner whatsoever!
So the old grandfather wept and talked of hanging or starving himself
to death. “If you go,” he declared, “I’m going back to the forest and
will never set foot in the town.”
Juli soothed him by saying that it was necessary for her father to
return, that the suit would be won, and they could then ransom her from
her servitude.
The night was a sad one. Neither of the two could taste a bite and the
old man refused to lie down, passing the whole night seated in a
corner, silent and motionless. Juli on her part tried to sleep, but for
a long time could not close her eyes. Somewhat relieved about her
father’s fate, she now thought of herself and fell to weeping, but
stifled her sobs so that the old man might not hear them. The next day
she would be a servant, and it was the very day Basilio was accustomed
to come from Manila with presents for her. Henceforward she would have
to give up that love; Basilio, who was going to be a doctor, couldn’t
marry a pauper. In fancy she saw him going to the church in company
with the prettiest and richest girl in the town, both well-dressed,
happy and smiling, while she, Juli, followed her mistress, carrying
novenas, buyos, and the cuspidor. Here the girl felt a lump rise in her
throat, a sinking at her heart, and begged the Virgin to let her die
first.
But—said her conscience—he will at least know that I preferred to pawn
myself rather than the locket he gave me.
This thought consoled her a little and brought on empty dreams. Who
knows but that a miracle might happen? She might find the two hundred
and fifty pesos under the image of the Virgin—she had read of many
similar miracles. The sun might not rise nor morning come, and
meanwhile the suit would be won. Her father might return, or Basilio
put in his appearance, she might find a bag of gold in the garden, the
tulisanes would send the bag of gold, the curate, Padre Camorra, who
was always teasing her, would come with the tulisanes. So her ideas
became more and more confused, until at length, worn out by fatigue and
sorrow, she went to sleep with dreams of her childhood in the depths of
the forest: she was bathing in the torrent along with her two brothers,
there were little fishes of all colors that let themselves be caught
like fools, and she became impatient because she found no pleasure in
catchnig such foolish little fishes! Basilio was under the water, but
Basilio for some reason had the face of her brother Tano. Her new
mistress was watching them from the bank.
CHAPTER V
A COCHERO’S CHRISTMAS EVE
Basilio reached San Diego just as the Christmas Eve procession was
passing through the streets. He had been delayed on the road for
several hours because the cochero, having forgotten his cedula, was
held up by the Civil Guard, had his memory jogged by a few blows from a
rifle-butt, and afterwards was taken before the commandant. Now the
carromata was again detained to let the procession pass, while the
abused cochero took off his hat reverently and recited a paternoster to
the first image that came along, which seemed to be that of a great
saint. It was the figure of an old man with an exceptionally long
beard, seated at the edge of a grave under a tree filled with all kinds
of stuffed birds. A kalan with a clay jar, a mortar, and a kalikut for
mashing buyo were his only utensils, as if to indicate that he lived on
the border of the tomb and was doing his cooking there. This was the
Methuselah of the religious iconography of the Philippines; his
colleague and perhaps contemporary is called in Europe Santa Claus, and
is still more smiling and agreeable.
“In the time of the saints,” thought the cochero, “surely there were no
civil-guards, because one can’t live long on blows from rifle-butts.”
Behind the great old man came the three Magian Kings on ponies that
were capering about, especially that of the negro Melchior, which
seemed to be about to trample its companions.
“No, there couldn’t have been any civil-guards,” decided the cochero,
secretly envying those fortunate times, “because if there had been,
that negro who is cutting up such capers beside those two
Spaniards”—Gaspar and Balthazar—“would have gone to jail.”
Then, observing that the negro wore a crown and was a king, like the
other two, the Spaniards, his thoughts naturally turned to the king of
the Indians, and he sighed. “Do you know, sir,” he asked Basilio
respectfully, “if his right foot is loose yet?”
Basilio had him repeat the question. “Whose right foot?”
“The King’s!” whispered the cochero mysteriously.
“What King’s?”
“Our King’s, the King of the Indians.”
Basilio smiled and shrugged his shoulders, while the cochero again
sighed. The Indians in the country places preserve the legend that
their king, imprisoned and chained in the cave of San Mateo, will come
some day to free them. Every hundredth year he breaks one of his
chains, so that he now has his hands and his left foot loose—only the
right foot remains bound. This king causes the earthquakes when he
struggles or stirs himself, and he is so strong that in shaking hands
with him it is necessary to extend to him a bone, which he crushes in
his grasp. For some unexplainable reason the Indians call him King
Bernardo, perhaps by confusing him with Bernardo del Carpio. [13]
“When he gets his right foot loose,” muttered the cochero, stifling
another sigh, “I’ll give him my horses, and offer him my services even