I was born on Wednesday, the nineteenth of June, 1861. It was a few days before the full of the moon. I found myself in a village. I had some slight notions of the morning sun and of my parents. That is as much as I can recall of my baby days.

The training which I received from my earliest infancy is perhaps what formed my habits. I can recall clearly my first gloomy nights, passed on the azotea of our house. They seem as yesterday! They were nights filled with the poetry of sadness and seem near now because at present my days are so sad. On moonlight nights, I took my supper on the azotea. My nurse, who was very fond of me, used to threaten to leave me to a terrible but imaginary being like the bogey of the Europeans if I did not eat.

I had nine sisters and a brother. Our father was a model parent. He gave us the education which was suitable in a family neither rich nor poor. He was thrifty. By careful saving, he was able to build a stone house. He also bought another house; and he put up a nipa cottage on our plot of irrigated ground. The cottage was shaded by bananas and trees.

At nightfall, my mother had us all say our prayers together. Then we would go to the azotea or to a window to enjoy the moonlight; and my nurse would tell us stories. Sometimes sad and sometimes gay, nurse’s stories were always oriental in their imagination. In these stories, dead people, gold, and plants on which diamonds grew were all mixed together.

When I was four years of age, my little sister Concha died, and for the first time I cried because of love and sorrow. Till then I had shed tears only for my own faults, which my loving, prudent mother well knew how to correct.

I learned to write in my own village. My father looked after my education. He paid an old man, who had been his schoolmate, to teach me the first steps in Latin. This teacher lived in our house till he died, five months later. He had been in almost perfect health and it was at the moment of death that he received extreme unction.

In June of 1868, I went to Manila with my father. That was just after the birth of Trinidad, the third sister younger than myself. We went in a casco which turned out to be a clumsy boat. I shall not try to tell how happy I was at each new stop on the banks of the Pasig. Beside this same river, a few years later, I was to be very sad. We went to Cainta, Taytay, and Antipolo, and then to Manila. In Santa Ana I visited my eldest sister, Saturnina, who at that time was a student in La Concordia College. Then I returned to my village and remained until 1870.

BiÑan is a town about one and one-half hour’s drive from my own town, Kalamba. My father was born in BiÑan, and he wished me to go there to continue the study of Latin, which I had just begun. He sent me over one Sunday in the care of my brother. The parting from my family was tearful on the side of my parents and my sisters, but I was nine years old and managed to hide my own tears. We reached BiÑan at nightfall. We went to an aunt’s house where I was to live. When the moon came up, a cousin took me around the town. BiÑan appeared to me large and wealthy but neither attractive nor cheerful.

My brother left me after he presented me to the schoolmaster, who, it seemed, had been his own teacher. The schoolmaster was a tall, thin man with a long neck and a sharp nose. His body leaned slightly forward. He wore a shirt of sinamay that had been woven by the deft fingers of Batangas women. He knew Latin and Spanish grammar by heart; but his severity, I believe now, was too great. This is all that I remember of him. His classroom was in his own house, only some thirty meters from my aunt’s home.

When I entered the classroom for the first time, he said to me:

“You, do you speak Spanish?”

“A little, sir,” I answered.

“Do you know Latin?”

“A little, sir,” I again answered.

Because of these answers, the teacher’s son, who was the worst boy in the class, began to make fun of me. He was some years my elder and was taller than I, yet we had a tussle. Somehow or other, I don’t know how, I got the better of him. I bent him down over the class benches. Then I let him loose, having hurt only his pride. After this, possibly because of my small size, my schoolmates thought me a clever wrestler. On going from the class one boy challenged me. He offered me my hold, but I lost and came near breaking my head on the sidewalk.

I do not want to take up time with telling about the beatings I got, nor shall I attempt to say how it hurt when I received the first ruler blow on my hand. I used to win in the competitions, for no one happened to be better than I. I made the most of these successes. But in spite of the reputation I had of being a good boy, rare were the days in which my teacher did not call me up to receive five or six blows on the hand. When I went out with my companions, they jokingly called me nicknames. But individually they used to be so kind to me that I thought little of their teasings. A few of them were very good and always treated me well. Among these few was a second cousin of mine. Later, some of them were my schoolmates in Manila and then it became my turn to tease.

Near the house of my teacher, Justiniano Aquin Cruz, lived his father-in-law, generally called Juancho. Juancho was an aged artist who let me help him with his paintings. I had already such a liking for this art that our schoolmates called JosÉ Guevarra, another pupil, and myself the class painters.

Many of us lived in the same house. There were my aunt, two cousins, and three half-cousins. My aunt was a very old lady, over seventy. She used to sit on the floor and read the Bible in Tagalog. One cousin was a maiden lady who liked very much to go to confession and to do penances. The other cousin, her brother, was a widower.

One of the half-cousins was something of a tomboy. She was quick to anger but frank and true-hearted. At times, we young folks played in the street at night. Our elders did not permit us to play in the house. The tomboy was two or three years older than I and taught me games. She always treated me as if I were her brother.

My manner of life was simple. I heard mass at four if there were a service so early, or studied my lessons at that hour and went to mass afterwards. Then I went out in the yard and looked for mabolos. Then came breakfast, which generally consisted of a plate of rice and two dried sardines. There was class work till ten o’clock and after lunch a study period. In the afternoon, there was school from two o’clock until five. Next, there would be play with my cousins for a while. Study and perhaps painting took up the remainder of the afternoon. By and by came supper, one or two plates of rice with a fish called ayungin. In the evening we had prayers and then, if it was moonlight, a cousin and I would play in the street with the others. Fortunately, I was never ill while away from home. From time to time, I went to my own village. How long the trip seemed going, and how short coming back!

Many things happened which it would be tiresome to read. Finally, there came a letter from my sister Saturnina which announced that the steamer Talim would stop for me on a certain day. I said good-bye to my numerous friends and teacher. To my teacher, I expressed my sadness in leaving and my gratitude for his instruction. Although he had punished me frequently, he did so, I now think, out of the kindness of his heart; and his heart was heavy when he did it.

I left BiÑan on Saturday afternoon, the seventeenth of December, 1870. I was then nine years old. For the first time, I saw what a steamer really was. It seemed to me most beautiful and in every way admirable. But I heard my cousin, who was with me, make remarks to the banquero that were not complimentary to her speed. I was the only passenger from BiÑan. Two sailors put my baggage into a cabin. Then I went to inspect it. I thought I was going to be without a cabin-mate, but a Frenchman, Arturo Camps, who was a friend of my father, looked after me. The journey seemed very long, but finally we arrived at Kalamba.

Oh! how glad I was to see the shore! At once I wanted to jump into the first banca. A deckhand took me in his arms and put me into the captain’s boat. Then the Frenchman came and four sailors rowed us ashore. It is impossible to describe my joy when I saw a servant waiting for us with a carriage. I jumped in and soon found myself again in our home, happy in the love of my family. Here end my recollections of that period of mingled sadness and gladness, in which, for the first time, I came to know anybody of foreign birth.

(This chapter and the next one, Rizal wrote in 1879. At that time he was eighteen years old.)

Some days after my return to Kalamba, my parents decided that I should remain, and that later, I should go to Manila. I wanted to study with a teacher of the town, even though I could learn no more than multiplication, so I entered the village school.

At this time, an uncle of mine, Don JosÉ Alberto, returned from Europe. He found that during his absence, his wife had left his home and abandoned her children. The poor man anxiously sought his wife and, at my mother’s earnest request, he took her back. They went to live in BiÑan. Only a few days later the ungrateful woman plotted with a Guardia Civil officer who was a friend of ours. She accused her husband of poisoning her and charged that my mother was an accomplice. On this charge, the alcalde sent my mother to prison.

I do not like to tell of the deep grief which we all, nine sisters and brothers, felt. Our mother’s arrest, we knew, was unjust. The men who arrested her pretended to be friends and had often been our guests. Ever since then, child though I was, I have distrusted friendship. We learned later that our mother, away from us all and along in years, was ill. From the first, the alcalde believed the accusation. He was unfair in every way and treated my mother rudely, even brutally. Finally, he persuaded her to confess to what they wished by promising to set her free and to let her see her children. What mother could resist that? What mother would not sacrifice life itself for her children?

They terrified and deceived my mother as they would have any other mother. They threatened to condemn her if she did not say what they wished. She submitted to the will of her enemies and lost her spirit. The case became involved until the same alcalde asked pardon for her. But this was only when the matter was before the Supreme Court. He asked for the pardon because he was sorry for what he had done. Such was his meanness that I felt afraid of him. Attorneys Francisco de Marcaida and Manuel Masigan, Manila’s leading lawyers, defended my mother and they finally succeeded in having her acquitted. They proved her innocence to her judges, her accusers and her hosts of enemies. But after how much delay?—After two and a half years.

Meanwhile my father decided to send me to Manila with my brother Paciano. I was to take the entrance examinations for the secondary course in the Ateneo Municipal. I arrived in Manila on June 10th, 1872. I found out for the first time what examinations were like. My examinations were in Christian doctrine, arithmetic and reading, in San Juan de Letran College. They gave me a passing mark and I returned to my home. A few days later came the celebration of the town festival, after which I went to Manila. But even then, I felt that unhappiness was in store for me.

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 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.