The Social Cancer, by José Rizal - Home

CHAPTER IV 38
CHAPTER IV
Heretic and Filibuster
Ibarra stood undecided for a moment. The night breeze, which during those months blows cool enough in
Manila, seemed to drive from his forehead the light cloud that had darkened it. He took off his hat and drew a
deep breath. Carriages flashed by, public rigs moved along at a sleepy pace, pedestrians of many nationalities
were passing. He walked along at that irregular pace which indicates thoughtful abstraction or freedom from
care, directing his steps toward Binondo Plaza and looking about him as if to recall the place. There were the
same streets and the identical houses with their white and blue walls, whitewashed, or frescoed in bad
imitation of granite; the church continued to show its illuminated clock face; there were the same Chinese
shops with their soiled curtains and their iron gratings, in one of which was a bar that he, in imitation of the
street urchins of Manila, had twisted one night; it was still unstraightened. "How slowly everything moves,"
he murmured as he turned into Calle Sacristia. The ice-cream venders were repeating the same shrill cry,
"Sorbeteee!" while the smoky lamps still lighted the identical Chinese stands and those of the old women who
sold candy and fruit.
"Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "There's the same Chinese who was here seven years ago, and that old
woman--the very same! It might be said that tonight I've dreamed of a seven years' journey in Europe. Good
heavens, that pavement is still in the same unrepaired condition as when I left!" True it was that the stones of
the sidewalk on the corner of San Jacinto and Sacristia were still loose.
While he was meditating upon this marvel of the city's stability in a country where everything is so unstable, a
hand was placed lightly on his shoulder. He raised his head to see the old lieutenant gazing at him with
something like a smile in place of the hard expression and the frown which usually characterized him.
"Young man, be careful! Learn from your father!" was the abrupt greeting of the old soldier.
"Pardon me, but you seem to have thought a great deal of my father. Can you tell me how he died?" asked
Ibarra, staring at him.
"What! Don't you know about it?" asked the officer.
"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--?" demanded 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."