Chapter XXX: Letter XXVIII: A Little Earthquake, and an Opera Company Under Difficulties

ILOILO, _May 15, 1905_.

We had a slight earthquake here on Wednesday morning, the 11th. It was my first experience of that form of excitement, and I am sure I don’t want another. The queer thing that everyone here tells me, and they have plenty of experience to go by, is that people do not usually think much of their first earthquake, but instead of becoming accustomed to them, they become more alarmed, and get to be horribly frightened at the mere suggestion of the earth’s surface shifting about.

This one took place at about half-past four in the morning, and at first I thought it was a burglar or someone moving about the room, and was just going to call to C—— when he cried out: “Wake up! There is an earthquake!”

I woke up pretty quickly when I heard that! The shaking continued quite a long time, and I thought it a sickening sensation, and so horribly uncanny, with all the room trembling, and the furniture rattling and moving, while outside the air was deathly still. I think that what made the stillness was that no cocks crowed, and the eternal shrilling of the crickets ceased, which made a deadness in the ears such as one feels on coming out of a factory.

C—— invited me to go out on the balcony and “see the street moving,” which I firmly refused to do. I am sorry now that I did not go on to the balcony, but at the time I felt too horribly frightened to move hand or foot.

I don’t think I like earthquakes, but I expect I shall have to accustom myself to them, for they are so common in the Philippines as to excite no remark unless some building tumbles down; and the houses, as I think I told you, are built with a view to these hysterics of old mother Earth, with all the planks and beams tied with bands of _bejuco_ to give them room to shift a little.

But besides the earthquake, we have been in more imminent danger since I last wrote, in the shape of the final and really conclusive and farewell performance of the Italian Quartette, which took place last Saturday night. The theatre was very full, and gaily decorated with loops of green leaves and paper roses of red and yellow, mixed up with perilous paper lanterns. The electric light, which has been weak for some time, chose, on this occasion, to go out altogether—in the midst of an impassioned duet.

There was instantly great excitement, for the paper lanterns were not lighted, and the theatre was plunged in blackness of the deepest dye. Reckless scratching of matches sounded all round, and the little lights were held up for a few seconds till they burnt out, and then dropped just anywhere. One did not need to look to gather that a Filipino did this thing! It made one’s blood run cold to see them.

Of course, though the electric light was in such a precarious state, and expected to expire at any minute, there had been no provision made in case of accidents, and the remedy now was a wild rush outside to buy candles, which were soon produced and stuck in dabs of their own grease along the front of the stage and amongst the orchestra. One or two lamps came somehow from somewhere and were placed jauntily about the building, while the spare candles were secured by enterprising spirits in the audience and put about so that they shone in the eye, and no one could see anything, and little brown ladies in _camisas_, with huge gauze sleeves, leaned past the naked lights with admirable indifference. There was not a single accident, however, but how that was managed, and indeed how the whole matchbox theatre was not burnt to the ground and the audience roasted, is simply the eighth wonder of the world.

I can’t say I took the affair very cheerfully myself; in fact, to be truthful, the sensation of impending doom, and the trouble of having to keep my eye on the wobbling candles, spoilt my enjoyment a good deal. The singing was very good, and in spite of the partial gloom, the opening scene of La Bohême was given very well indeed, and it was such a treat to hear that glorious music. Of course the darkness suited that very well, and made the scene in the garret most realistic, though I expect the Quartier Latin was rather _caviare_ to the ladies in the muslin _camisas_. I loved to hear the Italian too, it sounded so full and round and pure after Spanish. I suppose one prefers whichever tongue one happens to learn first. After the opening piece the light suddenly went up, so we had a fairly good sight of the second part. They did a sort of shortening-up—I can think of no other name for it—of Cavalleria, acting really so remarkably well that the worn old story seemed as fresh and terrible as if it were just happening. I’ve never seen it done better in any part of the world—no, not even Caruso and Melba. One felt the full tragedy and pathos of the music, and the duet between Turiddú, and Santuzza, a handsome, graceful woman, was magnificently impassioned, leading up to an almost breathless moment when he cast the girl from him, and she fell upon the ground.

But, alas!—we were in the presence of a Filipino audience, who greeted the fall of Santuzza with hearty laughter, and continued to giggle while the girl sang her curse as she dragged herself to her knees.

I don’t know how the Italians went on acting as they did. I am afraid I should have lost my temper and had the curtain lowered.

This great heat still continues, and is very exhausting, for the lightest clothes are always soaked, and the face and hands covered with little beads. No one thinks less of a “perfect lady” in this country if she mops her face with her handkerchief; in fact, it is the only thing for the poor creature to do. I simply long to feel fresh and energetic, and to be able to walk fast on a hard road on a cold day—what a dream of bliss! Even to enjoy food would be a pleasant change.

Those who can get away, but they are very few, go to Hong Kong, where the people are making a fuss about their hot weather. It is coolness after the Philippines. The missionaries are the best off, with their nice little trips to Japan; and there has been a great exodus of these good people lately.

The lowest average of the thermometer is 93°, which means that is sometimes as low as 90° but generally up to 95°. Some people tell me this is the usual thing at this time of year, and others vow it is abnormal. Whatever it is, it has gone on now for three months, and I am getting rather tired of it, and don’t think I shall be able to pull through another year out here. It is not only the climate that tells on one, but the scarcity and badness of the food. To think that you at home in an average of 60° think you would die off unless you had fresh cabbages, and peas, and beans, and gooseberries, currants, the first strawberries—how the very names make one’s mouth water! Well, they say the Monsoon will change soon, and then the rainy season begins and the air gets cooler, and that is something to look forward to. The wind blows now some days from one side and some days from another, in an undecided fashion, with intervals of stifling calm, and then a sudden burst, which whips the sunblinds from their anchorage.