Wenceslao Retana’s “El Indio Batangueño,” a Translation [Part IV]

This is the fourth instalment of an AI-assisted translation of Wenceslao Retana’s ethnographic sketch on the Batangueño in the late 19^th century by way of a book published in 1887. The title of the book is “El Indio Batangueño," a somewhat condescending view typical of the colonial era. This instalment deals with some cultural aspects of the province’s inhabitants.

CHAPTER III

After the drum, whose monotonous beats resound throughout the entire province, the guitar is the most widespread instrument. The indios learn it with such ease and quickness that it is rare to find one who does not know how to play something on that instrument — or accompany with it the songs most in vogue among the women. As for the latter, their favorite instrument is the harp, which they pluck with greater or lesser skill, depending on their natural disposition and the instruction they have received. Their fondness for music is almost as great as that of the men. In every town there is always someone who scratches the violin or blows the clarinet, and there is no young woman whose hands do not know how to run across the keys of the piano. This is without counting the town band, which is never absent, nor the parish orchestra and choir, which together form an estimable chapel. Among the singers, boy sopranos abound, and there is no shortage of basses whose thunderous voices remind one of the chanters of the peninsula. The capital’s band is considered one of the best, and the one that surpasses all others in the province is that of Tanauan, directed by a knowledgeable consular — a first‑rate musician who once belonged to the band of a certain regiment.

Great advantage can be taken of the Batangueño indio in the matter of playing instruments if he is well instructed, for his aptitude for music is excellent. His natural taste — if he lacks anything, it is refined taste — can only be acquired by listening to good masters. There are indias who sing peninsular and Cuban songs, though this inclination is more common among women. Many have very pleasant voices, but it is rare to find one who sings with true artistry, since almost none of them know the notes of the staff. Faithful imitators of the castillas, habaneras, jotas, peteneras, and fragments of zarzuelas are heard at all hours from the mouths of the Batangueño indios. Most of the time, the young woman does not know Spanish, and thus it is not unusual to hear amusing barbarisms such as “When I hear the estemfido.” The indio often confuses the vowels o and u, and e and i, and writes flaota for flauta and anei for anil.

The Batangueño indio is by nature a poet, so much so that he often improvises his verses. He is extremely passionate in his compositions, which generally belong to the erotic genre — though always a romantic eroticism filled with tears, birds, noises, and a suffering soul. These genres remind one of the Andalusian people, who lament so deeply when they sing of their loves or weep over the beauty of the woman they adore. The indios have no rhetoric; they say that to make poetry, the spontaneity of the heart is enough. It is strange that the quadrichromatic genre does not predominate in their compositions, for it requires simplicity, cleanliness, and softness of feeling. Instead, they love the dithyramb, they fall into incoherence, they make their verses out of analogous and bombastic words, with exaggerated concordances, onion‑like diminutives, tight phrases, and daring assonances. Many times they do not know what they are saying, as shown by their writing and singing “my vile heart.” Between entangling themselves with fauns in the depths of the forest and wandering with sylvans through the woods like bucolic poets, they take flight on the wings of discourse. One said, “Flee, gentlemen, flee,” and the listeners began to run, for they undoubtedly thought he meant to say, “Hear, gentlemen, hear.” This is explained by the Tagalog alphabet, which consists of fourteen letters and only three vowels: one corresponds exactly to the Spanish a, while the other two have mixed sounds of o‑u and e‑i. Because of this, they tend to prefer o and i, and thus frequently write Cachupin and Wencislao instead of Cachupín and Wenceslao.

Their unrestrained imagination leads them to cleave spaces and more spaces until they reach the empyrean, speak to the stars, and mingle with a phalanx of cherubs with whom they sing, laugh, and weep. The greatest simile when speaking of a woman is the Mutya stone. They say it grows inside shells, but it is found only rarely. So rarely, in fact, that no one has ever been able to show one or even describe it. The Mutya — plain and simple Truth — is an imaginary stone to which the indios attribute inestimable value and prodigious virtues. For this reason, the poet who says to his beloved, “You are my mutya,” places her on the very horns of the moon. It surprises us how some indios who write Castilian with considerable purity mistreat it in verse. As an example, here is the first and last décima of the four that made up the loa recited to General Clavería on the occasion of his arrival at the capital of the Batangueño province:

“Sacred Apollo, great luminary of this Filipino archipelago; with your lights you visit as a pilgrim. You are, Narcissus, such that your gaze in the field and your passage soften with fragrance its realm, satisfying the hearts like a nest with its deepest secrets.

“Batangas, the most loyal town, the most constant and attentive, displays at this moment your affection, the most filial, to our undefeated General, showing tender rejoicings; without flattery and without deceit they unite with a voice of joy by means of the dances.”

In very few houses will you fail to find a book of legends or romances written in Tagalog. They almost dispute them among themselves, and they are frequently seen reading the corridos with genuine pleasure. The volume lasts for years, for the indio’s fondness for verse makes him careful in preserving it. A guitar and a harp are never missing at any celebration, no matter how modest the owners may be, and if they have a few pesos, a modest orchestra will entertain the gathering. There are lovely women who rise to the loftiest regions of art and sing the Stella and other delicate songs with considerable accuracy, though their Italian comes out somewhat mangled.

Today, only the indios of the lowest social layer dance the subli. Those who live in the towns and have some small income or hold some position — even if only as a clerk — almost all know how to dance the European dances. The rigodón and the lanceros undergo slight modifications. The indio has an instinctive inclination to keep time, and this is why, when they dance rigodón or lanceros, they adjust their steps to the baton of the orchestra director. A rigodón danced by indios has always seemed more like a military exercise — or rather, a soldiers’ pastime. In conclusion — and here we put a period to this long chapter — the Batangueño indios take pride in music, in poetry, in singing, and in dancing.

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