CHAPTER V
A Student in Manila
As I had hoped, I was taken to the Jesuit priest at that time in charge
of the Ateneo Municipal. He was Father Magin Fernando. At first he
was unwilling to admit me. One reason was I had come late. Other
reasons were that I did not seem strong and was very small for my
age. I was then eleven. But later, Doctor Manuel Xeres Burgos, a
nephew of the ill-fated Padre Burgos, spoke in my favor; and Father
Fernando admitted me.
I dressed myself in the uniform like the other students, wearing a
white coat, or americana, and a necktie, and entered the chapel of the
Jesuit Fathers to hear mass. What fervent prayers did I address to God!
After mass, I went to the classroom. There I saw a number of boys,
Spanish, mestizos and natives, and a Jesuit teacher. Father José Bech,
the teacher, was a tall man, thin and somewhat stooping, but quick in
his movements. His face was thin and pale, yet lively. His eyes were
small and sunken, his nose sharp and Grecian. His thin lips curved
downwards. He was a little eccentric, sometimes being out of humor
and intolerant; at other times amusing himself by playing like a child.
Some of my schoolmates were interesting enough to warrant mentioning
them by name. Florencio Gavino Oliva, a young man from my own province,
had great talent but he did not work steadily. The same thing was
true of Moisés Santiago, a mathematician and a penman. It was also
true of Gonzalo Manzano, who then held the position of "Roman Emperor."
In Jesuit colleges they divide the boys into two groups or
"empires,"--one Roman and the other Greek. These two "empires" are
always at war. The boys of one "empire" always want to outdo those of
the other empire in all kinds of contests. Each group has a leader
who is called "Emperor." The "Emperor" wins his place by doing the
best work and standing the highest of anyone in his group. I was put
at the end of the line. I could scarcely speak Spanish, but I already
understood it.
After the religious exercises, I went out and found my brother waiting
to take me to my lodgings, which were about twenty-five minutes'
walk from the college. My brother did not wish to leave me in the
Walled City, which seemed very gloomy to me.
I lodged in a small house on Calle Caraballo, near an estero. The house
consisted of a dining room, a sala, a bedroom and a kitchen. An awning
covered the small space between the door and the steps. My landlady
was a maiden lady called Titay, who owed our family three hundred
pesos. Her mother, a good old woman, lived with her. There were besides
a crazy woman, quite harmless, and some Spanish mestizos in the house.
I must not speak of my sufferings, or of my troubles and pleasures. I
shall record only what happened in school during that year. By the
end of the first week, I was going up in the class. Then I began to
spend the siesta-time studying at Santa Isabel College. For this,
I paid three pesos a month. I went there with Pastor Millena, a boy
of my own age. A month later, I was "Emperor".
How pleased I was when I won my first prize, a religious
picture! In the first quarter I gained another prize, with the
grade "Excellent." After that I did not care to apply myself. I
had foolishly become dissatisfied because of something my teacher
said. Unfortunately, this continued until the end of the year and I
gained only second place in all my subjects. This gave me the grade of
"Excellent" but without any prize.
I spent the vacation at home and went with my eldest sister, Nening,
to Tanawan, for the town festival. This was in 1873. But our pleasure
was marred by the fact that our mother was not with us. I had gone
alone to see my mother without first sending word either to her or to
my father. This was at the close of the term in which I held second
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
dazzling and more attractive. I knew why the moths circled the flame.
The advice and warnings sounded feebly in my ears. What I thought
of most was the death of the heedless moth. But in the depth of my
heart I did not blame it. My mother's care had not had quite the
result she intended.
Years have passed since then. The child has become a man. He has
crossed the most famous rivers of other countries. He has studied
beside their broad streams. He has crossed seas and oceans. He
has climbed mountains much higher than the Makiling of his native
province, up to perpetual snow. He has received from experience
bitter lessons, much more bitter than that sweet teaching which his
mother gave him. Yet, in spite of all, the man still keeps the heart
of a child. He still thinks that light is the most beautiful thing
in creation, and that to sacrifice one's life for it is worth while.
MY CHILDHOOD IMPRESSIONS
One of numerous rough drafts evidently written for
practice. Published as "Mi Primer Recuerdo," in El Renacimiento,
Manila, February 2, 1908.
I spent many, many hours of my childhood down on the shore of the lake,
Laguna de Bay. I was thinking of what was beyond. I was dreaming of
what might be over on the other side of the waves. Almost every day,
in our town, we saw the Guardia Civil lieutenant caning and injuring
some unarmed and inoffensive villager. The villager's only fault was
that while at a distance he had not taken off his hat and made his
bow. The alcalde treated the poor villagers in the same way whenever
he visited us.
We saw no restraint put upon brutality. Acts of violence and
other excesses were committed daily. The officers whose duty it
was to protect the people and keep the public peace were the real
outlaws. Against such lawbreakers, our authorities were powerless. I
asked myself if, in the lands which lay across the lake, the
people lived in this same way. I wondered if there they tortured
any countryman with hard and cruel whips merely on suspicion. Did
they there respect the home? Or over yonder also, in order to live
in peace, would one have to bribe tyrants?
THE SPANISH SCHOOLS OF MY BOYHOOD
From the introduction which Doctor Rizal put to his Spanish
version of an article on "The Transliteration of Tagalog". His
advocacy of the English style used in other Malay countries
as more akin to the genius of Filipino dialects was considered
extremely unpatriotic by most Spaniards.
You perhaps attended a village Spanish school to learn your
letters. Possibly, you have had to teach the letters in Spanish to
others smaller than yourself. In either case, you must have noticed
what I have, that children find great difficulty in mastering certain
syllables. These are ca, ce, ci, co, ga, ge, gua, gui, etc. It is
because Filipino children do not understand the reasons for such
irregularities. Nor do they know the cause for the changes in value
of the sounds of certain consonants.
In the old times, blows fell like rain. Many pupils were whipped every
day. Sometimes the schoolmaster broke the ferule and sometimes he
broke the children's hands. The first pages of their primers fell to
pieces from long and hard use. The children cried. Even the monitors
had to suffer at times. Yet those syllables which cost the children
so many tears are of no use to them.
Those syllables are necessary only in the learning of Spanish,
which language in my time only three boys in a thousand ever really
learned. These three learned it in Manila, by hearing Spanish spoken,
and by committing to memory book after book. I often wondered what
was the use of learning it at all when in the end one spoke only
Tagalog. But I kept my wonder to myself. I felt that to try to make
reforms in the Philippines at that time would be to embark on a
stormy voyage.
After I grew up, I had to write letters in Tagalog. I was shocked at
my ignorance of its spelling. I was surprised, too, to find the same
word spelled differently in the different works which I consulted. This
proved to me how foolish it was to try to write Tagalog in the Spanish
way. The spelling in use today by all Filipino scholars is a great
improvement over the old style. I want to place the credit for this
change where it belongs. These improvements are due to the studies
in Tagalog of Dr. T. H. Pardo de Tavera alone. I have only been one
of the most zealous champions of the change from the Spanish style.
THE TURKEY THAT CAUSED THE KALAMBA LAND TROUBLE
This account was given Captain Carnicero, the Spanish commander
of the Dapitan district where Rizal was in exile, in 1892.
My father was a friend of the owners of the Kalamba
estate. He was intimate, too, with the manager in charge of the
plantation. Frequently, important visitors came to the plantation
house. Then the manager asked my father for whatever he needed. He
very often asked for a turkey, and my father gladly gave it to him. The
poultry yard at our house was always full of turkeys because my father
was a fancier of these fowls.
But one season there came some epidemic and almost all the turkeys
died. Only a few pairs, which were being kept for breeding, were
left. Just at this time the manager one day sent for the customary
turkey. Naturally my father had to tell the messenger that he had no
turkeys to spare, because the greater part of them had died. This reply
made the manager furiously angry. He wound up his abuse by saying,
"You will pay for this in the end!" A few days later my father received
a note from the manager, saying that he was going to raise the rent on
the land which my father occupied. He said the rent would be one-third
more than father was then paying.
The reason for this decision was clear. It was because my father had
refused to give the manager the turkey. The proof of this was that
no other tenant received any such notice.
Father paid this increase on the day set, without a single word of
protest, being among the first to pay. But after a few months, there
came another note. In it the manager gave notice that the rent would
be doubled. This, he said, was because my father was growing rich
from the rented land where he had installed machinery for making sugar.
My father could not pay this price. Then he was summoned to appear
in court; and finally the alcalde ordered him to leave the land. So
he lost his houses and machinery, all because of a turkey.
FROM JAPAN TO ENGLAND ACROSS AMERICA
From letters written en route to his friend Mariano Ponce and
first published in Manuel Artigas' Biblioteca Nacional Filipina,
Manila, June, 1910.
On February 28th, 1888, I arrived in Yokohama. A few moments after
reaching the hotel, I received the card of the official in charge at
the Spanish legation. I had not even had a chance to brush up when he
called. He was very pleasant and offered to assist me in my work. He
even invited me to live at the legation, and I accepted. If, at the
bottom, there was a desire to watch me, I was not afraid to let them
know all about myself. I lived at the legation a little over a month,
and traveled in some of the nearby provinces of Japan. At times,
I was alone; at others, with the Spanish official himself, or with
the interpreter. While there, I learned to speak Japanese, and made a
slight study of the Japanese theatre. After many offers of employment,
which I refused, I sailed at last for America, about April 13th.
On the steamer, I met a half-Filipino family, the wife being a
mestiza, the daughter of an Englishman named Jackson. They had with
them a servant from Pangasinan. The son asked me if I knew "Richal,"
the author of Noli Me Tangere. Smiling, I answered that I did; and,
as he began to speak well of me, I had to make myself known and say
that I was the author. The mother paid me compliments, too. I made
the acquaintance of a Japanese who was going to Europe. He had been a
prisoner for being a radical and editor of an independent newspaper. As
the Japanese spoke only Japanese, I acted as interpreter for him
until we arrived in London.
During this voyage I was not seasick.
I visited the larger cities of America, where I saw splendid
buildings. The Americans have magnificent ideals. America is a homeland
for the poor who are willing to work.
I traveled across America, and saw the majestic cascade of Niagara. I
was in New York, the great city, but there everything is new. I went
to see some relics of Washington, that great man whom I fear has not
his equal in this century.
I embarked for Europe on the "City of Rome", said to be the second
largest steamer in the world. On board, a newspaper was published up
to the end of the voyage.
I made the acquaintance of many people. They wondered at my taking
about with me a foreigner who could not make himself understood. The
Europeans and Americans were astonished to see how I got along with
him. I could speak to every one in his own language and understand
what he said.
MY DEPORTATION TO DAPITAN
First published in the Biblioteca National Filipina, Manila. The
account was secretly sent by Rizal to his friends very shortly
after his arrival at his place of exile. The reference to the
school is from a letter to Doctor Blumentritt.
I arrived in Manila the 26th of June, 1892. It was on a Sunday,
at 12 o'clock, noon. A number of carbineers, including a major, met
me. A captain and a sergeant of the Guardia Veterana were there in
civilian clothes. I disembarked with my luggage, and they inspected
it at the custom house.
From there, I went to the Oriente Hotel. I occupied Room No. 22,
which overlooks the Binondo Church.
That afternoon, at four, I presented myself to His Excellency,
Governor-General Despujol. He told me to return at seven in the
evening and I did so. He granted my petition for the liberty of my
father, but not for the liberty of my brother and sisters. He told
me to return on Wednesday evening at half past seven.
From there, I went to see my sisters. First I saw my sister Narcisa,
afterwards Neneng (Saturnina). On the following day, Monday, at
six o'clock in the morning, I was at the railway station, bound for
Bulacan and Pampanga. I visited Malolos, San Fernando, and Tarlac. On
the return I stopped at Bacolor, reaching Manila on Tuesday at five
o'clock in the afternoon.
Seven-thirty on Wednesday saw me with His Excellency. But not even
then did I get him to revoke the deportation decrees. Still he gave me
hope for my sisters. As it was the festival of Saints Peter and Paul,
our interview ended at 9:15. I was to present myself on the following
day, at the same hour.
That day, Thursday, we spoke on unimportant matters. I thanked him
for having revoked the order to banish my sisters and told him that
my father and brother would come by the first mail-steamer. He asked
me if I wished to return to Hongkong and I answered, "Yes". He told
me to come again on Wednesday.
Wednesday he asked me if I persisted in my intention of returning
to Hongkong. I told him that I did. After some conversation he said
that I had brought political circulars in my baggage. I replied that
I had not. He asked me who was the owner of the roll of pillows and
petates with my baggage. I said that they belonged to my sister. He
told me that because of them he was going to send me to Fort Santiago.
Don Ramón Despujol, his nephew and aide, took me in one of the palace
carriages. At Fort Santiago Don Enrique Villamor, the commander,
received me. He assigned me to an ordinary room containing a bed,
a dozen chairs, a table, a washstand, and a mirror. The room had
three windows. One, without bars, looked out on a court; another
had bars, and overlooked the wall and the beach; the third served
also as a door and had a padlock. Two artillerymen were on guard as
sentinels. They had orders to fire on anyone who tried to make signs
from the beach. I could not talk with anyone except the officer of
the guard, and I was not allowed to write.
Don Enrique Villamor, the commander of the fort, gave me books from
the library.
Each day the corporal of the guard proved to be a sergeant. They
cleaned the room every morning. For breakfast, I had coffee with milk,
a roll, and coffee-cake. Lunch was at 12:30, and consisted of four
courses. Dinner was at 8:30, and was similar to the lunch. Commander
Villamor's orderly waited on me.
On Thursday, the 14th, about 5:30 or 6 p. m., the nephew notified me
that at ten o'clock that night I should sail for Dapitan. I prepared
my baggage, and at 10 was ready, but as no one came to get me, I went
to sleep. At 12:15, the aide arrived with the same carriage which had
brought me there. By way of the Santa Lucia gate, they took me to the
Malecon, where were General Ahumada and some other people. Another
aide and two of the Guardia Veterana were waiting for me in a boat.
The "Cebu" sailed in the morning at nine. They gave me a good stateroom
on the upper deck. Above the doors could be read "Chief". Next to my
cabin was that of Capt. Delgras, who had charge of the party.
Ten from each branch of the military service were in the party. There
were artillery, infantry of the 70th, 71st, 72nd, 73rd, and 74th
regiments, carbineers, cavalry and engineers, and Guardia Civil. Of
artillerymen there were at least twelve.
We were carrying prisoners loaded with chains, among whom were a
sergeant and a corporal, both Europeans. The sergeant was to be shot
because he had ordered his superior officer, who had misbehaved while
in Mindanao, to be tied up. The soldiers who obeyed orders and tied
the officer up were given twenty years' imprisonment; and the officer
himself was dismissed from the service because he had let them tie
him up.
I ate in my stateroom, the food being the same as the officers had. I
always had a sentinel and a corporal on guard. Every night, Captain
Delgras took me for a promenade on deck till 9 o'clock.
We passed along the east coast of Mindoro and the west coast of
Panay. We came to Dapitan on Sunday, at seven in the evening. Captain
Delgras and three artillerymen accompanied me in a boat rowed by
eight sailors. There was a heavy sea.
The beach seemed very gloomy. We were in the dark, except for our
lantern, which showed a roadway grown up with weeds.
In the town we met the governor, or commandant, Captain Ricardo
Carnicero. There was also a Spanish ex-exile, and the practicante,
Don Cosme. We went to the town hall, which was a large building.
My life now is quiet, peaceful, retired and without glory, but I
think it is useful too. I teach reading, Spanish, English, mathematics
and geometry to the poor but intelligent boys here. Moreover I teach
them to behave like men. I have taught the men how to get a better
way of earning their living and they think I am right. We have begun
and success is crowning our trials.
ADVICE TO A NEPHEW
Written from Dapitan. Rizal took great interest in the education
of his sisters' children and in Germany had made for them a
translation into Tagalog of Hans Christian Andersen's fairy
tales. This he embellished with many appropriate drawings and
wrote out very plainly, making a book of eighty pages.
I think that I ought to mention to you a slight error which I have
noticed in your letter. It is a little error which many in society
make.
One should not say, "I and my sisters greet you," but "My sisters and
I greet you." Always you have to put yourself last. You should say:
"Emilio and I," "You and I," "My friend and I," and so on. For the
rest, your letter is well written. In it you express your thoughts
clearly. You use only the necessary words, and your spelling is good.
Keep on advancing. Learn, learn and think much about what you
learn. Life is a very serious matter. It goes well only for those
who have intelligence and heart. To live is to be among men, and to
be among men is to strive.
But this strife is not a brute-like, selfish struggle,--nor with men
alone. It is a strife with men, and at the same time with one's own
passions. It is a struggle with the proprieties, with errors, with
prejudices. It is a never-ending striving, with a smile on the lips
and the tears in the heart.
On this battlefield, man has no better weapon than his intelligence. He
possesses no more force than he has spirit. Bring out your
intelligence, then, and improve it. Strengthen and educate yourself
that you may be prepared for the struggle.
FILIPINO PROVERBS
The Proverbs and the Puzzles were published, with comments here
omitted, in Truebner's Oriental Magazine, London, June and July
issues of 1889.
Rizal's own English.
1. Low words are stronger than loud words.
2. A petted child is generally naked (i. e. poor).
3. Parents' punishment makes one fat.
4. New king, new fashion.
5. Man promises while in need.
6. He who believes in tales has no mind of his own.
7. The most difficult to rouse from sleep is the man who pretends to
be asleep.
8. Too many words, too little work.
9. The sleeping shrimp is carried away by the current.
10. The fish is caught through the mouth.
FILIPINO PUZZLES
He carries me, I carry him.--The shoes.
A deep well filled with steel blades.--The mouth.
RIZAL'S DON'TS
Condensed from the regulations of the Philippine League (Liga
Filipino), a co-operative economic society which Rizal organized
in Manila just before his deportation, in 1892.
DON'T gamble.
DON'T be a drunkard.
DON'T break the laws.
DON'T be cruel in any way.
DON'T be a rabid partisan.
DON'T be merely a faultfinding critic.
DON'T put yourself in the way of humiliation.
DON'T treat anyone with haughtiness or contempt.
DON'T condemn anyone without first hearing his side.
DON'T abandon the poor man who has right on his side.
DON'T forget those who, worthily, have come to want.
DON'T fail those without means who show application and ability.
DON'T associate with immoral persons or with persons of bad habits.
DON'T overlook the value to our country of new machinery and
industries.
DON'T ever cease working for the prosperity and welfare of our
native land.
HYMN TO LABOR
(Written expressly for the exercises celebrating the erection of
the pueblo of Lipa, Batangas, into a villa, but received too late
to be used on that occasion.)--Translation by Charles Derbyshire.
Men:
Now the east with light is reddening,
And to our fields and tasks we fare;
By the toil of man sustaining
Life and home and country there.
Though the earth be hard and stubborn,
And the sun unpitying glow,
For our country and our homes
Love an easy way will show.
Chorus:
For his country in peace,
For his country in war,
Let the Filipino work,
Let him live, let him die.
Matrons:
Go then joyous to your labor,
While the wife awaits you here;
With the children learning from her
To hold truth and country dear.
When night brings you weary homeward
May peace and joy await you there;
But if fate unkindly frown,
She your stubborn task will share.
Chorus:
For his country in peace,
For his country in war,
Let the Filipino work,
Let him live, let him die.
Maidens:
Hail to labor! Blessed be it,
For it brings our country wealth;
May we ever hold it sacred,--
'Tis our country's life and health!
If the youth would win our favor
By his work his faith be shown;
Only he who toils and struggles
Will support and keep his own.
Chorus:
For his country in peace,
For his country in war,
Let the Filipino work,
Let him live, let him die.
Boys:
Show us then the way to labor,--
The road you ope to guide our feet;
So that when our country calls us,
We your task may then complete,
And the old men then will bless us,
Saying: "They are worthy of their sires;
For the dead are honored most
By sons whom true worth inspires."
Chorus:
For his country in peace,
For his country in war,
Let the Filipino work,
Let him live, let him die.
MEMORY GEMS FROM RIZAL'S WRITINGS
Without liberty there is no light.
One evil does not correct another.
My dearest wish is the happiness of my country.
It is a useless life which is not consecrated to a great idea.
A man keeps his independence while he holds to his own way of thinking.
If our country is ever to be free it will not be through vice and
crime.
Knowledge is the heritage of mankind, but only the courageous
inherit it.
It is better to honor a good man in life than to worship him after
he is dead.
Resignation is not always a virtue; it is a crime when it encourages
tyrants.
In the flames of war those who suffer most are the defenceless and
the innocent.
I have worked for the good of my native land, I have consecrated my
life to the welfare of others.
We need criticism to keep us awake. It makes us see our weaknesses
so that we may correct them.
There are three ways in which one may accompany the course of progress:
in front of, beside, or behind it.
Where are the young men who will consecrate their best years, their
ambitions and their enthusiasms to the welfare of their native land?
MARIANG MAKILING
(This story is a favorite in my town.)
Mariang Makiling was a young woman. She lived somewhere on the
beautiful mountain Makiling, between Laguna province and Tayabas
province. No one knew just where or how she lived. Some said she
lived in a beautiful palace surrounded by gardens. Others said she
lived in a poor hut made of nipa and bamboo.
Maria was tall and graceful. Her color was a clear, pure brown,
kayumanging kaligatan, as the Tagalogs say. Her eyes were big
and black. Her hair was long and thick. Her hands and feet were
small and delicate. She was a fairy-like creature born under the
moon-beams of the Philippines. She flitted in and out among the woods
of Makiling. She was the ruling spirit of the mountain; but she seldom
came within sight of man.
Hunters sometimes saw Maria on the night of Good Friday when they
went out to trap deer. She would be standing motionless on the
edge of some great cliff. Her long hair floated in the wind. She
sometimes approached them. She would salute them gravely, then pass
on and disappear among the shadows of the trees. They never dared to
question her, to follow her, or to watch her.
She liked best to appear after a storm. Then she would scurry over the
fields bringing back life to the fallen plants, and setting everything
to rights. The trees straightened up their wind-blown trunks. The
streams went back into their beds. All signs of the storm disappeared
as she passed.
Mariang Makiling had a very good heart. She used to lend the poor
country folk clothing or jewels for weddings, baptisms and feast
days. All she asked in return was a pullet as white as milk. It had
to be a dumalaga; that is, one that had never laid an egg.
Sometimes she appeared as a simple country girl and helped the poor
old women to pick up firewood. Then she would slip gold nuggets,
coins and jewels into their bundles of wood.
A hunter was one day chasing a wild boar through the tall grass and
thorny bushes. Suddenly he came to a hut in which the animal hid. A
beautiful young woman came out and said:
"The wild boar belongs to me. You have done wrong to chase it, but
I see that you are very tired. Your arms and legs are covered with
blood. Come in and eat. Then you may go on your way."
The man was charmed by the beauty of the young woman. He went in and
ate everything she offered him. But he was not able to speak a single
word. Before the hunter left, the young woman gave him some pieces of
ginger. She told him to give them to his wife for her cooking. The
hunter thanked her and put the roots inside the crown of his broad
hat. On the way home his hat felt heavy. So he took out a number of
the pieces and threw them away. He was surprised and sorry the next
day when his wife discovered that what they had taken to be ginger
was solid gold. The supposed roots were bright as rays of sunshine.
But Mariang Makiling was not always kind and generous to the
hunters. Sometimes she punished them.
One afternoon two hunters were coming down the mountain, carrying
some wild boars and deer which they had killed during the day.
They met an old woman who begged them to give her a quarter. They
thought that was too much to give, so they refused. The old woman said
that she would go and tell the mistress of those animals, and she
left them. This threat made the hunters laugh heartily. When night
had fallen and the two were near the plain, they heard a distant
shout--very distant, as though it came from the top of the mountain:
"There they go-o-o--o!"
Then another even more distant cry replied:
"There they go-o-o--o!"
That cry surprised both the hunters, who could not account for it. On
hearing it, the dogs stuck up their ears. They uttered low growls
and drew nearer to their masters. In a few minutes the same cry was
heard again, this time from the mountain-side. On hearing it, the
dogs thrust their tails between their legs and came close to their
masters. The men stared at each other without saying a word. They
were astonished that the one who uttered the cry could travel so far
in such a short time. When they reached the plain, the fearful cry
was heard again. This time, it was so clear and distinct that both
looked back. In the moonlight, they could see two strange, gigantic
shapes coming down the mountain at full speed. Both hunters ran as
fast as they could with such heavy loads. Still the strange creatures
came nearer.
The men, coming to a spring called bukal, threw down their burdens,
and climbed a tree; and the dogs fled toward the town. The monsters
came up, and in a few seconds devoured the wild boars and deer and went
back toward the mountain. Only then, did the hunters recover. The more
courageous took aim but his gun missed fire and the monsters escaped.
No one ever knew whether Mariang Makiling had parents, brothers and
sisters, or other kin. Such persons spring up naturally, like the
stones the Tagalogs call mutya. No one ever knew her real name. She
was simply called Maria. No one ever saw her enter the town or take