Extract A: The Mats by Francisco Arcellana
Nana Emilia unfolded the mat without a word. It was a beautiful mat: to her mind, even more
beautiful than the one she received from her mother on her wedding. There was a name in the
very centre of it: EMILIA. The letters were large, done in green. Flowers–cadena-de-amor–were
woven in and out among the letters. The border was a long winding twig of cadena-de-amor.
The children stood about the spreading mat. The air was punctuated by their breathless
exclamations of delight. “It is beautiful, Jaime; it is beautiful!” Nana Emilia’s voice broke, and she
could not say any more. “And this, I know, is my own,” said Mr. Angeles of the next mat in the
bundle. The mat was rather simply decorated, the design almost austere, and the only colours
used were purple and gold. The letters of the name Jaime were in purple. “And this, for your,
Marcelina.”
Marcelina was the oldest child. She had always thought her name too long; it had been one of
her worries with regard to the mat. “How on earth are they going to weave all of the letters of my
name into my mat?” she had asked almost everyone in the family. Now it delighted her to see
her whole name spelled out on the mat, even if the letters were a little small. Besides, there was
a device above her name which pleased Marcelina very much. It was in the form of a lyre, finely
done in three colours. Marcelina was a student of music and was quite a proficient pianist.
“And this is for you, José.” José was the second child. He was a medical student already in the
third year of medical school. Over his name the symbol of Aesculapius was woven into the mat.
“You are not to use this mat until the year of your internship,” Mr. Angeles was saying. “This is
yours, Antonia. And this is yours, Juan. And this is yours, Jesus.”
Mat after mat unfolded. On each of the children’s mats there was somehow an appropriate
device. At least all the children had been shown their individual mats. The air was filled with
their excited talk, and through it all Mr. Angeles was saying over and over again in his deep
voice:
“You are not to use these mats until you go to the University.” Then Nana Emilia noticed
bewilderingly that there were some more mats remaining to be unfolded. “But Jaime,” Nana
Emilia said, wondering, with evident repudiation, “there are some more mats.” Only Mr. Angeles
seemed to have heard Nana Emilia’s words. He suddenly stopped talking, as if he had been
jerked away from a pleasant fantasy. A puzzled, reminiscent look came into his eyes,
superseding the deep and quiet delight that had been briefly there, and when he spoke his voice
was different.
“Yes, Emilia,” said Mr. Angeles, “There are three more mats to unfold. The others who aren’t
here…” Nana Emilia caught her breath; there was a swift constriction in her throat; her face
paled and she could not say anything. The self-centred talk of the children also died. There was
a silence as Mr. Angeles picked up the first of the remaining mats and began slowly unfolding it.
The mat was almost as austere in design as Mr. Angeles’ own, and it had a name. There was no
symbol or device above the name; only a blank space, emptiness. The children knew the name.
But somehow the name, the letters spelling the name, seemed strange to them. Then Nana
Emilia found her voice.
“You know, Jaime, you didn’t have to,” Nana Emilia said, her voice hurt and surely frightened.
Mr. Angeles held his tears back; there was something swift and savage in the movement. “Do
you think I’d forgotten? Do you think I had forgotten them? Do you think I could forget them?
This is for you, Josefina! And this is for you, Victoria! And this is for you, Concepcion.” Mr.
Angeles called the names rather than uttered them. “Don’t, Jaime, please don’t,” was all that
Nana Emilia managed to say.
“Is it fair to forget them? Would it be just to disregard them?” Mr. Angeles demanded rather than
asked. His voice had risen shrill, almost hysterical; it was also stern and sad, and somehow
vindictive. Mr. Angeles had spoken almost as if he were a stranger. Also, he had spoken as if
from a deep, grudgingly-silent, long-bewildered sorrow.
Extract B: The Aged Mother (A Japanese folktale by Matsuo Basho)
Long, long ago there lived at the foot of the mountain a poor farmer and his aged, widowed
mother. They owned a bit of land which supplied them with food, and they were humble,
peaceful, and happy.
Shining was governed by a despotic leader who though a warrior, had a great and cowardly
shrinking from anything suggestive of failing health and strength. This caused him to send out a
cruel proclamation. The entire province was given strict orders to immediately put to death all
aged people. Those were barbarous days, and the custom of abandoning old people to die was
not uncommon. The poor farmer loved his aged mother with tender reverence, and the order
filled his heart with sorrow. But no one ever thought twice about obeying the mandate of the
governor, so with many deep and hopeless sighs, the youth prepared for what at that time was
considered the kindest mode of death.
Just at sundown, when his day’s work was ended, he took a quantity of unwhitened rice which
was the principal food for the poor, and he cooked, dried it, and tied it in a square cloth, which
he swung in a bundle around his neck along with a gourd filled with cool, sweet water. Then he
lifted his helpless old mother to his back and started on his painful journey up the mountain. The
road was long and steep; the narrow road was crossed and re-crossed by many paths made by
the hunters and woodcutters. In some places, they were lost and confused, but he gave no
heed. One path or another, it mattered not. On he went, climbing blindly upward — ever upward
towards the high bare summit of what is known as Obatsuyama, the mountain of the
“abandoning of the aged”.
The eyes of the old mother were not so dim but that they noted the reckless hastening from one
path to another, and her loving heart grew anxious. Her son did not know the mountain’s many
paths and his return might be one of danger, so she stretched forth her hand and snapping the
twigs from brushes as they passed, she quietly dropped a handful every few steps of the way so
that as they climbed, the narrow path behind them was dotted at frequent intervals with tiny
piles of twigs. At last the summit was reached. Weary and heart sick, the youth gently released
his burden and silently prepared a place of comfort as his last duty to the loved one. Gathering
fallen pine needles, he made a soft cushion and tenderly lifted his old mother onto it. He
wrapped her padded coat more closely about the stooping shoulders and with tearful eyes and
an aching heart he said farewell.
The trembling mother’s voice was full of unselfish love as she gave her last injunction. “Let not
thine eyes be blinded, my son,” she said. “The mountain road is full of dangers. Look carefully
and follow the path which holds the piles of twigs. They will guide you to the familiar path farther
down”. The son’s surprised eyes looked back over the path, then at the poor old, shrivelled
hands all scratched and soiled by their work of love. His heart broke within and bowing to the
ground, he cried aloud: “oh, Honourable mother, your kindness breaks my heart! I will not leave
you. Together we will follow the path of twigs, and together we will die!”