A gentleman is one who never causes pain.
This is the definition of John Henry Cardinal Newman. It is beautiful. And it is true.
I think that a gentlewoman could be defined in the same way: "A gentlewoman is one who never causes pain."
For some time, I thought that it would be better to define them this way: "...one who tries never to cause pain."
But now I realize that John Henry Cardinal Newman, who was a professor at Oxford University in London, and an Anglican clergyman, knew exactly what he wanted to define. It is true that -- if you try not to cause pain, and sometimes cause pain without knowing it -- it is not your fault. But if you actually cause pain, you are not a gentleman, yet. Or a gentlewoman, yet. You are struggling to get there.
The gentleman, and the gentlewoman, is one who has learned what causes pain -- and deliberately avoids causing pain to anyone.
The truth of this definition was borne in on me in my experience of counselling married couples, as a priest. If ever the husband deliberately, with malice aforethought, wants to hurt his wife -- I know that this is the end. There is no way back. If a wife really wants to hurt her husband, she can do it! She knows him better than anyone else knows him. She can sabotage him if she wants to. But if her husband hurts her, and she wants to hurt him back -- that is the end. If they end in the law court, saying harsh things about each other, it is all over. Yesterday their children had a home. Now the home is gone. The children are adrift at sea. And only God knows what is going to happen to them.
When I think of a gentleman, the one who comes to my mind is Old Joe Mulry -- Father Joseph A. Mulry, S.J. -- one of the finest teachers the Ateneo de Manila ever had. He was teaching "Humanities", so I guess that led him naturally to being a gentleman. He was the inspiration of Father Horacio de la Costa, S.J., of Jess Paredes Jr., of Leon Maria Guerrero, of Soc Rodrigo, of Chief Justice Claudio Teehankee, of Raul Manglapus, and a little army of other boys. He was the heart of the A.B. course, in the Ateneo.
When I first came to the Philippines, in 1938 -- 62 years ago! -- Old Joe Mulry was fighting for the "living family wage." His articles were read by everyone, but most people thought that he was a dreamer. The living family wage that he was fighting for -- at that time -- was one peso a day!
President Manuel Quezon would come to the old Ateneo, on Padre Faura, to review the troops on Friday afternoon. They would "pass in review" for him, on the parade grounds. Our R.O.T.C., at that time, was considered to be the best in the country. Americans, visiting the Philippines, thought that the Ateneo was a military school.
But after reviewing the R.O.T.C. -- and Quezon always stood splendidly erect, as straight as a dye -- he would go to the room of Father Mulry, to consult with him. His campaign for "Young man, go to Mindanao!" came from Father Mulry.
At one time a young Jesuit Scholastic, who was moderator of the Solidarity of the Blessed Virgin Mary asked Father Mulry to talk to the sodality. Father Mulry said: "Yes!" But then a special event came up, and most of the students would be out of the school at the time set for the talk. The Scholastic went to Father Mulry, very apologetic, and said: "Father, there will not be many boys... Do you still want to give the talk?"
Old Joe Mulry thought about this. Then he said to the Scholastic: "Well... would there be two?"... About 15 boys came, and Father Mulry gave a brilliant, warm, personal talk to the 15.
When I began to teach in the Ateneo, as a Scholastic, I was inheriting his class -- Sophomore A.B., in 1941. He had taught them in Freshman Year. It was my first year of teaching, and I was scared stiff. I was walking through the dormitories, in May, before the students came back from vocation, looking at the banners on the walls, looking at the trophies, and I was frightened to death. So I went to Father Mulry for advice. I saw him in his room.
He said: "They are bright! They are a brilliant class! But they all have ants in their pants! They cannot sit still. When you teach these boys, there must never be a dull moment! You have to shoot yourself out of a cannon!" His own secret, of course, was that he loved all his students, and they loved him. After graduation, he would be the priest at their wedding. He would baptize their children. He would say Mass for the burial of their mother. When I was leaving his room, he said to me, as an afterthought, when I was already in the doorway: "Get in there, and learn as much as you can from them!"
That is the best advice I ever received. I went into that class, and I learned as much as I could from them. I learned a lot. I learned what education really was.
The greatest testimonial ever given to Father Mulry, I think, was in the prison camp at Los Baños. The Jesuit Superiors felt that there was danger of mental stagnation, because all of our concentration was on survival. They asked Old Joe Mulry to give some lectures on Shakespeare, to keep us mentally alive. The only time available -- because it was a labor camp -- was at night, after 7 p.m. If you left your barracks at night, you could be shot dead by the Japanese guards. So it was decided to confine the lectures to the Jesuit Barracks -- Barracks 19.
But the La Salle Brothers wanted to hear Father Mulry on Shakespeare. So every night, for at least seven nights, they left their barracks and crept on their bellies for three hundred meters to our barracks. At the risk of their lives! They would sit quietly on the bamboo floor, listening, while Father Mulry lectured, the shadows from the oil wick in the coconut shell in front of him playing on his face. Then they would creep back to their barracks, as close as they could to the ground.
He died in the prison camp. We buried him there. I drove the nails into his coffin... The nuns wept. The fact is, everyone wept... Old Joe Mulry never caused pain... He was a gentleman.