Carlos Bulosan Sampayan

Two Faces of America is one of the many works by Carlos Bulosan that reflect his personal
experiences and political views as a Filipino-American. He is a novelist, essayist, and labor
union organizer who was born on November 24, 1913 in Binalonan, Pangasinan, Philippine
Island. Carlos Sampayan is a Filipino-American writer and activist who immigrated to the
United States in the 1930s. - he is best known for his semi-autobiographical novel
''America is In the Heart, which chronicles his life as a migrant worker and labor organizer in
the United States. He also wrote poems, short stories, essays, and letters that deal with themes
such as colonialism, nationalism, class struggle, and human rights. He is considered one of
the most influential AsianAmerican writers and a pioneer of Filipino-American literature.
After 1946, it is republished by The University of Washington Press in 1973. It was described
by one character in the books original draft as ''30% biography, 40% case history of Filipino
(Filipino immigrant) life in America, and 30% fiction.

Two Faces of America

By Carlos Sampaya -Bulosan
In Santa Maria, where I was working with Jose, I received a disturbing communication from
Millar. Trouble was brewing in San Jose, forty miles south of San Francisco. Jose and I took
the first bus, stopping a few hours in San Luis Obispo to see how Ganzo was progressing. In
the early morning, after a lengthy deliberation with Ganzo in his cabin, we rushed to the
station and slept in the bus until Salinas.
I still do not know why Jose and I never discussed unionism and politics when we were alone.
It was only when we were with others, when we were in action, that we spoke aloud and
acted according to our judgment. But I knew that I was coming to a way of thinking that
would govern my life in the coming years. I surmised that the same evolution was taking
place in Jose. But there was still no term for it. I belleved then that agitating the agricultural
workers was enough, but the next five years showed me that a definite political program was
also needed.
Millar was not at out rendezvous in San Jose. I went to the lettuce fields and talked to the
workers. The companies had drastically cut the wage scales: the year before, it had been
thirty cents an hour, but now it had been reduced to twenty cents. The Filipino workers
struck, but the companies imported Mexican laborers.
“There should be a law against the importation of labor,” I said. “It should be included in the
interstate laws.”
“The time will come,” Jose said. “Without it the workers will always be at the mercy of the
employers.”
“Your are absolutely right, Carl,” Jose said. “But we have a good president in Washington, so
we will probably have some of our demands—if we use enough pressure.”
I was not satisfied, but there was some hope. I went to the Mexican district and gathered
together some of the Mexicans who had quit the fields that day. Jose, who spoke fluent
Spanish, came and explained to them the importance of the strike. They were enthusiastic. A
runner was sent to the fields to stop the Mexicans who were still working, and he came back
to tell us that only fifty remained.
But we wanted an all-out strike, although we doubted that it would be possible. That night,
when Jose and I were in the back room of a restaurant, preparing a leaflet to be circulated,
five white men came suddenly into the room. I started to run to the door, but it was too late.
Two big men, one wearing dark glasses, carried off Jose. The other man suddenly turned
around and shot out the light bulbs.
I was kicked into the back seat of a big car. Jose was in the front seat. between the driver and
the man with dark glasses. When the car started to move, I looked down and saw Millar
bleeding on the floor. He looked up at me with frightened eyes, pleading, wanting to tell me
that he had nothing to do with our arrest. I tumed the other way. aching to hit him in the face.
I looked through the window hoping to find some escape. I was sure that if the car turned a
corner, I could jump out. If I succeeded in jumping out--could I escape their guns? My heart
almost stopped beating. It was better to die trying to escape than to wait for death.
But when the car came to a deserted country road, I knew that flight was impossible. I lost all
hope, I glanced quickly at the wide, clear fields, catching a fleeting glimpse of the sky.
Looking swiftly to the east, I saw the big moon and below it, soon to move away, a mass of
clouds that looked like a mountain of cotton balls. Suddenly I remembered that as a child I
used to watch snow-white clouds sailing in the bright summer skies of Mangusmana. The
memory of my village made my mind whirl, longing for flight and freedom again.
I was helpless now. I watched my companions: they seemed to have given up all hope. There
was only death at the end of the road. The white men were silent. Millar touched my legs
when we passed in the shadows of trees. The driver turned off the road and crossed a wide
beet field, heading for the woods not far away.
We entered the woods and in five minutes the car stopped. One of the men in front jumped
out and came to our door.
“You have the rope, Jake?”
“Yeah!”
The man on my right got out and pulled me violently after him, hitting me on the jaw. I fell
on my knees but got up at once, trembling with rage. If only I had a gun! Or a knife! I could
cut these bastards into little pieces! Blood came out of my mouth. I raised my hand to wipe it
off, but my attacker hit me again. I staggered, fell on my face,
And rolled on the-grass.
“Up! Goddamn you! Up!”
Painfully, I crawled to my feet, knelt on the grass, and got up slowly. I saw them kicking
Millar on the grass. When they were through with him, they tore off Jose's clothes and tied
him to a tree. One of them went to the car and came back with a can of tar and a sack of
feathers. The man with the dark glasses ripped the sack open and white feathers fell out and
sailed in the thin light that filtered between the trees.
Then I saw them pouring the tar on Jose’s body. One of them lit a match and burned the
delicate hair between his legs.
“Jesus, he’s a well-hung son-of-a-bitch!”
“Yeah!”
“No wonder whores stick to them!”
“The other monkey ain’t so hot!”
They looked at my direction. The man with the dark glasses started beating Millar. Then he
came to me and kicked my left knee violently that I fell on the grass, blinded with pain.
Hardening my body, I wished I were strong enough to reach him. He spat in my face and left.
Another man, the one called Jake, tied me to a tree. Then he started beating me with his fists.
Why were these men so brutal, so sadistic? A tooth fell out of my mouth, and blood trickled
down my shirt. The man called Lester grabbed my testicles with his left hand and smashed
them with his right fist. The pain was so swift and searing that it was as if there were no pain
at all. There was only a stabbing heat that leaped into my head and stayed there for a moment.
“Shall we bum this yellow belly?”
“He’s gone.”
“I’d like a souvenir.”
“Scalp him!”
“What about the other bastard?”
“He’s gone, too.”
They left me. One of them went to the car and took out a bottle of whiskey. They started
drinking, passing the bottle from hand to hand. Once in a while, when a bottled was emptied,
one of them would come over and beat me. When they were drunk enough, I feared that they
would burn Jose. Millar crawled painfully over to where I was lying.
"Knife in my left shoe,: he whispered.
"Quiet." I rolled over and reached for the knife. Now I could cut the ropes that tied my legs.
My hands were free! Then I was ready to run! I handed the knife back and whispered to
Millar to roll away. I crawled in the grass slowly; when I reached the edge of the woods, I got
up and tried to run. But I had almost no use of my left leg, so that most of the time I hopped
through the beet fields like a kangaroo.
The night was clear and quiet. I was afraid they would see me. I heard their voices in the
wind. Once a flashlight beamed from the edge of the woods. I lay flat on my stomach and
watched it disappear among the trees. Then I got up and staggered towards San Jose.
I stopped when I came to the lighted areas to avoid suspicion. I turned away from the
business district and headed for the Oriental Section. A police car came by. I turned in at a
side door and opened it, I found myself in a little room, with dolls on the bed and a poor table
radio on a small table. On the dresser was the picture of a woman who might have been
twenty-five. Someone was in the bathroom for I could heat a noise there. I was reaching for
the door knob when a white woman came out.
She stopped short in surprise, letting the towel fall from her hands.
“Please don’t be afraid,” I said. “Some men are after me.”
She came forward. “Have you killed somebody?”
“No.”
“Did you steal some money?”
“No. I-well, I—work with the unions.”
She ran to a little room and brought me a clean shirt. She brought a basin of warm water and
began washing my face gently. Then she took me to the kitchen, where she prepared
something for me to eat. I watched her. She might inform the police. Could I trust her?
“When did you eat last?” she asked.
“I don’t remember.” I said.
“Poor boy.” She got up. “Eat everything and go to sleep.”
I almost cried. What was the matter with this land? Just a moment ago I was being beaten by
white men. But there was another white person, a woman, giving me food and place to rest.
And her warmth! I sat on the couch and started talking. I wanted to explain what happened to
me.
"Poor boy." There was kindness in her face, some urge to reach me, to understand what I was
telling her. And sometimes when she got touched by my description, I could feel her hand on
my face. There was tenderness in her touch.
"Thank you so much," I said.
"Go to sleep now." She switched off the lights and went to her bed. I watched her in the
darkness. I could see in the dark almost clearly as in a room flooded with lights. "Good
night," she said.
I lay quietly on the couch; then tears began to come to my eyes. What would happen to Jose
and Millar? Had I the right to run away? Had I? The fight must go on, Jose used to say. All
right. I would go on with the fight. I would show them. The silence outside was deepening.
Not far away, in a nearby farmhouse, I could hear a rooster crowing.
The woman was still awake. She sat up. She heard me crying. She got up and came to my
couch.
"What is your name?" she asked.
"Carl." I said, "Remember me only as Carl, that's all."
"Mine is Marian," she said. "Go to sleep now."
She woke up early in the morning. I was surprised to find that she had packed her things.
"Wait for me here," she said. "I'll get my car."
In five minutes she was back. I carried the suitcases into the car. She sat at the wheel and put
the key in the lock. Then she looked back to the town, as though she were committing it to
memory. I knew her look because I had done the same thing a hundred times. It was a
farewell lookforever. The car started to move.
"We'll go to Los Angeles," she said.
I looked out of the window. The sun was rising.

American Imposition, Filipino Response, Selected Readings

The Philippine-American War, 1899–1902/ American imposition

After its defeat in the Spanish-American War of 1898, Spain ceded its longstanding colony of
the Philippines to the United States in the Treaty of Paris. On February 4, 1899, just two days
before the U.S. Senate ratified the treaty, fighting broke out between American forces and
Filipino nationalists led by Emilio Aguinaldo who sought independence rather than a change
in colonial rulers. The ensuing Philippine-American War lasted three years and resulted in the
death of over 4,200 American and over 20,000 Filipino combatants. As many as 200,000
Filipino civilians died from violence, famine, and disease.
 “Battle of Manila Bay”

The decision by U.S. policymakers to annex the Philippines was not without domestic
controversy. Americans who advocated annexation evinced a variety of motivations: desire
for commercial opportunities in Asia, concern that the Filipinos were incapable of self-rule,
and fear that if the United States did not take control of the islands, another power (such as
Germany or Japan) might do so. Meanwhile, American opposition to U.S. colonial rule of the
Philippines came in many forms, ranging from those who thought it morally wrong for the
United States to be engaged in colonialism, to those who feared that annexation might
eventually permit the non-white Filipinos to have a role in American national government.
Others were wholly unconcerned about the moral or racial implications of imperialism and
sought only to oppose the policies of President William McKinley’s administration.

After the Spanish-American War, while the American public and politicians debated the
annexation question, Filipino revolutionaries under Aguinaldo seized control of most of the
Philippines’ main island of Luzon and proclaimed the establishment of the independent
Philippine Republic. When it became clear that U.S. forces were intent on imposing
American colonial control over the islands, the early clashes between the two sides in 1899
swelled into an all-out war. Americans tended to refer to the ensuing conflict as an
“insurrection” rather than acknowledge the Filipinos’ contention that they were fighting to
ward off a foreign invader.
 Emilio Aguinaldo

There were two phases to the Philippine-American War. The first phase, from February to
November of 1899, was dominated by Aguinaldo’s ill-fated attempts to fight a conventional
war against the better-trained and equipped American troops. The second phase was marked
by the Filipinos’ shift to guerrilla-style warfare. It began in November of 1899, lasted through
the capture of Aguinaldo in 1901 and into the spring of 1902, by which time most organized
Filipino resistance had dissipated. President Theodore Roosevelt proclaimed a general
amnesty and declared the conflict over on July 4, 1902, although minor uprisings and
insurrections against American rule periodically occurred in the years that followed.

The United States entered the conflict with undeniable military advantages that included a
trained fighting force, a steady supply of military equipment, and control of the archipelago’s
waterways. Meanwhile, the Filipino forces were hampered by their inability to gain any kind
of outside support for their cause, chronic shortages of weapons and ammunition, and
complications produced by the Philippines’ geographic complexity. Under these conditions,
Aguinaldo’s attempt to fight a conventional war in the first few months of the conflict proved
to be a fatal mistake; the Filipino Army suffered severe losses in men and material before
switching to the guerrilla tactics that might have been more effective if employed from the
beginning of the conflict.
 President Theodore Roosevelt

The war was brutal on both sides. U.S. forces at times burned villages, implemented civilian
reconcentration policies, and employed torture on suspected guerrillas, while Filipino fighters
also tortured captured soldiers and terrorized civilians who cooperated with American forces.
Many civilians died during the conflict as a result of the fighting, cholera and malaria
epidemics, and food shortages caused by several agricultural catastrophes.

Even as the fighting went on, the colonial government that the United States established in
the Philippines in 1900 under future President William Howard Taft launched a pacification
campaign that became known as the “policy of attraction.” Designed to win over key elites
and other Filipinos who did not embrace Aguinaldo’s plans for the Philippines, this policy
permitted a significant degree of self-government, introduced social reforms, and
implemented plans for economic development. Over time, this program gained important
Filipino adherents and undermined the revolutionaries’ popular appeal, which significantly
aided the United States’ military effort to win the war.

In 1907, the Philippines convened its first elected assembly, and in 1916, the Jones Act
promised the nation eventual independence. The archipelago became an autonomous
commonwealth in 1935, and the U.S. granted independence in 1946.
 Kahapon, Ngayon at Bukas

Ni Aurelio Tolentino
(Buod)
Nasilaw sa kislap ng salapi ay isinuplong ni Asal Hayop (Mapaglilong Tagalog) ang
kanyang Inang Bayan (Filipinas) at ang kanyan kapatid na si Tagailog (Katagalugan).
Napatay ni Tagailog si Haring Bata (Haring Intsik). Pinarusahan ni Tagailog si Asal Hayop,
sinunog siya upang magsilibing halimbawa na hindi siya dapat pamarisan.
Dumating si Dilat na Bulag (Espanya). Kinaibigan niya sina Inang Bayan at Tagailog.
Sila’y nagsumpaan ng katapatan at bilang pagpapatibay sa kanilang sumpaan ay ininom nila
ang pinaghalong dugong nagbuhat sa kanilang mga ugat.
Si Dahumpalaya (Mapaglilong Tagalog) ay nagtaksil at sa pakana niya ay nasukol at
napilit si Tagalog. Si Matanglawin (Sakim at Mapagsamantalang Gobyerno ng Kastila sa
Pilipinas) ay sinulsulan pa ni Dahumpalay na panatilihing nakagapos si Tagailog sa habang
panahon. Namulubi si Inang Bayan dahil sa pagmamahal sa anak.
Ipinagkaloob niya ang kanyang salapi kay Matanglawin upang makalaya si Tagailog.
Pinalaya ni Matanglawin si Tagailog ngunit siya’y nagbabalak na naman nang masama.
Huhulihin niyang muli si Tagailog upang makahinging muli ng salapi kay Inang Bayan.
Nalinlang ni Tagailog si Matanglawin kaya hindi natupad ang masama niyang balak.
Naisadlak sa libingan ni Dilat na Bulag si Inang Bayan sa tulong ni Halimaw.
Napabalitaang pinamumunuan ng kaluluwa ni Tagailog ang magsisipaghimagsik.
Napagkasunduan nina Tagailog at Bagong Sibol (Amerika) na pagtutulungan nila si Dilat na
Bulag. Lumabas sa libingan si Inang Bayan. Inilibing nang buhay sina Dilat na Bulag,
Matanglawin at Halimaw sa libingang hinukay sa utos ni Inang Bayan. Nagtagumpay sina
Tagailog at Bagong Sibol. Pinaalalahanan ni Inang Bayan si Bagong Sibol na pakitunguhan
silang mabuti sapagkat kapag silang mag-ina ay inapi ni Bagong Sibol ay makabubuti pang
lahat sila’y lipunin nang minsanan. Nayari ang bandila ni Inang Bayan. Ipinabatid ni
Tagailog kay Bagong Sibol ang paghahangad ng kalayaan ni Inang Bayan.
Napangarap ni Bagong Sibol na hinabol niya si Inang Bayan dahil sa kinuha niyon ang
dala niyang agila at ipinukol sa isang maliit na batong may elektrisidad. Lumubog sa libingan
si Inang Bayan. Pinagbantaan si Bagong Sibol ng mga kaluluwang nangaroon. Pinagbalaan
ng kasawian ni Kamatayan si Bagong Sibol kapag hindi niya pinalaya si Inang Bayan.
 Kahapon, Ngayon at Bukas

Aurelio Tolentino
(Dula ng Himagsikan)
MGA TAUHAN

INANGBAYAN (PILIPINAS)
DILAT NA BULAG (ESPANYA)
BAGONGSIBOL (AMERIKA)
MASUNURIN (BABAING PILIPINA)
TAGAILOG (ANG KATAGALUGAN)
MATANGLAWIN (GOBYERNO NG KASTILA)
MALAYNATIN (GOBYERNONG AMERIKANO)
ASALHAYOP (MAPAGLILONG TAGALOG)
DAHUMPALAY (MAPAGLILONG TAGALOG)
HARINGBATA (HARING INTSIK)
HALIMAW (PRAYLE)
WALANG TUTOL (LALAKING PILIPINO)

Mga taong bayan, mga Hukbong Tagalog, mga Hukbong Intsik, Kapisanan ng Cruz Rojang
babae, mga kawal na rebulosyonaryo, mga batang lalaki’t babae, bandang musika ng
Hukbong Tagalog, mga Kaluluwa ng nangamatay sa labanan, ang Haring Kamatayan,
Rehimiyento ng Artiller, Infanteria at Ingeniena.

BAHAGI I

(Isang bakurang may sagingan at iba pang halaman sa tabi. Sa gitna ay isang balag.) LABAS
I (Asalhayop at mga taong bayan. Nangakahanay ang babae sa kanan at ang mga lalaki
naman sa kaliwa. Nanga-taas ang kanang kamay nilang lahat, na tumatangan sa kopang ginto.
Masasaya ang anyo nila.)
(Asalhayop, Masunurin, Walang tutol, mga taong bayan.)
Walangtutol : Mag-inuman, magsayawan.
Masunurin : Si Asalhayop ay ipagdiwang.
Koro : Ipagdiwang.
1.o : Mapala ang kanyang buhay.
1.a : At lumawig habang araw.
2.o : Habang araw.
Walangtutol : Dangal niya’y huwag dadalawin ng siphayo’y ng hilahil.
2.a : Huwag dadalawin.
3.a : Dangal niya’y magluningning sa ligayang sasapitin.
Koro : Magluningning.
Masunurin : Madlang puri, madlang biyaya sa kaniya’y sumagana.
Koro : Sumagana.
3.a : Madlang yaman, madlang tuwa sa kaniya’y lumawig nawa.
Koro : Lumawig nawa.
Asalhayop : Katoto’t giliw, mga kaibigan, sa inyo’y salamat nang habang buhay.
Ang inyong nais na tungkol sa akin ay aking biyaya sa sasapitin.
Kayo ang dangal ko, at kayong tunay ang tanging suhay sa aking buhay.
(Lalapitang isa-isa ni Asal. Ang mga Koro at ipipingki sa kani-kanilang kopa ang kanyang
hawak.) Mag-inuman, magsayawan, mag-awitan, limutin ang kalumbayan.
Koro : Mag-inuman.
(Anyong iinumin ng lahat ang laman ng kani-kanilang kopa.
Biglang lalabas si Ina, at si Tag. Magugulat ang mga dadatnan.Titigan sila ng kagulat-gulat ni
Ina.)
LABAS 2
(Sila rin, Inangbayan, Tagalog)
Inangbayan : Mga walang loob, mga walang damdam, bago’y nagluluksa ang kawawang
bayan.
Mga walang puso, mga walang dangal, nahan ang pangakong kayo ay dadamay sa mga
pumanaw? (Tatawa nang malakas si Asal at ituturo si Ina.) Inangbayan : Asalhayop!
Asalhayop : Masdan ninyo si Inangbayan,
Ang buwisit at manggagaway.
(Magtatawanan ang koro.)
Humayo ka, Inangbayan,
Huwag sabihin ang patay. (Magtatawanan ang koro.)
Koro : Mag-inuman.
(Anyong iinumin ang laman ng mga kopa.)
Inangbayan : Huwag!
Huwag ninyong lagukin, huwag ninyong mainom ang hinahawakang alak na may lason.
(Magtatawanan ang koro.)
Ang inyong kaluluwa ay malilinggatong, kayo’y isusumpa ng mga pahanon.
(Magtatawanan ang koro.)
Mainit pang tunay sa mga buruhan ang bangkay ng inyong nuno at magulang.
(Magtatawanan ang koro.)
Hayo at mag-isip ng tinutunguhan, hayo at bakahin ang mga
kaaway. (Mahabang tawanan nila Asal at ng Koro.) Koro :
Magsayawan.
(Iinumin ni Asal, at ng Koro ang laman ng mga kopa. Tititigan sila nang kagulat-gulat ni Ina.)
Inangbayan : Mga walang kaluluwa! Ang inyong mga kasayahan ngayon ay pagdustang
tunay sa libingan ng ating marangal na lipi. Ano? Hindi baga ninyo nararamdaman sa ibutod
ng inyong mga puso ang lamig ng kamatayan ng bayan? Hindi baga kayo nangahihiya sa
sarili, ngayong kayo nangagsasayahan sa ilalim ng talampakan ni Haringbata ang magiging
anak ni Hingiskang?
Asalhayop : Mahusay manalumpati ang ating ina, ang mangangaway.
Inangbayan : Asalhayop!
Asalhayop : Bigyan ako ng kaunting alak.
Koro : Kami man.
Inangbayan : Ako man.
Asalhayop : Kita ninyo? Kita ninyo’y huminging kusa, pagkakitang hindi natin siya
alintanahin?
Magaling na talaga si aling inangbayan.
Asalhayop : (Kay ina) Heto ang alak na alay ko sa iyo. (Bibigyan siya ng isang kopa.) Mag-
inuman! (Itataas ni Asal at Koro ang kanilang mga kopa.) Walangtutol : Mabuhay si
Asalhayop!
Koro : Mabuhay!
Inangbayan : Sumpain nawa ni Bathala ang hindi magsisi sa paglapastangan sa araw na ito!
Ito ngang tunay na araw ng kamatayan ng mga tagapagtanggol ng bayan. Ito ang araw ng
pagkalugso ng ating kahambal-hambal sa Balintawak. Sumpain nawa ni Bathala ang hindi
magsisi!Taos sa puso ko yaring sumpa, at sa katunayan ay… ayan!
(Ipupukol sa lupa ang kopang hawak) Asalhayop : Inangbayan!
Koro : (Biglang lalapitan ni Asal at tatampalin. Si Ina, ay mabubuwal, kasabay ng pagtawa ng
Koro.) Asalhayop : Manggagaway!
(Kasabay ng tampal at tawanan. Kasabay ng pagsakal sa kanya at pagtindig ni Ina.)
Walangtutol : Huwag! Bitiwan mo. Asalhayop.
(Bibitiwan.)
Inangbayan : Asalhayop, paglapastangan mo sa akin ay nahulog sa Apo, sa kamay ni
Mandagaran, ang taksil mong kaluluwa. At kayong mga nakianib sa kanya, kayong mga anak
kong pinakamamahal, ay nangahawa na mandin sa kanyang sawing palad. Dinudusta ninyo
sa libingan ang dangal ng inyong mga nuno.
Ah! Hindi ko inakala kailan pa man, na kayo’y hindi ko maihahalubilo sa mga angkang
nagkalat dito sa Dulong-Silangan.
Mga anak ko, mga bunsong pinakaiibig, kayo’y nangaliligaw. Panumbalikin ninyo ang
inyong mga loob, pagsisihan ninyo ang paglapastangan sa akin at sa dakilang araw ng
pagkalugso ng bayan. Kapag nilimot ninyo ang araw na ito ay lilimutin din ninyo ang
libingang luksa ng inyong mga magulang.
Kayo’y nangabulag na lubos. Buksan ninyo ang inyong mga mata.
(Biglang itataas ang tabing. Lilitaw ang mga libingang may mga pangalang sulat sa panahong
una at may mga sabit na luksa at sari-saring putong.) Ayan at tanawin ninyo sila!
(Mangagluluhuran si Tag at Koro at mangangahulog sa kanilang kamay ang mga kopoang
hawak, tanging hindi lamang si Asal at tatalikdan ang mga nasabing libingan.)
Sa mga libingang iyan ay nalalagak ang mga buto nila Gat-Salian, Bituin at laksa-laksang iba
pang bayaning kawal ng bayan.
Oh! Yayamang nilapastangan ninyo ang araw na ito at ang mga libingang iyan; yayamang
dinudusta ninyo ang daklilang pangalan ng inyong mga nuno; yayamang inilublob ninyo sa
pusali ng kapalamarahan ang banal na kasulatan ng ating maharlikang lipi, ay ipagpatuloy na
ninyo ang inyong baliw na kasayahan, 3 colors ipagpatuloy na ninyo, mga bunsong ginigiliw,
nguni’t pakiusap ko lamang, na doon sa ibabaw nila, sa ibabaw ng mga libingang iyan, ay
doon kayo mag-inuman ng alak, doon kayo magsayawan at mag-awitan, doon ninyo
sambilatin at yurakan iyang mga laksang sabit, doon ninyo huwag tugutang libakin ang
inyong sariling dangal.
(Tatangis at marahang lalakad na tungo sa mga libingan.)
Mga bunsong pinakamamahal! Paalam ako sa inyo! Paalam ako sa inyo!
(Mahuhulog na muli ang dating tabing.)
LABAS 3
(Sila rin, wala lamang si Inangbayan)
Tagailog : Mga kapatid ko!… Oh! Ano’t kayo’y nangalulumbay? Dahil baga sa pag-aalala
ninyo sa nalugsong buhay ng bayan sa araw na ito? Ah, tunay nga! Sapul noon hangga
ngayon ay dalawampung taon nang singkad,dalawampung taong pagkakaalipin. Nguni’t
huwag. Ngayo’y nahahanda nang lahat kapag kayo’y umayos sa aking mga panukala…
Koro : Magsabi ka!
Tagailog : Ibig baga ninyong bawiin sa kamay ng kaaway itong bayang sinamsam nila sa
kamay ng ating mga magulang?
Koro : Ngayon din.
Tagailog : Tayo na’t magsandatang lahat.
Koro : Tayo na.
(Aalis na lahat, matitira si Asal.)
LABAS 4
(Asalhayop)
(Tatanawin ang mga nagsisialis) Asalhayop : Mga mangmang!
Ang mga taong ito ay may mga walang pinag-aralan. Mabuti pa ang aso, mabuti pa ang
kalabaw, mabuti pa ang hayop kaysa sa kanila, sapagkat ang mga hayop ay nabubuhay at
marurunong magsipamuhay, nguni’t ang mga taong ito ay hindi.
Nangatatahimik ang aming mga magulang. At ano? kung ipaghiganti ko baga sila ay
mangabubuhay pa kayang muli? Babawiin daw ang kalayaan ng bayan. At bakit pa? Mabuti
ang may salaping alipin kaysa mahirap na laya. Mga hangal!
(Magkukuro) Mabuti nga.
Hahanapin ko ang mga Intsik, hahanapin ko si Haringbata at aking sasabihin sa kanya ang
lahat ng nangyari. Salapi na naman ito!
(Anyong aalis. Lalabas si Haringbata.)
LABAS 5
(Asalhayop, Haringbata, mamaya’y Inangbayan) Haringbata : Asalhayop.
Asalhayop : Ako po’y sumasayapak mo, dakila’t marangal na Haringbata.
Haringbata : Salamat.
(Lalabas si Ina, at manunubok sa tabi ng tabing. Hindi siya makikita ng dalawa.)
Asalhayop : Ako po sana ay talagang paparoon sa inyong bahay at may nasang sabihing
malaking bagay.
Haringbata : Ano yaon?
Asalhayop : Si Tagailog at lahat niyang kasama, na pawang kapatid niya’t kapatid ko rin ay
kaaalis din po dito ngayon. Mangagsasakbat ng sandata at kayo po ay babakahin.
Inangbayan : (Mapaglilo!) Haringbata : Tunay?
Asalhayop : Tunay po.
Haringbata : At bakit daw?
Asalhayop : Ibig daw po nilang mabawi ang kanilang kalayaan.
Haringbata : Mga masiging! At saan nangaroon?
Asalhayop : Ewan po, hahanapin ko sila at pakikialaman ko ang kanilang lihim, upang di
maipagbigay alam ko sa inyo at mangahulog sa inyong kamay.
Inangbayan : (Buhong!)
Haringbata : Salamat. Talasan mo ang iyong mga tainga’t mata. Heto ang salapi mong bayad.
(Bibigyan ng salapi)
At kung mangahulog na sila sa ilalim ng aking kapangyarihan ay dadagdagan ko pa iyan, at
bibigyan kita ng katungkulang mataas. Asalhayop : Salamat po.
Haringbata : Hihintayin kita ngayong gabi sa aking bahay, at ipagbigay alam mo sa akin ang
lahat nilang panukala. Heto ang tandang ilalahad mo sa taliba upang di ikaw ay papasukin.
(Bibigyan siya ng isang tsapang tanso at aalis.) Asalhayop : Asahan po ninyo.
(Titingnan ang salapi.)
Heto ang salapi ko, heto ang tunay na Ina kong bayan, ang tunay na Bathala. At
madaragdagan pa; at matataas pa ang aking katungkulan.
Sayang palad!
Inangbayan : ( Walang puri! )
LABAS 6
(Sila rin, Tagailog)
Asalhayop : Tagailog, hinahanap kita.
Tagailog : Ako’y gayon din, kita’y aking hinahanap.
Asalhayop : Sasalakayin baga natin si Haringbata?
Tagailog : Oo, bukas. Humanda ka’t ikaw ay kasama.
Asalhayop : Papaano ang paraang gagawin natin?
Tagailog : Ako’y magdadala kunwari ng buwis.
Asalhayop : Mahusay. At saan tayo dadaan?
Tagailog : Sa tabing-dagat ang kalahati, at ang kalahati naman ay sa Diliman. Heto na’t
nagdadatingan ang ating mga bayaning kawal, kasama ang mga babaeng tagapagsiyasat ng
sugatan.
LABAS 7
(Sila rin, Walangtutol, Masunurin, Korong lalaki at babae. Ang mga lalaki ay pawang
sandatahan.) Walangtutol : Tagailog, narito na kami.
Tagailog : Hintayin natin ang mga ibang kasama.
Asalhayop : Ako’y kasama ninyo, nguni’t ako’y uuwi pa muna sandali.
Tagailog : Hihintayin ka namin dito, at dito tayo magbubuhat sa pagsasalakay kay
Haringbata. Asalhayop : Asahan ninyong ako’y darating. Asahan ninyong kung saan kayo
mamatay ay doon din ako magpapakamatay. Paalam.
(Anyong aalis.)
Koro : Mabuhay si Asalhayop.
Inangbayan : (Kay Asal.) Hintay! Tagailog, huwag mong paalisin si Asalhayop.
Asalhayop : Ako?
Inangbayan : Ikaw.
Lahat : At bakit?
Inangbayan : Ako’y may itatanong sa kanya dito sa harapan.
Masunurin : Ano kaya?
Koro : Ano kaya?
Inangbayan : Asalhayop, wala ka bagang taglay na salapi ngayon?
Asalhayop : Wala.
Inangbayan : Dinggin ninyo? Wala raw. At wala ka bagang taglay na kahit anong tanso sa
katawan?
Asalhayop : Salupikang mangkukulam! Ano’t itinatanong mo?
Inangbayan : Wala ka bagang taglay na kahit anong tanso sa katawan?
Sumagot ka.
Lahat : Sumagot ka.
Asalhayop : Wala. Anhin ko ang tanso?
Inangbayan : Dinggin ninyo? Wala raw siyang taglay na salapi, at wala rin namang taglay na
kahit anong tanso.
(Tatawa nang malakas si Ina.)
Asalhayop : Ngitngit ni Bathala! Ano’t nagtatawa ka?
Inangbayan : Dakpin ninyo at ipinagbili tayong lahat kay Haringbata.
Lahat : Oh!
Asalhayop : Ako?
Inangbayan : Ikaw.
Asalhayop : Sinungaling si Inangbayan. Sinasabi kong sinungaling si Inangbayan.
Inangbayan : Mga bunso, siyasatin ninyo ang katawan ni Asalhayop, at may taglay na salapi,
at may taglay na tanso.
Tagailog : (Sa Koro) Siyasatin ninyo.
Asalhayop : Hindi ako pasisiyasat.
Tagailog : Dakpin ninyo.
(Tatanganan si Asal ng mga sandatahan ng mga babae ang kanyang katawan. Makukunan sa
bulsa ng salapi at isang tsapang tanso.) Masunurin : Tunay nga!
Lahat : Tunay nga!
Tagailog : Ano’t ipinagkaila mo ang iyong taglay?
Asalhayop : Ako’y… sapagkat… Datapwat…
(Tatawa nang malakas si Ina.)
Inangbayan : Yayamang hindi niya matutuhang turan ay aakuin ko na siya at ako na ang
magsasabi. Asalhayop : Inangbayan! Mahabag ka!
Tagailog : Sabihin mo, Inangbayan.
Lahat : Sabihin mo.
Asalhayop : Inangbayan!
Inangbayan : Ang salaping iyan ay siyang pinagbilhan ng nilako niyang buhay ng bayan kay
Haringbata.
Lahat : Oh!
Inangbayan : At ang tansong iyan ay siyang ilalahad sa mga taliba ng kaaway, upang siya’y
papasukin at maisiwalat ang ating lahat ng lihim.
Asalhayop : Sumpa ng Apo! Ngitngit ni Mandagaran!
Inangbayan : Pagmasdan ninyo ang tanso at may tatak marahil ni
Haringbata. (Pagmamasdan ng lahat ang tanso) Masunurin : Tunay nga.
Koro : Tunay nga.
Walangtutol : Kay Haringbatang tatak.
Tagailog : Asalhayop!
Asalhayop : Patawad!
Inangbayan : Ngayon at inyo nang nakilala kung sino nga si Asalhayop, ay paalam na ako sa
inyo. (Tuloy aalis. Anyong hahabulin ng lahat.) Lahat : Inangbayan?
LABAS 8
(Sila rin, wala lamang si Inangbayan)
Tagailog : (Kay Asal) Oh! Walang pusong kapatid! Walang dangal! Sa mga ugat mo ay
tumatakbo ang maruming dugo ni Lakasalian, yaong taksil na nagpagapos ng leeg ng ating
kawawang Inangbayan, kay Hangiskang na ama ng suwail na Haringbata.
Pagmasdan ninyo’t kumikislap sa kaniyang mga mata ang alipato ng kanyang paglililo.
Bayang Tagalog, tandaan ninyo yaring hatol.
Dapat mahalin ang ating mga kapatid, ang ating mga magulang, ang ating sariling buhay,
nguni’t lalo pa nating dapat mahalin ang dangal ng ating kahambal-hambal na Inangbayan.
(Sandaling palipas) Kaya nga, ang sino pa mang maglilo sa kanya, kapatid man natin o
magulang kaya, ay huwag pagpitaganan; takpan ang mata ng awa at idalhag siya sa bangin ng
lalong dustang kamatayan, at idagan sa kanyang ulo ang matinding sumpa ng ating pagkakap

The Euro-Hispanic Tradition

The “Euro- Hispanic” refers to the literary part of the cultural heritage of the Spanish
colonialism which brought over into Philippine writing forms, critical theory and subject
matter/ themes in Spanish literature and other West European Literatures, particularly French.

Filipino Playwrights

Severino Reyes (1861- 1942)

Walang Sugat (Not Wounded 1902)

Father of the Tagalog plays, Father of Tagalog Zarzuela

Reyes wrote 26 Zarzuelas and 22 dramas in his career.
He is known as the “Father of Tagalog Plays” and as the “Father of the Tagalog Zarzuela”

He took a clerical job at the Tesoreria General de Hacienda as a means to get avoided to
being enlisted into the Spanish Army to fight against the Moros in Mindanao and Sulu.
However he quit the job and decided to set up a store at Calle Ascarraga after he struggled
supporting his family with low income he got from his old job.
The Gran Compania de Zarzuela Tagala was established In 1902 by Reyes, also directing
zarzuellas himself for the group. The first one-act piece of the troupe, Ang Kalupi premiered
at Zorrilla Theatre in April 1902. On June 14, 1902, Zarzuela Tagala staged Walang Sugat a
drama set in Bulacan during the Philippine Revolution. Still on the same year, Reyes staged
the R.I.P (Requiescat in Pace) in Manila. His other Tagalog-language zarzuelas include
Minda Mora, Mga Bihag ni Cupido, Ang Bagong Fausto, Ang Tunay na Hukom, Ang
Tatlong Bituin, Margaritang Mananahi, Ang Halik ng Isang Patay and Luha ng Kagalakan.
The program of his plays was also exhibited by Governor-General William Howard Taft at
the St. Louis World Exposition and the Panama Pacific International Exposition.
Reyes helped found the Liwayway magazine in 1922, where he published Mga Kuwento ni
Lola Basyang a series of short stories. He used the titular character Lola Basyang as his pen
name and the work became the magazine’s most widely read feature.

Juan Matapang Cruz

Hindi aco Patay (I am Not Dead, 1903)

Hindi Ako Patay (Juan Matapang) -Hindi Aco Patay (Iam Not Dead) a full-length play drama
simboliko written by Juan Matapang Cruz in 1903. First staged at the Teatro Libertad in
Singalong, Manila then at the Teatro Nueva Luna in Malabon. In 1981 staged at the Puerto
Real Gardens in Intramuros Manila by the University of the Philippines (UP) Repertory
Company. Bonifacio Ilagan wrote a tagalog version from the english translation preserved by
Riggs found in Arthur Riggs, The Filipino Drama (1905) Manila: Intramuros Administration,
1981. The play invited strong reactions from the colonial authorities during its time. It was
banned in mid-performance at Teatro Nueva Luna in Malabon, and the troupe including the
playwright's wife, was arrested and imprisoned. In court, Cruz testified that he organized the
Karangalan Dramatic Theartrical Company for the purpose of presenting the play which
seems to have been presented many times-even advertised under different names-and won
enthusiastic audiences.

Aurelio Tolentino

Kahapon, Ngayon, at Bukas (1903)

Aurelio Tolentino y Valenzuela (October 15, 1869[1] – July 5, 1915) was a Filipino
playwright, poet, journalist, and revolutionary.[2] His works at the turn of the 20th century
depicted his desire to see Philippine independence from its colonizers. He was arrested twice,
first by the Spaniards and later by American forces.[3] He wrote and directed the anti-
imperialist play Kahapon, Ngayon at Bukas (Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow), which led to
his arrest in 1903.

Juan Abad
Tinikalang Ginto (1902)

Juan Abad (February 8, 1872 – December 24, 1932) was a Filipino printer, playwright, and
journalist-1899. His main contribution to Filipino theatre was his patriotic plays: the zarzuela
Ang Tanikalang Guinto (The Golden Chain), and Isang Punglo ng Kaaway, the former
which, caused his arrest and trial. Some authors credit Abad with the introduction of
symbolism to Tagalog drama, a claim which is still to be proven; although he may have been
one of the first Tagalog dramatists to use symbolism in their plays.
On February 2, 1902, Abad’s one-act Bulaklak ng Sampalok (Flower of Sampalok) saw its
maiden performance in the Teatro Oriental, even as the same play won a gold pen in a
literary contest, and gained newfound popularity for its author. In the same year, Abad broke
through the Philippine drama scene with the successful staging of Ang Tanikalang Guinto in
Teatro Libertad on July 7. Performances of the play in Laguna and Cavite were met with
praise and admiration.
Ang Tanikalang Guinto made its Batangas debut on May 10, 1903, in the town of Batangas.
On the same day American provincial authorities seized the play’s script and sued Abad for
sedition. Judge Paul Linebarger of the Batangas Court of First Instance deemed the play
seditious; Abad was found guilty of sedition and sentenced two years in jail plus a fine of two
thousand dollars.

POETRY

Fernando Ma. Guerrero ( 1873 – 1929)

Fernando María Guerrero Ramírez (May 30, 1873 – June 12, 1929) was a Spanish Filipino,
poet, journalist, lawyer, politician, and polyglot who became a significant figure during the
Philippines' golden period of Spanish literature, a period ranging from 1890 to the outbreak
of World War II in 1940.
A 1913 poem written by Guerrero:

Original in Spanish
A Hispania
 Oh, noble Hispania! Este día
es para ti mi canción,
canción que viene de lejos
como eco de antiguo amor,
temblorosa, palpitante
y olorosa a tradición
para abrir sus alas cándidas
bajo el oro de aquel sol
que nos metiste en el alma
con el fuego de tu voz
y a cuya lumbre, montando,
clavileños de ilusión,
mi raza adoró la gloria
del bello idioma español,
que parlan aún los Quijotes
de esta malaya región,
donde quieren nuevos Sanchos,
que parlemos en sajón.

Cecilio Apostol (1877 – 1936)

Cecilio Apóstol (November 22, 1877 – September 8, 1938) was a Filipino poet and poet
laureate.[1] His poems were once used to teach the Spanish language under the Republic Act
No. 1881.[2]
He was born in Santa Cruz, Manila and studied at the Ateneo de Manila where he finished his
Bachelor of Arts, before studying law at the University of Santo Tomas. During the early
years of American occupation, he worked as a journalist for the revolutionary newspapers
Independence, The Brotherhood, The Union, Renaissance and Democracy. His pseudonym
on his work at the La Independencia, under Antonio Luna, was Catulo.[3] He later joined the
Nacionalista Party which wanted the independence of the Philippines from the United States.
[4] He was a member of the Philippine Academy from 1924 until his death. Apóstol wrote in
English and Spanish, and composed poems that demonstrated his mastery of Spanish. He
composed the poem Al Heroe Nacional (To the National Hero) which is dedicated to José
Rizal.[1] In the book of poems, Pentélicas, he described landscapes evoking a vivid image.
He died in Caloocan, Rizal.
Jesus Balmori (1886- 1948)
Wrote Mi Casa De Nipa (1938)

Jesús Balmori y González Mondragón was born in Ermita, Manila, on 10 January 1887. He
studied at the Colegio de San Juan de Letrán and the University of Santo Tomás, where he
excelled in Literature. He was married to Dolores Rodríguez. Joaquín Balmori y Rivera, a
pioneer labor leader and the foremost organiser of labour unions in their Philippines, was his
brother.
In his early years, Balmori was already gathering literary honors and prizes for poetry. In a
Rizal Day contest, his three poems, each bearing a different pen name, won the first, second,
third prizes. Later, he figured in friendly poetical jousts, known as Balagtasan (in reference to
Tagalog poet Francisco Balagtás), with other well-known poets n Spanish of his time,
notably Manuel Bernabé of Parañaque and the Ilonggo Flavio Zaragosa Cano, emerging
triumphant each time.
Before the war, under the pseudonym "Batikuling", Balmori wrote a column called "Vida
Manileña" for La Vanguardia, a daily afternoon newspaper. It was a trenchant critique of
society’s power elite, showcasing his gift for irony and satirical humor, as well as serious
verses. After the war, he wrote a similar column, "Vida Filipina", for the Voz de Manila.
However, the number of Spanish-speaking readers was already diminishing by that time.
It was his work as a lyric poet, however, on which his fame and reputation rested.
In 1904, when he was 17, he published his first book of verses, Rimas Malayas; it was noted
for its spiritual and nationalistic themes. A second volume containing his satirical verses, El
Libro de mis Vidas Manileñas, came out in 1928.
In 1908, his poem "Gloria" was adjudged first prized winner in a contest sponsored by the
newspaper El Renacimiento. In 1920, another poem, "A Nuestro Señor Don Quijote de la
Mancha", received the major award in a contest promoted by Casas de España. He reached
the pinnacle of his success as a poet in November 1938 when his Mi Casa de Nipa, a
collection of his best poems, gave him the first prize in the national literary contests held
under the auspices of the Commonwealth Government, as a part of its third anniversary
celebration.
Critics began to notice his literary skills more when he joined a contest sponsored by El
Renacimiento in commemoration of Rizal Day. Three of his poems won. These were
"Specs", "Vae Victis" (Woe to the Victor), and "Himno A Rizal" (Hymn to Rizal).
In 1940, his Mi Choza de Nipa (My Nipa Hut), another volume of poetry, won grand prize in
a contest sponsored by the US-sponsored Commonwealth Government.
He wrote three novels: Bancarrota de Almas (Failure of the Soul), Se Deshojó la Flor (I Tear
The Pages Out of The Flower), and Pájaros de Fuego (Birds of Fire) which was completed
during the Japanese occupation. The themes of these novels revolved around the issues of
sensuality, the privacy of morality, the existence of God, and man's limitations in society. He
also wrote three-act dramas, which were performed to the capacity crowd at the Manila
Grand Opera House: Compañados de Gloria, Las de Sungkit en Malacañang, Doña Juana LA
Oca, Flor del Carmelo, and Hidra.

In 1926, he and Bernabé were awarded the Premio Zóbel for his contributions to Philippine
literature.
Balmori also collaborated with periodicals such as El Renacimiento, El Debate and La Voz
de Manila.

Jose Corazon de Jesus (1896 – 1932)

Wrote Mga Gintong Dahon (1920) Sa Dakong Silangan (1928)

José Cecilio Corazón de Jesús y Pangilinan (November 22, 1894 – May 26, 1932), also
known by his pen name Huseng Batute, was a Filipino poet who used Tagalog poetry to
express the Filipinos' desire for independence during the American occupation of the
Philippines, a period that lasted from 1901 to 1946. He is best known for being the "Hari ng
Balagtasan" (King of Balagtasan), and for being the lyricist of the Filipino patriotic song
"Bayan Ko".
José Corazón de Jesús's works appeared on several magazines and newspapers, notably Ang
Democracia, Taliba, Liwayway, ang buhay sa nddu and Sampagita. In addition, his works
have appeared in various anthologies and textbooks from grade school to college. Among his
more popular works are:
• Ang Manok Kong Bulik ("My White Rooster", 1911) - a poem about a country man's
misfortune in cockfighting
• Barong Tagalog (1921) - poem written after the Filipino national costume
• Ang Pagbabalik ("Homecoming", 1924)
• Ang Pamana ("The Legacy", 1925)
• Isang Punongkahoy ("A Tree", 1932)
Some of his poems were set into music; among these are:
• Bayan Ko ("My Country", 1929) - music by Constancio de Guzman
• Pakiusap ("A Request") - music by Francisco Santiago

Novels

Enigo Ed. Regalado (1888 – 1976),

Gabriel Beato Fransisco (1850 – 1935),

Juan Lauro Arsciwals (1889 – 1928)

Best known trilogy consisting of Fulgencioa Galbillo (1907), Captain Bensio (1907), and
Alfaro (1909). Madaling Araw (“Dawn”) is a 1909 Tagalog-language novel written by
Filipino novelist Iñigo Ed. Regalado. The 368-page novel was published in Manila,
Philippines by the Aklatang J. Martinez (J. Martinez Library) during the American period in
Philippine history (1899-1946).[1] Madaling Araw won for Regalado a Panitikan Series
(Literature Series) Philippine National Book Award.[2] The novel is both a romance novel
and a political novel.

Patricio Mariano (1877- 1935)

Anak ng Dagat (1922)

Patricio Mariano y Geronimo (17 March 1877 at Santa Cruz, Manila – 28 January 1935) was
a Filipino nationalist, revolutionary, pundit,[1] poet, playwright, dramatist, short story writer,
novelist, journalist,[1] violinist, and painter. Mariano was a Katipunan member. Mariano was
the son of Petronilo Mariano and Dionisia Geronimo.[2][3]

Literature and Society

By Salvador P. Lopez

The word has soul as well as body. Writers who consider themselves keepers of the word
may not ignore the fact that it has a physical body and possesses qualities of sound and color,
fancy and imagination. But the word is more than sound and color, it is a living thing of
blood and fire, capable of infinite beauty and power. It is not an inanimate thing of dead
consonants and vowels but a living forces the most potent instrument known te man.
Whoever uses speech merely to evoke beauty of sound or beauty of imagination is not
exploiting the gift of speech for all that is worth; he is exploiting it only in those qualities that
are inherent in the word but external to the mind and soul of man. When a writer uses words
purely for their music or purely as an instrument of fancy, he may claim that he is a devotee
of pure art, since he insists on using words only in their strictly primitive qualities. In point of
fact, he is really a decadent aesthete who stubbomly confuses literature with painting and
refuses to place words in the employ of man and his civilization.
There is hardly any writer of importance who does not, sooner or later, come to a point where
his readers. will ask of him:
"Why do you no longer write as you used to do?" or "The lightness and the laughter have
gone out of your writing: you now write almost exclusively on politics, as if life offered
nothing besides human folly and the social struggle. Why do you no longer write of pleasant
and beautiful things?"
For the young writer is almost certain to start his career by writing mushy poetry and
sophomoric philosophy, permitting his fancy to revel hedonistically among lovely phrases
culled from books and sayings come down from the ancient’s remnants of fascinating courses
in literature and philosophy taken in college. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, as the years
pass, there comes over his writing a change not only in subject matter but in general temper
and attitude.
Daily exposed to the headlines of the newspapers, his Olympian superiority-indifference
yields slowly to the persistent hammering of the facts of his own experience and of
contemporary history. Upon his sophomoric certainties is cast the shadow of terrible
happenings whole nations in the grip of terror, starved, maimed, or killed through no fault of
their own, pawns in the bloody game of men lustful for wealth. and power, crushed under the
heels of the dictators. An amorphous idealism or, on the other hand, a precocious cynicism is
no longer adequate to meet the vast problems which daily present themselves before his eyes.
Did he use to write on poetry and philosophy, expatiate on the beauty of life and the splendor
of human brotherhood? If so, be soon begins to realize that he was merely echoing what he
had read in books, for the book of life conveys a different message altogether. In his heart is
no longer merely the singing exultation over art and nature and living, in his heart is a deep
compassion for the sufferings of the oppressed and anger at their oppressors

Not that he has become blind to the beauty of nature and the works of man, it is only that he
has begun to relate his ideas and every important thing that happens to some definite
principles of beauty and justice and truth. His eyes have pierced through the veil of deception
with which so much of the face of life that is ugly is covered. He has begun to pursue truth
instead of phrases.
He is no longer a florist, scissors in hand, gathering lovely blossoms, he has become a tiller of
the soil, spade in hand, digging into the roots of things and planting seeds.
This is the usual course of a writer's literary development. There is no more dramatic
illustration of this
process than the case of the late Director Teodoro Kalaw of the National Library who, like so
many of the outstanding leaders of the older generation, started his career as a
newspaperman. His autobiography contains a candid confession which shows the inevitable
change that occurs in the attitude and temper of the sensitive writer as he grows older in
experience and wisdom.
Kalaw, it seems, was something of a "columnist" in the early days of his employment on the
staff of that famous newspaper of the transition, El Renacimiento. He writes: must have
written my first news items very badly because Guerrero made innumerable corrections on
them. My literary reading had not predisposed me to prosaic journalism, which I considered
as ephemeral as a windblown leaf. but to writing as an art, as an expression of the beautiful. I
soon became what today is known as a columnist, but my column was literary, and I made no
attempt to comment on political and moral matters as is usual today. M. Column, written
daily, contained short rambling paragraphs on philosophů literature, love, dreams, illusions,
and other such abstractions. To me, in those youthful days, the all-important consideration
was style-the discovery of the beautiful word for the beautiful thought. Nor was he unmindful
of the adulation of the ladies, for he admits with a disarming frankness: “In common with the
rest of the journalists in the office, my secret desire was to have the young ladies avidly
peruse my column, and in truth, the column was all the rage among our society girls, who
considered my writings piquant and intriguing.”
Yet it was not long before Columnist Kalaw outgrew his Flaubertian preoccupation over the
discovery of the beautiful word for the beautiful thought.” Soon enough he was drawn out of
his Ivory Tower of “pure literature” into the social and political currents swirling about him.
He says: “Sociological themes greatly inspired me to more writings. We were then passing a
period of real historical transition. Everything was being subjected to change-customs, laws,
language, social practices.”
Kalaw, the romantic idealist and aesthete, had become aware that society had a claim on his
attention, and
He was not unwilling to oblige. He began writing seriously on political and social questions,
criticizing what he believed to be the evils brought about by the American regime,
bemoaning the degeneration of the “Filipino Soul,” attacking the abuses of the Constabulary.
When, several years later, he became editor of El Renacimiento, he was one of the principal
defendants in the most spectacular libel suit that this country has yet known. Growing out of
the strong spirit of nationalism and the universal aspiration for independence from America,
this celebrated case may be said to have marked the full intellectual maturity of the young
literary journalist, fancier of beautiful thoughts couched in beautiful words.
Having traveled the weary road from the Ivory Tower to jail, he had learned that the only true
basis of lasting beauty in literature is-power.
There are two perilous roads open to the heedless young writer. One road leads to
indifferentism and the other to misanthropy. The writer becomes a confirmed indifferentist
either because he is ignorant and does not know better or because, knowing better, he
believes sincerely, if erroneously, that the things which men live by are beyond the interests
of his art. And a writer becomes a cynic and a misanthrope because the waters of his spirit
that were once clear and sparkling have become muddied by personal disappointment,
weakness of will or intellectual confusion.
Indifferentism is usually an inherent vice, and there is little that can be done to correct it. If it
arises fromignorance, it may be possible to apply the remedy of instruction, but if it arises
from a twisted point of view, the vice usually runs so deep that all who are thus afflicted may
as well be counted lost to the cause of moving and militant speech.
On the other hand, only those men suffer from cynicism and misanthropy who possess a
profound and sensitive spirit and who, somewhere along the road, received some injury in the
heart, in the will or in the mind. Their affliction is not necessarily incurable. Since it is almost
certain to have been caused, in the first. Place. By a fault understanding of the basic
principles that underlie human existence, it can be cured by helping the writer stand firmly
upon some indestructible faith. For a sensitive spirit easily prone to cynicism and
misanthropy unless it is reinforced by the steel of undeviating principle. Spiritual
sensitiveness becomes a vice only when it is not married to toughmindedness,
Although the dogma of “Art for Art’s sake” has been discredited in the minds of most
thinking people everywhere, yet it survives in our days in a new disguise that makes it more
difficult to identify properly and therefore to combat. The general condition of international
chaos, has, surprisingly enough, encouraged the revival of a dogma once favored by Oscar
Wilde and the coterie of aesthetes who agreed with him.
This is easily explained. The universal fear of insecurity, chaos and war has had the effect of
distorting the vision of a beautiful and orderly world that third-rate artists as a rule are prone
to affect. This fear has driven them into fashioning a comfortable philosophy of escape
through the medium of which they hope to flee the ugly facts of life and the repulsive
realities of the contemporary scene. Like frightened children they are overcome by fear of the
dark and seek refuge in some untroubled Shangri-la of art.
To the challenge that they become socially conscious and that they take part in the political
struggle, they answer. “The world is too much with us, we will have nothing to do with the
struggle. We conceive of art as an escape from the ugliness we see around us, we will
henceforth consecrate ourselves to the expression of beautiful thoughts and the creation of
beautiful things. Life is ugly enough as it is; therefore, we propose to make it more beautiful
with the products of our imagination. Man being what he is, to attempt to change him or the
world he lives in is bound to be a futile enterprise. Art is a method of escape; it is an end in
itself, never a means to an end. The pen was made for purposes utterly different from the
sword, we refuse to be artists in uniform.” The argument will seem sound until we reflect that
the highest form of art is that which springs from the wells of man’s deepest urges and
longings-his love of his own kind and his longing to be free. Divest man of these interests,
and he ceases to be what he is the richest subject for observation, portrayal and study that the
artist can have before him.
The opinion is still widely held that the artist and the man of letters should leave social
agitation alone and
Stick to art, that it is not their business to help advance social justice and to defend
democracy, but exclusively to paint a landscape, compose a song or write a sonnet. Despite
the fact that events in the modern world have made it increasingly difficult for artists so to do
their work, there are still those who fondly cling to the delusion that there is an Ivory Tower
to which the worshippers of Beauty can retire away from the madding crowd. Of course,
there is no such tower, only people who imagine that they dwell in one. For deliberate
isolation from the rest of the world and complete indifference to the fortunes of mankind on
the part of the artist can only mean one thing: that he is incapable of profound thought and
deep feeling and is therefore, to that extent, incapable also of great art.
Only greatness of heart and mind and soul can produce great art. But the development of a
man’s emotional, intellectual and spiritual qualities is impossible save his heart, mind and
soul are enriched by fruitful contact with others. A man can know himself only through
knowing others. To be self-centered is to be small in heart, narrow of mind, mean of soul.
Selfishness is the natural effect of a cynical and barren solitude, and the absolute divorcement
of the artist from the world which alone can provide a large background for his work must
result in mediocre or inferior achievement.
Nothing more thoroughly disproves the contention of the Art-for-Art-sakers than the facts of
everyday life. When artists and writers meet, do they talk of art and literature? Outsiders who
attend their gatherings and listen to their conversation will be appalled to discover that for
hours they will talk of everything under the sun save only art and literature. These two things
they will dismiss after one or two remarks on the latest books and an unusually good story
that appeared the previous day. Then, inevitably it seems, the talk will veer to the arrant
stupidities of public officials, the latest statement of President Quezon on social justice,
national defense, the war, the coming elections even perhaps the latest piece of scandal.
Go through the history of literature, and you will find that the greatest writers ever those
whose feet were planted solidly on the earth regardless of how high up in the clouds their
heads might have been. This is not to say, however, that great writing must pertain to some
department of propaganda. Propaganda is written with the definite object of influencing
people to believe or to do something. While there are a few books which have survived the
immediate motive of propaganda that inspired them, yet one can say truly that the bulk of
literary works of permanent value consists of those that are neither pure propaganda nor pure
art but which are in some way deeply rooted in the earth of human experience.
If somebody should point to Shakespeare as an example of the pure artist, it would only be
necessary to show that Shakespeare was neither an aesthete shrinking in a corner nor a self-
satisfied person too complacent to bother about the problems of his time. The period in which
he lived was one of the most active that mankind has seen. Exploration and discovery,
science and invention, art and letters all these activities were being carried on at a high pitch.
The pall of the Dark Ages had just been lifted, and the minds of men were once again free
and venturesome. Since Shakespeare had one of the keenest minds of his time and was a
contemporary of Francis Bacon, it is impossible for a man of his deep and sensitive nature
not to have been stirred by the ideas and movements of the age. Well has it been said of him
that he was a humanist but not a "closet humanist," a man of historic perspective, reacting
powerfully to the social and political currents of his time, and striving earnestly to change the
world.

The life of Emile Zola is the perfect refutation of the belief that the great artist is a gaunt,
solitary being forever immersed in visions of deathless beauty, untouched by questions of
pain, poverty, injustice, and oppression. In the beginning you have a young sensitive artist,
quick to anger against social injustice and political corruption. A time comes when his books
bring him wealth and fame, and he forgets his antecedents, saying to justify himself: Well, I
have fought my battles. I don't see why I should not enjoy my life as it is. As for those who
are condemned to live in the gutter, there is nothing anybody can do about them anyway.
Then, suddenly, in the midst of this smugness, the Dreyfus case burst upon France, and Zola
is drawn into it. The old fire in his heart burns again, and he fights as he never fought before.
When the battle is won and a great wrong has been righted, he has learned to say: The
individual does not matter, only society does. I thought that my work was done, now I know
that it has only started. The world must be made over for the humble and the wretched.
The choice of the writers of the Philippines is clear. Will they spin tales and string verses in
an Ivory Tower? Will they fiddle while Rome burns? Will they wall in a vacuum? Or will
they, without forgetting that art must make its appeal to man through beauty and power,
rather do their work in the world of men, breathing the air we breathe, thinking of the
problems that puzzle us, lending the vision and genius with which they are dowered to their
ultimate solution?
Poetry is probably the oldest form of literature. On the one hand, it is akin 0 song in which
form primitive man sought to preserve the remembrance of his heroic past. On the other
hand, it is akin to magic by means of which he sought to preserve himself from evil spirits
through incantation and to win the favor of the beneficent deities through praise and prayer.
Thus primitive man may be said to have stumbled upon literature, if he did not purposely
fashion it as an instrument primarily functional in character. It may be stretching the point too
far to say that with him, art was a purely utilitarian device, but it seems logical to suppose
that the natural economy of his life was such that it did not easily encourage indulgence in
activities of an artificial, superfluous, or useless character. When he fashioned a stone ax, it
was to facilitate the securing of his daily food, and when he sang, danced, or chanted poetry it
was not merely to fill an idle hour with pleasurable excitement but to invoke the favors of his
gods.
Undoubtedly there are men in every generation who will create for their own sake beautiful
things which it is our duty to treasure. But these artists represent an aberration from the
normal course of nature, and if we confer upon them the name of genius, it is genius of a
decidely inferior category. Thus, Shakespeare is a greater artist than Christopher Marlowe,
Shelly than Keats, Walt Whitman than Edgar Allan Poe. Shakespeare, Shelley and Whitman
achieved more than mere beauty in their works, they were, in a fashion that is not to be
confused with crude instruction, teachers of men.
If poetry originated as a functional activity, prose as such is even more frankly utilitarian in
character. Prose is on the world; it is too earthly to serve as a vehicle of pure fancy. And the
greatest masters of prose are those who have employed it in the service principally of reason
and secondarily only of the imagination, those who have used it for what Matthew Arnold
has called the “criticism of life.” Thus, the man who wrote The Book of Job was a greater
artist than he who wrote the The Song of Songs, and the author of Ecclesiastes than he who
wrote the Psalms. So, too, Swift is the greater master of prose than Charles Lamb, Thomas
Huxley than Stevenson, and in our own day, Bertrand Russell than Christopher Morley,
Theodore Dreiser than Branch Cabell. The former are smiths of ideas as the latter are smiths
of language; as the latter have the talent to fashion the perfect phrase, so have the former the
power to impart the stirring thought. Language with the latter seems almost to be an end in
itself, a device of pleasure; with the former it is a means to an end, an instrument of ideas.
In the end, what really interests the writer, granting that he recognizes the value of social
content in literature, is some sort of assurance that his writing will result in something that he
can lay his hands on as good and useful. For certainly he has a right to expect that, having
acceded to the demands of society upon his talent, certain measurable benefits will flow from
his work wholly distinct from the purely subjective satisfaction that is his birthright as an
artist and which comes naturally with the act of creative expression
The question is easily answered. The writer who has once admitted to himself that the
problems of society are his proper meat and drink has come to a point where merely technical
problems have become of small account compared to the ultimate problem which he is
presumed to have already answered for himself; namely, whether there is such a thing as
progress, and whether it is within the capacity of man ever to achieve progress.
Now, a writer either believes in progress or he does not. He either believes that man is
improvable because he has the innate capacity to correct his errors or he is convinced that
man is eternally damned beyond any possibility of redemption. All that we have said about
the writers is meant only for those who believe in progress, not that we would withhold from
the others the name of writer, but that these have excluded themselves by nature or by choice
from a calling which is essentially an endeavor of hope.
Progress, then, is the best article in the creed of the writer of whom we have been speaking.
He believes that civilization, despite evident reverses, is forever picking up and moving
upward. He believes, finally. That he has a place in this scheme of universal progress and that
whatever he can do to help is a worthy. Contribution to the up movement of life.
We are not forgetting, despite the emphasis on “social content,” that we are speaking of
literature and not propaganda. The challenge which we ask the intelligent writer meet is not
challenge to beat the drums and to blow the trumpet of progress. We are only reminding him
that of all the ends to which he may dedicate his talents, none is more worthy than the
improvement of the condition of man and the defense of his freedom.
Nor need the writer feel that he is being compelled to become a social reformer rather than an
artist. Whatever the writer’s conception of his craft may be, he can safely cling to the
principle that literature is the imaginative representation of life and nature, and upon this
principle honestly build his achievement. If he is sincere and if he has the ability, he need
have no fear that he will become a purveyor of propaganda and lose caste as a creative artist.
 Benigno “Ben Ruben” Ramos y Pantaleón (1892-1945)

He was a Filipino author, writer, organization founder, politician, and was an advocate for the
independence of the Philippines from the United States who collaborated with Japan. “The
Acienda” by Benigno P. Ramos was published in the Philippines in 1948. This literary work
delves into themes of rural life, land, and society, reflecting aspects of Philippine culture and
history. It’s notable for its portrayal of the struggles and realities faced by rural communities
during that period. According to my web search results, there is no exact date given for the
publication of Asyenda by Benigno P. Ramos.
 Asyenda

Benigno R. Ramos

Matagal-tagal nang kita'y naririnig, ang kasaysayan mo ay lipos ng hapis; mula sa nuno mo,
ama at kapatid hanggan sumapit ka'y, iyon din ang hibik.

Sa himpapawiri'y napasabit ka na't nagpasalin-saling hinagpis at dusa, ang mga daing mo at

buntung-hininga naging katutubo sa dibdib ko't taynga...

Ang sigaw mong "Lupa, lupa ko'y ibalik" ay di man pansinin ng nagsipanghamig, at bago
mamatay, ang iyong habilin "Iyong ating lupa'y pilitin mong kunin"

Ang bawa't sigaw mo ay nagiging kulog ang bawa't hibik mo ay nagiging unos, Diyos man
sa langit kung mayron ngang Diyos sa kaapihan mo'y dapat nang kumilos!

How My Brother Leon Brought Home A Wife

Manuel E. Arguilla
She stepped down from the carretela of Ca Celin with a quick, delicate grace. She was lovely.
She was tall. She looked up to my brother with a smile, and her forehead was on a level with
his mouth.
"You are Baldo," she said and placed her hand lightly on my shoulder. Her nails were long,
but they were not painted. She was fragrant like a morning when papayas are in bloom. And a
small dimple appeared momently high on her right cheek. "And this is Labang of whom I
have heard so much." She held the wrist of one hand with the other and looked at Labang, and
Labang never stopped chewing his cud. He swallowed and brought up to his mouth more cud
and the sound of his insides was like a drum.
I laid a hand on Labang's massive neck and said to her: "You may scratch his forehead now."
She hesitated and I saw that her eyes were on the long, curving horns. But she came and
touched Labang's forehead with her long fingers, and Labang never stopped chewing his cud
except that his big eyes half closed. And by and by she was scratching his forehead very
daintily.
My brother Leon put down the two trunks on the grassy side of the road. He paid Ca Celin
twice the usual fare from the station to the edge of Nagrebcan. Then he was standing beside
us, and she turned to him eagerly. I watched Ca Celin, where he stood in front of his horse,
and he ran his fingers through its forelock and could not keep his eyes away from her.
"Maria---" my brother Leon said.
He did not say Maring. He did not say Mayang. I knew then that he had always called her
Maria and that to us all she would be Maria; and in my mind I said 'Maria' and it was a
beautiful name.
"Yes, Noel."
Now where did she get that name? I pondered the matter quietly to myself, thinking Father
might not like it. But it was only the name of my brother Leon said backward and it sounded
much better that way.
"There is Nagrebcan, Maria," my brother Leon said, gesturing widely toward the west.
She moved close to him and slipped her arm through his. And after a while she said quietly.
"You love Nagrebcan, don't you, Noel?"
Ca Celin drove away hi-yi-ing to his horse loudly. At the bend of the camino real where the
big duhat tree grew, he rattled the handle of his braided rattan whip against the spokes of the
wheel.
We stood alone on the roadside.
The sun was in our eyes, for it was dipping into the bright sea. The sky was wide and deep
and very blue above us: but along the saw-tooth rim of the Katayaghan hills to the southwest
flamed huge masses of clouds. Before us the fields swam in a golden haze through which
floated big purple and red and yellow bubbles when I looked at the sinking sun. Labang's
white coat, which I had wshed and brushed that morning with coconut husk, glistened like
beaten cotton under the lamplight and his horns appeared tipped with fire.

He faced the sun and from his mouth came a call so loud and vibrant that the earth seemed to
tremble underfoot. And far away in the middle of the field a cow lowed softly in answer.
"Hitch him to the cart, Baldo," my brother Leon said, laughing, and she laughed with him a
big uncertainly, and I saw that he had put his arm around her shoulders.
"Why does he make that sound?" she asked. "I have never heard the like of it."
"There is not another like it," my brother Leon said. "I have yet to hear another bull call like
Labang. In all the world there is no other bull like him."
She was smiling at him, and I stopped in the act of tying the sinta across Labang's neck to the
opposite end of the yoke, because her teeth were very white, her eyes were so full of laughter,
and there was the small dimple high up on her right cheek.
"If you continue to talk about him like that, either I shall fall in love with him or become
greatly jealous."
My brother Leon laughed and she laughed and they looked at each other and it seemed to me
there was a world of laughter between them and in them.
I climbed into the cart over the wheel and Labang would have bolted, for he was always like
that, but I kept a
firm hold on his rope. He was restless and would not stand still, so that my brother Leon had
to say "Labang" several times. When he was quiet again, my brother Leon lifted the trunks
into the cart, placing the smaller on top.
She looked down once at her high-heeled shoes, then she gave her left hand to my brother
Leon, placed a foot on the hub of the wheel, and in one breath she had swung up into the cart.
Oh, the fragrance of her. But Labang was fairly dancing with impatience and it was all I could
do to keep him from running away.
"Give me the rope, Baldo," my brother Leon said. "Maria, sit down on the hay and hold on to
anything." Then he put a foot on the left shaft and that instand labang leaped forward. My
brother Leon laughed as he drew himself up to the top of the side of the cart and made the
slack of the rope hiss above the back of labang. The wind whistled against my cheeks and the
rattling of the wheels on the pebbly road echoed in my ears.
She sat up straight on the bottom of the cart, legs bent togther to one side, her skirts spread
over them so that only the toes and heels of her shoes were visible. her eyes were on my
brother Leon's back; I saw the wind on her hair. When Labang slowed down, my brother
Leon handed to me the rope. I knelt on the straw inside the cart and pulled on the rope until
Labang was merely shuffling along, then I made him turn around.
"What is it you have forgotten now, Baldo?" my brother Leon said.
I did not say anything but tickled with my fingers the rump of Labang; and away we went---
back to where I had unhitched and waited for them. The sun had sunk and down from the
wooded sides of the Katayaghan hills shadows were stealing into the fields. High up overhead
the sky burned with many slow fires.
When I sent Labang down the deep cut that would take us to the dry bed of the Waig which
could be used as a path to our place during the dry season, my brother Leon laid a hand on my
shoulder and said sternly:
"Who told you to drive through the fields tonight?"
His hand was heavy on my shoulder, but I did not look at him or utter a word until we were
on the rocky bottom of the Waig.
"Baldo, you fool, answer me before I lay the rope of Labang on you. Why do you follow the
Wait instead of the camino real?"
His fingers bit into my shoulder.
"Father, he told me to follow the Waig tonight, Manong."
Swiftly, his hand fell away from my shoulder and he reached for the rope of Labang. Then
my brother Leon laughed, and he sat back, and laughing still, he said:
"And I suppose Father also told you to hitch Labang to the cart and meet us with him instead
of with Castano and the calesa."
Without waiting for me to answer, he turned to her and said, "Maria, why do you think Father
should do that, now?" He laughed and added, "Have you ever seen so many stars before?"
I looked back and they were sitting side by side, leaning against the trunks, hands clasped
across knees. Seemingly, but a man's height above the tops of the steep banks of the Wait,
hung the stars. But in the deep gorge the shadows had fallen heavily, and even the white of
Labang's coat was merely a dim, grayish blur. Crickets chirped from their homes in the cracks
in the banks. The thick, unpleasant smell of dangla bushes and cooling sun-heated earth
mingled with the clean, sharp scent of arrais roots exposed to the night air and of the hay
inside the cart.
"Look, Noel, yonder is our star!" Deep surprise and gladness were in her voice. Very low in
the west, almost touching the ragged edge of the bank, was the star, the biggest and brightest
in the sky.
"I have been looking at it," my brother Leon said. "Do you remember how I would tell you
that when you want to see stars you must come to Nagrebcan?"
"Yes, Noel," she said. "Look at it," she murmured, half to herself. "It is so many times bigger
and brighter than it was at Ermita beach."
"The air here is clean, free of dust and smoke."
"So it is, Noel," she said, drawing a long breath.
"Making fun of me, Maria?"
She laughed then and they laughed together and she took my brother Leon's hand and put it
against her face.
I stopped Labang, climbed down, and lighted the lantern that hung from the cart between the
wheels.
"Good boy, Baldo," my brother Leon said as I climbed back into the cart, and my heart sant.
Now the shadows took fright and did not crowd so near. Clumps of andadasi and arrais
flashed into view and quickly disappeared as we passed by. Ahead, the elongated shadow of
Labang bobbled up and down and swayed drunkenly from side to side, for the lantern rocked
jerkily with the cart.
"Have we far to go yet, Noel?" she asked.
"Ask Baldo," my brother Leon said, "we have been neglecting him."
"I am asking you, Baldo," she said.
Without looking back, I answered, picking my words slowly:
"Soon we will get out of the Wait and pass into the fields. After the fields is

home---Manong." "So near already."

I did not say anything more because I did not know what to make of the tone of her voice as
she said her last words. All the laughter seemed to have gone out of her. I waited for my
brother Leon to say something, but he was not saying anything. Suddenly he broke out into
song and the song was 'Sky Sown with Stars'---the same that he and Father sang when we cut
hay in the fields at night before he went away to study. He must have taught her the song
because she joined him, and her voice flowed into his like a gentle stream meeting a stronger
one. And each time the wheels encountered a big rock, her voice would catch in her throat,
but my brother Leon would sing on, until, laughing softly, she would join him again.
Then we were climbing out into the fields, and through the spokes of the wheels the light of
the lantern mocked the shadows. Labang quickened his steps. The jolting became more
frequent and painful as we crossed the low dikes.
"But it is so very wide here," she said. The light of the stars broke and scattered the darkness
so that one could see far on every side, though indistinctly.
"You miss the houses, and the cars, and the people and the noise, don't you?" My brother
Leon stopped singing.
"Yes, but in a different way. I am glad they are not here."
With difficulty I turned Labang to the left, for he wanted to go straight on. He was breathing
hard, but I knew he was more thirsty than tired. In a little while we drope up the grassy side
onto the camino real.
"---you see," my brother Leon was explaining, "the camino real curves around the foot of the
Katayaghan hills and passes by our house. We drove through the fields because---but I'll be
asking Father as soon as we get home."
"Noel," she said.
"Yes, Maria."
"I am afraid. He may not like me."
"Does that worry you still, Maria?" my brother Leon said. "From the way you talk, he might
be an ogre, for all the world. Except when his leg that was wounded in the Revolution is
troubling him, Father is the mildesttempered, gentlest man I know."
We came to the house of Lacay Julian and I spoke to Labang loudly, but Moning did not
come to the window, so I surmised she must be eating with the rest of her family. And I
thought of the food being made ready at home and my mouth watered. We met the twins,
Urong and Celin, and I said "Hoy!" calling them by name. And they shouted back and asked
if my brother Leon and his wife were with me. And my brother Leon shouted to them and
then told me to make Labang run; their answers were lost in the noise of the wheels.
I stopped labang on the road before our house and would have gotten down but my brother
Leon took the rope and told me to stay in the cart. He turned Labang into the open gate and
we dashed into our yard. I thought we would crash into the camachile tree, but my brother
Leon reined in Labang in time. There was light downstairs in the kitchen, and Mother stood
in the doorway, and I could see her smiling shyly. My brother Leon was helping Maria over
the wheel. The first words that fell from his lips after he had kissed Mother's hand were:
"Father... where is he?"
"He is in his room upstairs," Mother said, her face becoming serious. "His leg is bothering
him again."
I did not hear anything more because I had to go back to the cart to unhitch Labang. But I
hardly tied him under the barn when I heard Father calling me. I met my brother Leon going
to bring up the trunks. As I passed through the kitchen, there were Mother and my sister
Aurelia and Maria and it seemed to me they were crying, all of them.
There was no light in Father's room. There was no movement. He sat in the big armchair by
the western window, and a star shone directly through it. He was smoking, but he removed
the roll of tobacco from his mouth when he saw me. He laid it carefully on the windowsill
before speaking.
"Did you meet anybody on the way?" he asked.
"No, Father," I said. "Nobody passes through the Waig at night."
He reached for his roll of tobacco and hithced himself up in the chair.
"She is very beautiful, Father."
"Was she afraid of Labang?" My father had not raised his voice, but the room seemed to
resound with it. And again I saw her eyes on the long curving horns and the arm of my
brother Leon around her shoulders. "No, Father, she was not afraid."

"On the way---"

"She looked at the stars, Father. And Manong Leon sang."
"What did he sing?"
"---Sky Sown with Stars... She sang with him."
He was silent again. I could hear the low voices of Mother and my sister Aurelia downstairs.
There was also the voice of my brother Leon, and I thought that Father's voice must have
been like it when Father was young. He had laid the roll of tobacco on the windowsill once
more. I watched the smoke waver faintly upward from the lighted end and vanish slowly into
the night outside.
The door opened and my brother Leon and Maria came in.
"Have you watered Labang?" Father spoke to me.
I told him that Labang was resting yet under the barn.
"It is time you watered him, my son," my father said.
I looked at Maria and she was lovely. She was tall. Beside my brother Leon, she was tall and
very still. Then I went out, and in the darkened hall the fragrance of her was like a morning
when papayas are in bloom.
 Wanted: A Chaperone

Wilfrido Ma. Guerrero

To the memory of Amalia B. Reyes

First Performance: The Filipino Players, under the author’s direction, at St. Cecilia’s Hall,
November 21, 1940

CHARACTERS:

DON FRANCISCO (the father)

DOÑA PETRA (the mother)

NENA (their daughter)

ROBERTING (their son)

DOÑA DOLORES

FRED (her son)

FRANCISCO (the servant)

PABLO (the mayordomo)

TIME : One Sunday morning, at about eleven.

SCENE: The living-room. Simply furnished. A window on the right. At the rear, a corridor. A
door on the left Sofa, chairs, etc. at the discretion of the director.

When the curtain rises, DON FRANCISCO, about sixty, is seen sitting on the sofa, smoking
a cigar He wears a nice-looking lounging robe. Presently ROBERTING, his twenty-year old
son, good-looking, well-dressed, enters. He wants to ask some. thing from his father, but
before he gathers enough courage, he maneuvers about the stage and clears his throat
several times before he finally approaches him.

ROBERTING (Clearing his throat). Ehem-ehem-ehem!

FRANCISCO (Looking up briefly). Ehem

ROBERTING. -Father-

FRANCISCO (Without looking at him). What?

ROBERTING. Father-
FRANCISCO. Well?

ROBERTING. Father-

FRANCISCO. Again?

ROBERTING. Well, you see it's like this-

FRANCISCO. Like what?

ROBERTING. It's not easy to explain, Father

FRANCISCO. If it isn't then come back when I'm through with the paper

ROBERTING. Better now, Father. It's about-money.

FRANCISCO. Money! What money?

ROBERTING. Well, you see-

FRANCISCO (imitating his tone). Well, you see-I'm busy!

ROBERTING. I need money.

FRANCISCO (Dropping the paper). Need money! Aren't you working already?

ROBERTING. Yes, but-it isn't enough.

FRANCISCO. How much are you earning?

ROBERTING. Eight hundred, Father.

FRANCISCO. Eight hundred! Why, you're earning almost as much as your father!

ROBERTING. You don't understand, Father.

FRANCISCO. Humph! I don't understand!

ROBERTING. Don't misunderstand me, Father.

FRANCISCO. Aba! You just said I don't understand-that means I'm not capable of
understanding. Now you say not to misunderstand you-meaning I'm capable of understanding
pala. Make up your mind, Roberting!

ROBERTING. You see, Father, what I'm driving at I~ I want-er -I want-my old allowance.

FRANCISCO (jumping). Diablos! You want your old allowance! You’re working and
earning eight hundred, you don't pay me a single centavo for your board and lodging in my
house-and now you re asking for your old allowance!
ROBERTING. I have so many expenses, Father.

FRANCISCO. How much have you got saved up in the bank?

ROBERTING. How can I save anything?

FRANCISCO. So you have nothing in the bank! What kind of gifts do you give your girl-
friend?

ROBERTING (Embarrassed). I-I-

FRANCISCO. Flowers? (ROBERTING nods.) Twenty-or thirty-peso

flowers? (ROBERTING nods again.) Que hombre este! When I was courting your mother I
used to give her only mani or balut.

(DONA PETRA, about fifty-five,. enters and catches his last words.)

PETRA. Yes, I remember quite well, If you only knew what my mother used to say after you
used to give me mani or balut. "Ka kuriput naman!" she'd say.

FRANCISCO. Pero, Petra, this son of ours is earning eight hundred. He doesn't give us a
centavo for house expenses, and on top of that he's asking for his old allowance. Where in the
world have you heard such a thing?

PETRA I know a place where the children work and don't give their-parents any money and
still ask for their allowance.

FRANCISCO. Were?

PETRA. In the Philippines.

FRANCISCO. Aba! How ilustrada you are, Petra!

PETRA. (To ROBERTING). You're not going to get a centavo.

ROBERTING. But, Mother-

PETRA If you've no money to ride in a taxi, take a jeepney.

ROBERTING. Jeepney to visit a girl! Ay!

PETRA.. (imitating him). Ay what? (ROBERTING goes out mumbling.)

PETRA. (Calling). Francisco!

FRANCISCO. Ha?

PETRA. I'm calling the servant!

FRANCISCO. Demontres with that Servant! Having the same name as the owner of the
house!

PETRA. I'm going to kick him out soon. He broke your plate again.

FRANCISCO. Again! I don't know why he always breaks my plates. He never breaks your
plates, or Roberting's, or Nena's. No, he breaks only my plates?

(FRANCISCO, the servant, enters. He is a dark, tall, thin boy. He looks foolish and is. He
has his mouth open all the time.)

SERVANT. Opo, senora.

PETRA. Did you make that sign I told you?

SERVANT. The one you told me to make?

PETRA. (Emphatically). Of course!

SERVANT. The one you told me to write: "Wanted: a Muchacho?"

PETRA. (irritated). Yes, Don Francisco!

FRANCISCO. Ha?

PETRA. I'm talking to the servant. Well, did you do it?

SERVANT. No, senora. I didn't make it yet.

PETRA. And why not?

SERVANT. I forgot how it should be worded. I suddenly remember now.,

PETRA. Que estupido! Hala, go out and make it immediately! (SERVANT goes out.)

FRANCISCO. Where's Nena?

PETRA. Asleep in her room.

FRANCISCO. At this time? It's eleven o'clock.

PETRA Anyhow it's Sunday.

FRANCISCO. Has she heard Mass?

PETRA. I suppose she did at four

FRANCISCO, And so Nena went to the party last night without a chaperon?

PETRA. It was the first time.

FRANCISCO. I hope nothing happened.

PETRA. What could have happened? We discussed this already yesterday.

FRANCISCO. Yes, I know, but imagine a Filipino girl going to a party without a chaperon.

PETRA. After all, she didn't go out with Fred alone. She went with her friends, Lolita and
Luding.

FRANCISCO. Yes, those two girls, since they arrived from abroad, they've been trying to
teach our daughter all the wrong things they learned from those places.

PETRA. Wrong things? Ay, you exaggerate, Francisco!

(FRANCISCO, the servant enters with a sign in his hands.)

PETRA. Are you through with that? So soon?

SERVANT. I finished it last night, senora.

PETRA. Last night!

SERVANT. Opo, señora, but I forgot where I placed it.

PETRA. Estupido itong taong ito! Let me see it. (She takes hold Of the sign, reads
aloud.) Wanted: A Muchacho." All right, hang it out there at the
window. (The SERVANT hangs it out side the window sill but with the sign facing inside.) I
said outside-not inside!

FRANCISCO. Ay, Francisco, he had to be my namesake! (The SERVANT, after placing the
sign, stays by the window, making signs and faces to somebody outside.)

PETRA. As I was saying. Francisco--

FRANCISCO. Were you talking to me, Petra, or to the servant?

PETRA (Addressing the SERVANT). Francisco! What are you still doing here? Go back to
the kitchen! (SERVANT goes out.)

FRANCISCO. You were saying, Petra-

PETRA. As I was saying, I think you're being very unfair to Nena. After all, she's grown up

FRANCISCO. Petra, my dear, virtue is ageless.

PETRA. I know that, Francisco, but chaperoning is rather old-fashioned.

FRANCISCO. Old-fashioned, maybe, in some other civilized countries.

PETRA. But isn't the Philippines civilized?

FRANCISCO. In many ways, yes,-but in some ways it's uncivilized.

PETRA. Ay. Francisco, if Saturnino Balagtas, our great patriot, should hear you now!

FRANCISCO. Where did you get the idea that Balagtas' first name is Saturnino? You mean
Francisco.

PETRA. Saturnino-Francisco-both end in o.

FRANCISCO. Yes, that's why when you call out my name, Francisco the muchacho rushes
in.

PETRA. Anyhow our women can take care of themselves.,

FRANCISCO. Are you sure?

PETRA. Especially if they've received an education. For instance, our Nena is, in her senior
year in education at the University of Santo Tomas. She's even taking some courses in home
economics.

FRANCISCO. I suppose that makes her immune from any moral falls.

PETRA. Moral falls, Francisco! Ay, que exagerada naman tu! No,. what I mean is that Nena
is better educated and more enlightened to take care of herself.

FRANCISCO. (Annoyed). This Petra naman! You don't see the point. Education, even a
university education, with all the letters of the alphabet after a graduate's name AB, BSE
LLB, PhD, is not moral education. Training the mind is not training the heart.

PETRA. But if the mind is trained, why, the heart will be ruled by the mind.

FRANCISCO. No, Petra, if a person is intellectual, it doesn't ipso facto make' him moral.

PETRA. Ipso facto. That's very. deep for me naman, Francisco.

FRANCISCO. Very deep! Our daughter Nena will fall in deep water if you don't watch out!

PETRA (Exaggeratedly, just like a woman). Ay, you're so apprehensive,

Francisco,. (The SERVANT rushes in.)

SERVANT. Did you call me, senora?

FRANCISCO. Hoy- you!

SERVANT. Yes, senorito.

FRANCISCO. I'm married to the senora, therefore I'm not the senorito anymore, but
the senor, understand?

SERVANT. Opo, senorito.

FRANCISCO. I'm going to change your name. From now on you'll be called Francis.

SERVANT. Francis, po?

FRANCISCO. Yes, Francis, understand?

SERVANT. Why not Paquito, senor? Or Paco or Francisquito?

FRANCISCO. Because I don't want it! Now get out!

(SERVANT goes out. ROBERTING comes in.)

ROBERTING. Father, I couldn't get a taxi.

FRANCISCO. Your mother told you to take a jeepney.

ROBERTING. But I'm visiting my girl-friend.

FRANCISCO. Visiting girls at this time of the day? It's nearly lunch time

ROBERTING. She called me up. She says I must see her, right away. It's very important.

FRANCISCO. Roberting, you went to the party last night?

ROBERTING. Yes, Father, with Lia.

FRANCISCO. You went to the party unchaperoned?

PETRA. Does Roberting need a chaperon?

FRANCISCO. I'm not talking about Roberting! I'm talking about the girl he took out!

PETRA. Well, if you're going to lose your temper, I might as well be in the kitchen. (She
goes out.)

ROBERTING. Yes, Father.

FRANCISCO. Yes, what?

ROBERTING. I took Lia to the party alone.

FRANCISCO. You young modern people. Do you realize that in my time when I was
courting your mother, her father, her mother, her three sisters, her young brother., her
grandmother, five first cousins and two distant relatives sat in the sala with us?

ROBERTING. But why so many, Father?

FRANCISCO, Because in those days we were more careful about a woman's reputation.

ROBERTING. But in those days-

FRANCISCO. Don't tell me those days were different. Outward things change, like the
styles of women's dresses and men's ties, but the human heart remains the same.

ROBERTING. But in other countries, Father-

FRANCISCO. There you go, in other countries. The Philippines is different, my son. Our
climate, our traditions, our innate psychology-- all these make our people different from
foreigners.

ROBERTING. But my girl friend has studied abroad-- Columbia University pa. Filipino
girls who have studied in other countries acquire the outward customs and mannerisms of
people with traditions and temperament different from ours. But a Filipino girl can't easily
change her temperament. It is inborn. (A knock is heard.)

FRANCISCO. Somebody's at the door. Francisc-er-Francis! Francis!

ROBERTING. Who's Francis?

FRANCISCO. The servant. I gave him a new name. (Calling again.) Paquito! (No
answer) Francisquito! (The SERVANT tip pears. FRANCISCO stares at him.)

SERVANT. Yes, senorito.

FRANCISCO. No, no, my son Roberting here is the senorito, but I'm the senor! See who is
knocking. Tell him to sit down.

(SERVANT goes out. ROBERTING and FRANCISCO go to their rooms.

Presently SERVANT comes in, followed by PABLO. He is a fat, dark fellow. He is all
dressed up-- wears a tie and everything He smokes a cigar. PABLO and
the SERVANT stare at each other, the SERVANT open-mouthed as usual.)

SERVANT. what do you want?

PABLO What do I want? Haven't you got any manners?

SERVANT. I said whom do you want to we?

PABLO. Why don't you speak more dearly?.

SERVANT. What shall I tell the owner of the hour?

PABLO. Who's the owner of the house?

SERVANT. The senora, of course.

PABLO. Why, is she a widow?

SERVANT. Not yet.

PABLO. Tell your senora I want to see her.

SERVANT. Which senora?

PABLO. How many senoras do you have In this home?

SERVANT. There's senora Petra, senorita Nena-

PABLO. Gago! Call senora Petra then.

SERVANT. Opo. Sit down. Here are some cigars (SERVANT goes out. PABLO, looking
about, gets one cigar-then a second--when about to get a third, PETRA comes in.)

PETRA. Yes?

PABLO. Good morning.

PETRA. Good morning.

PABLO. I saw that sign at the window.

PETRA. Yes?

PABLO. It says "Wanted: A Muchacho."

PETRA. Why, yes. Are you by any chance a detective?

PABLO. (Giggling). You flatter me, senora! A girl told me mw that I am very good-looking.

PETRA. Really? That is very interesting.

PABLO Women sometimes tell the sweetest lies.

PETRA. Do you mind if-

PABLO. Of course I don't mind. Go ahead and ask any questions

PETRA. Do you mind if I ask what I can do you –

PABLO (Blushing). I'm applying-

PETRA. Applying for what?

PABLO (After mustering enough courage). I’m applying for the job!

PETRA. What job?

PABLO (Pointing at the sign outside, significantly). That.

PETRA (Looking towards the sign and at PABLO. Incredulous). You mean-

PABLO (Joyfully). Yes, I'm offering my services

PETRA. You mean-you wish to be a muchacho?

PABLO. I wish you wouldn't be so insulting, senora, but I want to be what they call in
Europe a mayordomo.

PETRA. A what?

PABLO. A mayordomo. You know-

PETRA. Oh. You mean-?

PABLO. Yes, that's what I mean.

PETRA (After giving him a dirty look). Well, for a minute I mistook you for an hacendero or
a movie actor.

PABLO. That's right. I don't look like a muchacho~ er-mayordomo My mother always used
to say I would amount to something. (Cupping his hand towards PETRA's
ears.) Confidentially, my mother wanted me to marry one of the President's daughters.

PETRA. President's daughters? You mean the President of the Philippines?

PABLO. Yes, why not? Is there anything wrong in that?

PETRA. And you wish to work here as a-er-as a mayordomo?

PABLO. That's it!

PETRA. What can you do?

PABLO. I can watch the house when you're out, accompany the children, if you've any, to
the movies or to parties.

PETRA. What else?

PABLO. I can do many other things. I can even sing.

PETRA. Never mind your social accomplishments. What's your name?

PABLO. I was baptized Marcelino, but my mother calls me Pablo because I remind her of
her brother who spent two years jail. But my friends that is, my intimate friends. call me
Paul.

PETRA. I'll pay you eighty pesos. including board and lodging.

PABLO (Jumping). I'll take the job! (PETRA stands up and looks at him frigidly.)

PETRA. Good. You Can start by washing the dishes.

PABLO. The dishes! But it's time for lunch. Haven't the dishes you used for breakfast been
washed yet?

PETRA. No, because our servant Francisco always breaks the plates. So I told him this
morning after breakfast not to wash them yet.

PABLO. I wish I had come after the dishes had been washed.

PETRA. All right, ask Francisco for instructions.

(PETRA goes out. PABLO lights a cigar and throughout the following scene drops the
ashes everywhere. FRANCISCO enters.)

FRANCISCO. Oh, good morning. Have you been waiting long?

PABLO Staring at him insolently). No, I just talked to the senora.

FRANCISCO. Oh, yes. why don't you sit down?

PABLO. I will. (And PABLO sprawls Cleopatra-like on the sofa.)

FRANCISCO. Did you come on some business?

PABLO. Business? Oh, business of a sort.

FRANCISCO. That's good.

PABLO. That's a nice lounging robe you're wearing.

FRANCISCO. You like it?

PABLO. I certainly am going to buy one exactly like that

FRANCISCO. Thank you. Imitation, they say, is the subtlest form of flattery.

PABLO. Of course mine will be more expensive.

FRANCISCO. Undoubtedly. You must be a man of means.

PABLO. Of means? Well, sort of- Hm, I wonder what's delaying Francisco.

FRANCISCO. Francisco? I am Francisco.

PABLO (Laughing). You are Francisco?

FRANCISCO. Yes.

PABLO. Well, if you're Francisco, the senora told me to ask you for the instructions.

FRANCISCO. Instructions? What kind of instructions?

PABLO. I suppose she meant the instructions for washing the dishes and all that sort of thing

FRANCISCO (Puzzled). Dishes-all that sort of thing? What do you mean?

PABLO. Aren't you the servant here?

FRANCISCO (Flabbergasted). Servant! I am the owner of the house!

PABLO (Jumping). Oh-the owner! Excuse me! (Gliding away.) I suppose this is the way to
the kitchen! (He runs out to the kitchen)

FRANCISCO. Petra! Petra! (He exits, PETRA enters and arranges the
chairs. NENA comes in. NENA is about eighteen, and she's wearing a nice-looking Pair of
slacks. She obviously has just risen from bed for she keeps yawning atrociously.)

NENA. Where’s the Sunday paper?

PETRA. Oh, so you're awake. How was the party last night?

NENA. (Sitting on sofa). So-so. Mother, where's the movie page?

PETRA. Probably your brother Roberting is looking at it. -(FRANCISCO enters.)

FRANCISCO. You're awake at last. Have you had breakfast?

PETRA. Breakfast when it's nearly twelve?

FRANCISCO. How was the party?

NENA. So-so. (FRANCISCO looks for some cigars on the table.)

FRANCISCO. Aba! Where are the cigars, Petra?

PETRA. Why, I placed half a dozen there this morning!

FRANCISCO. Half a dozen! I've smoked only one s6 far!

PETRA. I wonder.

FRANCISCO. Hm- I'm wondering, too!

NENA. (Standing and yawning). I'm still sleepy.

FRANCISCO. Wait a minute, Nena. Sit down.

NENA. What is it, Father?

FRANCISCO. So you went to the party alone last night?

PETRA. This Francisco naman! I told you she was out with Fred.
FRANCISCO. Anyhow I hope that’s the first and last time you go to a party unchaperoned.

NENA. But there's nothing wrong, Father. After all I’m an educated girl. (NENA yawns so
desperately that she looks like an acrobat. PETRA and FRANCISCO stare at each other.)

PETRA. Yes, Francisco. She can take care of herself. Can't you see she's
educated? (FRANCISCO gulps and wonders if his wife is crazy. ROBERTING enters.)

ROBERTING. (To NENA.) So you're awake! How was the party last night?

NENA. So-so.

FRANCISCO. Why are you here?

ROBERTING. I couldn't hire a taxi. No money.

PETRA. I told you to take a jeepney.

ROBERTIlNG. Anyhow I can see her this afternoon. Incidentally I met Fred's mother a
short while ago.

NENA. Fred's mother?

ROBERTING. She was near Martini's taxi station.

PETRA. What were you doing at the taxi station?

FRANCISCO. Trying to get a taxi on credit, I suppose.

ROBERTING. Anyhow Fred's mother-

NENA. What about her?

ROBERTING. She said she was coming today.

PETRA. What for?

ROBERTING. She didn't tell me.

FRANCISCO. Fred's mother? You mean the young fellow Nena went out with last night?

ROBERTING Yes, Father.

NENA Did she say why she was coming?

ROBERTING. No.. But she seemed sore at me. In fact she seemed sort at you, too, Father.

FRANCISCO. At me?
ROBERTING (Imitating Dolores' voice) . She said, "Tell your father Kiko I'm going to see
him!"

FRANCISCO. She called me Kiko?

ROBERTING. Yes—

FRANCISCO. Didn't she say Don Kiko at least?

ROBERTING. No. She simply said Kiko.

FRANCISCO. Aba! (PABLO's head is seen sticking out by the door)

PABLO (Shouting at the top of his lungs). Dinner is served!

FRANCISCO. Hay! Don't shout that loud! (PABLO exits.)

ROBERTING. Who's he, Mother?

PETRA. The new mayordomo.

ROBERTING. Mayor what?

PETRA. He's the new servant!

(They all go out. But NENA lingers for a. while, and there's an expression of worry on her
face. Then she exits. PABLO and the SERVANT come in.)

SERVANT. Hoy!

PABLO. What do you mean hay? My name is Pablo. You may call me Paul.

SERVANT. My name is Francisca The senor calls me Francis, but I prefer Paquito. I once
had another amo who used to call me Frankie.

PABLO. What do you. want?

SERVANT. The senora wants you in the dining room

PABLO. What for?

SERVANT. To serve the dishes.

PABLO. That's your job. I'm not a muchacho! I'm a mayordomo!

SERVANT. Didn't you. answer that sign over there at the window-"Wanted: A Muchacho"?

PABLO. Yet why?

SERVANT. Then you're a muchacho, like me!

PABLO. (Threatening him with his fist) I want you to understand that I am not a muchacho!

SERVANT. Hal You look like a common muchacho to me

PABLO. (Threatening him with the cigar he holds) Don't let me catch you using that word
again!

SERVANT. Soplado! (PETRA enters.)

PETRA. What are you two doing here? Don't you know we're already eating?
(PABLO and SERVANT go out. Presently NENA comes in and goes to the window She
sees somebody coming, and runs out. Several knocks are heard. PABLO is seen crossing the
corridor Then PABLO enters first trying to cover his face, followed by DONA DOLORES,
a fat arrogant woman of forty, wearing the Filipina dress and sporting more jewels than a
pawn shop. Her twenty-year-old son FRED follows hen FRED is so dumb 'and as dumb-
looking nobody would believe it. PABLO is still trying to hide his face.)

DOLORES (Fanning herself vigorously). Where's Dona Petra?

PABLO. She's eating. Sit down.

DOLORES. Call the senora-and 'mind your own business! (Recognizing him.) Che! So it's
you! You-you! Working here! How much are you earning?

PABLO (Insolently). Why?

DOLORES. After treating you so well at home as a muchacho, now you come to work here
without even leaving me a farewell note. Che!

PABLO (With arms akimbo). I'm not a muchacho! I am a mayordomo!

DOLORES. Mayordomo! Mayor tonto! Che! i(PABLO, who is now all sprinkled
with DOLORES' saliva, gets his handkerchief. PETRA and FRANCISCO enter)

PETRA. You may go, Paul.

DOLORES. Paul? (PABLO leaves.)

PETRA. Good morning.

FRANCISCO. You wanted to see me?

DOLORES. Yes! You and Petra!

PETRA. Won't you sit down?

DOLORES. I'd rather remain standing! Che?

FRANCISCO. This-this is your son Fred, I imagine.

DOLORES. Don't imagine-He is my son!

PETRA. Ah! So he is your son!

DOLORES. Supposing he is- what's that to you?

FRANCISCO. I was just thinking he doesn't look a bit like you.

DOLORES. Certainly not. He's the spitting image of my third husband!

PETRA. Do sit down.

DOLORES. Are you trying to insult me by implying I've no chairs at home? Che!

FRANCISCO. What can we do for you?

DOLORES (Pointing to FRED). Ask him!

PETRA What is it, Fred?

FRED (Pointing to his mother). Ask her!

FRANCISCO. Speak up; my son!

DOLORES. Your son!. Your son, eh? So you and your daughter Nena have designs on my
son, eh? Well, you won't hook him!

PETRA. What are you. talking about?

FRANCISCO. Call Nena! (Aloud) Nena! Nena! (ROBERTING appears.) Roberting, call
Nena! (ROBERTING goes out.)

FRANCISCO. If you don't mind, I will sit down.

PETRA I will sit down, too. I'm tired. (FRED tries to sit down too but his mother yanks him
out of the chain. NENA, wearing a sports dress, comes in; followed by ROBERTING)

FRANCISCO. Nena, this lad? wants to talk to you.

DOLORES (Nudging FRED). Tell her!

FRED Ten: her what?

PETRA What is all the mystery about?

DOLORES (Ominously). My son-and your daughter-.

FRANCISCO. They went to the patty last night, didn't they?.

DOLORES. Of course they went to the party. But how did they go?
FRANCISCO. Has your son a car? Maybe they went in his ear.

DOLORES. My son has a car, and it's all paid for. But that isn't the point!

FRANCISCO. What's the point then?

DOLORES. That's what I came to find out!

PETRA. Nena, what happened?

NENA. Happened?

DOLORES. Yes, last night!

NENA. What happened?

DOLORES. I'm asking you!

PETRA. What happened, Nena?

NENA. Why. nothing, Mother

PETRA. Nothing?

NENA. Nothing, Mother

DOLORES. Nothing. che! A girl going to a party unchaperoned and nothing happened!

PETRA. What really happened, Nena?

NENA (Approaching DOLORES and practically screaming at her). Nothing happened and
you know it!

DOLORES. Che! How dare you shout at mc!

FRED. Don't talk to my mother like that, Nena!

NENA (Approaching FRED). Bobo! Estupido! Standing there like a statue!

FRED. Statue? What statue?

NENA. The statue of a dumb-bell, dumb bell!

FRED. Gaga!

ROBERTING. (Approaching FRED and holding him by the neck) Hey, you! Don't start
calling my sister names!

FRED. She started it!

PETRA (Approaching DOLORES). Your son took my daughter out to the party last night

DOLORES. Why do you allow your daughter to go out alone?

FRED. Nena insisted there was nothing wrong! But my intuition told me it might be wrong.

DOLORES. Shut up, Fred!

FRED. Why, mama?

DOLORES. (To PETRA). Why do you allow your daughter to go out alone with my
respectable son?

NENA. What's respectable about him? (DOLORES gives her a poisonous look.)

DOLORES. People saw them come and go unchaperoned. Yes, unchaperoned! Imagine-
imagine a girl going to a party alone!

FRANCISCO. (Advancing). She was with your son, wasn't she?

DOLORES. Unfortunately!

FRANCISCO. Then if my daughter was with your son, what danger was there?

DOLORES. People are talking about last night-

PETRA. But what happened?

DOLORES. (To FRED). What happened, Fred dear?

FRED (Tearfully). Nothing, mama!

DOLORES. Try to think! Something must have happened!

FRED. Nothing. nothing! (DOLORES notices that the group's hostile eyes are fastened on
her)

DOLORES (Pinching FRED, but hard). Torpe!

FRED. (Twisting with pain). Aruy!

DOLORES. You-you-you son of my third husband! Why didn't you tell me nothing
happened?

FRED. I’ve been trying to tell you since this morning, but you gave me no chance.

(Embarrassed, DOLORES tries hard to regain her dignity.)

FRANCISCO. (Approaching DOLORES). You mean to tell me you came here and raised
all this rumpus when nothing, absolutely nothing, happened?
DOLORES. Well! I wouldn't be too sure about absolutely nothing! Besides, I have to be
careful- yes, very careful-about my beloved son's upbringing.

FRANCISCO. Your son! Your Son is very stupid!

FRED. What!

DOLORES. My son stupid!

PETRA (Shouting). And definitely!

FRANCISCO. As stupid as you are!

DOLORES. As me!

PETRA. And positively!

FRED. (Approaching NENA). It's your fault!

NENA. What do you mean my fault, dumbbell!

FRED. I'd slap your face if I weren't a gentleman; (ROBERTING flies across the stage and
faces FRED.)

ROBERTING. I'll slap you even if Mother says I'm no gentleman at times!

DOLORES. (To ROBERTING). Don't you dare touch my son! Che!

NENA. (To DOLORES). You can have that human jellyfish! Coming here to say what
might have happened! (NENA grunts so savagely that DOLORES retreats in terror.)

DOLORES. (To FRANCISCO). You should advise your daughter to stop going to parties
unchaperoned! People gossip and include my son!

FRANCISCO. Mind your own business! (Raising his fist to her head) Tell your son to stop
looking dumb!

DOLORES. Che! I never saw such people, che!

FRANCISCO. Get out of here before I call the police!

FRED. The police! Mama, the police!

DOLORES. We're going, che!

PETRA. Paul! Paul!

FRANCISCO. Who's Paul, Petra? (PABLO appears.)

PABLO. Yes, Don Francisco?

PETRA. Paul, kindly escort these-- these people to the door!

FRANCISCO. Roughly, Paul, roughly!

DOLORES. (Facing PABLO). Canalla! (To PETRA.) I suppose you enticed

my muchacho to come here!

PABLO (Touching DOLORES on the shoulder). Hoy, I am no muchacho! I'm

a mayordomo! Furthermore, Dona Petra gives me eighty pesos a month while you used to
give me fifty pesos only!

DOLORES. Eighty a month! Where will they get that much!

PETRA. Dona Dolores! Dolores de cabeza!

DOLORES. Eighty a month! Che! (Going to the door.) Che! (Turning again.) Che! (She
comes back to recover her son who has remained like a statue.)

PETRA. Can you imagine! The insolence! Che! (Everybody stares at her.)

FRANCISCO. That's what Nena got for going out unchaperoned. I was already telling you,
Petra-

PETRA. How could I, know this Dolores would make all that awful fuss?

ROBERTING. You want me to break Fred's neck?

FRANCISCO. You should -have done that when he was here. Your muscle reflexes are
tardy in working, my son.

ROBERTING (Unconsciously). Che!, (They all look at him. NENA has sat on the so/a and
begins to cry.)

PETRA. Don't cry, Nena. It’s over.

NENA (Between sobs). Making all that fuss for nothing! The truth is that I quarreled with
Fred during the party and left him.

PETRA. Left him! Where did you go?

NENA. I came home with Luding and Lolita. Fred's mother had been trying to interest me in
her son-that's why-he told his mother-and—

FRANCISCO. Ay, hija mia, go in now and let this be a lesson to you.

NENA (As she's near the door-unconsciously) Che! (They all stare at her and at each other.)

PETRA. Finish eating. Roberting.

FRANCISCO. Incidentally, Roberting, I hope nothing happened with you last night.
ROBERTING. Last night?

FRANCISCO. You went out with Lia, didn't you?

ROBERTJNG. Yes, but nothing happened-- I think.

PETRA. You think! (PABLO comes in, smoking a cigar.)

PABLO. I escorted them out already. senora. What do I do now?

PETRA. You may wash more dishes.

PABLO. Ha? (He is about to go.)

FRANCISCO. Hoy! Where did you get that cigar?

PABLO. Ha? Er-why, somebody gave it to me.

FRANCISCO. Who?

PABLO. Francis, senor.

FRANCISCO. So! Mayordomo smokes owner's cigars. Owner kicks mayordomo out. (He
makes a gesture of kicking PABLO, but the latter runs outside into the street.
The SERVANT is seen coming in from the corridor. He disappears and comes back with a
coat which he throws out of the window.)

SERVANT. Hoy-- your coat! Mayordomo-mayor yabang!

PETRA. Get back to the kitchen, Francis!

SERVANT. Am I still the servant here, senora?

PETRA. Yes, I suppose we'll have to bear with you for a while.

SERVANT. I won't have to put out the sign anymore-"Wanted A Muchacho"?

FRANCISCO. No! Make another and put "Wanted: A Chaperon"!

PETRA. Wanted a Chaperon?

FRANCISCO. Yes, for our daughter Nena.

PETRA. Que verguenza! I, her mother, will chaperon Nena (She stares out the window. She
sees somebody coming.) Roberting! Roberting! (ROBERTING appears.)

ROBERTING. What is it, Mother?

PETRA (Pointing outside). Isn't that your girl-friend Lia?

ROBERTING. Why, yes?

PETRA. And who is that old man along with her?

ROBERTING (Swallowing). That's-er-that's her father!

PETRA. And he's carrying something!

ROBERTING. Yes-yes! He's Carrying-a gun!! (Running outside.) Tell them I'm out!

FRANCISCO. Ay, Petra! We need two chaperons! Che! (PETRA stares at him.)

CURTAIN