GENERAL TACON'S JUDGMENT.
Pleasant Company—The Cigar Girl of Havana—A Tobacconist's Shop in Cuba—A Romance of Real Life—Spanish Justice abroad.
My health being now perfectly established, I signify my intention of returning to my companion and duties in town. As my military friend, Don Manuel, must also depart—his leave of absence having expired—I accept his invitation to share the boat which is to convey him to Santiago, and bid adieu to Don Benigno and his family, who contemplate remaining at the sea-side for some days longer.
Don Manuel is excellent company, and, although an officer in the Spanish service, his views of politics are exceedingly liberal. During the homeward passage, the officer entertains me with various stories illustrative of Cuban administration. He tells me that since the Pearl of the Antilles has adorned the Spanish crown, the island of Cuba has always been governed by a captain-general, a mighty personage, invested with much the same power and authority as that of a monarch in some countries, and, like a king, could not possibly do anything that was wrong.
'The Cubans,' says he, 'have seldom had reason to be grateful to Spain for the rulers she has appointed over them, because these have been usually selected rather on the score of influence than capacity or merit. There is, however, on record at least one captain-general whose name is held in esteem by the Cuban people, on account of the good he effected during his short reign in Havana. Captain-General Tacon established some degree of safety for the inhabitants by introducing new laws, and by severely punishing certain social offences which his predecessors had rather overlooked, if they did not themselves set the example. It is said of Tacon that, like Alfred the Great, he promised the Cubans that they should be able to cast their purses upon the public pavement, and yet find them there again after many days. Stories are current in Cuba of the general's singular mode of administering justice, which in many cases partook of an originality somewhat whimsical of its kind.'
Don Manuel gives me the most popular story of this sort—that of the cigar girl of Havana, which I will now repeat to the reader in the following form:
Miralda Estalez was remarkable alike for the beauty of her person and the excellence of her tobacco. She kept a cigar-shop in Havana, in the Calle del Comercio; a narrow street, with a footpath scarcely wider than an ordinary kerbstone. It was the veriest section of a shop, without a front of any kind; presenting, from the street side, much the same appearance as a burnt-out dwelling would exhibit, or a theatrical scene viewed by an audience. During the hot hours of the day a curtain was suspended before the shop to ward off the powerful rays of the sun, under whose influence the delicate goods within might otherwise be prematurely dried, while the effect would be equally detrimental to their fair vendor. The easy mode of access, assisted by the narrow kerbstone, together with many attractions within the shop, tempted many passers to drop in for a chat and a cigar. There was a little counter, with little pyramidal heaps of cigarette packets and cigars, of the genuine Havana brand, distributed upon it. Affixed to a wall at the back was a glass show-case, fitted with shelves like a book-case, and laden with bundles of the precious leaves, placed like volumes side by side, and bound in bright yellow ribbon. Although Miralda was visited from morning till night by every kind of male, black and brown, as well as white, nothing was ever said against the virtue of the young tobacconist.
Like the cigars she sold, Miralda was of 'calidad superior;' and, in the same manner, age had rather improved her quality than otherwise, for it had ripened her into a charming full-grown woman of sixteen tropical summers. Some merit was due to Miralda for the respectable life she led; for, besides the temptations to which she was daily and hourly subjected, she was quite alone in the world, her parents, brothers, and sisters being dead. Miralda naturally found many admirers among her numerous customers; she, however, made no distinction with them, but had a bright smile and a kind word for all who favoured her with their praises and their patronage. One alone, perhaps, held a place nearer her heart than all others. This was Don Pedro Mantanez, a young boatman employed in the harbour near the Morro Castle. Pedro was of good white parentage, though one would not have judged so from the colour of his skin, which, from long exposure to the sun and the weather, had turned a pale coffee colour. Pedro loved Miralda fondly, and she was by no means indifferent to the handsome Creole. But the pretty tobacconist was in no hurry to wear the matrimonial chains. The business, like herself, was far from old-established, and she thought in her capacity of a married woman the attractions of her shop would diminish by at least one-half, while her patrons would disappear in the same ratio. Miralda once made her lover a promise that she would marry him as soon as he should have won a prize in the lottery; for, with his savings, this would enable Pedro to have a share in her business as well as in her happiness. So, once a month, Pedro invested a doubloon in lottery-tickets; but, as he never succeeded in winning a prize, he failed to wed the pretty tobacconist. Still, the young boatman continued to drop anchor at the cigar-shop as often as his spare time would allow; and as the fond couple always conducted themselves with the strictest propriety, their engagement remained a secret.
Now Pedro Mantanez had a rival, and, to a certain extent, a formidable one. The Count Almante was a noble of Spanish birth, and an officer by profession. He was one of those fortunate gentlemen who, from no inherent talent or acquired ability, had been sent from the mother-country to enrich himself in her prosperous colony. Besides his wealth, which report described as ill-gotten, he gloried in the reputation of being a gay cavalier in Havana, and a great favourite with the Creole ladies. It was his boast that no girl beneath him in station had been yet known to reject any offer he might propose; and he would sometimes lay wagers with his associates that the lady whom he had newly honoured with his admiration would, at a given time, stand entered in his book of amours as a fresh conquest. To achieve a particular object, the count would never allow anything, human or otherwise, to stand in his path; and by reason of his wealth, his nobility, and his influence with the authorities, his crimes were numerous and his punishments few, if any.
It happened that the last señorita who had taken Count Almante's fancy was Miralda Estalez. The count spent many hours and many pesetas at the pretty tobacconist's counter, where, we may be sure, he used his most persuasive language to attain his very improper purpose. Accustomed to have pretty things poured into her ears by a variety of admirers, Miralda regarded the count's addresses with indifference; and, while behaving with her wonted amiability of manner, gave him neither encouragement nor motive for pressing his suit. One evening the count lingered at the cigar-shop longer than custom allows, and, under the pretence of purchasing and smoking more cigars, remained until the neighbouring shops were closed and the streets were deserted. Alone with the girl, and insured against intruders, Count Almante ventured to disclose his unworthy passion. Amongst other things, he said:
'If you will love me and live with me, I will give you as many golden onzas as you require, and I will place at your disposal another and a better shop in the suburbs of the Cerro, where you can carry on your business as before.'
The Cerro was situated near the count's palace. Miralda said nothing in reply; but, looking the count steadily in the face, gave him the name of another shop where, she informed him, he would obtain better cigars than those she sold.
Heedless of the significance of her remark, which he attributed to shyness, Almante rose from where he had been seated, and, approaching the girl, endeavoured to place his arm round her waist. Ever guarded against the casualties of insult, Miralda retreated a step, and at the same moment drawing a small dagger from the folds of her dress, warned the count not to touch her. Baulked in his design, Almante withdrew, assuring the girl with a smile that he did but jest; but as he left the shop he bit his lip and clenched his fist with evident disappointment.
When Pedro heard of what had happened, his indignation was great, and he resolved to take summary vengeance; but Miralda begged him not to be precipitate, as she had now no fear of further molestation from the count; and as days elapsed, and Almante had not resumed his visits, it seemed apparent that he had taken Miralda's advice, and transferred his custom elsewhere.
One evening, as Miralda was about to close her shop for the night, a party of soldiers halted before her door. The commanding officer entered, and, without a word, presented to the astonished tobacconist a warrant for her arrest. Knowing that it was useless to disobey any officer in the employ of the captain-general, Miralda signified her readiness to accompany the military escort, who, accordingly, placed her in their midst, and conducted her through the streets in the direction of the prison. But instead of halting here, the party continued their march until they had reached the confines of the city. Miralda's courage now deserted her, and, with tears in her eyes, she appealed to the officer in command.
'Por la Virgen SantÃsima!' she exclaimed, 'let me know where I am being taken to.'
'You will learn when you get there. Our orders strictly forbid us to make any explanation,' was the only reply she obtained.
Miralda was not long in learning the worst. Very shortly, her escort halted before Count Almante's castle in the neighbourhood of the Cerro, and, having entered the court-yard of that building, the fair captive was conducted tremblingly into a chamber elegantly fitted up for her reception. After waiting here a few minutes in painful suspense, an inner door was thrown open, and Count Almante stood before her. The scene which then followed may be better imagined than described. We may be sure that the count used every effort in order to prevail upon his prisoner, but without success. Miralda's invariable response was a gleam of her dagger, which never left her hand from the first moment of entering the odious building. Finding that mild measures would not win the pretty tobacconist, the count, as is usual under such circumstances with persons of his nature, threatened her with violence; and he would, doubtless, have carried out his threat, if Miralda had not anticipated him by promising to relent and to become his if her persecutor would allow her one short week to reconsider her determination. Deceived by the girl's assumed manner, Almante acceded to her desire and agreed to wait. Miralda, however, felt assured that before long her lover would discover her whereabouts, and by some means effect her release. She was not disappointed. Miralda's sudden disappearance was soon made known to Pedro Mantanez, who, confident that his beloved had fallen into the count's clutches, determined to obtain access to Almante's palace. For this purpose he assumed the dress of a monk; and, his face being unknown at the castle, he easily obtained an entry, and afterwards an interview with Miralda herself. The girl's surprise and joy at beholding her lover were unbounded. In his strong embrace, she became oblivious of her sorrows, confident that the young boatman would now conduct her speedily into a harbour of refuge. She was not mistaken. Pedro sought and obtained an audience with General Tacon. The general was, as usual, immersed in public affairs; but, being gifted with the enviable faculty of hearing, talking, and writing at the same moment, merely glanced at his applicant, and desired him to tell his story. Pedro did as he was desired, and when he had concluded, Tacon, without raising his eyes from the papers with which he appeared intently engaged, made the following inquiry:
'Is Miralda Estalez your sister?'
'No, su excelencia, she is not,' replied Pedro.
'Your wife, perhaps?' suggested the general.
'She is my betrothed!'
General Tacon motioned the young man to approach, and then directing a look to him which seemed to read him through, held up a crucifix, and bade him swear to the truth of all that he had stated. Pedro knelt, and taking the cross in both hands, kissed it, and made the oath required of him. When he had done so, the general pointed to an apartment, where he desired Pedro to wait until he was summoned. Aware of the brief and severe manner in which General Tacon dealt with all social questions, Pedro Mantanez left the august presence in doubt whether his judge would decide for or against his case. His suspense was not of long duration. In an hour or so, one of the governor's guards entered, ushering in Count Almante and his captive lady. The general received the new-comers in the same manner as he had received the young boatman. In a tone of apparent indifference, he addressed the count as follows:
'If I am not mistaken, you have abused your authority by effecting the abduction of this girl?'
'I confess I have done so,' replied the count, in a tone intended to match that of his superior; 'but,' he continued, with a conciliatory smile, 'I think that the affair is of such a nature that it need not occupy the attention of your excellency.'
'Well, perhaps not,' said his judge, still busy over the documents before him.
'I simply wish to learn from you, upon your word of honour, whether any violence has been used towards the girl.'
'None whatever, upon my honour,' replied Almante, 'and I am happy in believing that none will be required!'
'Is the girl already yours, then?'
'Not at present,' said the count, with a supercilious smirk, 'but she has promised to become mine very shortly.'
'Is this true?' inquired the captain-general, for the first time raising his eyes, and turning to Miralda, who replied:
'My promise was made only with a view to save myself from threatened violence.'
'Do you say this upon your oath?'
'Upon my oath I do!'
The general now ordered Pedro Mantanez to appear, and then carefully interrogated the lovers upon their engagement. Whilst doing so he wrote a dispatch and handed it to one of his guards. When the latter had departed, Tacon sent a messenger in quest of a priest and a lawyer. When these arrived, the general commanded the priest to perform the ceremony of marriage between Miralda Estalez and Count Almante and bade the lawyer prepare the necessary documents for the same purpose.
The count, who had already expressed his vexation at what promised to be an attempt to deprive him of his new favorite by allying her with the boatman, was horrified when he heard what the governor's mandate really was. His indignation was extreme, and he endeavoured to show how preposterous such an alliance would be, by reminding the general of his noble birth and honorable calling. Pedro was equally disappointed at being thus dispossessed of his betrothed and appealed to Tacon's generosity and sense of right. Miralda remained speechless with astonishment, but with the most perfect reliance in the wisdom of her judge. Meanwhile, in spite of all remonstrances, the marriage was formally solemnised, and Miralda Estalez and Count Almante were man and wife. The unhappy bridegroom was then requested to return to his palace in the Cerro, while his bride and her late lover were desired to remain.
Upwards of an hour had passed since the count's departure, and nothing further transpired. The governor had resumed his business affairs, and appeared, as before, utterly unconscious of all present. He was however shortly interrupted by the appearance of the guard whom he had despatched with his missive.
'Is my order executed?' inquired the general, looking up for a moment only.
'SÃ, mi general, it is,' replied the guard. 'Nine bullets were fired at the count as he rode round the corner of the street mentioned in your dispatch.'
Tacon then ordered that the marriage and death of Count Almante should receive all publicity, and that legal steps should be taken for the purpose of showing that the property and name of the defunct were inherited by his disconsolate widow. When the general's commands had been fulfilled, and a decent period after the count's demise had transpired, it need scarcely be added that Pedro Mantanez married the countess, with whom he lived happily ever after.
'Rather a barbarous way of administering justice,' I remark, at the conclusion of Don Manuel's story. 'In my country,' I add, 'such an act as that which General Tacon committed would be called murder.'
'It is not looked upon in that light here,' says the officer. 'You must remember that the count had been already guilty of many crimes worthy the punishment of death, and as there had been no means of bringing him to justice, justice improved the occasion which his last offence presented, and, as it were, came to him!'
(VERY) HIGH ART IN CUBA.
On the Ceiling—'Pintar-monos'—A Chemist's Shopà la Polychrome—Sculpture under Difficulties—'Nothing like Leather'—A Triumph in Triumphal Arches—Cuban Carpenters—The Captain-General of Havana.
Our incarceration proves of professional service to us. It spreads our renown and procures us more congenial patronage than we have hitherto received. While I have been rusticating at La Socapa, my brother limner has been busily employed on work in which he takes especial delight.
A rich marquis having just returned from a visit to Europe, is inspired with the desire to decorate his new mansion, which has lately been purchased by him, in what he calls a 'tasteful' fashion. For this purpose all the decorative talent of the town is engaged. Nicasio is also applied to, and undertakes to adorn the ceiling of the long reception-room with four large oil paintings representing the seasons. The marquis has not perfected his taste for the fine arts by his visit to Europe, for he still persists in applying the vulgar term 'mono,' or monkey, to all paintings in which figures form the leading features, and of classifying everything else under the general denomination of 'paisaje.' All artists are to him 'pintar-monos,' or painters of monkeys, and when he summons my partner to arrange about the pictures which he desires to have affixed to his ceiling, he points to the octagonal spaces which these productions are destined to fill, and observes:
'Quiero cuatro monos para tapar estos hoyos,' which is equivalent to saying: I want four daubs (monkeys) to cover over those holes with.
Nicasio accordingly makes sundry small designs for the four 'monos,' in which certain allegorical figures of ladies in scanty robes, and Cupids without any apparel, are introduced. My partner's favourite water-carriers, Regina and MapÃ, together with Doña Mercedes' well-formed baby Isabelica, serve as models for Spring, Summer and Winter which when finished, are affixed to their respective 'hoyos' or holes in the ceiling. The picture of Autumn, however, remains uncompleted. The rich marquis discovers that the quality of the work far exceeds his expectations and finding also that its value has increased in proportion, he considers that this season, which happens to be the last executed, should be 'thrown in,' or in other words included in the price charged for the other three. In short, he declares that unless the 'pintar-monos' agrees to this arrangement, that he (the marquis) will get another pintar-monos to complete the series. As Nicasio objects to work gratis, our patron, true to his word, commissions a house decorator to supply the missing season, and the result may be easily imagined!
The Cuban critics are, however, sufficiently intelligent to distinguish between the good and the very bad; and thus while the local papers are unanimous in their praises of Spring, Summer and Winter, they do not hesitate to pronounce Autumn a failure and an 'unseasonable' production.
The success which attends my companion's efforts, induces others to embark in decorative enterprises, and among our patrons for this new kind of work, is a 'botecario,' or chemist, who offers us a large amount to paint and otherwise adorn his new shop in what he calls the polychrome style.
We have the vaguest notions on that subject, but so have also the chemist and the Cuban critics. We accordingly undertake the work, and manufacture something in which the Pompeian, the Rafaelesque, the Arabesque, and the French wall-paper equally participate. In the centre of the ceiling is to be placed a large allegorical oil-painting, representing a female figure of France in the act of crowning the bust of the famous chemist Orfila. In the four angles of the ceiling are to be painted portraits of the Spanish physician the Marquis of Joca, the English chemist Faraday, the Italian anatomist Paganucci, and the French chemist Velpeau. It takes exactly seven months to carry out our design, in the execution whereof we are assisted by the native talent already alluded to. Among our staff of operators are a couple of black white-washers for the broad work, a master carpenter with his apprentice for the carvings, and an indefatigable Chow-chow, or Chinaman, whom we employ extensively for the elaborate pattern work. Our mulatto pupils also help us in many ways.
The chief objects of attraction in this great undertaking are without a doubt a pair of life-sized figures of two celebrated French chemists, named Parmentier and Vauquelin, destined to stand in a conspicuous part of the shop. As there are no sculptors in our town, it devolves as usual upon the 'followers of the divine art of Apelles' to try their hands at the art of Phidias. Confident of success, the chemist provides us with a couple of plaster busts representing the French celebrities in question, and bids us do our best. The fragments of drapery exhibited on these gentlemen enable us to decide on the kind of costume which our figures should wear; the one being indicative of a robe somewhat clerical, and the other evincing without a doubt that the original belonged to a period when knee-breeches and top-boots were much in vogue. The resources of Cuba for the making of statues are limited, so the material we employ is slight. We construct our figures upon the principle on which paper masks are made, and by painting them afterwards in imitation of marble, a very solid appearance may be obtained. I will not describe the many difficulties which we encounter at every stage of this process; but when the hollow effigies are complete and we have fixed them to their painted wooden plinths, we are vain enough to believe that we have produced as goodly a pair of sham statues as you would see if you travelled from one extremity of Cuba to the other.
It is the night which precedes the opening of the chemist's shop, and we have retired to our dormitories after having given a final coat of marble colour to our pasteboard productions. I am about to tumble into my hammock, when my progress is arrested by a strange sound which seems to emanate from an adjoining chamber. I re-ignite my extinguished lamp, and take a peep into the studio. Something is certainly moving in that apartment. I summon my companion, who joins me, and we enter our sanctum.
'Misericordia! One of the statues is alive,' I exclaim, horrified at what appears to me a second edition of Frankenstein.
'Eppur si muove!' ejaculates Nicasio, quoting from another authority.
Monsieur Parmentier—he of the periwig and top-boots—is sinking perceptibly, though gradually. We advance to save him, but alas! too late; the illustrious Frenchman is already on his bended boots. The wooden props which supported his hollow legs have given way, and his top boots are now a shapeless mass. We pause for a moment to contemplate the wreck before us, and immediately set about repairing the damage.
But how? A brilliant idea suggests itself.
In a corner of the studio stand the leather originals which have served us as models for the extremities of the injured statue. These same boots belong to an obliging shoemaker who has only lent them to us. But what of that? The case is urgent, and this is no time to run after our friend and bargain with him for his property.
To fill the boots with plaster of Paris; to humour them, while the plaster is yet moist, into something which resembles the human leg divine, is the work of a few moments. To fix them firmly to the wooden plinth, and prop over them the incomplete torso by means of laths cunningly concealed, occupies little more than an hour and a half. A coat of thick white paint administered below, completes the operation, and Parmentier is erect again, and apparently none the worse for his disaster. One more layer of paint early next morning, and the statue is faultless, and ready for being borne triumphantly from our studio to its destination. There it is placed in its niche, and no one suspects the mishap. Evening approaches, and with it come crowds of Cuban dilettanti and others who have been invited. The ceremony of blessing the new undertaking is solemnised according to custom by a priest, and an assistant who sprinkles holy-water from a small hand-broom upon everything and everybody, while a short prayer in Latin is chanted. Then the guests proceed to examine the various embellishments of this singular shop, pausing to refresh themselves from the sumptuous repast which the chemist has provided for his guests and patrons in an adjoining chamber.
The statues form a subject for wonder with everybody, and no one will believe that they are constructed of other than solid material. Even the credulous, who are permitted to tap one of Parmentier's boots as a convincing test, cannot help sharing the popular delusion.
But our friend the shoemaker is not so easily deceived. From certain signs, known only to himself, he recognises in the statue's painted extremities his own appropriated goods. We swear him to secrecy, and offer to pay him liberally for the loss he has sustained; and it pleases him to discover that in the pursuit of the fine arts—and as regards statue-making in the West Indies we echo the sentiment—there is nothing like leather!
The chemist's shop is scarcely disposed of, when application is again made to us for another important undertaking.
The Captain-General of Havana has signified his intention to honour our town with a visit, and preparations for his reception must accordingly be made. The good people of Cuba have not a superabundance of affection for their distinguished chief: possibly because captains-general are not as a rule all that their subjects might desire. But a visit from his excellency is such an unusual event (for our captain-general is rarely absent from his comfortable palace in the Havana) that the inhabitants of Santiago determine to make at least holiday—if not to profit—out of the occasion. The merchants and shopkeepers are especially interested in exhibiting their loyalty; for in this manner they hope to obtain many mercantile concessions. Certain little nefarious transactions connected with the custom-house may through the captain-general's benevolence be forgiven or ignored, while other matters, connected with the landing of negroes, may also pass censorship. A number of petitions for various local favours have been also prepared, and in short the inhabitants hope to derive many advantages from the visit of their colonial King.
The merchants' contribution towards the festivities will be a public ball in the theatre, and a grand triumphal arch, which they propose to erect in the principal thoroughfare. But a triumphal arch, such as these gentlemen contemplate, is not so easily obtained in Cuba. Los Señores Bosch Brothers—who are appointed to direct this work—have, however, no difficulty in providing architects qualified to undertake the fabrication required. The followers of the divine art of Apelles no doubt 'deal' in triumphal arches, and the 'job' is accordingly offered to them.
Our experience in the manufacture of triumphal arches is not wide, but our patrons are so very pressing, and their terms are, moreover, so very liberal, that we are finally induced to embark in the enterprise.
A plan of the proposed structure having been drawn and submitted for approval to Don Elijio, who is the head of the firm of Bosch Brothers, our operations begin. The order of architecture which we adopt partakes of the Norman and the early Gothic, with a 'dash,' so to speak, of the Byzantine, to give it a cheerful aspect. It might remind the learned in these matters of York Minster, Temple Bar, or a court in the Crystal Palace; but the Señores Bosch Brothers—whose acquaintance with architectural master-pieces is confined to the governor's palace of lath and plaster, and the white-washed cathedral—are easily satisfied.
Our labours are conducted in the extensive store-room of Messrs. Bosch Brothers, which, in order to facilitate our operations, is cleared of its cumbersome contents. The arch is destined to stand in that part of the street which divides the warehouse from the market-place. The latter stands at an elevation of more than forty feet above the pavement, and is reached by a wide flight of stone steps. It forms part of our plan to connect our frail edifice with the market wall, and match its local stone colour.
We have exactly a month for the completion of our task, and we make the most of our time. Cart-loads of white wood, in planks and logs, arrive at all hours of the day, together with yards upon yards of coarse canvas, pounds of nails, colours in powder, huge earthenware pots and size. In short, our requirements are akin to those of a scene painter.
Thrifty Don Elijio has periodical moments of panic; for it seems to him that our demands for wood, paint, canvas and nails, are exorbitant, and more than once he predicts the ruin of his speculation. The merchant begins to regret that he did not persuade us to 'contract' for the whole expense, instead of receiving a separate remuneration for our time and labour. Sometimes he will endeavour to show that there is something defective in our agreement.
'Look here!' says he. 'You are artists, and if I come to you to have my portrait painted, I suppose you will not expect me to pay for your colours and canvas?'
We have neither time nor ability to argue the point; but the man of many bargains is easily convinced, when we hint about relinquishing our labours!
Foiled in his effort to reduce expenses, the merchant tries to economise in another way, by questioning the propriety of adopting certain little contrivances which he cannot for the life of him follow in the original plan.
'What are those hugh firework sort of wheels for?' he asks one day. 'I don't see them in the drawing, and therefore consider them unnecessary.'
'Those wheels,' we explain, 'which you are pleased to compare with fireworks, constitute the skeleton, or framework, of four turrets, which, after having been concealed behind canvas, painted stone-colour, and relieved with imitation port-holes, will be suspended from the uppermost angles of the arch.'
'And where is that broad octagonal chimney to be placed?' inquires the merchant.
'That "chimney,"' we reply, 'represents a Gothic temple, and is destined to stand over the centre of the arch upon a graduated pedestal.'
The wood-work of our fabric is put together by a number of black and brown carpenters; but we have to superintend every part, as these gentlemen have no notion whatever of architectural devices, and our eloquence fails to convey to their intelligence our multifarious needs.
The readiest of our assistants is a young mulatto, nicknamed El Tuerto by reason of a strong cast in his left eye. He is far more industrious than his fellow-workmen, most of whom have a weakness for aguardiente, and are consequently often in what my medical friend Doctor Acéro terms, 'a state of vulgar excitement.' El Tuerto easily grasps at an idea, and sometimes offers a useful suggestion or two. It is he who recommends to our notice a friend of his who, he thinks, might be serviceable in the painting department. The friend in question is a feeble old negro, occasionally afflicted with delirium tremens. We try him with the 'line' work, which consists in squaring off the imitation stones of the painted masonry: but, his hand being too unsteady for this, we employ him for the graining, which accords better with his peculiar 'touch,' as the process requires certain nervous jerks of the wrist.
At length the day arrives when the stones of the street must be uprooted, the tall scaffolding planted, and the innumerable pieces of painted canvas which form the external covering of the arch, united and raised to their respective places. When the fabric is complete, the local papers, which have already noticed its progress from time to time, thus describe its beauties:
'The triumphal arch erected in the Calle de la Marina by the merchants and planters of Santiago, is the combined work of those illustrious followers of the divine art of Apelles, Don Nicasio Rodriguez y Boldú and El Caballero Inglés Don Gualterio. This imposing structure measures forty-five feet in height, thirty feet in breadth, and nine feet in depth. It is supposed to represent part of an old feudal castle with its turrets, port-holes and belfry, and is painted in imitation of granite stone, which forms a striking contrast with the intense blue of our tropical sky, against which the arch stands in bold relief.
'On either side of the façade are painted colossal figures representing Commerce, Industry, Agriculture and Justice. Above these allegories are placed the escutcheons of our illustrious Captain-General, together with the coats-of-arms belonging to Spain and to Santiago de Cuba. Near the centre of the arch are recorded in bold and fanciful letters the various triumphs of our distinguished general; such as the blockade of Zaragoza in 1843, the glorious campaign in Portugal, 1847, the Italian expedition, etc.
'Upon each of the four turrets are planted tall flag-staffs, from which coloured streamers gracefully depend, and over the centre of the arch, upon the summit of the pretty campanilla, waves majestically in the breeze the imposing banner of Spanish commerce.
'From the palms of the arch is suspended a garland of natural evergreens, in which is artistically entwined a broad red and orange-coloured ribbon bearing the following inscription:
'"To His Excellency the Captain-General: from the Merchants and Planters of Santiago de Cuba."'
His excellency arrives in due course, and is so thoroughly gratified with his reception in Santiago, that upon his return to Havana he reports favourably to his government upon the progress and prosperity of our part of the 'Ever-faithful Isle.'
A CORRESPONDENT IN THE WEST INDIES.
American News-agents and their Work—Local Information—The 'Glorious Campaign' of Santo Domingo—'El Cañon de Montecristo'—Wounded Soldiers—Still Life again!—A Visit from the Spanish Fleet—Escape from Jail.
'Here is something in your line,' remarks Nicasio one day, handing me a letter which has just been brought to our studio by a black messenger.
The letter is from Don Elijio, of the firm of Bosch Brothers, and states that the Havana agent of theNew York Triggerhas commissioned the merchants to find him a person who is both qualified and willing to undertake the post of newspaper correspondent. The individual must have a thorough knowledge of the Spanish and English languages; he must be conversant with the ways of Cuba and be in a position to collect facts connected with the social and political life of the town in which he resides. His duties will also be to receive communications from the agents of the American newspaper in question, who are dispersed all over the West Indies, and after selecting the chief points of interest contained in these communications, he must dispatch them, in the form of telegrams and news-letters, to head-quarters in Havana. For these services a liberal monthly salary is offered, and Don Elijio presuming that journalism is in some way related to 'the divine art of Apelles,' and having moreover every confidence in our versatile powers, offers us the engagement.
All is fish that comes to our net in Cuban waters, so as art 'trade' is looking rather 'dull,' owing to recent monetary panics in the town, Nicasio advises me to give the correspondent business a trial. I accordingly accept the proffered post, and after some preliminary arrangements with Messrs Bosch Brothers, commence operations.
In my capacity of correspondent to theNew York Trigger, I am required to follow certain directions with which the central agent in Havana supplies me. First, a telegram, containing the pith of the news I have to impart, must be dispatched with all speed to head-quarters in Havana, where it will be again transmitted to New York by means of the submarine cable between Havana and Florida. The telegram must be shortly followed by a carefully composed news-letter, of which press-copies must be taken and dispatched by two or three different routes. I am enjoined to remember that 'the first thing correspondents should acquire is news, and the second is how to give it; not forgetting that they are writing for a newspaper and not for a magazine.'
'The correspondence,' says the directions, 'should embrace all that bears upon the political, administrative, agricultural, mining, commercial and other topics of the day, including new enterprises, new railroads and telegraphs. It is important to obtain the particulars of any measure contemplated by the Spanish Government, but these must be obtained fromreliablesources andbeforethey have been made public. Local subjects should be eschewed, except they bear on politics, or on anything transcendental and of a "sensational" character likely to interest the American public.'
The shipping list, containing the names of vessels and their dates of arrival and departure to and from any port, together with a brief account of any disaster at sea, forms an important item in the agent's duties. But above all promptness in the dispatch of news 'bearing a sensational character,' is strongly recommended.
To bein advanceof its contemporaries—or at least never behind them—is the end and aim of the American paper which I serve, and to attain these desirable objects, every artifice must be employed and 'no expense spared.'
The agents established in the neighbouring islands and in South America are mostly natives of the towns where they reside and, like myself, have other occupations besides those which concern a newspaper. Señor Pillo, who supplies most of my South American news, is a clerk in a sugar warehouse. Mons. Blagué of Hayti is a cigar manufacturer in that colony, while Meinheer Vandercram is a sorter in the Post-office at St Thomas. Then there is Mr. Archibald Cannie, in the adjacent island of Jamaica, who furnishes me with abundant news from Colon, Panama, St. Domingo, Barbadoes, Trinidad and a family of sister isles. These persons sometimes give me a world of trouble with their conflicting statements and confused information, and their sins are invariably visited upon my shoulders. Mr. Cannie of Jamaica is, however, the best of my correspondents, though he is occasionally afflicted with what my employer in Havana styles 'Magazine on the brain;' which means that Mr. Cannie is too prolific, and adopts a diffuse, rambling mode of imparting facts in preference to those much desired virtues brevity and conciseness.
My residence—on an elevated part of the town commanding a view of the Cuban Bay—enables me to sight vessels before they have anchored in the harbour.
Every ship is announced to the authorities by means of signals. A signal post is planted on the Morro Castle overlooking the sea. Another is situated inland between the fortress and the town, while a third stands within telescope range of the Custom-house. It is this last which, on certain days, engrosses my attention; for by it I am made aware of the approach of vessels long before they are visible in the bay. The signal post is shaped like a cross, to the points of which are hoisted black and white balls and coloured banners, by means of which the description of the craft, together with her name and country, is made known.
In my employ is a young negro who, whenever a vessel is expected, squats in the shade of our broad balcony, and with a telescope placed to his left eye takes observation of the signal post. As soon as anything is hoisted, the black sentinel reports the same to me after the following fashion:
'Miamo, alerte! The signal is speaking.'
'What does it say, negrito?' I inquire from within.
'White ball in the centre, miamo.'
By this I know that a steamer is in sight. After a pause my negrito informs me that the signal has added something to its last observation.
'What does it say?'
'Blue streamer to windward under white ball.'
From these appearances I gather where the steamer hails from and what is her nationality. In the same manner I derive other information respecting the coming craft, all of which I hasten to note down.
The sound of a gun warns me that the vessel has already entered the harbour, six miles distant. Anon she appears cautiously steering through the narrow winding bay; gradually disclosing first her rig, then her colours, and lastly her name. Long before the ship has dropped anchor, I have reached the quay, where I embark in a small canoe to meet the moving steamer. Arrived within hailing distance of the vessel, I shout to the purser, the supercargo, or to anybody else who may have brought news or correspondence for me. If I succeeded in obtaining some, I land again, and before the anchorage gun is fired, I am on my way to the telegraph office. Here—with my dispatches before me—I compose and forward a brief summary of news from the port whence the steamer hails, and if there is nothing to interrupt the line of communication with America, theNew York Triggerwill contain my telegrams in its second edition of the following day.
I have many difficulties to contend with in my quest of local matter in Santiago. Some of my Cuban friends help me in my researches, and I also pick up fragments of 'intelligence' in the cafés, the public promenade, the warehouses, and the newspaper offices. Occasionally I hold secret audience with an intelligent native, who volunteers some extraordinary information on a local subject which is of no interest whatever to anybody except my informant. Sometimes the applicant is persuaded that I have indirect influence with the American Congress, and presses me to communicate his grievance to the authorities in Washington. I dare not close my ear against such applicants, for in the mass of valueless dross which I receive, I sometimes discover a rough diamond which, after due cutting and polishing, I dispose of to theNew York Trigger.
For instance: an aged negro of my acquaintance comes to me one day, with the astounding information that he, and a number of equally decrepit and unserviceable slaves, have been killed and buried by his master. In other words, the owners of these useless helots have hoodwinked the slave emancipators by representing their decrepit human property as defunct, while they substitute fresh importations in their places. Subsequently I learn that a landing of blacks has been lately effected near Guantánamo, and, upon a closer investigation, I gather the curious particulars, which are these:—
The Capitan de Partido, or Major of the district, where the nefarious transaction took place, was naïvely requested by the parties interested in the landing to absent himself from the locality during a certain week; for which simple act he would receive four or five thousand dollars. During his absence, the landing of slaves is of course effected; and when the authorities hear of the transaction, and reprimand el Capitan de Partido for his want of vigilance, the latter exonerates himself by explaining how he was unfortunately absent from his post within the very date of the embarkation.
This is a topic of passing interest to the American people, while it affords theTriggera text for a number of 'telling' articles relative to slave-emancipation, in which an appeal is made to the American Congress on the expediency of taking the colony in hand.
Many other important events transpire while I am fulfilling my duties of correspondent to theNew York Trigger.
Prominent among these, is the return from Santo Domingo of the Spanish army after another unsuccessful attempt to establish a footing in that island. In order to assure the people of Cuba that the campaign has been attended with 'glorious' results, a public fiesta in honour of the return of General Gandarias and his followers is celebrated in our town. The streets are gaily decorated, and a certain cannon, which had been captured in Montecristo by the Spaniards, is wheeled on a cart through the streets, followed by a procession of soldiers and a band of music. This cannon—which is a heavy-looking, unserviceable weapon of the old-fashioned calibre—is made much of by everybody, and finally a niche is built in a wall of the cathedral, and the 'cañon de Montecristo,' as it is henceforth derisively termed by the Cubans, is deposited in this niche with a railing before it, and an inscription above, in which the people of Cuba are reminded of the 'glorious campaign of Santo Domingo.'
Shortly after the appearance of the cañon de Montecristo, some vessels of war from the seat of hostilities arrive with a vast cargo of sick and wounded Spaniards. 'The Loyal and Ever-faithful' inhabitants of Santiago meet them on board, and some volunteer to convey the infirm soldiers to the hospitals in town. Nicasio and I are pressed into this service by our good friend Doctor Francisco, who is the head medical officer of the garrison. Each soldier, as he is landed, is placed on a canvas stretcher, provided with a couple of stout poles, and in this manner he is borne on the shoulders of four volunteers. When all have safely disembarked, a procession is formed, and headed by a band of music, we march slowly through the streets in the direction of Santa Ana, where the military hospital is situated. The distance is about two miles, and we have to move with extreme care so as to aggravate as little as possible the sufferings of the wounded men.
The individual whom Nicasio and I, assisted by a couple of friends, have volunteered to convey, is the young Spanish officer Don Manuel, the betrothed of Don Benigno's daughter. He does not appear to be seriously wounded, for he chats pleasantly with us on the way and gives us a vivid description of his late experiences.
Arrived at the hospital, we deposit our burthens on their respective couches, where the poor fellows are, in due time, left to the tender care of Doctor Francisco and his assistant surgeons.
Don Manuel is one of the first whom the doctor visits. A ball has lodged in the young fellow's hip, but he endures his painful operation bravely. While the ball is being extracted, Don Manuel smokes cigarettes, and converses with those around him.
I gather from the communicative young officer much information respecting the late war. He tells me that the Spanish soldiers acted with their accustomed valour, and did their best to vanquish their black opponents; but that in spite of their efforts, the enemy proved more than a match for them. The guerilla mode of warfare adopted by the swarthy warriors, assisted by the bad roads and impenetrable country, together with the fatal effects of the climate, combined to defeat the assailants, and, after many fruitless attempts, attended with considerable losses to the Spanish army, the troops were ordered to withdraw from the scene of hostilities.
Always with an 'eye to business,' my partner and I improve the occasion by obtaining sundry commissions for portraits of some of the distinguished officers who had fallen in the late campaign. One of the more important works of this kind is a large historical picture, in which the illustrious commander of the expedition and his staff of officers are introduced. In order to ensure correct likenesses of the individuals who are to figure in our painted production, photographs, and military uniforms are supplied for our use. Many weary weeks are devoted to thiscapo d'opera,and when the picture is completed, it is handsomely framed and exhibited to an admiring crowd in one of the saloons of the governor's palace.
The war of Santo Domingo being over and forgotten, the town is again enlivened by the arrival of the Spanish fleet fresh from Peru after the unsatisfactory bombardment of Callao. The vessels are anchored in the Cuban harbour and include the iron-clad steamer 'Numancia,' commanded by Admiral Mendez Nunez; the 'Villa de Madrid' with Captain Topete on board; the 'Resolucion' and the 'Almanza.' Our illustrious visitors are lionised for nearly a week at the public expense. Banquets, balls and other entertainments are given in their honour; and in acknowledgment of these attentions, the officers of the 'Numancia,' before the fleet takes its departure, give a grand ball on board their vessel, to which the leading families of Santiago are invited. The upper deck of the iron-clad is covered with a gigantic awning, and is so disguised with flowers, tropical plants, and other adornments, that the guests can scarcely realise the fact that they are actually on board a man-of-war. A long supper table is laid between decks, and here the visitors are invited to inspect the gunnery arrangements and a certain part of the vessel which had sustained some damage during the late expedition.
From some of the officers and crew of this vessel I obtain a few particulars relative to the bombardment of Callao, and these I hasten to use for the benefit of the American newspaper which I serve.
Another interesting event is the attempted escape from the town jail of upwards of two hundred prisoners. The whole town is for many days thrown into a state of alarm, for eleven out of the number succeed in effecting their escape. These are, however, eventually captured by the police, and after being tried in the usual way by court-martial, are sentenced to be shot in public. Upon the morning of the execution, there is great excitement in town. The execution is a fearful spectacle, for the firing has to be repeated more than once before the unfortunates are pronounced dead. One of the victims is my former fellow-prisoner, the communicative Indian, who, after the first shots had been fired by the soldiers, offered to confess his sins, which he had hitherto refused to do upon the plea that the instrument of confession was 'only a piece of crossed wood.'
CUBAN MUSIC.
A Soirée at Don Laureano's—An eminent Violinist and Composer—Cuban Pianos—Real Negro Minstrels—Carnival Songs—Coloured Improvisatores.
All work and no play makes even a 'follower of the divine art of Apelles' a dull caballero; so when the day's toils are over, my companion and I amuse ourselves in various ways. The theatre, the Retreta, or promenade, a ball at the Philharmonic, and masquerading during the carnival season, are among our favourite diversions. Sometimes I enjoy these amusements in company with my partner; but when his society is denied me, I avail myself of the companionship of my friend Tunicú, who is a great authority in all matters appertaining to the 'gay and festive.'
Being fond of music, Tunicú introduces me to his friend Laureano, who is a favourite musical composer and an accomplished violinist. In appearance, Don Laureano strongly resembles the renowned Paganini, and it is for this reason, together with his marvellous performances on the violin, that his admirers sometimes advise him to visit Europe and America.
Don Laureano is chiefly employed as leader of the theatrical band and as conductor of the orchestra which performs on fiestas at the cathedral. He also gives lessons in pianoforte and violin playing, and composes songs and 'zarzuelas.' Once this accomplished gentleman wrote an entire oratorio of some five hundred pages, which after being printed and gorgeously bound, was presented to Her Catholic Majesty the Queen of Spain.
Laureano gives musical matinées and soirées at his private dwelling. Everybody in the town being personally acquainted with him, no special invitations are issued, but those who are inclined to enjoy a little music, have only to enter the Don's open door, which has direct communication with his reception room. Those who can obtain neither seats nor standing-room, remain in the street, where, the huge windows of the musician's house being devoid of glass, the performances are perfectly audible. Negroes and mulattoes of all shades are among the spectators of the pavement; but with the exception of a few coloured musicians, only white people are admitted within the building.
The programme of entertainments includes popular melodies, selections from oratorios, zarzuelas and Cuban dances. Laureano is assisted by his son, Laureanito, who, notwithstanding his tender years, is a proficient on the piano. This youthful prodigy usually accompanies his parent when the latter enraptures his audience with a brilliant solo performance on his favourite instrument.
Don Laureano is fond of comparing 'musical notes' with foreigners, and finding that I sing comic songs and strum a little on the piano, he occasionally prevails upon me to oblige the company with some of my reminiscences of popular European airs.
The productions of such foreigners as have been inspired to compose pieces founded on Cuban music, are also included in Don Laureano's repertory. Ravina's far-famed 'Habaneros,' Gottschalk's 'Ojos Criollos' and Salaman's 'Spanish Caprice,' are favourites with a Cuban audience. But, like all Cuban and Spanish music, they require to be played with a certain local sentiment, and it is for this reason that the most accomplished European performers often fail to satisfy the Cuban musical appetite. Under the practised hands of a Cuban player, however, every justice is done to the compositions I have quoted.
Don Laureano's piano does not differ from any other piano, save that its mechanism is in some way adapted to suit the requirements of a tropical climate. Pianos of American manufacture are popular in Cuba; but Pleyel's instruments are preferred by some, on account of their soft tone and durability. A piano is an expensive luxury in the West Indies; its intrinsic value being comparatively small when the cost of its transfer from Europe or America, and the duty charged thereon, are considered. Pianos, moreover, do not last as long in the tropics as they do in colder climates, and great care is accordingly taken of their delicate machinery. To ensure against any moisture which may ascend from the marble or brick floor of the chamber in which the instrument is lodged, small glass cups are placed as insulators under the castors. It is considered highly detrimental to the tone of a piano to use it during damp or wet weather; so, on a rainy day, the instrument is locked up and the key carefully concealed by its owner.
Among the coloured community are many accomplished performers on every instrument except the piano; for, somehow, the dark digits of these gentlemen do not adapt themselves to the white and black ivories.
Veritable 'negro minstrels' are, in Cuba, as plentiful as blackberries; but, as they 'never perform out of' the island, their renown is purely local. The mulatto, Urriola, is famous for his performances on the cornet-à -piston and the double-bass, and his young son is a favourite flute-player. Lino Boza is the name of a distinguished negro performer on the clarionet. He is also a popular composer of Cuban dance music. These musical geniuses are all free, and reside in La Calle del Rey Pelayo—a quarter of the town much frequented by the emancipated tribes.
Urriola and his son, together with Lino Boza and other black and brown gentlemen, are great acquisitions in the orchestras of the theatre, the cathedral, and the public balls; but their services are mostly in request during the carnival season, and on certain fiestas. They are, indeed, in such demand for the latter occasions, that engagements with them are entered into days before these festivities take place, and not unfrequently the same band is required to play at a dozen different localities in one day.
The 'Danza Criolla' is the patriotic music of Cuba, and every fresh carnival gives birth to a new set of these 'danzas.' When the air happens to be unusually 'pegajoza,' or catching, a brief song is improvised, and the words of this song chime so well with the music which suggests them, as to form a sort of verbal counterpart of the melody.
The merits of these songs are not, however, confined to a judicious selection of words to suit the air. There is often a quaint local humour conveyed in the doggerel verses; the charm being greatly enhanced by the introduction of creole slang and mispronounced Spanish. Fragments of these effusions occasionally degenerate into street sayings, which are in everybody's mouth till the next carnival. One of the most popular during a certain year was 'Tocólo mejor que tu!' which means Tocólo is a better fellow than you. Other equally choice refrains—though not to be rendered into corresponding English—are 'Amarillo! suenemelo pinton,'and 'Calabazon, tu estás pinton.'
The following ditty, attached to a favourite Cuban danza, called 'La Chupadera,' meets with many admirers. In the original it begins:—
¡Ay! si lo sé, que yo estoy diciendo,Que la chupadera á real está vendiendose,Cuando chupamos, cuando llueve, todo mojamos, &c.
which emphatically affirms that at a certain period of the (carnival) day one may become comfortably tipsy for the small sum of five-pence, and it further demonstrates how rain and rum can alike moisten the human body.
Here is some wholesome advice for procrastinating people:—
¡Ay! Policarpio; toma la sopa,Mientras que está caliente;Tomela, chino, que te se enfrÃa!
in which Policarpio is recommended to drink his soup while it is hot, and not to wait until the nourishment is cold and unpalatable.
¡Arrempuja! que por el hoyo se engarta la aguja.
is equally sententious. Forward! for remember that the needle can only be threaded through its eye.
The following brief song speaks in praise of the neighbours at Santo Domingo:—
Por un Español doy medio;Por un Cubano—un doblón;Y por un Dominicano¡Doy vida y corazon!
in which a Spaniard is estimated at two-pence, a Cuban at a doubloon, and a Dominican at nothing less than 'life and soul.'
Here is some sage advice for a young lady seeking a husband:—
Chiquilla, si te casarás,Cásate con un 'scribano;Qu' aunque no tenga dinero,Siempre con la pluma en mano—
recommending to her notice a hard-working clerk, who, although possibly deficient in fortune, has the power of earning one with his pen.
A baker is (in song) also considered an eligible match in preference to a tobacconist, for whereas the latter cannot always provide the necessaries of life, the former is at least sure of bread, chocolate (which every Cuban baker manufactures and sells), and a few 'reales,' at a very early hour of the day; as the original words clearly demonstrate:—
La mujer del tabaqueroNo tiene nada seguro.La mujer del panaderoTodo lo tiene seguro;Que á las cinco de la mañanaTiene el pan y el chocolate,Y los tres reales, seguros.
The following is a specimen of a serenade, which is more remarkable for its local associations than for its originality:—
No te causas espanto, ne admiracion,Que los que te cantan, tus amigos son.Y abrime la puerta, que estoy en la calle;Que dirán la gente?—Que es un desaire!Cuatro rosas traigo, en cada mano dos,No te canto mas, porque ya nos vamos.
Fear not, nor marvel greatly; for those who sing at your window are your truest friends. So, open wide your doors to me, for behold me in the street. And what will people say, then? Why sure, that you are slighting me! I bring with me four roses fresh—two in every hand; but I'll sing to you no more, because—we all must go elsewhere.
Songs similar to those quoted are usually delivered by negroes and mulattoes at their tertulias or evening gatherings, where, seated on leather-bottomed chairs, or squatting at the portals of their doors, they entertain their black and brown divinities. One of the party accompanies himself upon a guitar, or a primitive instrument formed out of a square box upon which are arranged slips of flexible iron of different lengths and tones. Another has a strangely-fashioned harp, made from a bent bamboo, to which a solitary string is attached. The guitar player is, however, in greater demand than the rest, and is perhaps asked to favour the company with a sentimental song, such, for example, as the popular ditty called La Bayamesa, which commences:—
¿No te acuerdes, gentil Bayamesa,Que tu fuistes el amor de Fulgencio,Cuando alegre en tu candida frente,Beso ardiente imprimÃ, con pasion?—
that is, a certain 'gentle Bayamese' is reminded that she was the loved one of Fulgencio, who, invited by the lady'sopencountenance impressed upon it a passionate kiss.
This being unanimously approved of by the company, the dark-complexioned troubadour will probably be called upon for another song, and the following mournful ballad will perhaps be chanted:—
Yo nacà solo para padecer;¡No te acuerdes mas de mÃ!No tengo ningun placer,Desgraciada y sin salud;Yo nacà solo para padecer.Mira, ¡ay! la virtudNo se consigue asÃ, &c.I was born a child of tears!Think thou then no more of me.Life brings only grief and fearsTo one worn and pale with care.I was born a child of tears!Ah! can virtue linger whereDwelleth only misery?
MASQUERADING IN CUBA.
Deserted!—'Los Mamarrachos'—A French-Creole Ball—Street Masquers—Negro Amateurs—Masks and Dominoes—The Plaza de Armas—Victims of the Carnival—A Cuban Café in Holiday Time—'Comparsas'—White and Black Balls—A Moral.
It is the twenty-eighth of December, and the thermometer stands at eighty-five in the shade. I rise with the 'ganza grulla'—our bird chronometer—that wonderful creature of the crane species, with a yard of neck, and two-feet-six of legs. Every morning at six of the clock precisely, our grulla awakens us by half-a-dozen gurgling and metallic shrieks, in a tone loud enough to be heard by his Excellency the Governor, who is a sound sleeper, and lives in a big palace half a league from our studio. I descend from my Indian grass hammock, and don a suit of the flimsiest cashmere, in compliment to the winter month, and because there is still a taste of night air in the early morning. I have to manufacture my own café noir to-day, for my companion is absent, and our servants—a stalwart Ethiop and a youthful mulatto—are both abroad, and will not return for the next three days. It is a fiesta and Friday. To-morrow is 'la ñapa,' or day of grace, 'thrown in' to the holiday-makers, to enable them to recruit their exhausted frames, which they do by repeating the pleasurable excitement of the previous day. Then comes Sunday, another fiesta, which, in most foreign climes, is another word for day, not of rest, but of restlessness.
The leading characteristics of a Cuban carnival are the street 'comparsas,' or companies of masqueraders—'mamarrachos' as they are called in the creole vernacular—and the masked balls. Here you have a comparsa comprised of pure Africans; though you wouldn't believe it, for their flat-nosed faces are illumined by a coat of light flesh-colour, and their woolly heads are dyed a blazing crimson. The males have also assumed female attire, though their better halves have not returned the compliment. Here is another and a better comparsa, of mulattoes, with cheeks of flaming vermilion, wigs of yellow tow, and false beards. Their everyday apparel is worn reversed, and the visible lining is embellished with tinsel, paint, and ribbons. They are preceded by a band of music: a big drum, hand tambours, basket rattles, conch shells, and a nutmeg-grater. The members of this goodly company dance and sing as they pass rapidly along the streets, occasionally halting in their career to serenade a friend. Now, they pause before a cottage, at the door of which is a group of 'mulaticas francesas,' or French mulatto girls. The maskers salute them in falsetto voices, and address them by their Christian names as a guarantee of their acquaintanceship. The girls try hard to recognise the disfigured faces of their visitors. At last:—
'Holá! Musyer Fransoir, je vous conóse!' cries a yellow divinity in creole French.
'Venici! Monte!' calls another; at which invitation, Musyer Fransoir, who has stood confessed, ascends the narrow side steps which give entrance to the cottage, and vanishes through a diminutive door. He appears again hatless, and beckons his companions, who follow his lead with alacrity. Soon, a hollow drumming, rattling, and grating, is heard, varied by the occasional twang of an exceedingly light guitar making vain efforts to promote harmony. A shuffling of slippered feet, and voices singing, signify that a dance is pending. Everybody—meaning myself and my neighbours—moves towards the scene. Everybody passes up the perilous steps, and endeavours to squeeze into the spare apartment. A few succeed in establishing a permanent footing in the room, and the rest stand at the doorway and window, or burst through the chamber by a back door into an open yard. In carnival time, everybody's house is everybody else's castle.
There is a perfect Babel at the French criolla's. Some are endeavouring to dance with little more terra firma to gyrate upon than 'La Nena' had on her foot square of table. Others are beating time on tables, trays, and tin pots. Somebody has brought a dismal accordion, but he is so jammed up in a corner by the dancers, that more wind is jerked out of him than he can possibly jerk out of his instrument. The man with the faint guitar is no better off. Every now and then a verse of dreary song is pronounced by one of the dancers.
Here is a specimen:—
¡Ay! Caridad; ¡ay! Caridad; ¡ay! Caridad,Cuidao' con la luna si te dá.¡Ca-la-ba-zon! tu estás pinton.(Oh! Charity, Charity, foolish Charity.Beware of the moon, and avoid herclarity!)
There is a pause—an interval of ten minutes or so for refreshments. English bottled ale, at two shillings the bottle, is dispensed, together with intensely black coffee, which leaves a gold-brown stain on the cup in proof of its genuineness; and this is followed by the indispensable nip of the native brandy, called aguardiente. Stumps of damp cigars are abandoned for fresh ones, and the air is redolent of smoke, beer, and brown perspiration. If you remain long in this atmosphere, which reminds you of a combination of a London cook-shop and a museum of stuffed birds and mummies, you will become impregnated by it, and then not all the perfumes of Araby will eradicate it from your system.
I need not go far to witness the street sights in carnival time. Many of them I can enjoy from my position on my balcony. 'Enter' the shade of an Othello in false whiskers. He is attired in a red shirt, top boots, and a glazed cap. In his mouth is a clay pipe; in his hand a black bottle: both products of Great Britain. He is followed by a brother black, in the disguise of a gentleman, with enormous shirt collars and heavy spectacles. In his arms rests a colossal volume, upon which his attention is riveted, and against the brim of his napless hat is stuck a lighted taper. He stumbles along with uneven step, and occasionally pauses for the purpose of giving tongue to his profound cogitations. The crowd jeer him as he passes, but he is unmoved, and the expression of his copper-coloured countenance is ever grave and unchangeable. His eyes—or more correctly speaking, his spectacles—never wander from the mystic page, save when he trims his taper of brown wax, or exchanges it for another and a longer. One cannot help remarking how on all occasions the 'oppressed' negro preserves his natural gravity. Whether it be his pleasure or his pain, he takes it stoically, without any observable alteration in his sombre physiognomy.
How do you reconcile the singular anomaly of a nigger with his face painted black? Here is one, whose face and bare arms are besmeared with soot and ink. His thick lips start out in bright scarlet relief, his eyebrows are painted white, and his spare garments (quite filthy enough before) are bedaubed with tar and treacle. This piece of grimy humanity is worthy of note as showing that the despised nigger is really not so black as he is painted; if the truth were known, perhaps, the man himself has adopted this disguise with a view to prove to the meditative world that there may yet be another, and a blacker, population!
It is not wise to be too contemplative, and to stay at home, on a carnival day in Cuba. All the world recognises you in the character of a moralising recluse, and all the carnival world will surely make you its victim. As I sit, despising these frivolities, as I call them, a great 'comparsa' of whites—the genuine article—comes rushing along in my direction. Out of the carnival season, the dramatis personæ of this comparsa are respectable members of society, in white drill suits and Spanish leather boots. To-day they are disreputable-looking and unrecognisable. Their faces are painted black, red, and mulatto-colour. Their disguise is of the simplest, and withal most conspicuous nature, consisting of a man's hat and a woman's chemise—low-necked, short-sleeved, and reaching to the ground. They dance, they sing, and jingle rattles and other toys, and are followed by a band of music of the legitimate kind. In it are violins, a double-bass, a clarionet, a French horn, a bassoon, a brace of tambours, and the indispensable nutmeg-grater, performed upon with a piece of wire exactly as the actual grater is by the nutmeg. The musicians, who are all respectably dressed blacks, hired for the occasion, play the everlasting 'Danza Cubana.' This is Cuba's national dance, impossible to be described as it is impossible to be correctly played by those who have never heard it as executed by the native. In a country where carnivals are objected to by the police, I have heard but one pianoforte player who, in his very excellent imitation of the quaint music of 'La Danza,' has in the least reminded me of the original, with its peculiar hopping staccato bass and running and waltzing treble; but he had long been a resident in the Pearl of the Antilles.
The comparsa just described has halted before my balcony, as I guessed it would from the fact that its members were white people, and possibly friends. Oh, why did I not follow Nicasio's example and accept José Joaquin's invitation last evening to make one of a comparsa of wax giantesses! But I preferred seclusion to-day, and must take the consequences! Here they come straight into my very balcony with their 'Holá! Don Gualterio. No me conóces?' in falsetto voices. Do I know you? How should I in that ungentlemanly make-up? Let me see. Yes, Frasquito it is, by all that's grimy! What! and Tunicú, too, and Bimba? I feel like Bottom the weaver when he summoned his sprites. Que hay, amigos? By this time my amigos have taken unlawful possession of my innermost apartments. It's of no use to expostulate. I must bottle up my indignation, and uncork my pale ale. I do the latter by producing all my English supply of that beverage; but it proves insufficient. The thirst of my burglarious intruders is not easily sated. The cry is still: 'Cerveza!' Convinced that I have exhausted all my beer, they are content to fall back upon aguardiente; which very plebeian liquor, to judge from their alcoholic breath, my guests have been falling back upon ever since the morning.
'Musica! Vamos á bailar!' The chemised cavaliers propose a dance. Musica! The musica strikes up with a deafening echo under my spacious roof. At the inspiring tones of 'La Danza,' a dozen spectators from the pavement, consisting chiefly of mulatto girls and white neighbours, invite themselves in. Here's a pretty thing! An extemporised public masked ball in my private dwelling in the middle of the day! If this were Cornwall-road, Bayswater, I would have every one of them prosecuted for trespass. Music—a! Aguardiente! They combine singing with dancing, and mix these with cigar smoking and aguardiente drinking. To save my credit, the genuine white brandy I provide is diluted to ten degrees of strength, and costs only two dollars and a quarter the garafon! I find myself suddenly whirled round by one of my uninvited visitors. I would not have selected such a partner, but I have no choice. Smoke is said to be a disinfectant; so I smoke as I dance. For the closeness of the atmosphere, and the muskiness of mulatto girls, are not congenial to one's olfactory and respiratory organs. At last the final drop of aguardiente is drained, the music ceases, and my friends, and my friends' friends, and the strangers that were without my gate, take their not unwelcome departure.