Iloilo, April 14, 1905.

Yesterday, Sunday, we had the launch offered us, so we arranged a little trip in the cool of the evening.

We drove down to the Muelle Loney (too hot to walk at five o’clock), and when we had got on board the launch and seated ourselves in basket chairs in the bows, she steamed down the river and the estuary, and out into the channel. There was a fresh breeze blowing, and the air was delicious. As to the scenery—words fail me! The blue and green of the sea, and the mauve and rose lights reflected on Guimaras from the brilliant sunset behind us over the Panay Mountains, were like some wonderful picture wrought in amethysts and sapphires and exquisite enamels, while all along the shore line the groves of palm trees glowed in the strong light like a border of emeralds set in golden sand.

We crossed over, going close to the opposite shore, with the object of visiting an old steamer which lies over by the quarries from which they are getting the stone to build the harbour. This steamer used to be a French packet, and was bought cheap by some Spaniards for inter-island traffic, but the owners soon found she burnt her head off with coal, and did not pay for her keep, so now they are trying to sell her, and she has lain out there at anchor for a year or more; a fine old boat, with splendid saloons and cabins all rotting away.

We climbed up the rickety gangway and came up upon what looked like the ship of the Ancient Mariner or the Flying Dutchman, all still and silent, everything ready as if for use, but worn and rotten with the sun and weather. We went all over her, into the saloon with its long table of handsome, polished wood and ghostly chairs with high, carved backs; and into the cabins where the closed scuttles were dark with dirt, and there was a musty smell like bones, and our own reflections in the cracked green mirrors made us jump. C—— said he was sure there must be a forgotten skeleton of a pirate in one of the dingy bunks hidden by close-drawn curtains of faded green cloth, and really, the prospect of something of the sort seemed so inevitable that I did not dare look in one of them!

We came out on the deck again, which looked quite a cheerful place after those spectral saloons and cabins, and we saw the galley, with dead fireplaces, and wandered on the bridge, up a very unsafe companion. Old Tuyay had scrambled off the launch after us and followed everywhere, struggling and slipping up and down stairs and ladders, smelling about, and getting stuck somewhere every now and then, and having to be helped and hauled by the collar.

When we got back to the launch, there was still enough daylight to make 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.