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Updated: May 17, 2025
"Shall we pray for his soul?" asked a young woman, after she had finished staring and examining the body. "Fool, heretic!" scolded Sister Puté. "Don't you know what Padre Damaso said? It's tempting God to pray for one of the damned. Whoever commits suicide is irrevocably damned and therefore he isn't buried in holy ground."
A light column of smoke was still ascending to the heavens. All made comments more or less pious, more or less accusatory. "Poor young man!" exclaimed an old man, the husband of Puté. "Yes!" replied his wife. "But he did not order a mass for the soul of his father, who undoubtedly needs it more than others." "But wife, you don't have any pity...." "Sympathy for the excommunicated?
It is a sin to have pity for the enemies of God, say the curates. Don't you remember? He ran over the sacred burial ground as if he were in a cattle pen." "But a cattle pen and a cemetery are much alike," responded the old man, "except that but one class of animals enter the cemetery." "What!" cried Sister Puté. "Are you still going to defend him whom God so clearly punishes?
"This mild return, couched under an apparent compliment, was well received; but Handel, who had a talent for sarcastic drolling, added: "'Pute why blay the Peggar yourself, togder, andt adapt oldt pallad humsdrum, ven, as a man of science, you could gombose original airs of your own? Here is mine friendt, Custos Arne, who has made a road for himself, for to drive along his own genius to the demple of fame. Then, turning to our illustrious Arne, he continued, 'Min friendt Custos, you and I must meed togeder some dimes before it is long, and hold a têde-
You heretic!" Sister Puté scolded her. "Don't you know what Father Dámaso said? To pray for a damned person is to tempt God. He who commits suicide is irrevocably condemned. For this reason, he cannot be buried in a sacred place. I had begun to think that this man was going to have a bad ending. I never could guess what he lived on."
By half-past seven, when other guards arrived from neighboring towns, the current version was clear and detailed. "I've just come from the town hall, where I've seen Don Filipo and Don Crisostomo prisoners," a man told Sister Puté. "I've talked with one of the cuadrilleros who are on guard. Well, Bruno, the son of that fellow who was flogged to death, confessed everything last night.
In vain some devout women tried to sigh and sob over the sins of the wicked; they had to desist in the attempt from lack of supporters. Even Sister Puté was thinking of something quite different.
"I was going to gather some peas in.... I looked into the orchard next door ... to see if there ... I saw a man swinging.... I thought it was Teo ... I went nearer to gather peas, and I saw that it was not he but it was another, and was dead ... I ran, ran and...." "Let us go and see it," said the old man, rising. "Take us there." "Don't go!" cried Sister Puté, seizing him by the shirt.
They looked at each other for a moment, smiled, made some signals, and again crossed themselves. "Jesús! It was like a thanksgiving mass," said Sister Rufa. "Since the time that Bálat sacked the town I have never seen a night like it," replied Sister Puté. "What a lot of shots! They say that it was old Pablo's gang." "Tulisanes? It couldn't be.
Children and old women are the representatives of curiosity in this world: the former from a wish to know things and the latter from a desire to recollect them. Apparently there was no one to apply a slipper to Sister Puté, for she remained gazing out into the distance with wrinkled eyebrows. Then she rinsed out her mouth, spat noisily, and crossed herself.
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