Book: Filipino Popular Tales

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"I know that you will cheat me," answered the duende. "Just let me
come out of the jar, and I promise that you shall have the princess
here for your wife."

"What! Will the princess be my wife?"

"Yes."

"How can you make her love me?"

"I will enter the princess's abdomen. I will talk, laugh, and do
everything to make her afraid. I will not leave her for anybody
but you."

"Good, good!" Masama opened the jar, and the duende, flew a way to
the princess's tower.

Only a few weeks after that time a proclamation of the king was read in
public. It was as follows: "The princess, my daughter, has something
in her abdomen. It speaks and laughs. No one knows what it is, and no
one can force it to come out. Whoever can cure my daughter shall be my
heir and son-in-law; but he who tries and fails shall lose his head."

When Masama heard this, he said to Mabait, "Why don't you cure the
princess? You are the only one who can cure her."

"Don't flatter me!" answered Mabait.

"I'm not flattering you. It is the duende, your friend, who is in her
abdomen, and no one can persuade it to come out but you. So go now,
for fortune is waiting for you."

Mabait was at last persuaded, and so he departed. Before going to the
king, he first went to a church, and there he prayed Bathala that
he might be successful in his undertakings. When Mabait was gone,
Masama said to himself, "It is not fortune, but it is death, that is
waiting for him. When he is dead, I shall not have anybody to envy."

After sitting for about a half-hour, Masama also set out for the
princess's tower, but he reached the palace before Mabait. There he
told the king that he could cure his daughter. He was conducted into
the princess's room. He touched her abdomen, and said, "Who are you?"

"I am the duende."

"Why are you there?"

"Because I want to be here."

"Go away!"

"No, I won't."

"Don't you know me?"

"Yes, I know you. You are Masama, who cheated me once. Give your head
to the king." So the executioner cut Masama's head off.

Then Mabait came, and told the king that he could cure the
princess. After he was given permission to try, he said to the duende,
"Who are you?"

"I am the duende, your friend."

"Will you please come out of the princess's abdomen?"

"Yes, I will, for the sake of our friendship."

Mabait was married to the princess, was crowned king, and lived
happily with his friend the duende.


Before attempting to decide anything concerning the provenience of
these two tales, we shall first examine versions of the story from
other parts of the world. The nearest European analogue that I am
familiar with is an Andalusian story printed by Caballero in 1866
(Ingram, 107, "The Demon's Mother-in-Law"). An outline of the chief
elements of this tale follows:--

Mother Holofernes, while very neat and industrious, was a terrible
termagant and shrew. Her daughter Panfila, on the contrary, was so lazy
and thoughtless, that once, when the old woman burnt herself badly
because her daughter was listening to some lads singing outside,
instead of helping her mother with the boiling lye for washing,
the enraged Mother Holofernes shouted to her offspring, "Heaven
grant that you may marry the Evil One himself!" Not long afterward a
rich little man presented himself as a suitor for Panfila's hand. He
was accepted by the mother, and preparations for the marriage went
forward. The old woman, however, began to dislike the suitor, and,
recalling her curse, suspected that he was none other than the
Devil himself. Accordingly, on the night of the wedding, she bade
Panfila lock all the windows and doors of the room, and then beat
her husband with a branch of consecrated olive. So done. The husband
tried to escape from his wife by slipping through the key-hole; but his
mother-in-law anticipated this move. She caught him in a glass bottle,
which she immediately sealed hermetically. Then the old lady climbed
to the summit of a mountain, and there deposited the bottle in an
out-of-the-way place. Ten years the imp remained there a prisoner,
suffering cold, heat, hunger, thirst. One day a soldier, returning
to his native town on leave, took a short cut over the mountain, and
spied the bottle. When he picked it up, the imp begged to be released,
and told him of all he had suffered; but the soldier made a number of
conditions,--his release from the army, a four-dollar daily pension,
etc.,--and finally the imp promised to enter the body of the daughter
of the King of Naples. The soldier was to present himself at court
as a physician, and demand any reward he wished to, in return for
a cure. So done. The king accepted the services of the soldier, but
stipulated that if in three days he had not cured the princess, he
should be hanged. The soldier accepted the conditions; but the demon,
seeing that he had his arrogant enemy's life in his hands, and bent on
revenge, refused to leave the body of the princess. On the last day,
however, the soldier ordered all the bells rung. On the demon's asking
what all the noise was about, the soldier said, "I have ordered your
mother-in-law summoned, and she has just arrived." In great terror
the Devil at once quitted the princess, and the soldier was left
"in victorious possession of the field."


It will be noticed that the last episode is almost identical with the
ending of our story "The Devil and the Guachinango," while there is
a considerable amount of divergence between the two elsewhere.

For versions collected before 1860 I am indebted to Benfey's treatment
of this cycle. It is found in his "Pantschatantra," 1 : 519 ff. I take
the liberty of summarizing it in this place, first, because it is the
only exhaustive handling of the story I know of; and, second, because
Benfey's brilliant work, while constantly referred to and quoted,
has long been out of print, and has never been accessible in English.

The occasion for Benfey's dissertation on this particular tale is
the relationship he sees between it and the large family of stories
turning on the motive of a marvellous cure, a representative of which
is "Pantschatantra," 5 : 12, "The Miraculous Cure of a Blind Man,
a Humpback, and a Three-breasted Princess." [79] While the story we
are discussing cannot be considered in any sense an offshoot of the
Pantschatantra tale, it can scarcely be denied, says Benfey, that
between the two there is a definite internal relationship, which
is further manifested by the fact that in its later development the
latter is actually joined to the former (p. 519).

The earliest form of our story is found in the "Cukasaptati," where it
is told as the story for the 45th and 46th nights. In this version,--

A Brahman, driven away from home by the malice of his wife,
is befriended by a demon who had formerly lived in the Brahman's
house, but who had also fled in fear from her shrewish tongue. The
demon enters the body of a princess; and the Brahman, appearing as
a conjurer, forces him to leave, in accordance with their pact, and
wins half a kingdom and the hand of the princess. The demon now goes
to another city where he possesses the queen, an aunt of the Brahman's
new father-in-law. The Brahman, whose reputation as an enchanter has
become great, is summoned to cure this queen. When he arrives, the
demon threatens and insults him, refusing to leave the queen because
they are now quits. The Brahman, however, whispers in the woman's
ear, "My wife is coming here close on my heels, I have come only to
warn you;" whereupon the demon, terror-stricken, at once leaves the
queen. The Brahman is highly honored.

Benfey conjectures that this story must have passed over into the
Persian redaction of the "Cukasaptati" (i.e., the "Tuti-nameh"),
but what changes it underwent in the transmission cannot yet be
determined. The earliest European form of the tale is that found in
the Turkish "Forty Vezirs" (trans. by Behrnauer, p. 277).

Here a young wood-cutter saves money to buy a rope; but his shrewish
wife, thinking that he is going to spend it on a sweetheart, insists
on accompanying him to his work in the mountains, so that she can
keep him under her eye. In the mountains the husband decides to
abandon his wife in a well. He tells her to hold a rope while he
descends to fetch a treasure which he pretends is concealed at the
bottom; but she is so avaricious, that she insists on being let down
first. Then he drops the rope, and returns home free. A few days
later, conscience-smitten, he goes back to rescue his wife, and,
lowering another rope, he calls to her that he will draw her up;
but he hauls a demon to the surface instead. The demon thanks the
wood-cutter for rescuing him from a malicious woman "who some days
ago descended, and has made my life unbearable ever since." As in the
Cukasaptati story, the demon enters a princess and makes her insane,
and the wood-cutter cures her and marries her. Then the demon enters
another princess. The wood-cutter is summoned; he has to resort to
the well-known trick to force the imp to leave this second maiden.

In the Persian form of this story, in the "1001 Days" (Prenzlau ed.),
11 : 247, is added the death-penalty in case the hero fails to perform
the second cure, which consists in persuading the spirit, in the form
of a snake, to unwind itself from the body of the vezir's daughter. The
hero had already cured the sultan's daughter and married her.

A Serbian story (Wuk, No. 37) is closer to the "Forty Vezirs" version
than is the "1001 Days." The only essential difference is that the
opening of the Serbian tale is the well-known fabliau of the "Meadow
that was mowed."

Here the wife falls into a pit. When the husband attempts to draw
her out again, a devil appears. The devil is thankful; and, to reward
the man, it enters the body of the emperor's daughter. Here the hero
appears, not as an enchanter, but as a physician.

Practically identical is the story of "The Bad Wife and the Devil,"
in Vogl, "Slowenische Volksmärchen" (Wien, 1837).

In a Finnish version of the story (Benfey, 524-525) the hero, as in
the preceding, assumes the rôle of a physician.

The husband pushes his bad wife into an abyss. When he attempts to
draw her out again, another woman appears. She is the Plague. [80]
Out of gratitude for her liberation from that other wicked woman,
she proposes to him that they travel together through the world: she,
the pest, will make people ill; he, as physician, will cure them. So
done. As a result the man becomes rich. But at last he grows weary
of his excessive work: so he procures a snappish dog, and puts it in
a sack. The next time he is called to the side of a person made sick
by the pest, he says to her, "Enter human beings no more: if you do,
I will liberate from this sack the woman that tormented you in the
abyss," at the same time irritating the dog so that it growls. The
Plague, full of terror, begs him for God's sake not to set the woman
free, and promises to reform.

It will be seen that in its method of the "sickness and the cure,"
this story is related to Grimm, No. 44, "Godfather Death," where
Death takes the place of the Plague, and where, instead of gratitude,
the motive is the godfather relationship of Death toward the hero.

This folk-tale, says Benfey (p. 525), was early put into literary form
in Europe. Among others, he cites Machiavelli's excellent version in
his story of "Belfagor" (early sixteenth century):--

Belfagor, a devil, is sent to earth by his master to live as a married
man for ten years, to see whether certain accusations made against
women by souls in hell are true or slanderous. Belfagor marries in
Florence; but his imperious wife causes him so much bad fortune,
that he is compelled to flee from his creditors. A peasant conceals
him, and out of gratitude Belfagor tells his rescuer his story, and
promises to make him rich by possessing women and allowing himself
to be driven out only by the peasant himself. So done. The peasant
wins great renown; and at last Belfagor says that his obligations
have been fulfilled, and that the peasant must look out for himself
if they meet again. The devil now enters the daughter of Ludwig II,
King of France. The peasant is summoned to cure her, but is afraid, and
refuses. At last he is compelled to go, like the physician, against his
will (see Benfey, 515 ff.). Belfagor rages when he sees the peasant,
and threatens him vehemently. At last the peasant employs the usual
trick: "Your wife is coming!" and the devil flees in consternation,
choosing rather to rush back to hell than into the arms of his wife.

Benfey considers a Bohemian story in Wenzig's collection
(West-slawische Märchen, Leipzig, 1857, p. 167) to be the best of
all the popular versions belonging to this group, and he reproduces
it in full (pp. 527-534). This long story we may pass over, since
it contains no new features that are found in our story. In fact,
it little resembles ours or any of the others, except in general in
two or three episodes. Benfey concludes his discussion of this cycle
by stating that there have been many other imitations of this tale,
and he mentions some of these (p. 534). It may be added that further
references will be found in Wilson's note in his edition of Dunlop,
2 : 188-190.

The question of the origin of the Pampango version of this story is
not easy to answer definitely, for the reason that it presents details
not found in any of the other variants. However, since nearly all the
machinery of our story turns on the teachings of the Roman Church,
and since the denouement is practically identical with the ending of
Caballero's Andalusian story, I conclude that in its main outlines our
version was derived from Spain. At the same time, I think it likely
that the fairy-tale of "Mabait and the Duende" was already existent
earlier in the Islands (though this, too, may have been imported),
and that the motivation of the spirit's desire to revenge himself
on his tormentor for his avarice and greed was incorporated into the
Märchen from the fairy-tale. My reasons for thinking the fairy-tale
the older are: (1) its crudeness (the good and the bad hero are a
very awkward device compared with the combination of qualities in
the guachinango); (2) its local references and its native names;
(3) its use of native superstitions and beliefs.


TALE 25


Juan Sadut.

Narrated by Nicolas Zafra, an Ilocano from San Fernando, La Union. The
story is very popular among the country people about San Fernando,
he reports.

Many years ago there lived a certain old couple who had an only
son. Juan, for that was the boy's name, was known throughout the
village as an idler, and for this reason he was called Juan Sadut. He
had no liking for any kind of work; in fact, his contempt for all
work was so great, that he never even helped his father or mother.

One day his father took him to the fields to have him help harvest
their crops; but, instead of going to work, Juan betook himself to
a shady spot on the edge of the field, and fell asleep.

His father, who was very much enraged by this conduct of his son,
determined then and there to dispose of him. He carried the sleeping
boy to another part of the field, and laid him down just beside a large
snake-hole. He expected that the snake, when it came out of its hole,
would sting the sleeping idler, who would thus be disposed of quietly.

When Juan awoke, he found a large snake coiled near him. In his fright,
he sprang to his feet to run away; but the snake looked up at him
sympathetically, and then began to speak: "Why do you fear me? Don't
you know that I am the king of the snakes? I am going to give you
a wonderful gift that will make you happy forever;" and having said
this, it dropped a gold ring on the ground, and bade Juan pick it up
and wear it on his finger. The ring was of pure gold, and it had on it
initials that Juan could not understand. "Keep that ring carefully,
for it will be of great use to you," said the snake. "Consult it for
anything you want, and it will advise you how to proceed to obtain
the object of your desire."

After thanking the snake for its gift, Juan set out on his travels. He
never worried about his food from day to day, for from his magic ring
he could get anything he needed.

In his wanderings, word reached Juan's ears that the king of that
country would give his beautiful daughter to any one who could fulfil
three conditions. Juan was thrilled with joy on hearing this news,
for he was sure that he would be the successful competitor for the
hand of the princess. When he presented himself before the court,
his slovenly appearance and awkward movements only excited laughter
and mirth among the nobles. "What chance have you of winning the
prize?" they asked him in derision.

"Let me know the conditions, and time will show," said Juan. "You must
fulfil three conditions before I give my daughter to you," said the
king. "First, you must fight with my tiger, and kill it if you can;
second, you must go get and bring back to me the burning stone that
the dragon in the mountains has in its possession; third, you must
answer correctly a question that I shall ask you."

"Very well," said Juan as he turned to go, "I will do all you require
of me." Now, many a young man had risked his life for the hand of the
beautiful princess; but no one had yet succeeded in winning even the
first contest. The king's tiger was ferocious and strong, and as agile
as a mouse. Then there was the formidable dragon in the mountains,
whose breath alone was deadly poisonous. This dragon lived in a
cave the entrance to which was guarded by poisonous serpents. Every
morning it would come out of its cave to play with its wonderful stone
by tossing it up into the air and catching it in its mouth when it
fell. Hence it was difficult, if not impossible, to succeed in these
undertakings. The young men who had been stirred by their intense
love for the princess had bartered away their lives for her hand.

When Juan arrived home, he took up his little ring, and said to it,
"Advise me as to how I may overcome the king's tiger."

"Get a handful of sand," replied the ring, "and mix with it an equal
quantity of red pepper. Take the mixture with you into the arena,
and when the tiger comes near you, fling the sand into its eyes."

Juan prepared the sand and pepper as he had been advised. The next
day he stepped into the arena amid the shouts and cheers of the
spectators. He looked, as usual, to be an idle, slow-moving fellow,
who would have no chance at all against the wild beast. The tiger soon
appeared at the opposite end of the arena, and advanced rapidly towards
Juan. When the animal was about three yards from him, he flung the
mixture of sand and pepper into its eyes. The tiger was blinded. Juan
then drew his dagger and buried it deep into the animal's heart.

The next task he had to perform was to obtain the dragon's fiery
stone. The ring advised him thus: "Go to the cave, and, in order to
gain admittance, show me to the serpents. I am sacred to them, and
they will fulfil whatever commands my possessor gives them." Juan
proceeded to the cave in the mountains. He had no sooner entered it
than hissing serpents came towards him in threatening attitudes. Juan,
however, showed them the signet ring; and they at once became tame,
and showed him that they were glad to obey whatever he should command
them to do. "Go and get the dragon's stone," he ordered, and soon
they came back with the much-coveted treasure.

When the king saw that Juan had fulfilled two of the hardest
conditions, he became alarmed because the new bridegroom was to be a
person of very low birth: so he devised the most difficult question
possible, with the view of preventing Juan from winning his daughter
the princess.

Juan now presented himself before the king and his court to perform the
third and last task. "What am I thinking about now?" asked the king.

Juan appeared to hesitate a moment, but he was really consulting
his ring. The ring said to him, "The king has in mind the assurance
that you will not be able to answer his question." Then looking up,
Juan answered the king's question in the precise words of the ring,
and thus answered it correctly.

Astonished at the wonderful power of Juan, the king gave his daughter
to him; and when he died, the young couple inherited the crown of
the kingdom.


Notes.

I know of no parallels to this story as a whole. In its separate
incidents it is reminiscent of other tales; and in its main outline,
from the point where the hero sets out to seek adventures with the
help of his magic ring, the narrative belongs to the "Bride Wager"
group. In this group Von Hahn distinguishes at least two types (1 :
54, Nos. 23 and 24): in the one, the hero bets his head against the
bride, and wins by performing difficult tasks; in the other, he wins
by answering riddles. In our story there is no formal staking of his
head by the hero, but undertaking the first two tasks amounts to the
same thing. The third task, it will be noticed, is the answering of a
difficult question, which in a way connects our story with Von Hahn's
second type.

The two distinctive features in our story are the introduction and
the first task. The cruelty displayed by the hero's father is not
unusual in folk-tales, but his method of getting rid of his son
is. The benevolence of the snake, which is not motivated at all,
may be at bottom connected with some such moralizing tradition as
is found in Somadeva, "The Story of the Three Brahmin Brothers"
(Tawney, 1 : 293), where two older brothers, in order to get rid of
the youngest, who has been slandered by their wives ("Potiphar's wife"
situation), order him to dig up an ant-hill in which lives a venomous
snake. Because of his virtue, however, he finds a pitcher filled with
gold! There is nothing else in this story which even in the remotest
way suggests ours. While Benfey (1 : 214-215, note) has shown that the
conception of the snake-jewel is essentially Indian,--and the belief in
one form or another is widespread in the Philippines,--he also shows
that it was held in Europe even in classical times; and, as every one
knows, the idea is a commonplace in folk-lore. Obviously nothing can
be concluded as to the origin of our story from this detail alone. The
first task, which is performed without supernatural aid, though the
hero asks his ring for advice, may be a remnant of tradition; if so,
it is of Indian or Malayan tradition, not Philippine, for the tiger
is not found in the Islands.



TALE 26


An Act of Kindness.

Narrated by Pacita Cordero, a Tagalog from Pagsanjan, La Laguna.

Early one morning Andres went out to buy five cents' worth of
rice. On his way he came across a man who was about to kill a small
snake. "Please don't kill the poor creature!" said Andres. "Did it
harm you?"

"No," answered the man, "but it may bite us or some other passer-by,"
and he again drew out his bolo; but Andres restrained him. "What do
you want this snake for?" said the merciless man.

"Leave it alone, for pity's sake!" cried Andres. "Here are five
cents! Don't injure the harmless creature!"

The man, very glad to get the money, did not say a word, and went
away. After the man was gone, the snake said to Andres, "Kind friend,
come home with me. There you will find our huge chief snake, and
many others like myself. But don't fear anything! Trust me, for I
will never lead you into danger. When we reach out dwelling, I will
recommend you to our chief. He will be harsh to you at first, since
you are a stranger; but never mind that! When he asks you what you
want, ask him to give you his red cloth. This enchanted cloth can
supply you with whatever you want." So the two friends started for
the horrible snake-cave.

"Who is that stranger with you,--a murderer, or a robber?" hissed
the chief as soon as the snake and Andres entered.

"He is neither of the two," replied the snake. "Please don't do a
bit of harm to him! Had it not been for him, my life would have been
lost. He rescued me from the hands of a cruel person who found me
creeping through the grass."

"Well," said the chief to Andres, "what reward do you want me to
give you?"

"Only your red cloth, and nothing else," answered Andres. The chief
hesitated for a moment. Then he went into a very dark cell, and got
out the red cloth. He returned with it, and said to Andres, "Since
you have saved the life of one of our number, I give you this cloth
as a reward. You can ask of it anything you want."

Andres thanked the chief, and went away. It was now ten o'clock, and
he had not yet bought rice for breakfast. "Poor mother! she must be
very hungry." Andres himself felt hungry, so he asked the red cloth
to bring him food. Soon a breakfast, richer than the ordinary ones
he was accustomed to, was spread before him. Having eaten his hearty
meal under the shade of a tree, he resumed his journey homeward. He
had yet several miles to go.

After a few hours' walk he again became hungry. He went to a hut
and asked the old woman there if he might eat in her house. He said
that he had brought his own food with him. The old woman invited
him in, and Andres asked his red cloth for food. In an instant a
fine luncheon was before them. Andres invited the old woman to eat
with him, which she willingly did. She liked the food so very much,
that she asked Andres to let her have his wonderful red cloth. She
said, "Give me this cloth, and I will let you have my two stones in
exchange. When you want to get rid of persons who annoy you, just
tell these two stones where to go, and they will inflict heavy blows
on the evil-doers." Andres agreed to the exchange.

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