Analysis of "How My Brother Leon Brought Home A Wife" By Manuel E. Arguilla

In which the journey and the destination count.

***

When I first read "How My Brother Leon Brought Home A Wife," I was in fourth grade. And just like any fourth grader, it didn't mean anything to me. Or perhaps it did, albeit in a very shallow, childish way. I remember thinking that Maria is a clever and sweet girl when she called Leon Noel. See, it's Leon spelled backwards! Oh, the simple satisfaction of a child's discovery.

Reading it again several years after, proved to be more than an eye-opener. The short story is not just a recollection of an afternoon adventure with a brother's fiancé. It's a plan made with good intentions, but was executed with apparent cruelty.

The short story opened with a simple but direct (and quite pictorial) description of Maria.

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. 

… 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.

From here, all the other descriptions sprang from Maria. Baldo, Leon's younger brother, see things only as Maria's periphery. The narrative flow becomes based on whatever Maria looks at, touches, or whoever comes near Maria. She seems to be a beautiful light source, and any object only becomes relevant when touched by her radiance.

Baldo was the one tasked to bring Leon and Maria to their house. But instead of following camino real (which I believe was the main road), Baldo guided Labang (the carabao) the other way -- back to where Ca Celin dropped them off and into the fields.

This is where things get mysterious … and awkward.

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 Waig 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."

What's admirable in Leon's personality is his calmness. He might have already sensed that something is awry, yet, just like most Filipinos, he chose to dwell on positive things.

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?"

And so they looked at the stars, and sang. They still sang even after the cart's wheels hit a big rock. And Baldo noticed that Leon and Maria's world is no doubt full of happiness.

After realizing that they are getting nearer Leon's home, Maria expressed her fear that his father may not like her.

Upon reaching their house, Leon immediately looked for his father. But it was Baldo for whom the old man called.

"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 hitched 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.

When Leon and Maria entered the old man's room, Baldo was told to water Labang. And on his way out, he can’t help but notice Maria again.

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.

The story started and ended in the description of the same person. It is easy to think that the story isn't about Leon. It is about Maria.

In fact, the road Leon's father told Baldo to take is also for Maria. If one considers how Baldo and Leon had difficulty in tying Labang to the cart, and even guiding him to the part where the camino real curves (because Labang wanted to go straight on), it is very apparent that even the animal isn't used to taking that road.

Why the old man decided that the visitor ride on the hay in a cart (in her high heels) and pass by the field instead of a more comfortable calesa in a shorter road isn't answered. The interrogation of Baldo (which doesn't provide straight answers, too) seemed to be inevitable, but nonetheless significant.

The epiphany in the story is very subtle. The falling action quite abrupt. What could remain in the readers' minds is the question of how Maria would keep her composure in front of the old man considering the journey they have just taken. She doesn't appear to have enough time to gather her thoughts and feeling, any more than she has time to rest.

And in the end. That's what the old man wants -- to see her for what she really is.

In his novel The Winner Stands Alone, Paulo Coelho wrote, “Life has many ways of testing a person's will, either by having nothing happen at all or by having everything happen all at once.” He implies that life is full of surprises. And a person's character is reflected by his or her reactions for both scenarios.

In Maria's case, everything seemed to happen all at once: her desire to look the best she could, only to be part of an uncomfortable journey, and then face a man whom everybody seemed to be scared of.

Instead of complaining, she spoke calmly, remained full of gaiety and laughter and finesse, and admired the beauty of nature that Ermita is forever bereft. She may not have gone through the tests of Psyche and Savitri, but in her own difficult journey, she stood out for what she really is -- a beautiful woman inside and out.

Summary: Scent of Apples by Bienvenido Santos

(In which I display my mediocrity.)

***

A writer was asked to speak before an audience in Kalamazoo, MI one October when the war was still on. On the same night he met another Filipino – Celestino Fabia, a farmer. The writer was surprised to see a man who travelled really long just to hear him talk. In the course of the discussion, the man asked, in sporadically incorrect English, how the Filipino women of today were different from the stereotype he was familiar with. The writer replied that although they differ in the exterior, both women of different eras bear the heart and soul of a modest Filipina. Mr. Fabia was pleased.

After the lecture, Mr. Fabia told the writer about his farm and his family and invited him over to his house, repeatedly saying that his wife, Ruth, will be pleased to meet “a first class Filipino”. He also told him about his son, Roger, with pride. Mr. Fabia picked the writer up the next day and during the course of what seemed to be an endless journey to the distant farm, the writer became aware of Mr. Fabia’s life in the Philippines. He was a spoiled brat and the black sheep of the family. He lived in an old Visayan town where there are no apples. But there are coconut trees and roosters cooing early in the morning, and there was his family.

They finally arrived in the farm, the fragrance of apples diffusing all over the place. The writer noticed how Ruth’s hospitality and kind-heartedness was almost Filipino and how adorable Roger really was. In their humble home, he also found a picture of an anonymous Filipina wearing a traditional costume – another manifestation of how dire Mr. Fabia’s nostalgia is. He bade farewell to the family and Mr. Fabia took him back to the hotel. He offered to send news to his family when he got back to the Philippines but Mr. Fabia refused, saying that they might have already forgotten him. They shook each other’s hand and said goodbye.

Currently reading:

The Flanders Panel by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

Photo SourceThe Flanders Panel

Alfredo Salazar from Paz Marquez-Benitez’ "Dead Stars": A Character Analysis

(In which I pose another attempt toward reactivation.)

***

Paz Marquez-Benitez, in her masterpiece Dead Stars, did not only write about a love story. Most importantly, her writing reflects the time in which the literary work was written along with the language, the norms and the way people think. It serves as a literary time machine for readers as it enables them to understand how courtship, marriage and fidelity were viewed through the early 1900 standards. It renders a sound comparison between the past and the present, the existing modern culture and the fading, almost obsolete tradition. Although the comparison and contrast provides a good critical foundation, another highly significant aspect of this short story involves the main character, Alfredo Salazar, which, always applies to whatever era, hence the focus of this paper. His confusion, weakness and unreasonableness are innate flaws of humans. Perhaps one of the many reasons why this work is timeless is that readers never fail to see a part of them in Alfredo Salazar’s character, making the short story a rich source of serious ruminations on society, love and humanity.

People oftentimes give high regard to the society in which they belong. They try to adhere to the norms, traditions and culture of their society, though sometimes the conformity would require them to sacrifice a part of themselves – an opinion, an emotion or a decision. However, there are cases wherein the established norms and rules of society are the ones which should prevail. In Dead Stars, the main character, Alfredo Salazar, was torn between making two important decisions – to marry or not to marry. But just like other dilemmas, the crossroad in which he found himself in was not to be solved without harming anyone. He was engaged to Esperanza, his fiancée of four years. Theirs was undoubtedly a love that was true. But for some reasons, apparently on Alfredo’s part, a change of heart has taken place. He has fallen for Julia Salas, the sister-in-law of the judge whom his father had a meeting with. After spending several afternoons and conversations, he found himself slowly getting attached to her that he started losing concern for Esperanza. In the end, however, he married his fiancée and though their marriage was not an unhappy one, he still could not take the possibilities of a future with Julia off his mind. Until one day, their paths crossed again and he realized one painful truth that led him to liberation at last.

Human emotions are very intricate and delicate both at its lowest and highest. And so is love. When Alfredo was still passionately attached to Esperanza, he was overwhelmed. Taking the conversation of Alfredo’s sister, Carmen, and his father, Don Julian into consideration, readers can deliberately conclude that he was indeed in love.

. . . “Papa, do you remember how much in love he was?”

“In love? With whom?”

“With Esperanza of course. He has not had another love affair that I know of,” she said with good-natured contempt. “What I mean is that in the beginning he was enthusiastic – flowers, serenades, notes and things like that.’

The excerpt was a good manifestation of how change in men occurs. But since change is men’s “wine and bread” according to Angela Manalang-Gloria, it is as essential as living itself, and therefore the most important things to be considered after the transition are the causes, the way one deals with change and the consequences. Alfredo was aware of the cause of his change as what is shown in the following paragraph:

Why would men so mismanage their lives? Greed, he thought, was what ruined so many. Greed – the desire to crowd into a moment all the enjoyment it will hold, to squeeze from the hour all the emotions it will yield. Men commit themselves when but half-meaning to do so, sacrificing possible future fullness of ecstasy to the craving for immediate excitement. . .

Another significant reason as to his emotional wanderings could be the length of time n which he was engaged o Esperanza. As what Don Julian had philosophize, couples who were engaged for so long become too comfortable and familiar with each other that the spark of love that was felt at the time the romance was just starting to blossom would expectantly cool down – that it “argues a certain placidity of temperament – or of affection – on the part of either, or both”.

Another factor to be considered was the contrast of Alfredo and Julia’s personalities. Alfredo was “calm and placid” while Julia was lively and full of vitality. The difference between them must have excited him as he saw in her the things he lacked.

However, though aware he was of the possible reasons why he, as well as men, or even humans in general, succumb to acts or thoughts of subtle infidelity, his attitude towards what is moral and not becomes shadowed in the attempts to justify his own behavior. Stances about the argument he had with Esperanza regarding the latter’s anger toward Calixta’s cohabitation with the man she’s not married to, may vary. But again, one’s act was expected to adhere with what is the established morality in a certain society. Because of what seemed as a liberal notion, Alfredo was trapped in a situation where he has to defend himself and in the process, what was manifested was his greed.

“One tries to be fair – according to his lights – but it is hard. One would like to be fair to one’s self first.”

But the wedding materialized; He chose not to break his word probably in order to save himself, Esperanza and Julia from social ridicule. He felt that his moral and social obligations were already fulfilled upon choosing not to cause humiliation to them all. The way in which he chose to deal with his internal change was to consider the way in which the society will view the people involved. But perhaps he felt that in doing so he has deprived himself of fairness. So he became distant and unreachable to Esperanza although he stayed with her and treated her gently. He has developed the skill in being unaffected and somehow mastered the art of being detached.

After several years, he was sent by his profession in search for the elusive Brigida Samuy and into the hometown of Julia Salas. Upon seeing her and finding out that she never married, he started to notice that she lost something, even doubted if the loss was his. As he tried to find the answer, a great realization dawned on him.

Gently – was it experimentally? – he pressed her hand at parting; but his remained undisturbed and emotionless. Did she still care? The answer to the question hardly interested him.
. . . So all these years – since when? – he had seen the light of dead stars, long extinguished, yet seemingly still in their appointed places in the heavens.

Therefore, the love he thought he felt for her during the short summer they shared was not the love that was enough to break an engagement. Nor was it love in its strictest definition. Instead, it was desire that sprung from the coldness that slowly crept in his relationship with Esperanza due to their long-time familiarity with each other. It was excitement that was ignited by boredom and “the last spurt of hot blood.”

Alfredo symbolizes the greed and indecisiveness of men when it comes to dealing with the matters of the emotion. He had entertained the pull of an anonymous feeling. Anonymous since he never really ventured to understand it but he clung to it anyway. And in the process he lost a part of himself and deprived that part to Esperanza as well.

Had it not been for chasing the lights of an illusive love that was long dead, or worse, never was, would Alfredo be happier in his marriage? Is it fair to say that he has wasted the milestones of a blissful marriage with a woman he loved first all for the sake of an impossible whim? Considering the disappointment he manifested upon realizing what he lost, the answer, is yes.

The Stranger by Chris Van Allsburg

(In which I learn by asking.)

***

One of my telephone students is using a book from the new program under the category SENIOR. However, my class with him makes me think as to whether he lacks confidence or he’s just plain lazy which brings in ineffectiveness since he doesn’t respond like a senior in our class. Now we’re on another story by Chris Van Allsburg. We have taken up The Garden of Abdul Gazasi in the previous book (which is another post worthy story) and now we’re on The Stranger.

The moment I saw the cover page I noticed that mystery is the dominant flavor of this story. Not only because the book says so but because of the natural dark aura that its totality brings. However, the darkness that emanates from it is not something you’ll be scared of but rather something that will make you think.

I asked my student, “What’s the season described in this story?”

“Uhmm…”

“Yes? What season is it?”

“Fall?”

“Oh. Is it already fall?”

“No. but it will be.”

So I went on asking what fall looks like and how he finds it, which resulted to more hmm’s and ahmm’s than sensible sentences. Then I asked what Farmer Bailey felt and what happened next.

“He felt a cool breeze?”

“Good. And then?”

“He heard a thump.”

“What does he think it was?”

“A deer.”

“So there was an accident and he thought he hit a deer. Let’s move on.”

“What did Mr. Bailey found on the road?”

“A man.”

“What do you think was his reaction?”

“He must be surprised?”

“What did he do next?”

“He went closer to the man.”

When I asked him what Farmer Bailey feared the most and after being subdued in dead air, I said, “He was afraid that he might have killed him, don’t you think so?”

He agreed like he has always done.

“Okay. What did the man do afterwards?”

He answered by reading the text and I asked him to answer in his own way. He refused so I have to provide a “scaffold” for him.

“He opened his eyes and got terrified. Then he got up.”

As I saw that the text was longer, I had to make sure he really understood it and asked literal questions.

“Where did the farmer take him?”

“What do they think of the stranger?”

“What is the doctor’s diagnosis?” In this point I had to define diagnosis. Then I asked about the thermometer.

“What is the use of a thermometer?”

“To get the temperature? If it’s hot or cold?”

“How do you know if it’s hot or cold?”

“The mercury. If it’s low, it’s cold. If it’s high, it’s hot?”

“Okay. Why did the doctor tell them to throw the thermometer away?”

“Because it’s broken.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

“The mercury was stuck at the bottom.”

After asking the obvious literal questions, I then asked about the strange things that he noticed in this part.

“The stranger is strange.”

“Why?”

“Maybe he doesn’t know the soup?”

“He seemed to be ignorant about the soup. But then he lost his memory according to the doctor, right? What about the temperature?”

Silence.

“Mrs. Bailey shivered, right? It must be cold then.”

“Aaahhh.”

Then we talked about the rabbits. He seemed to understand that part so we moved on.

This time I asked him what kind of person the stranger was, aside from him being strange.

“He’s a good worker.”

“Why do you think so?”

“He can use the pitchfork well.”

“Okay. What else?”

“He works hard and well.”

I was supposed to hiss or sigh at these exhausting moments of bringing out his interest to talk more.

“Good. Is there anything strange in this part?”

Silence.

“Do you think he gets tired?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t even sweat.”

Again, he used the text in verbatim but I didn’t care.

“What in this scene is he fascinated about?”

“The geese?”

“What about these geese?”

“They are in V formation.”

So I went on asking when geese do the fascinating V formation and after some encouragement, we arrived at the answer that it happens in autumn.

So now we have talked about how long the stranger had been there as well as the changes that took place, or were supposed to take place but didn’t.

“The trees in their farm were still green.”

“How about the other trees?”

“They were red and orange.”

“What does the stranger prefer?”

“Red and orange.”

So it was obvious something was wrong. And of course we have to understand it.

“How does the stranger feel as each day pass?”

“He feels sad?”

I grew tired of this exchange of interrogations when he’s supposed to answer with a declarative sentence. “Are you asking me?”

He gave out his little laugh with the light touch of the k sound and said “No. he feels sad.”

“Why does he feel sad?”

“There is something wrong, he thinks. Maybe.”

“What did he do as he becomes more upset?”

“He pulled a leaf and blew on it.”

“Did he intend to do it?”

Silence.

“He did it without thinking. It was as if it was second nature to him.”

“Aaahh..”

As we took a look at the picture, I asked, “What happened to the leaf?”

“It becomes red.”

We talked about the departure and what happened after it.

“The trees were not green anymore.”

“Did the strange things stop happening when the stranger left?”

“No.”

Right. In fact, it becomes nothing less than strange. I asked him why and we talked about the trees in the farm and the words etched in frost.

What makes this story worth reading is that you have to activate your senses to understand it. It could be like any other story since descriptive images were created by writers to make the scenes vivid. But since this is a mystery, there is at least one core question to answer at the end of the story and you have to cite reasons to give justice to your deductions. As I ask questions, I try to look even for the simplest clue that is there and link it with the other ones I’ve found and see if they make sense. It makes our class exciting since you try to help the student forebode and to increase his interest and excitement. I just hope I was able to do that with the kind of student as cold and unfeeling as this one.

Now the question is, who’s the stranger?

The Apple Tree by Katherine Mansfield

(In which my own failure gave rise to the idea of my version of online public service.)

***

We were given a short story to teach and much to my frustration, I was given one that is nowhere to be found on the World Wide Web. At least not by my average computer skills.

So I had to get up early and visit the university on a weekday to get the copy which turned out to be another failure since my professor didn’t have the copy then. Hey, failure should be the title of this post!

Anyway, so in the attempt to save others from the same cruel, frustrating fate, below is the story that some say does not exist. Well, at least now I know it actually does.

The Apple Tree
Katherine Mansfield

There were two orchards belonging to the old house. One, that we called the “wild” orchard, lay beyond the vegetable garden; it was planted with bitter cherries and damsons and transparent yellow plums. For some reason, it lay under a cloud; we never play there, or did not even trouble to pick up the fallen fruit; and there, every Monday morning, to the round open space in the middle, the servant girl and the washerwoman, carried the wet linen – grandmother’s nightdresses, father’ striped shirts, the hired man’s cotton trousers and the servant girl’s “dreadfully vulgar” salmon-pink flannelette drawers jigged and slapped in horrid familiarity.

But the other orchard, far away and hidden from the house, lay at the foot of a little hill and stretched right over to the edge of the paddocks – to the clumps of wattles bobbing yellow in the bright sun and the blue gums with their streaming sickle-shaped leaves. There, under the fruit trees, the grass grew so thick and coarse that it tangled and knotted in your shoes as you walked, and even on the hottest day it was damp to touch when you stooped and parted it this way and that looking for windfalls – the apples quinces, so good to eat with a pinch of salt, but so delicious to smell that you could not bite for sniffing…

One year, the orchard has it’s Forbidden Tree. It was an apple tree discovered by Father and a friend during an after-dinner prowl one Sunday afternoon.

“Great Scott!” said the friend, lighting upon it with every appearance of admiring astonishment. Isn’t that a -?” And a rich splendid name settled like an unknown bird upon the little tree.

“Yes, I believe it is,” said Father lightly. He knew nothing whatever about the names of fruit trees.

“Great Scott!” said the friend again: “They’re wonderful apples. Nothing like ’em – and you’re going to have a tip-top crop. Marvelous apples! You can’t beat ‘em!’

“No, they’re fine – very fine,” said Father carelessly, but looking upon the tree with new and lively interest.

“They’re rare – they’re very rare. Hardly ever seen ‘em in England nowadays,” said the visitor and set a deal on Father’s delight. For Father was a self-made man, and the price he had to pay for everything was so huge and so painful that nothing rang so sweet to him as to hear his purchased praised. He was young and sensitive still. He still wondered whether in the deepest sense he got his money’s worth. He still had hours when he walked up and down in the moonlight half deciding to “chuck his confounded rushing to the office every day – and clear out – clear our once and for all.” And now to discover that he’d a valuable thrown in with the orchard – an apple tree that this Johnny form England positively envied!

“Don’t touch that tree! Do you hear me, children!” said he, bland and firm; and when the guest had gone, with quite another voice and manner.

“If I catch either of you touching those apple you shall not only go to bed – you shall each have a good sound whipping!” Which merely added to its magnificence.

Every Sunday morning after lunch Father, with Bogey and me tailing after, walked through the flower garden, down the violet path, past the lace-bark tree, past the rose and syringe bushes, and down the hill to the orchard. The apple tree – like the Virgin Mary – seemed to have been miraculously warned of its high honour, standing apart from its fellows, bending a little under its rich clusters, fluttering its polished leaves, important and exquisite before Father’s awful eye. His heart swelled to the sight – we knew his heart swelled. He put his hands behind his back and screwed up his eyes in the way he had. There it stood – the accidental thing – the thing that no one had been aware of when the hard bargain was driven. It hadn’t been counted in, hadn’t in a way been paid for. If the house had been burned to the ground at that time it would have meant less to him than the destruction of his tree. And now we played up to him, Bogey and I, Bogey with his scratched knee pressed together, his hands behind his back, too, and a round cap on his head with the H. M. S. Thunderbolt printed across it.

The apples turned from pale green to yellow, then they have deep pink stripes painted on them, and the pink melted all over the yellow, reddened and spread into a fine clear crimson.

At last the day came when Father took out of his waist-coat pocket a little pearl pen-knife. He reached up. Very slowly and very careful he picked two apples growing on a bough.

“By Jove They’re warm,” cried Father in amazement. “They’re wonderful apples! Tip-top! Marvelous!” he echoed. He rolled them over in his hands.

“Look at that! Not a spot – not a blemish!” And he walked through the orchard with Bogey and me stumbling after, to a tree stump under the wattles. We sat, one on either side of Father. He laid one apple down, opened the pearl pen-knife and neatly and beautifully cut the other to half.

”By Jove! Look at that!” he exclaimed.

“Father!” we cried, dutiful but really enthusiastic, too. For the lovely red colour had bitten right through the white flesh of the apple; it was pink to the shiny white pips lying so justly in their scaly pods. It looked as though the apple had been dipped in wine.

“Never seen that before,’’ said Father. “You won’t find an apple like that in a hurry!” He put it to his nose and pronounced an unfamiliar word. “Bouquet! What a bouquet!” And then he handed to Bogey one half, to me the other.

“Don’t bolt it!” said he. It was an agony to give even so much away. I knew it, while I took mine humbly and humbly Bogey took his.

Then he divided the second with the same neat beautiful little cut of the pearl knife.

I kept my eyes on Bogey. Together we took a bite. Our mouth was full of a floury stuff, a hard, faintly bitter skin – a horrible taste of something dry.

“Well?” asked Father, very jovial. He had cut his two halves into quarters and was taking out the little pods. “Well?”

Bogey and I stared at each other, chewing desperately. In that moment of chewing and swallowing a long silent conversation passed between us – and a strange meaning smile. We edged near Father, just touching him.

“Perfect!” we lied. “Perfect – Father. Simply lovely!”

But it was no use. Father spat his out and never went near the apple tree again.

Photo taken from: CindyH Photography

Beef, Potatoes and Onions

(In which finding what’s lacking is always good news, and in this case, a good laugh.)

***

In relation to my sudden need for slipping more readings into the slot of my literary memory bank, I started off with “The Third Ingredient” by O. Henry, a reading which, due to some stomach cramps I got from laughing, somehow reminds me of “We Filipinos Are Mild Drinkers” by Alejandro Roces.

.