Beowulf: The Legend

Beowulf begins with a history of the great Danish King Scyld (whose funeral is described in the Prologue). King Hrothgar, Scyld's great-grandson, is well loved by his people and successful in war. He builds a lavish hall, called Heorot, to house his vast army, and when the hall is finished, the Danish warriors gather under its roof to celebrate.
Grendel, a monster who lives at the bottom of a nearby mere, is provoked by the singing and celebrating of Hrothgar's followers. He appears at the hall late one night and kills thirty of the warriors in their sleep. For the next twelve years, the fear of Grendel's fury casts a shadow over the lives of the Danes. Hrothgar and his advisors can think of nothing to calm the monster's anger.
Beowulf, prince of the Geats, hears about Hrothgar's troubles, gathers fourteen of the bravest Geat warriors, and sets sail from his home in southern Sweden. The Geats are greeted by the members of Hrothgar's court, and Beowulf boasts to the king of his previous successes as a warrior, particularly his success in fighting sea monsters. Hrothgar welcomes the arrival of the Geats, hoping that Beowulf will live up to his reputation. During the banquet that follows Beowulf's arrival, Unferth, a Danish thane, voices doubt about Beowulf's past accomplishments, and Beowulf, in return, accuses Unferth of killing his brothers. Before the night ends, Hrothgar promises Beowulf great treasures if he meets with success against the monster.
Grendel appears on the night of the Geats' arrival at Heorot. Beowulf, true to his word, wrestles the monster barehanded.Click here to see the fight! He tears off the monster's arm at the shoulder, but Grendel escapes, only to die soon afterward at the bottom of his snake-infested mere. The Danish warriors, who have fled the hall in fear, return singing songs in praise of Beowulf's triumph. Hrothgar rewards Beowulf with a great store of treasures. After another banquet, the warriors of both the Geats and the Danes retire for the night.
Unknown to the warriors, however, Grendel's mother is plotting revenge (see "Grendel's Mother's Attack"). She arrives at the hall when all the warriors are sleeping and carries off Aeschere, Hrothgar's chief advisor along with her son's claw. (Click here to see the infamous claw!) Beowulf offers to dive to the bottom of the lake, find the monster and destroy her. He and his men follow the monster's tracks to the cliff overlooking the lake where Grendel's mother lives. They see Aeschere's bloody head sitting on the cliff. While preparing for battle, Beowulf asks Hrothgar to protect his warriors, and to send his treasures to his uncle, King Hygelac, if he doesn't return safely.
Before Beowulf goes into the sea, Unferth offers him his sword, Hrunting. During the ensuing battle Grendel's mother carries Beowulf to her underwater home. After a terrible fight, Beowulf kills the monster with a magical sword, probably put there by the Al-Weilder, that he finds on the wall of her home. He also finds Grendel's dead body, cuts off the head, and returns to land, where the Geat and Danish warriors are waiting expectantly. Beowulf has now abolished the race of evil monsters.
The warriors return to Hrothgar's court, where the Danes and Geats prepare a feast in celebration of the death of the monsters. Beowulf bids farewell to Hrothgar and tells the old king that if the Danes ever again need help he will gladly come to their assistance. Hrothgar presents Beowulf with more treasures, and they embrace, emotionally, like father and son.
The Geats sail home. After recounting the story of his battles with Grendel and Grendel's mother, Beowulf tells King Hygelac about the feud between Denmark and their enemies, the Heatho-bards. He describes the proposed peace settlement, in which Hrothgar will give his daughter Freawaru to Ingeld, king of the Heatho-bards, but predicts that the peace will not last long. Hygelac rewards Beowulf for his bravery with land, swords, and houses.
The meeting between Hygelac and Beowulf marks the end of the first part of the poem. In the next part, Hygelac is dead, and Beowulf has been king of the Geats for fifty years. A thief steals a jeweled cup from a sleeping dragon who avenges his loss by flying through the night burning down houses, including Beowulf's own hall and throne. Beowulf goes to the cave where the dragon lives, vowing to destroy it single-handedly. He's an old man now, and he is not as strong as he was when he fought Grendel. During the battle Beowulf breaks his sword against the dragon's side; the dragon, enraged, engulfs Beowulf in flames and wounds him in the neck. All of Beowulf's followers flee except Wiglaf, who rushes through the flames to assist the aging warrior. Wiglaf stabs the dragon with his sword, and Beowulf, in a final act of courage, cuts the dragon in half with his knife.
Yet the damage is done. Beowulf realizes that he's dying, that he has fought his last battle. He asks Wiglaf to bring him the dragon's storehouse of treasures; seeing the jewels and gold will make him feel that the effort has been worthwhile. He instructs Wiglaf to build a tomb to be known as "Beowulf's tower" on the edge of the sea. After Beowulf dies, Wiglaf admonishes the troops who deserted their leader when he was fighting against the dragon. He tells them that they have been untrue to the standards of bravery, courage, and loyalty that Beowulf has taught.
Wiglaf sends a messenger to a nearby camp of Geat soldiers with instructions to report the outcome of the battle. Wiglaf supervises the building of the funeral pyre. In keeping with Beowulf's instructions, the dragon's treasure is buried alongside Beowulf's ashes in the tomb. The poem ends as it began -- with the funeral of a great warrior.

I am a Filipino by Carlos P. Romulo

I am a Filipino — inheritor of a glorious past, hostage to the uncertain future. As such I must prove equal to a two-fold task — the task of meeting my responsibility to the past, and the task of performing my obligation to the future.

I sprung from a hardy race — child of many generations removed of ancient Malayan pioneers. Across the centuries, the memory comes rushing back to me: of brown-skinned men, putting out to sea in ships that were as frail as their hearts were stout. Over the sea I see them come, borne upon the billowing wave and the whistling wind, carried upon the mighty swell of hope — hope in the free abundance of new land that was to be their home and their children’s forever.This is the land they sought and found. Every inch of shore that their eyes first set upon, every hill and mountain that beckoned to them with a green and purple invitation, every mile of rolling plain that their view encompassed, every river and lake that promised a plentiful living and the fruitfulness of commerce, is a hollowed spot to me.
By the strength of their hearts and hands, by every right of law, human and divine, this land and all the appurtenances thereof — the black and fertile soil, the seas and lakes and rivers teeming with fish, the forests with their inexhaustible wealth in wild life and timber, the mountains with their bowels swollen with minerals — the whole of this rich and happy land has been, for centuries without number, the land of my fathers. This land I received in trust from them, and in trust will pass it to my children, and so on until the world no more.
I am a Filipino. In my blood runs the immortal seed of heroes — seed that flowered down the centuries in deeds of courage and defiance. In my veins yet pulses the same hot blood that sent Lapulapu to battle against the alien foe that drove Diego Silang and Dagohoy into rebellion against the foreign oppressor.
That seed is immortal. It is the self-same seed that flowered in the heart of Jose Rizal that morning in Bagumbayan when a volley of shots put an end to all that was mortal of him and made his spirit deathless forever; the same that flowered in the hearts of Bonifacio in Balintawak, of Gergorio del Pilar at Tirad Pass, of Antonio Luna at Calumpit; that bloomed in flowers of frustration in the sad heart of Emilio Aguinaldo at Palanan, and yet burst fourth royally again in the proud heart of Manuel L. Quezon when he stood at last on the threshold of ancient Malacañang Palace, in the symbolic act of possession and racial vindication.
The seed I bear within me is an immortal seed. It is the mark of my manhood, the symbol of dignity as a human being. Like the seeds that were once buried in the tomb of Tutankhamen many thousand years ago, it shall grow and flower and bear fruit again. It is the insigne of my race, and my generation is but a stage in the unending search of my people for freedom and happiness.
I am a Filipino, child of the marriage of the East and the West. The East, with its languor and mysticism, its passivity and endurance, was my mother; my sire was the West that came thundering across the seas with the Cross and Sword and the Machine. I am of the East, an eager participant in its spirit , and in its struggles for liberation from the imperialist yoke. But I know also that the East must awake from its centuried sleep, shake off the lethargy that has bound its limbs, and start moving where destiny awaits.
For I, too, am of the West, and the vigorous peoples of the West have destroyed forever the peace and quiet that once were ours. I can no longer live being apart from those whose world now trembles to the roar of bomb and cannon shot. I cannot say of a matter of universal life and death, of freedom and slavery for all mankind, that it concerns me not. For no man and no nation is an island, but a part of the main, there is no longer any East and West — only individuals and nations making those momentous which are the hinges upon which history resolves.
At the vanguard of progress in this part of the world I stand — a forlorn figure in the eyes of some, but not one defeated and lost. For through the thick, interlacing branches of habit and custom above me I have seen the light of the sun, and I know that it is good. I have seen the light of justice and equality and freedom, my heart has been lifted by the vision of democracy, and I shall not rest until my land and my people shall have been blessed by these, beyond the power of any man or nation to subvert or destroy.
I am a Filipino, and this is my inheritance. What pledge shall I give that I may prove worthy of my inheritance? I shall give the pledge that has come ringing down the corridors of the centuries, and it shall be compounded of the joyous cries of my Malayan forebears when they first saw the contours of this land loom before their eyes, of the battle cries that have resounded in every field of combat from Mactan to Tirad pass, of the voices of my people when they sing:

Land of the Morning,Child of the sun returning …

Ne’er shall invadersTrample thy sacred shore.

Out of the lush green of these seven thousand isles, out of the heartstrings of sixteen million people all vibrating to one song, I shall weave the mighty fabric of my pledge. Out of the songs of the farmers at sunrise when they go to labor in the fields; out of the sweat of the hard-bitten pioneers in Mal-ig and Koronadal; out of the silent endurance of stevedores at the piers and the ominous grumbling of peasants in Pampangga; out of the first cries of babies newly born and the lullabies that mothers sing; out of the crashing of gears and the whine of turbines in the factories; out of the crunch of ploughs upturning the earth; out of the limitless patience of teachers in the classrooms and doctors in the clinics; out of the tramp of soldiers marching, I shall make the pattern of my pledge:

“I am a Filipino born of freedom, and I shall not rest until freedom shall have been added unto my inheritance — for myself and my children’s children — forever.”

Now Don’t Just Sit There

In my schoolboy days I was stumped by a mathematical problem I could not solve, although I had wrestled with it for half an hour. It was a very mild autumn evening, and the neighboring was playing noisy games not far from my window. I chewed my pencil in bafflement.
Then, the reaction sits in. “I’ll do this if it takes all night,” I said aloud to myself. My first move was to go over and close the window, partly shutting out the sound of the laughing and shouting nearby. It was not yet Sandown but I pulled down the shade and turned on the light. Then I crumpled up the sheets of paper I had been working on assembled all the available facts of the problem on a clean sheet, gritted my teeth, and in five minutes had my solution.
No one can tell whether a door is locked or not until he tries the knob. It is reported that Houdini was followed one time by prison guard who challenged him to escape from a cell that apparently he had locked. The magician worked on the combination with knob. The door wasn’t locked.
In tackling problems that comes to us, the first principle is action, movement. Don’t just sit there. Perhaps the first thing to do is to stand up. Battles cannot be won from rocking chairs. The Chinese have proverb that a journey of a thousands miles is began with first step.
Sitting tight in rare instance may be praise worthy, but in the vast majority of situations, exercise of the ankle bones toward some chosen goal keeps as mentally and spiritually alert, and tends onto fortune, So don’t just sit there!

LAND OF BONDAGE, LAND OF THE FREE

Raul Manglapus

October 20, 1918 — July 25, 1999

Appointed as the Philippines’ youngest-ever foreign minister in 1957, and was elected to a national senate seat by a landslide in 1961. He ran for President in 1965, but lost to eventual dictator Ferdinand Marcos. Manglapus returned to the foreign affairs post in 1987 as a member of the cabinet of President Corazon Aquino. A statesman of towering stature, he is best summed up by a Philippine newspaper columnist as “…the best President we never had.”* * *

Once upon a time, the tao owned a piece of land. It was all he owned. But he cherished it, for it gave him three things, having which, he was content: life, first of all, and liberty, and happiness.
Then one day the Spaniard came and commanded him to pay tribute to the crown of Spain. The tao paid tribute. And he was silent — he was certain that he was still the master of his land.The Spaniard became rich. But with riches, evil entered into him and he came to the tao a second time. He read to the tao a formidable document saying: “According to this decreto real, which unfortunately you cannot read, this that you have been paying me is not tribute but rent, for the land is not yours but mine.” The tao paid tribute and said nothing … He ceased to be a freeman. He became a serf. Still the tao held his peace. The rent went up and up. The tao starved.
And this time at last he spoke. Not in words, but with that rustic instrument with which he cleared the land once his own — the bolo. He transformed it from an instrument of tillage to an instrument of death, and with it drove away the stranger. Then he returned to his field saying: “Now indeed shall I again be master of this land, once my own, but stolen from me by the trickery of quicker wits than mine.”
But the tao was wrong. For the land had another master. This time not a stranger, but his own countryman grown rich. The tao had a new name, kasama, which to us means partner, but which to the tao meant still a slave, for once more he suffered from his countrymen the same things he had suffered from the stranger: the rents, the usury, and all the rest of it.
Yes, the tao returned to his field thinking that he was free. But he soon discovered that he was still a prisoner. His prison, a two-room shack, rent by every wind, without any comforts, except tht three families have there the privilege to starve. The tao’s home has become his very prison. Its doors, if you can call them such, are wide open. It is a prison nonetheless. For the tao is bound to it, not with chains of steel, but with a stronger chain — his honor. To this day, the tao remains a slave, a prisoner of the usurer.
No wonder, then that tao, being a slave, has acquired the habits of a slave. No wonder that after three centuries in chains, without freedom, without hope, he should lose the erect and fearless posture of the freeman, and become the bent, misshapen, indolent, vicious, pitiful thing that he is! Who dares accuse him, who dares rise up in judgement against this man, reduced to this sub-human level by three centuries of oppression. The tao does not come here tonight to be judged — but to judge! Hear then his accusation and his sentence:
I indict the Spanish encomendero for inventing taxes impossible to bear.
I indict the usurer for saddling me with debts impossible to pay.
I indict the irresponsible radical leaders who undermine, with insidious eloquence, the confidence of my kind in our government.
You accuse me of not supporting my family. Free me from bondage, and I shall prove you false.
You accuse me of ignorance. But I am ignorant because my master finds it profitable to keep me ignorant. Free me from bondage, and I shall prove you false.
You accuse me of indolence. But I am indolent not because I have no will, but because I have no hope. Why should I labor, if all the fruits of my labor go to pay an unpayable debt. Free me from bondage, and I shall prove you false.
Give me land. Land to own. Land unbeholden to any tyrant. Land that will be free. Give me land for I am starving. Give me land that my children may not die. Sell it to me, sell it to me at a fair price, as one freeman sells to another and not as a usurer sells to a slave. I am poor, but I will pay it! I will work, work until I fall from weariness for my privilege, for my inalienable right to be free!
BUT IF YOU WILL NOT GRANT ME THIS … If you will not grant me this last request, this ultimate demand, then build a wall around your home … build it high! … build it strong! Place a sentry on every parapet! … for I who have been silent these three hundred years will come in the night when you are feasting, with my cry and my bolo at your door. And may God have mercy on your soul!

Paalam sa Pagkabata ni Santiago Pepito salin ni Nazareno D. Bas

Paalam sa Pagkabata
("Panamilit sa Kabantanon ni Santiago Pepito") Paalam sa PagkabataSalin ni Nazareno D. Bas
(Part I)
Wala akong nakikitang pagbabago. Tulad nang nagdaang mga madaling-araw: ang ginaw, katahimikan, dilim – iyon din ang bumubuo ng daigdig ng aking kamalayan. Maraming bagay ang dapat mailarawan. Ngunit alam kong iisa lamang ang kahulugan ng mga iyon. Alam ko.
Sa kabilang silid, sa kwarto nina Nanay at Tatay, naririnig ko ang pigil ng paghikbi. Umiiyak na naman si Nanay. Ang sunod-sunod na paghikbi ay tila pandagdag sa kalungkutan ng daigdig. Napabuntung-hininga ako. Umiiling-iling. Hanggang ngayon hindi ko pa nakikita ang tunay na dahilan ng damdaming iyon na matagal nang umalipin sa kanya.
Walang malinaw sa aking isipan. Mula sa aking pagkamulat ang pagkainip ay kakambal ng aking buhay. Sa aking pag-iisa di ko maiwasan ang pangarap na magkaroon ng batang kapatid na nag-aangkin ng mabangong hininga at taglay ang ngiti ng isang anghel. Ngunit ang damdamin ko’y tila tigang na lupang pinagkaitan ng ulan.
Maliwanag na ang silangan nang ako’y bumangon. May bago na namang umaga. Ngunit ang tanawin sa bahay ay walang pagbabago. Tulad ng dati, nakikita ko si Nanay na nakaupo at nag-iisip sa may hagdanan. Nakatitig siya sa sampayan ng lambat ni Tatay. At madalas ang kanyang pagbubuntong-hininga.
Matagal ko nang nakikita ang sampay na lambat. Ngunit hindi ko nakikitang ito’y ginagamit ni Tatay. Noon ay walang halaga ito sa akin. Nagsimula ang pagpansin ko sa lambat noong ito’y tinapon ni Nanay mga dalawang taon na ang nakakaraan. Galit na galit si Tatay sa ginawa ni Nanay. Pinagbuhatan ni Tatay ng kamay si Nanay. Pagkatapos ipinabalik kay Nanay ang lambat sa sampayan.
"Hanggang ngayon ba’y hindi ka pa nakakalimot, Tomas? Alam ng Diyos na wala akong kasalanan. Ang kanyang ginawa ang siya mong ginagawa tuwing ikaw ay darating sa madaling-araw. Ang kanyang amoy ay siya ring amoy na galing sa dagat. Magkatulad ang inyong ikinikilos. Sino ang hindi mag-aakala na siya ay hindi ikaw? Huli na nang malaman ko ang katotohanan. Huli na nang siya ay aking makilala. Totoong lumigaw siya sa akin. At mula noon ay alam mo iyon. Ikaw ang aking iniibig, Tomas. Kailan mo pa malilimutan ang nangyari?"
[Pangkat II]
Tuluyang umiyak si Nanay. Umungol lamang si Tatay. Nanlilisik ang matang tumingin sa lambat at pagkatapos ay bumaling sa akin. May ibig sabihin ang tingin niyang nag-aapoy. Maliban sa takot na aking nararamdaman ay wala akong naintindihan sa pangyayaring iyon.
Mula noon ay hindi na ginalaw ni Nanay ang lambat. Naluma na ito ngunit buong-buo pa rin sa aking paningin. Buong-buo pa rin sa paningin ni Nanay. Ano kaya ang misteryong napapaloob sa lambat na iyon? Alam kong alam ni Nanay ang hindi ko nalalaman. At kailangang malaman ko ito. May karapatan akong malaman.
Nilapitan ko si Nanay na malalim pa rin ang iniisip. Hinalikan ko ang kanyang kamay. May ibig akong itanong tungkol sa misteryo ng lambat. Ngunit nauntol ang ibig kong sabihin nang magpatuloy ang kanyang pagluha.
"Lakad na Celso, malapit nang dumating ang Tatay mo."
Sa labasan, sumalubong sa akin ang bagong araw. Tumingin ako. Maliwanag ang langit. Langit? May gumugulo sa aking kalooban. Kalawakan. Iyan ang sabi sa aking guro sa ikaapat na baitang ng primarya. Iyan ay hindi langit kundi hangganan lamang ng pananaw ng tao. Ang langit ay nasa tao. Hindi nakikita. Hindi nahihipo. Hindi naaabot. Naabot na kaya ni Nanay ang langit?
"Ano pa ang hinihintay mo, Celso?"
Ipinahid ko sa mukha ang suot kong sando. Humakbang pagkatapos. Maya-maya’y tumakbo na ako ng matulin.
Nasa dalampasigan ang mamamili ng isang dala ng mga bangkang galing sa laot. Masasaya silang nagkukuwentuhan habang hinihintay ang mga mangingisda. Sumalampak ako sa buhangin, malapit sa kinauupuan ng dalawang lalaking may katandaan na. Sa laot ako nakatingin at pinagmamasdan ang galaw ng mga alon na pandagdag sa kagandahan ng kalikasan.
Napalingon ako nang makarinig ng tugtog ng gutara mula sa di-kalayuang bahay-pawid. At sabay kong narinig ang malungkot na awiting nagsasaad ng kasawian sa pag-ibig. At mula na namang naantig ang aking damdamin. Habang pinakikinggan ko ang malungkot na kundiman umalingawngaw ang mahinang pag-uusap ng dalawang lalaki sa tabi[o] ko.
"Naririyan na naman siya."
"Talagang pambihira ang kanyang pagmamahal. Naniniwala akong nagpapatuloy ang kanyang pangarap habang di pa namamatay ang babae sa kanyang buhay. Hindi nawawala ang kanyang pag-asa. Kung kailan natutupad ang kanyang pangarap Diyos lamang ang nakakaalam."
[Pangkat III]
Dinig na dinig ko ang mga kataga habang nagpapatuloy ang malungkot na kundimang naging bahagi na ng aking buhay. Tumayo ako at ibinaling ang paningin sa bahay-pawid sa ilalim ng kaniyugan. Patuloy ang awitin. Humakbang ako ngunit biglang napatigil sa harap ng dalawang lalaking may katandaan na. Naalala ko ang sabi ni Tatay. Bawal pumunta sa bahay-pawid na iyon. Mahigpit ang utos ni Tatay. Nagbabanta ng parusa.
Lumingon ako sa laot. Nasa malayo ang mga bangka ng mga mangingisda. Bumaling ako sa pinanggalingan ng awit na ngayo’y gumaganda sa aking pandinig. At para akong hinihila. Nakalimutan ko ang ipinagbabawal ni Tatay. Mabilis ang aking paglakad at sa ilang saglit kaharap ko na ang taong naggigitara at umaawit. May luha ang kanyang mga mata.
Tumitig siya sa akin. Inilapag ang gitara sa ibabaw ng papag na kinauupuan. Tumayo siya at dahan-dahang lumapit sa akin. Kinabahan ako. Umakma akong tumakbo ngunit nahawakan niya ang isa kong kamay. Nagpumiglas ako upang makawal sa kanyang pagyapos sa akin. Ngunit lalong humigpit ang kanyang pagyakap. Umiiyak ako.
Ngumiti siya at pinahid ang aking mga luha. Hinimas ang aking ulo. Unti-unting lumuwag ang aking paghinga. Nararamdaman ko ang kanyang pagmamahal nang tumingin ako sa kanya. Muli niya akong niyapos.
"Dalawin mo ako palagi, ha?"
Hindi ako kumibo. Tinitigan ko siya. Ang kanyang mga mata, ang ilong, ang labi – lahat parang nakita ko na. Saan? Alam ko na, sa salamin. Talagang siya ang nakita ko sa salamin na nakasabit sa dingding ng aming bahay.
Napatingin ako sa dalampasigan nang marinig ko ang hiyawan. Nagdatingan na pala ang mga bangka at nag-uunahan ang mga mamimili ng isda. Nagmadali akong tumakbo upang salubungin ang Tatay. Malayo pa ako ng makita ko siyang nakatayo sa may dinaungan ng kanyang bangka. Natanawan niya ako. Masama ang titig niya sa akin. Galit. Kinabahan ako.
"Lapit rito, Celso!"
Malakas ang sigaw ni Tatay. Nanginginig akong lumapit. At bigla akong sinampal.
"Di ko gusto ang batang matigas ang ulo! Di lang sampal ang matitikman mo kapag umulit ka pa. Hala, kunin mo ang mga isda at sumunod ka kaagad sa akin."
Habang naglalakad ay sinalat ko ang pisnging nakatikim ng sampal. Talagang mahirap intindihin si Tatay. Wala namang dahilan upang iwasan ko ang taong nasa bahay-pawid. Di naman dapat katakutan ang kanyang mukha at boses. Bakit kaya hinihigpitan ako ni Tatay?
[Pangkat IV]
Matapos akong mag-almusal, nandoon na naman si Tatay sa sampayan ng lambat. Nakatabako at nagtatagpi ng punit na bahagi ng lambat. Alam kong aabutin siya ng tanghali bago matapos ang kanyang gawain. Matapos makapananghalian siya’y matutulog. Pagkagising maghahapunan. At di pa man ganap ang gabi balik na naman sa dagat. Iyan ang buhay ni Tatay. At iyan ang bahagi ng aking buhay.
Sa aking kinauupuan sa may bintana nakikita ko sa Nanay na nakaupo sa may hagdanan. Tahimik at nakatingin na naman sa sampayan ng lambat. Luhaan na naman ang kanyang mga mata. At naalala ko ang pangyayari noong itinapon ni Nanay. Lahat may itinatagong kahulugan. At naalala ko ang nangyari kanina sa dalampasigan. Naalala ko iyong tao.
Lumapit ako sa salamin sa dingding. Pinagmasdan ko ang aking sarili. Nakita ko sa aking isipan ang mukha ng tao. Unti-unting lumiwanag ang aking kamalayan. Biglang kumulo ang aking dugo habang iniisip ang nakasampay na lambat. Nagdilim ang aking paningin. Nadama kong inihahanap ko ang katarungan ang aking kalagayan.
Nagpunta ako sa kusinaan. Hinanap ko ang itak ni Nanay na pangsibak ng kahoy. Bitbit ko ito at pinuntahan ang sampayan ng lambat. Pinagtataga ko ang lambat.
"Huwag, Celso!" saway ni Nanay na nanginginig ang boses. "Huwag!"
Naiiba sa aking pandinig ang pagsigaw ni Nanay. Pati si Tatay ay natigilan at nabigla sa aking ginawa ay hindi ko pinansin. Hinalibas ko ng itak ang lambat at saka lang ako tumigil nang ito’y magkagutay-gutay na at nagkalat sa aking paanan.
"Celso!"
Nag-aapoy ang mga mata ni Tatay na humarap sa akin. At sa unang pagkakataon ay hindi ko inalis ang aking tingin sa kanya. Nilabanan ko siya ng titigan. Di ako nagagalit kundi humihingi lamang ng pang-unawa. Ngunit bigla akong napatimbuwang nang matamaan ng malakas na suntok at napahiga sa pira-pirasong wasak na lambat.
Nahihilo ako, parang ibig himatayin. Umiikot ang aking paningin. Parang may nakita akong anino – si Tatay na sumusurot kay Nanay.
"Ngunit, Tomas," nagmamakaawa si Nanay. "Wala siyang kasalanan. Maawa ka sa kaniya."
"Pumanhik ka, Isidra!" singhal ni Tatay. "Pumanhik ka na habang ako’y nakapagpipigil pa."
[Pangkat V]
Dahan-dahan akong bumangon at sumuray-suray na lumapit kay Tatay. Ngunit isang tadyak ang sumalubong sa akin. Napatihaya ako ngunit tinangka kong makatayo. Mabigat ang pakiramdam ko sa aking katawan at ako’y gumagapang. Ngunit sinabunutan ako ni Tatay at iningudngod sa lupa ang aking mukha. Humihingal ako ngunit di ko makuhang umiyak. Nasasalat ko ang magkahalong dugo at pawis sa aking pisngi.
Di ko pansin ang mga gasgas sa dalawang siko. Sa labis na panghihina’y umusad ako nang umusad. Hanggang sa nangangatog kong mga bisig ay yumapos sa mga binti ni Tatay. Naramdaman ko ang panlalamig ng katawan at ako ay napahandusay sa kanyang paanan.
Hindi ko na alam kung gaano katagal ang pagkawala ng aking malay. Naramdaman ko na lamang may maiinit na mga bisig na yumayakap sa akin. Kinusot ko ang aking mga mata. Sumalubong sa aking paningin ang maamong mukha ni Tatay. Pagsisisi. Pag-unawa. Lahat ay kasalungat sa dati niyang gawa. Lalong humigpit ang kanyang pagyakap at kinabig ang aking mukha sa kanyang dibdib sa tapat ng kanyang puso. Matagal.

The Diamond Necklace by Guy de Maupassant

The girl was one of those pretty and charming young creatures who sometimes are born, as if by a slip of fate, into a family of clerks. She had no dowry, no expectations, no way of being known, understood, loved, married by any rich and distinguished man; so she let herself be married to a little clerk of the Ministry of Public Instruction.
She dressed plainly because she could not dress well, but she was unhappy as if she had really fallen from a higher station; since with women there is neither caste nor rank, for beauty, grace and charm take the place of family and birth. Natural ingenuity, instinct for what is elegant, a supple mind are their sole hierarchy, and often make of women of the people the equals of the very greatest ladies.
Mathilde suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born to enjoy all delicacies and all luxuries. She was distressed at the poverty of her dwelling, at the bareness of the walls, at the shabby chairs, the ugliness of the curtains. All those things, of which another woman of her rank would never even have been conscious, tortured her and made her angry. The sight of the little Breton peasant who did her humble housework aroused in her despairing regrets and bewildering dreams. She thought of silent antechambers hung with Oriental tapestry, illumined by tall bronze candelabra, and of two great footmen in knee breeches who sleep in the big armchairs, made drowsy by the oppressive heat of the stove. She thought of long reception halls hung with ancient silk, of the dainty cabinets containing priceless curiosities and of the little coquettish perfumed reception rooms made for chatting at five o'clock with intimate friends, with men famous and sought after, whom all women envy and whose attention they all desire.
When she sat down to dinner, before the round table covered with a tablecloth in use three days, opposite her husband, who uncovered the soup tureen and declared with a delighted air, "Ah, the good soup! I don't know anything better than that," she thought of dainty dinners, of shining silverware, of tapestry that peopled the walls with ancient personages and with strange birds flying in the midst of a fairy forest; and she thought of delicious dishes served on marvellous plates and of the whispered gallantries to which you listen with a sphinxlike smile while you are eating the pink meat of a trout or the wings of a quail.
She had no gowns, no jewels, nothing. And she loved nothing but that. She felt made for that. She would have liked so much to please, to be envied, to be charming, to be sought after.
She had a friend, a former schoolmate at the convent, who was rich, and whom she did not like to go to see any more because she felt so sad when she came home.
But one evening her husband reached home with a triumphant air and holding a large envelope in his hand.
"There," said he, "there is something for you."
She tore the paper quickly and drew out a printed card which bore these words:
The Minister of Public Instruction and Madame Georges Ramponneau request the honor of M. and Madame Loisel's company at the palace of the Ministry on Monday evening, January 18th.
Instead of being delighted, as her husband had hoped, she threw the invitation on the table crossly, muttering:
"What do you wish me to do with that?"
"Why, my dear, I thought you would be glad. You never go out, and this is such a fine opportunity. I had great trouble to get it. Every one wants to go; it is very select, and they are not giving many invitations to clerks. The whole official world will be there."
She looked at him with an irritated glance and said impatiently:
"And what do you wish me to put on my back?"
He had not thought of that. He stammered:
"Why, the gown you go to the theatre in. It looks very well to me."
He stopped, distracted, seeing that his wife was weeping. Two great tears ran slowly from the corners of her eyes toward the corners of her mouth.
"What's the matter? What's the matter?" he answered.
By a violent effort she conquered her grief and replied in a calm voice, while she wiped her wet cheeks:
"Nothing. Only I have no gown, and, therefore, I can't go to this ball. Give your card to some colleague whose wife is better equipped than I am."
He was in despair. He resumed:
"Come, let us see, Mathilde. How much would it cost, a suitable gown, which you could use on other occasions--something very simple?"
She reflected several seconds, making her calculations and wondering also what sum she could ask without drawing on herself an immediate refusal and a frightened exclamation from the economical clerk.
Finally she replied hesitating:
"I don't know exactly, but I think I could manage it with four hundred francs."
He grew a little pale, because he was laying aside just that amount to buy a gun and treat himself to a little shooting next summer on the plain of Nanterre, with several friends who went to shoot larks there of a Sunday.
But he said:
"Very well. I will give you four hundred francs. And try to have a pretty gown."
The day of the ball drew near and Madame Loisel seemed sad, uneasy, anxious. Her frock was ready, however. Her husband said to her one evening:
"What is the matter? Come, you have seemed very queer these last three days."
And she answered:
"It annoys me not to have a single piece of jewelry, not a single ornament, nothing to put on. I shall look poverty-stricken. I would almost rather not go at all."
"You might wear natural flowers," said her husband. "They're very stylish at this time of year. For ten francs you can get two or three magnificent roses."
She was not convinced.
"No; there's nothing more humiliating than to look poor among other women who are rich."
"How stupid you are!" her husband cried. "Go look up your friend, Madame Forestier, and ask her to lend you some jewels. You're intimate enough with her to do that."
She uttered a cry of joy:
"True! I never thought of it."
The next day she went to her friend and told her of her distress.
Madame Forestier went to a wardrobe with a mirror, took out a large jewel box, brought it back, opened it and said to Madame Loisel:
"Choose, my dear."
She saw first some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then a Venetian gold cross set with precious stones, of admirable workmanship. She tried on the ornaments before the mirror, hesitated and could not make up her mind to part with them, to give them back. She kept asking:
"Haven't you any more?"
"Why, yes. Look further; I don't know what you like."
Suddenly she discovered, in a black satin box, a superb diamond necklace, and her heart throbbed with an immoderate desire. Her hands trembled as she took it. She fastened it round her throat, outside her high-necked waist, and was lost in ecstasy at her reflection in the mirror.
Then she asked, hesitating, filled with anxious doubt:
"Will you lend me this, only this?"
"Why, yes, certainly."
She threw her arms round her friend's neck, kissed her passionately, then fled with her treasure.
The night of the ball arrived. Madame Loisel was a great success. She was prettier than any other woman present, elegant, graceful, smiling and wild with joy. All the men looked at her, asked her name, sought to be introduced. All the attaches of the Cabinet wished to waltz with her. She was remarked by the minister himself.
She danced with rapture, with passion, intoxicated by pleasure, forgetting all in the triumph of her beauty, in the glory of her success, in a sort of cloud of happiness comprised of all this homage, admiration, these awakened desires and of that sense of triumph which is so sweet to woman's heart.
She left the ball about four o'clock in the morning. Her husband had been sleeping since midnight in a little deserted anteroom with three other gentlemen whose wives were enjoying the ball.
He threw over her shoulders the wraps he had brought, the modest wraps of common life, the poverty of which contrasted with the elegance of the ball dress. She felt this and wished to escape so as not to be remarked by the other women, who were enveloping themselves in costly furs.
Loisel held her back, saying: "Wait a bit. You will catch cold outside. I will call a cab."
But she did not listen to him and rapidly descended the stairs. When they reached the street they could not find a carriage and began to look for one, shouting after the cabmen passing at a distance.
They went toward the Seine in despair, shivering with cold. At last they found on the quay one of those ancient night cabs which, as though they were ashamed to show their shabbiness during the day, are never seen round Paris until after dark.
It took them to their dwelling in the Rue des Martyrs, and sadly they mounted the stairs to their flat. All was ended for her. As to him, he reflected that he must be at the ministry at ten o'clock that morning.
She removed her wraps before the glass so as to see herself once more in all her glory. But suddenly she uttered a cry. She no longer had the necklace around her neck!
"What is the matter with you?" demanded her husband, already half undressed.
She turned distractedly toward him.
"I have--I have--I've lost Madame Forestier's necklace," she cried.
He stood up, bewildered.
"What!--how? Impossible!"
They looked among the folds of her skirt, of her cloak, in her pockets, everywhere, but did not find it.
"You're sure you had it on when you left the ball?" he asked.
"Yes, I felt it in the vestibule of the minister's house."
"But if you had lost it in the street we should have heard it fall. It must be in the cab."
"Yes, probably. Did you take his number?"
"No. And you--didn't you notice it?"
"No."
They looked, thunderstruck, at each other. At last Loisel put on his clothes.
"I shall go back on foot," said he, "over the whole route, to see whether I can find it."
He went out. She sat waiting on a chair in her ball dress, without strength to go to bed, overwhelmed, without any fire, without a thought.
Her husband returned about seven o'clock. He had found nothing.
He went to police headquarters, to the newspaper offices to offer a reward; he went to the cab companies--everywhere, in fact, whither he was urged by the least spark of hope.
She waited all day, in the same condition of mad fear before this terrible calamity.
Loisel returned at night with a hollow, pale face. He had discovered nothing.
"You must write to your friend," said he, "that you have broken the clasp of her necklace and that you are having it mended. That will give us time to turn round."
She wrote at his dictation.
At the end of a week they had lost all hope. Loisel, who had aged five years, declared:
"We must consider how to replace that ornament."
The next day they took the box that had contained it and went to the jeweler whose name was found within. He consulted his books.
"It was not I, madame, who sold that necklace; I must simply have furnished the case."
Then they went from jeweler to jeweler, searching for a necklace like the other, trying to recall it, both sick with chagrin and grief.
They found, in a shop at the Palais Royal, a string of diamonds that seemed to them exactly like the one they had lost. It was worth forty thousand francs. They could have it for thirty-six.
So they begged the jeweler not to sell it for three days yet. And they made a bargain that he should buy it back for thirty-four thousand francs, in case they should find the lost necklace before the end of February.
Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs which his father had left him. He would borrow the rest.
He did borrow, asking a thousand francs of one, five hundred of another, five louis here, three louis there. He gave notes, took up ruinous obligations, dealt with usurers and all the race of lenders. He compromised all the rest of his life, risked signing a note without even knowing whether he could meet it; and, frightened by the trouble yet to come, by the black misery that was about to fall upon him, by the prospect of all the physical privations and moral tortures that he was to suffer, he went to get the new necklace, laying upon the jeweler's counter thirty-six thousand francs.
When Madame Loisel took back the necklace Madame Forestier said to her with a chilly manner:
"You should have returned it sooner; I might have needed it."
She did not open the case, as her friend had so much feared. If she had detected the substitution, what would she have thought, what would she have said? Would she not have taken Madame Loisel for a thief?
Thereafter Madame Loisel knew the horrible existence of the needy. She bore her part, however, with sudden heroism. That dreadful debt must be paid. She would pay it. They dismissed their servant; they changed their lodgings; they rented a garret under the roof.
She came to know what heavy housework meant and the odious cares of the kitchen. She washed the dishes, using her dainty fingers and rosy nails on greasy pots and pans. She washed the soiled linen, the shirts and the dishcloths, which she dried upon a line; she carried the slops down to the street every morning and carried up the water, stopping for breath at every landing. And dressed like a woman of the people, she went to the fruiterer, the grocer, the butcher, a basket on her arm, bargaining, meeting with impertinence, defending her miserable money, sou by sou.
Every month they had to meet some notes, renew others, obtain more time.
Her husband worked evenings, making up a tradesman's accounts, and late at night he often copied manuscript for five sous a page.
This life lasted ten years.
At the end of ten years they had paid everything, everything, with the rates of usury and the accumulations of the compound interest.
Madame Loisel looked old now. She had become the woman of impoverished households--strong and hard and rough. With frowsy hair, skirts askew and red hands, she talked loud while washing the floor with great swishes of water. But sometimes, when her husband was at the office, she sat down near the window and she thought of that gay evening of long ago, of that ball where she had been so beautiful and so admired.
What would have happened if she had not lost that necklace? Who knows? who knows? How strange and changeful is life! How small a thing is needed to make or ruin us!
But one Sunday, having gone to take a walk in the Champs Elysees to refresh herself after the labors of the week, she suddenly perceived a woman who was leading a child. It was Madame Forestier, still young, still beautiful, still charming.
Madame Loisel felt moved. Should she speak to her? Yes, certainly. And now that she had paid, she would tell her all about it. Why not?
She went up.
"Good-day, Jeanne."
The other, astonished to be familiarly addressed by this plain good-wife, did not recognize her at all and stammered:
"But--madame!--I do not know---- You must have mistaken."
"No. I am Mathilde Loisel."
Her friend uttered a cry.
"Oh, my poor Mathilde! How you are changed!"
"Yes, I have had a pretty hard life, since I last saw you, and great poverty--and that because of you!"
"Of me! How so?"
"Do you remember that diamond necklace you lent me to wear at the ministerial ball?"
"Yes. Well?"
"Well, I lost it."
"What do you mean? You brought it back."
"I brought you back another exactly like it. And it has taken us ten years to pay for it. You can understand that it was not easy for us, for us who had nothing. At last it is ended, and I am very glad."
Madame Forestier had stopped.
"You say that you bought a necklace of diamonds to replace mine?"
"Yes. You never noticed it, then! They were very similar."
And she smiled with a joy that was at once proud and ingenuous.
Madame Forestier, deeply moved, took her hands.
"Oh, my poor Mathilde! Why, my necklace was paste! It was worth at most only five hundred francs!"