It might have been the dawn of the first day in Eden. I was awakened1 by the music of the birds and sunlight streaming through the convent window. Heavily the broad leaves of abacá drooped2 with the morning dew. Only the roofs of a few nipa houses could be seen. The tolo-trees, like Japanese pagodas3, stretched their horizontal arms against the sky. The mountains were as fresh and green as though a storm had swept them and cleared off again. They now seemed magnified in the transparent4 air.
All in the silence of the morning I went down to where the tropical river glided5 between primeval banks and under the thick-plated overhanging foliage6. The water was as placid7 as a sheet of glass. A spirit of mystery seemed brooding near. As yet the sun’s rays had not penetrated8 through the canopy9 of leaves. A lonely fisherman [237]sat on the bank above, lost in his dreams. Down by the ford10 a native woman came to draw water in a bamboo tube. I half expected her to place a lighted taper11 on a tiny float, and send it spinning down the stream, as is the custom of the maidens12 on the sacred river Ganges. In the silence of the morning, in the heart of nature, thousands of miles away from telegraphs and railroads, where the brilliant-feathered birds dipped lightly into the unruffled stream, the place seemed like a sanctuary13, a holy of holies, pure, immaculate, and undefiled.
The padre had arisen at six. At his command the sacristans ascended14 the bell-tower and proceeded to arouse the town. The padre moved about his dark, bare room. Rare Latin books were scattered15 around the floor. His richly embroidered16 vestments hung on a long line. The room was cluttered17 with the lumber18 of old crucifixes, broken images of saints, and gilded19 floats, considerably20 battered22, with the candlesticks awry23. The floor and the walls were bare. There was a large box of provisions in the corner, filled with imported sausages done up in tinfoil24, bottles of [238]sugar, tightly sealed to keep the ants from getting in, small cakes of Spanish chocolate, bottles of of olives and of rich communion wine. Donning his white robe, he went out to the ante-room, where, on the table spread with a white napkin, stood a cup of chocolate and a package of La Hebra cigarettes.
There was a scamper25 of bare feet as the whole force of dirty house-boys, sacristans, and cooks rushed in to kneel and kiss the padre’s hand and to receive his blessing26. When he had finished the thick chocolate, one of the boys brought in a glass of water, fresh and sparkling from a near-by mountain stream. Then Padre Pedro lighted his cigarette, and read in private for a little while before the morning mass began. Along the narrow pathway (for there were no streets) a string of women in black veils was slowly coming to the church. Stopping before the door, they bowed and made the sign of the cross. Then they went in and knelt down on the hard tiles. The padre’s full voice, rising and falling with the chant, flooded the gloomy interior, where pencils of sunlight slanted27 through the [239]apertures of the unfinished wall, and fell upon the drowsy28 wilderness29 outside.
The Oldest Cathedral of Manila
The Oldest Cathedral of Manila
Returning from the mass, the padre refreshed himself with a small glass of gin-and-water, as his custom was; nor could the appeal of any one persuade him to take more than a single glass or to take that at an earlier or later hour. The ancient maestra had arrived—a wrinkled old body in a black dress and black carpet-slippers—and she knelt down to touch the padre’s outstretched hand with her thin, withered30 lips. The little children, who were waiting for their classes to be called, all followed her example, and before long, the monotonous31 drone of the recitations left no doubt that school had actually begun. Benches had filled up, and the dusky feet were swinging under them as the small backs bent32 over knotty33 problems on the slates34.
The padre, passing among the pupils, made the necessary erasures and corrections, and occasionally gave unasked to some recalcitrant35 a smart snap on the head. The morning session ended by the pupils lining36 up in a half circle around the battered figure of a saint—[240]the altar decorated with red paper flowers, or colored grasses in a number of empty beer-bottles—and, while the padre played the wheezy harmonium, singing their repertoire37 of sacred songs. Then, as the children departed with the “Buenos dias, se?or,” visitors, who had been waiting on the stairway with their presents of eggs, chickens, and bananas, were received.
“Thees man,” the padre explained to me, as a grotesque38 old fellow humbled39 himself before us, “leeves in one house near from ze shore. He has presented me with some goud rope to tie my horses with (buen piece, hombre), and he says that there are no more fishes in ze sea.”
“See, they have brought so many breads and fruits! They know well that eet ees my fast-day, and that my custom ees to eat no meat. I can eat fish or cheecken, but not fish and cheecken; eet ees difficult here to find enough food to sustain ze life on days of fast.”
“Thees girl,” he said, “loves me too much. She is my orphan40, she and her two brothers. I have bought one house for them near from ze church, and, for the girl, one sewing-machine. [241]Their mother had been stealed [robbed] of everything, and she had died a month ago. Ze cheeldren now have nobody but me.”
She was a bright young girl, well-dressed and plump, although, when Padre Pedro had received her, she was wasted by the fever, and near starved to death. But this was only one of his many charities. He used to loan out money to the people, knowing well that they would never be able to return it. He had cured the sick, and had distributed quinine among families that could not have secured it otherwise. He went to visit his parishioners, although they had no means of entertaining him. Most of them even had no chairs for him to sit on when he came, and they would stand around in such embarrassed silence that the padre could not have derived42 much pleasure from their company.
At the padre’s “áver, bata!” after the last visitor has gone, the house-boys run in with the noon meal. The padre had a good cook, who understood the art of fixing the provisions in the Spanish style. I was surprised at the resources of the parish; for a meal of ten or fifteen [242]courses was the usual thing. A phalanx of barefooted waiters stood in line to take the plates when we had finished the respective courses, broth41, mutton stew44, and chicken, and bananas for dessert. The padre, I am sorry to say, ate with his knife, and was inclined to gobble. Two yellow dogs and a lean cat stood by to gulp45 the morsels46 that were thrown them from the table. When the dinner was completed, a large tumbler of water and a toothpick were brought on. After a smoke the padre took his customary nap, retiring to the low, cane47-bottomed bed, where he intrenched himself behind mosquito-bars.
The convent was a rambling48 building, with adobe49 walls. It was raised up on pillars as long as telegraph poles, and the ground floor was divided into various apartments. There was the “calaboos,” where Padre Pedro’s chickens were encouraged to “put” eggs. There were the stables for the padre’s ponies50, and a large bamboo stockade51 for pigs and chickens. The little friar took a lively interest in this corral, and he would feed his stock with his own hand from the convent window. “Ze leetle goat,” he said, “eet ees my [243]mind to send to Father Cipriano for a geeft.” The sucking pig was being saved for Easter-time, when it should be well roasted on a spit, with a banana in its mouth. There were just sixty-seven chickens, and the padre used to count them every day and notice their peculiarities52.
During the afternoon the padre’s time was taken up by various religious duties, and the school was left in charge of the old maestra. There would be a funeral service at the church, or a baptism, or confession53. Some days he would be called away to other barrios to hear a last confession; but the distance or the weather never daunted54 him, and he would tuck his gown well up, and, followed by a sacristan, ride merrily away. On his return a cup of pasty chocolate would await him. Padre Pedro used to make a certain egg-fizz which was a refreshing55 drink of a long afternoon. The eggs were lashed56 into a froth by means of a bamboo brush twisted or rolled between the palms. The beauty of this beverage57 was that you could drain the cup, and, like the miracle of loaves and fishes, stir the batter21 up again, and have another drink of the [244]same quality. “When Padre Cipriano comes here,” said the friar, “eet ees very gay. Ah! Cipriano, he can make the foam58 come up three times. He knows well how to make thees drink.”
When he would take his ebony cane and go out walking about sunset, followed by his yellow dog, the village people, young and old, would tumble over each other in their eagerness to kiss the father’s hand. He would mischievously59 tweak the noses of the little ones, or pat the tiny girls upon the head. The friend of the lowly, he had somehow incensed60 the upper ten. But he had shown his nerve one Sunday morning when he had talked down one of these braggadocios61 who had leveled a revolver at him in the church.
The little padre was as brave as he was “game.” He was a fearless rider, and there were few afternoons when we were not astride the ponies, leaping the streams and ditches in the rice-pads, swimming the fords, and racing62 along the beach, and it was always the little priest that set the pace. One evening he received a message from the father superior of that vicinity, old Padre José, living ten or fifteen miles up the [245]road in an unpacified community. The notice was imperative64, and only said to “come immediately, and as soon as possible.”
Padre José was eighty years old, and he had been in Mindanao nearly all his life. He spoke65 Visayan better than the natives, and he understood the Filipinos just as though each one of them had been his child. He had been all around the island and among the pagan tribes who saw their spirits in the trees and streams. He had been back to Spain just once, and he had frozen his fingers over there. As I remember him, he was a dear, grandmotherly old fellow, in a long black gown, who bustled66 around so for us (we had stopped there on a certain expedition), cooking the eggs himself, and cutting the tough bologna, holding the glass of moscatel so lovingly up to the light before he offered it, that I almost expected him to bring forth67 crullers, tea, and elderberry pie. His convent was at that time occupied by the municipal authorities; and so he lived in a small nipa house with his two dogs, his Latin library, and the sacristans who at night slept scattered about the [246]floor. The local conditions were unsettled at this time. The garrison68 at Surigao had been attacked by the so-called ladrones. Night messages were flying to and fro. Padre José’s summons seemed a harbinger of trouble. But, in spite of the fact that Padre Pedro had been sick for several days, he obeyed the command of his superior like any soldier, and at midnight saddled the ponies, tucked a revolver under his gown, and started at a gallop69 down the road. When he arrived at Father José’s house, nothing serious was found to be the matter. Only the dear old soul was lonesome and had wanted company.
Often at evening we would sit on the veranda70 till the evening star appeared—“the star that the shepherds know well; the precurser of the moon”—and then the angelus would ring, and Padre Pedro would stand up and doff71 his cap, and, after a moment spent in silent prayer, “That is good-night,’” he used to say, and then we would go in for dinner. Dinner was served at eight o’clock, and was as formal an affair as the noon meal. The evening would be spent at study, for the padre was a scholar of no mean ability. He had [247]translated some of Stockton’s stories into the Visayan language. Speaking of Stockton, Padre Pedro said that he “knew well the spirit of your countrymen.” His work was frequently disturbed by the muchachos running in with sums that they had finished on their slates; but the padre never showed the least impatience72 at these interruptions.
Sometimes the “musickers” would come, and, crowding around the little organ, practice the chants for some fiesta day. The principal “musicker” was a grotesque old fellow, with enormous feet, and glasses rimmed73 with tortoise-shell. He looked so wise when he was poring over the manuscript in the dim candle-light that he reminded one of an intelligent gorilla74. One of his assistants, meanwhile, would be making artificial flowers, which were to decorate the battered floats to be used in the festival procession on the morrow, carried aloft upon the shoulders of the men, sparkling with lighted tapers75, while the bells up in the tower would jangle furiously. Or there would be a conference with his secretary in regard to the town records, which that functionary76 kept in the big book. [248]
One night the padre was called out to attend one who, as was explained to me, was bitten by a “fool” dog. On entering the poorly-lighted shack77, we found, surrounded by a gaping78 crowd, the victim foaming79 at the mouth. He had indeed been bitten by a “fool” dog, and he died a few hours afterwards, as we could do but little to relieve his suffering.
We spent the remainder of the evening looking over the long mass for Easter Sunday. And the padre said na?vely, “Will it not be necessary that I take one beer when I have reached this place, and then I can continue with the mass?” He looked back fondly to the days when he had sung his part in the antiphony in the magnificent cathedral at Manila.
The town was always at the friar’s service. And no wonder! Had he not sent all the way to Manila for a Christmas box of goodies for the schoolboys,—figs, and raisins80, and preserves? I caught him gloating over them one evening—when he gave his famous supper of roast kid and frosted cake for his American guests from the army post—and he had offered us a taste of these [249]almost forgotten luxuries. How he anticipated the delight he had in store for all the boys! Then in the time of cholera81, when the disease invaded even the convent, although a young man, Padre Pedro never left his post.
The only time I ever knew him to complain was when the people came in hundreds to confession. The confession-box was too hot, and the breath of the penitents82 offensive. “Eet ees a work of charity,” he said; “they pay me nothing—nothing.” The priest was only human when he feigned83 the toothache in order to secure a transfer to Cebu. The little station in the wilderness was too monotonous. He packed his effects in secret, fearing that the people would discover his intention and detain him. The father superior had granted him a leave of absence. His suspicions had not been aroused. When he had reached Cebu the freile would be under different authority, and it was even possible that he be stationed in Manila or returned to Spain. He had not seen his parents for ten years, but his education had prepared him for a life of sacrifice. For the first time he felt neglected and forgotten. [250]On arriving at the trading port, he learned that his parishioners had found him out. They sent a delegation84 to entreat85 him to remain. The little padre’s heart was touched. “They love me too much,” he said, “and they have nobody but me.”
My friend the padre might have been an exception to the general rule. He was a “Friar in the Philippines,” a member of a much-maligned religious order. Still I have met a number of their priests and bishops86, and have found them charming and delightful87 men. They are such hospitable88 entertainers that they have been frequently imposed upon by traveling Americans, who take the convents for hotels, regardless of the public sentiment. It was the friars of San Augustin who, in 1565, subdued89 and pacified63 the Cebuanos when the arms of Spain availed but little. It was the Freile Pedro de San Augustin, the “fighting padre,” who, in 1639, defeated the lake Moros. And, in 1754, a Spanish freile, Father Ducos, commanding the fleet of Iligan, defeated the armada of the Moro pirates, killing90 about a thousand of these buccaneers.
Of course there have been friars good and [251]bad. But “Father Peter,” though he might have had good cause to dislike the Americans, had always expressed the greatest admiration91 for them. They were “political” (diplomatic) men. His mastering the English language was a compliment to us such as few Spaniards have seen fit to pay. He might have been narrow in religious matters, but, above all, he was conscientious92. While he could bathe his hands or face in the Aloran River, he could not go in. His education was a Spartan93 one, and narrowing in its influences. All the society that he had ever had was that of a hundred students with the same ideals and inclinations94 as his own. The reputation of the friars in the Philippines has been depreciated95 by the conduct of the native priests. There was a padre named Pastor96, an arrant97 coward, and wholly ignorant and superstitious98. Sly old fox, he used to bet his last cent on the cock-fights, hiding up in the back window of Don Julian’s. Once, on a drunken spree, he let a layman99 wear his gown and rosary. The natives, showing more respect for the sacred vestments than the priest had shown, went out to kiss the hand of him who [252]wore the robe. The work of the friars can be more appreciated by comparing the civilization of the Christian100 natives with the state of the barbarians101 and pagans. Whatever its defects may be, instead of the head-hunters and the idol-worshipers, the Filipino who has come within the influence of Spanish priests, though often lavish102 and improvident103, is neat, polite, and sociable104. But the friars can do better still. If they would use their influence to abolish the cock-fights Sunday afternoon, and try to co-operate more with the civil government in the matter of public education, they would find that there is plenty of work to be done yet. But some of the accusations105 against the friars are unfair. Extortion is a favorite charge against them; but it must be kept in mind that there are no pew-rents or voluntary contributions, and that Spain has now withdrawn106 the financial support that she once gave. The Church must be maintained through fees derived from weddings, funerals, and christenings. And if the Filipino, in his passion for display and splendor107, orders a too expensive funeral, he has only himself, and not the priest, to blame. Indeed, the [253]friars can derive43 but little benefit from a rich treasury108, because, when absent from their parishes, they are allowed to have no money of their own. All of the funds remaining after the expenses of the Church are paid must be sent to the general treasury. The padre in his convent has the use of the Church money for his personal needs and charities, but nevertheless he is expected to make large returns each year. Perhaps, then, after all, the friars—Padre Pedro, anyway—are not so black as they are painted.
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1
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pagodas
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| 塔，宝塔( pagoda的名词复数 ) | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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cluttered
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| v.杂物，零乱的东西零乱vt.( clutter的过去式和过去分词 )；乱糟糟地堆满，把…弄得很乱；（以…） 塞满… | |
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lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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batter
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| v.接连重击；磨损；n.牛奶面糊；击球员 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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tinfoil
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| n.锡纸，锡箔 | |
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scamper
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| v.奔跑，快跑 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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30
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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31
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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knotty
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| adj.有结的，多节的，多瘤的，棘手的 | |
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slates
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| （旧时学生用以写字的）石板( slate的名词复数 )； 板岩； 石板瓦； 石板色 | |
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recalcitrant
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| adj.倔强的 | |
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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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repertoire
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| n.(准备好演出的)节目，保留剧目；(计算机的)指令表，指令系统， <美>(某个人的)全部技能；清单，指令表 | |
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38
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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39
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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40
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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41
broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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42
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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43
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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44
stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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45
gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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46
morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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47
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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48
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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49
adobe
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| n.泥砖，土坯，美国Adobe公司 | |
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50
ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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51
stockade
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| n.栅栏，围栏；v.用栅栏防护 | |
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52
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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53
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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54
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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56
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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57
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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58
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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59
mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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60
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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61
braggadocios
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| n.自夸，吹牛大王( braggadocio的名词复数 ) | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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63
pacified
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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64
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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65
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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66
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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68
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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69
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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doff
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| v.脱，丢弃，废除 | |
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72
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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rimmed
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| adj.有边缘的，有框的v.沿…边缘滚动；给…镶边 | |
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gorilla
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| n.大猩猩，暴徒，打手 | |
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75
tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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76
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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77
shack
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| adj.简陋的小屋，窝棚 | |
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78
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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79
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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80
raisins
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| n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
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81
cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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82
penitents
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| n.后悔者( penitent的名词复数 )；忏悔者 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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84
delegation
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| n.代表团；派遣 | |
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85
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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86
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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87
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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depreciated
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| v.贬值，跌价，减价( depreciate的过去式和过去分词 )；贬低，蔑视，轻视 | |
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96
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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97
arrant
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| adj.极端的；最大的 | |
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98
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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99
layman
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| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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100
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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101
barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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102
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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103
improvident
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| adj.不顾将来的，不节俭的，无远见的 | |
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104
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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105
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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106
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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107
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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108
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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