The Social Cancer - 12

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.


CHAPTER XIX
A Schoolmaster's Difficulties

El vulgo es necio y pues lo paga, es justo
Hablarle en necio para darle el gusto. [62]
LOPE DE VEGA.

The mountain-encircled lake slept peacefully with that hypocrisy of
the elements which gave no hint of how its waters had the night before
responded to the fury of the storm. As the first reflections of light
awoke on its surface the phosphorescent spirits, there were outlined
in the distance, almost on the horizon, the gray silhouettes of the
little bankas of the fishermen who were taking in their nets and
of the larger craft spreading their sails. Two men dressed in deep
mourning stood gazing at the water from a little elevation: one was
Ibarra and the other a youth of humble aspect and melancholy features.
"This is the place," the latter was saying. "From here your father's
body was thrown into the water. Here's where the grave-digger brought
Lieutenant Guevara and me."
Ibarra warmly grasped the hand of the young man, who went on: "You
have no occasion to thank me. I owed many favors to your father, and
the only thing that I could do for him was to accompany his body to
the grave. I came here without knowing any one, without recommendation,
and having neither name nor fortune, just as at present. My predecessor
had abandoned the school to engage in the tobacco trade. Your father
protected me, secured me a house, and furnished whatever was necessary
for running the school. He used to visit the classes and distribute
pictures among the poor but studious children, as well as provide
them with books and paper. But this, like all good things, lasted
only a little while."
Ibarra took off his hat and seemed to be praying for a time. Then he
turned to his companion: "Did you say that my father helped the poor
children? And now?"
"Now they get along as well as possible and write when they can,"
answered the youth.
"What is the reason?"
"The reason lies in their torn camisas and their downcast eyes."
"How many pupils have you now?" asked Ibarra with interest, after
a pause.
"More than two hundred on the roll but only about twenty-five in
actual attendance."
"How does that happen?"
The schoolmaster smiled sadly as he answered, "To tell you the reasons
would make a long and tiresome story."
"Don't attribute my question to idle curiosity," replied Ibarra
gravely, while he stared at the distant horizon. "I've thought
better of it and believe that to carry out my father's ideas will be
more fitting than to weep for him, and far better than to revenge
him. Sacred nature has become his grave, and his enemies were the
people and a priest. The former I pardon on account of their ignorance
and the latter because I wish that Religion, which elevated society,
should be respected. I wish to be inspired with the spirit of him
who gave me life and therefore desire to know about the obstacles
encountered here in educational work."
"The country will bless your memory, sir," said the schoolmaster,
"if you carry out the beautiful plans of your dead father! You wish
to know the obstacles which the progress of education meets? Well
then, under present circumstances, without substantial aid education
will never amount to much; in the very first place because, even
when we have the pupils, lack of suitable means, and other things
that attract them more, kill off their interest. It is said that in
Germany a peasant's son studies for eight years in the town school,
but who here would spend half that time when such poor results are to
be obtained? They read, write, and memorize selections, and sometimes
whole books, in Spanish, without understanding a single word. [63]
What benefit does our country child get from the school?"
"And why have you, who see the evil, not thought of remedying it?"
The schoolmaster shook his head sadly. "A poor teacher struggles not
only against prejudices but also against certain influences. First,
it would be necessary to have a suitable place and not to do as I
must at present--hold the classes under the convento by the side of
the padre's carriage. There the children, who like to read aloud,
very naturally disturb the padre, and he often comes down, nervous,
especially when he has his attacks, yells at them, and even insults
me at times. You know that no one can either teach or learn under
such circumstances, for the child will not respect his teacher when
he sees him abused without standing up for his rights. In order to
be heeded and to maintain his authority the teacher needs prestige,
reputation, moral strength, and some freedom of action.
"Now let me recount to you even sadder details. I have wished to
introduce reforms and have been laughed at. In order to remedy the evil
of which I just spoke to you, I tried to teach Spanish to the children
because, in addition to the fact that the government so orders, I
thought also that it would be of advantage for everybody. I used the
simplest method of words and phrases without paying any attention to
long rules, expecting to teach them grammar when they should understand
the language. At the end of a few weeks some of the brightest were
almost able to understand me and could use a few phrases."
The schoolmaster paused and seemed to hesitate, then, as if making
a resolution, he went on: "I must not be ashamed of the story of
my wrongs, for any one in my place would have acted the same as I
did. As I said, it was a good beginning, but a few days afterwards
Padre Damaso, who was the curate then, sent for me by the senior
sacristan. Knowing his disposition and fearing to make him wait,
I went upstairs at once, saluted him, and wished him good-morning
in Spanish. His only greeting had been to put out his hand for me to
kiss, but at this he drew it back and without answering me began to
laugh loud and mockingly. I was very much embarrassed, as the senior
sacristan was present. At the moment I didn't know just what to say,
for the curate continued his laughter and I stood staring at him. Then
I began to get impatient and saw that I was about to do something
indiscreet, since to be a good Christian and to preserve one's
dignity are not incompatible. I was going to put a question to him
when suddenly, passing from ridicule to insult, he said sarcastically,
'So it's _buenos dins, eh? Buenos dias!_ How nice that you know how
to talk Spanish!' Then again he broke out into laughter."
Ibarra was unable to repress a smile.
"You smile," continued the schoolmaster, following Ibarra's example,
"but I must confess that at the time I had very little desire to
laugh. I was still standing--I felt the blood rush to my head and
lightning seemed to flash through my brain. The curate I saw far,
far away. I advanced to reply to him without knowing just what I was
going to say, but the senior sacristan put himself between us. Padre
Damaso arose and said to me in Tagalog: 'Don't try to shine in borrowed
finery. Be content to talk your own dialect and don't spoil Spanish,
which isn't meant for you. Do you know the teacher Ciruela? [64]
Well, Ciruela was a teacher who didn't know how to read, and he had
a school.' I wanted to detain him, but he went into his bedroom and
slammed the door.
"What was I to do with only my meager salary, to collect which I
have to get the curate's approval and make a trip to the capital of
the province, what could I do against him, the foremost religious
and political power in the town, backed up by his Order, feared by
the government, rich, powerful, sought after and listened to, always
believed and heeded by everybody? Although he insulted me, I had to
remain silent, for if I replied he would have had me removed from my
position, by which I should lose all hope in my chosen profession. Nor
would the cause of education gain anything, but the opposite, for
everybody would take the curate's side, they would curse me and
call me presumptuous, proud, vain, a bad Christian, uncultured,
and if not those things, then anti-Spanish and a filibuster. Of a
schoolmaster neither learning nor zeal is expected; resignation,
humility, and inaction only are asked. May God pardon me if I have
gone against my conscience and my judgement, but I was born in this
country, I have to live, I have a mother, so I have abandoned myself
to my fate like a corpse tossed about by the waves."
"Did this difficulty discourage you for all time? Have you lived
so since?"
"Would that it had been a warning to me! If only my troubles had been
limited to that! It is true that from that time I began to dislike
my profession and thought of seeking some other occupation, as my
predecessor had done, because any work that is done in disgust and
shame is a kind of martyrdom and because every day the school recalled
the insult to my mind, causing me hours of great bitterness. But what
was I to do? I could not undeceive my mother, I had to say to her that
her three years of sacrifice to give me this profession now constituted
my happiness. It is necessary to make her believe that this profession
is most honorable, the work delightful, the way strewn with flowers,
that the performance of my duties brings me only friendship, that the
people respect me and show me every consideration. By doing otherwise,
without ceasing to be unhappy myself, I should have caused more
sorrow, which besides being useless would also be a sin. I stayed on,
therefore, and tried not to feel discouraged. I tried to struggle on."
Here he paused for a while, then resumed: "From the day on which I
was so grossly insulted I began to examine myself and I found that I
was in fact very ignorant. I applied myself day and night to the study
of Spanish and whatever concerned my profession. The old Sage lent me
some books, and I read and pondered over everything that I could get
hold of. With the new ideas that I have been acquiring in one place
and another my point of view has changed and I have seen many things
under a different aspect from what they had appeared to me before. I
saw error where before I had seen only truth, and truth in many
things where I had formerly seen only error. Corporal punishment, for
example, which from time immemorial has been the distinctive feature
in the schools and which has heretofore been considered as the only
efficacious means of making pupils learn--so we have been accustomed
to believe--soon appeared to me to be a great hindrance rather than
in any way an aid to the child's progress. I became convinced that
it was impossible to use one's mind properly when blows, or similar
punishment, were in prospect. Fear and terror disturb the most serene,
and a child's imagination, besides being very lively, is also very
impressionable. As it is on the brain that ideas are impressed,
it is necessary that there be both inner and outer calm, that there
be serenity of spirit, physical and moral repose, and willingness,
so I thought that before everything else I should cultivate in the
children confidence, assurance, and some personal pride. Moreover,
I comprehended that the daily sight of floggings destroyed kindness
in their hearts and deadened all sense of dignity, which is such a
powerful lever in the world. At the same time it caused them to lose
their sense of shame, which is a difficult thing to restore. I have
also observed that when one pupil is flogged, he gets comfort from
the fact that the others are treated in the same way, and that he
smiles with satisfaction upon hearing the wails of the others. As for
the person who does the flogging, while at first he may do it with
repugnance, he soon becomes hardened to it and even takes delight in
his gloomy task. The past filled me with horror, so I wanted to save
the present by modifying the old system. I endeavored to make study
a thing of love and joy, I wished to make the primer not a black book
bathed in the tears of childhood but a friend who was going to reveal
wonderful secrets, and of the schoolroom not a place of sorrows but a
scene of intellectual refreshment. So, little by little, I abolished
corporal punishment, taking the instruments of it entirely away from
the school and replacing them with emulation and personal pride. If
one was careless about his lesson, I charged it to lack of desire
and never to lack of capacity. I made them think that they were more
capable than they really were, which urged them on to study just as
any confidence leads to notable achievements. At first it seemed that
the change of method was impracticable; many ceased their studies,
but I persisted and observed that little by little their minds were
being elevated and that more children came, that they came with more
regularity, and that he who was praised in the presence of the others
studied with double diligence on the next day.
"It soon became known throughout the town that I did not whip
the children. The curate sent for me, and fearing another scene I
greeted him curtly in Tagalog. On this occasion he was very serious
with me. He said that I was exposing the children to destruction,
that I was wasting time, that I was not fulfilling my duties, that
the father who spared the rod was spoiling the child--according
to the Holy Ghost--that learning enters with blood, and so on. He
quoted to me sayings of barbarous times just as if it were enough
that a thing had been said by the ancients to make it indisputable;
according to which we ought to believe that there really existed
those monsters which in past ages were imaged and sculptured in the
palaces and temples. Finally, he charged me to be more careful and to
return to the old system, otherwise he would make unfavorable report
about me to the alcalde of the province. Nor was this the end of my
troubles. A few days afterward some of the parents of the children
presented themselves under the convento and I had to call to my aid
all my patience and resignation. They began by reminding me of former
times when teachers had character and taught as their grandfathers
had. 'Those indeed were the times of the wise men,' they declared,
'they whipped, and straightened the bent tree. They were not boys but
old men of experience, gray-haired and severe. Don Catalino, king of
them all and founder of this very school, used to administer no less
than twenty-five blows and as a result his pupils became wise men
and priests. Ah, the old people were worth more than we ourselves,
yes, sir, more than we ourselves!' Some did not content themselves
with such indirect rudeness, but told me plainly that if I continued
my system their children would learn nothing and that they would be
obliged to take them from the school It was useless to argue with them,
for as a young man they thought me incapable of sound judgment. What
would I not have given for some gray hairs! They cited the authority
of the curate, of this one and that one, and even called attention
to themselves, saying that if it had not been for the whippings
they had received from their teachers they would never have learned
anything. Only a few persons showed any sympathy to sweeten for me
the bitterness of such a disillusioning.
"In view of all this I had to give up my system, which, after so much
toil, was just beginning to produce results. In desperation I carried
the whips bank to the school the next day and began the barbarous
practice again. Serenity disappeared and sadness reigned in the faces
of the children, who had just begun to care for me, and who were my
only kindred and friends. Although I tried to spare the whippings and
to administer them with all the moderation possible, yet the children
felt the change keenly, they became discouraged and wept bitterly. It
touched my heart, and even though in my own mind I was vexed with the
stupid parents, still I was unable to take any spite out on those
innocent victims of their parents' prejudices. Their tears burned
me, my heart seemed bursting from my breast, and that day I left
the school before closing-time to go home and weep alone. Perhaps
my sensitiveness may seem strange to you, but if you had been in my
place you would understand it. Old Don Anastasio said to me, 'So the
parents want floggings? Why not inflict them on themselves?' As a
result of it all I became sick." Ibarra was listening thoughtfully.
"Scarcely had I recovered when I returned to the school to find the
number of my pupils reduced to a fifth. The better ones had run away
upon the return to the old system, and of those who remained--mostly
those who came to school to escape work at home--not one showed any
joy, not one congratulated me on my recovery. It would have been the
same to them whether I got well or not, or they might have preferred
that I continue sick since my substitute, although he whipped them
more, rarely went to the school. My other pupils, those whose parents
had obliged them to attend school, had gone to other places. Their
parents blamed me for having spoiled them and heaped reproaches on
me for it. One, however, the son of a country woman who visited me
during my illness, had not returned on account of having been made
a sacristan, and the senior sacristan says that the sacristans must
not attend school: they would be dismissed."
"Were you resigned in looking after your new pupils?" asked Ibarra.
"What else could I do?" was the queried reply. "Nevertheless, during my
illness many things had happened, among them a change of curates, so