place yesterday, called Rizal Day—the anniversary of the death of the
national hero, a Filipino of the name of Doctor Rizal. He was the William
Tell of the Philippines, except that his existence was a reality, not a
myth, for he died only eight years ago.
This patriot obtained the degree of Doctor (of Philosophy and Medicine)
in Spain, where he went to be educated and enlightened. When he returned
from that land, Doctor Rizal set to work, endeavouring to free his
countrymen from the frightful Spanish friars, who were the real rulers
of the Spanish Philippines, and whose cruelty and wickedness were almost
incredible. Any friars who were not good enough for Spain, were sent out
to the Philippines, where each man became a little god and tyrant in a
tiny _pueblo_ (village or district), in which his authority was unbounded
and unquestioned. I suppose some of these friar-priests must have been
good men, but no one can tell me they ever heard of such a being, for
the enervating climate, lazy life, complete irresponsibility, and the
irresistible power of the priest over the superstitious, childish Malays
were too much for these men of God; and the stories of their cruelties,
rapacities, and immoralities are all terrible and often simply sickening.
I have heard them from people who lived in the _pueblos_, and the things
that went on were like the Decameron and the Inquisition rolled into one.
Well, this Doctor Rizal started a revolt against the power of these
dreadful _men_, if one could call the friars by such a name, about 1872;
and from that time the rest of his life was a series of plots, captures,
escapes to Europe, imprisonment by the friars, banishment, return,
recapture, till at last, by the simple device of the friars having Rizal
cabled for to Spain and getting him back to the Philippines, the avenging
Church had him executed, by order of the Spaniards, on the Luneta, the
Promenade at Manila, on December 30, 1896. I have met people who were
present at the execution of Rizal, and they tell me that the crowds were
vast, and relate how Rizal faced a line of soldiers bravely and was shot.
Rizal had a nice, clever face of a refined Filipino type, if one can
trust the portraits on the Conant bank-notes, and the Filipinos simply
adore his memory.
It was in consequence of Rizal’s revolt that Aguinaldo and the Katipunan
arose, who lived to revenge their hero’s memory, completing his work by
turning the Spaniards and their dreadful priests out of the Islands. To
do this, as you know, they had to get America to help them; which the
Americans did, and stayed on. The idea is that they are going to teach
the Filipinos how to govern themselves, which, it appears, ought only to
be done by all peoples and races after the American method. The Filipinos
are said to be delighted about this, but the puzzling anomaly is that
they fought, and are still fighting the Americans tooth and nail to
get their own liberty, their own way, but they are not asked what they
think at all, and if they show any signs of wanting to get rid of this
American burden and govern themselves in their own fashion, they are
called Insurgents and knocked on the head, or dubbed common robbers and
strung up to a tree.
On account of this state of affairs, the natives seize on this
anniversary to give relief to some of their patriotic emotions. The
day is a public holiday, they hang out flags and lanterns, and every
Filipino knocks off what little work he ever does, and crawls about the
streets and spits, and every one of them who is not carrying some musical
instrument, is to be seen taking a cock to or from a cock-fight; while
the women slouch along in gangs with myriads of children, or else jolt up
and down in hired carriages—and that is the _Fiesta_.
They abandon these delirious joys during the hot hours of the day, from
two to four, but swarm out again in redoubled numbers in the evening,
walking about the streets till midnight in long processions, carrying
paper lanterns of every shape and colour, and led by a guitar and
mandoline band; while nearly every house is lighted up, and the big room
full of people dancing.
The Filipinos have a natural gift for music of a very light sort, and I
am told by people, who I do not think are very competent judges, that
the natives perform classic music pretty well too, when well directed.
Everyone plays an instrument of some sort, the men forming themselves
into little and large societies, bands, in fact, which, on an occasion
like yesterday, go about the streets and play “Hiawatha” on the slightest
provocation. The trail of Sousa and “rag-time” is over them all, and
their own plaintive, minor melodies, some of them very beautiful, are
never heard now. At least I say “their own” melodies, but these tunes
have a great flavour of Spain about them, and, of course, after four
centuries of Spanish influence, it is difficult to say what is original
Malay and what is imported.
The dress of the women is a mixture of the two races—Malay and
Spanish—for the tight skirt (which is not worn in Manila, by-the-bye)
is the _sarong_ of the Straits; and the muslin blouse or jacket, with
its huge starched sleeves and _panuelo_ (a sort of folded _fichu_ collar
which sticks up behind) is an interesting survival of the fashions in
vogue in Europe, in the days when Spain took these Islands on one side
of the globe, and fought the mariners of Elizabeth on the other. Beyond
these two garments the outfit is simplicity itself, for it consists of
one long cotton chemise. I don’t think you’ve ever seen a _sarong_,
by-the-bye, which, when it is off, is like a bottomless sack; and when
it is on, is drawn tightly across the back and tucked in over itself at
the top, when it makes an outline exactly like the petticoats in Egyptian
monuments, quite close at the back, with a fold like a kilt in front.
Then over the upper part comes the muslin bodice, which is made in one
piece, with a hole to slip over the head, after the fashion of a jibbah.
It looks very cool, but the cut is clumsy, and the fashion is dwarfing
to the tiny Filipino figures; while the big sticking-up collar gives a
round-shouldered effect, and spoils what is one of their best points, a
graceful set and carriage of the head and neck. They walk very straight,
with all the motion from the hips, and their feet very much turned out,
and generally wear no jewellery of any sort, except perhaps a pair of
gold earrings, or a ring or two, or a rosary of European patterns.
There is nothing characteristic in the way of native work or beads.
The well-to-do Filipino women wear more trinkets, and the _Mestizas_
(Eurasians) cover themselves with cheap and tawdry ornaments.
The favourite material for the _camisa_ (bodice) is a native muslin
woven from the fibres of pine-apple leaves, called _piña_, an exclusive
manufacture of the Islands of Panay and Negros, where the pine-apples
grow wild in the jungles. This the Filipino women weave with or without
silk stripes and checks, and dye all sorts of colours; but the lower
classes and peasants hardly ever wear anything beyond the plain, undyed
yellowish-white, which, after all, suits them far better than any other
colour. They look well though, on great occasions, in crimson, purple,
or yellow, and they are wise when they stick to those warm colours, for
blues and greens are fatally unbecoming to their yellow-brown skins,
making them look heavy and dirty. They seem to have no natural taste for
colour though, as they use some appalling aniline dyes, and make mixtures
which set one’s teeth on edge. They are only really safe when they stick
to the red _sarong_ and undyed _camisa_.
The _piña_ is woven on hand-looms, which can be seen and heard clicking
in almost every hut, and it is sent all over the Islands, and fetches
enormous prices, but then it is practically everlasting, and when washed
and done up with rice-starch, it looks like new.
They also have a muslin, much cheaper stuff, called _Jusi_ (pronounced
Hoosee), which is made from a fibre procured in China; and a third, and
still cheaper one woven from hemp fibres and called _sinamay_—and the
result of it all is that to the uninitiated the three materials all look
exactly alike! On the _piña_ the women do a very beautiful embroidery of
graceful designs worked out in fine white sewing-cotton and marvellously
shaded, mixed with drawn threads, and some of the antique pieces are
exquisite. This _piña_ embroidery is the only characteristic Filipino
work I have been able to see or hear of, except the decoration of some
weapons, and the grass mats with patterns.
The dress of the men I think I have already hinted at, and it, too, is
the last word in simplicity (short of the loin-cloth, which costume is
not allowed in the towns), for all the Filipinos wear in the house is
tight drawers and a vest, and when they go out they draw on over those
a pair of white or blue cotton trousers and a collarless shirt, rather
like a Chinaman’s coat, which I described to you before, I think. This
shirt hangs outside the trousers, really looking much better than it
sounds, and on galas and occasions of state they turn out in an ordinary
European shirt, with a starched front, all pleated and embroidered, such
as Frenchmen and Germans sometimes wear, and they look so clean and
smart in them. In fact they look quite nice in their native costume, but
unfortunately many of them now affect the white man’s buttoned-up linen
coat, with stand-up starched collar, and put on shoes and stockings,
which subtly vulgarises the wearers at once. Like all coloured races and
many white ones, as soon as they attempt modern European fashions the
Filipino taste is villainous, and they look inexpressibly common and
disheartening.
They are so clean—so scrupulously clean—all their clothes, even those of
the very poorest, being spotless and fresh. They are for ever washing
their bodies, too, or at least it is certain that the poor people are,
for they may be seen at the wells and outside their houses tubbing
ingenuously, the men with a single fold of stuff retained for decency,
the women struggling inside a wet _sarong_.
We went yesterday evening for a walk along the beach, on the side of this
spit where the view embraces the open sea and the end of the Island of
Guimaras, the latter with a promontory of mountainous Negros jutting
out behind and beyond it, and all the rest clear horizon. The tide
was out, so we walked on the firm wet sand at the edge of the waves,
little, flat waves which did not run up very far, as the beach is steep
and shelving. Over the mountains, inland, the sky was a deep glowing
orange and crimson, but from where we were on the beach we could not see
the mountains, only glimpses of the gorgeous colour through the high
palms that fringe the shore; while on the other side, out to sea, was a
reflection like a delicate wash of pinky gold, set above deep blue sea
and purple islands.
We walked a good long way, as far as the ends of the streets that come
down on the beach, all dark with points of light, for the air was
deliciously soft and the breeze almost fresh, and as the sunset faded,
the stars came out and made quite a light upon the water, they looked so
big and bright. We enjoyed the walk very much, and though we are too far
this side of the town to be able to walk as far as the open country, we
are very lucky not to be a long way from the beach, where we can always
get a breath of fresh air and admire the lovely evenings.
LETTER VIII.
SOCIAL AMUSEMENTS
ILOILO, _January 8, 1905_.
This is my first letter to you in the New Year, and it does seem so
strange to be writing 1905 already.
I wonder how you brought the year in. We were invited to a ball given by
the Club Artistica, the Spanish Club, situated in a suite of very large
rooms in the upper story of a big house in the Calle Real, the main
street of the town, which I told you about when I was describing the
amazing shops. The big basements are shops, but the long upper stories
form large dwelling houses, very swagger ones, only the dust and noise
are very disagreeable, and the rents about the same as flats in the best
part of London, if not more. On these two accounts, most of them stand
empty, displaying long rows of closed shutters, all the outside painted
the prevailing bluey-grey. Some are used as clubs, however, one being
this Artistica, and another, further down the street, the Filipino Club,
which is called the Santa Cecilia—dedicated very appropriately to the
patron saint of music, you see. These two clubs are very hospitable, and
do nearly all the entertaining in the place, except for an occasional
lecture at the Y.M.C.A., which, I daresay, is a wild revel, only I’ve
never summoned up courage to go and see. The Swiss and Germans have a
club, I believe, and the English Club has a beautiful house of its own,
but neither of these institutions does anything towards the gaiety of
nations, beyond playing billiards among their own members exclusively.
It is a relief, however, to think that the poor fellows do not have such
a very bad time as one might imagine, for they accept everything and go
everywhere. The same comforting remark applies to the Americans, who
have no club and don’t entertain privately, except tea or Bridge parties
amongst each other. So, as I said before, it falls to the Spaniards and
Filipinos to keep the place alive, and very well they do it too, if the
ball on New Year’s Eve was a specimen of their average entertainments.
The Spaniards, Eurasians, and natives are all passionately fond of
dancing, and _really_ fond of it, for they do not make it a question of
supper, as people do at home. All you have to do here is to clear the
floor and get in some musicians (half the difficulty here is to keep
groups of musicians out), and apparently your friends flow in. When we
are coming home in the evenings, we often see the _salas_ of quite little
houses lighted up and full of people dancing, and I have seen small
native huts having a _baile_ of two couples jostling round in a space 10
feet square.
The chief room of the Spanish Club is a large apartment, almost a hall,
where, on ordinary evenings, the members can be seen through the big
lighted window-spaces, sitting about at little tables, with glasses at
their elbows, playing dominoes; but for the _baile_ the club was cleared
and hung with electric lights in paper flowers, and decorated with flags
and palm branches, while in a large recess at one side was a numerous
string band of Filipino performers.
The music was excellent, but so slow that, as far as I was concerned,
dancing was no pleasure, though that was not much of a grievance to me,
as I was really far more anxious to look on than to dance.
We were invited for ten o’clock, but when we arrived at eleven the
entertainment was only just getting into full swing. We had missed the
opening _Rigodon_, a dance without which no Filipino _baile_ could get
under weigh at all, but the second half of the programme began with one,
and I was very much interested to see it.
Everyone who wanted to dance the _Rigodon_, and there were only about
three people who did not, sat round the room in an immense square, as
for a cotillon, and the band struck up a very jolly old Spanish tune,
to which the sides facing each other went through a few simple figures
at a very slow walk. When they had done, they sat down, and the other
two sides took their turn; and that, to different tunes, was the whole
dance, which went on for an incredible length of time. The figures were
a mixture of lancers and quadrilles, but the dancers never went out
of a dignified strut, and though the first tune was followed by the
inevitable Sousa marches and “Hiawatha,” however lively the music became,
the dancers continued to stroll and bow and shuffle about at the same
slow pace. I am told that one becomes very fond of the _Rigodon_, but
it seemed to me intolerably dull and listless as a dance, though as a
spectacle it was vastly entertaining, and gave one a chance of really
seeing the people, and they were well worth the trouble of turning out
after dinner to look at.
The men wore white suits, most of them buttoned-up white coats of the
every day sort. There were three Englishmen in evening dress, one or
two in white mess jackets, and several advanced young Filipinos in
grey tweeds. The American women wore every sort of outfit, from the
missionaries and schoolma’ams in blouses and boots to the more exalted
personages in evening dress; while the Filipinas, _Mestizas_, and most
of the Spaniards had on the native muslin _camisa_, some of them
exquisitely embroidered and hand-painted, and always worn with European
skirts of appalling colours and cut. One little brown woman had on a long
train of scarlet plush, with huge white lace butterflies fixed across and
down the front, which made one burst into perspiration merely to look
at; and another was in emerald green velvet, with straggling bands of
gold braid meandering over it in such a queer way that I could not resist
walking round her to see if any point of view would make the lines come
out as a pattern, but they refused to go by any rule of any art—even the
“newest.”
As to the waltzes, which formed the chief part of the programme, they
were very amusing too, for the variety of styles was infinite, though
the universal pace was so slow. The Spaniards and _Mestizos_ dance very
well, and by that, of course, I mean Filipinos in general, for it is very
difficult to distinguish between them, and to say where one race begins
and the other leaves off. They are slow and graceful. The Americans are
equally slow, but not very graceful, for they _walk_ instead of dance,
holding each other in such a peculiar way, sideways and very close, the
man leaning very far back, with his partner falling towards him, and the
hands that are clasped held very high, and swinging up and down.
At twelve o’clock everyone began to cheer and shake hands as the New Year
came in; while the band played the American National Anthem, which is a
most magnificent air, and then the Spanish Anthem, and then a few bars
of “God Save the King,” which did for us and the Germans equally well,
and which we all thought a very nice little compliment. Filipino waiters
came in, carrying trays covered with tall glasses full of some sort of
champagne cup, and everyone drank healths, shook hands, and wished their
friends a Happy New Year. We stayed on a little longer, and I danced a
two-step with a very nice American, which was the best dance I had the
whole evening, for it is one in which they excel, though they perform it
quite differently to what we are told at home is “the real American way
to dance it,” as they do not plunge down the room in straight lines in
the English fashion, but turn round more and make more of a waltz of it.
Suddenly, during an interval between dances in the middle of the
programme, without a word of warning, a _Mestiza_ sat down at the piano
and played an accompaniment to which a young Eurasian, in a painfully
blue satin dress, and with her face a ghastly grey-white with thick
powder, sang a truly terrible song. She screamed in an awful manner,
and I wondered that policemen did not rush up from the streets to see
what was the matter, but she was perfectly self-possessed, and faced the
audience with the aplomb and self-confidence of a prima-donna. I never
heard such “singing” in my life—it was the sort of thing that is so bad
that you feel all hot and ashamed, and sorry, and don’t want to catch the
eye of any relation of the performer. This happened not once, but several
times, and is, I am told, a custom in Filipino _bailes_.
When we left at about half-past one, the ball was in full swing,
and I afterwards heard that it went on till half-past four or five.
Indefatigable people! I don’t know how they can keep it up so, for, of
course, the heat was very great—a temperature in which no one would dream
of dancing at home, and not a breath of cool air anywhere, but I suppose
they become accustomed to it.
One thing I have mentioned may strike you as odd, and that is the
mixture of races and Eurasians, but there is socially no marked
colour-distinction here as in every other country in the world, and
this, I imagine, is because the natives of the civilised parts of the
Philippines have been Christians for centuries, and intermarried with a
Christian race. The fusion is not, however, really very complete, as one
can see from a glance, at any gatherings, where the people of various
shades of white and brown keep very much together. Some of the Eurasian
women are quite pretty, but they spoil their little round faces with
thick layers of powder over their nice brown skins, and use perfumes
that nearly knock one down. The white men are friendly with many of
the _Mestizos_, and dance with their pretty daughters, and are even
occasionally foolish enough to marry the latter; but white women keep
quite apart from the coloured folk, and it would be an unheard-of thing
to dance with one; while as to marrying a Filipino, no woman one could
speak to would ever dream of such a horrible fate. That is where the real
impassable gulf is fixed. The Americans profess not to recognise any
distinction, however, for, as I explained before, they announce that they
consider the Filipino of any class as their social and every other equal,
and have the expression “little brown brother” (invented by Mr. Taft),
which is supposed to convey and establish this generous sentiment. The
sentiment, apart from any political utility it may possess, is a noble
one, but it does more credit to the heart of the Americans than to their
wisdom.
The Spaniards did not recognise the Filipinos as equals, but treated
them with every courtesy, according to their degree, and I believe that
whatever the political situation may have been in those days, society
went peaceably enough, for every man knew his place and kept it; a system
admirably suited to an Oriental people. Now, however, the _régime_ is
quite different, and the sudden glare of ultra-equalising views is what
the Filipinos can neither understand nor profit by.
I wish I had been in the U.S.A to see many things for myself, but I have
always read and heard much about the hard and fast line drawn in that
country against “coloured” people and half-castes, and that the Americans
have learned to adopt this custom from years of experience. This makes
their professed attitude here very puzzling, and I can find no one who
can even attempt to reconcile this extraordinary variation of opinion.
Another unfathomable anomaly of American thought is that the “Equality,”
Nobility of the Human Race—Rights as a human Being, and so on, are for
the _Filipinos_, but all these grand schemes officially take no account
of the fierce, naked savages; the Mahommedan tribes; the negritoes, and
all the other wild natives of the Philippines; though how, or where, or
when, or by whom the line is to be drawn and the distinction made is
another unanswerable problem.
New Year’s Day being a holiday, we thought we would treat ourselves to
a drive. So we sent one of the boys out for a _carromata_, which is a
sort of tiny gig, with the driver sitting on a small seat in front of
his fare, in fact almost on one’s lap. Rain had been falling pretty well
all day, and the _carromata_, when it arrived, was covered with mud, and
looked such a disreputable turn-out that we burst out laughing when we
saw it. However, there was no other to be had, and after all it was a
very good specimen, so we climbed in over the wheel, and the driver, a
boy of about twelve, gave the pony a chuck and a whack, and it turned
round in the direction of the Plaza, and we stuck. Then the driver got
down, and when he was out of the way and the pony became visible, we saw
that we weighed the cart down so much at the back that as the little
animal turned round he got his neck wedged under the shaft and was
held in a rigid yoke. The youthful _cochero_ shoved him down somehow,
evidently both of them quite accustomed to the trouble, and, once
righted, the little beast tore along, and we had a delightful drive in
the cool of the evening, enjoying the air, which was so fresh after the
rain.