Adventures in the Philippine Islands

by Paul P. de La Gironière

The old fisherman heaved a sigh, and then, unwilling to disoblige me, began his story in the poetical terms so familiar to the Tagal tongue, and which it is almost impossible to reproduce by a translation:

“Lagune is not my native place,” said he; “I was born in the island of Zébou, and was at the age of twenty what is called a fine young man; but, pray believe me, I was by no means proud of my physical advantages, and I preferred being the first fisherman of my village. Nevertheless, my comrades were jealous of me, and all that because the young girls would look at me with a certain complaisant air, and seemed to find me to their liking.”

I could not but smile at this frank avowal of the old man, which he perceiving, continued:

“I tell you these things, sir,” replied he, “because at my age one can speak of them without fearing to appear ridiculous—it is so long ago. And besides, allow me to inform you that I relate to you such things, not from vanity—Oh, no! but merely to furnish you with an exact recital. Besides, the sly and roguish looks that young girls threw at me, as I passed through the village, flattered me in no manner. I was in love with Theresa, sir; yes, I was passionately in love with her, and my love was returned, for fondly did she love me; a look from any other but from her was totally indifferent to me. Ah! Theresa was the prettiest lass in the village! but, poor soul! she has done like myself—she has greatly altered; for years are an enormous weight, which bends and breaks you down in spite of yourself, and against which there is no way of struggling.

“When, seated as I am at present, I bethink me of the fine by-gone days of my youth—of the strength, the courage, that we used to find in our mutual affection—Oh! I shed tears of regret and sensibility. Where are now those fine—those happy days? Gone, gone, gone! they have fled before the piercing and terrible winds that forerun the storms and the hurricanes. Like the day, life has its dawn; like the day, also, it has its decline!”

Here the poor old fisherman made a pause, and I was loth to interrupt him in his meditation. There then ensued a profound silence, that lasted several minutes. Suddenly Relempago seemed to start from a dream, and passing his hand over his forehead, looked at us for some time, as if to excuse himself for those few moments of mental absence, and then he continued as follows:

“We had been brought up together,” said he, “and had been affianced as soon as we had grown up. Theresa would have died rather than belong to any other, and, as I shall hereafter prove it, I would have accepted any condition, even the most unfavourable one, rather than abandon the friend of my heart. Alas! it is almost always with our tears that we trace our painful way through life. Theresa’s relations were opposed to our union; they even put forward vain and frivolous pretexts; and whatever efforts I made to bring them to decide upon bestowing her affianced hand on me, I never could succeed. And yet they well knew that, like the palm trees, we could not live without each other, and were we to be separated, it would be condemning us to die. But our tears, our prayers, our griefs, were only heard by senseless people, and we were labouring under the most poignant grief, while no one would understand or sympathise with our sorrow. I was beginning to lose all courage, when one morning there came into my mind the pious thought of offering to the Infant Jesus, in the church of Zébou, the first pearl I should fish up. I therefore repaired earlier than usual to the sea-shore, implored the Almighty to grant me his protection, and to have me married to my beloved Theresa. The sun was just beginning to dart his burning rays upon the earth, and was gilding the surface of the waters. Nature was awaking from her transitory sleep, and every living being or object was singing in its language a hymn to the Creator.

“With a beating heart I began diving to the bottom of the sea, in search of the pearl which I so ardently wished for, but my searches and struggles were completely fruitless at first. Had anyone been near me at that moment he would have easily read my disappointment in my face. Nevertheless, my courage failed me not. I began again, but with no better success. ‘Oh, Lord!’ cried I, ‘thou hearest not then my prayers, my supplications! Thou wilt not then accept for thy beloved son the offering that I destine for him.’[1] For the sixth time I plunged, and brought up from the bottom of the sea two enormous oysters. Oh! how my heart leaped with joy! I opened one of them, and found it contained a pearl so large that never in my life had I seen one like it. My joy was so great that I set to dancing in my pirogue, as if I had lost my reason. The Lord, then, did vouchsafe to protect me, since He enabled me to accomplish my vow. With a joyful heart I retraced my steps to my dwelling, and, not wishing to fail in my word, I took my magnificent pearl to the curate of Zébou.

“The reverend father,” continued the old fisherman, “was delighted with my present. That pearl was worth 5,000 piasters (or 25,000 francs, i.e., £1,000 English money), and you must have admired it—you, as well as all other persons who attend the church—for the Infant Jesus always holds it in his hand. The curate thanked and congratulated me on my very good idea.

“‘Go home in peace, brother,’ said he to me; ‘go home in peace. Heaven will not forget thy meritorious action—yea, the disinterestedness of thy good work, and sooner or later thy desires will he hearkened to.’”