exhausted from his long journey, Andres again began to feel hungry. Now
what would become of him? His red cloth was gone, and he had nothing
to eat. Fortunately he saw another hut by the roadside. He went to
it, and easily gained admittance. The witch, the only person in the
cottage, had just finished her dinner. She had nothing left to give
the starving boy. Andres then said to his stones, "Go to your former
mistress, the old woman, and tell her that I take back my red cloth. If
she refuses to give it to you, do what you think it best to do."
The two stones went back to the hut. There they found the old woman
eating. "We have come here," they said, "to take the red cloth away
from you. Our master, the boy who was here this afternoon, wants
it back again." The old woman refused to give up the cloth, so the
stones struck her with heavy blows until she fell down senseless on
the floor. Then the stones rolled themselves in the red cloth and
hastened back to their master with it. Andres spread it out and ate
his dinner. He asked for an extraordinary breakfast besides. Then he
said to the witch, "You need not prepare anything for your breakfast
to-morrow. Here is a good meal that I have asked my red cloth to give
to you, you have been so kind in letting me come to your hut." The
witch was very glad, and thanked the boy. She said to him, "Boy, I
have here two magic canes which I want to dispose of. I am very old
now, and don't need them any more. They have served me well. These
canes can kill your enemies, or any bad persons whom you want to be
put to death. Just give them directions, and they will obey you."
Andres now had three enchanted possessions. It was very late when he
reached home, and his mother was very hungry and very angry. He had
no more than reached the foot of the stairs when she met him with
a loud scolding. But Andres just laughed. He asked his red cloth to
bring his mother a good dinner; and while she was eating, he related
to her the occurrences of the day.
Andres and his mother were not rich, and their wealthy neighbors were
greatly surprised to see them become rich so soon. One particularly
selfish neighbor, already rich, who was eager to deprive Andres and
his mother of their wealth, sent a band of robbers to the cottage one
night. At midnight Andres heard his dogs barking, and he knew that
there was some one lurking about. When he saw the robbers coming,
he took out his magic stones and canes, and commanded them to get
rid of the thieves. In a few minutes all the robbers lay dead.
Andres and his mother remained rich.
Notes.
Through its main incidents and situations, this story is connected with
a number of tales, although, as in the case of the preceding narrative,
I can point to no complete analogue for it. The introduction has some
points of close resemblance to the introduction of the "Language of
Animals" cycle, where the hero saves the life of a snake, usually
from fire, and is consequently rewarded by the king of snakes with
the gift of understanding the tongues of birds and beasts. This cycle
has been fully discussed by Benfey (Orient und Occident, 2 : 133-171,
"Ein Märchen von der Thiersprache, Quelle und Verbreitung"). Additional
bibliographical details may be found in Bolte-Polívka, 1 : 132-133,
note 1. The invitation of the rescued snake to its savior to visit
the king of snakes, and its advice that he ask for one particular
magic reward only, are found in many versions of the "Language of
Animals" group, as well as in our story; but this is as far as the
similarity between the two extends. From this point on, our story
deviates altogether, except for the vaguest reminiscences.
Again, in the fact that Andres does not save the snake from an
accidental death, but buys its life from a cruel person about to
kill it, our story appears to be connected with the "Magic Ring"
cycle. We have already discussed two variants of this cycle in
No. 10; but, as has been pointed out in the notes to those stories,
the most characteristic beginning is lacking there. In most of the
members of the "Magic Ring" group, the kind-hearted hero spends all
his money to ransom from death certain animals, including a snake
which invites him to the home of its father, and then tells him
what to ask for. But in our present story, only the snake is saved;
the recompense is a magic wishing-cloth that can do only one thing,
not a stone or ring that fulfils any command; and as in the case
above of the "Language of Animals" cycle, so here, from this point
on, our story is entirely different from the "Magic Ring" group, and
attaches itself to still another family of tales. This, for want of
a better title, may be called the "Knapsack, Hat, and Horn" cycle. I
use this name merely because the most familiar member of that family
(Grimm, No. 54) bears it.
In Grimm, No. 54, the youngest of three poverty-stricken brothers
who set out to seek their fortunes finds a little table-cloth, which,
when spread out and told to cover itself, instantly becomes covered
with choice food. Not yet satisfied with his luck, he takes the cloth
and continues his wandering. One night he meets a charcoal-burner who
is about to make his meal off potatoes. The youth invites the man to
eat with him. The charcoal-burner, thinking the cloth just what he
needs in his solitude, offers to trade for it an old knapsack, from
which, whenever it is tapped, out jump a corporal and six soldiers to
do whatever they are ordered to do. The exchange is made. The youth
travels on, taps the knapsack, and orders the soldiers to bring him the
wishing-cloth that the charcoal-burner has. In this same way the youth
acquires from two other charcoal-burners successively a magic hat which
shoots off artillery and destroys the owner's enemies, and a magic horn
a blast from which throws down walls, fortifications, and houses. By
means of these articles the hero finally wins the king's daughter to
wife, and becomes ruler. Further adventures follow when the wife tries,
but without ultimate success, to steal his treasures from him.
The magic articles are not at all constant in this cycle, as may be
seen from an examination of Bolte-Polívka's variants (1 : 467-470),
but most of the lists include the wishing-cloth and articles in the
nature of weapons or soldiers for offensive purposes. A comparison of
our story with this formula discloses an undoubted relationship between
the two. The hero trades his wishing-cloth for two fighting stones,
which he later sends back to fetch the cloth. He then acquires two
magic canes (but not by trickery this time). Later, when he becomes
an object of envy, and an attempt is made by a rich neighbor to steal
his wealth (corresponding to the envy of the king), the magic stones
and canes kill all his opponents. Compare the Tagalog variant in the
notes to the following tale (No. 27).
The extraordinary articles are found as machinery in other Philippine
stories, though not in the above sequence: a "table, spread yourself"
and a magic cane occur in No. 27; a magic guitar, in No. 28; a
magic buyo, cane, purse, and guitar, in No. 35. Compare also the
magic articles in the various forms of No. 12. I know of no other
occurrence in folk-tales of two fighting stones. This detail sounds
very primitive. It might be compared with the magic "healing stones"
in No. 12 (b), "Three Brothers of Fortune," though the two objects
are wholly dissimilar in power.
As a whole, while our story is reminiscent of at least three different
cycles of tales, it nevertheless does not sound like a modern bit of
patchwork, but appears to be old; how old, I am unable to say. The most
unreasonable part of our narrative is the fact that the hero should
find himself so many miles from home when going to buy five cents'
worth of rice. It must be supposed that the trip to the snake-cave
occupied much more time than it appears in the story to have taken.
TALE 27
THE INDOLENT HUSBAND.
Narrated by Gregorio Frondoso, a Bicol from Tigaon, Camarines, who
heard the story when he was a small boy. One of the servants told it
to him.
Many hundreds of years ago there lived in the isolated village of
Hignaroy a poor couple who had many children to care for. Barbara,
the wife, was an industrious but shrewish woman. She worked all
day in a factory to support her many children. The husband, Alejo,
on the other hand, idled away his time. He either ate, or drank,
or slept all the time his wife was away at work. In the course of
time Barbara naturally became disgusted with her husband's indolence;
and every time she came home, she would rail at him and assail him
with hot, insolent words, taxing him with not doing anything, and
with caring nothing about what was going on in the house: for, on her
return home in the evening, she would always find him asleep; while
the floor would always be strewn with chairs, benches, and pictures,
which the children had left in a disorderly way after playing.
Alejo seemed to take no heed of what she said; he became more sluggish,
and had no mind for anything but sleeping all day. What was worse,
was that he would eat such big meals, that he left but little food for
his wife and children. Barbara's anger and impatience grew so strong,
that she no longer used words as a means to reform her husband. She
would kick him as he lay lazily on his bed, and would even whip him
like a child. Finally the thought of leaving home came into his head;
he determined to travel to some distant land, partly with the purpose
of getting away from his wife, who was always interfering with his
ease, and partly with the purpose of seeking his fortune.
One day he set out on a long journey, wandering through woods, over
hills, and along the banks of rivers, where no human creature could
be seen. After roaming about a long time, he became tired, and lay
down to rest in the shade of a tree near the bank of a river. While
he was listening to the melodious sounds of the birds and the sweet
murmur of the water, and was meditating on his wretched condition,
an old humpback came upon him, and addressed him in this manner:
"What is the matter, my friend? Why do you look so sad?"
"I am in great trouble," said Alejo. "I will tell you all about it. I
am married, and have many children to support; but I am poor. I have
been idling away my time, and my wife has been kicking and whipping
me like a child for not doing anything all day. So I have finally
left home to seek my fortune."
"Don't be worried, my son!" said the old man. "Here, take this
purse! It has nothing in it; but, if you need money at any time,
just say these words,--'Sopot, ua-ua sopot!' [81]--and it will give
you money."
Alejo was very glad to have found his fortune so quickly. He took
the purse from the old man, and, after thanking him for it, started
for his home with lively spirits. Soon he reached the village. Before
going home, however, he went to the house of his compadre and comadre,
[82] and related to them what he had found. They entertained him well;
they drank and sang. While they all were feeling in good spirits,
Alejo took out his magic purse to test it before his friends.
"Friends," said Alejo, now somewhat drunk, "watch my purse!" at the
same time pronouncing the words "Sopot, ua-ua sopot!" Then showers of
silver coins dropped on the floor. When the couple saw this wonder,
they thought at once that their friend was a magician. They coveted the
purse. So they amused Alejo, gave him glass after glass of wine,--for
he was a great drinker,--until finally he was dead-drunk. At last
he was overcome by drowsiness, and the couple promptly provided him
with a bed. Just as he fell asleep, the wife stealthily untied the
purse from Alejo's waist, and put in its place one of their own.
After a good nap of an hour or two, Alejo awoke. He thanked his friends
for their kind reception and entertainment, and, after bidding them
good-by, went to his own home. There he found his wife busy sewing
by the fireside. He surprised her with his affectionate greeting. "My
dear, lovely wife, be cheerful! Here I have found something useful,--a
magic purse which will furnish us with money."
"O you rogue!" she replied, "don't bother me with your foolishness! How
could you ever get anything useful? You are lying to me."
"Believe me, my dear, I am telling the truth."
"All right; prove it to me at once."
"Call all out children, so that they may also see what I have
found." When all the children were called together, Alejo asked
the purse for money, just as the old man had showed him how to ask;
but no shower of coins dropped to the floor, for, as you know, it
was not the magic purse. Barbara was so enraged, that she stormed
at him with all the bitter words that can be imagined, and drove
him from the house. Alejo was a tender-hearted, if lazy, husband,
and it never occurred to him to beat his wife in turn. In fact,
he loved her and his children very much.
He wandered away again in the direction of the place where he had
met the old humpback. Here he found the old man, who said to him,
"Where are you going, Alejo?"
"Guiloy, your purse did not prove to be any good."
"Well, take this goat home with you. It will give you money if you ask
for it. Whenever you want any money, just say these words: 'Canding,
pag coroquinanding!'" [83]
Alejo gladly accepted the goat, and set out for home again. Again he
passed by his friends' house. There he stopped, and they entertained
him as before: they drank, danced, and sang. Alejo told them about
the virtues of his magic goat when he was feeling in a jovial mood;
and when he fell asleep, they exchanged his beast for one of their
own. After his nap, Alejo started home, his goat flung over his
shoulder; but again, when he tried to demonstrate to his wife the
magic powers of the goat, the animal did nothing, but stood looking
as foolish as before Alejo spoke the words the old man had taught
him. Barbara was more angry than ever, and, after railing at her
husband, would have nothing more to do with him.
Alejo immediately left home to find the old man again. In a short
time he met him. "How now, Alejo? What's the matter?"
"Your magic goat would not obey my command," said Alejo. "Try this
table, then," said the old man. "It will provide you with all kinds
of delicious food and drink. Just say, 'Tende la mesa!' [84] and all
kinds of foods will be served you."
Thanking the old man and bidding him good-by, Alejo shouldered the
magic table and left. He was invited into his friends' house as
before, and was entertained by the deceitful couple. Alejo imparted
to them the secret of his table. "Tende la mesa!" he said, and in
the wink of an eye every kind of food you could wish for appeared
on the table. They ate, and drank wine. Again Alejo drank so much,
that soon he was asleep, and again the false couple played a trick
on him: they exchanged his magic table for a common one of their
own. When Alejo woke up, he hastened to his own home, carrying the
table on his shoulder. He called his wife, and assured her that the
table would provide them with every variety of food. Now, this was
indeed good news to Barbara, so she called all their children about
them. When every one was seated about the table, Alejo exclaimed,
"Tende la mesa!"... You cannot imagine what blows, what pinches,
what whips, Alejo received from his wife's hands when not even a
single grain of rice appeared on the table!
Alejo now felt greatly ashamed before his wife. He wondered why it
was that when before his friends' eyes the purse, the goat, and the
table displayed their magic properties, they failed to display them
before his wife. However, he did not give up hope. He immediately
set out to seek the old man again. After a long wandering through
the same woods and hills and along river-banks, he came to the place
where he usually met him.
"Did the table prove good?" said the old man.
"No, Guiloy; so I have come here again."
"Well, Alejo," said the old man, "I pity you, indeed. Take this cane
as my last gift. Be very careful in using it, for I have no other
object to give you. The secret of this cane is this: if somebody has
done you wrong, say to the cane, 'Baston, pamordon!' [85] and then
it will lash that person. There are no princes, kings, or emperors
that it will not punish."
Taking the cane and thanking the old man, Alejo hastily returned
home. This time, when he reached the village, he did not pass by his
friends' house, but went directly home. He told his wife to go call
in all their friends, relatives, and neighbors, for they were going
to have a sort of banquet. At first Barbara was unwilling to do so,
because she remembered how she had been deceived before; but at last
Alejo persuaded her to do as he wished.
When all their friends, relatives, and neighbors were gathered in his
house, Alejo shut all the doors and even the windows. Then he shouted
to his magic cane, "Baston, pamordon!" and it at once began to lash
all the people in the house, throwing them into great confusion. At
last Alejo's two friends, the deceitful couple, exclaimed almost in
one voice, "Compadre, please stop, and we will give you back your
magic purse, goat, and table." When Alejo heard them say this, he
was filled with joy, and commanded the cane to cease.
That very day the magic purse, goat, and table were returned to him by
his compadre and comadre, and now Barbara realized that her husband's
wanderings had been profitable. The husband and wife became rich,
and they lived many happy years together.
Notes.
A Tagalog story resembling the Bicol tale in some respects is "The
Adventures of Juan" (JAFL 20 : 106-107), in which
A magic tree furnishes the lad who spares it a goat that shakes silver
money from its whiskers, a net which will catch fish even on dry
ground, a magic pot always full of rice, and spoons full of whatever
vegetables the owner wishes, and finally a stick that will beat and
kill. The first three articles a false friend steals from Juan by
making him drunk. With the help of his magic cane, however, he gets
them back, and becomes rich and respected. One night a hundred robbers
come to break into the house, to take all his goods and kill him;
but he says to the stick, "Boombye, boom-ha!" and with the swiftness
of lightning the stick flies around, and all those struck fall dead,
until there is not one left. Juan is never troubled again by robbers,
and in the end marries a princess and lives happily ever after.
The last part of this story I have given in full, because it is almost
identical with the episode at the end of the preceding tale (No. 26,
q.v.), and consequently connects that story with our present cycle. In
a "Carancal" variant (III, e) the hero finds a magic money-producing
goat.
The hero of our tale is a lazy, good-natured man, whose industrious
wife's reproaches finally drive him from home. Analogous to this
beginning, but not furnishing a complete parallel, is Caballero's
"Tio Curro el de la porra" (Ingram, 174-180).
Uncle Curro is pleasure-loving and improvident, and soon finds
himself and his family in the direst need. Unable finally to bear the
reproaches of his wife, he goes out in the field to hang himself, when
a little fairy dressed like a friar appears, and blames him for his
Judas-like thought. The fairy then gives him an inexhaustible purse,
but this is stolen from him by a rascally public-house keeper. Again
he goes to hang himself; but the fairy restrains him, and gives him
a cloak that will furnish him with all kinds of cooked food. This
is likewise stolen. The third time he is given a cudgel. While on
his way home, he is met by his wife and children, who begin to insult
him. "Cudgel, beat them!" Magistrates and officers are summoned. These
are put to rout; and finally Uncle Curro and his stick make such
havoc among all sent to restrain him, that the king promises him a
large estate in America.
This version differs from the usual form, in that the inn-keeper is
not punished, nor are the first two magic objects recovered.
The "Ass-Table-Stick" cycle, of which the "Indolent Husband" is clearly
a member, is one of the most widespread Märchen in the world. For
a full bibliography of this group, see Bolte-Polívka, 1 : 346-361
(on Grimm, No. 36). The usual formula for this cycle is as follows:--
A young servant (or a poor man) is presented by his master (or by
some powerful personage--in some of the versions, God himself) on two
different occasions with a magic object, usually a gold-giving animal,
and a table or cloth which miraculously supplies food. When in an inn,
he is robbed of the magic object and magic animal by the inn-keeper
or his wife, and worthless objects resembling those that are stolen
are substituted while the hero sleeps (or is drunk). The third magic
article, which he gets possession of in the same way as he acquired
the other two, is a magic cudgel or cane, through the aid of which
he recovers his stolen property.
This is the form of the story as it is found in Basile (1 : i),
Gonzenbach (No. 52), Cosquin (Nos. IV and LVI), Schott (No. 20),
Schneller (No. 15), Jacobs (English Fairy Tales, "The Ass, the
Table, and the Stick"), Dasent (No. XXXIV, "The Lad Who Went to the
North Wind" = Asbjörnsen og Moe, 1868, No. 7), Crane (No. XXXII,
"The Ass that Lays Money"); and it is this formula that our story
follows. Grimm, No. 36, however, differs from these stories in two
respects: (1) it has a framework-story of the deceitful goat on
whose account the father drives from home his three sons; (2) the
story proper concerns three brothers, one of whom acquires the little
wishing-table, another the gold-ass, and the third the cudgel. However,
as in the other tales, the possessor of the stick compels the thieving
inn-keeper to return the property stolen from his brothers.
In their details we notice a large number of variations, even among
the European forms. The personage from whom the poor man receives the
magic objects is sometimes God, Fortune, a fairy, a statue, a magician,
a dwarf, a priest, a lord, a lady, etc. (Cosquin, 1 : 52). The old
humpback in our story may be some saint in disguise, though the
narrator does not say so. The gold-producing animal is not always an
ass, either: it may be a ram (as in the Norse and Czech versions),
a sheep (Magyar, Polish, Lithuanian), a horse (Venetian), a mule
(Breton), a he-goat (Lithuanian, Norwegian), a she-goat (Austrian),
a cock (Oldenburg), or a hen (Tyrolese, Irish). For references see
Macculloch, 215.
The Indian members of this cycle are Lal Behari Day, No. 3, "The
Indigent Brahman;" Minajev, "Indiislda Skaski y Legendy" (1877),
No. 12; Stokes, No. 7, "The Foolish Sakhouni;" Frere, No. 12, "The
Jackal, the Barber, and the Brahmin who had Seven Daughters." Of these
versions, Day's most closely resembles the European form (Cosquin,
1 : 57).
Numerous as are the Indian and other Oriental variants, it seems to
me very likely that out story was not derived directly from them, but
from Europe. However, I shall not undertake to name the parent version.
TALE 28
CECILIO, THE SERVANT OF EMILIO.
Narrated by Sancho B. de Leon, a Tagalog from Santa Cruz, Laguna. He
heard the story from his grandfather.
Once upon a time there lived a witty orphan whose name was
Cecilio. His parents had died when he was six years old. After that
time he became a servant of Emilio, a man of wealth living in a very
lonely and desolate barrio. The boy was faithful and kind-hearted,
but his master was cruel. Cecilio had no wages at all. In short,
he served Emilio for four years, and at the end of that time he was
given five hundred centavos as a payment for his services. Cecilio
thought that he had been given too much: he was so simple-minded,
that he did not know he had been cheated by his master, who should
have given him ten times five hundred centavos.
Cecilio put his money in a new purse, and rushed out into the main road
of the barrio to find his companions and tell them of the reward he had
received. He was so very happy, that before he knew it, and without
feeling at all tired, he had reached another barrio. Suddenly on his
way he met two men with drawn bolos. They stopped him, and said, "Boy,
your money, or your life!" Cecilio was much amazed at these words,
but was also so frightened that he gave up the money at once. He
only said to himself, "Well, since I am not strong enough to defend
myself, I either have to surrender my money or die." He sat under
a tree lamenting his fortune. But the two robbers were in trouble,
because one of them wanted a greater share than the other. The second
robber said that their shares should be the same, for they had stolen
the money together; but the former answered, "I am in all respects
better than you are."--"Oh, no! for we have not yet had a trial,"
said the second. At this they began to fight; and soon both fell so
severely wounded, that they died before Cecilio, who had heard the
noise of the struggle, could reach the place where they were disputing.
Now the boy was very happy again, for he had gotten his money back. As
he had already travelled very far, he did not know where he was:
he was lost. But he proceeded along the road until he met another
man, who said roughly to him, "Give me your money, or else you will
die!" Cecilio, thinking that he would rather live than try to defend
his wealth, which he would lose in any case, gave his purse to the
man. Then the boy went away and wept. While he was crying over his bad
luck, a very old woman came near him, and said, "Why are you weeping,
my boy?"
The boy replied, "I am weeping because somebody took my money."
"Well, why did you give it up?" said the old woman.
"I gave it up because he said that he would kill me if I didn't."
Then the old woman said, "Take this cane with you, and whenever you
see him, let it loose and pronounce these words:--
"'Sigue garrote, sigue garrote, [86]
Strike that fellow over there!'
"When you want the cane to stop, all you need to say is--
"'Stop, stop,
For that is enough!'"
The boy then said, "Is that all?"
"After you have recovered your money," said the old woman, "you must
turn back here; but you had better hurry up now."
Cecilio then bade the old woman good-by, and at once ran away to
overtake the man who had robbed him. When he saw the man, he said,
"Give me back my money, or else you now shall die, and not I!"
The man laughed at him, and said, "Of course I shall not give you
back your money."
When he heard these words, the boy said, "Is that so?" and, letting go
of his cane, he uttered the formula that the old woman had told him
to pronounce. The cane at once began to rain blows on the stranger's
head and body. When he could no longer endure the blows, and saw
that he could not catch the stick, the man said, "If you will call
off your cane, I will return your purse."
"Very well, I will pardon you," said Cecilio; "but if you had treated
me as you should have treated me and others, you would not have been
harmed." Then he said to the cane,--
"Stop, stop,
For that is enough!"
At once the magic stick stopped, and returned to its owner. The money
was given back, and the man promised Cecilio that he would not rob
any poor boy again.
On his way back toward the old woman, Cecilio met another man who
wanted to rob him; but the boy said, "Don't you dare attempt to take my
purse, or you will get yourself into trouble!" The man became angry,
and rushed at Cecilio to knock him down; but the boy pronounced the
words which the old woman had taught him, and let the cane loose. The
cane at once began to rain blows on the man's head and body. When he
could no longer endure the pain, the man asked Cecilio's pardon. As
the youth was kind-hearted, he forgave the man.
When he reached the old woman's house, Cecilio told her that the
cane had been very useful to him, for it had saved both his life and
his money. Then he returned the stick to the old woman, and thanked
her very much. She now offered to sell him a guitar which she had,
the price of which was five hundred centavos. Since she had been so
good to him, Cecilio at once agreed to the exchange; and after he
had once more bade her good-by, he set out for his master's house.
When he came near his old home, Cecilio saw his master Emilio shooting
at a very handsome bird on the top of a bamboo-tree. The bird fell
down, and the man ran to pick it up. As Emilio was making his way up
to the bird through the thorny bamboo undergrowth, Cecilio sat down
to wait for him, and, having nothing else to do, began to play his
guitar. The master at once began to dance among the bamboo-trees,
and he received many wounds because of the sharp spines. Now, in
reality, the boy was playing his guitar unintentionally, and did
not know of its magic power; but Emilio thought that Cecilio had
discovered the deceit that had been practised on him, and was playing
for revenge. Now, it happened that Emilio had a purse of money with
him to give to the laborers working in his hacienda, so he promised
to give all this money to Cecilio if he would only stop playing. The
boy, who had by this time learned of the magic power of his guitar,
stopped his music and received the money.
The crafty Emilio, however, at once hastened to the town, and asked
the magistrate to apprehend Cecilio, a young robber. Cecilio set out
for the old woman's house again; but the policemen soon overtook him,
arrested him, and took him before the magistrate. There the boy was
sentenced to death the next morning. Emilio's money was given back
to him. The following day, when he was about to be shot, Cecilio
asked permission to play his guitar once more, and he was not refused
it. As soon as he began to play, all began to dance, even his master,
who was still sore from the previous day's exercise. Finally Emilio
could endure no more. He begged Cecilio to stop playing, and promised
to give him all his wealth. He then told the soldiers to set the
boy free, for it was all his own fault. Cecilio stopped playing, and
was liberated by the magistrate. Emilio kept his word, and bestowed
on the boy all his wealth. When the old man died, Cecilio was the
richest man in the town. He became a capitan, [87] and was greatly
honored by the inhabitants of his barrio.
Notes.
A Tagalog variant of this story by the same narrator may be given
here in abstract. While this briefer form seems to bear evidence of
some contamination with the tale of "Cecilio," each, nevertheless,
preserves characteristics lacking in the other; and again, while the
two seem to be more or less distinct versions, there can be no doubt
that they go back to the same original. The title of the variant is
"The Fortunes of Andoy, an Orphan." In abstract it runs thus:--
Once a poor orphan named Andoy, while taking a walk, found a purse. On
his way home he met a man who, without a word, took the purse from
him. The boy beginning to cry, the man had pity on him, and returned
the purse, keeping only a few coins for himself. Andoy next met two
hunters, who robbed him; but these men had not gone far when two
genuine robbers met them, and a fight ensued in which all four were
killed. When Andoy heard the noise of the struggle, he ran to see what
was happening. He found hunters and robbers dead; so he recovered his
purse and went on. Not long afterward he met a hermit, who sold him a
magic cane. The next man he encountered was looking for a purse he had
lost in the road, and, when he saw Andoy's, took it without a word;
but the money did not really belong to this man. The boy immediately
turned his cane loose on his assailant, who, after being badly beaten,
confessed that the purse was not his, and promised Andoy half his
wealth if he would call off his stick. The rich man kept his word;
and when he died, Andoy received his entire fortune.
Another variant, which was collected by Mr. R. L. Rusk of Indiana
University, and which I have only in abstract, is called "Peter the
Violinist." It runs thus:--
Peter, a lazy ne'er-do-well, ran away from home, leaving his parents
to die of grief. For being kind to a sick "old woman" he was given a
magic violin. Soon after, he was arrested for climbing into a house
at night. When he was about to be hanged for a thief, he was granted
a last request. He asked to be allowed to play his favorite piece
on his violin. As soon as he began, every one commenced to dance. He
continued, and all cried out for him to stop; but he would not cease
until they pardoned him and promised to make him king besides.
The history of the cycle of tales to which our story and the two
variants belong has been traced briefly in Bolte-Polívka, 2 :
491-503. The earliest forms of the Märchen are the Middle-English
poems of the fifteenth century entitled "Jack and his Step-Dame" and
"The Frere and the Boye."
Here the hero is Jack, who is hated by his step-mother. Since his
father is not willing to turn him out of the house altogether, the
step-mother manages to bring it about that Jack is set to watch
the cattle, and she allows him only rotten food. An old man with
whom he shares his victuals grants him three wishes in return for
his kindness. He asks for a bow and a fife; and the old man gives
him a bow that never misses its aim, and a fife that compels every
one to dance. He also grants Jack's third wish, that every time his
step-mother hurls a bad word at him or about him, she shall give forth
another noise not permitted in polite society. When this happens that
evening at home to the amusement of all, the step-mother plans to send
the monk Tobias into the field the next day to punish Jack. However,
Jack asks the monk to fetch from the brambles a bird which he has shot,
and then he begins to play dance-music for the monk. All scratched
and bloody, Tobias returns home. That night the father calls his
son to account; but he is so pleased at the effects of the magic
fife, that he decides not to punish the boy. The official, too,
the bishop's agent, at whose court the next Friday step-mother and
monk bring charges of witchcraft against Jack, has to hear the fife,
and is obliged to dance until he promises to let Jack go unpunished.
The English story seems to have passed over into Holland, where in
1528 a Dutch form appeared, with some additions. A most significant
modification appears in a German handling of the Dutch form, by
Dieterich Albrecht in 1599:--
Here the hero is not a cowherd plagued by his malicious step-mother,
but a simple-minded servant who serves an avaricious master for three
years and receives as pay three pfennigs for the whole time. Pleased
with his earnings, however, he goes away singing. When he meets two
beggars who ask him for alms, he gives them his three coins. They
grant him three wishes in return for his goodness; and he gets a
"never-miss" crossbow, a magic fiddle that makes all dance, and the
promise that no one shall ever be able to deny him a request. By a lake
he meets a monk, who jeers at his shooting-ability, and undertakes,
if the youth can bring down a raven there on the island, to swim over
naked and fetch the bird. Soon, however, the monk regrets his bargain,
for the crossbow does not miss. While the monk stands naked in the
bushes on the island, the boy begins to fiddle. Wailing and moaning,
the ecclesiastic promises the youth the hundred ducats that he has
stolen from the monastery, and he is now permitted to return and get
his clothes. But he treacherously follows the youth, lodges a complaint
against him with the council of the nearest city, and succeeds in
getting him condemned. When the youth is already on the gallows ladder,
he requests the judge to allow him to play just one more song; and
he makes all those present dance so violently, that the judge agrees
to pardon him if he will only cease playing. Then the monk confesses
his own theft and deceit, and receives his deserved punishment.
In this version, as Bolte and Polívka note (2 : 493), the chief
deviations from the English-Dutch form of the story are the omission
of the step-mother rôle, the nature of the third wish, and the
modification of the character of the monk, who, from a mere tool
of the step-mother, has here developed into a thieving rascal. A
Czech redaction (1604) of the German poem substitutes for the runaway
monk a Jew. This substitution is also found in the German prose tale
"Von Knecht Treurecht" (about 1690).
Of the modern oral folk-versions of the story, some are based on the
Middle-English droll; but by far the larger number omit the hostile
step-mother, and retain only the dance of the monk or the Jew and the
scene at the gallows. For a complete list of stories of this second
type, see Bolte-Polívka, 2 : 495-501. All the variants, both literary
and popular, cited in this bibliography, are Occidental; and we must
inevitably conclude that the story was imported into the Philippines
some time during the Spanish occupation of the Islands. Some rather
important differences are presented by our versions, however; and these
we shall call attention to briefly, first mentioning the details that
definitely connect our forms with the European.
The opening of the story of "Cecilio" is like that of Albrecht's,
given above. Our hero works four years for a cruel master, and
receives five hundred centavos as pay,--a sum with which he is more
than satisfied. At this point our story digresses. After two adventures
with robbers, in the first of which he recovers his money by a lucky
accident (this incident is considerably elaborated in the variant),
he meets an old woman who lends him a magic cane, and with its help
he is able to regain his money from a second robber. This feature
of the magic beating-stick seems to be borrowed from the preceding
story. He now returns the cane to the old woman, and she sells him
a magic guitar. The next adventure--with his former master, who is
substituted for the knavish monk--contains a distorted reminiscence of
the shooting of the bird, and ends with the dance among the thorns
(here bamboo-spines). The hero is bought off by his master, who
immediately rushes to town and accuses him of theft. The rest is
practically as in Albrecht.
While our version introduces two magic articles, it can be
seen that the first does not properly belong to the story. The
"three-wishes" incident, and accordingly the third wish itself, is
lacking altogether. A rather artistic attempt to unify the story as
a whole is the substitution of the rascally master introduced in the
beginning of the story, for the knavish monk or Jew later on; though
it is to be noticed that the narrator falls to motivate the hero's
return to the house that he had apparently left for good when he was
paid off. The episode of the shooting is obscure, and appears to be
only a vague echo of the detail definitely connected with one of the
three gifts in some of the European literary forms. Again, in "Cecilio"
the musical instrument is a guitar instead of the usual violin or fife;
while in the variant "Andoy" the magic cane is the only enchanted
object, no musical instrument appearing at all. The episode of the two
robbers killing each other over the treasure (paralleled in "Andoy,"
where two robbers fight with two hunters, and all four are killed)
is an interesting addition, the source of which I am unable to point
out. It may be derived from some moral tale related in kind to the
"Vedabbha-jataka," No. 48; "Cento Novelle Antiche," No. 82; Morlini,
No. 42; Chaucer's "Pardoner's Tale," etc.; although the characteristic
treachery emphasized in those stories is lacking here. The incident
is not found in other versions of our tale that I know of.
I am unable to name the immediate source of our story of "Cecilio"
and of the two variants; though, as has been remarked above, it was
pretty certainly European. None of the three seems to owe anything in
particular to the Spanish ballad printed in the "Romancero General,"
No. 1265, which Bolte and Polívka think is based directly on Grimm,
No. 110. The local modifications in our story, and the definite
native atmosphere maintained throughout, suggest that it is not a
recent importation.
An interesting animal version from South Africa, containing the magic
bow and magic fiddle, is given by Honeÿ (p. 14), "The Monkey's Fiddle."
This story was doubtless taken over by the natives from the Dutch.
TALE 29
CHONGUITA.
Narrated by Pilar Ejercito, a Tagalog from Pagsanjan, Laguna. She
heard the story from her aunt, who had heard it when she was still
a little girl.
There was a king who had three sons, named Pedro, Diego, and Juan. One
day the king ordered these three gentlemen to set out from the kingdom
and seek their fortunes. The three brothers took different directions,
but before they separated they agreed to meet in a certain place in
the forest.
After walking for many days, Don Juan met an old man on the road. This
old man gave Don Juan bread, and told him to go to a palace which
was a mile away. "But as you enter the gate," said the old man,
"you must divide the bread which I have given you among the monkeys
which are guarding the gate to the palace; otherwise you will not be
able to enter."
Don Juan took the bread; and when he reached the palace, he did as
the old man had advised him. After entering the gate, he saw a big
monkey. Frightened at the sight of the animal, Don Juan was about
to tun away, when the animal called to him, and said, "Don Juan,
I know that your purpose in coming here was to find your fortune;
and at this very moment my daughter Chonguita will marry you." The
archbishop of the monkeys was called, and Don Juan and Chonguita were
married without delay.
A few days afterwards Don Juan asked permission from his wife to
go to the place where he and his brothers had agreed to meet. When
Chonguita's mother heard that Don Juan was going away, she said to him,
"If you are going away, take Chonguita with you." Although Don Juan was
ashamed to go with Chonguita because she was a monkey, he was forced to
take her, and they set out together. When Don Juan met his two brothers
and their beautiful wives at the appointed place, he could not say a
word. Don Diego, noticing the gloomy appearance of his brother, said,
"What is the matter with you? Where is your wife, Don Juan?"
Don Juan sadly replied, "Here she is."
"Where?" asked Don Pedro.
"Behind me," replied Don Juan.
When Don Pedro and Don Diego saw the monkey, they were very much
surprised. "Oh!" exclaimed Don Pedro, "what happened to you? Did you
lose your head?"
Don Juan could say nothing to this question. At last, however, he
broke out, "Let us go home! Our father must be waiting for us." So
saying, Don Juan turned around and began the journey. Don Pedro and
Don Diego, together with their wives, followed Don Juan. Chonguita
walked by her husband's side.
When the return of the three brothers was announced to the king,
the monarch hastened to meet them on the stairs. Upon learning that
one of his sons had married a monkey, the king fainted; but after he
had recovered his senses, he said to himself, "This misfortune is
God's will. I must therefore bear it with patience." The king then
assigned a house to each couple to live in.
But the more the king thought of it, the greater appeared to be the
disgrace that his youngest son had brought on the family. So one day
he called his three sons together, and said to them, "Tell your wives
that I want each one of them to make me an embroidered coat. The one
who falls to do this within three days will be put to death." Now,
the king issued this order in the hope that Chonguita would be put to
death, because he thought that she would not be able to make the coat;
but his hope was disappointed. On the third day his daughters-in-law
presented to him the coats that they had made, and the one embroidered
by Chonguita was the prettiest of all.
Still anxious to get rid of the monkey-wife, the king next ordered
his daughters-in-law to embroider a cap for him in two days, under
penalty of death in case of failure. The caps were all done on time.
At last, thinking of no other way by which he could accomplish his end,
the king summoned his three daughters-in-law, and said, "The husband of
the one who shall be able to draw the prettiest picture on the walls of
my chamber within three days shall succeed me on the throne." At the
end of the three days the pictures were finished. When the king went
to inspect them, he found that Chonguita's was by far the prettiest,
and so Don Juan was crowned king.
A great feast was held in the palace in honor of the new king. In
the midst of the festivities Don Juan became very angry with his wife
for insisting that he dance with her, and he hurled her against the
wall. At this brutal action the hall suddenly became dark; but after
a while it became bright again, and Chonguita had been transformed
into a beautiful woman.
Notes.
A Visayan variant of this story, though differing from it in many
details, is the story of the "Three Brothers," printed in JAFL 20 :
91-93.
A number of Indian Märchen seem to be related more or less closely to
our story. Benfey cites one (1 : 261) which appears in the "Asiatic
Journal" for 1833.
Some princes are to obtain their wives by this device: each is to
shoot an arrow; and where the arrow strikes, there will each find his
bride. The arrow of the youngest hits a tamarind-tree; he is married
to it, but his bride turns out to be a female monkey. However,
he lives happily with her, but she never appears at his father's
court. The sisters-in-law are curious to know what kind of wife he
has. They persuade the father-in-law to give a least for all his sons'
wives. The prince is grieved over the fact that the secret will come
out. Then his wife comforts him; she lays off her monkey covering,
and appears as a marvellously beautiful maiden. She enjoins him to
preserve the monkey-skin carefully, since otherwise great danger
threatens her; but he, in order to keep her in her present beautiful
human form, burns the hide while she is at the feast. She disappears
instantly. The prince seeks her again, and at last discovers her in
heaven as the queen of the monkeys. There he remains with her.
In a Simla tale, "The Story of Ghose" (Dracott, 40 f.), the animal is
a squirrel, which is finally changed by the god Mahadeo into a human
being, after the little creature has performed many services for her
husband. Somewhat analogous, also, is Maive Stokes, "The Monkey Prince"
(No. x, p. 41 ff.). Compare also the notes to our No. 19 and Benfey's
entire discussion of "The Enchanted Son of the Brahman" (1 : 254-269).
These forms are not close enough to our version, however, to justify
our tracing it directly to any one of them. Both it and the Visayan
variant are members of the European cycle of tales represented by
Grimm's "Three Feathers" (No. 63). The skeleton outline of this family
group Bolte and Polívka construct as follows (2 : 37):--
A father wishes to test the skill of his three sons (or their wives),
and requests that they produce extraordinary or costly articles. The
despised youngest son wins the reward with the help of an enchanted
princess in the form of a cat, rat, frog, lizard, monkey, or as a doll,
or night-cap, or stocking. At last she regains her human form. The
disenchantment is sometimes accomplished by a kiss, or by beheading,
or by the hero's enduring for three nights in silence the blows
of spirits.
In only two of the variants cited by Bolte-Polívka (to Grimm, No. 63)
is the animal wife a monkey,--Comparetti, No. 58, "Le Scimmie;"
and Von Hahn, No. 67, "Die Aeffin." Of these, only the Greek story
resembles our tale; but here the similarities are so many, that I
will summarize briefly the main points of Von Hahn's version:--
An old king once called his three sons to him, and said, "My sons, I am
old; I should like to have you married, so that I may celebrate your
wedding with you before I die. Therefore each of you are to shoot an
arrow into the air, and to follow its course, for there each will find
what is appointed for him." The eldest shot first: his arrow carried
him to a king's daughter, whom he married. The second obtained a
prince's daughter. But the arrow of the third stuck in a dung-hill. He
dug a hole in it, and came to a marble slab, which, when raised,
disclosed a flight of stairs leading down. Courageously he descended,
and came to a cellar in which a lot of monkeys were sitting in a
circle. The mother of the monkeys approached him, and asked him what
he wanted. He answered, that, according to the flight of his arrow,
he was destined to have a monkey-wife. "Choose one for yourself,"
she said. "Here sit my maids; there, my daughters." He selected one,
and took her back to his father. His brothers, however, ridiculed him.
After a time the eldest son asked the king to divide up his kingdom,
as he was already old and was likely to die. "I'll give you three
tasks," said the king to his sons. "The one who performs them best
shall be king." The first count was to be won by the son whose house
forty days thence was cleanest and most beautifully adorned. The
youngest son was very sad when inspection-time approached. "Why so
sad?" said his wife. He told her; and she said to him on the morning
of the last day, "Go to my mother, and ask her for a hazel-nut and
an almond." He did so. When the time for inspection arrived, the
monkey-wife cracked the hazel-nut and drew from it a diamond covering
for the whole house. From the almond she drew a very beautiful
carpet for the king to walk on. Youngest son won the first count,
naturally. The second task was to furnish the king with fresh fruits
in the winter-time. The two oldest sons were unable to get any, but
the youngest son got a fine supply from the monkeys' garden under
the dunghill. The third count was to be won by the son whose wife
should be declared the most beautiful at a feast to be given ten
days thence. The monkey-wife sent her husband again for an almond,
a hazel-nut, two stallions, and five servants. When he returned with
them, she cracked the almond and drew from it a magnificent dress
for herself. From the hazelnut she drew her own beauty, and handsome
equipment for her husband. When she was arrayed, she rode into the
courtyard of the king, and tried to escape without being recognized;
but the king was too quick for her: she was caught, and her husband
was declared the final winner. He became king when his father died.
This Greek story can hardly have any immediate relationship with
"Chonguita," though it does appear in its first half to be connected
with the 1833 Indian Märchen given above. Our story, it will be
noticed, lacks the shooting of arrows, so characteristic of the
European forms; it mentions the monkey-kingdom to which the youngest
prince was directed by an old man, and where Chonguita is forced
on him; it represents the king as requiring his daughters-in-law to
perform difficult tasks because he wishes to find an excuse for putting
to death the animal-wife. Moreover, the three tasks themselves are
different, although the first two are reminiscent of some found in the
Occidental versions. For the third I know of no folk-tale parallel. On
the whole, I am prone to believe that our story was not imported from
Europe, but that it belongs to an Oriental branch of the family.
The disenchantment of the monkey-wife by hurling her in anger against
the wall is exactly like the disenchantment of the frog-prince in
Grimm, No. 1. This conceit is most unusual, and, it might be added,
unreasonable. Hence this identity of detail in two stories so far
removed in every other way is particularly striking. I know of no
further occurrences of the incident.
TALE 30
THE GOLDEN LOCK.
Narrated by Vicente Hilario of Batangas, Batangas, who heard the
story from an old man (now deceased) from the barrio of Balayan.
Long ago there lived in a distant kingdom an influential noble named
Ludovico, who vastly increased his wealth by his marriage to a rich
heiress called Clotilde. During the first ten years of their union
she had never peeped out of her window or stirred out of her room:
she only walked to the door of her chamber to bid farewell to her
husband or to receive his parting kiss when he was off to attend
to his official business, and to meet him with a tender embrace
when he returned. Nobody else but Ludovico and her chaperon could
see or talk with her: to these two persons only did Clotilde reveal
her secrets and convey the thoughts of her spotless soul. She spent
her time in voluntary seclusion, not in the luxuries of the court
or the gaieties of society, but in embroidery, knitting, and in the
unnecessary embellishment of her extremely lovely person.
But an incident now happened that seriously threatened to destroy
the foundations of their blissful union, for there may be eddies and
counter-currents in the steady and swift flow of a stream. The king
invited all the nobles in the land to a sumptuous banquet to be given
in one of the principal frontier cities. Ludovico was among the first
persons to accept the king's invitation. When the luxurious repast
was over, the guests gathered in groups around small tables in the
adjoining grounds to while away the sultry hours and to discuss the
questions of the day. One of these groups was composed of Ludovico
and six other nobles, among whom was a bold, sharp-tongued rich youth
named Pio. The conversation touched on topics concerning the fair sex,
especially of women historically famous for their personal charms,
virtues, and vices. The garrulous Pio ridiculed the noble constancy
and other excellent traits of the fair Clotilde.
"I will bet you anything you want to bet, that you cannot learn the
secrets of my wife in fifteen days," said Ludovico, his face flushed
with wrath.
"All right," said Pio, exasperated by Ludovico's boast. "The loser
shall be hanged. I will bet my life that I'll know the secrets of
your wife within fifteen days."
The terms of the contract were carefully written down, solemnly
ratified by the king, and signed by the two contestants and by the
other high-born gentlemen.
Pio set out the next day for Ludovico's home town. The inexperienced
youth looked in vain for Ludovico's residence. Finally he asked
a jolly fellow, who showed him the house after a long roundabout
conversation. Pio went upstairs, where he saw the gray-haired chaperon
sitting alone in the spacious hall, which was decorated to vie in
magnificence with the most gorgeously furnished apartment of the
king. The accomplished Pio doffed his bonnet to the old woman, and
politely asked for her mistress.
"Nobody but her husband and me is allowed to see her," said the ugly
old hag.
Pio then sat down and began to talk to her. By his persuasive language
and the magnetic touch of his hands he easily insinuated himself into
her confidence. Then, dropping a piece of gold on her palm, he said,
"Will you tell me the secrets of your mistress?"
The old woman looked at him suspiciously, but the brilliant coin
proved too great a temptation for her. "Clotilde," she said, "has
three golden [88] locks of hair under her left armpit. I know this
fact, because I bathe her every day."
Pio heaved a deep groan and turned his face aside. After recovering
himself, he dropped another gold-piece into the hand of the chaperon,
and said, "Will you get one of those locks for me?"
She hesitated, but his eloquence was irresistible. "I'll give you
the lock to-morrow," she said. Pio then departed, and she returned
to her mistress.
Early the next morning, while the old woman was bathing Clotilde as
usual, she pulled out one of Clotilde's golden locks. "Aray!" exclaimed
Clotilde, "what's the matter with you?"
"Never mind, never mind!" said the old woman with many caresses. "This
is the only reward I want for my many faithful services to you."
Ignorant of the treasonable intrigues of her chaperon, Clotilde
said nothing more. Before noon Pio arrived. With trembling hands and
pale cheeks, the old woman gave him the golden lock. She was amply
rewarded with a purse of gold. Ignorant of the fatal consequences of
her treacherous act, she gayly went back to Clotilde's private chamber.
Pio left the town late in the afternoon, and soon arrived at the
capital. Ludovico was struck aghast at the sight of the golden lock. He
at once wrote a letter to his wife which ran in part as follows:--
"I have spent ten years of my life in perfect happiness with you. I
expected to enjoy such blissful days for a much longer period. But now
everything is hopeless. My life shall be ended by violence, because
of your faithlessness. We shall see each other no more. Receive the
sad farewell of your Ludovico."
When Clotilde read this letter, she swooned. When she came to her
senses, she awoke as from a trance. But when she beheld the letter
again, she read again the opprobrious word "faithlessness" in her
husband's handwriting. She did not know what act of disloyalty she had
committed. She moved about in her room by fits and starts. At last a
thought came to her mind: she sent for the best goldsmith in town, and
told him to make her a gold slipper adorned with precious stones. Under
her strict supervision the work was completed in a marvellously short
time. Then she put on her best clothes and the precious slipper,
and with all possible expedition set out for Ludovico.
Clotilde arrived in the city just a few minutes before the
execution. She drove directly to the king's pavilion. Her only
companion was the same old woman who had caused all this trouble. The
turbulent persons who had gathered in the public square to witness
the horrible spectacle were awed by the loveliness and magnificent
attire of Clotilde. When she reached the king, and asked him for all
the details concerning Ludovico's case, and when the king had given
her all the information he could, she turned and pointed toward Pio,
and said, "That man has stolen my other slipper which looks like this
one I am wearing."
The king called Pio from the place where he was standing, and told
him all about the fair lady's accusation. "I have not committed any
crime against her," said Pio angrily. "I don't even know her. This
is the first time I have ever seen her."
"Sir," said Clotilde sneeringly, "why, then, did you tell his Majesty
and other persons that you have discovered my secrets? I am the wife
of Ludovico, whose life you have threatened to end by your deceit. I
know now by what means you got possession of my golden lock."
Clotilde's statement sealed Pio's fate. He was hanged in place of
Ludovico, who deeply regretted having doubted his faithful wife. And
what happened to the old woman, who preferred the gold of an impostor
to the kindness of a virtuous woman? The hag was sentenced to spend
the remainder of her life in a damp, dreary dungeon.
Notes.
A close Tagalog parallel is to be found in the last part of the
metrical romance entitled (in English translation) "The Life of Duke
Almanzor and the Kind and Clever Maria, in the Kingdom of Toledo when
it was under the Moors." My copy bears no date, but Retana mentions
an edition before 1898 (No. 4159). The poem is in 402 quatrains of
12-syllable lines. The section which resembles our story begins at
line 1260, and may be paraphrased in prose as follows:--
Soon after this, Almanzor was baptized (he had been a Moor), and was
married to Maria. After a few months of happy life, the duke was called
away to Cordova on important business. When Duke Almanzor arrived at
the court of the Governor of Cordova, he found that all the noblemen
were present. As he arrived somewhat late, he excused himself by saying
that he was newly married, and that he could not leave his wife any
sooner. Among the nobles was a proud, self-confident man named Abdala,
who, when Almanzor had finished speaking, remarked that he (Abdala)
did not mean to marry, as he could very easily seduce any woman,
be she unmarried or a wife. Almanzor was angered by this remark. He
said to Abdala, "I have my wife in Toledo: go and see if you can
seduce her." Abdala said that there was no doubt of his being able
to do so. A wager of death for the loser was agreed upon.
Abdala immediately set out for Toledo. He tried to gain access
to the duke's palace; but ever since her husband's departure,
Maria had ordered the servants to keep all the windows and
doors closed. Moreover, nobody but women were allowed to enter
the palace. Abdala was about to give up in despair, when he met a
sorceress, who offered to help him. This witch gained admittance into
the palace, and was allowed to pass the night there. At midnight
the hag secretly went to Maria's bedroom and jotted down a brief
description of it. Then she cut off a lock of Maria's hair. The next
morning the witch left the palace. She went to Abdala, and gave him
the lock of hair, together with the description of the bedroom.
Abdala hurriedly returned to Cordova. When he reached the palace,
the governor at once assembled the nobles. Abdala then showed the
lock of hair, and described minutely Maria's bedroom. Almanzor was
asked what he had to say. The noble duke said that he acknowledged to
be true everything that Abdala had said. Then the governor ordered
his guards to take the duke to prison. The duke was to be beheaded
on the third day. While in prison, Duke Almanzor wrote to his wife,
telling her of his coming death. Maria resolved at once to save her
husband. She went to Cordova, carrying with her all her wealth. She
had a famous jeweller make for her a large, beautiful ear-ring.
The third day came, and the soldiers took Duke Almanzor out of
prison. The governor and all the nobles accompanied the duke to the
plaza where he was to be executed. Maria stopped the procession, and
addressed the governor thus: "My lord, do you see this ear-ring?" The
governor nodded. "Then I ask you to give me justice. My other
ear-ring was stolen by that gentleman who is standing near you," and
she pointed at Abdala as she made the accusation. Abdala became very
angry. He said, "I don't know you; I have never seen you before. How
could I steal your ear-ring?"--"Do you say that you have never seen me
before?" Maria asked. "I do say so," said Abdala emphatically. "Why,
then, do you claim that you have been in my room, and that I gave you
a lock of my hair?" Maria demanded. Abdala could not answer. "Answer,
Abdala," the governor said, But Abdala could not utter a single
word. At last he confessed that he had never seen Maria, and that
the description of the room and the lock of hair had been furnished
him by a sorceress. The governor then ordered him to be seized. Duke
Almanzor was set free. His wife gently reprimanded him for risking his
life so foolishly. As for Abdala, he was beheaded, and the sorceress
who helped him was burned at the stake.
In our notes to No. 7 we have already summarized the first part of the
"Story of Rodolfo." The last episode of this romance is an analogue
of our present story, and runs briefly thus:--
After his marriage, Rodolfo went back to Valencia, and informed the
king that he had found a virtuous woman and had married her. She
was then in Babilonia. The king detained him for a few days in
the palace. At the same time he sent Fortunato, a gallant, to
court Rodolfo's wife, to test whether or not she was true to her
husband. Fortunato went to Babilonia and declared his love to Estela;
but she would have nothing to do with him. Ashamed to return to the
palace without having won her affection, Fortunato stole her underskirt
and took it to the king, stating that Estela had given it to him as
a remembrance. Rodolfo was summoned: and when he saw the skirt with
Adela's name on it, he was thunderstruck. The king then said, "You see,
your wife is no more virtuous than my daughter Leocadia. Remember
your boast; your life is forfeit." Rodolfo, however, asked for a
complete investigation of his wife's alleged treachery. Estela was
accordingly summoned to Valencia; and when asked how her underskirt
happened to be there in the palace, she asked in turn who had brought
it. "Fortunato," she was told. Then she said, "The underskirt is
mine. The knight Fortunato declared his love to me, but I rejected
it because I am married. He stole the underskirt while I was taking
a bath, and ought to be punished." When confronted with the charge,
Fortunato denied the theft, and maintained that he had been given the
garment by Estela as a token of her love for him. When Rodolfo heard
this denial, he begged the king to assemble all the dignitaries and
judges in the kingdom. Before the court Rodolfo asked Fortunato for
definite proof to back up his assertions. He was unable to give any,
and was consequently sentenced to be deported for ten years to a
lonely island. Rodolfo and his wife were now honored by the king,
and Rodolfo was finally made a knight.
Although this portion of the romance is only a distant analogue
of out story, inasmuch as it lacks both the wager and the clever
trick of the wife to get her maligner to convict himself, I give it,
because this same combination of the "chastity-wager" motive with the
"hen-divided" motive (see first part of "Rodolfo," notes to No. 7)
occurs in a Mentonese story, "La Femme Avisée" (Romania, II : 415-416).
The tale may be briefly summarized:--
A prince benighted in a forest is entertained for the night at a
countryman's house. At dinner the prince carves the fowl, and gives the
head to the father, the stomach to the mother, and the heart to the
daughter. On the old man's complaining later of his guest's strange
division of the bird, the girl explains to her father just why the
prince acted as he did. The prince overhears her, admires her wit,
falls in love with her, and marries her. Some time afterward the
prince is called to Egypt on business. He leaves his wife behind at
home, and she promises to be very discreet. The prince communicates
her promise to a friend, who wagers that he will be able to tell the
prince of any defects on her body. The friend goes to the home of
the prince and bribes the lady-in-waiting. She informs him, that,
beautiful as the young wife is, she has a strawberry-mark on her
shoulder. When the prince, on his return, is told this intimate detail
by his friend, he is very angry, and, going home, accuses his wife of
faithlessness. She proves her innocence by going before the king and
swearing that her maligner has stolen one of her golden slippers. He
denies the charge, and swears that he has never seen his accuser
before. Thus self-convicted, he is imprisoned for many years.
The Mentonese folk-tale and "Rodolfo" emphasize not only the virtue
of the wife, but her cleverness as well, and definitely connect the
"Chastity Wager" cycle with our No. 7. While it would be difficult
to maintain successfully that the "Chastity Wager" cycle and the
"Clever Lass" group are descended from the same parent,--I really
believe the latter to be much the older,--it seems that we have a sort
of combination of the two as early as the time of the "Tuti-nameh"
collection. In the following story taken from that compilation,
traces of both cycles may be discerned, though clearly the tale is
more nearly related as a whole to the "Chastity Wager" group. This
Persian story is entitled "The Nobleman and the Soldier's Wife, whose
Virtue he put to the Proof" (No. 4, pp. 42 ff., of "The Tootinameh;
or, Tales of a Parrot" in the Persian Language, with an English
Translation; Calcutta, 1792). An abridged version of it follows:--
In a certain city dwelt a military man who had a very beautiful
wife. He was always under apprehension on her account; and one
day, after he had been idle a long time, she asked him why he had
quitted his profession. He answered, "I have no confidence in you,
and therefore I do not go anywhere in quest of employment." The wife
told him that he was perverse; for no one could seduce a virtuous
woman, and a vicious woman no husband could guard successfully. Then
she told him a story to illustrate the second type of wife. When
he asked if she had anything more to say to him, she replied,
"It is right for you to travel and seek service. I will give you
a fresh nosegay: as long as the nosegay continues in this stare,
you may be assured that I have not committed any bad action; if the
nosegay should wither, you will then know that I have been guilty of
some fault." The soldier heeded her words, and set out on a journey,
taking the nosegay with him. When he arrived at a certain city,
he entered the service of a nobleman of that place. Winter came on,
and the nobleman was astonished to see the soldier wearing a fresh
nosegay every day, though flowers were practically unattainable,
and he asked him about it. The soldier told him that his wife had
given the nosegay to him as an emblem of her chastity; that as long
as it continued fresh, he was sure that her honor was unspotted.
Now, the nobleman had two cooks remarkable for their cunning and
adroitness. To one of these he said, "Repair to the soldier's country,
where, through artifice and deceit, contrive to form an intimacy with
his wife, and return quickly with a particular account of her. Then
we shall see whether this nosegay continues fresh or not." The cook,
in accordance with his master's command, went to the soldier's city,
and sent a procuress to the wife with his message. The wife did not
assent directly, but told the procuress to send the man to her, so
that she might see whether he was agreeable or not. The wife made a
secret assignation with the cook, but trapped him in a dry well; and
when he found that he could not get out, he confessed the nobleman's
plot. When the cook did not return, the nobleman sent the second cook;
but he fared no better: he too was captured in the same way by the
clever wife. Now the nobleman resolved to go himself. He set out
under the pretext of hunting, accompanied by the soldier. When they
arrived at the soldier's city, the soldier went to his own home and
presented the fresh nosegay to his wife, who told him all that had
happened. So the next day the soldier conducted the nobleman to his
home, where a hospitable entertainment was given him. The two cooks,
under promise of subsequent liberty, consented to dress as women and
wait on the guests. When the nobleman saw them, he failed to recognize
them, for their long confinement and bad air had made them thin and
pale. He asked the soldier about the "girls," but the soldier told
the cooks to tell their own story. Then the nobleman recognized them;
and when they testified to the woman's chastity, he was abashed,
and asked forgiveness for his offences.
Another Oriental form of this story is given by Somadeva, chapter
XIII (Tawney, 1 : 85 f.), "The Story of Devasmita." It runs in part
as follows:--
Here, on the departure of the husband, the divinity Siva says to the
couple, "Take each of you one of these red lotuses; and, if either
of you shall be unfaithful during your separation, the lotus in the
hand of the other shall fade, but not otherwise." Then the husband
set out for another city, where he began to buy and sell jewels. Four
merchants of that country, astonished at the never-fading lotus in
his hand, wormed the secret out of the husband by making him drunk,
and then planned the seduction of the wife out of mere curiosity. To
aid them in their plan, they had recourse to a female ascetic. She
went to the wife, and attempted to move her to pity by showing her a
weeping bitch, which she said was once a woman, but was transformed
into a dog because of her hard-heartedness [for this device worked
with better success; see Gesta Romanorum, chap. XXVIII]. The wife
divined the plot and the motive of the young merchants, and appeared
to be glad to receive them; but when they came at appointed times,
she drugged them, and branded them on the forehead with an iron dog's
foot. Then she cast them out naked in a dung-heap. The procuress was
later served even worse: her hose and ears were cut off. The young
wife, fearing that for revenge the four merchants might go slay her
husband, told her whole story to her mother-in-law. The mother-in-law
praised her for her conduct, and devised a plan to save her son. The
wise wife disguised herself as a merchant, and embarked in a ship to
the country where her husband was. When she arrived there, she saw
him in the midst of a circle of merchants. He, seeing her afar off
in the dress of a man, thought to himself, "Who may this merchant be
that looks so like my beloved wife?" But she went to the king, said
that she had a petition to present, and asked him to assemble all his
subjects. He did so, and asked her what her petition was. She replied,
"There are residing here four escaped slaves of mine; let the king
give them back to me." She was told to pick out her slaves, which she
did, choosing the four merchants who had their heads tied up. When
asked how these distinguished merchants' sons could be her slaves, she
said, "Examine their foreheads, which I marked with a dog's foot." So
done. The truth came out; the other merchants paid the wife a large sum
of money to ransom the four, and also a fine to the king's treasury.
There can be no doubt of a rather close relationship between the
Persian and the Indian stories; nor can there be any doubt, it seems
to me, of the relationship of these two with the "Chastity Wager"
cycle. The additional details in Somadeva's narrative connect it with
European Märchen; e.g., J. F. Campbell, No. 18, and Groome, No. 33.
Our story of the "Golden Lock," as well as the variants, is
unquestionably an importation from Europe; but what the immediate
source of the tale is, I am unable to say. For the convenience of
any, however, who are interested in this group of stories, and care
to make a further study of it, I give here a list of the occurrences
of the tale in literature and in popular form. In literature, this
story in Europe dates from the end of the twelfth century.
Roman de Guillaume de Dole (c. 1200). Ed. by G. Servois for the
Soc. des Anc. Textes français. Paris, 1893.
Roman de la Violette (13th century). Ed. by Michel. 1834.
Roman du Comte de Poitiers (13th century). Ed. by Michel. 1831.
Le roi Flore et la belle Jehanne (a 13th century prose
story). Published by L. Moland et C. d'Hericault in Nouvelles
françaises en prose du xiiie siècle, 1856 : 87-157; also in Monmerqué
et Michel, Théâtre français au Moyen Age, 1842 : 417.
Miracle de Othon, roy d'Espaigne (a 14th century miracle), in the
Miracles de Nostre Dame. Published by G. Paris and U. Robert for the
Soc. des Anc. Textes français, 4 : 315-388; and in Monmerqué et Michel,
op. cit., p. 431 f.
Perceforest, bk. iv, ch. 16, 17 (an episode, where the chastity
token is a rose), retold by Bandello, part I, nov. 21 (cf. R. Köhler,
in Jahrb. für rom. u. eng. lit., 8 : 51 f.).
Boccaccio's Decameron, 2 : 9 (cf. Landau, Die Quellen des Dekameron,
1884 : 135 ff.).
Two important treatments of the story in dramatic form are
sixteenth-century Spanish, Lope de Rueda's "Eufemia," where the heroine
tricks her maligner by accusing him of having spent many nights with
her and of finally having stolen a jewel from under her bed; he denies
all knowledge of her (cf. J. L. Klein, Geschichte des Dramas, 9 [1872]
: 144-156); and English, Shakespeare's "Cymbeline." For modern dramas
and operas dealing with this theme, see G. Servois, op. cit., p. xvi,
note 5. In ballad form the story occurs in "The Twa Knights" (Child,
5 : 21 ff., No. 268).
Popular stories belonging to this cycle and containing the wager are
the following:--
J. F. Campbell, No. 18.
J. W. Wolf, p. 355.
Simrock, Deutsche Märchen, No. 51 (1864 ed., p. 235).
H. Pröhle, No. 61, p. 179 (cf. also p. xlii).
Ausland, 1856 : 1053, for a Roumanian story.
F. Miklosisch, Märchen und Lieder der Zigeuner der Bukowina, No. 14.
D. G. Bernoni, Fiabe popolari veneziane, No. I.
Gonzenbach, No. 7.
G. Pitrè, Nos. 73, 75.
V. Imbriani, La Novellaja Fiorentina, p. 483.
Other folk-tales somewhat more distantly related are,--
Comparetti, Nos. 36 and 60.
Webster, Basque Legends, p. 132.
F. Kreutzwald, Estnische Märchen (übersetzt von F. Löwe), 2d Hälfte,
No. 6.
H. Bergh, Sogur m. m. fraa Valdris og Hallingdal, p. 16.
For the story in general, see the following:--
Landau on the Dekameron, op. cit.
A. Rochs, Ueber den Veilchen Roman und die Wanderung der Euriant
saga. Halle, 1882. (Reviewed as a worthless piece of work by R. Köhler
in Literaturblatt für germ. und rom. Philologie, 1883 : No. 7.)
R. Ohle, Shakespeares Cymbeline und seine Romanischen
Vorläufer. Berlin, 1890. (This does not discuss the popular versions
at all.)
H. A. Todd, Guillaume de Dole, in Transactions and Proceedings of
the Modern Language Association of America, 2 (1887) : 107 ff.
Von der Hagen, Gesammtabenteuer, 3 : LXXXIII.
G. Servois, op. cit., Introduction.
For some additional bibliographical items in connection with this
cycle, see Köhler, "Literaturblatt," etc., p. 274. To the list above
should be added finally, of course, the stories given in more detail
earlier in this note.
TALE 31
WHO IS THE NEAREST RELATIVE?
Narrated by Leopoldo Uichanco, a Tagalog of Calamba, Laguna.
"On my life!" exclaimed old Julian one day to his grandson Antonio,
who was clinging fast to his elbows and bothering him, as usual, "you
will soon become insane with stories. Now, I will tell you a story on
this condition: you must answer the question I shall put at the end
of the narrative. If you give the correct answer, then I will tell
you some more tales; if not, why, you must be unfortunate." Antonio
nodded, and said, "Very well!" as he leaned on the table to listen
to his grandfather. Then the old man began:--
"There was once a young man who had completed his course of study
and was to be ordained a priest. Now, whenever a man was about to
be entrusted with the duty of being a minister of God, and Christ's
representative on earth, it was the custom to trace his ancestry back
as far as possible, to see that there was no bad member on any branch
of his family tree. Inquiries were made and information was sought
regarding the young man's relatives. Unfortunately his mother's brother
was an insurrecto. But the boy wanted very much to become a priest,
so he set out for Mount Banahaw to look for his uncle.
"As he was walking along the mountain road, he came across his
uncle, but neither knew the other. The uncle had a long bolo in his
hand. 'Hold!' shouted the old man as the boy came in sight. 'Hands up!'
"'Mercy!' entreated the young man. 'I am a friend, not an enemy.'
"'What are you doing in this part of the country, then? Have you
come to spy?'
"'No,' said the youth. 'I have come in search of my uncle named
Paulino, general of the Patriots of Banahaw.'
"'And who are you to seek for him? What is your name?'
"'Federico.'
"The uncle stared at him. 'If that is so,' he said, 'I am the man
you are looking for. I am your uncle.' Federico was amazed, but was
very glad to have found his uncle so easily. Then the old man took
his nephew to the cave where he dwelt with his soldiers.
"Weeks passed by, months elapsed, but Federico never thought of
going back to his mother. So one day Federico's father went out to
seek for his son, and soon found him and his uncle. The father, too,
remained there with the soldiers, and never thought of going back home.
"One day Josefa received news that the bandits of Banahaw had been
caught by the government authorities. Among the prisoners were her
brother Paulino, her son Federico, and her husband. The captives were
to be executed at sunrise without any trial. Josefa hurried to the
capitan general, and pleaded with him to release her husband, her
son, and her brother. Besides, the woman presented the officer with
some gifts. She pleaded so hard, that finally the capitan general
was moved with pity. He consented to release one of the prisoners,
but one only. Josefa did not know what to do. Whom should she select
of the three,--her husband, the other half of her life; her son, the
fruit of her love; or her brother, that brother who came from the same
womb and sucked the same milk from the same mother? To take one would
mean to condemn the other two to death. She wished to save them all,
but she was allowed to select only one."
"If you, Antonio, were in her place, whom would you select?" Antonio
did not speak for some moments, but with knitted eyebrows looked up
to the ceiling and tried to think of the answer.
"Nonsense!" exclaimed the grandfather; "you cannot find the answer
in the ceiling! You really do not know, do you? Very well. I will
give you until next Tuesday to get your answer. You have one week in
which to think it out. Tell me the correct answer before you go to
school on that day."
When Tuesday came, Antonio had gotten the answer to his grandfather's
puzzle-tale; but the rascally little boy deceived the old man: he
had sought the information from his uncle.
"If you were in the place of the woman," asked the playful grandfather
with a smile on his face, "whom would you select?" Antonio timidlv
said that he would select the brother.
"You are only guessing, aren't you?" said old Julian doubtfully.
"Bah! No, sir!" said the boy. "I can give you a reason for my
selection."
"Very well, give your reason, then."
"The woman would be right in selecting her brother"--
"Because"--
"Because, what to a woman is a husband? She can marry again; she can
find another."
"That is true," said the old man.
"And what to a woman is her son? Is it not possible to bear another
one after she marries again?"
"To be sure," said old Julian.
"But," continued the boy, raising his voice, "is it possible for her
to bring into the world another brother? Is it possible? The woman's
parents were dead. Therefore she would be right in selecting her
brother instead of her husband or her son."
"Exactly so, my boy," returned the satisfied old man, nodding his
gray head. "Since you have answered correctly, to-morrow I will tell
you another story."
Notes.
This saga-like story is of peculiar literary interest because of
its ancient connections. I know of no modern analogues; but there
are two very old parallels, as well as two unmistakable references
to the identical situation in our story which date from before the
Christian era, and also a Persian Märchen that goes back as far as
the twelfth century.
Herodotus (III, 119) first tells the story of a Persian woman who
chooses rather to save the life of her brother than of her husband
and children.
"When all the conspirators against Darius had been seized [i.e.,
Intaphernes, his children, and his family], and had been put in chains
as malefactors condemned to death, the wife of Intaphernes came
and stood continually at the palace-gates, weeping and wailing. So
Darius after a while, seeing that she never ceased to stand and weep,
was touched with pity for her, and bade a messenger go to her and say,
'Lady, King Darius gives thee as a boon the life of one of thy kinsmen;
choose which thou wilt of the prisoners.' Then she pondered a while
before she answered, 'If the king grants the life of one alone, I make
choice of my brother.' Darius, when he heard the reply, was astonished,
and sent again, saying, 'Lady, the king bids thee tell him why it is
that thou passest by thy husband and thy children, and preferrest to
have the life of thy brother spared. He is not so near to thee as thy
children, not so dear as thy husband.' She answered, 'O king! if the
gods will, I may have another husband and other children when these
are gone; but, as my father and mother are no more, it is impossible
that I should have another brother. That was my thought when I asked
to have my brother spared.' The woman appeared to Darius to have spoken
well, and he granted to her the one that she asked and her eldest son,
he was so pleased with her. All the rest he put to death."
This story from the Greek historian clearly supplied not merely
the thought but also the form of the reference in lines 909-912
of Sophocles' "Antigone." In Campbell's English translation of the
Greek play, the passage, which is put into the mouth of the heroine,
runs thus:--
"A husband lost might be replaced; a son,
If son were lost to me, might yet be born;
But with both parents hidden in the tomb,
No brother may arise to comfort me."
Chronologically, the next two occurrences of the story are Indian. In
the "Ucchanga-jataka" (Fausböll, No. 67, of uncertain date, but
possibly going back to the third century B.C.) we are told--
"Three husbandmen were by mistake arrested on a charge of robbery,
and imprisoned. The wife of one came to the King of Kosala, in whose
realm the event took place, and entreated him to set her husband at
liberty. The king asked her what relation each of the three was to
her. She answered, 'One is my husband, another my brother, and the
third is my son.' The king said, 'I am pleased with you, and I will
give you one of the three; which do you choose?' The woman answered,
'Sire, if I live, I can get another husband and another son; but,
as my parents are dead, I can never get another brother. So give me
my brother, sire.' Pleased with the woman, the king set all three
men at liberty."
In the Cambridge translation of this "Jataka," the verse reply of
the woman is rendered thus:--
"A son's an easy find; of husbands too
An ample choice throngs public ways. But where
With all my pains another brother find?"
In the "Ramayana," the most celebrated art epic of India, we are
told how, in the battle about Lanka, Lakshmana, the favorite brother
and inseparable companion of the hero Rama, is to all appearances
killed. Rama laments over him in these words: "Anywhere at all I
could get a wife, a son, and all other relatives; but I know of no
place where I might be able to acquire a brother. The teaching of
the Veda is true, that Parjanya rains down everything; but also is
the proverb true that he does not rain down brothers." (Ed. Gorresio,
6 : 24, 7-8.) This parallel was pointed out by R. Pischel in "Hermes,"
28 (1893) : 465.
The Persian Märchen alluded to above is cited by Th. Nöldeke in
"Hermes," 29 : 155.
In this story the wife, when she is given the opportunity to
choose which she will save of her three nearest relatives,--i.e.,
her husband, her son, and her brother, who have been selected to be
the food for the man-eating snake that grows from the devil-prince
Dahak's shoulder,--says, "I am still a young woman. I can get another
husband, and it may happen that I might have another child by him:
so that the fire of separation I can quench somewhat with the water
of hope, and for the poison of the death of a husband find a cure
in the antidote of the survival of a son; but it is not possible,
since my father and mother are dead, for me to get another brother;
therefore I bestow my love on him [i.e., she chooses the brother]." The
Dahak is moved to pity, and spares her the lives of all three.
The riddle form in which our story is cast is possibly an invention
of the narrator; but folk-tales ending thus are common (see notes to
No. 12). Again, our story fails to state whether or not all three men
were pardoned. The implication is that they were not. The localization
of the events seems to point either to a long existence of the story
in La Laguna province or to exceptional adaptive skill on the part
of the narrator.
TALE 32
WITH ONE CENTAVO JUAN MARRIES A PRINCESS.
Narrated by Gregorio Frondoso, a Bicol, who heard the story from
another Bicol student. The latter said that the story was traditional
among the Bicols, and that he had heard it from his grandfather.
In ancient times, in the age of foolishness and nonsense, there lived
a poor gambler. He was all alone in the world: he had no parents,
relatives, wife, or children. What little money he had he spent on
cards or cock-fighting. Every time he played, he lost. So he would
often pass whole days without eating. He would then go around the town
begging like a tramp. At last he determined to leave the village to
find his fortune.
One day, without a single cent in his pockets, he set out on his
journey. As he was lazily wandering along the road, he found a centavo,
and picked it up. When he came to the next village, he bought with his
coin a small native cake. He ate only a part of the cake; the rest he
wrapped in a piece of paper and put in his pocket. Then he took a walk
around the village; but, soon becoming tired, he sat down by a little
shop to rest. While resting, he fell asleep. As he was lying on the
bench asleep, a chicken came along, and, seeing the cake projecting
from his pocket, the chicken pecked at it and ate it up. Tickled by
the bird's beak, the tramp woke up and immediately seized the poor
creature. The owner claimed the chicken; but Juan would not give it up,
on the ground that it had eaten his cake. Indeed, he argued so well,
that he was allowed to walk away, taking the chicken with him.
Scarcely had he gone a mile when he came to another village. There
he took a rest in a barber-shop. He fell asleep again, and soon a
dog came in and began to devour his chicken. Awakened by the poor
bird's squawking, Juan jumped up and caught the dog still munching its
prey. In spite of the barber's protest and his refusal to give up his
dog, Juan seized it and carried it away with him. He proceeded on his
journey until he came to another village. As he was passing by a small
house, he felt thirsty: so he decided to go in and ask for a drink. He
tied his dog to the gate and went in. When he came out again, he found
his dog lying dead, the iron gate on top of him. Evidently, in its
struggles to get loose, the animal had pulled the gate over. Without
a word Juan pulled off one of the iron bars from the gate and took
it away with him. When the owner shouted after him, Juan said,
"The bar belongs to me, for your gate killed my dog."
When Juan came to a wide river, he sat down on the bank to rest. While
he was sitting there, he began to play with his iron bar, tossing
it up into the air, and catching it as it fell. Once he missed, and
the bar fell into the river and was lost. "Now, river," said Juan,
"since you have taken my iron bar, you belong to me. You will have
to pay for it." So he sat there all day, watching for people to come
along and bathe.
It happened by chance that not long after, the princess came to
take her bath. When she came out of the water, Juan approached her,
and said, "Princess, don't you know that this river is mine? And,
since you have touched the water, I have the right to claim you."
"How does it happen that you own this river?" said the astonished
princess.
"Well, princess, it would tire you out to hear the story of how I
acquired this river; but I insist that you are mine."
Juan persisted so strongly, that at last the princess said that she
was willing to leave the matter to her father's decision. On hearing
Juan's story, and after having asked him question after question,
the king was greatly impressed with his wonderful reasoning and wit;
and, as he was unable to offer any refutation for Juan's argument,
he willingly married his daughter to Juan.
Notes.
I know of no complete analogues of this droll; but partial variants,
both serious and comic, are numerous. In our story a penniless,
unscrupulous hero finds a centavo, and by means of sophistical
arguments with foolish persons makes more and more profitable
exchanges until he wins the hand of a princess. A serious tale of a
clever person starting with no greater capital than a dead mouse, and
finally succeeding in making a fortune, is the "Cullaka-setthi-jataka,"
No. 4. This story subsequently made its way into Somadeva's great
collection (Tawney, 1 : 33-34), "The Story of the Mouse Merchant"
(ch. VI). Here it runs approximately as follows:--
A poor youth, whose mother managed to give him some education in
writing and ciphering, was advised by her to go to a certain rich
merchant who was in the habit of lending capital to poor men of good
family. The youth went; and, just as he entered the house, that rich
man was angrily talking to another merchant's son: "You see this dead
mouse here upon the floor; even that is a commodity by which a capable
man would acquire wealth; but I gave you, you good-for-nothing fellow,
many dinars, and, so far from increasing them, you have not even been
able to preserve what you got." The poor stranger-youth at once said
to the merchant that he would take the dead mouse as capital advanced,
and he wrote a receipt for it. He sold the mouse as cat-meat to a
certain merchant for two handfuls of gram. Next he made meal of the
gram, and, taking his stand by the road, civilly offered food and
drink to a band of wood-cutters that came by. Each, out of gratitude,
gave him two pieces of wood. This wood he sold, bought more gram with
a part of the price, and obtained more wood from the wood-cutters the
next day, etc., until he was able in time to buy all their wood for
three days. Heavy rains made a dearth of wood, and he sold his stock
for a large sum. Then he set up a shop, began to traffic, and became
wealthy by his own ability. Now he had a golden mouse made, which he
sent to the rich merchant from whom he had gotten his start, and that
merchant bestowed the hand of his daughter on the once poor youth.
The comic atmosphere, it will be seen, is altogether absent from this
Buddhistic parable.
A slight resemblance to our story may be traced in Bompas, No. XLIX,
"The Foolish Sons," where the clever youngest (of six brothers)
manages to acquire ten rupees, starting with one anna. He proceeds
by "borrowing," and paying interest in advance. The trick used here
is the same as that practised on the foolish wife in "Wise Folks"
(Grimm, No. 104), where a sharper buys three cows, and leaves one with
the seller as a pledge for the price of the three (see Bolte-Polívka,
2 : 440 f.).
Much closer parallels than the preceding, to the incidents of out
story, are to be found in a cycle of tales discussed by Bolte-Polívka
(2 : 201-202) in connection with "Hans in Luck" (Grimm, No. 83). It
will be recalled that in the Grimm story the foolish Hans exchanges
successively gold for horse, horse for cow, cow for pig, pig for
goose, goose for grindstone, which he is finally glad to get rid of by
throwing it into the water. "A counterpart of this story," say Bolte
and Polívka, "is the Märchen of the 'profitable exchange,' in which
a poor man acquires from another a hen because it has eaten up a pea
or millet-seed that belonged to him; for the hen he gets a pig which
has killed it; for the pig, a cow; for the cow, a horse. But when he
finally levies his claim for damages upon a girl, and places her in
a sack, his luck changes: strangers liberate the maiden without the
knowledge of her captor, and put in her place a big dog, which falls
upon him when he opens the sack." It is to be noted that the cycle
as here outlined consists really of two parts,--the "biter biting"
and the "biter bit." Cosquin (2 : 209) believes that the last two
episodes--the maiden gained by chicanery, and the substitution of an
animal for her in the sack--form a separate theme not originally a part
of the cumulative motive; and, to prove his belief, he cites a number
of Oriental tales containing the former, but lacking the cumulative
motive (ibid., 209-212). Cosquin seems to be correct in this; although,
on the other hand, he is able to cite only one story (Rivière, p. 95)
in which there is not some trace of the "biter-bit" idea. Moreover,
even in the animal stories belonging to this group,--and he analyzes
Stokes, No. 17, and Rivière, p. 79,--the animal-rogue meets with an
unlucky end. The same is true of Steel-Temple, No. 2, "The Rat's
Wedding." In another Indian story, however, "The Monkey with the
Tom-Tom" (Kingscote, No. XIV, a rather pointless tale), the monkey,
whose last exchange is puddings for a tom-tom, is left at the top of
a tree lustily beating his drum and enumerating his clever tricks. A
very similar story is to be found in Rouse, p. 132, "The Monkey's
Bargains." It will thus be seen that Bolte and Polívka's analysis holds
for the larger number of human hero tales of this cycle, as well as for
the animal tales; but that the first half of the sequence of events,
where the hero's good luck is continually on the increase, is also
to be found as a separate story,--Kingscote's, Rouse's, and our own.
The Filipino version appears to be old, and I am inclined to
think that it is native; that is, if any stories may be called
native. Several facts point to the primitiveness of the tale: (1)
the local color and realistic touches, slight though they are; (2)
the non-emphasis of the comic possibilities of the situations; (3)
the somewhat unsystematic arrangement of incidents, the third demand
and exchange (iron rod for dead dog) not appearing to be an upward
progression; (4) the crudity of invention displayed in this same third
exchange (though an iron-picketed fence seems modern). My reasons for
thinking our story not imported from the Occident are the differences
in beginning, middle, and end between it and the European versions
cited by Bolte-Polívka (loc. cit.). The good luck coming to the hero
from the exchange of dead animals suggests a distant basic connection
between our story and the "Jataka," although it must be admitted that
the idea could occur independently to many different peoples.
TALE 33
THE THREE HUMPBACKS.
Narrated by Pacita Cordero, a Tagalog from Pagsanjan, Laguna, who
heard the story from her lavandera, or washer-woman.
Pablo was badly treated by his older brothers Pedro and Juan. The
coarsest food was given to him. His clothes were ragged. He slept on
the floor, while his two brothers had very comfortable beds. In fact,
he was deprived of every comfort and pleasure.
In the course of time this unfortunate youth fell in love with
a well-to-do girl, and after a four-years engagement they were
married. Thus Pablo was separated from his brothers, to their great
joy. Pedro and Juan now began spending their money lavishly on
trifles. They learned how to gamble. Pablo, however, was now living
happily and out of want with his wife. Every morning he went to fish,
for his wife owned a large fishery.
One day, as Pablo was just leaving the house at the usual hour to
go fishing, he said to his wife, "Wife, if two humpbacks like myself
ever come here, do not admit them. As you know, they are my brothers,
and they used to treat me very badly." Then he went away. That very
afternoon Pedro and Juan came to pay their brother a visit. They
begged Marta, Pablo's wife, to give them some food, for they were
starving. They had squandered all their money, they said. Marta was
so impressed by the wretched appearance of her brothers-in-law, that
she admitted them despite her husband's prohibition. She gave them
a dinner. When they had finished eating, she said to them, "It is
now time for my husband to come home. He may take vengeance on you
for your past unkindness to him, if he finds you here, so I'll hide
you in two separate trunks. You stay there till to-morrow morning,
and I'll let you out when my husband is gone again."
She had scarcely locked the trunks when Pablo entered. He did not find
out that his brothers had been there, however. The next morning Pablo
went to his work, as usual. Marta had so much to do about the house
that day, that she forgot all about Pedro and Juan. The poor boys,
deprived of air and food, died inside the trunks. Not until two days
later did Marta think of the two humpbacks. She ran and opened the
trunks, and found their dead bodies inside. Her next thought was how
to dispose of them. At last a plan occurred to her. She called to her
neighbor, and asked him to come bury one of her brothers-in-law who
had just died in her house. She promised to pay him five pesos when
he came back from his work.
The neighbor lifted the heavy body of Pedro, and, putting it on his
shoulder, carried it away to a far place. There he dug a hole that
was waist deep, put the corpse into it, and covered it up. Then he
hastened back to Marta, and said, "Madam, I have buried the dead man
in a very deep grave."
"No, you have not," said Marta. "What is that lying over there?" and
she pointed to the corpse of Juan.
"That's very strange!" exclaimed the neighbor, scratching his
head. "You are very artful," he said to the dead body of Juan. He
was very angry with the corpse now, for he had not yet received his
pay. So he bore the corpse of Juan to the seashore. He got a banca
[89] and dug a very deep grave beneath the water. Then he said to
the corpse, "If you can come out of this place, you are the wisest
person in the world." He then returned to Marta's house.
On his way back he happened to look behind him, when he saw, to his
great surprise, the humpback following him, carrying some fish. The
gambler gazed at him; and when he saw that he resembled exactly the
corpse that he had just buried, he said, "So you have come out of the
grave again, have you, you naughty humpback!" And with these words
he killed the humpback that very instant. This humpback was Marta's
husband returning home from the fishery.
Thus Marta tried to deceive, but she was the one who was deceived.
The Seven Humpbacks.
Narrated by Teofilo Reyes, a Tagalog from Manila.
Once there lived seven brothers who were all humpbacks, and who looked
very much alike. Ugly as these humpbacks were, still there was a lady
who fell in love with one of them and married him. This lady, however,
though she loved her husband well, was a very stingy woman. Finally
the time came when the unmarried humpbacks had to depend on the other
one for food. Naturally this arrangement was very displeasing to the
wife; and in time her hate grew so intense, that she planned to kill
all her brothers-in-law.
One day, when her husband was away on business, she murdered the six
brothers. Next she hired a man to come and bury a corpse. She told him
of only one corpse, because she wanted to deceive the man. When he had
buried one of the bodies, he came back to get paid for his work. The
woman, however, before he had time to speak, began to reproach him
for not burying the man in the right place. "See here!" she said,
showing him the corpse of the second brother, "you did not do your
work well. Go and bury the body again. Remember that I will not pay
you until you have buried the man so that he stays under the earth."
The man took the second corpse and buried it; but when he returned,
there it was again. And so on: he repeated the operation until he
thought that he had buried the same corpse six times. But after the
sixth, the last humpback, had been buried, the married humpback came
home from his work. When the grave-digger saw this other humpback,
he immediately seized and killed him, thinking he was the same man
he had buried so many times before.
When the wicked woman knew that her very husband had been killed,
she died of a broken heart.
Notes.
A Pampango variant (c), which I have only in abstract, is entitled
"The Seven Hunchbacked Brothers." It was collected by Wenceslao Vitug
of Lubao, Pampanga. It runs thus:--
There were seven hunchbacked brothers that looked just alike. One of
them married, and maintained the other six in his house. The wife,
however, grew tired of them, and locked them up in the cellar,
where they starved to death. In order to save burial-expenses,
the woman fooled the grave-digger. When he had buried one man and
returned for his money, she had another body lying where the first
had lain, and told him that he could not have his money until the
man was buried to stay. Thus the poor gravedigger buried all six
corpses under the impression that he was working with the same one
over and over again. On his way back from burying the sixth, he met
the husband riding home on horseback. Thinking him to be the corpse,
which he exactly resembled, the grave-digger cried out, "Ah! so this
is the way you get ahead of me!" and he struck the living hunchback
with his hoe and killed him.
This Pampango variant, although it is a little more specific than
the Tagalog, is identical with our second version.
Our two stories and the variant represent a family of tales found
scattered all over Europe. They are also connected distantly with
one of the stories in the "1001 Nights," and thus with the Orient
again. For a discussion of this cycle, see Clouston, "Popular Tales and
Fictions," 2 : 332 ff., where are cited and abstracted versions from
the Old-English prose form of the "Seven Wise Masters," from the Gesta
Romanorum, also the fabliau "Destourmi;" then five other fabliaux from
Legrand's and Barbasan's collections, especially the trouvere Dutant's
"Les Trois Bossus;" and the second tale of the seventh sage in the
"Mishlé Sandabar," the Hebrew version of the book of Sindibad. On
pp. 344-357 Clouston gives variants of the related story in which
the same corpse is disposed of many times. For further bibliography,
see Wilson's Dunlop, 2 : 42, note.
The nearest parallel I know of to our first story is Straparola, 5 :
3, from which it was probably derived.
There were three humpbacked brothers who looked very much alike. The
wife of one of them, disobeying the order of her husband, secretly
received her two brothers-in-law. When her husband returned
unexpectedly, she hid the brothers in the kitchen, in a trough used
for scalding pigs. There the two humpbacks smothered before the
wife could release them. In order to rid herself of their corpses,
she hired a body-carrier to cast one of them into the Tiber; and
when he returned for his pay, she informed him that the corpse had
come back. After the man had removed the second corpse, he met the
humpbacked husband, whom he now likewise cast into the river.
The identity of this story with ours makes a direct connection between
the two practically certain. The two stories differ in this respect,
however: the Italian has a long introduction telling of the enmity
between the hunchback brothers, and of the knavish tricks of Zambo,
the oldest, who goes out to seek his fortune, and is finally married
in Rome. All this detail is lacking in the Filipino version, as is
likewise the statement (found in Straparola) that the wife rejoiced
when she learned that she had been rid of her husband as well as of
the corpses of her brothers-in-law.
In our other story and the Pampango variant we note some divergences
from the preceding tale. Here the one married brother charitably
supports his six indigent brothers, whom the wife subsequently
murders. In the majority of the European versions the deaths are either
accidental or are contrived by the husband and wife together (e.g.,
Gesta Romanorum; and Von der Hagen, No. 62). While I am inclined
to think these two stories of ours imported, they do not appear to
be derived immediately from the same source (Straparola). However,
the facts that the seven men are brothers and are humpbacks, and that
the husband is killed by mistake, make an Occidental source for our
second story and for the Pampango variant most probable.
I know of no Oriental analogues to the story as a whole, though the
trick of getting a number of corpses buried for one appears in several
stories from Cochin-China, Siam, and the Malay Archipelago:--
(1) Landes, No. 180, which I summarize here from Cosquin (2 : 337):
In the course of some adventures more or less grotesque, four monks are
killed at one time near an inn. The old woman who keeps this hostelry,
fearful of being implicated in a murder, wishes to get rid of the
corpses. She hides three of the bodies, and has one buried by a monk
who is passing by. She pretends that the dead man is her nephew. The
monk, returning to the inn after his task, is stupefied to see the
corpse back there again. The old woman tells him not to be astonished,
for her nephew loved her so much that he could not bear to leave her;
he would have to be buried deeper. The monk carries this corpse away,
and on his return has the same experience with the third and fourth
corpses. After the last time, he meets, while crossing a bridge,
another, live monk resembling those he has interred. "Halloo!" he says,
"I have been burying you all day, and now you come back to be buried
again!" With that he pushes the fifth monk into the river.
(2) Skeat, I : 36-37, "Father Follow-My-Nose and the Four Priests:"
Father Follow-My-Nose would walk straight, would climb over a house
rather than turn aside. One day he had climbed up one side of a
Jerai-tree and was preparing to descend, when four yellow-robed
priests, lest he should fall, held a cloak for him. But he jumped
without warning, and the four cracked their heads together and
died. Old Father Follow-My-Nose travelled on till he came to the hut of
a crone. The crone went back and got the bodies of the four priests. An
opium-eater passed by; and the crone said, "Mr. Opium-Eater, if
you'll bury me this yellow-robe here, I'll give you a dollar." The
opium-eater agreed, and took the body away to bury it; but when he
came back for his money, there was a second body waiting for him. "The
fellow must have come to life again," he said; but he took the body
and buried it too. After he had buried the fourth in like manner,
it was broad daylight, and he was afraid to go collect his money.
(3) A story communicated to me by a Chinese student, Mr. Jut L. Fan
of Canton, who says that he saw the tale acted at a popular theatre
in Canton in 1913. The story I give is but the synopsis of the play:
In Canton, the capital of Kwong Tung, a mile's walk from the
marketplace, stood a prehistoric abbey, away from the busy streets,
and deep in the silent woods. In this old monastery an aged abbot
ruled over five hundred young monks; but they were far from being like
their venerable master. Men and women, rich and poor, for fear of the
dread consequences if they should incur the displeasure of the gods,
went in great numbers to worship in the ancient buildings, kneeling
in long rows before the sacred figures and incense.
These gatherings made it possible for the young monks and the young
girls to become intimately acquainted,--so intimate, that sometimes
shame and disgrace followed. One young girl who had been seduced,
on an appropriate occasion and after great consideration, persuaded
seven of the disciples who had been engaged in her ruin to enter
her house. Then she invited them into her private chamber. As if by
chance, there came a sharp rap on the locked door; so she hid her
unusual visitors in a big wardrobe. What this young lady next did
might seem unnatural; but, with the help of her servants, she poured
boiling oil into the wardrobe, and killed the miscreants.
She next hired a porter to convey one body to the river near by and
bury it. This porter was not informed as to the number of corpses he
would have to bury; but every time he came back for his pay, there was
another body for him. So one after another he dropped the bodies of
the young monks into the swift-flowing stream, wondering all the while
by what magic the lifeless body managed to return to the original spot.
Just after he had disposed of the seventh, up came the old abbot
himself, with dignified mien. "Ah! I see now how you return," said the
drudger, and he laid hold of the priest and ended his natural days. The
old abbot thus suffered the fate of his seven unworthy disciples.
TALE 34
RESPECT OLD AGE.
Narrated by José Ignacio, a Tagalog from Malabon, Rizal.
Once there lived a poor man who had to support his family, the
members of which were a hot-headed wife who predominated over the
will of her husband; a small boy of ten; and an old man of eighty,
the boy's grandfather. This old man could no longer work, because of
his feebleness. He was the cause of many quarrels between the husband
and wife, but was loved by their son.
One rainy morning the husband was forced by his wife to send his
father away. He called his son, and ordered him to carry a basket full
of food and also a blanket. He told the boy that they were to leave
the old man in a hut on their farm some distance away. The boy wept,
and protested against this harsh treatment of his grandfather, but
in vain. He then cut the blanket into two parts. When he was asked to
explain his action, he said to his father, "When you grow old, I will
leave you in a hut, and give you this half of the blanket." The man
was astonished, hurriedly recalled his order concerning his father,
and thereafter took good care of him.
The Golden Rule.
Narrated by Cipriano Seráfica, a Pangasinan from Mangaldan, Pangasinan.
A long time ago there lived in a town a couple who had a son. The
father of the husband lived with his son and daughter-in-law happily
for many years. But when he grew very old, he became very feeble. Every
time he ate at the table, he always broke a plate, because his hands
trembled so. The old man's awkwardness soon made his son angry, and
one day he made a wooden plate for his father to eat out of. The poor
old man had to eat all his food from this wooden plate.
When the grandson noticed what his father had done, he took some
tools and went down under the house. There he took a piece of board
and began to carve it. When his father saw him and said to him,
"What are you doing, son?" the boy replied to him, "Father, I am
making wooden plates for you and my mother when you are old."
As the son uttered these words, tears gushed from the father's
eyes. From that time on, the old man was always allowed to eat at
the table with the rest of the family, nor was he made to eat from
a wooden plate.
MORAL: Do unto others as you want them to do unto you.
Notes.
A Pampango variant of these stories, entitled "The Old Man, his Son,
and his Grandson," and narrated by Eutiquiano Garcia of Mexico,
Pampanga, has been printed by H. E. Fansler (p. 100). Mr. Garcia
says that he heard the story told by his father at a gathering
of a number of old story-tellers at his home during the Christmas
vacation in 1908. The tale has every appearance of having long been
naturalized in the Islands, if not of being native. It is brief,
and may be reprinted here:--
In olden times, when men lived to be two or three hundred years old,
there dwelt a very poor family near a big forest. The household had but
three members,--a grandfather, a father, and a son. The grandfather
was an old man of one hundred and twenty-five years. He was so old,
that the help of his housemates was needed to feed him. Many a time,
and especially after meals, he related to his son and his grandson his
brave deeds while serving in the king's army, the responsible positions
he filled after leaving a soldier's life; and he told entertaining
stories of hundreds of years gone by. The father was not satisfied
with the arrangement, however, and planned to get rid of the old man.
One day he said to his son, "At present I am receiving a peso daily,
but half of it is spent to feed your worthless grandfather. We do
not get any real benefit from him. To-morrow let us bind him and take
him to the woods, and leave him there to die."
"Yes, father," said the boy.