a _paseo_ along the coast a little way. We went so close to the land
that we could see right into lovely little bays, where palm-thatch
huts stood amongst the groves and the white sands, and tiny figures
were walking about or wading in the shallows for fish. It all looked
exactly as it must have appeared on some fine evening, when the first
Spanish navigators or Captain Cook came sailing along in their big
three-deckers, while the people ran away into the jungles and began
sharpening their arrows at the sight of a white face.
We said to each other how much we should like to be Navigators, and go
about in fine ships and land in undiscovered islands, and, if we escaped
the arrows, fire a rifle or take a photograph, and be made kings for
being so clever. Instead of doing that, however, we steamed back to
Iloilo when darkness fell, and on landing, went to the Plaza Libertad,
where a band was playing a two-step.
This band which performs twice a week, on Thursdays and Sundays, from
about half-past five to eight, is a new and delightful institution. It
is not due to any enterprise on the part of the authorities, military
or civil, but is a purely native enterprise, consisting of a number of
Filipinos who have collected themselves together under the title of _La
Banda de Musica Popular_. They started the notion of playing in the
Plaza twice a week if they could raise enough subscriptions, whereupon
we all paid up at once, promising to make the same contribution every
month in so good a cause. I think our share, personally, comes to about 2
_pesos_ a month, and it is really well worth it, for now the band is an
institution, and a very good one too. They have not got a very extensive
programme—some marches, a few “coon” tunes, an overture or two, and some
dance music—but they play with spirit, and with the marches they are
particularly successful. It is very creditable, too, when one thinks that
this is a brass band, for the only instruments the Filipinos are really
proficient with are the mandoline and guitar.
It is a great pity that the American authorities left this very important
affair to drift so that the natives themselves, in sheer desperation,
started a band depending upon public charity. I am not exaggerating in
calling it important, for the Filipinos, like all other Orientals, can
understand and be ruled by tangible and visible signs of the ways of
a ruling people; but the empty bandstands in the towns, and the dull,
colourless lack of ceremonies or ceremonial of the American _régime_ have
had an extremely bad effect, though the Filipinos are laughed at for
wanting the gay, courteous Spaniards back again. Not only is this fact
patent, but I have heard the people say so, and they are accused of being
unreasonable about wanting the Spaniards back again after having got rid
of them; but really, quite apart from their not having courted foreign
rule at all, and loathing the usurpation of the Americans, the Filipinos
have something to complain of in the lack of all that pomp which an
Oriental loves and understands. The American Ideal is noble, grand—but it
cannot be compressed into an Oriental brain. I can’t make myself better
understood than by asking you to picture what India would be if the
durbars were stage-managed by Americans!
We delight in the band evenings, when we sit and watch the groups of
natives walking about under the pretty trees; the fat mothers with coveys
of slim, dark-haired daughters in fresh muslin frocks; the young Filipino
“mashers” in white suits with straw hats worn daringly on one side, and
long, thin, tight boots, trying to hide their shyness by a lot of swagger
with a walking-stick; and all the little comedies and flirtations that
go on. I have hardly ever seen any white people there except ourselves;
a newly-married American couple who sit in the dark shadows very close
together, and some American soldiers in khaki and turned-up _sombreros_.
The programmes always end with “The Star-Spangled Banner,” on which
we stand up and C—— takes his hat off, but the American soldiers
unfortunately seldom trouble to salute their Anthem—and as to the
Filipinos, they remain truculently seated with their hats on. It makes
one feel rather foolish to be the only ones to take any notice, but C——
insists.
We have now entered into possession of our trap and pony, and have had
some blissful drives along the eternal roads to Jaro and Molo, out in the
sunset and back in the starlight or moonlight, skimming along on rubber
tyres. Tracks that we used to _tear_ down when anyone lent us a carriage
are now rigorously tabooed! Everyone here drives top-speed, and the
Filipinos all crawl about the roads, and never dream of getting out of
the way unless one shouts out a native word—“Tabé!”—when they just move
enough to avoid instant death like a clever matador in a bull-fight. The
curious thing is we have more trouble with the natives who are walking
_towards_ us instead of those going the same way. That may sound strange
to you, and even incredible, but if you knew the Philippines and the
Filipinos you would understand that it could not be otherwise. This
element is very exciting, and makes an ordinary evening-drive to Molo
rather better than a trip on a fire-engine in Piccadilly.
I quite forgot to tell you that some time ago an unknown man was
announced and walked into the _sala_, in the evening, just before C——
came home. This person was an American, of about thirty, with rather a
good-looking face and the usual thick, long hair parted in the middle. He
bowed and said:
“Mis’ Darncey, I guess?”
I said Mrs Dauncey was my name.
“Is your husband to home?”
I said he was not, and began to get alarmed, for I thought the man had
come to tell me of some accident to C——; but he soon reassured me by
telling me he guessed I could tell him what he wanted to know, which was
whether we had a spare room, as he was looking for a family for himself
and his wife to board with.
I nearly fell down flat with amazement, but I managed, I hope, not to
show my surprise, for I remembered that the Americans live out here in
“messes,” often several families together, and I reflected that this
touting must be some curious custom of which I had not heard. So I said,
quite politely, that I was very sorry, but I was afraid this house was
only large enough for ourselves.
“Oh,” he said, with a great deal of bowing, but no intention of going
away, “I heard this was a big house and reckoned you didn’t fill it.”
“We have a room empty,” I said, “in fact we have two, but I am afraid my
husband would never _hear_ of such a thing as anyone we did not know, or
any friend, either, coming to live with us.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he said. “My wife is in a _quilez_ downstairs,
and I can fetch her up to see you and look at the rooms.”
At this fresh and astounding announcement, I gasped. But I kept my
temper, and replied that I thought he need not disturb his wife, for we
had really no intention of taking anyone to live in our house; but the
man would not be convinced, and argued the point, saying that he had been
to six other people, and he was “fair tired of going around.”
I was wondering how to get rid of him, for he was so remarkably oily
and polite, and kept on saying ma’am every two words. But just then C——
came home, and when the visitor introduced himself, with explanations of
his mission, C—— flushed up, and I began to be afraid he would kick the
man out. But luckily the American was quick enough to see there was no
mistaking the few words C—— said, nor the manner in which he said them
in, and he bowed himself out in a about two seconds.
A strange story? But stranger still is the fact that this was not a
common man—I mean his position was not what we call common—as C—— has
found out that he is an official high up in the Customs service, and
lately married to a schoolma’am. And stranger still is the fact that the
Americans to whom I have told this story can see nothing odd in it at all.
I can’t suppose that such peculiar customs really prevail in the United
States, and that if C—— were to call on the President’s wife, as they are
all equals, and leave me in a cab below while he asked her if she took in
boarders, that he would not get into trouble. Fancy if this man made a
big fortune out here, and we called on him in his mansion in New York and
insisted on taking rooms in it—the idea is preposterous—but _why_?
After this person had departed, we soothed our excited nerves by sitting
on the balcony and watching one of the eternally beautiful sunsets. I
will describe it to you, for it is very much the same every evening, with
varying shades of intensity. The sky behind the palms in the distance
was deep orange, fading into rose, and overhead into apple-green blue.
We went through the house and out on to the Azotea, and all the sky on
that side was like a radiant, pale amethyst, with a big bright moon
rising—a great silver shield—through the lilac and rosy mist; the water
a deep sapphire blue; and Guimaras a brilliant green outline dividing
the sea and sky. The tide was in, and the water came up to the wall
at the end of the garden, where a sheep was nibbling grass at the end
of its tether, perfectly indifferent to a fool of a puppy, which ran
backwards and forwards barking at its heels. In the empty stables on each
side of our own is a regular camp of poor people, who were lounging by
the well, watching one or two naked brown babies playing on the ground.
They all looked so peaceful and happy and so picturesque in the sunset
and moonlight, that we agreed with each other that perhaps life in the
Philippines might be quite pleasant if one only lived the right way and
had a brown skin covered by a minimum of clothes.
They are a singularly happy people, these Filipinos, when they are
unspoilt by the advantages of civilisation. One never sees or hears
people quarrelling, and they are so kind to their children—always
laughing and chattering and showing their fine white teeth, so that
to watch a group of poor people is always a pleasure. We have been
amused for a long time by the spectacle of a house that is being built
in the suburbs, a stately go-as-you-please undertaking that is being
gone through in an amusingly characteristic manner. They begin a house
by constructing the roof, all lashed with _bejuco_, and very neatly
put together, which sits on the ground an indefinite time. Then the
_arigis_—the posts of bamboo or hard wood—are put in position, and a
floor is made about 15 or 20 feet from the earth. Our friends on the Molo
road got so far, and then started to live in the bit that was finished,
camping in a sort of tent on the split-cane floor, with the roof lying
alongside on the ground. I daresay they were “out” of _nipa_ thatch,
and did not dare to trust the building out of their sight, for the
town-dwelling Filipinos are shocking thieves and burglars. Whatever their
reason was, there they lived for quite a long time, till at last we were
quite relieved to see them begin to put thatch on the framework. Then,
one day when we passed we saw that the roof had also been thatched and
hoisted into place, though how this latter feat was brought about I don’t
know, as we unfortunately missed that part of the operations; but I have
been told that, when the roof has been thatched, it is raised and put in
position by sheer human force and much advice and swearing.
LETTER XXIII.
A TROPICAL SHOWER—OUR SERVANTS—FILIPINO CUSTOMS
ILOILO, _April 27, 1905_.
Nothing from you by the mail to-day. The forwarding from Manila seems to
be so unsatisfactory that we think you had better begin sending letters
straight to this place. The address for the future, therefore, will be to
us to—P.O. Box 140, Iloilo. You have to put this, as there is no delivery
of letters—a most strange and tiresome system. In the outside wall of
the post-office is a recess with a number of pigeon holes, some glazed,
some shut with a flap, each with its own lock and key, of which the owner
keeps a duplicate. On the wall outside is a blackboard where the arrivals
and departures of mails are chalked up, and when you see a mail has come
in, you go off and do a sort of “bran-pie” dip in your pigeon hole to see
what you get out.
To-day we have had a very heavy thunderstorm, which has filled the tanks
and cooled the air, the thermometer having gone down from 90° to 82°. The
rain came on just as I was dressing after my _siesta_, so I hurried on a
dressing-gown and went out on to the Azotea to see about the pipe, as it
was no good blowing my whistle for a servant in the noise of the storm
and the terrific din of the rain upon the iron roofs.
I found Sotero having a glorious time with a petroleum can, which
people use here for all water-carrying, like we used to see them do in
Palestine. This can was fixed to a line, and the _muchacho_ was risking
his neck to let it down so as to intercept the overflow of a roof gutter
belonging to the people below, and filling every tin, jug, and bath the
house possessed, all spread out on the Azotea; giving the concrete floor
of the Azotea itself a liberal wash-down at the same time. He was hopping
about the balcony, face beaming and clothes dripping wet, and I laughed
as I thought of the conventional idea of an English butler! He is a very
good butler, all the same, or has learnt to be one, for when he came to
us he did not know how to lay a table; while now, if we give a dinner,
he insists on arranging everything himself, and does it perfectly, even
to folding the serviettes in fancy shapes, which he has got some other
servant to teach him.
All round I hear stories of the miseries and terrors people go through
with their Filipino servants, and “the inevitable _muchacho_” is a
standing joke in the American papers. But our retainers just jog along
in perfect peace, always in the house, always clean and tidy; and as to
their work, not only not shirking it, but improving every day, and always
ready and willing to give any help in the stables, or anything they can
think of. I agree with my friends that we have been very lucky in finding
such excellent “boys,” but I must take a little credit to myself too, for
having treated them with the utmost consideration and politeness, showing
them things patiently over and over again, and never once speaking
sharply or angrily. I am sure they appreciate such treatment instead of
the way in which I see people scolding and cursing their _muchachos_, and
that our having such good and trustworthy servants is not entirely due to
random luck in choosing them.
Now the rain has come. We shall have mosquitoes again—they had almost
disappeared in this long drought, but an hour or two after a shower the
place is humming with them again.
Yesterday was Palm Sunday, on account of which a procession was going
about of all sorts of people carrying palm branches, headed by a _banda
de musica_ playing “Hiawatha,” and in the midst a large cart covered with
coloured paper, bearing an image of some sort; all very tawdry and crude,
and not in the least picturesque.
In the evening, when we drove into Jaro, we saw some Negritos from the
mountains inland—the aborigines who sometimes come down into the towns on
such occasions of _Fiesta_ to do a little trading, and beg and pick up
what they can. These people are very small, much smaller even than the
Filipinos, who are so little; and they have quite black skins, irregular
faces of real nigger type, with big heads of fuzzy black hair, like
Bescharins. They were all very dirty and ragged, and looked very skinny
and miserable beside the plump Malay town’s-people, and those we saw were
begging from door to door, and from everyone they met, poor souls.
Sometimes in the Filipino race a child is born with curly locks instead
of the usual black, straight, Chinese-looking hair, and this curliness
is considered a great beauty, and tremendously admired; which is very
strange, as, of course, such a trait is only a reversion to some strain
of the despised Negrito; but the Filipinos are far too stupid to know
that. In fact, if the hair is so curly as to be positively woolly, they
are more pleased than ever.
On _Fiesta_ days, too, certain beggars appear, sitting by the roads
displaying horrible deformities, and praying away at an amazing rate,
sometimes with a child to run out and beg for them. It is a simple,
unsophisticated idea, that of having your begging done for you, but I
don’t know that the custom is confined to Filipinos.
A day or two ago an American described to me an incident of Filipino
life, which I thought very characteristic of this people. She told me
that after she first came here, she was sitting in the house one day,
when she heard a band coming along the street playing a rattling two-step
march, so she rushed to the window and pushed the shutter aside to see
the fun, which turned out to be a funeral, with a pale blue coffin,
decorated with garlands in carved wood painted pink.
I asked her if she thought the people imagined the occasion to be a
festive one; but she said no, that they simply did not know one sort
of tune from another, she thought, for they were walking along in the
most approved mourning style, and as to the coffin, it was only the
Filipino idea of taste. It is curious to think what a very thin veneer
of our civilisation these people have acquired, and how they would shed
it all as easily as my little lizard has cast off his old coat; and
would probably, as he does, feel infinitely lighter and jollier in the
primitive covering underneath.
LETTER XXIV.
EASTER FESTIVITIES
ILOILO, _April 24, 1905_.
This is Easter Monday, and since Thursday the town has been crammed full
of people—natives—and alive with processions. We got a double allowance
of the latter, as the Aglipayanos turned out in full force—fuller force,
in fact, than the Orthodox, and their marching and counter-marching was
most interesting, even if a little confusing.
We are having holidays, of course, but a holiday here is never very
complete, as the different religions go their own way, and now, for
instance, the Chinese shops are all open; but the Spanish and _Mestizo_
establishments are shut, while the Englishmen have all gone away, except
a few juniors left in charge. One party has gone shooting, and they were
very anxious for C—— to accompany them, but he did not like to leave me
alone here, and refused. There is plenty of good shooting—wild duck,
snipe, etc.—but some way inland, and the difficulty is to get there,
when you are a busy man, with only forty-eight hours to spare at rare
intervals.
_À propos_ of shooting, C—— has only _now_ got his gun back from the
Customs! It was detained by endless dilatoriness and delays, and the
finding of the sureties, which I described to you. There was more trouble
and fuss and worry about that gun and my little revolver than you, who
have not been in this country, would believe. Such a lot of signing of
papers, taking of oaths, and so forth! all of which precautions seem
remarkable and rather superfluous in a “perfectly peaceful and contented
country.”
Well, C—— tried to console himself for not going shooting by playing
lawn-tennis at the Bank, where a very good court has been marked out in a
field at the back of the house, by the estuary. That gives you a little
hint of the climate, does it not? A grass lawn-tennis court in the hot
season?
We walked to the Bank and back, as the pony had gone to be shod, and
on our way home we were stopped in the Plaza by crowds of people
evidently waiting for a procession to pass. We got across the road as
best we could, and up into the garden in the middle of the Plaza, where
we managed to get a foothold amongst a line of people—all natives of
the poorer classes—standing on the low wall. Just as we got there the
procession began to come past—a long double file of women in black skirts
and black or white _camisas_; the men in mourning, which is an ordinary
swallow-tail evening suit. This was Good Friday, and the Emblems of the
Passion were borne aloft, draped in black, while the Madonna, carried
shoulder-high on a big platform, had on a stiff, black robe; and the
whole company was moving slowly along to a guitar and mandoline _banda de
musica_, with big crape bows on their instruments, playing slow tunes in
minor keys.
What do you think this procession was?—Christ’s Funeral! The whole parade
was a real funeral procession, and the last thing of all, preceded by
acolytes in black, swinging censers with large crape bows on them, and
followed by priests in black vestments saying (not chanting) prayers,
was a huge black and gold catafalque—the coffin made with glass
panels—through which could be seen a wax figure of the dead Christ lying
swathed in an embroidered white satin winding-sheet, with a last touch of
realism in His head, bound with a blood-stained handkerchief where the
Crown of Thorns had rested.
We waited long on the wall of the Alameda while this weird and gruesome
procession trailed past, dwindling away down a long, straight street to
the right, with its files of bowed figures and its great, black, swaying
catafalque.
When we turned to come away, C—— drew my attention to the curious fact
that the Cathedral door was shut—a most extraordinary spectacle—which
struck me as peculiar at once. At first we could not understand the
reason, and thought it must be part of the solemnity. “Perhaps,” I said,
“they go so far as to take the procession to a cemetery.”
“I know!” said C——. “They’ve shut the doors because these fellows are the
Aglipayanos!”
Then it also occurred to us that of course this procession had had the
native music, whereas the Orthodox go about to the strains of a brass
Constabulary band to show that they are all right with the Government.
I must tell you, too, that on these, and all occasions, fights are
so frequent between these sects of the followers of Christ that the
processions go about with a strong escort of police.
As the tail end of the procession passed, we looked up our street from
our vantage point on the wall, and C—— said: “What a pity we are not
on our own balcony, as they have made a round, and are coming past the
house.”
But I thought they could not have had time to do that, slow as they had
been, and was sure that what we saw must be the head of the procession
passing the other side of the square. It was quite dark by now, and all
the mourners carried lighted tapers. The crowd in the square and the
procession all seemed hopelessly mixed, but when we at last made our way
to the end of our own street, we found that we were both right about
the Funeral, for there were two of them—the tail of the Aglipayanos was
passing the end of our street, while away up, beyond our house, the road
was blocked by the Romanists waiting to let the others go past.
We tried to get up our street, but the R.C. procession had started to
come down it, so we took refuge on a flight of stairs through an open
doorway. We had a very good view of this Funeral too.
It was just the same style of thing, only with more Spaniards and
Eurasians amongst the mourners; and, following the bier of the Christ, a
dozen or so of converted Chinamen with their pigtails lopped off. In this
procession, too, the priests were white men, but on the other hand, the
Aglipayano _padres_ are all Filipinos, only we had not been near enough
to the first procession to see their faces, which would have shown us at
once which sort they were.
The Papists had their drums and trumpets tied with huge black bows, and
their catafalque was a still more gloomy erection, set round with large
oil lamps in frosted globes, and topped by great bunches of nodding black
plumes, like the old prints of the funeral of Wellington.
About midnight we were awakened by the sound of a slow, muffled band and
feet shuffling along the road, so we went out on to the balcony, and saw
the R.C. procession go trailing past, very solemn and uncanny in the
moonlight, with their yellow taper-flames looking like little bits of
gold paper in the strong white light. This time they had not the great
catafalque with them, which, we imagined, must signify that the Christ
was at rest in the tomb.
Next morning, Saturday, things were very quiet, and the town much as
usual, except for the crowds of people everywhere, all crawling up and
down the streets in very clean clothes, with innumerable tiny children.