An evening later the captain comes up to say that there is a pwé, or play, going on in the village near which we have anchored for the night, and wouldn't we like to go to see it? This is a grand chance, because Burmese pwés are very funny things indeed. The people have them at every chance,—births, weddings, deaths, and festivals, none are ever complete without a play!
We dine early, and, accompanied by the captain, set out afterwards, all four of us, for the village. The moon is getting up but is not bright yet, and we can see the trees standing up against a deep blue night sky, with the big bright stars winking at us through the palm fronds. The village street is deserted, and long before we reach the end of it where the pwé is going on we hear an exciting clash of cymbals and bang of drums which sets you and Joyce dancing.
At last, right in the roadway, between the thatched houses, we see a big crowd, and coming up to it find every man, woman, child, and baby belonging to the village seated on the ground or lying in front of a small platform. The platform is simply a few loose boards standing on some boxes, and when anyone walks across it the boards jump up and down. In front are the footlights, a row of earthenware bowls filled with oil, with a lighted wick floating in each one.
The Burman who is giving the pwé and has sent us the message about it comes forward and leads us to the front courteously. He is a portly man with a dress of rich silk so stiff it would stand by itself, and a large fur cape, like those worn by coachmen in England, over his shoulders, for the evenings are sharp. In following him through the crowd we find great difficulty in avoiding stepping on arms and legs which seem to be strewn haphazard on the bare earth, the owners being partly covered up with mats or rugs. Most of the men are squatting gravely with bath-towels over their shoulders—they make convenient wraps. Men and women alike are smoking either huge green cheroots or small brown ones. Our seats are right in front of the stage and consist of a row of soap-boxes. Joyce's mother clutches me in horror. "I can't sit down there," she says with a gasp; "I shall fall over." The captain misunderstands her and gallantly tries one himself, saying, "It holds me, Madam." As he is at least sixteen stone in weight this sends Joyce off into fits of irrepressible giggles, luckily drowned by the band, which is making an ear-splitting noise—"La-la-la, la-la-la!" One man bangs an instrument like those called harmonicons, with slats of metal set across it all the way up. Another is seated inside a tub, the rim of which is entirely composed of small drums; another cracks bamboo clappers together in an agonising way, while clarionets do their best, and a pipe fills in all the intervals it can find.
A girl with a very coquettish gold-embroidered jacket, which stands out behind like two pert wings in the same way as those worn by the princesses at the garden-party, is rouging her face close to us; she gets it to her liking by leaning over the footlights and gazing in a little hand-mirror, then she takes up an enormous cigar which lies smoking beside her and puffs away contentedly till her turn comes.
Two clowns are taking their part; we can't understand a word they say, but their humorous faces and comic gestures are irresistibly funny. Suddenly Golden-Jacket puts down her cigar, springs to her feet, and gets across the shaking boards with marvellous serpentine movements in a skirt tighter even than a modern one, literally a tube wound around her legs. Then, waving her long thin hands and arms so that ripples seem to run up and down them, she sings in a thin shrill voice a long song, while one of the clowns breaks in with "Yes, yes" and "Come on," meant for us and greatly appreciated by the audience. As the song wends toward its end, Golden-Jacket looks behind her more than once, and at last stops and says something out loud.
"She's telling the villain to hurry up or she won't wait for him," explains the captain, who understands Burmese. "She is in a forest. You see the branch of a tree stuck between the boards there? That's the forest. She went to meet her lover, the prince, for she is a princess, of course, but the villain has done his job, and now he's going to catch her."
IN THE PLAYHOUSE.
The princess trills out some more lines, and the villain, who has apparently been having great difficulties with his costume at the back of the stage, in full view of the audience, steps heavily forward, making the boards bounce right up. When she sees him she shrieks and faints in his arms. He makes a long speech holding her. The clowns appear again. The heroine shakes herself free, and with great self-possession squats down once more on the edge of the stage and resumes her cigar until her turn comes again. The branch of the tree is pulled up, and in its place is put a box with a piece of pink muslin over it, while three men in long robes come in and sit down, one on the box and the other two on the boards beside him, and they all talk interminably. The band, which has only stopped impatiently while the actual speaking was going on, clashes in wildly at every possible interval and now drowns the voices altogether for a few minutes, just to remind us it is there. The men on the stage continue repeating their parts, whether it plays or not, and apparently they are so long winded that the plot does not suffer at all from the sentences which are lost in the noise.