A Woman's Impression Of The Philippines Part 13

The nichos, or ovens, are rented by the year; if the tenant's surviving family are not prompt with the annual payment, the body is taken out, the bones cast ruthlessly over the back fence, and the premises once more declared vacant.

When we first came, there used to be a great heap of these bones at the back of the Paco Cemetery in Manila, but so much was said about them that the Church grew sensitive and removed them. Our cemetery at Capiz also had its bone heap.

An American negress, a dressmaker who was working for me, told me that there was a petrified man, an American, in the Paco Cemetery, and that the body was on exhibition. She had been to see it, and it was wonderful. I had my doubts about the petrifying, but as I had to pa.s.s the cemetery on leaving her house, I asked the custodian at the gate if there was such a body there. He said that the body had just been removed by the city authorities to be placed in the "Cemeterio del Norte," where there is a plot for paupers. The body was that of an American, buried in the cemetery five years before. His rent, five pesos a year, had been prepaid for five years, but his time had run out. When they came to take out the body, which had been embalmed, it was found in a remarkable state of preservation. The custodian said, with an irreligious grin, that in the old days the condition of the body would have been called a miracle, and a patron saint would have been made responsible, and all the people would have come, bearing lighted candles, to do honor to the saint; and he added regretfully that it was no good in these days. The Americans would say that it was because of their superior embalming process. "But what a chance missed!" he said, "and what a pity to let it go with no demonstration!" There are many ways of looking at the same thing. I could not help laughing, thinking of the negress. She said, "He's sittin' up there by the little church, lookin' as handsome as life--and him petrified!"

CHAPTER XXI

Sports and Amus.e.m.e.nts

Dancing, c.o.c.k-fighting, Gambling, Theatricals--Sunday in the Philippines--Lukewarmness of Protestant Christians in the Philippines--How a Priest Led Astray the Baptist Missionary's Congregation on Thanksgiving--Scarcity of Amus.e.m.e.nts in Provincial Life--An Exhibition of Moving Pictures--Entertainments for the Poorer Natives--The Tragedy of the Dovecot.

The Filipino's idea of a good time is a dance. Sometimes, in the country, a dance will go on for forty-eight hours. People will slip out and get a little sleep and come back again. Next to the dance, the c.o.c.k-fight is their chief joy. A c.o.c.k-fight is, however, not a prolonged or painful thing. Tiny knives, sharp as surgical instruments, are fastened to each bird's heels, and the c.o.c.k which gets in the first blow generally settles his antagonist.

Gambling is the national vice. The men gamble at _monte_ and _pangingue_, and over their domino games, their horses, and their game-c.o.c.ks. The women of both high and low cla.s.s not infrequently organize a little card game immediately after breakfast and keep at it till lunch, after which they begin again and play till evening. Women also attend the c.o.c.k-fights, especially on Sunday. Often the c.o.c.kpit is in the rear of the church and the convento; and the padre derives a revenue from it.

Manila, being the metropolis, has its theatres, cinematograph shows, and music halls. Nearly every year there is a season of Italian opera, in which the princ.i.p.als are very good, and the chorus, for obvious reasons, small and poor. Most of the theatrical talent which wanders in and out comes from Australia. One theatre, which American women do not patronize, keeps a sort of music-hall programme going all year. There are many smaller theatres, where plays in the Tagalog language, the products of local talent, are presented. I cannot say what is the trend of these at the present time, but seven years ago the plots nearly all embraced bad Spanish frailes who were pursuing innocent Filipino maidens, and who always came to an end worthy of their evil deeds. The disposition to express racial and political hatreds in those plays was so strong that a friend in asking me to go navely pictured his conception of them in the invitation. He said, "Let's go over to the Filipino theatre and see them kill priests."

Of course, there is no Puritan Sabbath in the Philippines. Theatres, b.a.l.l.s, and receptions are carried on without any observance of that day. The Protestant churches make a valiant effort to keep a tight rein over their flocks, but with little success. It cannot truthfully be said that most Americans here are either fond of church-going or fond of the church social, which, with its accompanying features of songs, recitations, and short addresses by prominent citizens, who were never designed by the Creator to speak in public, and its creature comforts of home-made cake and ice cream, has leaped the Pacific.

During my third year in Capiz a Baptist missionary arrived and took up his work. He seemed to feel that he had a claim upon all Americans to rally to his support. But, alas! they did not come up to his expectations. Some were Roman Catholics; others, of whom I was one, had an affection for the more formal, punctilious service of the Church of England; and even two or three nonconformist teachers realized that a too open devotion to the missionary cause would hopelessly endanger their usefulness as teachers.

So the missionary carried on his services for nearly a year, and no single American appeared at them. His congregation, which was largely recruited from the poorer cla.s.ses, and which had been hoping for the social advantage which would be derived from the American alliance, naturally pressed the unfortunate missionary for a reason. The sorely tried man spoke at last. He said briefly that the Americans in Capiz were pagans.

On one occasion the missionary arranged a service for Thanksgiving morning and invited us personally. Of course we all said that we should be glad to go. But the astute padre of the Church Catholic was not going to have any such object lesson as that paraded before his flock. He arranged for the singing of a _Te Deum_ in honor of the day at half-past nine, just half an hour before the time set for the other service. Then he got the Filipino Governor to send out written invitations from his office in such a way that the affair a.s.sumed the complexion of a national courtesy offered by the Filipino to the American. For us, as Government employees, to disregard this was impossible. So we went _en ma.s.se_ to the Roman Catholic church, where two rows of high-backed chairs were arranged facing each other up the centre of the church for our high mightinesses.

We had agreed privately that after the _Te Deum_ we would go over to the Protestant chapel, and not leave the poor missionary to feel himself wholly deserted. But no opportunity came. The service was prolonged till any hope of our appearing in the rival chapel was effectually quashed. When we came out, we looked at one another and burst out laughing. It was one more evidence that the American is no match for the Filipino in _finesse_.

Naturally, unless one falls in with the Filipino devotion to dancing, there are few sources of so-called amus.e.m.e.nt in provincial life. The American women visit each other and give dinners, which, to the men who live in helpless subjection to an ignorant native cook, are less a social than a gastronomic joy. If we are near the seash.o.r.e, we make up picnics on the beach, swim, dig clams, and cook supper over a fire of driftwood. If thirst overtakes us, we send a native up a tree for green cocoanuts. He cuts a lip-shaped hole in the sh.e.l.l with two strokes of his bolo, and there is water, crystal clear and fresh. The men hunt snipe and wild ducks, and sometimes wild pigs and deer.

In default of travelling theatrical companies, the provincial natives have their own organizations of local talent and present little plays in either Spanish or the native tongue. If American troops are stationed near a town, there will be one or two minstrel shows each year. The Filipinos all go to these, but they don't understand them very well and are not edified. I think they imagine that the cake walk is a national dance with us, and that the President of the United States leads out some important lady for this at inaugural b.a.l.l.s.

Once in a while a travelling cinematograph outfit roams through the provinces, and then for a tariff of twenty-five cents Mexican we throng the little theatre night after night. I remember once a company of "barn-stormers" from Australia were stranded in Iloilo. They had a moving picture outfit, and a young lady attired in a pink _costume de ballet_ stood plaintively at one side and sang, plaintively and very nasally, a long account of the courting of some youthful Georgia couple. The lovers embraced each other tenderly (as per view) in an interior that had a "throw" over every picture corner, table, and chair back. Some huge American soldier down in the pit said, "That's the real thing; no doubt about it," but whether his words had reference to the love-making or the room we could not tell.

The song went on, the lovers married and went North; but after awhile the bride grew heartsick for the old home, so "We journeyed South a spell." With this line the moving picture flung at us, head on, a great pa.s.senger locomotive and its trailing cars. To the right there were a country road, meadows, some distant hills, a stake and rider fence, and a farmhouse. The scene was homely, simple, typically American, and rustic, and it sent every drop of loyal American blood tingling. The tears rushed to my eyes, and I couldn't forbear joining in the roar of approbation that went up from the American contingent. An Englishman who was with our party insisted that I opened my arms a yard and a half to give strength to my applause. I said I didn't regret it. We poor expatriated wanderers had been drifting about for months with no other emotion than homesickness, but we had a lively one then. The Filipino audience at first sat amazed at the outburst; but their sympathies are quick and keen, and in an instant they realized what it meant to the exiles, and the wave of feeling swept into them too. The young lady in the pink costume grew perceptibly exalted, and in the effort to be more pathetic achieved a degree of nasal intonation which, combined with her Australian accent, made her unique.

The poorer natives have one source of enjoyment in a sort of open-air play which they call _colloquio_. This is always in the hands of local talent, and is probably of Spanish mediaeval origin. The three actors are a captive princess, a villain, and a true knight. The villain is nearly always masked, and sometimes the princess and knight are masked also. The costuming is European. The performance may take place in a house if anybody is kind enough to offer one, but more frequently the street is the scene. A ring is marked off, and the captive princess stands in the middle, while knight and villain circle about her with their wooden swords, countering, and apparently making up verses and dialogue as they go along. When they get tired, the princess tells her sorrowful tale. The people will stand for hours about a performance of this sort, and for weeks afterwards the children will repeat it in their play.

Once a _circo_, or group of acrobats, came to Capiz and played for over a month to crowded houses. The low-cla.s.s people and Chinese thronged the nipa shack of the theatre night after night from nine P.M. till two A.M. When a Filipino goes to the theatre, he expects to get his money's worth. I myself did not attend the circo, but judging from what I saw the children attempt to repeat, and one other incident, I fancy it was quite educative.

The other incident has to do with my henchman, Basilio, previously mentioned, who later arrived at the dignity of public school janitor. Basilio had been a regular patron of the circo, so much so that he came into my debt. One of the first things we had set ourselves to do was the clearing up of all school grounds and premises by pupil labor. Exactly in the middle of the back yard of the Provincial School was a great dovecot, which spoiled the lawn for gra.s.s tennis courts. So our industrial teacher decided to move the dovecot bodily to another place. I doubted if it could be accomplished without somebody's getting hurt, and Basilio, without offering any reason, vociferously echoed my sentiments, and jeered openly at the idea of the industrial teacher's getting that dovecot safe and sound to the other end of the yard.

I refused to risk the Provincial School boys on the task, so the teacher borrowed a file of prisoners from the Provincial jail. Basilio the incredulous was ordered to be on hand and to make himself useful. He appeared in a pair of white duck trousers, the gift probably of some departing American, and somebody's discarded bathing s.h.i.+rt in cherry and black stripes. He had cut off the trousers legs at the thighs, and, with bare arms and legs glistening, was as imposing an acrobat as one could wish to see.

I had long wanted a swing put up in a great fire-tree which stood near the dovecot, and while the prisoners were loosening the earth about the four supporting posts, I sent Basilio to put it up. He finished his work just as the prisoners were ready to heave up on the posts, and, to express his entire glee in what was shortly to occur, he came down the rope _a la circo_, and landed himself with a ballet dancer's pirouette, kissing both hands toward the tugging men. Anything more graceful and more comical than Basilio's antics, I have never seen.

The dovecot was supported, as I said, by four great posts sunk in the ground. On top of these was a platform, and on the platform rested the house. The American teacher had a.s.sumed that the platform was securely fastened to the posts and that the house was nailed to the platform. This was his great mistake. He had not been over very long, and he couldn't make allowance for the Filipino aversion for unnecessary labor. The dovecot would hold firm by its own weight, and the builders had not seen the necessity of wasting nails and strength.

Basilio with outstretched arms continued to stand on his toes while the prisoners grunted over the posts, which came up with difficulty. They were shamelessly lazy and indifferent to the commands of the industrial teacher, who had, however, the sagacity to get out of range himself. They lifted unevenly, there was a tipping, a sliding, and a smash, as by one impulse the prisoners jumped aside and let house, platform, and posts come thundering to the ground. Feathers drifted about like snow; there were wild flutterings of doves; and squabs and eggs spattered the lawn.

When I saw that n.o.body was hurt, I joined in the cackles of the prisoners, who were doubled up with joy at the discomfiture of the American teacher. He was in a blind rage, which was not diminished by the outcries and lamentations of the Governor and a horde of clerks, who swarmed out to express their grief over the wanton destruction of a landmark. Privately, I don't believe they cared a rap, but the opportunity to reproach an American for bad judgment comes so seldom to the Filipinos that they refuse to let it escape.

Basilio never moved a muscle when the crash came. He had stood buoyantly expectant; he received it flamboyantly calm. A smile of ineffable pleasure then seized upon his features, and with the breaking forth of the chorus he rose to joyous action. He spun on his heels like a dervish. He threw handsprings, he walked on his hands, he exhausted, in short, all that he had been able to acquire in the abandon of the previous weeks; and then gravely righting himself, he went over and began to pick up squabs. These he offered to the American with a perfectly wooden countenance, and with the simple statement that they were very good eating. He acted as if he thought the teacher had done it all for that purpose.

CHAPTER XXII

Children's Games--The Conquest of Fires

Children's Games--How Moonlight Nights Are Enjoyed--The Popularity of Baseball Among the Filipinos--My Domestics Play the Game--The Difficulty of Putting Out Fires--Need of Water-Storage for the Dry Season--Apathy of the Public at Fires--Examples Showing the Loyalty and Devotion of Servants When Fires Occur.

Filipino children are not so active as the children of our own race, and their games incline to the sedentary order. Like their elders, they gamble; and like all children, the world over, they have a certain routine in which games succeed one another. At one season in the year the youngsters are absorbed in what must be a second cousin to "c.r.a.ps." Every child has some sort of tin can filled with small spotted seash.e.l.ls. They throw these like dice; they slap their hands together with the raking gesture of the c.r.a.p-player, and utter e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns in which numeral adjectives predominate, and which must be similar to "lucky six" and kindred expressions.

Following the c.r.a.p game there is usually a season of devotion to a kind of solitaire which is played with sh.e.l.ls on a circular board, scooped out into a series of little cup-like depressions. They will amuse themselves with this for hours at a time. The sh.e.l.ls are moved from cup to cup, and other sh.e.l.ls are thrown like dice to determine how the sh.e.l.ls are to progress.

The commonest form of child gambling, however, is that of pitching coppers on the head and tail plan. You may see twenty or more games of this sort at any time around a primary school. Sometimes the game ends in a fight. Sometimes the biggest urchin gathers up everything in sight and escapes on the ringing of the bell, leaving his howling victims behind.

Not unnaturally, in consideration of the heat, there is comparatively little enthusiasm for rough sport. The only very active play in which little boys and girls engage, is leap frog, which differs slightly from the game in our own country.

Two children sit upon the ground and clasp their right hands. A leader starts out, clears this barrier, and all the rest of the players follow. Then one of the sitting children clasps his unoccupied left hand upon the upraised thumb of his companion, thus raising the height of the barrier by the width of the palm. The line starts again and all jump this. Then the second sitter adds his palm and thumb to the barrier, and the line of players attack this. It is more than likely that some one will fail to clear this last barrier, and the one who does so squats down, pressing close to the other two, and puts in his grimy little paw and thumb. So they continue to raise the height of the barrier till, at last, n.o.body can jump it.

When they play _drop the handkerchief_, Filipino children squat upon their heels in a circle instead of standing. They have also the familiar "_King William was King James's Son_"; I do not know whether the words in the vernacular which they use are the equivalent of ours or not. The air, at least, is the one with which we are all familiar.

They have one more game which seems to be something like our _hop-scotch_ but more complicated. The diagram, which is roughly scratched out on the ground, is quite an extensive one. The player is blindfolded, and hops about, kicking at his bit of stone and placing it in accordance with some mysterious rule which I have vainly sought to acquire. The children play this in the cool, long-shadowed afternoons, when they have returned from school, have doffed their white canvas shoes and short socks, and have reverted to the single slip of the country.

There is a local game of football which is played with a hollow ball or basket of twisted rattan fibres. The players stand in a ring, and when the ball approaches one, he swings on one heel till his back is turned, and, glancing over his shoulder, gives it a queer backward kick with the heel of his unoccupied foot. It requires some art to do this, yet the ball will be kept sometimes in motion for two or three minutes without once falling to the ground.

On moonlight nights the Filipinos make the best of their beautiful world. The aristocrats stroll about in groups of twenty, or even thirty, the young people s.n.a.t.c.hing at the opportunity to slip into private conversation and enjoy a little _solitude a deux_ while their elders are engrossed in more serious topics. The common people enjoy a wholesome romp in a game which seems to be a combination of "tag"

and "prisoner's base." Groups of serenaders stroll about with guitars and mandolins, and altogether a most sweet and wholesome domesticity pervades the village.

At present the nearest real bond between American and Filipino is baseball--"playball" the Filipinos call it, having learned to a.s.sociate these words with it from the enthusiastic shouts of American onlookers. Baseball has taken firm hold, and is here to stay. In Manila every plot of green is given over to its devotees. Every secondary school in the country has its nine and its school colors and yell, and the pupils go out and "root" as enthusiastically as did ever freshmen of old Yale or Harvard. No Fourth of July can pa.s.s without its baseball game.

We had a good baseball team at Capiz as early as 1903, and played matches with school teams from neighboring towns. I did not realize, however, how popular the game had become until one warm afternoon, when I was vainly trying to get a nap.

The noise under my window was deafening. Thuds, shrieks, a babble of native words, and familiar English terms floated in and disturbed my rest. Finally I got up and went to the window.

The street was not over twenty-five feet wide, the houses, after native custom, being flush with the gutter. In this narrow s.p.a.ce my servants had started a game of ball. They had the diamond all marked out, and one player on each base. There was Ceferiana, the cook, a maid of seventeen, with her hair twisted into a Sappho knot at the back with one wisp hanging out like a horse's tail. Her petticoat was wrapped tightly around her slim body and its back fulness tucked in at the waist. She was barefooted, and her toes, wide apart as they always are when shoes have never been worn, worked with excitement. There was Manuel, who skated the floors, an anaemic youth of fifteen or sixteen, dressed in a pair of dirty white underdrawers with the ankle strings dragging, and in an orange and black knit unders.h.i.+rt. There was Rosario, the little maid who waited on me and went to school. She was third base and umpire. A neighbor's boy, about eight years old, was first base. Manuel was second base and pitcher combined. Ceferiana was at the bat, while behind her her youngest brother--he whose engaging smile occupied so much of my attention at the funeral of the lavandero aforementioned--was spread out in the att.i.tude of a professional catcher. His plump, rounded little legs were stretched so far apart that he could with difficulty retain his balance. He scowled, smacked his lips, and at intervals thumped the back of his pudgy, clenched fist into the hollowed palm of the other hand with the gesture of a man who wears the catcher's mitt. Had a professional baseball team from the States ever caught sight of that baby, they would have secured him as a mascot at any price.

The ball was one of those huge green oranges which the English call pomeloes, about twice the size of an American grape-fruit. Being green, and having a skin an inch thick; it withstood the resounding thwacks of the bat quite remarkably. It was fortunate that the diamond was so small, for it would have taken more strength than any of the players possessed to send that plaything any distance. Catching it was only the art of embracing. It had to be guided and hugged to the breast, for it was too big to hold in the hands. The valorous catcher, in spite of his fiercely professional air, invariably dodged it and then pursued it.

The bat was a board about eight inches wide, wrenched from the lid of a Batoum oil case and roughly cut down at one end for a handle. With the size of the ball, and the width of the bat, missing was an impossibility. It was only a question of how far the strength of the batter could send the ball. When it was struck, everybody ran to the next base, and seemed to feel if he got there before the ball hit ground, he had scored something.

Rosario, as I said, was both third base and umpire (after a run they always reverted to their original positions). Her voice rang out in a symphony like this: "Wan stri'! Wan ball! Fou' ball! Ilapog! ilapog sa acon! Hindi! Ilapog sa firs' base! Fou' ball."