say, I possess a memory which elevates my impression of the
teachers there to an ideal plane.

This is the memory of Father DePeneranda. He had very little to do with
us--if I remember right he had only for a while taken the place of one
of the masters of our class. He was a Spaniard and seemed to have an
impediment in speaking English. It was perhaps for this reason that the
boys paid but little heed to what he was saying. It seemed to me that
this inattentiveness of his pupils hurt him, but he bore it meekly day
after day. I know not why, but my heart went out to him in sympathy. His
features were not handsome, but his countenance had for me a strange
attraction. Whenever I looked on him his spirit seemed to be in prayer,
a deep peace to pervade him within and without.

We had half-an-hour for writing our copybooks; that was a time when, pen
in hand, I used to become absent-minded and my thoughts wandered hither
and thither. One day Father DePeneranda was in charge of this class. He
was pacing up and down behind our benches. He must have noticed more
than once that my pen was not moving. All of a sudden he stopped behind
my seat. Bending over me he gently laid his hand on my shoulder and
tenderly inquired: "Are you not well, Tagore?" It was only a simple
question, but one I have never been able to forget.

I cannot speak for the other boys but I felt in him the presence of a
great soul, and even to-day the recollection of it seems to give me a
passport into the silent seclusion of the temple of God.

There was another old Father whom all the boys loved. This was Father
Henry. He taught in the higher classes; so I did not know him well. But
one thing about him I remember. He knew Bengali. He once asked Nirada, a
boy in his class, the derivation of his name. Poor Nirada[30] had so
long been supremely easy in mind about himself--the derivation of his
name, in particular, had never troubled him in the least; so that he was
utterly unprepared to answer this question. And yet, with so many
abstruse and unknown words in the dictionary, to be worsted by one's own
name would have been as ridiculous a mishap as getting run over by one's
own carriage, so Nirada unblushingly replied: "_Ni_--privative,
_rode_--sun-rays; thence Nirode--that which causes an absence of the
sun's rays!"

(17) _Home Studies_

Gyan Babu, son of Pandit Vedantavagish, was now our tutor at home. When
he found he could not secure my attention