The Social Cancer, by José Rizal - Home

CHAPTER XXIX 144
Our venerable father, St. Francis, followed the Virgin as on yesterday, except that the priest under the canopy
this time was Padre Salvi and not the graceful Padre Sibyla, so refined in manner. But if the former lacked a
beautiful carriage he had more than enough unction, walking half bent over with lowered eyes and hands
crossed in mystic attitude. The bearers of the canopy were the same cabezas de barangay, sweating with
satisfaction at seeing themselves at the same time semi-sacristans, collectors of the tribute, redeemers of poor
erring humanity, and consequently Christs who were giving their blood for the sins of others. The surpliced
coadjutor went from float to float carrying the censer, with the smoke from which he from time to time
regaled the nostrils of the curate, who then became even more serious and grave.
So the procession moved forward slowly and deliberately to the sound of bombs, songs, and religious
melodies let loose into the air by bands of musicians that followed the floats. Meanwhile, the hermano mayor
distributed candles with such zeal that many of the participants returned to their homes with light enough for
four nights of card-playing. Devoutly the curious spectators knelt at the passage of the float of the Mother of
God, reciting Credos and Salves fervently. In front of a house in whose gaily decorated windows were to be
seen the alcalde, Capitan Tiago, Maria Clara, and Ibarra, with various Spaniards and young ladies, the float
was detained. Padre Salvi happened to raise his eyes, but made not the slightest movement that might have
been taken for a salute or a recognition of them. He merely stood erect, so that his cope fell over his shoulders
more gracefully and elegantly.
In the street under the window was a young woman of pleasing countenance, dressed in deep mourning,
carrying in her arms a young baby. She must have been a nursemaid only, for the child was white and ruddy
while she was brown and had hair blacker than jet. Upon seeing the curate the tender infant held out its arms,
laughed with the laugh that neither causes nor is caused by sorrow, and cried out stammeringly in the midst of
a brief silence, "Pa-pa! Papa! Papa!" The young woman shuddered, slapped her hand hurriedly over the baby's
mouth and ran away in dismay, with the baby crying.
Malicious ones winked at each other, and the Spaniards who had witnessed the short scene smiled, while the
natural pallor of Padre Salvi changed to the hue of poppies. Yet the people were wrong, for the curate was not
acquainted with the woman at all, she being a stranger in the town.