Iloilo, June 29, 1905.

The weather is becoming more stormy, and typhoons are signalled, but so far they seem to go wide of us, which is a very good thing. The thermometer the last few days has been very low, 78° to 80°, but the damp makes it more trying and relaxing than when we had over 90° to contend against. With the rain, all sorts of trees have come into bloom—things with coarse, strong foliage and huge bright flowers. The fields are all covered with very vivid green grass and corn coming up, and sometimes when there is a purple thunder-cloud across half the sky and all these colours in the sun, wet with rain, shining against it, the effect is simply like a scene cut out of glittering metals.

As I explained to you when we first arrived, life here is adapted to dry heat, and the fears I had then about the wet season are being justified every day, for steel and silver rust while you look at them; clothes come out in feverish patches of blue mould; silk and satin “go” so that they tear like tissue paper; and all sorts of mysterious “beasts” are stowed away in our garments, while shoes have to be shaken before putting on more carefully than ever.

C—— amused me the other day with an account of an American millionaire who came down by the last boat from Manila to “prospect” in this island and Negros for sugar. It seems that the fancy of this plutocrat, who is quite a common, roughly-dressed old man, is to buy up half the island, with which object he went to the office, as C——’s firm are the largest, if not the only exporters of sugar in these islands. C—— said the old chap’s notions filled everyone with amusement, for he wants to get control of some plantations, and put up sugar mills that will crush 10,000 tons of cane daily! The price and scarcity of labour were represented to him as a factor in his schemes, as well as the Export Tax, lack of roads, and other trifles. But he was not much depressed, and I daresay he will tackle the enterprise in the American sink or swim style, which seems rather a pity, as what the Philippines want is small and prosperous farms—not huge trust-like businesses to produce vast sums to be spent in New York or Paris.

You remember my telling you about the fracas next door? That family all moved away, eventually, but not to Manila, only to the next street parallel to this. The next-door basement is now occupied by a dressmaker, a jolly fat old Tagalo woman with a deep voice like a man, and her hair scraped up into a knob with a comb (an ordinary white bone one for combing) stuck across it. Besides the comb, she wears nothing but a chemise, petticoat, and slippers. The work-girls are all natives, and they sit about the big front room on mats on the floor, sewing and cutting out and talking all day long. They are there at five in the morning, and often work till after dark. Two have sewing machines on tables, and they look so queer in their tight native sarong and muslin camisa, sitting on a Viennese cane chair at a treadle-machine.

The husband of the Tagalo is a fat, greasy Spaniard, with side-whiskers, and an eternal cigar, who lounges all day in a cane chair in vest and trousers, reading the Heraldo, and balancing his slippers on the tips of his bare toes. They appear to hit it off very well, he and his old native wife, for he is quite content to blowze and loaf all day, and roll off to his club now and then, while she is a typical, thrifty, hard-working Tagalo,[10] always amongst her work-girls, and generally sewing herself. She sits in a chair, though, and every now and then picks up an old cigar-box that is for ever within her reach, and rolls herself a cigarette, scooping up very carefully every crumb of tobacco that falls into her capacious lap.

This Filipina keeps the house much cleaner than the Mestizas did, and has more regard for privacy, in the shape of curtains of bright cretonne nailed across the side windows. The old lady has a very pet dog, which is exactly like herself—a huge, fat, sleek, brown creature, perfectly good-natured, with a deep, full voice. They have a spaniel too, and other dogs that run in and out, and I can’t make out how many belong to the house, or how many are only friends; but I got to be quite certain of one, which nearly always lies on the window-ledge, and to know it by sight. After a time, however, it gradually dawned on me that this particular spaniel never moved—and then I discovered that he was stuffed! Till I knew that, he was, to me, a quiet, contemplative dog; but since I found he was stuffed, he has become a horrible, uncanny demon.

Yesterday morning a little old native woman appeared wandering round the balcony with a bundle under her arm. When she caught sight of me she darted away, and in a few minutes Sotero came into the sala saying that a mujer (a woman) wanted to sell some piÑa to the seÑora.

I said I did not want piÑa particularly, but that the woman could come and show it to me if she liked; so in she came and squatted on her heels in the doorway while she undid the bundle, first a piece of cotton, and then an old newspaper, then more cotton, and at last a lot of rolls of muslin. They were very pretty pieces of stuff, dyed in pale greens, pinks, blues, and mauves, but she wanted sixteen or eighteen pesos apiece (thirty-two to thirty-eight shillings) for them—dress lengths of fifteen narrow yards. I said: “I will give you nine pesos.”

“Santa Maria!” she threw up her hands. “I could not live. My mistress would beat me!”

I said that was nonsense, because she knew no Filipino lady would dream of giving her more than seven.

“Fourteen at the very lowest, seÑora, and the American ladies gave me eighteen without any questions.”

“That is very silly of them,” I said. But I knew it to be true, for I had been present at a great buying of piÑa by American tourists, and the prices they gave were simply idiotic.

“I am not Americana,” I said.

“I know that” (I daresay she did, for on that point a native rarely, if ever, makes a mistake), “so I would not think of asking the seÑora more than thirteen, which I hope she will not mention to anyone.”

“Why should I pay thirteen for stuff that I know is to be had in the Filipino houses for nine?”

“If I say twelve, may the seÑora say a prayer that I may not be dismissed by my mistress.”

“I am Protestante. I think each person must say their own prayers.”

“The seÑora is wise and good. She will give me eleven and a half.”

And so on, and so on. Before we had done, I was the kindest, wisest, most humane, and beautiful and polite woman the sun ever shone on; I was blessed by all the Saints in turn—but I paid nine pesos for a roll of blue piÑa, and the old woman said she would come any day and sell me any amount more at the same price.