Padre Pedro, Recoleto Priest.--The Routine of a Friar in the
Philippines.
It might have been the dawn of the first day in Eden. I was awakened
by the music of the birds and sunlight streaming through the
convent window. Heavily the broad leaves of _abacá_ drooped with the
morning dew. Only the roofs of a few _nipa_ houses could be seen. The
_tolo_-trees, like Japanese pagodas, 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 transparent air.
All in the silence of the morning I went down to where the tropical
river glided between primeval banks and under the thick-plated
overhanging foliage. The water was as placid as a sheet of glass. A
spirit of mystery seemed brooding near. As yet the sun's rays had not
penetrated through the canopy of leaves. A lonely fisherman sat on
the bank above, lost in his dreams. Down by the ford a native woman
came to draw water in a bamboo tube. I half expected her to place a
lighted taper on a tiny float, and send it spinning down the stream,
as is the custom of the maidens 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 sanctuary, a holy of holies, pure, immaculate, and undefiled.
The padre had arisen at six. At his command the sacristans ascended
the bell-tower and proceeded to arouse the town. The padre moved
about his dark, bare room. Rare Latin books were scattered around
the floor. His richly embroidered vestments hung on a long line. The
room was cluttered with the lumber of old crucifixes, broken images of
saints, and gilded floats, considerably battered, with the candlesticks
awry. The floor and the walls were bare. There was a large box of
provisions in the corner, filled with imported sausages done up
in tinfoil, bottles of 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 scamper 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 blessing. 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 slanted through the apertures of
the unfinished wall, and fell upon the drowsy wilderness outside.
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, withered
lips. The little children, who were waiting for their classes to be
called, all followed her example, and before long, the monotonous
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 bent over knotty problems on the slates.
The padre, passing among the pupils, made the necessary erasures and
corrections, and occasionally gave unasked to some recalcitrant a
smart snap on the head. The morning session ended by the pupils lining
up in a half circle around the battered figure of a saint--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 repertoire of sacred songs. Then, as the children
departed with the "_Buenos dias, señor_," 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 grotesque old fellow
humbled 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 orphan, she and
her two brothers. I have bought one house for them near from ze church,
and, for the girl, one sewing-machine. 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 derived 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
courses was the usual thing. A phalanx of barefooted waiters stood in
line to take the plates when we had finished the respective courses,
broth, mutton stew, 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 gulp the morsels 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, cane-bottomed bed,
where he intrenched himself behind mosquito-bars.
The convent was a rambling building, with adobe 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 ponies, and a large bamboo stockade
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 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 peculiarities.
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 confession. Some days he would be called away to other
_barrios_ to hear a last confession; but the distance or the weather
never daunted 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 refreshing drink of a long afternoon. The eggs were lashed
into a froth by means of a bamboo brush twisted or rolled between the
palms. The beauty of this beverage was that you could drain the cup,
and, like the miracle of loaves and fishes, stir the batter up again,
and have another drink of the same quality. "When Padre Cipriano comes
here," said the friar, "eet ees very gay. Ah! Cipriano, he can make
the foam 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 mischievously tweak the noses of the little ones,
or pat the tiny girls upon the head. The friend of the lowly, he
had somehow incensed the upper ten. But he had shown his nerve one
Sunday morning when he had talked down one of these braggadocios 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 racing 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 road in an unpacified community. The notice was imperative,
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 spoke 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 bustled 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 forth 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 floor. The local conditions were unsettled at
this time. The garrison 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 gallop 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 veranda 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 doff 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 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 impatience 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
rimmed 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 gorilla. 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 tapers,
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 functionary kept in the big book.
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
shack, we found, surrounded by a gaping crowd, the victim foaming 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 naïvely, "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 raisins, 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 almost forgotten luxuries. How
he anticipated the delight he had in store for all the boys! Then
in the time of cholera, 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 penitents offensive. "Eet ees a work of charity," he said;
"they pay me nothing--nothing." The priest was only human when he
feigned 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. On
arriving at the trading port, he learned that his parishioners had
found him out. They sent a delegation to entreat 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
bishops, and have found them charming and delightful men. They are such
hospitable 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, subdued and pacified 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, killing about a thousand of
these buccaneers.
Of course there have been friars good and bad. But "Father Peter,"
though he might have had good cause to dislike the Americans,
had always expressed the greatest admiration 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 conscientious. While he could bathe his hands or face in the
Aloran River, he could not go in. His education was a Spartan 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 inclinations
as his own. The reputation of the friars in the Philippines has
been depreciated by the conduct of the native priests. There was
a padre named Pastor, an arrant coward, and wholly ignorant and
superstitious. 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 layman 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 wore the robe. The work
of the friars can be more appreciated by comparing the civilization
of the Christian natives with the state of the barbarians 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 lavish and improvident, is neat,
polite, and sociable. 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 accusations 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 withdrawn 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 splendor, orders a too expensive funeral, he has only
himself, and not the priest, to blame. Indeed, the friars can derive
but little benefit from a rich treasury, 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.