As to this, the Ateneo was not so bad as the rest, but bad enough. Within even its halls was as yet no emancipation from the notion that the student is the scum of the earth and the professor sent to scourge and chasten him. At Santo Tomas, whither Rizal was later transferred, this variant of purgatory was at its worst; tuition dwelt in the Lower Silurian. Rizal’s description is of the session of a class in physics. The discerning reader will conclude that it is the transcript of a personal experience:
The class-room was a spacious rectangular hall with large grated windows that admitted an abundance of light and air. Along the two sides extended three wide tiers of stone covered with wood, filled with students arranged in alphabetical order. At the end opposite the entrance, under a print of St. Thomas Aquinas, rose the professor’s chair on a level platform with a little stairway on each side. With the exception of a beautiful blackboard in a narra [wood] frame, scarcely ever used, since there was still written on it the viva that had appeared on the opening day, no furniture, either useful or useless, was to be seen. The walls, painted white and covered with glazed tiles, to prevent scratches, were entirely bare, having neither a drawing nor a picture, nor even an outline of any physical apparatus. The students had no need of any; no one missed the practical instruction in an extremely experimental science; for years and years it has been so taught, and the country has not been upset but continues just as ever. Now and then some little instrument descended from heaven and was exhibited [[53]]to the class from a distance, like the monstrance to the prostrate worshipers—look, but touch not! From time to time when some complacent professor appeared, one day in the year was set aside for visiting the mysterious laboratory and gazing from without at the puzzling apparatus arranged in glass cases. No one could complain, for on that day there were to be seen quantities of brass and glassware, tubes, disks, wheels, bells, and the like—the exhibition did not get beyond that, and the country was not upset.…
This was the professor who that morning called the roll and directed many of the students to recite the lesson from memory, word for word. The phonographs got into operation, some well, some ill, some stammering, and received their grades. He who recited without an error earned a good mark, and he who made more than three mistakes a bad mark.
A fat boy with a sleepy face and hair as stiff and hard as the bristles of a brush yawned until he seemed about to dislocate his jaws, and stretched himself with his arms extended as if he were in his bed. The professor saw this and wished to startle him.
“Eh, there, sleepy-head! What’s this? Lazy, too; so it’s sure you don’t know the lesson, ha?”
This question, instead of offending the class, amused them and many laughed; it was a daily occurrence. But the sleeper did not laugh; he arose and, with a bound, rubbed his eyes, and, as if a steam-engine were turning the phonograph, began to recite:
“The name of mirror is applied to all polished surfaces intended to produce by the reflection of light the images of the objects placed before said surfaces. From the substance that forms these surfaces they are divided into metallic mirrors and glass mirrors——” [[54]]
“Stop, stop, stop!” interrupted the professor. “Heavens, what a rattle! We were at the point where the mirrors are divided into metallic and glass, eh? Now if I should present to you a block of wood, a piece of kamagon for instance, well polished and varnished, or a slab of black marble well burnished, or a square of jet, which would reflect the images of objects placed before them, how would you classify those mirrors?”
Whether he did not know what to answer or did not understand the question, the student tried to get out of the difficulty by demonstrating that he knew the lesson; so he rushed on like a torrent:
“The first are composed of brass or an alloy of different metals, and the second of a sheet of glass, with its two sides well polished, one of which has an amalgam of tin adhering to it.”
“Tut, tut, tut! That’s not it! I say to you, ‘Dominus vobiscum,’ and you answer me with, ‘Requiescat in pace!’ ”
The worthy professor then repeated the question in the vernacular of the markets, interspersed with cosas and abás at every moment.
The poor youth did not know how to get out of the quandary; he doubted whether to include kamagon with the metals, or the marble with the glasses, and leave the jet as a neutral substance, until Juanito Pelaez maliciously prompted him:
“The mirror of kamagon among the wooden mirrors.”
The incautious youth repeated this aloud, and half the class was convulsed with laughter.
“A good sample of wood you are yourself!” exclaimed the professor, laughing in spite of himself. “Let’s see from what you would define a mirror—from a substance per se, in quantum est superficies, or from the substance upon which the surface rests, the raw material, modified by the [[55]]attribute ‘surface,’ since it is clear that, surface being an accidental property of bodies, it cannot exist without substance—what do you say?”
“I? Nothing!” the wretched boy was about to reply, for he did not understand what it was all about, confused as he was by so many surfaces and so many accidents that smote cruelly on his ears, but a sense of shame restrained him. Filled with anguish and breaking into a cold perspiration, he began to repeat between his teeth: “The name of mirror is applied to all polished surfaces——”
“Ergo, per te, the mirror is the surface,” angled the professor. “Well, then, clear up this difficulty. If the surface is the mirror, it must be of no consequence to the ‘essence’ of the mirror what may be found behind this surface, since what is behind it does not affect the ‘essence’ that is before it, id est, the surface, quae super faciem est, quia vocatur superficies, facies ea quae supra videtur. Do you admit that or do you not admit it?”
The poor youth’s hair stood up straighter than ever, as though acted upon by some magnetic force.
“Do you admit it or do you not admit it?”
“Anything! Whatever you wish, Padre,” was his thought, but he did not dare to express it from fear of ridicule. That was a dilemma indeed and he had never been in a worse one. He had a vague idea that the most innocent thing could not be admitted to the friars but that they, or rather their estates and curacies, would get out of it all the results and advantages imaginable. So his good angel prompted him to deny everything with all the energy of his soul and refractoriness of his hair, and he was about to shout a proud nego, for the reason that he who denies everything does not compromise himself in anything, as a certain lawyer had once told him; but the evil habits of disregarding the dictates of one’s own conscience, of having [[56]]little faith in legal folk, and of seeking aid from others where one is sufficient unto himself were his undoing. His companions, especially Juanito Pelaez, were making signs to him to admit it, so he let himself be carried away by his evil destiny and exclaimed, “Concedo, Padre,” in a voice as faltering as if he were saying, “In manus tuas commendo spiritum meum.”
“Concedo antecedentem,” echoed the professor, smiling maliciously. “Ergo, I can scratch the mercury off a looking-glass, put in its place a piece of bibinka, and we shall still have a mirror, eh? Now what shall we have?”…
Another pupil is questioned.
“What’s your name?” the professor asked him.
“Placido,” was the curt reply.
“Aha! Placido Penitente, although you look more like Placido the Prompter—or the Prompted. But, Penitent, I’m going to impose some penance on you for your promptings.”
Pleased with his play on words, he ordered the youth to recite the lesson; and the latter, in the state of mind to which he was reduced, made more than three mistakes. Shaking his head up and down, the professor slowly opened the register and slowly scanned it while he called off the names in a low voice.
“Palencia—Paloma—Panganiban—Pedraza—Pelado—Pelaez—Penitente, aha! Placido Penitente, fifteen unexcused absences——”
Placido started up. “Fifteen absences, Padre?”
“Fifteen unexcused absences,” continued the professor, “so that you only lack one to be dropped from the roll.”
“Fifteen absences, fifteen absences,” repeated Placido in amazement. “I have never been absent more than four times, and, with to-day, perhaps five.” [[57]]
“Jesso, jesso, monseer,”[1] replied the professor, examining the youth over his gold eye-glasses. “You confess that you have missed five times, and God knows if you have missed oftener. Atqui, as I rarely call the roll, every time I catch any one I put five marks against him; ergo, how many are five times five? Have you forgotten the multiplication-table? Five times five?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Correct, correct! Thus you have still got away with ten, because I have caught you only three times. Huh, if I had caught you every time—Now how many are three times five?”
“Fifteen.”
“Fifteen, right you are!” concluded the professor, closing the register. “If you miss once more—out of doors with you, get out! Ha, now a mark for the failure in the daily lesson.”
He again opened the register, sought out the name, and entered the mark. “Come, only one mark,” he said, “since you hadn’t any before.”
“But, Padre,” exclaimed Placido, restraining himself, “if your Reverence puts a mark against me for failing in the lesson, your Reverence owes it to me to erase the one for absence that you have put against me for to-day.”
His Reverence made no answer. First, he slowly entered the mark, then contemplated it with his head on one side—the mark must be artistic—closed the register, and asked with great sarcasm, “Abá, and why so, sir?”
“Because I can’t conceive, Padre, how one can be absent from the class and at the same time recite the lesson in it. Your Reverence is saying that to be is not to be.”
“Nakú, a metaphysician, but a rather premature one! So you can’t conceive of it, eh? Sed patet experientia and [[58]]contra experientiam negantem, fusilibus est arguendum, do you understand? And can’t you conceive with your philosophical head that one can be absent from the class and not know the lesson at the same time? Is it a fact that absence necessarily implies knowledge? What do you say to that, philosophaster?”
This last epithet was the drop of water that made the full cup overflow. Placido enjoyed among his friends the reputation of being a philosopher, so he lost his patience, threw down his book, arose, and faced the professor.
“Enough, Padre, enough! Your Reverence can put all the marks against me that you wish, but you haven’t the right to insult me. Your Reverence may stay with the class; I can’t stand any more.” Without further farewell, he stalked away.
The class was astounded; such an assumption of dignity had scarcely ever been seen, and who would have thought it of Placido Penitente? The surprised professor bit his lips and shook his head threateningly as he watched him depart. Then in a trembling voice he began his preachment on the same old theme, delivered, however, with more energy and more eloquence. It dealt with the growing arrogance, the innate ingratitude, the presumption, the lack of respect for superiors, the pride that the spirit of darkness infused in the young, the lack of manners, the absence of courtesy, and so on. From this he passed to coarse jest and sarcasm.…
So he went on with his harangue until the bell rang and the class was over. The 234 students, after reciting their prayers, went out as ignorant as when they went in, but breathing more freely, as if a great weight had been lifted from them. Each youth had lost another hour of his life and with it a portion of his dignity and self-respect, and in exchange there was an increase of discontent, of aversion to [[59]]study, of resentment in their heart. After all this ask for knowledge, dignity, gratitude!
Just as the 234 spent their class hours, so the thousands of students that preceded them have spent theirs, and, if matters do not mend, so will those yet to come spend theirs, and be brutalized, while wounded dignity and youthful enthusiasm will be converted into hatred and sloth.[2]
Rizal liked the Ateneo and the Ateneo liked him, students as well as fathers. His fellows seem to have had for him more of awe than affection as they contemplated his always growing list of victories. We may believe now that the distance that separated them from him was not so great as they thought, the wizardry of his prize-winning being, next to his hard work, the advantages of his definite aim. Most men that acquire this and follow it with any steadiness, whether it be for wealth, position, or reputation, seem to their contemporaries a kind of demon, but if they live, indent the chronicles of their times. The idea that seized upon Rizal and was always growing in his thoughts was that he ought to do something to help his people out of the prison-house of ignorance and tyranny in which they sat the bound captives of a preposterous social organization. This was enough to mark him apart from students that went to the Ateneo only because their parents told them to go. Good things for him were things that helped him to his purpose and bad things were things that got across his way.
Long after he had left those sequestered halls, he [[60]]put together notes on his recollections of his life at the Ateneo, that, curt as they are, light up his views of himself, his peculiar self-abnegation and his idea of his destiny. He says:
After the vacation, in that memorable year of my mother’s release, I again had my lodgings in the Walled City.… My mother had not wanted me to return to Manila, saying that I already had a 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 text-book. A former schoolmate, who had finished his course three months before, was my only intimate friend. He lived in the same street that I lived in.
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 she lent me. On December 8, 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 Calamba girl that 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 [[61]]“no” answers. She seemed to have almost, if not entirely, forgotten her Tagalog. When I walked into our house in Calamba, 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.…
There I tied the horse by the roadside and for a time watched the water flowing through the irrigation ditch. Its swiftness reminded me 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 I have undertaken.[3]
The instructor at the Ateneo that Rizal chiefly liked was Father Guerrico, a kindly, gentle, devout old man, full of learning and given to good works. Long after swift and stirring events in the great world had dimmed the memory of other faces at the Ateneo, the visage of Father Guerrico, furrowed with thought, yet beaming with good will to all mankind, was clear before Rizal, and with that marvelous gift of his for sculpture he made, out of his lingering recollections, a bust of the father, achieving a likeness of extraordinary quality, so subtly charged it is with the feeling of truth that confers life upon portraiture. But there is, indeed, no room to doubt his high artistic calling; if to painting or to sculpture he had cared to devote himself, he would have been one of the world figures of his day. When one so gifted and having also the artist’s craving for expression and achievement makes [[62]]of these a sacrifice for the general welfare, it may be doubted if rack or prison mean much more.
Sculpture came as easily to him as laughter to a child. From his babyhood, or thereabouts, he had been modeling these figures in clay, a spontaneous and irrepressible outgiving of the spirit in him; figures strangely vital, and wittily touched, so that to-day the observer coming upon them for the first time beholds them with a sense of something weird, as if in some way he had come also upon the sculptor behind his work. Often with no tool but a pocket-knife he worked in wood to the same results. There are extant faces and busts he carved thus in wood that have an almost inexplicable potency to suggest character, thought, or life.
He had as great a command over his brush and pencil; his sketch-book has a certain charm, distinctive and rare; he had the French artist’s uncanny power to suggest with a single line an inevitable trait or an overmastering feature of a landscape. He could paint before he had taken a lesson. When he was a mere boy, still at Calamba, before he had entered the Ateneo, a banner was spoiled that was to have been used in one of the local festivals that were then so important; José painted in its place a banner that all men declared to be better than the original.[4] At the Ateneo he carved an image of the Virgin Mother that won the unstinted praise of men not novices in art, and a statue of Christ that for twenty years was one of the admired exhibits of the school hall. [[63]]