Rizal's own story of his life
place. I thought with what joy I would surprise her. Instead, we wept
in each other's arms. We had not seen each other for more than a year.
After vacation was over, I returned to Manila and enrolled in the
second year. Then I hunted lodgings in the Walled City. It was too
tiring to live so far away. I found a place at 6 Calle Magallanes
in the house of an elderly widow, Doña Pepay. Her daughter, also a
widow, lived with her. The name of the daughter was Doña Encarnación,
and her four sons were José, Rafael, Ignacio, and Ramón.
Nothing worth telling happened that year. My professor was the same
as in the previous year; but I had different schoolmates. Among them
I found three who had been with me in Biñan. At the end of this year,
I won a medal and returned to my town.
I again went alone to visit my mother in prison. Like another Joseph,
I prophesied to her from a dream that her release would take place
within three months. This prediction happened to come true.
At this time, I began to devote my leisure to reading novels. Years
before, I had read one, but it was not with any great interest. Imagine
how a romantic youngster of twelve would delight in the Count of Monte
Cristo! Under the pretext that I should have to study general history,
I persuaded my father to buy me a set of Cesar Cantu y Diós' histories.
I gained much by reading them. In spite of my only half applying
myself and of my indifferent Spanish, I was able to win prizes in
the quarterly examinations. I should have gained the medal if I had
not made some slips in Spanish, which I spoke very poorly. This gave
the place to a Spanish lad who spoke his mother tongue better than
I could. Thus, then, I finished my third year.
When I next returned to Manila, I found my former landlady's house
full. I had to take a room in the house with my brother, Paciano
Mercado, in company with a boy from my town named Quintero. My life
was not so free as formerly, for I was under close supervision. The
regular hours, however, were better for me. I prayed and played with
my landlord's children.
A portrait of General Paciano Rizal-Mercado should appear here,
but he has never had his picture taken. In September, 1896,
he was cruelly tortured in an unsuccessful endeavor to get
him to sign a statement that his brother was the leader of the
rebellion. Rizal's last letter, from the Fort Santiago death-cell,
tells how much the younger brother owed to the elder:
"My dear brother: Now that I am about to die, it is to you that
I write my last letter. I am thinking of how you worked to give
me my career....
... I believe that I have tried not to lose my time ... I know
how much you have suffered for my sake. ... I assure you, brother,
that I die innocent of this crime of rebellion."
A little later my mother was proved innocent and she was set free. She
came to embrace me as soon as she was free. After the vacation, in
that memorable year of my mother's release, I again had my lodgings
in the Walled City. The house was in Calle Solana and belonged to a
priest. My mother had not wanted me to return to Manila, saying that
I already had sufficient education. Did she have a presentiment of
what was going to happen to me? Can it be that a mother's heart gives
her double vision?
My future profession was still unsettled. My father wanted me to
study metaphysics, so I enrolled in that course. But my interest was
so slight that I did not even buy a copy of the textbook. A former
schoolmate, who had finished his course three months before, was
my only intimate friend. He lived in the same street as I did. My
companions in the house were from Batangas and had only recently
arrived in Manila.
On Sundays and other holidays, this friend used to call for me and we
would spend the day at my great-aunt's house in Trozo. My aunt knew
his father. When my youngest sister entered La Concordia College, I
used to visit her, too, on the holidays. Another friend had a sister
in the same school, so we could go together. I made a pencil sketch
of his sister from a photograph which she lent me. On December 8th,
the festival of La Concordia, some other students and I went to the
college. It was a fine day and the building was gay with decorations
of banners, lanterns and flowers.
Shortly after that, I went home for the Christmas holidays. On
the same steamer, was a Kalamba girl who had been a pupil in Santa
Catalina College for nearly five years. Her father was with her. We
were well acquainted but her schooling had made her bashful. She
kept her back to me while we talked. To help her pass the time, I
asked about her school and studies but I got hardly more than "yes"
and "no" in answer. She seemed to have almost, if not entirely,
forgotten her Tagalog. When I walked into our house in Kalamba,
my mother at first did not recognize me. The sad cause was that she
had almost lost her sight. My sisters greeted me joyfully and I could
read their welcome in their smiling faces. But my father, who seemed
to be the most pleased of all, said least.
The next day we were expecting friends from Manila to arrive, on
their way to Lipa. But the steamer landed its passengers at Biñan
because of a storm. So I saddled a pony and rode over there to meet
them. My horse proved to be a good traveler and when I got back to
Kalamba I rode on, by the Los Baños road, to our sugar mill. There
I tied the horse by the roadside and for a time watched the water
flowing through the irrigation ditch. Its swiftness reminded me of
how rapidly my days were going by. I am now twenty years old and
have the satisfaction of remembering that in the crises of my life
I have not followed my own pleasure. I have always tried to live by
my principles and to do the heavy duties which I have undertaken.
MY FIRST READING LESSON
This tells how he himself became an intelligent student. It was
probably written while he was studying the schools of Saxony. These
were the models for America so that the present educational system
here is along the lines he advocated. As a child he had written a poem,
"By Education the Fatherland Gains in Splendor".
I remember the time when I had not seen any other river than the
one near my town. It was as clear as crystal, and joyous, too, as
it ran on its course. But it was shaded by bamboos whose boughs bent
to every breeze as if always complaining. That was my only world. It
was bounded at the back by the blue mountains of my province. It was
bounded in front by the white surface of the lake. The lake was as
smooth as a mirror. Graceful sails were to be seen everywhere on it.
At that age, stories pleased me greatly and, with all my soul, I
believed whatever was in the books. There were good reasons why I
should. My parents told me to be very careful of my books. They urged
me to read and understand them. But they punished me for the least lie.
My first recollection of reciting my letters reaches back to my
babyhood. I must have been very little then, for when they rubbed the
floor of our house with banana leaves I almost fell down. I slipped
on the polished surface as beginners in skating do on ice. It took
great effort for me to climb into a chair. I went downstairs step by
step. I clung to each round of the baluster.
In our house, as in all others in the town, kerosene oil was unknown. I
had never seen a lamp in our town, nor a carriage on our streets. Yet
I thought Kalamba was a very gay and lively town. One night, all the
family, except my mother and myself, went to bed early. Why, I do
not know, but we two remained sitting alone. The candles had already
been put out. They had been blown out in their globes by means of
a curved tube of tin. That tube seemed to me the finest and most
wonderful plaything in the world. The room was dimly lighted by a
single light of coconut oil. In all Filipino homes such a light burns
through the night. It goes out just at day-break to awaken people by
its spluttering.
My mother was teaching me to read in a Spanish reader called "The
Children's Friend." This was quite a rare book and an old copy. It
had lost its cover and my sister had cleverly made a new one. She had
fastened a sheet of thick blue paper over the back and then covered
it with a piece of cloth.
This night my mother became impatient with hearing me read so poorly. I
did not understand Spanish and so I could not read with expression. She
took the book from me. First she scolded me for drawing funny pictures
on its pages. Then she told me to listen and she began to read. When
her sight was good, she read very well. She could recite well, and she
understood verse-making, too. Many times during Christmas vacations,
my mother corrected my poetical compositions, and she always made
valuable criticisms.
I listened to her, full of childish enthusiasm. I marveled at the
nice-sounding phrases which she read from those same pages. The phrases
she read so easily stopped me at every breath. Perhaps I grew tired
of listening to sounds that had no meaning for me. Perhaps I lacked
self-control. Anyway, I paid little attention to the reading. I was
watching the cheerful flame. About it, some little moths were circling
in playful flights. By chance, too, I yawned. My mother soon noticed
that I was not interested. She stopped reading. Then she said to me:
"I am going to read you a very pretty story. Now pay attention."
On hearing the word "story" I at once opened my eyes wide. The word
"story" promised something new and wonderful. I watched my mother
while she turned the leaves of the book, as if she were looking for
something. Then I settled down to listen. I was full of curiosity and
wonder. I had never even dreamed that there were stories in the old
book which I read without understanding. My mother began to read me
the fable of the young moth and the old one. She translated it into
Tagalog a little at a time.
My attention increased from the first sentence. I looked toward the
light and fixed my gaze on the moths which were circling around it. The
story could not have been better timed. My mother repeated the warning
of the old moth. She dwelt upon it and directed it to me. I heard her,
but it is a curious thing that the light seemed to me each time more
beautiful, the flame more attractive. I really envied the fortune of
the insects. They frolicked so joyously in its enchanting splendor
that the ones which had fallen and been drowned in the oil did not
cause me any dread.
My mother kept on reading and I listened breathlessly. The fate of
the two insects interested me greatly. The flame rolled its golden
tongue to one side and a moth which this movement had singed fell into
the oil, fluttered for a time and then became quiet. That became for
me a great event. A curious change came over me which I have always
noticed in myself whenever anything has stirred my feelings. The flame
and the moth seemed to go farther away and my mother's voice sounded
strange and uncanny. I did not notice when she ended the fable. All
my attention was fixed on the fate of the insect. I watched it with
my whole soul. I gave to it my every thought. It had died a martyr
to its illusions.
As she put me to bed, my mother said: "See that you do not behave
like the young moth. Don't become disobedient, or you may get burnt
as it did." I do not know whether I answered or not. I don't know
whether I promised anything or whether I cried. But I do remember
that it was a long time before I fell asleep. The story revealed to me
things until then unknown. Moths no longer were, for me, insignificant
insects. Moths talked; they knew how to warn. They advised, just like
my mother. The light seemed to me more beautiful. It had grown more