The Pearl of the Antilles, or An Artist in Cuba
by Walter Goodman · English · Gutenberg #29564 · 499,760 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Pearl of the Antilles, or An Artist in Cuba
Author: Walter Goodman
Release date: August 1, 2009 [eBook #29564]
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PEARL OF THE ANTILLES, OR AN ARTIST IN CUBA ***
Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Google Print project.)
[Aside from obvious typographical errors, the spelling of the original
book has been preserved. The spelling and accentuation of Spanish and
French words have not been modernized or corrected.
(note of transcriber)]
THE PEARL OF THE
ANTILLES
OR
_AN ARTIST IN CUBA_
BY
WALTER GOODMAN
HENRY S. KING & CO. 65 CORNHILL & 12 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON 1873
(_All rights reserved_)
TO
MY TRAVELLING-COMPANION AND BROTHER-ARTIST
SEÑOR DON JOAQUIN CUADRAS
OF CUBA
_THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED_
IN REMEMBRANCE OF OUR LONG AND UNINTERRUPTED FRIENDSHIP
AT HOME AND ABROAD
PREFACE.
Cuba having lately become a prominent object of attention, both to
Europe and America, I venture to think that any trustworthy information
that can be given respecting it, may prove acceptable to the reader. I
approach my task with no great pretensions, but yet with an experience
acquired by many years' residence in the Island, and an intimate
intercourse with its inhabitants. I arrived there in 1864, when Cuba was
enjoying uninterrupted peace and prosperity, and my departure took place
in the first year of her adversity. Having thus viewed society in the
Island under the most opposite conditions, I have had various and ample
opportunities of studying its institutions, its races and its
government; and in availing myself of these opportunities I have
endeavoured, as far as possible, to avoid those matters which are alike
common to life in Spain and in Cuba.
As I write, Cuba is passing through a great crisis in her history. For
this reason my experiences may prove more interesting than they might
otherwise have done; nor do I think that they will be found less
attractive, because it has been my choice to deal with the subject
before me from the point of view rather of an artist than of a traveller
or a statistician.
Perhaps I may be allowed to add, that the matter contained in these
pages will be almost entirely fresh to the reader; for, although I have
included a few papers which I have from time to time contributed to _All
the Year Round_, _Cassell's Magazine_, and _London Society_, I have
taken care to introduce them in such a manner as not to break the
continuity with which I have endeavoured to connect the various parts of
my subject.
In explanation of the title chosen for this volume, I may remark that
'the Pearl of the Antilles' is one of the prettiest in that long series
of eulogistic and endearing titles conferred by poets and others on the
Island of Cuba, which includes 'the Queen of the Antilles,' 'the Jewel
in the Spanish Crown,' 'the Promised Land,' 'the Summer Isle of Eden,'
'the Garden of the West,' and 'the Loyal and Ever-faithful Isle.'
WALTER GOODMAN.
22 LANCASTER ROAD,
WESTBOURNE PARK,
LONDON: 1873.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
A CUBAN WELCOME.
PAGE
Our Reception at Santiago de Cuba--Spanish Law--A Commemorative
Feast--Cuban Courtesy--Coffee House Politeness
CHAPTER II.
DAILY LIFE IN CUBA.
A Cuban Home--My Bed-Room--A Creole Breakfast--Don Benigno
and his Family--A Cuban Matron--Church-going in connection with
Shopping--An Evening Tertulia--A Tropical Moon
CHAPTER III.
ART-PATRONAGE IN CUBA.
Our Studio--Our Critics--Our Patrons--Still-Life
CHAPTER IV.
A CUBAN 'VELORIO.'
More Still-Life--A Night-Wake--Mourners--Doña Dolores--A Funeral
Procession--A Burial
CHAPTER V.
CUBAN MODELS.
Tropical Birds--The Coco's--La Grulla--Vultures--Street Criers--Water
Carriers
CHAPTER VI.
CUBAN BEGGARS.
Carrapatam Bunga--The Havana Lottery--A Lady Beggar--A Beggar's
Opera--Popular Characters--Charity--A Public Raffle--The 'King of
the Universe'
CHAPTER VII.
THE BLACK ART IN CUBA.
A Model Mulatto--A Bewitched Watchman--Cuban Sorcery--An Enchanted
Painter
CHAPTER VIII.
A TASTE OF CUBAN PRISON-LIFE.
Two Views of the Morro Castle--The Commandant--The Town Jail--Cuban
Policemen--Prisoners--A Captive Indian--Prison Fare--A
Court of Justice--A Trial--A Verdict
CHAPTER IX.
A WEST INDIAN EPIDEMIC.
A Cuban Physician and his Patient--A Nightmare--A Mystery--A
Cure--By the Sad Sea Waves--A Cuban Watering-place--Lobster-hunting--Another
View of the Morro Castle--What 'Dios sabe'
means
CHAPTER X.
GENERAL TACON'S JUDGMENT.
Pleasant Company--The Cigar Girl of Havana--A Tobacconist Shop in
Cuba--A Romance of Real Life--Spanish Justice abroad
CHAPTER XI.
(VERY) HIGH ART IN CUBA.
On the Ceiling--'Pintar-monos'--A Chemist's Shop à la Polychrome--Sculpture
under Difficulties--'Nothing like Leather'--A Triumph in
Triumphal Arches--Cuban Carpenters--The Captain-General of
Havana
CHAPTER XII.
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
CHAPTER XIII.
CUBAN MUSIC.
A Soirée at Don Laureano's--An eminent Violinist and Composer--Cuban
Pianos--_Real_ Negro Minstrels--Carnival Songs--Coloured
Improvisatores
CHAPTER XIV.
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
CHAPTER XV.
AN EVENING AT THE RETRETA.
A Musical Promenade--My Friend Tunicú--Cuban Beauties--Dark
Divinities--A Cuban Café--A Popular 'Pollo'--Settling the Bill!
CHAPTER XVI.
AT A CUBAN BALL.
The Philharmonic and its Members--A Street Audience--The Guests--Engaging
Partners--'La Carabina'--'La Danza Criolla'--Dance
Music--Refreshments--A Pretty Partner--A Night with Cuban
Gamblers--Spanish Cards--An Old Hand--'Temblores'
CHAPTER XVII.
CUBAN THEATRICALS.
The Stage-Door Keeper--A Rehearsal--The Spanish Censor--A Cuban
Audience--Dramatic Performances--Between Acts--Behind the
Scenes--A Dénouement in Real Life
CHAPTER XVIII.
MY DÉBUT ON A CUBAN STAGE.
An Engagement--A Foreign 'Star'--A Benefit Night--A Local Play--First
Appearance--A serious 'Hitch'--Re-engagement
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
CHAPTER XX.
COUNTRY-LIFE AT A SUGAR ESTATE.
An Artist's Tent--Early Sport--An 'Ingenio'--Sugar and Rum--Afternoon
Sport--A Ride through the Country--Negro Dancing--An
Evening in the Country--'La Loteria'
CHAPTER XXI.
LOVE-MAKING IN THE TROPICS.
My Inamorata--Clandestine Courtship--A Love Scene--'Il Baccio' in
Cuba--The Course of True Love--A Stern Parent
CHAPTER XXII.
A CUBAN CONVENT.
Without the Walls--'El Torno'--A Convent Letter--Accomplices--A
Powder Plot--With the Nuns--Don Francisco the Dentist
CHAPTER XXIII.
A CRUISE IN THE WEST INDIES.
Cuban Telegraphy--The 'New York Trigger'--News from Porto Rico--A
Day in Porto Rico--Don Felipe--A Mail Agent--Coasting--Aguadilla--Mayagüez--Santo
Domingo--Sight-seeing--Telegraphic News
CHAPTER XXIV.
A STATE OF SIEGE IN CUBA.
A Cuban Newspaper Office--Local Intelligence--The Cuban Revolution--Spanish
Volunteers--A Recruit--With Bimba--'Los Insurrectos'--At
a Fire--Cuban Firemen
CHAPTER XXV.
CUBAN WARFARE.
Spanish Soldiers--A Sally--Prisoners of War--'Los Voluntarios'--A
Triumphant Return--Danger!--Cuban Emigrants
CHAPTER XXVI.
HAVANA CIGARETTES.
PAGE
Cigars--The Etiquette of Smoking--A Cigarette Manufactory--The
Courteous Proprietor--The Visitors' Book--Cigarette Rolling
CHAPTER XXVII.
A MULATTO GIRL.
An Obscure Birth--Bondage--A Bad Master--A Good Godfather--A
Cuban Christening--Anomaly of Slavery--A White Lover--Rivals--An
Important Event
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A MULATTO GIRL (_continued_).
The Slave Trade--Ermiña and her Lover--Panics--'Los Insurrectos'
v. 'Los Voluntarios'--A Wounded Patriot--Spanish Law and Cuban
Law--The 'Mambi's'--A Promise--An Alarm--All's Well that
ends Well
CHAPTER XXIX.
A CUBAN WEDDING.
Open Engagements--A Marriage Ceremony--A Wedding Breakfast--The
Newly Married Couple
CHAPTER XXX.
CUBANS IN NEW YORK.
The Morro Castle again--Summer and Winter--Cuban Refugees--Filibusters--'Los
Laborantes' of New York and their Work--American
Sympathisers
THE
PEARL OF THE ANTILLES
CHAPTER I.
A CUBAN WELCOME.
Our Reception at Santiago de Cuba--Spanish Law--A Commemorative
Feast--Cuban Courtesy--Coffee-House Politeness.
My companion and brother-artist, Nicasio Rodriguez y Boldú, is a native
of Cuba, and as he has signified his intention to visit his birthplace
in the West Indies, we bid 'addio' to fair Florence, where for three
years we have dwelt together and followed our profession, and, embarking
in a French steamer at St. Nazaire, we set sail for the Pearl of the
Antilles.
Our official reception at Santiago de Cuba is far from cordial. Before
we land, the Spanish authorities meet us on board, and, after a careful
inspection of our passports, present each of us with what they call a
'permit of disembarcation,' for which we have to pay sixteen reales
'fuertes.' Having, so to speak, purchased 'tickets of admission' to the
Spanish colony, and having also deposited our luggage in the
'cloak-room' of the establishment--which in this instance is represented
by a custom-house--we naturally expect to be favoured with a 'bill' of
tropical performances. No such bill is, however, presented to us; but as
a substitute, we obtain full particulars by application, within a month
after our arrival, to the chief of police. From this functionary we
learn that our 'tickets of admission' are available only for one
quarter's sojourn in the island, and that if we desire to remain for a
longer period, an official 'season-ticket' must be procured. The
authorised programme of the 'Loyal and Ever-faithful Isle' is divided
into a great many Acts. One of these acts announces that 'no foreigner
is allowed to reside more than three months in the island without
procuring first a carta de domicilio (habitation license), which he may
obtain by a petition supported by the consul of his nation.' The carta
de domicilio will enable the foreigner in question to dwell unmolested
in this strangely governed country for a period not exceeding five
years; but he may not leave the island, neither may he remove to another
town, without a pass from a Capitan de Partido, a Celador, or some such
official.
The chief of police moreover tells us that, conformably with another act
or article in his code, the 'applicant' must represent himself as a
Catholic; that he must take the oaths of fidelity and vassalage before
the governor, and that within the prescribed five years 'a foreigner
must be either naturalised, or he must leave the country.'
Yet another act proclaims that during the first five years of his
residence, 'the said foreigner may not carry on nor may he possess a
shop, a warehouse, or become a captain of a vessel. He may, however,
have a share in a company or firm of Spaniards.'
But the strangest mandate of all is that which denies to 'any inhabitant
whatsoever' the privilege of moving from one house to another 'without
giving notice of such removal to the chief of police!'
Thus much for our welcome by the authorities of Cuba!
The Cubans themselves are, however, more obsequious. Long before we have
anchored in the Cuban bay, the news of our arrival has reached the ears
of my companion's friends, who hasten to greet us from little canoes
with white awnings to ward off the rays of the scorching sun. Having
landed, and satisfied the authorities, we are escorted by a number of
these friends to our future residence, which we had decided should be an
hotel. But my partner's friends will not hear of our lodging at a
strange place, and one of their number, who claims close relationship
with Nicasio, succeeds in persuading us both to become his guests. He
accordingly hails his two-wheeled quitrin, and drives us to his
dwelling. The rest of our friends follow on foot, and are invited by our
host, Don Benigno, to partake of the sumptuous banquet which has been
prepared in honour of Nicasio's return to his native country. Several
ladies are present, and with these in light muslin dresses--the
gentlemen in their suits of white drill--the long table with its white
covering--the spacious dining-hall with its white-washed walls--and the
glare of the sun which pours in from numerous windows and open
doors--the scene is enlivening, to say the least of it; while a singular
contrast is supplied by the sombre appearance of the slaves who serve
round the condiments.
Of course my companion is lionised and made much of on this occasion,
and his friend--whom everybody addresses, on account of his nationality,
as 'el Caballero Inglés,' is treated with every show of attention. Being
fresh from Europe we are both examined and cross-examined upon the
questions of news, and to satisfy all demands requires no inconsiderable
amount of oratory. Healths are drunk and responded to by some of the
company, and Don Benigno's nephew, Tunicú, delivers some appropriate
verses of his own composition, which he has dedicated to his kinsman
Nicasio.
It is not the custom in this country for the ladies to retire after a
meal, and leave their lords to their cups and conversation, but
everybody remains seated until black coffee and big Havana cigars are
handed, the cloth has been removed, and our host's baby--a girl ten
months old attired in nature's vestments--has been placed for general
inspection and approval in the centre of the festive board.
When everybody has sufficiently devoured with his or her eyes this kind
of human dessert, Don Benigno's lady--Doña Mercedes--proposes to adjourn
for music and dancing to the reception-room--an apartment which is
little better than a continuation of the dining-hall; the boundary line
between the two chambers being defined by a narrow slip of wall.
The musical entertainments begin with a performance on the piano by a
sun-burnt young lady attired in a low-necked, short-sleeved dress, who
accompanies another young lady who essays a patriotic song commencing:
Cuba, Cuba! mi patria querida,
in which she assures her audience, in Spanish verse, that there is no
place like Cuba, and no country more fertile and picturesque than the
Pearl of the Antilles. This favourite ditty is called a Melopea, or
words without a melody--the words being simply 'spoken,' and closely
followed on the piano by lively music.
This song and another having been disposed of, partners are selected and
the Danza Criolla--a popular Cuban valse--is for the rest of the
afternoon (for it is still broad daylight) performed. The guests then
depart; and after a little conversation with Don Benigno and his family,
Nicasio and I are conducted by a black domestic to our dormitories. Here
we indulge in a siesta, and otherwise refresh ourselves till the hour of
dinner.
Those of Nicasio's friends who have been foiled in their attempt to
secure us for their guests, console themselves by exhibiting their
hospitality in other ways. We are overwhelmed with invitations to pass
the temporada, or season, at their estates in the country, and so
numerous are these invitations that, were we to accept them all, two
years would scarcely suffice for the fulfilment of our engagements.
During the first weeks of our residence in Santiago, the hospitality
which we receive in various ways is sometimes overpowering. Wherever we
may wander some unknown friend has anticipated our arrival, and secretly
provided for our wants. We turn into a café for refreshments, and when
we offer to pay for what we have ordered, the waiter refuses to take our
coin, while he assures us that our repast has already been paid for!
Subsequently we discover that the proprietors of all the restaurants and
cafés in the town have been instructed by some mysterious person or
persons not to accept payment from 'Don Nicasio Rodriguez y Boldú and
his English companion,' but to 'put it down to the account.' Whenever we
visit the theatre, the same pecuniary objections are raised; and upon
one occasion, the haberdasher to whom we apply for a dozen shirts à la
créole actually refuses to favour us with a bill!
These attentions are, however, short-lived, for my partner, after
permitting them to exist for a reasonable length of time, publicly gives
out that unless this overpowering hospitality altogether ceases, he and
el Caballero Inglés will remove to a less demonstrative town. This
warning takes effect, but still the tendency to 'stand treat'--which is
a special weakness in Cuba--manifests itself in other ways.
I go into a café where some creoles--utter strangers to me--are grouped
around one of the marble tables. If I happen to be accompanied by a
lady, every man rises and salutes us. If alone, I am offered a seat and
refreshments; for under no circumstances, and in no locality, does a
Cuban eat and drink without first inviting his neighbours to partake of
his fare. 'Usted gusta?' (Will you partake of this?) or 'Gusta usted
tomar algo?' (Won't you take something?) is a Cuban's grace before meat.
These, attentions are not, however, confined to feeding. They are
adapted to everything that a Cuban possesses. If I admire any article or
individual belonging to a Cuban--no matter whether the object of my
admiration be a watch-guard--a handsome cane--a horse--a gun--a slave,
or a pretty child--I am invariably assured that it is mine (Es para
usted), or that it is my servant (Un servidor de usted). When I ask a
Cuban where he lives, he promptly replies: 'At your house,' in
such-and-such a street, number so-and-so; and whenever such an
individual favours me with a letter, I always find the document
addressed: 'From your house' (Su casa).
In short, I never know what politeness means, nor what extensive West
Indian possessions are at my disposal, till I live amidst the luxuries
of the Pearl of the Antilles!
CHAPTER II.
DAILY LIFE IN CUBA.
A Cuban Home--My Bed-Room--A Creole Breakfast--Don Benigno and his
Family--A Cuban Matron--Church-going in connection with
Shopping--An Evening Tertulia--A Tropical Moon.
Like most of his neighbours, Don Benigno keeps 'open house' in more than
one way. The huge street-door of his habitation remains unclosed at all
hours of the day and evening, and anyone who pleases may walk in and
partake of the Don's hospitality.
Don Benigno's house is constructed after the pattern of the good,
old-fashioned Cuban dwellings, with an eye to earthquake, heavy rains,
and excessive heat. So careful is a creole to provide against these
casualties, that his residence serves less as an abode for comfort than
as a place of shelter. It has a single storey, and is roofed with Roman
tiles. The walls are of lath and plaster, or mamposteria, as it is
called, and the beams which support the roof are visible from the
interior as they are in a barn. Some of the apartments are paved with
marble, while others are paved with brick. In the centre of the spacious
reception-room, or sala, is laid a small square of carpet, like a
misplaced hearth-rug, on which stand twelve rocking-chairs, arranged
face to face like seats in a railway carriage. They are accompanied by
a few footstools and some spittoons. The rooms are not overcrowded with
furniture and ornaments, and these scarce commodities stand out in bold
relief against the white-washed walls and bare flooring. The chairs and
sofas are all cane-backed and cane-bottomed. Tables are not plentiful,
and curtains are employed as adornments for some of the doors instead of
the windows, which are also devoid of glass. An elegant gas chandelier
is suspended from one of the cross-beams of the sloping roof, and a
couple of unserviceable console tables, with their corresponding
pier-glasses, complete the decorations of the sala.
No fire-stoves are required in any chamber except the kitchen, and the
latter being situated in the patio, or court-yard, at the back of the
premises, the residents in a Cuban house are never troubled with any
other smoke than that which is generated by tobacco.
As for the dormitories--the one which I occupy might belong to a holy
friar. There is an aspect of cell and sanctity about everything in it.
The furniture is nothing to speak of, and the bed, which is called a
catre, closely resembles a tressled apple-stall with a canvas tray. When
not in use, the catre is shut up and whisked away into an obscure
corner. When required for sleeping purposes, it is opened, and the bed
having been 'made' with a couple of sheets and a pillow, it is planted
in a cool place, which often happens to be the centre of the apartment.
The monotonous appearance of the white-washed walls is relieved by
coloured lithograph drawings of saints and virgins, and against one of
the walls is placed a table decorated like a small altar with a white
lace-trimmed cloth upon which stand some gilded candlesticks, vases
containing artificial flowers, and a large wooden statuette, gorgeously
painted and embellished. This image represents the patron saint,
Santiago, beneath whose feet burns night and day a small oil lamp. The
object for which this luminary is intended is ignored by me for many
days, and meanwhile I use it, when nobody is looking, for the lighting
of my cigarettes. My authority for this sacrilegious act is derived from
my companion, Nicasio, who is a liberal-minded Catholic, and as I find
he also performs the same ceremony in his own dormitory, my conscience
is relieved. Equally mysterious are a couple of dry fonts which have in
all respects the appearances of china watch-pockets. I make use of one
for the accommodation of my time-piece, until I am informed that only
holy water is allowed to repose within its sacred embraces.
In fine weather my slumbers at night are uninterrupted, but when it
rains--and in Cuba it never rains but it pours in bucketfuls--my rest is
at intervals sorely disturbed. I dream that a thousand belligerent cats
are at civil war on the Roman-tiled roof above me, and that for some
unknown reason I alone expiate their bloodthirsty crimes, by enduring a
horrible penance, which consists in the historical torture of a slow and
perpetual stream of liquid which dribbles upon my bare cranium. I awake
suddenly to find that my nightmare has not been unfounded. Something
damp, proceeding from the sloping roof, drops at regular intervals upon
my forehead. By the light of the patron saint who watches over me I
perceive that the rain has found an inlet through a gotera in the roof.
A gotera is a hole in the tiles, formed during the day by the action of
the baking sun upon the mortar, which yields to its cracking influence
and leaves an aperture. Rising hurriedly in the dead of night, I remove
my catre to a dry corner, and at the same time place a basin beneath the
spot from whence the drops of rain issue. Once more I awake under the
same moistening influence. A fresh gotera has arisen over my dry place
of repose. Again I shift my ground, and use an empty pail for the
accommodation of the intrusive element; but fresh goteras appear
wherever I pitch my catre, until, having circumnavigated all the safe
coasts of my tempestuous apartment and exhausted every receptacle for
water, I take up my bed and deposit it in an adjoining chamber, which
happening to be unoccupied and free from goteras, allows my slumbers to
remain undisturbed till morning.
Don Benigno's family take what we should call breakfast, but which they
term 'tienta pie,' in their respective sleeping chambers. At six A.M. a
dark domestic enters my dormitory with a cup of black coffee and a
cigarette. Later, this is followed by a larger cup of milk qualified
with coffee, or, if I prefer chocolate, the latter in an extraordinary
thick form is brought. The beverage is accompanied by a Cuban bun or a
milk roll with foreign butter: for as the native cow does not supply the
material for that luxury, the butter used in Cuba is all imported in
bottles like preserves.
Eleven o'clock is the hour appointed for breakfast. This is a
substantial meal and appears to be breakfast, dinner, and supper rolled
into one. Every item of food is served as a separate course, of which
there are more than fourteen different 'fuentes,' or dishes, on the
table. A plate of eggs and sliced bananas fried in butter constitutes
the first course. A second course is represented by a dish containing a
combination of boiled rice and dried cod-fish, or 'bacalao,' with tomato
sauce. 'Serence,' with 'congri,' is a Creole dish composed of Indian
corn, rice, and red beans, and forms course number three. Sambumbia,
anis, and chimbombó, are native vegetables prepared in a variety of
palatable ways. An olla podrida of sweet yams, pumpkins, white beans,
bacon, sausage, and cabbage is another favourite dish; and, lastly,
fish, flesh, and fowl in a dozen different guises complete the bill of
fare. This sumptuous repast having been washed down with Catalan claret,
some West Indian fruits and solid-looking preserves are partaken of, and
the indispensable cigar or cigarette and wholesome café noir are handed
round.
Breakfast over, the Don's family disperse, each to his or her
occupation. The children retire to their schoolroom, where the different
masters (for in Cuba there are no 'out-door' governesses) engaged for
their instruction arrive at their prescribed hours, give their lessons,
and depart. A master is provided for every branch of learning and for
teaching every art except that of dancing, this accomplishment being
naturally and easily acquired by the graceful little ladies and
gentlemen themselves.
Don Benigno retreats, after breakfast, to his office, where he transacts
his business affairs, which seem to consist chiefly in lolling in an
easy chair with a long cigar between his lips, while he watches his
escribano, or clerk, as that functionary makes up accounts and writes
letters.
As for the Don's lady, Doña Mercedes, she may be described broadly as a
sleeping partner, her department in the firm being literally the
sleeping department. After disposing of her housekeeping duties, which
are briefly accomplished by handing the black cook a certain sum daily
for marketing purposes, the worthy lady passes the rest of the day with
a fan in a rocking chair, in which she sways and fans herself cool. Doña
Mercedes has a youthful appearance from her neck upwards, but being
somewhat corpulent, her figure scarcely corresponds with the attractions
of her face. Being, however, attired in a loose linen gown which falls
like a sack, ungirdled and uninterrupted, from her fair shoulders to her
remarkably small shoes, the protuberances of her person escape notice,
and, with her jet-black hair neatly and tastefully arranged, she may be
said to represent an agreeable type of the Cuban matron.
It is often a matter for wonder with me, how Señora Mercedes and her
friends contrive to keep their hair in such perfect order. Cuban ladies
being gifted by nature with a wealth of hair require no artificial aid;
but I am told that their heads being once 'dressed' for the day remain
intact till night, a fact which I can easily credit, seeing that no
ceole lady assumes either bonnet, hat, or other covering for the head,
when she takes her walks abroad.
But Doña Mercedes is not always such a helpless member of society as I
have represented her. She is possessed of a warm, generous nature, and
this quality often prompts the good lady to perform many useful acts of
kindness and charity to those who are in need of her benevolence.
Between one and three in the afternoon, Don Benigno and his family
indulge in the wholesome luxury of a warm bath; for, despite the
climate, a creole, when in town, rarely immerses his or her body in
perfectly cold water. The water intended for bathing purposes is
sometimes placed in the centre of the patio, or court-yard, where, under
the powerful influence of the sun, it is soon warmed to any reasonable
degree of temperature.
Ablutions over, the indispensable siesta is enjoyed by everybody, on
catres or in hammocks; for the heat of mid-day is insupportable, and
repose after a bath is considered salutary.
After the siesta, Doña Mercedes and her young daughters, accompanied by
her adopted child--a girl of ten--do what the ladies of many other
countries do late in the afternoon. They attire themselves fashionably
and take a stroll in the Plaza or a drive in the Alameda, which is the
Rotten Row of a Cuban town.
Whatever shopping Doña Mercedes contemplates is effected in the cool of
the early morning after her devotions at the church, whither she repairs
at the hour of six A.M. Church-going is a serious undertaking with the
good lady. Firstly, she and her daughters must be becomingly attired,
and on this occasion black lace veils are included in their toilettes.
Besides prayer-books, rosaries, and fans, the devotees must be provided
with small squares of carpet and toy-like chairs of papier maché inlaid
with gold and pearl ornaments. These articles of furniture are conveyed
to the sacred edifice by some young negress servants, for with the
exception of a few wooden benches, a Cuban church offers no relief to
the weary flesh.
Having entered the church, Doña Mercedes proceeds to moisten the tips
of her ungloved fingers in some holy water from a font, and after duly
crossing herself, extends her hand to her daughters, who touch it and
thus partake of the blessed liquid. The black attendants then spread the
fragments of carpet, place the chairs, and retire to a dark corner of
the building. The ceremonies begin. Doña Mercedes and her daughters
follow the ecclesiastic in their miniature prayer-books, and alternately
kneel and cross themselves when required to do so; gaze with a devout
expression at their favourite saint, and tell their beads; take a mental
note of their neighbours' dresses, fan themselves, and exchange nods of
recognition with acquaintances--till a little bell from one of the
side-chapels tinkles for the final ceremony of elevating the host.
Matins over, the ladies betake themselves to the principal
thoroughfares, where the best shops are to be found, and when their
purchases have been made they return home, calling on the way at the
houses of their friends.
When there is no performance at the theatre or the promenade in the
military square, Don Benigno holds a tertulia in his balcony.
A tertulia is a reception, or social gathering, and may be held at any
hour of the day; but the best time for a tertulia is the cool of the
evening.
The five o'clock dinner being over and digested, Don Benigno sallies
forth--cigar in mouth--upon his covered balcony, or coridor, as it is
called, which in length and breadth strikingly resembles the platform of
a small railway station.
'Traigan las balanzas!' drawls the Don, and in answer to his summons a
couple of negroes appear with a number of rocking-chairs, which they
place--when the moon is at its brightest--in a shady corner of the
verandah. Here we all seat ourselves, and await the arrival of any guest
who may 'drop in' for a sociable chat and a cigar.
Don Francisco--the chief doctor of the town--is usually the first to
appear. He is followed by Señor Esteban, the lawyer, Don Magin, the
merchant, Don Felipe, the sugar-planter, and one or two young creoles
whose avocations are doubtful. As each guest appears, everybody rises
and salutes him elaborately. The visitors are all attired for the
evening in black alpaca coats, white drill trousers, and waistcoats,
patent leather thin-soled boots, and bran new 'bómbas'--a bomba being
the slang term for a tall beaver hat.
For some moments the company assembled remain speechless, and no sounds
are heard in the silent evening but the swaying of the rocking-chairs
and the creaking of the gentlemen's stiffly-starched trousers. Presently
someone produces a neat home-made cigarette case, and before selecting a
cigar or a cigarette for his own consumption offers it to all the males
present, who accept of his generosity. The conversation, in which those
who are not already asleep join, now becomes general. The weather, and
the state of the coffee and cane crops, are all duly discussed, together
with the theatre and the last ball at the Philharmonic. Politics are
lightly touched upon, for two of the gentlemen present are Spaniards,
and for obvious reasons a Cuban usually avoids all topics which concern
the government of his country. Occasionally someone who is well-read in
the day's newspaper, essays a mild discussion with somebody else who has
not seen the paper for a week; but as Cuban periodicals are under
official control, they are not remarkable for their political veracity,
and the well-read member of the company usually gets the worst of the
argument.
Learning that my companion and I contemplate establishing a studio for
the practice of our profession in the town, everybody offers us his
advice, and recommends to our notice certain houses suitable for art
purposes. Don Esteban, the lawyer, favours us with his legal opinion,
reminding us of the law which prohibits a foreigner from setting up in
business on his own account; but we assure him of our intention to 'go
into partnership,' and that as one of us is a Cuban born, we have no
uneasiness.
It is considered fatal to sit under the rays of a Cuban moon, so when
that luminary is visible to any occupant of the balcony, his
rocking-chair is immediately shifted into a shadier part. But, in doing
so, extreme care is taken lest the occupant should reseat himself with
his back inclined in the least manner towards his neighbour, as a Cuban
would rather suffer any personal inconvenience than be discovered in
this impolite posture.
No refreshment of any kind is offered by our host during the tertulia,
but if one of the company feels thirsty he calls for a glass of iced
water, which is accordingly brought to him by a slave, who, if
necessary, qualifies the harmless beverage with 'panales,' which is a
kind of cake prepared with white sugar.
Other tertulias are being held at neighbouring houses. Those who have no
balconies to boast of, place their rocking-chairs in the passage or hall
of their dwelling, while others, who have neither the one accommodation
nor the other, deposit their receptacles for the weary on the pavement
in the street. The black domestics form a tertulia on the door-steps or
squat together in dark unoccupied parts of the corridors. Their jabber
is incessant and occasionally requires a gentle reminder. Sometimes one
of their company essays a wild melody, accompanying his song on a
primitive instrument of his own manufacture.
Throughout the evening the streets are utterly deserted, and as,
moreover, they are badly illuminated with gas, the aspect on a dark
night is not cheerful. But on a bright, moonlit night, such as that to
which I have referred, artificial lighting is altogether dispensed with.
The moon in the tropics is, for astronomical reasons, brighter than it
is elsewhere; but as regards Cuba, another reason might be derived from
the fact that, metaphorically speaking, a slave country and a badly
governed one into the bargain, is about the darkest spot in the
habitable globe. At least, in Cuba the lamp of Heaven shines with
increased brilliancy, illuminating alike Spaniard, Cuban, freedman, and
bondsman!
CHAPTER III.
ART-PATRONAGE IN CUBA.
Our Studio--Our Critics--Our Patrons--Still-Life.
Assisted by Don Benigno's nephew Tunicú, Nicasio and I in time meet with
a residence suitable for art purposes.
Our habitation consists of six rooms on a single floor, with a wide
balcony in front, and a spacious patio, or court-yard, at the back. We
have no furniture worth mentioning; furniture in Cuba being represented
by a few cane or leather-bottomed chairs, some spittoons, and a small
square of carpet. But our walls are well hung with works of art in
various stages of progress, which, in a great measure, compensate for
the otherwise barren appearance of our apartments. Our studio is a
spacious chamber on a level with the street which it overlooks. The
windows occupy more than half of the wall space, are guiltless of glass,
and are protected by iron bars. The accessories of our strange calling
lend an interest to our domestic arrangements, and form a kind of free
entertainment for the vulgar. To insure privacy, we have sometimes
curtained the lower half of our enormous windows; but this contrivance
has always proved ineffectual, for in the midst of our labour, the
space above the curtains has been gradually eclipsed by the appearance
of certain playful blacks who have clambered to the heights by means of
the accommodating rails. Gentlemen of colour have little respect for the
polite arts; they look upon our sanctum as a sort of permanent
peep-show, and upon us as a superior order of photographers. Primed with
these delusions our Spanish Sambo comes for his carte-de-visite at all
hours of the sunny day, persuaded that we undertake black physiognomies
at four dollars a dozen; and when we assure him that ours is the
legitimate colouring business, and that we have no connexion with Señor
Collodión up the street, our swarthy patron produces a ready-made black
and white miniature of himself, and commissions us to colour it in our
best manner.
The press of Santiago dubs us 'followers of the divine art of Apelles,'
and an inspection of our works of art is thus described in one of the
local papers:
'We have lately visited those industrious gentlemen Don Nicasio
Rodriguez y Boldú and El Caballero Inglés Don Gualterio who, as the
public are aware, have established a studio in Cuba for the practice of
the divine art of Raphael and Michael Angelo. It is the duty of every
art-loving person to inspect all temples of the beautiful whether they
be represented by the luxurious palaces of the great or the humblest
cottages on earth. Knowledge reveals itself in the dullest as well as
the brightest localities, for true genius can abide anywhere.
'He who, like ourselves, has frequently traversed the Calle de Santa
Rosa, must have observed that in that street stands a priceless casket,
which being open leads to the studio of the two distinguished followers
of the divine art of Apelles to whom we have referred.'
After continuing to indulge in this poetical strain for another
paragraph or two, the enthusiastic writer is recalled to his duties of
art-showman, and proceeds to describe in glowing colours all that is
contained in the 'priceless casket,' open for his inspection. He lingers
lovingly over a large copy of Titian's 'Venus' which, together with
other pictures and unfinished sketches, we had brought with us from
Italy. He is perfectly enraptured with the charms of the painted
goddess, from whom he can scarcely tear himself away even on paper, and
he concludes with the remark that, 'after contemplating this life-like
representation of nature, the spectator is disposed to touch the canvas
to convince himself that what he beholds is merely a painted shadow of
the reality!'
Sketches and portraits next occupy his attention; 'and if,' he adds,
'the visitor's curiosity is not satisfied with the representations of
men and women, he can relieve his vision by regarding beasts and birds,
which, although only depicted upon canvas, appear to be endowed with
animation!'
In spite, however, of these and other published tributes to our genius,
we find that high art, at least, does not pay in our part of the
tropics. Regardless of posterity, therefore, we abandon the sublime, and
offer our art services for anything that may present itself. A bonâ fide
painter is a rarity in the town I am describing, so Nicasio and I are
comparatively alone in the fine art field. Our patrons are numerous, but
we are expected by them to be as versatile as the 'general utility' of
theatrical life.
Nicasio finds a lucrative post vacant at the public 'Academy of
Arts'--an institution supported by the municipality of the town. There
is a great dearth of 'professors of drawing,' owing to the sudden
resignation of a gentleman who previous to our arrival had been the sole
representative of 'the divine art of Apelles.' The academy is a dreary
apology for a school of art. The accommodation is scanty, and the
'models' provided for the scholars or 'discipulos,' as they are grandly
styled, consist wholly of bad lithographic drawings. The post of
professor, however, yields a fair monthly stipend, and it being offered
to and accepted by my companion, contributes no inconsiderable item
towards our united income.
We are overwhelmed with portrait work, but most of it is connected with
defunct people, for we cannot induce our patrons to believe that a
living person is a fit subject for our brush. And so it often happens
that we are summoned from our homes, doctor-like, at all hours of the
night, to hasten to the house of a moribund, for the purpose of making
such notes as shall afterwards serve as guides for a replica of the late
lamented in his habit as he lived.
One of our first applicants for this kind of patronage is Don Magin, the
merchant, whose acquaintance we have made at Don Benigno's tertulia. The
Don stops me in the street one day, and with a disturbed countenance
tells me that his only child--a girl of three--has been lately buried.
Will I, or my partner, be so good as to restore her to life on canvas? I
agree to undertake the work if Don Magin will provide me with a guide in
the shape of a photograph.
'I am sorry to inform you,' says the Don, 'that my poor child never sat
for her photograph.'
'Then,' I remark, 'I will be satisfied with a slight but faithful
sketch, or even a coloured miniature.'
'I regret that I cannot supply you with any representation of my
departed daughter,' replies Don Magin.
'How then can you expect to possess a portrait of her?' I enquire.
'Easily enough,' he answers. 'It is true that I have no actual likeness
of the child; but equally good guides are at your disposal. I can
provide you with the little dress, the little hat, the little shoes and
socks which she was accustomed to wear. I have also taken the measure of
her height, and the size round her pretty waist. I can furnish you with
minute particulars respecting the colour of her complexion, hair and
eyes, and I will show you a lovely child who resembles my own in many
ways. Besides this, my Engracia was considered to bear a strong likeness
to her father. Make her appear so also in the painting; introduce the
accessories which I have mentioned; take a notion or two from the girl
that I will send, and I am convinced that the result will be
satisfactory to both of us.'
In vain do I endeavour to show the impossibility of such an achievement;
the merchant will not hear of refusal, and as an inducement for me to
make only a trial, he offers me a large price, promising to double the
amount if I succeed to his liking.
It is a source of infinite consolation to the distressed old
gentleman--who by the way is very grey and wrinkled--when I finally
agree to make a trial; but I warn him that his anticipations about the
result will never be realised.
Sanguine and happy, my strange patron departs, and in due course I
receive the various articles he had specified. The pretty child serves
well enough as a model for the proportions of the figure, and attired in
the garb of her late lamented playmate, she enables me to devote every
attention to the detail. I am also able to crown the little pink dress
with an infantile face, whose hair, eyes, and complexion I colour
according to instructions; and with the introduction of a landscape
background and with a stray flower or two arranged in the foreground,
the sum total is a pretty picture which, on that account, leaves at
least a 'balance in my favour!'
The portrait (?) having been placed in its gilded frame, my patron is
invited to inspect it.
For many long moments Don Magin contemplates the work without uttering a
word. His countenance, which I watch with an anxious eye--as yet
expresses neither approval nor the reverse.
Does this portrait on my easel remind the bereaved parent of his lost
offspring?
It does! yes; there faithfully depicted are the very dress, the very
little hat, and the still smaller shoes which she was wont to wear in
life! The figure, complexion, colour of eyes and hair, are all hers to a
shade. In short, a resemblance to his child gradually developes itself
before the old gentleman's vision, till at last clasping both my hands,
and with tears in his eyes, he declares that I have succeeded far beyond
his best expectations.
In this instance everything terminates like the last scene in the
drama, where the aged father recognises his long lost child. But work of
this nature does not always end so satisfactorily.
Happily, portraiture is not our only resource. We hold important
professorships in colleges, schools, and ladies' academies, where we
impart every accomplishment in which drawing-paper and pencils are used,
including the art of caligraphy, missal-painting, and designing for
fancy needlework.
Whenever a strolling company of Spanish players encamp for the season at
the theatre, our services are required as the company's special scenic
artists. The demand for scenery at the Teatro Real Cuba is, however,
small; a divergence from its standard repertoire being considered as
next to an infringement on public rights; so our labours rarely extend
beyond an occasional property, or 'set' in the shape of a painted
'ancestor,' a practicable piece of furniture, or a bit of bank for
introduction into the elegant saloon, the cottage interior, or the wood
scene. Once only are our scenic services in special request for a fairy
piece, which the manager has announced with 'entirely new decorations.'
Though the public believe that four months have been employed in the
preparations, we have barely as many days for the purpose, and during
this short space we produce that gorgeous temple which is destined to
form a conspicuous feature in the well-worn wood scene, and we add to
the native charm of the elegant saloon and the cottage interior with
suitable embellishments. Dutch metal and coloured foils, lavishly
administered, cover a multitude of imperfections, and we have still the
red fire and an indulgent public to fall back upon. Our efforts are
rewarded by thunders of applause on the part of the audience, and
eulogistic paragraphs in the local papers.
To oblige our worthy friend Don Benigno we are, upon another occasion,
induced to paint and embellish his quitrin--a two-wheeled carriage of
the gig class, the component parts of which bear one to the other
something of the proportions of a spider and his web; the body of the
conveyance being extremely small, the shafts inconceivably long, and the
wheels of a gigantic circumference. The street-doors of most Cuban
houses are constructed with a view to the admittance of such a vehicle,
which when not in use is carefully enveloped in brown holland, like a
harp or a chandelier during the out-of-town season, and is deposited in
the hall or passage of the threshold, and in some cases in a corner of
the marble-paved reception room. The presence in our studio of Don
Benigno's quitrin is therefore not very remarkable. Many weeks, however,
elapse before we can get rid of this unsightly piece of furniture.
Several coats of paint and varnish have to be applied, and innumerable
coloured lines introduced, before it is ready to receive the more
artistic touches. All devices connected with painting are by our Cuban
patrons generalised under the head of 'paisaje' or landscape, and in the
present instance the landscapes include two views of Don Benigno's crest
together with his elaborate monogram.
A couple of mulatto art-aspirants whom we graciously receive as
disciples for one hour daily, help considerably in this undertaking, and
take such an especial delight in it that it is a sorrowful day for them
when Saturnine--Don Benigno's black postilion--comes to wheel away their
handiwork.
CHAPTER IV.
A CUBAN 'VELORIO.'
More Still-Life--A Night Wake--Mourners--Doña Dolores--A Funeral
Procession--A Burial.
To be summoned from his couch at all hours of the night is not an
uncommon occurrence with a medical man, but for a follower of 'the
divine art of Apelles' to be thus disturbed in his slumbers is, to say
the least of it, an unreasonable proceeding.
Nevertheless one of us must rise and don his clothes at three A.M.; for
a black varlet has come to inform us that his 'amo,' Don Pancho Agüerro
y Matos, has just died, and that his bereaved family are desirous of
preserving his image on canvas. Nicasio and I, as usual, draw lots for
the questionable privilege of immortalising the late lamented, and as
this time I am the unfortunate winner, it behoves me to gather together
the implements of our craft, attire myself in my darkest garments, and
follow the sombre messenger of death to the house of mourning.
Here a 'velorio,' or night-wake, for the departed is being held. The
reception room is already crowded with the defunct's relatives and
dearest friends, who are seated on chairs and low stools against the
walls. As soon as I appear everybody rises in accordance with the
polite custom of the country, and the chief mourners crowd around me and
give expression to their grief in a variety of ways. Some clasp my neck
and waist; others cling to my legs, and pointing to an adjoining
chamber, they beseech me to restore the late lamented to life--on
canvas.
Encompassed as I am, it is no easy matter to reach the apartment where
the deceased, surrounded by long wax candles and tall silver
candlesticks, lies in state.
Though my duties are confined to the portrayal of the inanimate face
before me, I often pause to take mental as well as pictorial notes of
the surroundings. I observe that the defunct is attired in a suit of
black, which has doubtless been provided by the undertakers; for the
clothes are much too wide for his wasted anatomy, and give him the
appearance of a misfitted dissenting minister. I remark that the dead
man's relatives and friends bear their loss bravely; for some are
endeavouring to drown their sorrows in the cup that cheers, and in
lively conversation. I am reminded of the popular theory that tobacco is
a disinfectant, from the fact that most of the company, including the
elderly ladies, are indulging in that luxury. Occasionally a tray of
cigars is handed round together with coffee, chocolate, sweetmeats, and
biscuits. I note that these convivialities are only interrupted when a
visitor is announced. That upon these occasions the mourners are
inspired to give loud expression to their grief. That the women shriek,
rave, and occasionally vary their proceedings by swooning and going into
hysterics. I observe that the new arrival is seized and surrounded as I
had been and conducted into the chamber of death, where some of the
mourners give vent to their sorrow by clasping the clerical-looking
clothes or embracing the borrowed boots. I find that among the lady
mourners the most demonstrative is Doña Dolores, who is said to be the
nearest surviving relative of the departed; though from the language
which she occasionally utters it is not clear to me what kind of
relationship she claims.
Whenever a new mourner appears, Doña Dolores, who has been hitherto
silently seated behind me, springs to her feet and in the following
terms apostrophises the dead:
'Oh! Pancho. My little dear! (the defunct was a middle-aged gentleman).
Answer me, my love. Where are you, my brother? Ah! it's all over with
you now, Panchito. To-morrow you will be quite alone, with nobody to
speak to you. Oh! my Panchito--my love--my life--my entraños! Pancho of
my heart; of my soul! My brother--my son--my love--my father; for thou
hast been more than father, lover, son, and brother to me!'
After a short pause the lady breaks out afresh:
'Virgen Santísima! Virgen de la Caridad! Where is my poor Panchito? What
have you done with him? Where are you, Pancho? Answer me, my love! Maria
Santísima; look at my poor brother all alone without the power to speak
or rise! Make him answer me! Oh! my dear companion--my cousin--my
godfather--mi compadre--my parent--my friend; speak! Tell me where you
are! Come to me, my Pancho; my Panchito. Oh! Pancho--Pan-cho!
Pa-n-n-cho!!'
Once, in the middle of the lady's eloquence, the late Don Pancho
startles everybody (myself included) by opening his mouth and drooping
his head!
In order to facilitate my operations, the body had been propped up in a
sitting posture, but by some mishap the props had given way. Until the
real cause of the displacement is made manifest, Doña Dolores is beside
herself with joy. Her Pancho has been restored to life! Her beloved
'stepfather, spouse, and compatriot' will drive with her to the Alameda
to-morrow! He shall have a cigar and a cup of coffee now, and his
portrait shall not be painted!
'Go,' says the Señora to me in a tone of authority; 'we don't want you
any more. Panchito will accompany me to the photographer's, and save you
the trouble!'
Fortunately the lady's friends intercede at this moment; for finding
that I do not obey her commands, the exasperated Señora makes a wild
dash at my sketch-book; over-turning in her movements my box of colours
and one of the long candlesticks! Convinced, however, of the truth, the
poor lady is pacified, and resumes her place behind me.
On the morning of the second day of the velorio, as I am putting the
finishing touches to my sketch, certain strange ceremonies are observed.
An undertaker's man is announced, and, apparently with no other object
in view than to provide becoming robes of sable for the bereaved,
proceeds to take the general dimensions of everybody present. But I
observe that a separate length of white tape is employed in each case,
and that when a sufficient number have been thus collected, the measures
are consigned to the dead man's pockets, together with the mourners'
white cambric handkerchiefs.
When these and other curious ceremonials--the precise object of which I
cannot for the life of me penetrate--have been enacted, more
undertakers arrive and proceed to prepare the body for decent burial.
There is much lamentation when the coffin is finally borne from the
house. The women shriek and swoon, grovel on the ground, and tear their
hair. As for Doña Dolores--she is inconsolable, and continues to
harangue the remains until her speech is inarticulate and she is carried
away in a fainting condition to her chamber.
A procession, consisting of upwards of seventy mourners, follows on foot
the richly-gilded and ornamented hearse. Everybody is attired in the
deepest mourning, which, as fashions in Cuba go, includes a tall beaver
hat adorned with broad crape, a black cloth coat and white trousers. The
hired mutes, however, present a more sombre appearance, for not only are
their habiliments black, but also their faces and bare hands; mutes in
Cuba being represented by negroes of the darkest shade.
The funeral procession now leads on in the direction of the cathedral,
where mass for the dead is to be performed. Those who do not care to
enter the sacred edifice will light their cigars and cigarettes, and
will employ the interval which elapses before the burial service is
over, by strolling about the neighbourhood, and chatting with
acquaintances at their grated windows.
Service being over, the funeral will proceed to the cemetery at St.
Ana's. Arrived at the gates of the burial ground, everybody will return
home without waiting for the interment, which in Cuba is performed by a
couple of black sextons who, unattended by either priest, mourner, or
any other person, lower the remains into the hole which has been dug for
it!
CHAPTER V.
CUBAN MODELS.
Tropical Birds--The Cocos--La Grulla--Vultures--Street
Criers--Water Carriers.
My companion has a weakness for bird-painting, and it pleases him to
have the living originals on the premises. Therefore does our spacious
court-yard contain a goodly collection of the feathered tribe, with one
or two animals without feathers. A large wirework aviary is filled with
fifty specimens of tropical birds with pretty plumage and names hard to
pronounce. A couple of cocos--a species of stork, with clipped
wings--run freely about the yard, in company with a wild owl and a
grulla, a tall crane-like bird five feet high. In a tank of water are a
pair of young caymanes, or crocodiles. These interesting creatures are
still in their infancy, and at present measure only four feet six inches
from the tips of their hard noses to the points of their flexible tails.
We have done our best to tame them; but they have not yet fallen into
our domestic ways. Nor does time improve their vicious natures, for at
the tender age of six months they have already shown signs of
insubordination. If they persist in their evil courses we must needs
make a premature end of them, which is no easy matter, for their scaly
hides are already tough as leather, and the only indefensible parts
about them are their small eyes and open mouths.
The Cocos, male and female, are meagre-bodied birds, with slender legs,
and beaks twelve inches long. They are an inseparable couple, and wander
about our patio and rooms in a restless nervous fashion, rattling their
chop-stick noses into everything. Now they are diving into the mould of
flower-pots for live food, which they will never swallow till it has
been previously slain. One of them has espied a cockroach in a corner,
and in darting towards the prey a scorpion crosses its path. The
venomous reptile hugs the belligerent beak in the hope of conveying to
it some of its deadly sting; but the tip of Coco's horny appendage is a
long way from his tender points, and Scorpio must travel many an inch
before he can make the desired impression. Meanwhile the stork has
teased Scorpio's life out, and jerked his remains into that bourn whence
no defunct reptile returns. Our Coco's chief delight is to play with our
painting materials, where much amusement may be derived by upsetting a
bottle of varnish, or by distributing our long brushes in various parts
of the room.
A fund of entertainment is found in the displacement of every object not
too weighty for Coco to convey. Thus, when a wineglass or a small coffee
cup is missing, it will be discovered in the most unlikely spot, such as
the balcony, on the roof, or maybe in our neighbour's dusthole. By
Coco's sleight of _beak_, slippers part company and invite us to hunt
for them, as if we were playing a certain old-fashioned game. As for the
spoons, knives, and forks--they are disseminated everywhere like seeds
in a ploughed field.
Has anyone seen my inkstand?
Yes; it has caught Coco's eye, and it has consequently been caught up by
his chop-stick beak. With the agility of a sprite, he had hopped upon my
open writing-desk, and having duly overhauled the contents and carefully
transplanted each particular sheet of paper, envelope, pen and pencil,
he devotes his attention to the ink; half of which he must surely have
imbibed, for his beak remains parti-coloured for many days, and the
inkstand, which I discover on the first fine 'retreta,' reposing within
my best beaver hat, is perfectly empty!
To their credit, be it said, the two Cocos--male and female--never for
an instant part company. Where one trips, there trips the other. If
Señor Coco starts off on any important enterprise, his Señora gives a
croak expressive of her readiness to follow, and is after him like his
own shadow. Similarly, when la Señora Coco dives into the depths of an
old boot in quest of emptiness, her lord assists at the investigation.
Once only, my Lady Coco is missing; having wandered from the house, and
lost herself in an adjacent field. Until her reappearance, Lord Coco is
inconsolable. The pastimes of the studio and the patio have no
attractions for the bereaved bird. He fasts during the day, and croaks
dismally at night. But when the prodigal at last returns, Lord Coco is
quite another bird, and in a moment of rapture he secretes our last tube
of flake white in the water-jug!
The majestic Grulla is a better behaved bird. There is a dignity about
her walk, and a formality about her ways, which are examples to her
feathered companions. At night she is as serviceable as the best
watch-dog, warning all trespassers by her piercing shriek, and by a
furious dash at them with her strong neck and sharp-pointed beak. Grulla
abominates all new-comers, and it was long before she was reconciled to
the presence of her crocodile companions. When first their objectionable
society was thrust upon the huge bird, she became nearly beside herself
with vexation, and made savage onslaughts on the invaders' impenetrable
hides. Once Grulla was in imminent danger of losing her neck whilst
taking a blind header at the enemy's beady eye; for in a moment the
reptile opened his yard of jaw for the easy accommodation of the bird's
three feet of throat. My lady's behaviour at table leaves nothing to be
desired. At the dinner hour she strides into our apartment without
bidding, and takes her allotted place. The bird's two feet six inches of
legs serve her instead of a chair, and her swan-like neck enables her to
take a bird's-eye view of the most distant dish. But she never ventures
to help herself to anything till the meal is actually placed on the
plate before her; nor does she bolt her food like a beast, but disposes
of it gracefully, like the best educated biped. Jerking the article for
consumption neatly into her beak, and raising her head high in the air,
she waits till the comestible has gravitated naturally down her throat.
The Grulla's favourite dishes are sweet bananas, boiled pumpkin, and the
crumb of new bread; but she is also partial to fresh raw beefsteak
whenever she can get it.
Everybody has his likes and his dislikes. Some people cannot abide a
pig, and Grulla's antipathy is a big Aura.
An Aura is a vulture which sails gracefully over every Cuban town in
quest of prey. The Aura is an invaluable bird in the tropics; the dead
carcases of animals being by its means cleared away in a few hours. Its
services are, in this respect, rated at so high a value that it is
considered an illicit act to slay one of these useful scavengers of the
air, and a heavy fine is imposed on the slayer.
Grulla, however, does not appreciate Aura's virtues; but whenever one of
these vultures is visible from the patio, she shrieks like a maniac,
flaps her large wings angrily, and turns wild pirouettes in the yard.
Besides our bird-models, the street criers, who pass our doors at all
hours, are occasionally induced to lend their services to the cause of
art.
Early in the morning la Lechera goes her rounds, with a large can of
milk miraculously poised upon her head. The black milkmaid is attired in
a single garment of cotton or coarse canvas; her feet and ankles are
exposed, and her head is bound with a coloured handkerchief like a
turban. We purchase daily of the Lechera a medio's worth of milk, but
she grins incredulously, when one day we invite her to enter our studio.
She is a slave belonging to the proprietor of a neighbouring farm, and
what would 'mi-amo,' her master, say, or more probably 'do,' if he heard
that his serf employed her time by sitting for her 'paisaje?'
The Almidonero next favours us with a 'call.' This gentleman traffics in
starch, an article in great demand, being employed for stiffening a
Cuban's white drill clothes. The vendor of starch is a Chinese by
birth, and, like other Celestials residing in Cuba, answers to the
nickname of Chow-chow, from a popular theory that the word (which in the
Chinese language stands for 'provisions') expresses everything in a
Chinaman's vocabulary.
Chow-chow carries upon his head a wooden tray, containing a number of
circular pats of starch, of the consistency and appearance of unbaked
loaves.
The Panadero, or baker's man, visits us twice a day. In the cool of the
early morning the little man--an Indian by birth--is extraordinarily
active and full of his business, but during the heat of mid-day, when
his visit is repeated, time to him seems of no importance. Our Indian
baker is usually discovered sleeping a siesta on our broad balcony, and
by his side lies a flat circular bread-basket as large as the wheel of a
quitrin. Despite the scorching sun, he remains in this position hatless
and bare-footed.
La Cascarillera frequently passes our door with her double cry of 'Las
Cosi-tas!'--'La Cascar-il-la!' The negress offers for sale a kind of
chalk with which the ladies of Cuba are in the habit of powdering their
faces and necks. She also sells what she calls 'cositas francesas,'
which consist of cakes and tarts prepared by the French creoles of Cuba.
Many of the less opulent Madamas of the town employ their time by making
French pastry, which their slaves afterwards dispose of in the public
streets.
The Dulcera deals in 'dulces,' and her cry of 'Dulce de guayaba! Dulce
de almiba!' proclaims that her tray contains various kinds of West
Indian preserves. The Dulcera is also a slave, and consequently derives
no pecuniary benefit from the sale of her sweets, unless, by
pre-arrangement with her owner, a share in the profits has been
allowed.
El Malojero is a dark young gentleman who perambulates the town on the
back of a mule--or more correctly on the summit of a small mountain of
long, freshly-gathered grass. This grass, or 'maloja' as it is called,
together with maize, constitute a Creole horse's fodder, and being
packed in bundles on all sides of the beast of burthen, only the head
and hoofs of the animal are visible; while el Malojero, perched several
feet above its back, completes the moving picture.
La Aguadora is perhaps the most attractive of all peripatetics of the
pavement. It is she who provides the inhabitants with the indispensable
fluid--water. The water supply of Cuba is derived from wells attached to
certain houses; but those who, like ourselves, have not this convenience
on the premises, have water brought to them from the nearest pump or
spring. More than one Aguadora is employed to replenish our empty
vessels, and, like all popular characters in Cuba, each is favoured with
a distinguishing nickname. One of our water-carriers answers to the
pseudonym Cachon, another is called Tatagüita, a third Mapí, while a
fourth is dubbed with the imposing title of Regina. In turn, these
mulatto wenches arrive from the public font with small barrels and
strangely-fashioned water-jars, and deposit their contents in our
reservoir and in our 'tina.'
A tina is a filter on a gigantic scale. The exterior resembles a sentry
box, and is furnished on all sides with ventilating apertures through
which a current of air passes. At the top of the box or cupboard is
fixed a huge basin made of a porous stone, through which the water
slowly drips, and is received thus filtered in an enormous earthen jar.
A tin pot with a very long handle serves to ladle out the filtered
liquid, and the rim of this vessel is fringed with sharp projections
like a chevaux de frise, as a caution to the thirsty not to apply their
lips to the ladle!
Our nymphs of the pump are more serviceable as models than any of their
sister itinerants. They have symmetrical forms, which are partially
revealed through the scantiness of their clothing. Their coffee-coloured
features are, besides, regular and not devoid of expression.
My companion becomes artistically captivated with Regina, who serves as
a model for an important picture, which Nicasio paints, but
unfortunately does not sell, in Cuba!
Mapí, a mulatto girl of tender years, is equally serviceable, and plays
many parts on canvas; while Cachon and Tatagüita, who are older and less
comely, impersonate characters becoming their condition.
But alas for art patronage in Cuba! these and other fanciful productions
do not meet with a purchaser in the Pearl of the Antilles.
CHAPTER VI.
CUBAN BEGGARS.
Carrapatam Bunga--The Havana Lottery--A Lady Beggar--A Beggar's
Opera--Popular Characters--Charity--A Public Raffle--The 'King of
the Universe.'
Despite the dearth of patrons for the 'legitimate' in art, my companion
and I continue to occupy our leisure moments in collecting such material
as may prove attractive in a more art-loving country. Suggestions for
pictures and sketches are not, however, wholly derived from the street
vendors I have described. The beggars of Cuba are equally worthy of
places in our sketch-books.
Spain's romantic 'Beggar on horseback,' in some respects meets with a
prototype in her colony.
That apparently hapless mendicant shuffling along the white, heated road
of a narrow street, is a blind negro, with the imposing nickname of
Carrapatam Bunga. He is attired in a clean suit of brown holland, and he
wears a broad-brimmed panama. His flat, splay feet are bare, showing
where one of his toes has been consumed by a nigua, a troublesome insect
which introduces itself into the foot, and, if not eradicated in time,
remains there to vegetate. Across his shoulders is slung a huge canvas
bag for depositing comestible alms, and in his hand is a long rustic
staff. Charity with a Cuban is a leading principle of his religion, and
to relieve the indigent--no matter whether the object for relief be
worthy or not--is next in importance to disburdening the mind to a
father confessor. Mindful of the native weakness in this respect,
Carrapatam Bunga bears his sorrows from door to door, confident that his
affliction and his damaged foot will command pity wheresoever he
wanders. But he is impudent, and a boisterous, swaggering fellow. Hear
him as he demands compassion, with his swarthy, fat face upturned to the
blazing sun, and with a long cigar between his bulging lips.
'Ave Maria! here's the poor blind man; poor fellow! Give him a medio (a
threepenny-piece) somebody. Does nobody hear him, el pobrecito? Come,
make haste! Don't keep the poor fellow waiting. Poor Carrapatam Bunga!
He is stone blind, poor fellow, and his feet are blistered and sore.
Misericordia, señores. Barajo! why don't somebody answer? Which is mi
s'ñora Mercedes' house? Will somebody lead me to it? Mi s'ñora
Mercedes!'
Bunga knows most of his patrons by name. Doña Mercedes appears at her
iron-grated window, through the bars of which the benevolent lady offers
a silver coin and a small loaf.
'Gracias, mi s'ñora; Dios se la pague su merced! (May Heaven reward your
worship.) Who's got a light for the poor ciego?'
Somebody favours the ciego with a light, and Carrapatam Bunga goes on
his way smoking and humming a tune, and presently harangues in another
street.
Will it be believed that this wanderer has a farm in the country, with
slaves in his employ, and hundreds of dollars in his exchequer? When not
on beggar-beat, Bunga retires to his possessions, where he lives
luxuriously.
Like some of his begging fraternity, the negro occasionally varies his
mendicant trade by offering for sale lottery tickets bearing what he
calls 'lucky numbers.' The Havana lottery is a great institution in
Cuba, and has an extraordinary fascination for rich as well as poor.
Each ticket costs seventeen dollars, and is printed in such a form as to
be susceptible of division into seventeen parts, so as to suit all
pockets. The prizes vary from 100 to 100,000 dollars, and there are two
'sorteos,' or draws, monthly. On each occasion 35,000 tickets are
offered for sale, and out of this number 600 are prizes. He whose number
happens to approach within ten paces of the 100,000 dollar, or 50,000
dollar prize, receives a gratuity of 200 dollars as a reward for being
'near the mark.'
This lottery is a source of revenue to the Spanish state in Cuba, which
claims a fourth share of the products yielded by the sale of tickets. As
an instance of the enormous capital sometimes derived from this source,
it is said that in a certain prosperous year, 546,000 tickets brought to
the Havana treasury no less than 8,736,000 dollars!
Our friend Carrapatam Bunga often invests in fragments of unsold
tickets, and on one occasion he drew a prize to the value of 700
dollars, which good luck, together with his beggar savings, enabled him
to purchase a farm and to hire a few labourers to work it with. Whether
from habit or from love of gain, Bunga never forsook his favourite
vocation, but continued to bear his sorrows from door to door, as if
they still belonged to him.
In Cuba, at least, beggars may be said to be choosers. Saturday is the
day which they prefer for transacting their business, because it
precedes Sunday, when the faithful attend high mass in the church, and
go to confession. Except on Saturday, and on some festive occasions, it
is a rare event for a beggar to be seen asking alms in the public
streets.
Every Saturday morning I pay my respects to Don Benigno and his amiable
señora, Doña Mercedes, who, as I have already explained, keep open house
in more than one way; the huge doors of their habitation being ajar at
all hours. As I sit chatting with my worthy hostess, the street
door--which has direct communication with the reception room--is boldly
thrown open, and a white lady, attired in well-starched muslin, and
adorned with jewels, enters. I rise, in accordance with the polite
custom of the country, while Don Benigno offers the visitor a
rocking-chair. The conversation proceeds on subjects of general
interest, in which the visitor joins. Curiously, I am never introduced
to the lady in muslin; but the unusual behaviour of my host is soon
accounted for. After a few minutes the stranger señora rises, and
approaching Doña Mercedes, offers her hand. Doña Mercedes does not take
the proffered palm, but simply places upon it a piece of silver coin of
the value of a franc.
'May Heaven reward you,' says the lady-beggar, and takes her gift and
her leave without another word.
Something like a Beggars' Opera may be realised whilst sitting before
Don Benigno's huge window on Saturday morning, and watching the
thriftless performers as they pass. The entertainment 'opens' at the
early hour of six A.M.; from that time till the Cuban breakfast-hour of
eleven, we are treated with begging solos only: mendicants who stand and
deliver monologues like Carrapatam Bunga or Muñekon--an equally popular
beggar. Sometimes the applicant for charity announces himself with a
bold bang on the door, followed by the pious ejaculation, 'Ave Maria!'
The lame, or otherwise afflicted, are content with simply directing
attention to their misfortunes, while the less 'favoured' attract public
regard by humming a wild air, to which a gibberish libretto is attached,
or by descanting upon social and political matters. The ill-paved
condition of the Cuban streets, the inefficient supply of water, the bad
lighting of the town at night, the total absence of anything like proper
drainage, are favourite topics with these open-air orators.
Like other Cuban celebrities, a characteristic _nom de guerre_ is
invented for every beggar.
That brown complexioned lady with a man's straw hat on her head, and a
faded cotton gown clinging to her shrunken form, is called Madama
Chaleco, from a popular tradition that the old lady formerly donned a
man's waistcoat or chaleco. From this cause she has become the butt of
every street boy, who irritates the poor mulatto woman into frenzy by
shouting her nickname in a derisive tone. The Madama has resided only a
few years in Cuba; her birthplace being some neighbouring island where
English and French are spoken: these languages being perfectly familiar
to the old lady.
Madama Pescuezo is another foreign importation, and her alias is
founded on a long sinewy throat or pescuezo which the dame possesses.
Isabel Huesito is famous for her leanness, and hence the appellation:
huesito, or skinny.
Madama Majá is said to have magic dealings with snakes or majás.
Gallito Pigméo is noted for his shortness of stature and his attributes
of a chicken.
Barrigilla is pot-bellied, and El Ñato has a flatter nose than his black
brethren.
Carfardóte, Taita Tomás, Macundú, Cotuntum, Carabela Zuzundá, Ña
Soledad, and Raton Cojonudo, are each named after some personal
peculiarity.
Sometimes whole sentences stand as nicknames for these popular
characters.
Amárrame-ese-perro is applied to a beggar who, like most negroes, has a
dread of dogs, and his repeated, and often causeless, cry of 'Chain me
up that dog!' earns for him this imposing title.
Another equally nervous negro fears horse-flesh, and his constant
ejaculation of 'Pull up! you horse-faced animal,' gains him the nickname
of Jála-pa-lante-cara-de-caballo!
Our Beggars' Opera concludes with a brilliant chorus of mendicants, who,
at twelve o'clock, visit their patrons in large companies. At that hour,
one of Don Benigno's slaves enters with a large flat basket containing a
quantity of small two-penny loaves, which the negro places upon the
marble floor in front of the open door. Soon a crowd of beggars of all
shades and castes, who during the last half-hour have been squatting in
a row under the broad shade of the opposite houses, approach, and,
without bidding, help to empty the capacious bread-basket. Further up
the street they go, picking up more crumbs at rich mansions, whose
owners occasionally vary their entertainment by providing for their
vagrant visitors a little 'ajiaco,' or native soup.
Cuban people are not fond of bestowing their charity through the medium
of a public institution. The only place of the kind in that part of Cuba
which I am describing is called the Beneficencia, or almshouse, which is
under the superintendence of the Sisters of Charity. Wealthy ladies
contribute largely towards the support of this establishment, but, in
order to provide funds, public raffles are indispensable. Nothing
succeeds in Cuba so well as something in which chance or luck, combined
with amusement, is the inducement of the venture, and a raffle in aid of
funds for the famished is always popular.
Doña Mercedes, the most benevolent of ladies, tells me that she and the
prosperous Señoras already referred to have in project a grand bazaar
for the benefit of the poor, to which everybody is expected to
contribute. The articles received for the purposes of the bazaar are to
be exhibited in one of the big saloons of the Governor's house, which
overlooks the Plaza de Armas, and they will be raffled for during three
special evenings. For weeks Doña Mercedes and her charitable sisters are
busy collecting and numbering the contributions as they arrive, or
twisting the paper chances into the form of cigar lights.
The military square presents an animated scene on the evenings of the
raffle. Twelve tables, bearing rich cloths and silver candelabra, are
distributed about the broad promenade of the plaza. Around each table
are seated a score of the fairest of Cuba's daughters, elegantly
attired in evening costume, without any head-covering, and with only a
scarf or shawl lightly protecting their fair shoulders. Doña Mercedes
looks charming in a pink grenadine dress, and with her luxuriant black
hair tastefully arranged, as a Cuban Señora alone knows how. Each lady
adopts her most insinuating manner in order to dispose of her twisted
tickets, the greater portion of which contain, of course, blanks, or a
consolatory couplet, like a motto in a cracker, for the gratification of
the unsuccessful purchaser. There is loud cheering when a prize is
drawn, especially if it happen to be of importance, like the 'grand
prize,' which consists of a prettily worked purse containing six golden
onzas (twenty pounds sterling).
Crowds of beggars are assembled within range of the plaza, and some of
them occasionally invest in a medio or peseta's worth of tickets, but as
coloured people are never permitted to mix with white folk in public,
their tickets are handed to them by officials appointed for that
purpose. Some of these blacks are 'retired' slaves: in other words,
negroes who have become free, either by devoting the savings of many
years to the purchase of their liberty, or by having their freedom left
them as a legacy by an indulgent master. Those who have ability and
industry make the most of their precious gifts by devoting their
energies to trade or to music, for which accomplishment negroes have
often a natural inclination; but the infirm or the inactive--and of
these there is always a majority--are reduced to penury, in which
condition they fall naturally into begging ways, and prosper
accordingly.
That intelligent-looking black who craves of me a peseta in order to buy
a small bundle of tickets for the raffle, is a well-known beggar. His
name is Roblejo, and he owes his freedom to the publication of a book of
poems written by himself. Assisted by a benevolent _littérateur_,
Roblejo was enabled to put his poetic lucubrations into readable form,
and the novelty taking the public fancy, subscribers were found
sufficient for the purpose of printing the book, and effecting the
author's emancipation.
'Holá, Don Pancho! How goes it with thee?' The individual whom I address
is probably the most popular beggar in the town. His real name is Pancho
Villergas, but he is commonly known as El Rey del Orbe (the King of the
Universe). I have often endeavoured to secure a faithful likeness of
this illustrious gentleman, but Pancho cannot be prevailed upon to sit
either to an artist or to a photographer. Whenever the subject is
broached by me, El Rey del Orbe grins, shakes his head knowingly, and
observes, in the only English with which he is conversant:
'Oh, ye--s; vary vel, no good, good mornin'.'
Pancho is a genuine white man, but age and exposure to the sun and wind
have bronzed him to a mulatto colour. He has a picturesque Saint Francis
beard, and a benign, strongly marked countenance. He wears a coat
purposely patched with many shaded cloths; each shade being considered
by him to represent one of his numerous dominions. Being buttoned up to
his neck, the coat gives him a military appearance, while it economises
his linen. Upon his head is a tall beaver hat, which has seen better
days, but which the Universe-King is careful to keep well brushed.
Pancho is slightly crazed, and his monomania consists in the belief that
he is not a beggar, but a benefactor to his country. With this notion,
no persuasion will induce him to accept a donation in the shape of
coin. Those who are acquainted with Pancho's weakness, and desire to
relieve his wants, must do so through the medium of stratagem. If they
succeed in imposing upon El Rey del Orbe by prevailing upon him to
'borrow' food or raiment, they consider themselves amply rewarded for
their act of charity. The only article which the King of the Universe
will deign to accept is foolscap writing-paper, because he believes that
the use to which he applies it will be beneficial to mankind in general,
and to Cuba in particular. He fills his foolscap with correspondence,
which he addresses to the highest authorities; the favoured recipients
being His Excellency the Governor, the alcalde mayor, and members of the
town council. Whenever any political or social question is raised, the
King of the Universe is sure to despatch an important document bearing
his opinion and advice. His majesty is usually his own letter-carrier,
unless he can meet with a trustworthy messenger in the shape of a
priest, an officer, or a policeman. The matter contained in these
momentous memorials occupies from eighteen to twenty closely-written
sheets, and is always prefaced with the imposing heading: 'Yo, el Rey'
(I, the King).
Pancho's indigence and infatuation have a romantic origin. This old,
shabby-looking object before me was at one time a well-to-do planter,
and held a high position among merchants. One fatal day he became
enamoured of a creole coquette, who cruelly jilted him. The
disappointment turned his brain. People attributed his harmless insanity
to eccentricity, and merchants transacted business with him as of old,
till one heartless scoundrel, taking advantage of his misfortune,
swindled him out of a large sum of money, and this deed eventually led
to Pancho's insolvency and utter ruin.
CHAPTER VII.
THE BLACK ART IN CUBA.
A Model Mulatto--A Bewitched Watchman--Cuban Sorcery--An Enchanted
Painter.
It is not always easy to secure the services of a better class of model
than our peripatetic of the pavement. Before we can induce such a person
to walk into our studio, many arts, unconnected with our calling, must
be employed, especially if the object of our solicitation happen to be
young and fair. Having directed our professional gaze upon such a
Señorita, it behoves us first to visit her family, and make friends with
her parents, brothers or sisters, in order that their consent may be
easily and naturally obtained. Thus, when I cast my artistic eye upon
the pretty Perpetua, I have to proceed with extreme caution, lest her
parents should misinterpret the nature of my demand. For Perpetua
belongs to the octoroon 'species' of mulatto. Her father is a white man,
and her mother is a free-born quadroon-woman, and they reside with their
daughter in an humble dwelling near our studio. Don Ramon being a small
tobacconist, and his wife, Doña Choncha, a laundress, we have sometimes
patronised the little family, and in this manner I make the acquaintance
of my future model. It is, however, far from easy to persuade the old
lady that my admiration for her daughter is wholly confined to the
picturesque; for when I broach the model-subject, Doña Choncha smiles
incredulously, and says she will consult her friends. While she is doing
so, an extraordinary revelation respecting the brown old dame is made to
me by Mateo, the 'sereno' or watchman of our district.
Armed with a pike, lantern, revolver, and coil of rope for pinioning
purposes, the watchman wanders about our neighbourhood, halting every
quarter of an hour to blow a shrill whistle to inform the inhabitants of
the time of night, and whether it is 'sereno' (fine) or 'nublado'
(cloudy).
One dark night the sereno pauses before our balcony, and after assuring
the somnolent, in recitative, that it is 'three-quarters past eleven and
nu-bla-do!' approaches me, and in a mysterious whisper enquires whether
I carry 'contradaños,' or charms against evil, about my person. Finding
that I do not possess such articles, the watchman recommends me to apply
without delay for a talisman or two. Raw mustard, powdered glass, and
sulphur, he says, are highly effectual as charms. At that very moment
Mateo's pockets are full of these safeguards, and when threatened with
any danger, he has only to sprinkle around him some of the antidote
against evil.
The watchman then tells me that Doña Choncha is in league with 'brujas'
(witches), and that if I continue to visit at her house I shall do well
to take the precautions he has suggested.
Mateo is himself a firm believer in the Black Art, and gives me some
interesting particulars respecting a secret society of sorcerers, who
hold certain midnight revels in an empty saloon of a house somewhere in
the town. There is a kind of freemason mystery attached to their
proceedings, and none but members are in the secret. It appears,
however, that their dark deeds consist chiefly in a dead-of-night dance
around a defunct 'majá' or enchanted snake, by a number of people, most
of whom are attired in nature's vestments.
The watchman likewise tells me that the practice of witchcraft in Cuba
is sometimes attended with serious and fatal consequences, and that
crimes of the worst description are frequently the result of it. An
individual unwittingly takes his neighbour's life in obedience to
commands from a sanguinary sorcerer, who requires a certain weight of
human blood to complete the ingredients of an enchanted preparation.
'Bring me a couple of handfuls of hair, and four ounces of blood from
Fulano,' says the weird, who has been applied to for spiritual
absolution, 'and I will prepare you a contradaño--a charm--that shall
rid you of your evil genius, and help you out of your present
difficulty.' Fulano objects to part with his 'personal' property, when
the request is made to him in a friendly way; so he gets a hard knock on
the head one day, when he least expects it, and if he escapes with his
life he is lucky.
Such instances of witchcraft as these, the sereno says, are found only
among the coloured population of Cuba, and when discovered the
perpetrators of the nefarious acts are brought to justice and severely
punished; but belief in necromancy exists even among the more
enlightened inhabitants of Cuba, and it is far from uncommon to hear of
highly respectable whites taking part in the practice of it.
Mateo then gives me his own personal experiences of the Black Art as a
warning against the danger which, he says, will surely threaten me if I
continue to visit the tobacconist family.
The watchman assures me that for many long weeks he had laboured under
the depressing influence of a spell. The unfortunate occurrence began
with an anonymous letter conveying the unwelcome information that a
certain enemy of Mateo's was engaged in brewing some dreadful mischief
for his especial benefit. In his professional capacity, the watchman has
more than one foe in the town, and it is therefore difficult to 'spot,'
and afterwards capture, the actual offender. The warning letter,
however, admonishes him that so long as he does not walk in a certain
locality, no harm to him can possibly accrue. It is not easy for Mateo
to avoid the indicated thoroughfare, as it happens to come exactly
within our watchman's beat at night; but he surmounts the obstacle at
the risk of incurring his employers' displeasure, by exchanging beats
with a brother watchman. The irregular act is, however, made known to
the authorities, and Mateo is threatened with instant dismissal if he
persists in avoiding the street in question. Fortunately, the sereno
receives a second missive from the anonymous correspondent, containing
the assurance that there is still hope for immediate and radical
disenchantment if Mateo will only follow the writer's advice. This
consists, first of all, in depositing a piece of coin under the door of
his correspondent's habitation. At an early hour, the money will
disappear through some unseen agency, and will afterwards be consigned
to a disenchanting locality in the Cuban bay. The sereno is next
enjoined to examine the lining of his bran-new panama, which he has
lately purchased to wear only on festive occasions. If all goes well, he
will assuredly discover certain black pins and human hairs crossed,
entwined and affixed in a peculiar fashion to the crown of his hat. The
same evil omens will likewise appear at the ferule end of his
gold-knobbed walking-stick. Satisfied that there is 'no deception,' the
proprietor of the enchanted hat and cane wraps up those articles
carefully in several folds of paper, according to instructions, and
early one Sunday morning deposits the parcel in a certain hole in an
undesirable field on the confines of the town.
'When I had done so,' concludes the watchman, pausing to inform the
inhabitants that it is three-quarters past midnight and
nu-bla-do!--'when I had done so, I walked without fear along the
forbidden street, and I have walked there in safety ever since!'
The watchman enjoins me to be warned by his story, and once more advises
me to provide myself with a few contradaños.
'Had I taken the same precautions,' observes Mateo, 'I should have
escaped all my troubles.'
'And preserved your panama and gold-headed cane!' I add.
'Past one o'clock and seren-o!' sings the watchman as he takes his leave
of me.
My interest in the tobacconist's family is considerably increased by
what I have heard, and my visits are none the less frequent because of
the friendly admonitions which I have received. I do not provide myself
with the talismans which the sereno has recommended; but I watch the
old lady's ways more narrowly than I have before done, till I begin at
last to detect something like a malignant expression in her shrunken,
yellow-brown countenance.
I observe no change in her pretty daughter, though I must confess that
in one way, at least, La Perpetua is more 'charming' than ever. The
young girl is full of her approaching 'fiesta,' or saint's day, which
annual event is to be celebrated by an afternoon ball and early supper
at her humble home. The presents she expects to receive in the shape of
trays of dulces and confectionary will, she assures me, exceed those of
the past fiesta. Perpetua is the acknowledged belle of the 'barrio,' or
district, where she resides, and she has many admirers. But
unfortunately the young creole is not so white as her fair complexion
would lead one to suppose. Don Ramon is undoubtedly a white man, but his
wife belongs to the mulatto tribe, and Perpetua's origin is
unquestionably obscure. Still Doña Choncha has great hopes that her
pretty daughter will command a white alliance among her husband's
friends in spite of this drawback, and it is whispered that the
ambitious old dame has her eye upon more than one eligible suitor for
her child's whitey-brown hand. Mateo, the watchman--ever hard on Doña
Choncha--declares that it is her 'evil eye' that is being exercised in
Perpetua's behalf; but I heed him not, though I am now more than ever
cautious in my behaviour at the tobacconist's.
Whatever truth there may be in the watchman's assertion that I am the
object of enchantment, at present I have received no practical evidence
of it. When I probe Perpetua privately on the subject, I find that she
has little to tell, except that her mother is in the habit of visiting
a locality in the town unknown to Perpetua and Don Ramon, and that, upon
one occasion, she administered a harmless drug to her daughter, assuring
her that it was a protection against cholera.
As for Don Ramon--that good-natured gentleman is altogether a
disbeliever in witchcraft, and though he admits that the art is popular
among a certain class in Cuba, he is of opinion that the Cuban bruja, or
witch, is simply a high order of gipsy, whose chief object is pecuniary
gain. The government of the country, with its accustomed inertness, has
not yet established a law for the suppression of this evil; 'and so,'
says the tobacconist, 'sorcery flourishes, and the brujas prosper.'
I am beginning to abandon all hope of obtaining La Perpetua for a model,
when one day I receive an anonymous letter, the handwriting and diction
of which seem to be the production of an uninstructed Ethiop. The writer
assures me that somebody or other is at present engaged in the useful
occupation of working for my complete overthrow and subjugation, and
that if I require further particulars on the subject I may easily obtain
them for the small consideration of a 'punctured peseta' (a coin with a
'lucky' hole in it).
When I exhibit the mysterious document to the watchman, that individual
is of course highly pleased to find that I have, at last, received some
evidence of the existence of such mighty people as brujas, and his
advice resolves itself, as usual, into sulphur and powdered mustard. He
has now not the least doubt that Doña Choncha has made application to
the brujas for a spell, and he recommends me to pay the peseta asked of
me by my anonymous correspondent.
A communication from a live witch is worth all the money demanded for
it, and I accordingly place the coin, as directed, in a crevice under my
door. Sure enough, it disappears before daylight, and in return I obtain
a second sheet of magic manuscript, which, like its predecessor, is
unpleasantly greasy to the touch and offensive to the nose; but it is
full of information, and concludes with an offer to effect my permanent
disenchantment if I will but follow the writer's instructions. If I am
disposed to do so, I must first meet the writer, or his deputy, alone in
a certain unfrequented locality of the town at a late hour; arming
myself with a contradaño in the shape of a media onza. Thirty-four
shillings may appear a high rate for disenchantment, but the watchman
assures me that the operation often costs four times that amount, and
that if the unknown bruja fulfils his promise I shall have made a great
bargain. As I do not value my malignant spirit at any price, I decline
for the present to avail myself of this opportunity to be relieved of
it.
My occupations prevent me from paying my accustomed visits at the
tobacconist's for some days, but one sunny morning I venture to look in
at the little establishment.
Don Ramon, I am told, is passing some weeks at his 'vega,' or tobacco
farm; but his black assistants are at their wooden benches as usual,
rolling tobacco leaves into cigars. I pass through the section of a shop
(which has neither wall nor window in front of it) into the inner
apartment, usually occupied by Doña Choncha and her daughter, and find
the former engaged in sorting tobacco leaves on the brick-floor, and
the latter in swaying and fanning herself in a cane rocking-chair. Both
ladies salute me respectfully, and make kind enquiries after my health.
These formalities over, Doña Choncha collects together her tobacco
leaves, and, without a word of explanation, adjourns to the 'patio.' For
the first time, since my acquaintance with the tobacconist's family, I
am left alone with the pretty Perpetua!
All is not well with her weird-looking mother, as I very shortly have
reason to find. I have been scarcely ten minutes in Perpetua's agreeable
society, when she is summoned by her mother to the court-yard. Upon her
return I am offered some 'refresco,' made from the juicy fruit of the
guanabana.
'Who mixed this drink?' I enquire, after taking a sip of it.
'La máma mixed it,' replies Perpetua.
Has the old hag added some infernal drug to the refreshment? I wonder;
for there is something besides guanabana in the libation!
While I am speculating about this, lo! a strange odour is wafted into
the little chamber, and presently some smoke is seen to issue from an
aperture in the door.
Is the house on fire? Perpetua is again summoned by Doña Choncha; but
before leaving the apartment she begs me not to be alarmed, as it is
only her mother at her duties. I would willingly believe what she says,
but being sufficiently familiar with the process of drying tobacco
leaves, I am convinced that sulphur, hair, mustard, and heaven knows
what besides, are not employed in it. The fumes of these burning
substances are, however, entering the apartment, and the atmosphere is
most oppressive--so much so, that my pulse beats high, and my head
begins to swim.
Without waiting another moment, I seize my walking-stick and panama hat,
and escape from the enchanted chamber into the street. The hot air does
not dispel the giddy feeling which had come over me, and not until I
have reached my well-ventilated abode, changed my damp linen, and
sponged my fevered body with 'aguardiente' and water, do I feel myself
again. I am better still after having taken a refreshing siesta in my
swinging hammock, in which condition I dream of black pins, burnt hair,
raw mustard, and sulphur. When I awake, I examine carefully the lining
of my panama, and the ferule end of my walking-stick, to satisfy myself
that no burglarious bruja has taken advantage of my repose to tamper
with my property. But whether it is that my stick and hat are of no
great value, or that the defences of our studio are impregnable, no
bruja has offered to take 'charge' of these things by labelling them
with their infernal tickets.
My partner, to whom I record the events of the day, is of opinion that
if all models are as difficult to secure as La Perpetua, we had better
abandon our researches in this direction, and abide by our street criers
and mendicants. He also suggests a little landscape-painting by way of
variety, and, with this object in view, we plan certain walking
expeditions into the surrounding country. What subjects for landscape
pictures we meet with, and whether or not we are more successful in our
quest after inanimate nature, will be told in another chapter.
CHAPTER VIII.
A TASTE OF CUBAN PRISON-LIFE.
Two Views of the Morro Castle--The Commandant--The Town Jail--Cuban
Policemen--Prisoners--A Captive Indian--Prison Fare--A Court of
Justice--A Trial--A Verdict.
I dream that I am Silvio Pellico, that the prisoner of St. Helena is my
fellow-captive, and that an apartment belonging to the Spanish
Inquisition is our dormitory. Clasps of iron eat their way into our
ankles and wrists; gigantic rats share our food; our favourite exercise
is swinging head downwards in the air, and our chief recreation is to
watch the proceedings of tame spiders.
I awake and find my bed unusually hard. My bed-clothes have vanished,
and in their stead are a couple of hard benches, with my wearing apparel
rolled up for a pillow. By a dim light I observe that my apartment is
remarkably small, bare, damp, and dome-shaped. The window is a barred
aperture in the door; is only a foot square, and looks on to the patio,
or narrow passage, where unlimited wall stares me in the face. Do I
still dream, or is this actually one of 'le mie prigioni'? I rub my eyes
for a third time, and look about the semi-darkened vault. Somebody is
snoring. I gaze in the direction whence the sound proceeds, and observe
indistinctly an object huddled together in a corner. So, this is no
dream, after all; and that heap of sleeping humanity is not Napoleon,
but my companion, Nicasio Rodriguez y Boldú.
We are both shut up in one of the subterranean dungeons of the Morro
Castle; not the Havana Morro, but the fortress at Santiago de Cuba,
alluded to by Tom Cringle.
Why are we here?
What were we doing yesterday afternoon?
Well; we were taking a seven miles walk to the Morro Castle, the
picturesque neighbourhood of which we had not yet visited, and as the
grounds attached to the fortress are always open to the public, we
proposed a quiet evening saunter over them.
We had a negro with us, an old and faithful vassal, who at the present
moment is enjoying solitary confinement in another part of the fortress.
We reached the castle grounds, where a group of Spanish 'militares' were
seated. We gave them the 'Buenas tardes:' they returned our salute, and
their chief, who was no less a personage than the commandant of the
Morro, offered us refreshment, and permitted us to wander about the
grounds. In our ramble we paused here and there to admire the
picturesque 'bits' of scenery which, at every turn of a winding road,
broke upon our view. By a narrow path cut in the grey rock we descended
to the sea-shore, and stood before the entrance of the Cuban harbour. We
watched the French packet as she steamed into port on her way to the
town, and saw the gun fired which announced her arrival. The steamer was
so near, that we could scan the faces of everybody on board, and hear
enthusiastic congratulations on their safe arrival after their tedious
voyage. The skipper conferred with the Morro guard. What was the ship's
name? Where did she hail from? Who was her captain? Where was she bound
for? A needless demand, I thought, seeing that there is no water
navigable beyond the town; but it was in strict conformity with Spanish
regulations.
As evening advanced, we prepared to return to our temporary home, where
a good dinner doubtless awaited us, with a cup of café noir to follow,
and correspondence--ah! my friends never missed a mail--to open and to
devour.
'Alto allá!' The ominous command to halt where we stood, still rings in
my ear. A party of soldiers, with pointed muskets and fixed bayonets,
ran with all speed in our direction.
'Car-amba!' Were we the object of their precipitation? We were!
They conducted us to an eminence, where stood a podgy, high-shouldered,
short-necked man with a squeaky interrogative voice and gold spectacles.
This was the commandant. Without explanation, that officer, in brief
words, ordered us to be arrested.
The soldiers obeyed. They bandaged our eyes with handkerchiefs. They led
us along hollow-sounding alleys; beneath echoing archways; down scores
of stone steps; through mouldy passages. Lower yet, where a strong
flavour of cooking assailed our sense of smell. A couple more downward
flights, and then we paused--heard a jingling of big keys--an opening of
ponderous doors--and here we were.
Here, in a subterranean vault, I know not how many feet below sunlight.
The air is close and vaporous; the domed chamber is damp and musty. They
have divested us of all our portable property save a few cigarettes
which we have secreted in a dark corner, and there is nothing to be had
in the way of refreshment for love or money.
Yes, for money. I have bribed the sentinel, who occasionally eclipses
our square of window, with all my ready cash, and he has brought us
contraband cups of weak coffee. Will he treat our dark domestic as well?
We try him, and find that he won't.
What's o'clock? We have no means of ascertaining this, as Phoebus, who
might have suggested the time of day, is a long way out of sight. Our
sentinel says it is early morning.
Hark! A sound of many footsteps; a rattling of arms and keys. Enter our
military jailer with a dozen soldiers to release us from our present
quarters. Our eyes are bandaged as before, and after passing up several
flights of steps in another direction, our sight is restored: the scene
changes, and we are discovered, like the Prince of Denmark, upon another
part of the platform. Our faithful vassal is with us, looking as much
like a ghost as it is possible for a negro to appear. They have tied his
arms behind him with cords, and serve us in the same manner; while eight
soldiers encircle us at respectful distances, and deliberately proceed
to load their weapons. The negro trembles with affright, and falls on
his knees. Misericordia! they are going to shoot us, he thinks; for he
is ignorant of the Spanish custom of loading in the presence of the
prisoner before escorting him from one jail to another.
To another? Santo Dios! Then we are prisoners still? I think of the
victim of Santa Margherita and his many prisons, and begin to wonder how
many years of incarceration we shall experience.
'En marcha!' Eight 'militares' and a sergeant place us in their midst,
and in this way we march to town, a distance of seven miles. Our
sergeant proves to be more humane than his superior, and on the uneven
road pauses to screw up cigarettes for us, and, in consideration of our
helpless condition, even places them in our mouths.
It is Sunday morning, and when we reach the town all good Catholics have
been to high mass, and are parading the narrow thoroughfare dressed in
fashionable attire. Crowds gather around us and speculate as to the
particular crime we are guilty of; and, to tell the truth, our
appearance is by no means respectable. Have we shot the commandant?
Undermined the Morro? Poisoned the garrison? Have we headed a negro
conspiracy, or joined a gang of pirates? Friends whom we recognise on
our way endeavour to interrogate us, but are interrupted by the
sergeant. We halt before the governor's house; but his excellency is not
yet out of bed, and may not be disturbed. So we proceed to the town
jail, where everybody is stirring and where they are happy to see us,
and receive us with open doors. A dozen policemen, dressed in
brown-holland coats, trimmed with yellow braid and silver buttons, with
panama hats, revolvers, and short Roman swords, are seated on benches at
the prison entrance. Passing them, we are hurried into a white-washed
chamber, where a frowning functionary, in brown-holland and silver lace,
with a panama on his head, and a long cigar in his mouth, sits at a desk
scribbling something on stamped paper. He pauses to examine and peruse
a large letter which our sergeant hands him, and which contains a
statement of our arrest, with full particulars of our misdeeds. The
document is folded in official fashion, is written, regardless of
economy, with any quantity of margin, and is terminated by a tremendous
signature, accompanied by an elaborate flourish, which occupies exactly
half a page. The gentleman in brown-holland casts a look of suspicion at
us, and directs a couple of policemen to search us, 'registrar' us, as
he calls it, which they accordingly do; but nothing that we could
dispense with is found on our persons, except the grime upon our hands
and faces, and a pearl button, which has strayed during the journey, and
somehow found its way into my boot.
Nothing further being required of us for the present, we are conducted
into the centre of the jail to an extensive court-yard, where a crowd of
prisoners of all shades and castes lie basking in the sun. We are led to
one of the galleries which surround the patio, our arms are untied, and
we are introduced into three different chambers.
The apartment alloted to me is spacious and airy enough, and has a huge
barred window that overlooks the main thoroughfare. In these respects,
at least, my quarters resemble an ordinary Cuban parlour in a private
house. But the only articles of furniture are a couple of hard benches
and a straw mattress; and although a Cuban parlour has a barred window,
a brick floor, and white-washed walls, it has also a few cane-bottomed
chairs, an elegant mirror, and a gas chandelier.
The prison in which I am confined was originally a convent, and now it
is not only devoted to the use of malefactors, but also accommodates
mad people, whose shrieks and wild laughter I occasionally hear.
From my window I can see into the private houses opposite, where ladies
are swaying and fanning themselves in 'butacas,' or rocking-chairs,
while half a dozen naked white and black children play in an adjacent
room. Friends passing along the street recognise me; but I may not
converse with them, or the sentry below will inform, and I shall be
removed to a more secluded part of the stronghold.
I am not alone. My chamber is occupied by a native Indian, whose origin
is distinguishable by his lank, jet-black hair, his gipsy-like
complexion, and finely-cut nostrils. He is neither tattooed, nor does he
wear feathers, beads or animals' hides; but with the exception of his
face and hands (which are very dirty) he has all the appearance of a
civilized being.
The Indian has been himself arrested on suspicion, but his trial has
been postponed for many weary months, and he is at present quite
ignorant of the charge on which he may stand accused. Having no friends
to intercede for him, or golden doubloons wherewith to convince the
authorities of his innocence, the poor fellow is afraid things will go
hard with him.
The Indian is eloquent on the subjects of slavery and Spanish rule, both
of which he warmly denounces. He is careful to remind me, that although
he speaks the Spanish language, and is governed by Spanish laws, he is
no more a Spaniard than is an American an Englishman. There is something
in common between these nationalities, he says, whereas between a Cuban
and a Spaniard there is a very wide gulf!
My patriotic friend gets so excited over these and other favourite
topics that, afraid of the consequences of his conversation, I propose a
smoke.
'What!' he exclaims, approaching me in what seems a threatening
attitude. 'Is it possible that you have any tobacco, and that you are
going to smoke some here?'
Lest the Indian should be no smoker himself and dislike the odour of
tobacco, I tell him that if he objects, I will postpone my harmless
whiff until after captivity.
He does object; but after contemplating my scanty supply of cigarettes
as I restore them to my pocket, he observes with a sigh:
'I was once an inveterate smoker!'
'Till you very wisely gave up the vice,' I add.
'No!' says he, 'I did not give it up. It was my accursed captors who
withheld it from me. I have not smoked for many long months, and I would
often give ten years of my life for one little cigarette!'
'Try one of mine,' I suggest, extracting the packet again which alas!
contains my last four.
'Gracias; no,' he replies, 'I shall be depriving you, and you will find
cigarettes scarce in these quarters!'
'If you are a true Cuban,' I observe, 'you will remember that it is next
to an insult to refuse a man's tobacco. Besides, if you object to my
indulging in the luxury upon the plea that the delicious perfume is
unendurable in another, both of us will be deprived of the pleasure!'
'You are right,' says the Indian, 'then I will take just one.'
So saying, he accepts the little paper squib which I offer, and
carefully divides the contents into two equal parts; explaining, as he
does so, how he intends to reserve one half of the tobacco for another
occasion.
While thus engaged I am reminded of the awful fact that I have no means
of igniting our cigarettes. When I mention this unfortunate circumstance
to my companion, he smiles triumphantly, and after placing his ear to
the door in melodramatic fashion, proceeds to raise a particular brick
in the floor of our apartment under which at least half a dozen matches
are concealed.
'These matches,' he remarks, 'have been treasured in that hole ever
since I came to lodge in this jail.'
'Have you resided here long?' I inquire.
'It has appeared long to me,' he answers, 'eighteen months, more or
less; but I have no record of the date.'
'You must have found the hours hang heavily on you,' I remark, 'or,
maybe, you have a hobby like the political prisoners one reads of. You
have a favorite flower somewhere? Or, perhaps, you are partial to
spiders?'
'There are plenty of gigantic spiders here,' he replies, 'together with
centipedes and scorpions; but whenever one of those reptiles crosses my
path--I kill it!'
When my fellow-captive learns my nationality, his surprise and pleasure
are very great.
'I like the English and Americans,' says he, 'and I would become one or
the other to-morrow, if it were possible.'
'You are very kind to express so much esteem for my countrymen,' I say.
'It is not so much your countrymen,' he says, 'as your free country with
its just and humane laws, which every Cuban admires and covets.'
I remind him that, under existing circumstances, I am no better off
than he is, though to be sure as a British subject, my consul, who
resides in Santiago, will doubtless see me righted.
The Indian is, however, of a different opinion. He assures me that my
nationality will avail me nothing if I have no interest with some of the
Spanish officials. He gives me instances to prove how it is often out of
the power of a consul to assist a compatriot in difficulties.
'Not long since,' says my friend, 'a marine from your country, being
intoxicated, and getting mixed up in a street brawl, was arrested and
locked up with a crowd of insubordinate coolies and Spanish deserters.
His trial was, as usual, postponed. In the meanwhile, the jail had
become overcrowded by the arrival of some wounded soldiers from San
Domingo, and your countryman was shipped off with others to another
prison at Manzanillo, where he was entered on the list of convicts, and
has never been heard of since.'
'In this very jail,' continues the Indian, 'are a couple of American
engineers, both of whom stand accused of being concerned in a negro
conspiracy, and who have been locked up here for the last six months.
They are ignorant of the Spanish language, have mislaid their passports,
and have been denied a conference with their consul, who is, of course,
unaware of their incarceration.'
I make a mental note of this last case, with a view to submit it to the
proper authority as soon as I shall be able to do so.
My attention is presently arrested by a sound which reminds me of
washing, for in Cuba this operation is usually performed by placing the
wet linen on a flat board, and belabouring it with a smooth stone or a
heavy roller. My companion smiles when I give him my impression of the
familiar sounds, and he tells me that white linen is not the object of
the beating, but black limbs! An unruly slave receives his castigation
at the jail when it is found inconvenient to perform the operation under
his master's roof. No inquiry into the offence is made by the officers
of justice; the miscreant is simply ordered twenty-five or fifty lashes,
as the case may be, by his accuser, who acts also as his jury, judge,
and occasionally--executioner!
Whilst listening to the unfortunate's groans and appeals for mercy, I
watch the proceedings of a chain-gang of labourers, some twenty of whom
have left the jail for the purpose of repairing a road in an adjacent
street. They are dressed in canvas suits, numbered and lettered on the
back, and wear broad-brimmed straw-hats. Each man smokes, and makes a
great rattling of his chains as he assists in drawing along the heavy
trucks and implements for work. A couple of armed soldiers and three or
four prison-warders accompany the gang; the former to keep guard, the
latter to superintend the labour. Some of the prisoners sell hats, fans,
toys, and other articles of their own manufacture as they go along. One
of these industrious gentlemen has entered, chains and all, into a
private house opposite, and while he stands bargaining with a highly
respectable white, his keeper sits, like Patience, on the doorstep
smoking a cigar.
I withdraw from the window to meet my jailer, who has brought--not my
freedom? no; my food. It is the first meal I have tasted for many long
hours, and I am prepared to relish it though it be but a banana and
Catalan wine.
These are, however, the least items in the princely fare which the
jailer has brought. The whitest of tablecloths is removed from the
showiest of trays, and discloses a number of small tureens, in which
fish, flesh, and fowl have been prepared in a variety of appetising
ways. Besides these are a square cedar-box of guava preserves, a pot of
boiling black coffee, a bundle of the best Ti Arriba cigars, and a
packet of Astrea cigarettes; all served on the choicest china. This
goodly repast cometh from La Señora Mercedes, under whose hospitable
roof I have lodged and fed for many months. Doña Mercedes has heard of
our captivity, and, without making any enquiry into the nature of our
misdemeanour, has instantly despatched one of her black domestics with
the best breakfast she can prepare.
The Indian assures me that the admittance into jail of such a collation
augurs well. I have doubtless friends who are using their influence with
the officials in my behalf, and, in short, he considers my speedy
release a certainty.
'Usted gusta?' I invite my companion to share the good things, but he
excuses himself by saying that, with his present prospects, he would
rather not recall the feeling of a good meal. He, however, partakes of
some of my coffee, the odour of which is far too savoury for his
self-denial, and helps me with the tobacco.
Breakfast over, I take a siesta on half the furniture, and after a few
hours' delicious oblivion am awakened by the jailer, who comes with the
welcome news that the court is sitting, and that my presence is
required.
'Imprisoned and tried on the same day!' exclaims my Indian friend.
'Then,' says he, 'I may well wish you adieu for ever!'
A Cuban court of justice, broadly described, consists of two old men, a
deal table, a bottle of ink, and a boy. One of the elders is the alcalde
mayor, an awful being, invested with every kind of administrative power;
the other functionary is his escribano, or legal man-of-all-work, who
dispenses Spanish law upon the principle of 'French without a master.'
He professes to teach prisoners their fate in one easy lesson, without
the interposition of either counsel or jury. None but those immediately
concerned in the case are admitted into the tribune; so that the
prisoner, who is frequently the only party interested, has the court, so
to speak, all to himself!
The chamber into which I am ushered on the present occasion has very
much the appearance of a schoolroom during the holidays. The walls are
white-washed, and half a dozen short forms lie in disorder about the
brick floor. At one end of the apartment is a yellow map of the
Antilles; at the other is hung a badly painted oil portrait of her
Catholic Majesty Isabella, with a soiled coat-of-arms of Castile above
her, and a faded Spanish banner half concealing her royal countenance.
Beneath this trophy, on a raised platform, is seated the prison
magistrate, or fiscal, as he is called. Before him is a cedar-wood
table, with a bottle of ink, a glass of blotting sand and a quire of
stamped paper. On his right is an escribano and a couple of
interpreters, whose knowledge of the English language I afterwards find
to be extremely limited. On his left is seated my captive companion
Nicasio Rodriguez y Boldú. Everybody present, including a couple of
brown-holland policemen at the door, is smoking, which has a sociable
air, and inspires me with confidence. Upon my appearance in court
everybody rises; the fiscal politely offers me a cigar and a seat on the
bench.
As a matter of form--for my Spanish is by no means unintelligible--I am
examined through the medium of an interpreter, who makes a terrible hash
of my replies. He talks of the 'foots of my friend's negro,' and the
'commandant's, officers', sergeant's relations,' by which I infer that
the learned linguist has never overcome the fifth lesson of his
Ollendorff. It is accordingly found necessary to conduct the rest of the
inquiry in good Castilian.
A great case has been made out against us by the commandant, who
represents us in his despatch as spies in league with any quantity of
confederates. A pocket-book full of nefarious notes and significant
scratches has been found upon me: together with a four-bladed penknife,
a metallic corkscrew, a very black lead-pencil, and an ink-eraser! In
the commandant's opinion the said notes are, without doubt, private
observations on the mysteries of the Morro, and the scratches are
nothing more nor less than topographical plans of the fortifications.
Absurd and improbable as the commandant's story may appear, it would
have had great weight against us with the fiscal, and considerably
protracted the period of our release, were it not for the fact that the
fiscal is on intimate terms with my companion's family. This fortunate
circumstance, aided by the laudable efforts of my consul, who works
wonders with his excellency the governor, enables us to be set at
liberty without further delay. There is, however, some difficulty in the
case of our black attendant, whom the authorities would still keep in
bondage, out of compliment to stern justice; but we intercede for him,
and he accompanies us from jail.
Crowds of people await outside and escort us to our studio, where dear
old Don Benigno, his amiable señora and family, welcome us with joy.
Wherever we go, we are lionised and loaded with congratulations and
condolence. A kind of patriotic sentiment is mixed up with the public
sympathy; Spanish rule being extremely distasteful to a Cuban, and any
opportunity for expressing his disgust of an incompetent ruler being
hailed by him with delight. All our Cuban friends--and, to say the
truth, many of the Spaniards themselves--are unanimous in their
disapproval of the commandant's conduct.
But I have not yet done with the commandant, as will be seen in another
chapter.
CHAPTER IX.
A WEST INDIAN EPIDEMIC.
A Cuban Physician and his Patient--A Nightmare--A Mystery--A
Cure--By the Sad Sea Waves--A Cuban
Watering-place--Lobster-hunting--Another View of the Morro
Castle--What 'Dios sabe' means.
Not many days after the events recorded in the last chapter, I am on a
sick couch.
What is the nature of my infirmity? Neither I nor my companion can tell.
Don Benigno, who comes to offer me his condolences, attributes the cause
of my complaint to confinement in the close, vaporous dungeon of the
Morro Castle, and his medical adviser, Don Francisco, who is summoned to
my bed-side, confirms Don Benigno's opinion, adding, that the sudden
transition from a damp atmosphere to the heat of a tropical sun may have
contributed to produce my disorder.
After examining me in the usual way, the physician inquires whether my
head throbs without aching; whether I am troubled with certain pains in
my joints and across my loins, and whether I feel altogether as if I had
been confined several weeks to my bed.
Marvelling much at the doctor's penetration, I reply that the symptoms
he described exactly correspond with those which I experience. In short;
Don Francisco is perfectly acquainted with the nature of my malady.
Strange to say, however, he does not venture to give it a name, and
stranger still, he leads my partner into our studio, where with closed
doors both converse like a couple of assassins conspiring against my
life. What passes between them is not revealed to me, but after the
doctor's departure, my companion assures me I have only caught a severe
cold, and that if I remain 'under cover,' I shall be perfectly well in
six days.
Why in six days? While pondering much over this, a strange heat
oppresses me; my head throbs more than ever; my pains increase, and to
add to my discomfiture, Nicasio, together with Don Benigno and our black
attendant, suddenly begin to dance furiously around my 'catre,'
terminating their wild gyrations by vanishing between the bars of the
grated window!
My friends were doubtless afraid of the commandant of the Morro and her
Majesty's British consul; for these gentlemen have entered the apartment
and established themselves on either side of my catre. The commandant,
claiming me for his prisoner, again attempts to carry me off to the
Morro Castle, but my consul envelopes me in an enormous Union Jack, and
declaring that I am a British subject, dares the Spanish officer to lay
a finger on me. The commandant now draws his sword--a weapon of such
monstrous length that it cannot be conveniently unsheathed without
detaching the scabbard from the belt from which it depends. The consul
in turn exhibits a mighty scroll of parchment, which takes as long to
unroll as the officer's sabre takes to unsheath. Meanwhile I watch the
combatants in agonising suspense, till the chamber becomes suddenly
dark. But, after a painful pause, daylight appears, and to my
unspeakable relief I find that my formidable visitors have vanished, and
that I am alone with Nicasio.
My companion smiles and tells me that I have been talking in my sleep.
In other words, that I have been delirious.
Now that we are alone, I press my partner to reveal to me the true cause
of my complaint; for, in spite of his previous assertion, I am more than
ever convinced that the truth is being concealed from me. But Nicasio
cannot be persuaded, neither does he explain why he mentioned six days
as the period for my convalescence.
On the fifth day, I am considerably worse than I was before. A feeling
of utter prostration accompanied by an inordinate thirst comes over me.
This is followed by a sensation as of sea-sickness and overpowering
lassitude. I am parched with thirst, but I have neither strength to
express my want in words nor to indicate it by suitable gestures. Some
refreshing draught is, however, placed to my lips, which I swallow
greedily; at the same time my head is relieved by the application of
'vejicatorios,' or blisters, to the soles of my feet. More than half my
medical advisers prescribe bleeding, but Don Francisco will not hear of
it, and from first to last this expedient is never adopted.
My deplorable condition is not improved by a thought which suggests
itself from the hue of my hands, which I perceive for the first time are
saffron-coloured.
Santo Dios! Can this be the yellow fever?
The yellow fever it is; though for some mysterious reason the secret is
carefully kept from me to the last.
Yes: I have the 'fiebre amarilla:' but, thank God, not the 'vómito
negro,' or black vomit, which is the worst form of the yellow fever, and
in nine cases out of ten proves fatal. To-morrow my troubles will be
over, provided that the night is passed tranquilly; but should there be
the least indication of a relapse before daylight--well; the fact would
not be recorded by me!
To say that my beloved companion never for an instant leaves my bed-side
until the critical moment has passed; or that good old Don Benigno
provides for my wants, and consults at least six different doctors, who
come at prescribed hours to tap me on the chest, probe me in the ribs,
and press my pulse; to say that Doña Mercedes proves the best and
kindest of nurses and most sympathetic of friends; and that even the
loquacious Tunicú, together with a host of acquaintances, makes kind
enquiries after my daily progress, and offers to provide a shopful of
dainties--is to say that the attentions which I receive from strangers
in a foreign country are all that my dearest relatives at home could
desire.
Having passed the night of the fifth day tranquilly, I awake on the
morning of the memorable sixth, in a perfect state of health. All my
pains have disappeared as if by magic: my head ceases to throb; my body
is delightfully cool, and I am otherwise so convalescent that were it
not for my doctor's strict injunctions, I should arise, dress, and
betake myself to the nearest restaurant. But my West Indian physician
administers to my wants in easy stages. I am allowed to sit in a rocking
chair near the window with closed shutters, but I may not wash, neither
may I brush my hair, nor breathe a new atmosphere for several days to
come. From the mildest nourishment in the way of sugar panales and
water, I am gradually introduced to more solid food, and at least a week
elapses before Don Francisco approves of Don Benigno's proposal to
recruit his patient's health at the sea-side.
Now that the crisis is over, I learn that the greatest fears had been
entertained for my recovery; that six out of the seven doctors, who had
considered my case, had pronounced it hopeless. I was an Englishman,
they said, and my countrymen had the reputation for indulging rather
freely in stimulants--above all in malt liquors, and these stimulants
were fatal to a constitution when attacked by yellow fever. But Don
Francisco, who had carefully interrogated me on my past, which he found
greatly belied his brother practitioners' conjectures, was more sanguine
of the cure, and now that I am free from danger, he pronounces me
'acclimatised,' and as unlikely to experience another attack of the same
epidemic as the natives of Cuba themselves. He, however, warns me of
'tercianas' or intermittent fevers which occasionally succeed yellow
fever, and which are consequent on intemperate habits and undue exposure
to the sun.
Accepting Don Benigno's generous invitation to pass a few weeks with
him, his family and a few friends at a watering place, I take leave of
Nicasio for the first time, and become Don Benigno's guest once more.
Our destination is La Socapa, a small fishing village three miles
distant from town. The only way to reach La Socapa (which is situated at
the narrow entrance of the Cuban Bay, and faces the Morro Castle which
stands on the opposite bank) is by water. We therefore hire a heavy
boat, and after an hour's sail along the sinuous harbour, we are landed
at La Socapa.
There are no 'apartments to let' at this favourite watering-place. When
a Cuban gentleman proposes to rusticate with his family at this
locality, he hires an empty house and fits it up with some furniture
brought by his slaves from his residence in town. Not more than a dozen
cottages are available as lodging-houses at La Socapa; the village being
occupied by fishermen and their families. Don Benigno's temporary abode
is isolated from the village and stands on an eminence looking seawards.
It is a single-storied habitation and provides the usual accommodations
of a Cuban country-house.
There are no bathing machines at La Socapa. Those who are inclined for a
dip in the sea betake themselves to secluded spots on the coast, and
disrobe themselves behind rocks and bushes. 'Tiburones,' or sharks,
occasionally visit this neighbourhood, and as these voracious creatures
have a strange partiality for human limbs, the bathers are careful not
to venture beyond certain stones which have been placed for the purpose
of keeping out the greedy invaders.
Sometimes we indulge in a little fishing off the banks of the harbour,
or the gentlemen of our party take their sporting guns to an adjacent
wood where wild pigeons, partridges, quails and guinea-fowl abound. This
sport may be varied by a hunt after wild deer, small specimens of which
are to be obtained in these parts. Our favourite evening amusement is
lobster-hunting. For this sport, a big barge is procured, and, after
having been furnished with carpets and rugs for the ladies'
accommodation, we proceed to navigate the shores and creeks of the
harbour. Three or four black fishermen accompany us and bear long
torches of wood, by the light of which the ground beneath the shallow
water is visible. Our prey is secured by throwing a net, in the meshes
of which the lobster becomes entangled; but should this prove
ineffectual, a long pole forked at one end is thrust over the creature's
hard back, and as he struggles to free himself from the pronged embrace,
a nimble negro dives into the water and captures him alive. Great
excitement prevails when a lobster comes on board, and bounds among our
crew and passengers. Having brought provisions with us, we 'make a
night' of this molluscular expedition, and keep up the convivialities
till two or three o'clock, A.M.
One of the liveliest of our party is a young Spanish officer, whom
everybody addresses as Manuel. Manuel is engaged to Don Benigno's eldest
daughter, Paquita, a young lady of fourteen tropical summers, who,
however, has the appearance of a señorita of sweet seventeen. I am on
terms of the closest friendship with the young officer, for it was
partly through his intercession with the authorities that Nicasio and I
obtained our release from captivity.
One day, after attiring himself in his regimentals, Don Manuel proposes
a visit to the Morro Castle, and invites me to accompany him, assuring
me that under his trusty escort there will be no danger of arrest. We
accordingly hire a small canoe, and after rowing across the narrow
harbour, land at one of the forts of the formidable fortress.
The officer's uniform is an all-powerful pass wherever we go. It enables
us to land, to pass the various sentries, who touch their caps
respectfully as we approach, and finally to reach the commandant's
private dwelling in the very heart of the stronghold.
El señor comandante is at home, and invites us in. He is delighted to
see his young friend the captain, and charmed to form the acquaintance
of the captain's companion. He does not recognise me in the least, and
satisfied of that fact, I accept his pressing invitation to lunch with
himself and officers.
After coffee and cigars, our host offers to show us the secrets of his
prison-house. This time my eyes are not bandaged, and I follow the
commandant without military assistance.
We are shown all over the fortifications. We inspect minutely the
old-fashioned twenty-four pounders; rest on the six bronze French guns
(which, we are told, are quite new, and the only serviceable weapons in
the fortress), and make other observations, which, if we were enemies
with an inclination to storm the place from the sea, would greatly
assist us in our operations. Now we are in the sleeping caves, where the
hundred men who compose the garrison are lodged. Now we are descending
flights of stone steps. We pass along hollow-sounding alleys and under
echoing archways. Presently we arrive at the cooking department, where
the atmosphere feels oppressive, and is black with innumerable flies. We
come at last to the deepest part of the fortress, where 'criminals of
the worst description' (so the commandant informs me) are lodged.
Narrow, intricate passages lead to the different cells. Our guide points
out some of the prisoners, and invites us to look in at them through
their little square windows. Strange to say, he does not seem to be at
all conversant with the nature of their offences. 'Dios sabe!'
accompanied by a shrug of the shoulders, is invariably the commandant's
reply to any query respecting a particular prisoner. 'Dios sabe' may,
however, signify a great deal more than 'Heaven knows;' and, perhaps,
the commandant chooses not to explain himself.
We pause before a dungeon where it is said a Chinaman committed suicide
after six days' incarceration: self-slaughter among Celestials being
their favourite mode of killing care. An equally suicidal Chow-chow is
confined there now; but they have bound him hand and foot, and he lies
muttering in falsetto like a maniac. He would doubtless give something
for a little soothing opium!
My friend the commandant assures me that the vault I am now surveying
with such interest is unoccupied, and persuades me to pass on. But I
linger lovingly at the little square window, and take a fond look at the
interior. The theatre of my woe has changed in appearance, the company
having gone. But there still remain the empty benches!
'Whom have you had within the past twelve months?' I ask.
'Dios sabe!'
It is not the commandant's business to know where his prisoners are
quartered, or what becomes of them.
I apply afterwards for the same information to the captain of the
garrison.
'Dios sabe!'
The staff of officers engaged in the Morro service is relieved once a
month, and the captain I address has only lately taken the command.
'Dios sabe!' In the majority of cases, it is, indeed, Heaven alone who
knows what becomes of unfortunates in a country where law is directed
through the agency of military despotism, and where the disposal of a
man's life and liberty is entrusted to the mercy of a vain and
capricious commandant.
CHAPTER X.
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 Santísima!' 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.
'Sí, 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!'
CHAPTER XI.
(VERY) HIGH ART IN CUBA.
On the Ceiling--'Pintar-monos'--A Chemist's Shop _à 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 Mapí, 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.'
CHAPTER XII.
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 the _New York Trigger_ has 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 the _New 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 from _reliable_ sources and _before_ they 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 be _in advance_ of 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, the _New York Trigger_ will 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 the _New 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 the _Trigger_ a 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 the _New 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 this _capo 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.'
CHAPTER XIII.
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 enfría!
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 pr
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