An Englishwoman in the Philippines

by Mrs. Campbell Dauncey

I have discussed this subject, in all good nature, and generally half in fun, with nearly all the Americans I have met, for it is one that interests me enormously; and the gist of all they tell me—or imply, which is better—is that all Americans are the equals of those above but not of those below them. If I suggest a social distinction between any citizen of the United States and the King of England, the mere idea of such a proposition makes these democrats go into fits of laughter; but when I ask them if they, personally, would consider it an indignity to be sent to dine in the King’s kitchen with his scullions, they generally get quite offended and can’t see that at all. I think, too, that these subtleties of democratic etiquette must be even more distracting to the simple Filipino brain than they are to persons like myself, for though the “little brown brother” is now being taught that all men are equal, he can see without doubt that a native or Mestizo with plenty of money can get the wives of the highest American officials to visit his house, whereas the poorer relative is not even recognised.

Emerson told his countrymen the truth once for all when he said that “humanity loves a lord,”—and it will have “lords,” and must make “lords,” and the best-intentioned Americans in the world will no more make these half-bred Malays equals of each other, or any one else, than they are of each other or negroes.

You will laugh at me for my vehemence, I expect! But you can’t think how aggravating it is to have a principle for ever forced down your throat by the good folk who blatantly and utterly disregard the practice. So the end of my reflections is that I am quite content to curtsey to a king—and to make my Filipino servants call me señora, and put on a clean camisa when they come into my presence.

I have wandered away from the Mestizo party, but not so very far in reality, for it is at such gatherings that such reflections occur to me, along with speculations about the floor, and the refreshments, and how much duty that woman paid for that frock. The refreshments, by-the-bye, were very well done; and indeed, so was the whole party, and the charming manners of the host and hostess did a great deal towards making everything go off well.

Yesterday I spent a harrowing morning trying to buy some vests for C——. Perfectly ordinary white cotton vests, such as the men wear here under their white linen coats, but more difficult to track and procure in Manila than so many birds of paradise. When I told my friends I was going to get vests, they were amazed and asked me why I did such an eccentric thing, instead of sending to Hong Kong for them like everyone else. But I was rather on my mettle about it, and said I would get them in Manila in one of the Chinese shops, for people in Iloilo had done this thing, and why not I?

At one shop, where I had been told to go, a weary-looking Chinaman was sitting in a chair at the shop door, and first I tried Spanish on him, but with no result, not even a flicker of intelligence on his face. I might have been talking in Pekin. So I said, “Do you sell cotton vests?”

“Wests? No. No have got wests.” And he spoke in a tired, helpless drawl, as if his soul had been deadened by a life of trying to get “wests.”

But I was not to be put off, as I had been to six other shops and was getting tired. So I said, “But I was told you sold vests. I don’t mean waistcoats,” which I know they often do, “I mean things to wear under a coat. Vests.”

“Oh, yes. Allitee wests. Mellikan-Filipino store on Escolta. Oh, yes; me savvy all about wests.” And he looked beyond me as if he had been marooned in mid-ocean. I think it was really opium, which one gets accustomed to in the Filipinos as well, for sometimes they are simply maddening when they speak as though in a dream, staring with dull eyes.

The end of the vest story was that at last I tracked what I wanted to a Chinese shop, where the display in the windows consisted of tin pans, sausages, bead curtains, picture postcards, and things like that. After a tour of the Escolta, I had arrived at this shop by the advice of the coachman, to whom I managed to explain my wishes by a lurid pantomime in the middle of the street. When the coachman at last understood that I wanted to buy vests, and not to make him take his off, we went, as I say, to this Chinese shop with the unpromising window-decorations. When I entered and asked for vests, everyone brightened up, and a very yellow old man took an opium pipe out of his mouth, and said something in guttural words to a fat youth in the comfortable négligé of a pair of blue cotton trousers and a jade bangle.