The Pearl of the Antilles, or An Artist in Cuba

A copy of the new farce is dispatched, previous to its representation, to the Spanish Censor, who, after a careful perusal, returns it with the following foot-note: —

'Having examined this comedy, I find in it nothing which should prevent its representation from being authorised. Signed: The Censor of Theatres – Antonio de los Sandos y Ribaldos.'

In spite of this formal declaration, one passage in the farce is found to bear a condemnatory red mark. The objectionable phrase belongs to Mister Charles, the Yankee engineer, who, in the course of the play's action, is made to observe: 'These poor Spanish brutes want civilising badly!'

Don Baltazar is puzzled, and consults his company upon the propriety – not to say safety – of using the questionable words. All agree that the point is a telling one, and would gratify an audience composed principally of Cubans, who have no affection for Spaniards; and they are of opinion that as no written exception to the play has, as is usual in such cases, been made by the censor, the text may safely be followed.

From the broad balcony of my private dwelling, I watch with eager interest the Spanish orange and red banner, which, on a certain day, waves over the Teatro Real de Cuba, in token of an evening's performance. If the weather prove unfavourable, this fluttering emblem of fine weather will fall like a barometer; the doors of the theatre will close, and a notice, postponing the entertainments for another evening, will be affixed over the entrance. Such an event is, however, not in store; and at seven o'clock precisely the huge doors of the Teatro Real de Cuba are thrown open.

The performances begin with a stirring drama in a prologue and three acts, entitled 'Flor de un Dia.' The tone of this very favourite piece would, without doubt, be questioned by a Lord Chamberlain, but as it contains no political offence, it meets with the unqualified approval of his Excellency the Spanish Censor.

Before the curtain rises, the manager peeps through a small glazed hole, in the centre of the act-drop, and surveys the audience. The house is full, 'de bóte en bóte,' as the newspapers afterwards express it. His Excellency the Governor, attended by his staff of officers, occupies the big stage box on the left of the proscenium, and there is a goodly sprinkling of Spaniards in every part of the theatre.

Of course I have many friendly 'hands' in the house. The English and American consuls are in their respective pálcos. Nicasio is seated in the third row of the stalls, together with Tunicú, Bimba, and a host of their Pollo companions. Don Benigno, Doña Mercedes and their daughters and friends, are also present; and Cachita and her parents occupy their favourite private box.

Most foreign plays are divided into 'escenas,' and the farce of 'Los Mocitos del Dia' contains no less than twenty-four. My 'call' is for scene nine, so after the second act of the drama, I go to my dressing-room and arrange my 'make-up' for the Cubanised Yankee. Agreeably to the Cuban notion of American costume, I don a suit of dark-coloured winter clothing, together with a red flannel shirt, heavy hob-nailed boots, and an engineer's broad-peaked cap. Similarly, I apply cosmetic to my hair, which I comb flat and lank; I rouge my cheeks and nose plentifully with crimson colour, attach a thick tuft of hair to my chin, and with the aid of burnt cork give to my naturally round face a lantern-jawed, cadaverous appearance.

When the curtain has fallen upon the three-act drama, my dressing-room is besieged by a host of Cuban friends, who have come to wish me success and to inspect my make-up behind the scenes. All congratulate me on my effective disguise, and promise to assist towards giving me a warm reception.

Nicasio remains with me till the last moment, to run over my part again, put the finishing touches to my toilette and inspire me with confidence.

But now the big bell, summoning all stragglers to their places, is heard, the audience resume their seats, and the curtain rises for 'Los Mocitos del Dia.'

The scene of the farce is laid in the interior of a 'ventorillo,' or fruiterer's shop, in Cuba, with real bananas, plantains, sugar-cane, cocoa-nuts, mangoes, Panama hats, and limp hand-baskets distributed about the stage. Juana, the mulatto girl – attired in a low-necked, short-sleeved cotton gown and a coloured turban – is discovered smoking an enormous cigar, and washing clothes in a kind of flat tub, called in Creole vernacular a 'batea.' She soliloquises in the drawling nasal tone peculiar to her race, and adopts a Spanish patois which abounds in abbreviated words, suppressed s's, unlisped z's, and s-sounding c's. After singing the 'Candelita,' a favourite Cuban ditty, Juana discourses upon her master Don Gabriel's objections to 'lo mocito,' as she calls them, and describes their rakish habits.

Enter Teresita's lover, Ramon.

The 'mocito' desires an uninterrupted interview with his mistress, and offers to bribe the mulatto with silver 'medios' if she will warn the lovers of the 'enemy's' approach by singing the 'Candelita' outside. Juana accepts the bribe, which she places carefully within the folds of her turban after the fashion of her tribe, and vanishes in quest of her young mistress.

Enter Teresita. – 'Válgame Dios! Ramon?'

Ramon. – 'Teresita de mi vida!' (Love-scene.)

Teresita refers to her father's dislike to 'los mocitos,' whom Don Gabriel declares to have no occupations save those of gambling and dancing, and who go about 'perfumed with eau-de-Cologne and violet powder.' Her papa's notion of a model son-in-law is an individual who savours of the workshop. Such a man Don Gabriel has discovered in the person of Mister Charles (pronounced Charleys), the engineer of Don Hermenejildo Sanchez' sugar estate.

Ramon is disgusted with this information.

'What!' he exclaims, 'you married to a "fogonero" – a stoker! I will never consent to such a union – first because of my deeply-rooted love for you, and secondly because of my patriotic feeling on the subject. This is a question of race, Teresita mia. It is war between coal and café-a fight between brandy and bananas. Yes; rosbif versus fufú. Mister Charleys is a bisteque (beefsteak), and I am your tasajito con platanito verde machucado!' (a favourite Creole dish).

The infatuated fruiterer is, nevertheless, resolved to make up a match between his daughter and the industrious mechanic, and, accordingly, brings Mister Charleys home with him.

Mister Charleys, who has fortified himself with a strong stimulant, is waiting at the wing for his cue, in company with the 'call-boy' (an old man in this instance), who holds a copy of cues in one hand and a lighted candle in the other. The call-boy whispers 'Fuera!' as a signal for me to disappear from the wing, gives me an encouraging push, and the gloom behind the scenes is suddenly exchanged for a blaze of gas, and a theatre full of enthusiastic spectators.

Following Don Gabriel, who leads the way, I am greeted with a round of hearty applause in acknowledgement of my effective make-up, and when I give utterance to the opening words, in which reference is made to the heat of the weather, and to the difficulties Mister Charleys has encountered in his quest after refreshment, the house is convulsed.

Some time, however, elapses before I can thoroughly appreciate my situation, and realise the fact that all this applause and laughter is due to my appearance on the stage. I easily overcome the temporary agitation induced by the glare of the lamps and the gaze of the hundreds of upturned faces before me; but I cannot withstand the behaviour of the gentleman in the domed trap. His perpetual prompting, combined with his perceptible enjoyment of the new piece, is, to say the least of it, confusing, and fills me with misgivings of a premature 'hitch.'

The play proceeds. I am formally introduced to the ladies, whose hands I squeeze awkwardly and savagely, while Don Gabriel – whom I address as Don Guebriel – sings the praises of Mister Charleys.

Enter my rival Ramon, disguised as a Catalan shopkeeper, in false whiskers, and a tall white hat with a black band. Shopkeepers in Cuba are usually natives of Barcelona, and the object of Ramon's disguise, is to persuade Don Gabriel that he is one of that money-making community. He talks Spanish with the approved Catalonian accent; introduces himself as 'Dun Panchu Defulou, Cutulan y cumerciante,' and offers to traffic with his host. The imposture is, however, short-lived. In a hard squeeze of the hand which I give the sham Catalan at parting, he inadvertently roars out in a good Creole accent: —

'Ay! ay! ay! caramba, suelte usted.' (Oh! for goodness' sake, let go!)

The old gentleman suspects his maiden sister of aiding and abetting the dangerous 'mocito,' and there is every reason for his suspicion; Doña Lola having persuaded herself that it is she, and not her young niece, who is the object of the 'mocito's' solicitations. Deluded with this notion, the elderly spinster facilitates Ramon's visit to the house, and there is a scene in which she helps to conceal him in a huge barrel used for storing charcoal. One of the chief 'situations' in the farce occurs when Don Gabriel, at the instigation of Mister Charleys (whom Ramon nicknames Mister Estornudo, or Sneezer, from the resemblance of his name to a sneeze as expressed in Spanish), fires a loaded pistol at the barrel and its human contents.

It is during the action of this scene that the questionable phrase, already referred to, should be delivered by the Yankee engineer.

The cue being given, I am in the act of repeating the lines, when the voice of Don Baltazar, the manager, to whom is apportioned the rôle of Ramon, is heard imploring me, from the barrel, to omit the words. Conscious of the presence of his Excellency the Governor, the manager is suddenly seized with misgivings as to the manner in which the expression will be received, and will not risk his Excellency's displeasure. My fellow-comedians, who are all Cubans, urge me to proceed. The prompter thinks I have forgotten my part, and repeats the text – so often, indeed, that the spectators in the third row of the stalls at last overhear him, and call unanimously for the correct version of the play.

'These poor Span – ' I begin. The barrel trembles visibly.

'Por Dios,' hisses the manager, bobbing up from the barrel like an undecided Jack-in-the-box – 'for Heaven's sake, don't compromise me!'

The audience begin to show signs of impatience. Again the prompter maddens me by giving the text.

Myself (aside to prompter): 'Bar – ajo! sir, I know my part.'

Mister Charleys (very loud to audience): 'These poor Spanish brutes want civilising badly!'

'Bravo! Muy bien!' from the Cuban party.

Groans and loud whistling from the Spaniards.

'That was well said!' observes a voice.

'Fuera!' (Turn him out!) observes another.

'It was a good home-thrust!' cries the first.

'Fuera ese hombre!' (Turn out that man!) shrieks voice number two.

'Polizia!' The theatrical president rises angrily from his box and summons the police.

The male spectators who occupy the pit-stalls begin to be as unruly as they are at a bull-fight. The ladies move from their boxes to the lobbies.

The censor is sent for by the president. The manager is charged to appear by the censor; and anon Ramon, alias Don Baltazar Telon y Escotillon, his face and dress besmeared with charcoal, steps into the president's 'palco.'

'Bravo! Bien!' from the audience, whose good-humour is at once restored by this new and unexpected diversion.

A mighty conference is held in the president's box, and the matter of dispute is warmly discussed with suitable gesticulations. The question is, however, finally decided in favour of the manager.

Order being now established, the president's box is cleared, the actors resume their positions on the stage, and the farce, which proves a great success, terminates happily.

When the performances are over, and I have attired myself in the costume of the country, I join my friends in the front of the house.

Don Benigno and his family congratulate me on my successful début and express a hope that it will not be my last appearance on the Cuban stage.

Tunicú, Bimba and others of my Pollo friends overwhelm me with compliments, and as soon as I am at liberty, they hurry me and Nicasio off to the nearest café, where a substantial supper is soon provided.

Cachita and her relations are equally warm in their praises, and Cachita's father, Don Severiano – to whom I am for the first time introduced – very much rewards my efforts, by inviting me to pass a few days, during the approaching summer, at his coffee estate, whither he and his family are bound.

As for Don Baltazar, the manager – he is so rejoiced at the success of his plan of presenting the public not only with a 'real Yankee from the United States,' but with one of the 'original' followers of the divine art of Apelles, that he induces me to repeat the performance; and 'Los Mocitos del Dia' is forthwith announced for another evening.

CHAPTER XIX.

COFFEE GROUNDS OF CUBA

Going out of Town – On the Road – A Wayside Inn – A Cane Field – West-Indian Fruit Trees – The Arrival – A Dinner in the Country – The Evening Blessing – Tropical Reptiles – A Farm-Yard – Slave Flogging – Coffee – Tropical Scenery – A Siesta

My experience of the Spanish West Indies warrants me in the assertion that a tropical climate has but one season throughout the year, and that season is summer. The months of August and September, however, are favoured with a special season of their own; but the prevailing temperature can scarcely be defined by mounting mercury, neither can it be adequately described. It is during these blazing hot months that the ever-azure firmament seems to blink with blue: that the roads and pavement blister the soles of your feet; and that the gay-coloured house-fronts scorch your clothes of white drill and tan your Anglo-Saxon complexion. The Cubans have a mania for painting the fronts of their town residences a celestial blue, a blinding white, or a feverish yellow ochre: colours singularly trying to the eyes, and figurative eyesores to artists in search of the harmonious. It is at this oppressive season of the year that I would relieve my exhausted vision with the grateful greens of the dusky olive, the pale pea, and the lively emerald. I pant for a plantation which shall shelter and not suffocate.

The realisation of my desire is kindly brought about by Cachita's father, Don Severiano, who hospitably places at my disposal his hacienda in the country. Thither he himself is bound, with Doña Belen his wife, his children, certain friends and domestics. So I make one of his party. Don Severiano is a wealthy planter, with I know not how many acres of rich soil, where the coffee-plant grows, yielding a couple of crops or so per annum to the labour of a small battalion of blacks.

On the morning of our departure for Don Severiano's coffee estate, Don Severiano himself is in the patio, presiding over the saddling and harnessing department; for some of us are to bestride horses. The ladies and children are to drive; and mules, and carts drawn by oxen, are reserved for the conveyance of the luggage and the domestics. By way of dispelling our lingering somnolence, and fortifying us for the heavy journey before us, cups of strong coffee are handed round; and, with a view to getting over as much ground as possible before blinding daylight shall appear, we start at three o'clock to the minute.

The quitrins – light gig vehicles on wheels six yards in circumference, with shafts sixteen feet long, and drawn by mules bearing negro postilions in jack-boots – lead the way. The equestrians follow at a jog-trot; the extreme tips of their buff-coloured shoes lightly touching the stirrups; their knees firmly pressed against the saddles; their figures bolt upright and immovable. Then come the carts with shady awnings of palm leaves, drawn by oxen with yokes fastened to the points of their horns. The drivers probe them with long iron-tipped lances, and further goad them by shouting their names and adjective titles. But they move slowly, and are soon left miles behind. In their rear are about a dozen mules with well-filled panniers, linked together in line by their tails and rope reins, and led by a mounted driver with a long whip, who grasps the end of the cord by which they are united, and shouts ferocious menaces as he goes.

It is still dark. The dew lies thick on everything; myriads of frogs and night insects yet hold their croaking concert; and the fire-fly cucullo, with its phosphorescent lantern, darts about here and there, like falling stars and fireworks. A stony stream has now to be forded. Into it splash the gigs; our horses following willingly, for they are thirsty, poor beasts, and the cool spring water is inviting. The roads are, so far, favourable to our march; but we have arrived at a piece of ground where muddy puddles lie horse-leg deep. A bridle road invites, but the thoroughfare being intercepted by brushwood and overhanging branches, it is not easy to effect a passage. Our leader, Don Severiano, accordingly unsheathes the long machete, which he wears like a sword, and hacks him an avenue for self and followers. The thicket is even darker than the high-road we have deserted, and our leader curbs his horse with caution while he lights a taper of brown wax; for the ground is slippery, and abounds in deep holes and unexpected crevices. From my position in the rear, the effect produced by the rays of the solitary illumination is agreeable to the sight. The dark outlines of the riders who precede me, appear like black silhouettes against a background of green and brown, and nature by candle-light looks like stage scenery.

We emerge again upon the main road, and at full speed gallop after our friends. We fall in with them at a tienda, or wayside inn, at which they have halted. Dismounting from our horses, we assist the ladies to alight from their carriages. Of course I attend upon the fair Cachita, whose agreeable society I enjoy till our departure from the tienda. The tienda is a queer combination of tavern, coffee-house, chandler's shop, and marine-store dealer's. The walls and ceiling are completely concealed by miscellaneous wares. Spurs and sardine boxes; candles, calico, and crockery; knives and nutmeg-graters; toys, tubs, and timepieces; rows of sweet hams, sheathed machetes, pulleys, coils of rope and farming implements; Panama hats, buff-coloured country shoes; tin spoons, preserves, and French brandy. The innkeeper or shopkeeper of this out-of-the-world store is a native of Barcelona – by name Boy – who pronounces Spanish with a very broad Catalan accent. We travellers are his sole customers at present, and as we require only hot coffee at a medio the cup, aguardiente brandy at a creole penny the nip, a handful of cigars, and a packet of paper cigarettes, the profits derived from our patronage cannot be very great.

We are off once more, not to halt again until a cane field stops the way. The growing cane, with its bamboo-shaped fruit, and waving leaf of long grass, crops up to the right and left of us for miles, and terminates in the 'ingenio' or sugar-works. The entrance to the proprietor's grounds is by a five-barred gate and a wigwam, both of which have been designed and constructed by an aged and decrepit African who occupies the latter. He crawls out of his domicile as we approach, and his meagre form is barely covered by a grimy blanket fastened to his girdle by means of a strip of dried palm bark. To all our questions his solitary response is 'Sí, sñor, miamo,' being exactly the creole Spanish for the creole English 'Yes, massa.' Having by this means satisfied ourselves that 'miamo,' his massa, is at home and willing to receive us, we proceed until we hear the clicking of a whip, and observe indistinctly a row of naked blacks, who are engaged in some earthy occupation. A big bronze-faced man, in a white canvas suit and a pancake Panama hat, stands behind them and holds a long knotted whip, which he occasionally applies to their backs as a gentle reminder that time represents so many Spanish doubloons. This is the 'mayoral,' or overseer. He seems to pride himself upon his masterly touch with the thong, for when no black skin forms an excuse for the practice of his skill, he flicks at nothing, to keep his hand in. The sorrow of this sight is greatly augmented by the dead silence; for whenever the chastising weapon descends, the sufferer is mute.

The lawful owner of these lashed shoulders and of a couple of hundred more, has turned out to greet us. His unshaved countenance wears a sleepy expression, but the stump of a lighted cigar is already in his mouth. At a given signal, a couple of small slaves appear, with cups of hot coffee and a tray of long home-made cigars. 'Candela!' Mine host invokes fire, and a little mulatto girl, upon whom it devolves to provide it, presents each smoker with a lump of red-hot charcoal in the clutches of a lengthy pair of tongs. Daylight is appearing, and warns us that we must be on the move again.

'Adelante, caballeros!' Leaving the level cane district, for the next few hours we are winding up mountains. At every turn of the road, the ingenio we have quitted grows smaller and smaller, till the planter's residence, the big engine-shed, and the negro cottages, become mere toys under our gaze. Now we are descending. Our sure-footed animals understand the kind of travelling perfectly, and, placing their fore-paws together, like horses trained for a circus, slide down with the greatest ease.

Somebody ahead has exclaimed, 'Miren!' We look, and behold a distant view of Don Severiano's 'cafetal.' The path has become narrower, and we are encompassed by short thick hedges, dotted with red and black berries of a form not unlike diminutive olives. I pick and open one of these berries, and somebody observing, 'Que café tan abundante!' I discover that what I have plucked is coffee in a raw state.

'Que admirable es la naturaleza!' sings a Spanish dramatist. Nature is, indeed, much to be admired, especially when you are viewing her in orange groves, where oranges, for the trouble of picking them, hang invitingly over your very mouth, seeming to say, 'Eat me, stranger.' Some are small and green as gooseberries; others are big as your head, and of the bright hue to which they give a name. Next on the carte of nature's dessert are the heart-shaped, smooth-skinned mangoes, with their massive and symmetrical tree. They are followed by a procession of lime-trees, citrons, nisperos, granadas, marañones, anones, zapotes, mamoncillos, and a host of other fruits with strange shapes and equally odd Hispano-Indian appellations. I grieve to relate that the king of fruits – the princely pine-apple – is far from being the exalted personage you would have expected him to be. Like a bachelor cabbage, he grovels in solitary state under our feet! We play at marbles with pomegranates, and practise tilting at the ring with citrons. Throw into the scene a few parasite and plantain trees with slender trunks and colossal leaves; fill in the foreground with gigantic ferns, aloes, and palmettoes, and the background with spotless blue; select for yourself from the nearest hot-house where specimens of exotic plants are nursed, and you are with us, dear – and none the less dear for being imaginative – reader!

Distant barking denotes that we are within earshot of our destination; and anon a couple of Don Severiano's faithful dogs come bounding along the road towards us.

'Hey, Esperules, old girl! What, and Tocólo too?' Don Severiano caresses them in turn as each leaps to his saddle. A dozen more lie in ambush at the gate which leads to the coffee grounds, and through which we are now passing. The mayoral, with his wife and children, turn out to meet and welcome us. Crowds of Africans pay us homage and grin with delight. We halt in the patio, and a score of half-naked grooms assist us in alighting, and watch and help us at our lightest movement. As it is evening dusk when we arrive, and as we are exhausted with our day's pilgrimage, we betake ourselves to our dormitories without a word. Here we are served by stalwart domestics, who bathe our burning feet in luke-warm water, and sponge our irritated bodies with diluted aguardiente. A clean shirt of fine linen; a fresh suit of whity-brown drill; a toy cup of black coffee; and we are refreshed and ready to do justice to dinner; to the 'aijaco' of chicken and native vegetables; to the 'bacalao' or stock-fish, with tomato sauce; to the boiled meat, cabbage, 'chocho,' bacon, and 'garbanzos'; to the stewed goat, with accompaniment of yams, baked bananas, pumpkin and Indian corn; to the guava jellies and guanavana preserves mashed up with insipid creole cheese; to the juicy mangoes cut up in slices in the midst of Catalan wine and sugar; to the excellent black coffee, and home-made cigars. These we discuss in the broad balcony without, where, seated on leather-bottomed chairs, we pass the rest of the evening.