“What did he do? Did he beat up the coadjutor again?”
“What did he do? Tell us about it!”
“You saw that Spanish mestizo go out through the sacristy in the midst of the sermon?”
“Yes, we saw him. Padre Dámaso took note of him.”
“Well, after the sermon he sent for the young man and asked him why he had gone out. ‘I don’t understand Tagalog, Padre,’ was the reply. ‘And why did you joke about it, saying that it was Greek?’ yelled Padre Dámaso, slapping the young man in the face. The latter retorted and the two came to blows until they were separated.”
“If that had happened to me—” hissed a student between his teeth.
“I don’t approve of the action of the Franciscan,” said another, “since Religion ought not to be imposed on anyone as a punishment or a penance. But I am almost glad of it, for I know that young man, I know that he’s from San Pedro Makati and that he talks Tagalog well. Now he wants to be taken for a recent arrival from Russia and prides himself on appearing not to know the language of his fathers.”
“Then God makes them and they rush together!”97
“Still we must protest against such actions,” exclaimed another student. “To remain silent would be to assent to the abuse, and what has happened may be repeated with any one of us. We’re going back to the times of Nero!”
“You’re wrong,” replied another. “Nero was a great artist, while Padre Dámaso is only a tiresome preacher.”
The comments of the older persons were of a different kind. While they were waiting for the arrival of the Captain-General in a hut outside the town, the gobernadorcillo was saying, “To tell who was right and who was wrong, is not an easy matter. Yet if Señor Ibarra had used more prudence—”
“If Padre Dámaso had used half the prudence of Señor Ibarra, you mean to say, perhaps!” interrupted Don Filipo. “The bad thing about it is that they exchanged parts—the youth conducted himself like an old man and the old man like a youth.”
“Did you say that no one moved, no one went near to separate them, except Capitan Tiago’s daughter?” asked Capitan Martin. “None of the friars, nor the alcalde? Ahem! Worse and worse! I shouldn’t like to be in that young man’s skin. No one will forgive him for having been afraid of him. Worse and worse, ahem!”
“Do you think so?” asked Capitan Basilio curiously.
“I hope,” said Don Filipo, exchanging a look with the latter, “that the people won’t desert him. We must keep in mind what his family has done and what he is trying to do now. And if, as may happen, the people, being intimidated, are silent, his friends—”
“But, gentlemen,” interrupted the gobernadorcillo, “what can we do? What can the people do? Happen what will, the friars are always right!”
“They are always right because we always allow them to be,” answered Don Filipo impatiently, putting double stress on the italicized word. “Let us be right once and then we’ll talk.”
The gobernadorcillo scratched his head and stared at the roof while he replied in a sour tone, “Ay! the heat of the blood! You don’t seem to realize yet what country we’re in, you don’t know your countrymen. The friars are rich and united, while we are divided and poor. Yes, try to defend yourself and you’ll see how the people will leave you in the lurch.”
“Yes!” exclaimed Don Filipo bitterly. “That will happen as long as you think that way, as long as fear and prudence are synonyms. More attention is paid to a possible evil than to a necessary good. At once fear, and not confidence, presents itself; each one thinks only of himself, no one thinks of the rest, and therefore we are all weak!”
“Well then, think of others before yourself and you’ll see how they’ll leave you in the lurch. Don’t you know the proverb, ‘Charity begins at home’?”
“You had better say,” replied the exasperated teniente-mayor, “that cowardice begins in selfishness and ends in shame! This very day I’m going to hand in my resignation to the alcalde. I’m tired of passing for a joke without being useful to anybody. Goodbye!”
The women had opinions of still another kind.
“Ay!” sighed one woman of kindly expression. “The young men are always so! If his good mother were alive, what would she say? When I think that the like may happen to my son, who has a violent temper, I almost envy his dead mother. I should die of grief!”
“Well, I shouldn’t,” replied another. “It wouldn’t cause me any shame if such a thing should happen to my two sons.”
“What are you saying, Capitana María!” exclaimed the first, clasping her hands.
“It pleases me to see a son defend the memory of his parents, Capitana Tinay. What would you say if some day when you were a widow you heard your husband spoken ill of and your son Antonio should hang his head and remain silent?”
“I would deny him my blessing!” exclaimed a third, Sister Rufa, “but—”
“Deny him my blessing, never!” interrupted the kind Capitana Tinay. “A mother ought not to say that! But I don’t know what I should do—I don’t know—I believe I’d die—but I shouldn’t want to see him again. But what do you think about it, Capitana María?”
“After all,” added Sister Rufa, “it must not be forgotten that it’s a great sin to place your hand on a sacred person.”
“A father’s memory is more sacred!” replied Capitana María. “No one, not even the Pope himself, much less Padre Dámaso, may profane such a holy memory.”
“That’s true!” murmured Capitana Tinay, admiring the wisdom of both. “Where did you get such good ideas?”
“But the excommunication and the condemnation?” exclaimed Sister Rufa. “What are honor and a good name in this life if in the other we are damned? Everything passes away quickly—but the excommunication—to outrage a minister of Christ! No one
