The Social Cancer - The Original Classic Edition. Хосе Рисаль

"I asked Don Santiago about it, but he wouldn't promise to tell me until tomorrow. Perhaps you know?" "I should say I do, as does everybody else. He died in prison!"

       The young man stepped backward a pace and gazed searchingly at the lieutenant. "In prison? Who died in prison?"

       "Your father, man, since he was in confinement," was the somewhat surprised answer.

       "My father--in prison--confined in a prison? What are you talking about? Do you know who my father was? Are you--?" demand-

       ed the young man, seizing the officer's arm.

       "I rather think that I'm not mistaken. He was Don Rafael Ibarra." "Yes, Don Rafael Ibarra," echoed the youth weakly.

       "Well, I thought you knew about it," muttered the soldier in a tone of compassion as he saw what was passing in Ibarra's mind. "I

       supposed that you--but be brave! Here one cannot be honest and keep out of jail."

       "I must believe that you are not joking with me," replied Ibarra in a weak voice, after a few moments' silence. "Can you tell me why he was in prison?"

       The old man seemed to be perplexed. "It's strange to me that your family affairs were not made known to you."

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       "His last letter, a year ago, said that I should not be [27]uneasy if he did not write, as he was very busy. He charged me to continue my studies and--sent me his blessing."

       "Then he wrote that letter to you just before he died. It will soon be a year since we buried him." "But why was my father a prisoner?"

       "For a very honorable reason. But come with me to the barracks and I'll tell you as we go along. Take my arm."

       They moved along for some time in silence. The elder seemed to be in deep thought and to be seeking inspiration from his goatee, which he stroked continually.

       "As you well know," he began, "your father was the richest man in the province, and while many loved and respected him, there were also some who envied and hated him. We Spaniards who come to the Philippines are unfortunately not all we ought to be. I say this as much on account of one of your ancestors as on account of your father's enemies. The continual changes, the corruption in the higher circles, the favoritism, the low cost and the shortness of the journey, are to blame for it all. The worst characters of the Peninsula come here, and even if a good man does come, the country soon ruins him. So it was that your father had a number of enemies among the curates and other Spaniards."

       Here he hesitated for a while. "Some months after your departure the troubles with Padre Damaso began, but I am unable to explain

       the real cause of them. Fray Damaso accused him of not coming to confession, although he had not done so formerly and they had nevertheless been good friends, as you may still remember. Moreover, Don Rafael was a very upright man, more so than many of those who regularly attend confession and than the confessors themselves. He had framed for himself a rigid morality and often said to me, when he talked of these troubles, 'Senor Guevara, do you believe that God will pardon any crime, a murder for instance, solely by a man's telling it to a priest--a man after all and one whose duty it is to keep quiet about it--by his fearing that he [28]will roast in hell as a penance--by being cowardly and certainly shameless into the bargain? I have another conception of God,' he used to say, 'for in my opinion one evil does not correct another, nor is a crime to be expiated by vain lamentings or by giving alms to

       the Church. Take this example: if I have killed the father of a family, if I have made of a woman a sorrowing widow and destitute

       orphans of some happy children, have I satisfied eternal Justice by letting myself be hanged, or by entrusting my secret to one who is obliged to guard it for me, or by giving alms to priests who are least in need of them, or by buying indulgences and lamenting night and day? What of the widow and the orphans? My conscience tells me that I should try to take the place of him whom I killed, that

       I should dedicate my whole life to the welfare of the family whose misfortunes I caused. But even so, who can replace the love of

       a husband and a father?' Thus your father reasoned and by this strict standard of conduct regulated all his actions, so that it can be said that he never injured anybody. On the contrary, he endeavored by his good deeds to wipe out some injustices which he said your ancestors had committed. But to get back to his troubles with the curate--these took on a serious aspect. Padre Damaso denounced him from the pulpit, and that he did not expressly name him was a miracle, since anything might have been expected of such a character. I foresaw that sooner or later the affair would have serious results."

       Again the old lieutenant paused. "There happened to be wandering about the province an ex-artilleryman who has been discharged from the army on account of his stupidity and ignorance. As the man had to live and he was not permitted to engage in manual labor, which would injure our prestige, he somehow or other obtained a position as collector of the tax on vehicles. The poor devil had no education at all, a fact of which the natives soon became aware, as it was a marvel for them to see a Spaniard who didn't know how to read and write. Every one [29]ridiculed him and the payment of the tax was the occasion of broad smiles. He knew that he was an object of ridicule and this tended to sour his disposition even more, rough and bad as it had formerly been. They would purposely hand him the papers upside down to see his efforts to read them, and wherever he found a blank space he would scribble a lot of pothooks which rather fitly passed for his signature. The natives mocked while they paid him. He swallowed his pride and made the collections, but was in such a state of mind that he had no respect for any one. He even came to have some hard words with your father.

       "One day it happened that he was in a shop turning a document over and over in the effort to get it straight when a schoolboy began to make signs to his companions and to point laughingly at the collector with his finger. The fellow heard the laughter and saw the joke reflected in the solemn faces of the bystanders. He lost his patience and, turning quickly, started to chase the boys, who ran

       away shouting ba, be, bi, bo, bu.1 Blind with rage and unable to catch them, he threw his cane and struck one of the boys on the

       head, knocking him down. He ran up and began to kick the fallen boy, and none of those who had been laughing had the courage to interfere. Unfortunately, your father happened to come along just at that time. He ran forward indignantly, caught the collector by the arm, and reprimanded him severely. The artilleryman, who was no doubt beside himself with rage, raised his hand, but your father was too quick for him, and with the strength of a descendant of the Basques--some say that he struck him, others that he merely

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       pushed him, but at any rate the man staggered and fell a little way off, striking his head against a stone. Don Rafael quietly picked the wounded boy up and carried him to the town hall. The artilleryman bled freely from the mouth and died a few moments later without recovering consciousness.

       [30]"As was to be expected, the authorities intervened and arrested your father. All his hidden enemies at once rose up and false accusations came from all sides. He was accused of being a heretic and a filibuster. To be a heretic is a great danger anywhere, but especially so at that time when the province was governed by an alcalde who made a great show of his piety, who with his servants used to recite his rosary in the church in a loud voice, perhaps that all might hear and pray with him. But to be a filibuster is worse than to be a heretic and to kill three or four tax-collectors who know how to read, write, and attend to business. Every one abandoned him, and his books and papers were seized. He was accused of subscribing to El Correo de Ultramar, and to newspapers from Madrid, of having sent you to Germany, of having in his possession letters and a photograph of a priest who had been legally executed, and I don't know what not. Everything served as an accusation, even the fact that he, a descendant of Peninsulars, wore a camisa. Had it been any one but your father, it is likely that he would soon have been set free, as there was a physician who ascribed the death of the unfortunate collector to a hemorrhage. But his wealth, his confidence in the law, and his hatred of everything that

       was not legal and just, wrought his undoing. In spite of my repugnance to asking for mercy from any one, I applied personally to the

       Captain-General--the predecessor of