The Social Cancer, by José Rizal - Home
The Social Cancer, by José Rizal - Home
The Social Cancer, by José Rizal - Home
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CHAPTER XXXIV 167<br />
the gleaming knife, when they considered the youth's strength and the condition of his mind. All seemed to be<br />
paralyzed.<br />
"You, here! You have been silent, now it is my turn! I have tried to avoid this, but God brings me to it--let<br />
God be the judge!" <strong>The</strong> youth was breathing laboriously, but with a hand of iron he held down the Franciscan,<br />
who was struggling vainly to free himself.<br />
"My heart beats tranquilly, my hand is sure," he began, looking around him. "First, is there one among you,<br />
one who has not loved his father, who was born in such shame and humiliation that he hates his memory? You<br />
see? You understand this silence? Priest of a God of peace, with your mouth full of sanctity and religion and<br />
your heart full of evil, you cannot know what a father is, or you might have thought of your own! In all this<br />
crowd which you despise there is not one like you! You are condemned!"<br />
<strong>The</strong> persons surrounding him, thinking that he was about to commit murder, made a movement.<br />
"Away!" he cried again in a threatening voice. "What, do you fear that I shall stain my hands with impure<br />
blood? Have I not told you that my heart beats tranquilly? Away from us! Listen, priests and judges, you who<br />
think yourselves other men and attribute to yourselves other rights: my father was an honorable man,--ask<br />
these people here, who venerate his memory. My father was a good citizen and he sacrificed himself for me<br />
and for the good of his country. His house was open and his table was set for the stranger and the outcast who<br />
came to him in distress! He was a Christian who always did good and who never oppressed the unprotected or<br />
afflicted those in trouble. To this man here he opened his doors, he made him sit at his table and called him<br />
his friend. And how has this man repaid him? He calumniated him, persecuted him, raised up against him all<br />
the ignorant <strong>by</strong> availing himself of the sanctity of his position; he outraged his tomb, dishonored his memory,<br />
and persecuted him even in the sleep of death! Not satisfied with this, he persecutes the son now! I have fled<br />
from him, I have avoided his presence. You this morning heard him profane the pulpit, pointing me out to<br />
popular fanaticism, and I held my peace! Now he comes here to seek a quarrel with me. To your surprise, I<br />
have suffered in silence, but he again insults the most sacred memory that there is for a son. You who are<br />
here, priests and judges, have you seen your aged father wear himself out working for you, separating himself<br />
from you for your welfare, have you seen him die of sorrow in a prison sighing for your embrace, seeking<br />
some one to comfort him, alone, sick, when you were in a foreign land? Have you afterwards heard his name<br />
dishonored, have you found his tomb empty when you went to pray beside it? No? You are silent, you<br />
condemn him!"<br />
He raised his hand, but with the swiftness of light a girlish form put itself between them and delicate fingers<br />
restrained the avenging arm. It was Maria Clara. Ibarra stared at her with a look that seemed to reflect<br />
madness. Slowly his clenched fingers relaxed, letting fall the body of the Franciscan and the knife. Covering<br />
his face, he fled through the crowd.