There was a time when Rizal had not seen any other river than the one near his 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 his only world. It was bounded at the back by the blue mountains of his 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 him greatly and, with all his soul, he believed whatever was in the books. There were good reasons why he should. His parents told him to be very careful of his books. They urged him to read and understand them. But they punished him for the smallest lie.
First Memories of Reading
His first recollection of reciting his letters reaches back to his babyhood. He must have been very little then, for when they rubbed the floor of our house with banana leaves Rizal almost fell down. He slipped on the polished surface as beginners in skating do on ice. It took great effort for him to climb into a chair. He went downstairs step by step. He clung to each round of the baluster.
In their house, as in all others in the town, kerosene oil was unknown. He had never seen a lamp in thier town, nor a carriage on their streets. Yet he thought Kalamba was a very gay and lively town. One night, all the family, except his mother and himself, went to bed early. Why, he does not know, but they 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 Rizal 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.
Rizal's mother was teaching him 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 his 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 his mother became impatient with hearing him read so poorly. He did not understand Spanish and so he could not read with expression. She took the book from him. First she scolded him for drawing funny pictures on its pages. Then she told him 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, she corrected his poetical compositions, and she always made valuable criticisms.
Rizal listened to her, full of childish enthusiasm. He marveled at the nice-sounding phrases which she read from those same pages. The phrases she read so easily stopped him at every breath. Perhaps he grew tired of listening to sounds that had no meaning for him. Perhaps he lacked self-control. Anyway, he paid little attention to the reading. He was watching the cheerful flame. About it, some little moths were circling in playful flights. By chance, too, he yawned. My mother soon noticed that he was not interested. She stopped reading. Then she said to him: “I am going to read you a very pretty story. Now pay attention.”
The Story of the Moth
On hearing the word “story” he at once opened his eyes wide. The word “story” promised something new and wonderful. The young Rizal watched his mother while she turned the leaves of the book, as if she were looking for something. Then he settled down to listen. He was full of curiosity and wonder. He had never even dreamed that there were stories in the old book which he read without understanding. His mother began to read him the fable of the young moth and the old one. She translated it into Tagalog a little at a time.
Rizal's attention increased from the first sentence. He looked toward the light and fixed his gaze on the moths which were circling around it. The story could not have been better timed. His mother repeated the warning of the old moth. She dwelt upon it and directed it to her son. Rizal heard her, but it is a curious thing that the light seemed to him each time more beautiful, the flame more attractive. He 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 him any dread.
His mother kept on reading and he listened breathlessly. The fate of the two insects interested him 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 Rizal a great event. A curious change came over him which he has always noticed in himself whenever anything has stirred his feelings. The flame and the moth seemed to go farther away and his mother’s voice sounded strange and uncanny. He did not notice when she ended the fable. All his attention was fixed on the fate of the insect. He watched it with his whole soul. He gave to it his every thought. It had died a martyr to its illusions.
The Story of the Moth: Realizations
As she put him to bed, Rizal's mother said: “See that you do not behave like the young moth. Don’t become disobedient, or you may get burnt as it did.” He does not recall whether he answered or not. He doesn't remember whether he promised anything or whether he cried. But he does remember that it was a long time before he fell asleep. The story revealed to him things until then unknown. Moths no longer were, for him, insignificant insects. Moths talked; they knew how to warn. They advised, just like his mother. The light seemed to Rizal more beautiful. It had grown more dazzling and more attractive. He knew why the moths circled the flame.
The advice and warnings sounded feebly in his ears. What he thought of most was the death of the heedless moth. But in the depth of his heart he did not blame it. His 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 worthwhile.
Source: Rizal's Own Story of His Life