Shall I ever forget that night? The proscenium, a raised platform at the end of the hall; the curtain, several strips of sacking rudely sewn together; the orchestra, a poor, invalided piano, evidently suffering from some dreadful inner complaint, and even in that sad condition tortured by a most indifferent amateur. When the curtain rose—I might say when “the rag was hoisted up”—the scene displayed a further supply of the same material, which some native artist had very late that day attempted to distemper with some very doubtful colouring.
Herr Bandman, gorgeously dressed in black velvet covered with shiny jet ornaments, and most irreproachably got up to represent the demented Prince of Denmark, came to the few smoky lamps intended as footlights and made an apologetic speech, conveying to the audience that owing to disappointments and difficulties he was placed in a most awkward predicament. In fact, as he said, “he had heard how very difficult it had proved for former theatrical managers to play ‘Hamlet’ without the Prince of Denmark, but in this instance he could and would give us the Prince of Denmark, but was unable to produce any other characters of ‘Hamlet’ except Ophelia; and that if we would be content with an hour’s ‘scraps’ from ‘Hamlet,’ he and Miss Beaudet would endeavour to fill the gap by the substitution of a screaming farce—‘The Happy Pair’—in which only two characters were needed.” I must confess that after all we had no reason to complain. The rendering of the two Shakespearian parts were admirably done, and “The Happy Pair” well worthy of a more appreciative audience, considering that except in our party, I doubt if one in ten could follow the dialogue. I need not say that Herr Bandman did not attempt a second representation. He made a good haul on that night. The following morning he discovered that the tropical temperature did not agree with him, and that he had made tracks for some other locality, better provided with Shakespearian performers.
IV.
AN ELEPHANT HUNT.
IN order to give his distinguished guests a taste of the sports of Ceylon, the Governor ordered that preparations be made for an elephant hunt. When the fact became known the whole district became alive with excitement. Nothing was talked of except the approaching kraal; half the town would be there. All arrangements having been made, a large number of servants, gaily dressed and turbanned, accompanied by a swarm of coolies bearing provisions, bedding, tents, and other comforts, were sent ahead the day before; and at daylight on the following morning we made a start. The whole day we travelled first by rail, then on horseback, and late at night halted at a native village near the scene of the sport. When we left the village we needed no pilot to guide us to the locality, for the narrow road was crowded with travellers hastening in the one direction—every description of vehicle, from His Highness’s light tandem to the native bullock hackery with its ungreased, squeaking wheels.
The scene at the village was singularly strange and exciting. It was close to the banks of a river, the name of which I cannot now recall to my mind; it was, however, a stream of some size and rapidity. Along the palm-shaded shore were moored numberless boats—many of them large, flat, up-country barges, or padé boats, containing whole families, who evidently lived in the hut built on the deck of these barges. The best of the village huts had been taken up, whitewashed, and made comfortable for the “distinguished visitors”; the doors were decorated with strips of red and white cloth, flowers, and pale green leaves of the cocoa palm. When lighted up for the evening they looked extremely picturesque; and, thanks to the excellent management of the servants sent ahead, our quarters—and more particularly the commissariat—were excellent in every respect. Nothing had been neglected, even to an ample supply of ice.