Chapter VI · THE ARTISTIC GROUP: THE REAL SHORT-STORY (continued 2)

"It's them as might a been men, and told me," he sobbed as he walked slowly back again to dirty, ill-lighted Front street, to don again his white apron; to pass the amber-colored foamy liquid over the bar; to sing "Nancy Lee" in Tim Dugan's Café; to sing for the rough men who would deem it a sacrilege to lift their harsh voices with Terry's sweet plaintive tones.

—Dorothea G. Knoblock.

Nora Titay and Chiquito

Nora Titay, a widow of fifty, came home from the gambling house one afternoon in bad humor. Her hair hung carelessly over her wrinkled face, which always looked as if it had been dipped in a barrel of flour. As she walked along the street, she spat and muttered, with her mouth full of buyo, "Pshe, this cursed panguingue will ruin me. I had bad luck this week. Yesterday I lost ten pesos, and now twelve. I haven't a single penny left. I wonder where Rosa and I will get the money to buy our food. I have sold her ring to pay my debts. To-morrow, there will be another game. I shall play again to see if I can recover what I have lost. But where shall I get money? Oh, I see! Chiquito is coming to-night to court Rosa. He is very rich, and is willing to give anything he has if he can only win my daughter's love. But foolish girl! She does not like him, because he is a Chinaman. She prefers to love that poor, simple student, Pedro. I will force her to marry Chiquito; then I can play panguingue at any time. I shall soon be rich."

"Rosa," said Titay as soon as she arrived at the house, "you must look well to-night, for Chiquito is coming. You must not show any sour face to him. I want you to marry him whether you like to or no. Do you understand me? Now, don't say anything or I will whip you," said Titay, seriously. "Why don't you marry him yourself, mamma? You will be a good partner for him since you love him better than I do," said Rosa laughing. "What, you foolish girl! Do you mean to joke me, your mother? I am looking out for your good," said Titay angrily, then slapped and pinched her daughter. They were still quarreling when Chiquito came.

"Buena noche, Nola Tetay y Senolita Losa," said Chiquito in his poor Spanish, when he came.

"Buenas noches, Chiquito," replied Titay with a smile. "Here is a basket of oranges and tikoy for you and Senolita Losa," said Chiquito, while he was uncovering the basket. "What a very good son-in-law, I have!" murmured Titay. "Chiquito, to-morrow afternoon you must come here ready to marry Rosa. Bring a priest with you, and get a wedding dress for her. But, by the way, lend me a sum of money, for I must buy something." Chiquito was so glad that he immediately handed to her his purse. "What kind of dress shall I bring, mother?" asked Chiquito eagerly. "You must ask Rosa about that," murmured Titay. Chiquito went to Rosa, who was looking out of the window, absorbed in thought. "Senolita Losa, what kind of dress should you like for our wedding?" asked Chiquito politely. "Baboy! (swine) what wedding do you mean? Do you think I would marry you, baboy?" said Rosa, angrily. "Your mother told me that I must come here to-morrow afternoon, and you and I should be married," said Chiquito. "You had better marry mother. She is more fit for you. Now, go away." Nora Titay was so busily counting her money and thinking how many times she could play panguingue with it that she did not hear the quarrel. "Nola Tetay, Losa is angry with me. She does not want to marry me," said Chiquito.

"Never mind, you can go home now, Chiquito, and be ready for to-morrow. I will see that she accepts the proposal," said Titay. Chiquito went home gladly, and Titay got busy compelling Rosa to marry Chiquito, till the daughter was forced to make a promise.

The next day, at the appointed hour, Chiquito came with a priest. But Rosa could not be found in the house. A letter was found instead saying that Rosa had eloped with Pedro. Chiquito, disliking to lose his money, asked for Titay's hand. They were married that very day.

—Joaquina E. Tirona.

III. The Story That Emphasizes Character and Events

Difference between character-place story and character-events story

Obviously the character-events story is different from the character-place story just in the emphasis and because of it. The personality of the chief actor of a story of events, does not necessarily spring from the scene of action. In fact, the personality very often is in strong contrast with the place. A soldier for instance by some chance may be left stranded on an oasis in the desert; the purpose of the writer in having him there may be to set forth a number of strange occurrences that bring out his character, or the author may wish to demonstrate some truth about wild animals. A woman may be on a Pullman car bringing her dying husband home with her from Denver to New York. The author will then be concerned with an analysis of the woman's mind as events come to her. A person may be standing at the prisoner's dock and may tell his life. Place will concern the author a great deal in a certain sense, but it will be not the character-making place, but the event-making place,—the battle-ground, the cricket field. If a different character met the same events in the same place, he might act otherwise. It is the conjunction of character and events that the author is revealing and the reader watching. Let us name over a few of the great stories and collections of this kind to see if the titles suggest anything: "The Necklace" by Maupassant; "The Father" by Björnson; "The Siege of Berlin" by Daudet; "The Substitute" by Coppée; "The Insurgent" by Halévy; "Mateo Falcone" by Mérimeé; "The Shot" by Pushkin; "The Greater Inclination," "Crucial Instances," "The Descent of Man, and Other Stories," by Mrs. Wharton.

Component elements of this type

We might say that the representative short-story of this type is a combination of romanticism, realism, metaphysics, and modern journalism. A concentrated extract of the work of Scott, Jane Austen, Thackeray, George Eliot and Reade. The list suggests the history of the novel since Fielding's day and the elements it acquired and transmitted to the short-story. You have probably studied how Scott, when Lord Byron out-ran him, turned from metrical to prose romance; how Scott created with the "Waverley Novels" (which of course are not novels in the usual sense) a new romance, the historical, which immediately took its place as a permanent type of literature. On the side of stirring events our present short-story often epitomises Scott. He said himself he wrote for soldiers, sailors, and young people of bold and daring dispositions. There is no limit, therefore, in choice of events. The record may be the most startling. It usually, however, is not extravagant beyond what a healthy and cheerful imagination can enjoy. Our temperance is due no doubt to the restraining influence of Jane Austen and her late followers in realism. She tried to teach her own age to laugh at itself good-naturedly and to bridle romance with common sense. "Northanger Abbey," written in 1798, was a direct satire of the terror school, which was popular before her day and Scott's. Moderns have enthroned Jane Austen as a perfect artist, and all good fiction writers have learned the lesson she taught. In general, her work belongs with the story that emphasizes manners and environment; but her most popular novel, "Pride and Prejudice," has in addition to the reflection of environment a sequence of interesting events and a spiritedness that together make it an extended prototype of the story that emphasizes both character and happenings. To Scott's boldness and Jane Austen's satiric restraint, time added George Eliot's metaphysical curiosity. Since her day we are all interested in duty, destiny, freedom of will, mind-habit. She showed us how a neighborly man becomes a miser, how a miser becomes once more a neighborly man; how a lovable but morally and physically timid man becomes a scoundrel. Most of our short stories now-a-days display an element of such analysis; many of them are wholly constituted upon an inquiry; some, beginning just in front of the crisis, give us a feeling of past complicating events, and with one flash show us the present tangle; others with a swift relentlessness pile happening upon happening until, panting for breath, we stumble upon the momentous climax. Very often, too, at the end, we are left in an atmosphere of pessimism—sometimes it is only a companionable little chill like that Thackeray used to give us, wherein, laughing and chattering, we shake hands with our brothers to keep warm; sometimes, it is like Maupassant's, a hard, dull bitterness of cold—

Wherever the pessimism comes from, almost invariably a little bit of it joins swiftness, realism, metaphysical curiosity, and one other element probably inherited from the novel; namely, a striking semblance of actuality. No matter how thrilling the events may be, they are usually convincing. Charles Reade had the trick of taking his facts from newspaper reports. Many of our present-day writers keep a scrap-book, and they very often build their most successful stories on actual events, making up the participants from what they imagine they must have been.

The characters, then, in this kind of narrative are often more or less fictitious, being a combination of traits well-known to the author—traits of different individuals of the type displayed; while in the other kind of artistic short-story, it is the slight course of events that is made up, to fit the actual character and the actual place.

A scrap-book suggestion

Whatever else you do as a writer—even as an amateur one in school—it will surely repay you to keep a scrap-book. The very old adage that facts are stranger than fiction is indisputably true. When in your newspaper reading you run across a fine course of events that is character-revealing, or ought to be, just cut out the report and paste it in your book. Think upon the case leisurely and let the personages develop; then write up the events as simply and swiftly as you can consistent with the effect you mean to produce. Hawthorne's "Ambitious Guest" originated thus.

Other suggestions

If at present you have in mind no series of happenings, suppose you ask some acquaintance what is the strangest course of actual events he ever personally knew about. When he answers you, then question him on the actors concerned, remembering that this time you are going to write not a pure plot story but one that will express the conjunction of character and events. Keep in mind also your present limitations. You do not need to tell everything that might be told about your protagonists; you do not have to follow them from the baptismal font to the marriage altar and from the marriage altar to the grave. You may not know the facts about them connected therewith; you may know only a small portion of their lives; but ten to one you will know more incidents than it is necessary to mention. What you do tell, however, must be absolutely clear. The actual events may have been but a string of episodes in real life, but when you relate them they must appear like a full, round period. Look carefully after your connectives; on them hangs largely the success of your story. It goes without saying that you must have a climax, or highest point. Every sentence that you write before it, even the first, must lead toward it; every sentence that you write after it, even the last, must lead from it. You must ruthlessly suppress any phrase that does not add strength to your chosen scene. Be sure your story has totality.

The Necklace

She was one of those pretty, charming girls who are sometimes, as if through the irony of fate, born into a family of clerks. She was without dowry or expectations, and had no means of becoming known, appreciated, loved, wedded, by any rich or influential man; so she allowed herself to be married to a small clerk belonging to the Ministry of Public Instruction. She dressed plainly because she could not afford to dress well, and was unhappy because she felt she had dropped from her proper station, which for women is a matter of attractiveness, beauty, and grace, rather than of family descent. Good manners, an intuitive knowledge of what is elegant, nimbleness of wit, are the only requirements necessary to place a woman of the people on an equality with one of the aristocracy.

She fretted constantly, feeling all things delicate and luxurious to be her birthright. She suffered on account of the meagreness of her surroundings, the bareness of the walls, the tarnished furniture, the ugly curtains; deficiencies which would have left any other woman of her class untouched, irritated and tormented her. The sight of the little Breton peasant who did her humble housework engendered hopeless regrets followed by fantastic dreams. She thought of a noiseless, hallowed anteroom, with Oriental carpets, lighted with tall branching candlesticks of bronze and of two big, knee-breeched footmen, drowsy from the stove-heated air, dozing in great armchairs. She thought of a long drawing-room hung with ancient brocade, of a beautiful cabinet holding priceless curios, of an alluring, scented boudoir intended for five o'clock chats with intimates, with men famous and courted, and whose acquaintance is longed for by all women.

When she sat down to dinner, at the round table spread with a cloth three days old, opposite her husband, who uncovered the tureen, and exclaimed with ecstasy, "Ah, I like a good stew! I know nothing to beat this!" she thought of dainty dinners, of shining plate, of tapestry which peopled the walls with human shapes, and with strange birds flying among fairy trees. And then she thought of delicious viands served in costly dishes, and of murmured gallantries which you listen to with a comfortable smile while you are eating the rose-tinted flesh of a trout or the wing of a quail.

She had no handsome gowns, no jewels—nothing, though these were her whole life; it was these that meant existence to her. She would so have liked to please, to be thought fascinating, to be envied, to be sought out. She had a friend, a former schoolmate at the convent, who was very rich, but whom she did not like to go to see any more because she would come home jealous, covetous.

But one evening her husband returned home jubilant, holding a large envelope in his hand.

"Here is something for you," he said.

She tore open the cover sharply, and drew out a printed card bearing these words: "The Minister of Public Instruction and Mme. Georges Ramponneau request the honor of M. and Mme. Loisel's company at the palace of the Ministry on Monday evening, January 18th."

Instead of being delighted as her husband expected, she threw the invitation on the table with disgust, muttering, "What do you think I can do with that?"

"But, my dear, I thought you would be pleased. You never go anywhere, and this is such a rare opportunity. I had hard work to get it. Every one is wild to go; it is very select, and invitations to clerks are scarce. The whole official world will be there."

She looked at him with a scornful eye, as she said petulantly, "And what have I to put on my back?" He had not thought of that. He stammered, "Why, the dress you wear to the theatre; it certainly looks all right to me."

He stopped in despair, seeing his wife was crying. Two big tears rolled down from the corners of her eyes to the corners of her mouth.

"What's the matter? What's the matter?" he faltered.

With great effort she controlled herself, and replied coldly, while she dried her wet cheeks:

"Nothing, except that I have no dress, and for that reason, cannot go to the ball. Give your invitation to some fellow-clerk whose wife is better provided than I am."

He was dumfounded, but replied:

"Come, Mathilde, let us see now—how much would a suitable dress cost; one you could wear at other times—something quite simple?"

She pondered several moments, calculating, and guessing too, how much she could safely ask for without an instant refusal or bringing down upon her head a volley of objections from her frugal husband.

At length she said hesitatingly, "I can't say exactly, but I think I could do with four hundred francs."

He changed color because he was laying aside just that sum to buy a gun and treat himself to a little shooting next summer on the plain of Nanterre, with several friends, who went down there on Sundays to shoot larks. Nevertheless, he said: "Very well, I will give you four hundred francs. Get a pretty dress."

The day of the ball drew nearer, and Mme. Loisel seemed despondent, nervous, upset, though her dress was all ready. One evening her husband observed: "I say, what is the matter, Mathilde? You have been very queer lately." And she replied, "It exasperates me not to have a single ornament of any kind to put on. I shall look like a fright—I would almost rather stay at home." He answered: "Why not wear flowers? They are very fashionable at this time of the year. You can get a handful of fine roses for ten francs."

But she was not to be persuaded. "No, it's so mortifying to look poverty-stricken among women who are rich."

Then her husband exclaimed: "How slow you are! Go and see your friend, Mme. Forestier, and ask her to lend you some jewels. You know her well enough to do that."

She gave an exclamation of delight: "True! I never thought of that!"

Next day she went to her friend and poured out her woes. Mme. Forestier went to a closet with a glass door, took out a large jewel box, brought it back, opened it, and said to Mme. Loisel, "Here, take your choice, my dear."

She looked at some bracelets, then at a pearl necklace, and then at a Venetian cross curiously wrought of gold and precious stones. She tried on the ornaments before the mirror, hesitated, was loath to take them off and return them. She kept inquiring, "Have you any more?"

"Certainly, look for yourself. I don't know what you want."

Suddenly Mathilde discovered, in a black satin box, a magnificent necklace of diamonds, and her heart began to beat with excitement. With trembling hands she took the necklace and fastened it round her neck outside her dress, becoming lost in admiration of herself as she looked in the glass. Tremulous with fear lest she be refused, she asked, "Will you lend me this—only this?"

"Yes, of course I will."

Mathilde fell upon her friend's neck, kissed her passionately, and rushed off with her treasure.

The day of the ball arrived.

Mme. Loisel was a great success. She was prettier than them all, lovely, gracious, smiling, and wild with delight. All the men looked at her, inquired her name, tried to be introduced; all the officials of the Ministry wanted a waltz—even the minister himself noticed her. She danced with abandon, with ecstacy, intoxicated with joy, forgetting everything in the triumph of her beauty, in the radiance of her success, in a kind of mirage of bliss made up of all this worship, this adulation, of all these stirring impulses, and of that realization of perfect surrender, so sweet to the soul of woman.

She left about four in the morning.

Since midnight her husband had been sleeping in a little deserted anteroom with three other men whose wives were enjoying themselves. He threw over her shoulders the wraps he had brought, ordinary, everyday garments, contrasting sorrily with her elegant ball dress. She felt this, and wanted to get away so as not to be seen by the other women, who were putting on costly furs.

Loisel detained her: "Wait a little; you will catch cold outside; I will go and call a cab."

But she would not listen to him, and hurried downstairs. When they reached the street they could not find a carriage, and they began to look for one, shouting to the cabmen who were passing by. They went down toward the river in desperation, shivering with cold. At last they found on the quays one of those antiquated, all-night broughams, which, in Paris, wait till after dark before venturing to display their dilapidation. It took them to their door in the Rue des Martyrs, and once more, wearily, they climbed the stairs.

Now all was over for her; as for him, he remembered that he must be at the office at ten o'clock. She threw off her cloak before the glass, that she might behold herself once more in all her magnificence. Suddenly she uttered a cry of dismay—the necklace was gone!

Her husband, already half-undressed, called out, "Anything wrong?"

She turned wildly toward him: "I have—I have—I've lost Mme. Forestier's necklace!"

He stood aghast: "Where? When? You haven't!"

They looked in the folds of her dress, in the folds of her cloak, in her pocket, everywhere. They could not find it.

"Are you sure," he said, "that you had it on when you left the ball?"

"Yes; I felt it in the corridor of the palace."

"But if you had lost it in the street, we should have heard it fall. It must be in the cab."

"No doubt. Did you take his number?"

"No. And didn't you notice it either?"

"No."

They looked at each other, terror-stricken. At last Loisel put on his clothes.

"I shall go back on foot," he said, "over the whole route we came by, to see if I can't find it."

He went out, and she sat waiting in her ball dress, too dazed to go to bed, cold, crushed, lifeless, unable to think.

Her husband came back at seven o'clock. He had found nothing. He went to Police Headquarters, to the newspaper office—where he advertised a reward. He went to the cab companies—to every place, in fact, that seemed at all hopeful.

She waited all day in the same awful state of mind at this terrible misfortune.

Loisel returned at night with a wan, white face. He had found nothing.

"Write immediately to your friend," said he, "that you have broken the clasp of her necklace, and that you have taken it to be mended. That will give us time to turn about."

She wrote as he told her.

By the end of the week they had given up all hope. Loisel, who looked five years older, said, "We must plan how we can replace the necklace."

The next day they took the black satin box to the jeweler whose name was found inside. He referred to his books.

"You did not buy that necklace of me, Madame. I can only have supplied the case."

They went from jeweler to jeweler, hunting for a necklace like the lost one, trying to remember its appearance, heartsick with shame and misery. Finally, in a shop at the Palais Royal, they found a string of diamonds which looked to them just like the other. The price was forty thousand francs, but they could have it for thirty-six thousand. They begged the jeweler to keep it three days for them, and made an agreement with him that he should buy it back for thirty-four thousand, francs if they found the lost necklace before the last of February.

Loisel had inherited eighteen thousand francs from his father. He could borrow the remainder. And he did borrow right and left, asking a thousand francs from one, five hundred of another, five louis here, three louis there. He gave notes, assumed heavy obligations, trafficked with money-lenders at usurious rates, and, putting the rest of his life in pawn, pledged his signature over and over again. Not knowing how he was to make it all good, and terrified by the penalty yet to come, by the dark destruction which hung over him, by the certainty of incalculable deprivations of body and tortures of soul, he went to get the new bauble, throwing down upon the jeweler's counter the thirty-six thousand francs.

When Mme. Loisel returned the necklace, Mme. Forestier said to her coldly: "Why did you not bring it back sooner? I might have wanted it."

She did not open the case—to the great relief of her friend.

Supposing she had! Would she have discovered the substitution, and what would she have said? Would she not have accused Mme. Loisel of theft?

Mme. Loisel now knew what it was to be in want, but she showed sudden and remarkable courage. That awful debt must be paid, and she would pay it.

They sent away their servant, and moved up into a garret under the roof. She began to find out what heavy housework and the fatiguing drudgery of the kitchen meant. She washed the dishes, scraping the greasy pots and pans with her rosy nails. She washed the dirty linen, the shirts and dish-towels, which dried upon the line. She lugged slops and refuse down to the street every morning, bringing back fresh water, stopping on every landing, panting for breath. With her basket on her arm, and dressed like a woman of the people, she haggled with the fruiterer, the grocer, and the butcher, often insulted, but getting every sou's worth that belonged to her. Each month notes had to be met, others renewed, extensions of time procured. Her husband worked in the evenings, straightening out tradesmen's accounts; he sat up late at night, copying manuscripts at five sous a page.

And this they did for ten years.

At the end of that time they had paid up everything, everything—with all the principal and the accumulated compound interest.

Mme. Loisel looked old now. She had become a domestic drudge, sinewy, rough-skinned, coarse. With towsled hair, tucked-up skirts, and red hands, she would talk loudly while mopping the floor with great splashes of water. But sometimes, when alone, she sat near the window, and she thought of that gay evening long ago, of the ball where she had been so beautiful, so much admired. Supposing she had not lost the necklace—what then? Who knows? Who knows? Life is so strange and shifting. How exceedingly easy it is to be ruined or saved!

But one Sunday, going for a walk in the Champs Élysées to refresh herself after her hard week's work, she accidentally came upon a familiar-looking woman with a child. It was Mme. Forestier, still young, still lovely, still charming.

Mme. Loisel became agitated. Should she speak to her? Of course. Now that she had paid, she would tell her all about it. Why not? She went up to her.

"How do you do, Jeanne?"

The other, astonished at the easy manner toward her assumed by a plain housewife whom she did not recognize, said:

"But, Madame, you have made a mistake; I do not know you.

"Why, I am Mathilde Loisel!"

Her friend gave a start.

"Oh, my poor Mathilde," she cried, "how you have changed!"

"Yes; I have seen hard days since last I saw you; hard enough—and all because of you."

"Of me? And why?"

"You remember the diamond necklace you loaned me to wear at the Ministry ball?"

"Yes, I do. What of it?"

"Well, I lost it!"

"But you brought it back—explain yourself."

"I bought one just like it, and it took us ten years to pay for it. It was not easy for us who had nothing, but it is all over now, and I am glad."

Mme. Forestier stared.

"And you bought a necklace of diamonds to replace mine?"

"Yes; and you never knew the difference, they were so alike." And she smiled with joyful pride at the success of it all.

Mme. Forestier, deeply moved, took both her hands.

"Oh, my poor Mathilde! My necklace was paste. It was worth only about five hundred francs!"

—Henri Rene Albert Guy de Maupassant.

"Little Masterpieces of Fiction." Volume V. (Doubleday, Page & Co.)

Andong

Andong was the only son of Isio, an ex-gobernadorcillo (president) of Tuao, Cagayan. At an early age Andong went to Manila to study; but, unfortunately, his father died and the boy could not finish his career, but returned to his native town to take care of his helpless mother. Shortly after his arrival at Tuao, his mother died, and Andong became a poor orphan. During his orphanage he lived miserably, but worked hard in order to release himself from poverty. He cultivated, year after year, his small piece of land, which he inherited from his father. After ten years he had earned a considerable sum, and bought twenty-five carabaos and one hundred hectares of land. He made a trip to Ilocos Norte, and succeeded in getting several Ilocano families to live and to work on his plantation.

One day, while he was working in his field, he received a message from the gobernadorcillo, notifying him of his nomination as a cabeza de barangay (councilor), and Andong, instead of insulting the police, as many had done, said, "Well, leave with me the letter, and I will call on the gobernadorcillo this afternoon." When Andong had finished his work in the field, he called at the gobernadorcillo's house, and talked with him about his unexpected nomination. Andong said, "I have no objection to serving my municipality, for it is the duty of every citizen to serve his town government the best he can, and I am thankful to the government for having nominated me as one of the principales; but before I accept the office, I wish to see the tax list of my district to know whether any of the people are in arrears, for I do not want to lose my property, which I have earned by hard labor, to answer for the debts of the people of my district, nor can I go to look for them in other provinces, nor—"

"Whether you are willing, or not, you are forced to accept your nomination," interrupted the gobernadorcillo, "and to-day your property is hypothecated to pay the debts of your people to the government."

"But, sir, who has hypothecated my property? Is it possible that anybody has the right to confiscate my property?"

"Surely," said the gobernadorcillo. "Some of the principales and I have been informed that you own many hectares of land, and that you are immensely rich, so the governor of our province has confirmed your nomination as cabeza de barangay."

"I accept my nomination, but I do not want to answer for the debt of the people under my command," said Andong.

"Whether you like it or not, you will be cabeza de barangay, and be compelled to pay all the debts of your people," answered the gobernadorcillo.

"Well, I will think about the matter first," replied Andong, and he went to the house of Aning, an old ex-gobernadorcillo, to consult him.

The gobernadorcillo was not surprised at Andong's nomination, for he was one of those principales who had recommended Andong to the council. Aning advised Andong to accept the office. "A cabeza de barangay is always respected and honored by the people," said the gobernadorcillo. "He receives no salary, to be sure, but he gets gifts of eggs, chickens, pigs, fruits, which when sold bring much money. Besides, when he wants to build a house for himself, some of his people bring him lumber, rattan, cogon, and other materials, while the others erect the house without any pay." "But I do not like to molest my people, and I hate to see them serve me as a master, for they are my brothers," answered Andong.

"Do you prefer then to die from hunger rather than to cheat your people as your predecessors did?" asked Aning. "Yes, I prefer death, to seeing my people oppressed," replied Andong. Disgusted at the servile conversation of the ex-gobernadorcillo, Andong left him in vegetating complacency, sitting on a bamboo chair with a fan in his hand.

Unwillingly Andong became a cabeza de barangay. During the first year of his office he gave eighty pesos to the government to pay the debts of his runaway people.

Now his wealth was decreasing, for his duties made him neglect his work in the field. The fact that he was becoming poorer each day, led him into despair. He remembered the advice of Aning; but he had no courage to abuse his poor people. He could not deceive them, for to deceive such people would be the same as stealing. But who would pay back the money lost? This was the question which worried him many times.

To forget his painful situation he took to drinking basi (Ilocano wine which is extracted from the sugar cane), and became a drunkard. He forgot entirely his old business, and in his intoxicated moments he often exclaimed: "While I live, let me enjoy the fruit of my own toil instead of paying it all over to the government."

On account of his drunkenness, he neglected to collect the taxes from his people, and the deficit doubled the following year. At first nobody wanted to lend him money to pay his debt to the government; for his property was already hypothecated; but, at last a kind and rich officer lent him the money he needed, at twenty per cent interest, and with the condition that if he could not pay his debt within the period of two-years, his property would be pledged for the second time in favor of the creditor. Andong fell into a long meditation. He remembered once more the advice of Aning, and he was revolving in his mind plans which might release him from bankruptcy. Meanwhile, he decided to go to Ittong, an ex-cabeza de barangay, to ask for advice.

Andong asked Ittong to work for his election to the office of gobernadorcillo, in order that he might be saved from his critical situation. But wise Ittong advised him not to seek such an office; for it was worse than a cabeza de barangay: "The best thing for you to do is to let the government confiscate your property, go to prison, and then when you are released from jail, you can earn again your lost property," he said.

"Your advice seems excellent to me," answered Andong, "but can't they nominate me again as cabeza de barangay when I accumulate more property?"

"Since you have not held the office during a period of ten years, they can oblige you to accept the office again," said Ittong.

Andong, after a long pause, said to Ittong: "I want to be elected gobernadorcillo so that I can save my property instead of going to jail."

"If you desire it, I can recommend you to my friends Islao, Ansong, Momong, Ipi, and Cadio, who will nominate you as the candidate of our party for the coming election," said Ittong. "I thank you for your kindness," said Andong, and bade good-bye to his future advocate, Ittong.

Andong was nominated as the candidate of Ittong's party for gobernadorcillo. Ambeng, the candidate of the opposing party, was more popular than Ittong, consequently he was more sure to succeed in the coming election. The critical day was approaching. Many of the cabezas de barangay went to pay their contributions to the municipal treasurer, in order to be allowed to vote. On the eve of the election the drum of the tribunal never stopped beating and the voters of the town kept flocking to the polling-place. On the morning of the election, all the principales in their holiday dresses awaited the governor at the tribunal. When the governor came, they took off their hats and followed him. They entered the tribunal, and sat around a long table, presided over by the governor. Before beginning the election, the governor delivered a short speech of welcome and he emphasized that they must elect that man who was rich, honest, and capable. After a long discussion, Ambeng was elected by a big majority.

Andong was disappointed and disgusted over his defeat. But while Ambeng's party was still celebrating their triumph the governor of the province received a telegram from the central government, announcing Andong's nomination as gobernadorcillo of Tuao. Ambeng was elected by the people, but Andong had been recommended to the governor-general by the curate of the town, the governor of the province, and the chief of the guardia civil; so Andong was appointed to the office he sought.

On the day of Andong's possession, the people of Tuao held a holiday in his honor. There was a land parade in which all the princapales of the town took part. After the parade, Andong went to the tribunal to take his oath before the justice of the peace. After this ceremony the chief of police read his administrative program, in which he obliged every one of his people to go to mass on Sundays and holidays, and prohibited gambling, drunkenness, and stealing.

Time flew. After three months' administration, Andong became worried over his business; for he was compelled to visit every day his superiors, and to go to mass on Sundays and holidays. However, he was a zealous ruler. He organized a militia. He succeeded in pacifying the Igorrotes, who were fighting one another, and he caught many of the bandits, who were ravaging the neighboring towns.

Everything was going all right, when, unexpectedly, Andong received an order from the court of justice to appear before the judge to answer all the complaints of the people about his abuses in the government. Andong, before going to court went to see Ittong, his old advocate. Ittong advised him not to be afraid. "Call officially your witnesses," he said, "and tell them that you will put them into prison if they declare against you." The wind was strong against Andong. Nobody could save him from his trouble. The prison was awaiting him. Andong was perplexed; he did not know what to do. While he was looking at the neighboring mountains, a wise thought came to his mind. "I will go and live in those woods with the Igorrotes, rather than to suffer the oppression of my superiors and the hatred of my own people!" he exclaimed. Meanwhile, he received an urgent despatch from a friend, announcing that the government had discharged him from his office, and had sentenced him to be put into prison. Immediately, Andong and one of his servants fled from Tuao and sought refuge in the neighboring forests, there to live like wild men, with no ambition above that of the brute, caring only for their next meal, but harboring in their hearts a deadly hatred of Spanish rule.

—Justo E. Avila.

PART II

NARRATIVES OF ACTUAL EVENTS