Title: The Pearl of the Antilles, or An Artist in Cuba
Author: Goodman, Walter, 1838-1912
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.


*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Pearl of the Antilles, or An Artist in Cuba" ***


produced from scanned images of public domain material


[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 provide the
necessaries of life, the former is at least sure of bread, chocolate
(which every Cuban baker manufactures and sells), and a few 'reales,' at
a very early hour of the day; as the original words clearly
demonstrate:--

    La mujer del tabaquero
    No tiene nada seguro.
    La mujer del panadero
    Todo lo tiene seguro;
    Que á las cinco de la mañana
    Tiene el pan y el chocolate,
    Y los tres reales, seguros.

The following is a specimen of a serenade, which is more remarkable for
its local associations than for its originality:--

    No te causas espanto, ne admiracion,
    Que los que te cantan, tus amigos son.
    Y abrime la puerta, que estoy en la calle;
    Que dirán la gente?--Que es un desaire!
    Cuatro rosas traigo, en cada mano dos,
    No te canto mas, porque ya nos vamos.

Fear not, nor marvel greatly; for those who sing at your window are your
truest friends. So, open wide your doors to me, for behold me in the
street. And what will people say, then? Why sure, that you are slighting
me! I bring with me four roses fresh--two in every hand; but I'll sing
to you no more, because--we all must go elsewhere.

Songs similar to those quoted are usually delivered by negroes and
mulattoes at their tertulias or evening gatherings, where, seated on
leather-bottomed chairs, or squatting at the portals of their doors,
they entertain their black and brown divinities. One of the party
accompanies himself upon a guitar, or a primitive instrument formed out
of a square box upon which are arranged slips of flexible iron of
different lengths and tones. Another has a strangely-fashioned harp,
made from a bent bamboo, to which a solitary string is attached. The
guitar player is, however, in greater demand than the rest, and is
perhaps asked to favour the company with a sentimental song, such, for
example, as the popular ditty called La Bayamesa, which commences:--

    ¿No te acuerdes, gentil Bayamesa,
    Que tu fuistes el amor de Fulgencio,
    Cuando alegre en tu candida frente,
    Beso ardiente imprimí, con pasion?--

that is, a certain 'gentle Bayamese' is reminded that she was the loved
one of Fulgencio, who, invited by the lady's _open_ countenance
impressed upon it a passionate kiss.

This being unanimously approved of by the company, the dark-complexioned
troubadour will probably be called upon for another song, and the
following mournful ballad will perhaps be chanted:--

    Yo nací solo para padecer;
    ¡No te acuerdes mas de mí!
    No tengo ningun placer,
    Desgraciada y sin salud;
    Yo nací solo para padecer.
    Mira, ¡ay! la virtud
    No se consigue así, &c.

    I was born a child of tears!
    Think thou then no more of me.
    Life brings only grief and fears
    To one worn and pale with care.
    I was born a child of tears!
    Ah! can virtue linger where
    Dwelleth only misery?



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.


It is the twenty-eighth of December, and the thermometer stands at
eighty-five in the shade. I rise with the 'ganza grulla'--our bird
chronometer--that wonderful creature of the crane species, with a yard
of neck, and two-feet-six of legs. Every morning at six of the clock
precisely, our grulla awakens us by half-a-dozen gurgling and metallic
shrieks, in a tone loud enough to be heard by his Excellency the
Governor, who is a sound sleeper, and lives in a big palace half a
league from our studio. I descend from my Indian grass hammock, and don
a suit of the flimsiest cashmere, in compliment to the winter month, and
because there is still a taste of night air in the early morning. I have
to manufacture my own café noir to-day, for my companion is absent, and
our servants--a stalwart Ethiop and a youthful mulatto--are both abroad,
and will not return for the next three days. It is a fiesta and Friday.
To-morrow is 'la ñapa,' or day of grace, 'thrown in' to the
holiday-makers, to enable them to recruit their exhausted frames, which
they do by repeating the pleasurable excitement of the previous day.
Then comes Sunday, another fiesta, which, in most foreign climes, is
another word for day, not of rest, but of restlessness.

The leading characteristics of a Cuban carnival are the street
'comparsas,' or companies of masqueraders--'mamarrachos' as they are
called in the creole vernacular--and the masked balls. Here you have a
comparsa comprised of pure Africans; though you wouldn't believe it, for
their flat-nosed faces are illumined by a coat of light flesh-colour,
and their woolly heads are dyed a blazing crimson. The males have also
assumed female attire, though their better halves have not returned the
compliment. Here is another and a better comparsa, of mulattoes, with
cheeks of flaming vermilion, wigs of yellow tow, and false beards. Their
everyday apparel is worn reversed, and the visible lining is embellished
with tinsel, paint, and ribbons. They are preceded by a band of music: a
big drum, hand tambours, basket rattles, conch shells, and a
nutmeg-grater. The members of this goodly company dance and sing as they
pass rapidly along the streets, occasionally halting in their career to
serenade a friend. Now, they pause before a cottage, at the door of
which is a group of 'mulaticas francesas,' or French mulatto girls. The
maskers salute them in falsetto voices, and address them by their
Christian names as a guarantee of their acquaintanceship. The girls try
hard to recognise the disfigured faces of their visitors. At last:--

'Holá! Musyer Fransoir, je vous conóse!' cries a yellow divinity in
creole French.

'Venici! Monte!' calls another; at which invitation, Musyer Fransoir,
who has stood confessed, ascends the narrow side steps which give
entrance to the cottage, and vanishes through a diminutive door. He
appears again hatless, and beckons his companions, who follow his lead
with alacrity. Soon, a hollow drumming, rattling, and grating, is heard,
varied by the occasional twang of an exceedingly light guitar making
vain efforts to promote harmony. A shuffling of slippered feet, and
voices singing, signify that a dance is pending. Everybody--meaning
myself and my neighbours--moves towards the scene. Everybody passes up
the perilous steps, and endeavours to squeeze into the spare apartment.
A few succeed in establishing a permanent footing in the room, and the
rest stand at the doorway and window, or burst through the chamber by a
back door into an open yard. In carnival time, everybody's house is
everybody else's castle.

There is a perfect Babel at the French criolla's. Some are endeavouring
to dance with little more terra firma to gyrate upon than 'La Nena' had
on her foot square of table. Others are beating time on tables, trays,
and tin pots. Somebody has brought a dismal accordion, but he is so
jammed up in a corner by the dancers, that more wind is jerked out of
him than he can possibly jerk out of his instrument. The man with the
faint guitar is no better off. Every now and then a verse of dreary song
is pronounced by one of the dancers.

Here is a specimen:--

    ¡Ay! Caridad; ¡ay! Caridad; ¡ay! Caridad,
    Cuidao' con la luna si te dá.
        ¡Ca-la-ba-zon! tu estás pinton.

    (Oh! Charity, Charity, foolish Charity.
    Beware of the moon, and avoid her _clarity_!)

There is a pause--an interval of ten minutes or so for refreshments.
English bottled ale, at two shillings the bottle, is dispensed, together
with intensely black coffee, which leaves a gold-brown stain on the cup
in proof of its genuineness; and this is followed by the indispensable
nip of the native brandy, called aguardiente. Stumps of damp cigars are
abandoned for fresh ones, and the air is redolent of smoke, beer, and
brown perspiration. If you remain long in this atmosphere, which reminds
you of a combination of a London cook-shop and a museum of stuffed birds
and mummies, you will become impregnated by it, and then not all the
perfumes of Araby will eradicate it from your system.

I need not go far to witness the street sights in carnival time. Many of
them I can enjoy from my position on my balcony. 'Enter' the shade of an
Othello in false whiskers. He is attired in a red shirt, top boots, and
a glazed cap. In his mouth is a clay pipe; in his hand a black bottle:
both products of Great Britain. He is followed by a brother black, in
the disguise of a gentleman, with enormous shirt collars and heavy
spectacles. In his arms rests a colossal volume, upon which his
attention is riveted, and against the brim of his napless hat is stuck a
lighted taper. He stumbles along with uneven step, and occasionally
pauses for the purpose of giving tongue to his profound cogitations. The
crowd jeer him as he passes, but he is unmoved, and the expression of
his copper-coloured countenance is ever grave and unchangeable. His
eyes--or more correctly speaking, his spectacles--never wander from the
mystic page, save when he trims his taper of brown wax, or exchanges it
for another and a longer. One cannot help remarking how on all
occasions the 'oppressed' negro preserves his natural gravity. Whether
it be his pleasure or his pain, he takes it stoically, without any
observable alteration in his sombre physiognomy.

How do you reconcile the singular anomaly of a nigger with his face
painted black? Here is one, whose face and bare arms are besmeared with
soot and ink. His thick lips start out in bright scarlet relief, his
eyebrows are painted white, and his spare garments (quite filthy enough
before) are bedaubed with tar and treacle. This piece of grimy humanity
is worthy of note as showing that the despised nigger is really not so
black as he is painted; if the truth were known, perhaps, the man
himself has adopted this disguise with a view to prove to the meditative
world that there may yet be another, and a blacker, population!

It is not wise to be too contemplative, and to stay at home, on a
carnival day in Cuba. All the world recognises you in the character of a
moralising recluse, and all the carnival world will surely make you its
victim. As I sit, despising these frivolities, as I call them, a great
'comparsa' of whites--the genuine article--comes rushing along in my
direction. Out of the carnival season, the dramatis personæ of this
comparsa are respectable members of society, in white drill suits and
Spanish leather boots. To-day they are disreputable-looking and
unrecognisable. Their faces are painted black, red, and mulatto-colour.
Their disguise is of the simplest, and withal most conspicuous nature,
consisting of a man's hat and a woman's chemise--low-necked,
short-sleeved, and reaching to the ground. They dance, they sing, and
jingle rattles and other toys, and are followed by a band of music of
the legitimate kind. In it are violins, a double-bass, a clarionet, a
French horn, a bassoon, a brace of tambours, and the indispensable
nutmeg-grater, performed upon with a piece of wire exactly as the actual
grater is by the nutmeg. The musicians, who are all respectably dressed
blacks, hired for the occasion, play the everlasting 'Danza Cubana.'
This is Cuba's national dance, impossible to be described as it is
impossible to be correctly played by those who have never heard it as
executed by the native. In a country where carnivals are objected to by
the police, I have heard but one pianoforte player who, in his very
excellent imitation of the quaint music of 'La Danza,' has in the least
reminded me of the original, with its peculiar hopping staccato bass and
running and waltzing treble; but he had long been a resident in the
Pearl of the Antilles.

The comparsa just described has halted before my balcony, as I guessed
it would from the fact that its members were white people, and possibly
friends. Oh, why did I not follow Nicasio's example and accept José
Joaquin's invitation last evening to make one of a comparsa of wax
giantesses! But I preferred seclusion to-day, and must take the
consequences! Here they come straight into my very balcony with their
'Holá! Don Gualterio. No me conóces?' in falsetto voices. Do I know you?
How should I in that ungentlemanly make-up? Let me see. Yes, Frasquito
it is, by all that's grimy! What! and Tunicú, too, and Bimba? I feel
like Bottom the weaver when he summoned his sprites. Que hay, amigos? By
this time my amigos have taken unlawful possession of my innermost
apartments. It's of no use to expostulate. I must bottle up my
indignation, and uncork my pale ale. I do the latter by producing all
my English supply of that beverage; but it proves insufficient. The
thirst of my burglarious intruders is not easily sated. The cry is
still: 'Cerveza!' Convinced that I have exhausted all my beer, they are
content to fall back upon aguardiente; which very plebeian liquor, to
judge from their alcoholic breath, my guests have been falling back upon
ever since the morning.

'Musica! Vamos á bailar!' The chemised cavaliers propose a dance.
Musica! The musica strikes up with a deafening echo under my spacious
roof. At the inspiring tones of 'La Danza,' a dozen spectators from the
pavement, consisting chiefly of mulatto girls and white neighbours,
invite themselves in. Here's a pretty thing! An extemporised public
masked ball in my private dwelling in the middle of the day! If this
were Cornwall-road, Bayswater, I would have every one of them prosecuted
for trespass. Music--a! Aguardiente! They combine singing with dancing,
and mix these with cigar smoking and aguardiente drinking. To save my
credit, the genuine white brandy I provide is diluted to ten degrees of
strength, and costs only two dollars and a quarter the garafon! I find
myself suddenly whirled round by one of my uninvited visitors. I would
not have selected such a partner, but I have no choice. Smoke is said to
be a disinfectant; so I smoke as I dance. For the closeness of the
atmosphere, and the muskiness of mulatto girls, are not congenial to
one's olfactory and respiratory organs. At last the final drop of
aguardiente is drained, the music ceases, and my friends, and my
friends' friends, and the strangers that were without my gate, take
their not unwelcome departure.

This has been a warning, which, as I live, I'll profit by. I
extemporise and assume a home-made disguise. A strange sensation of
guilt, of going to do something wrong, comes over me and makes me quake
from the top of my extemporised turban to the sole of my sandal
slippers. Whither shall I wander, forlorn pantomimist that I am? I
loiter about the least frequented neighbourhoods, until the shades of
eve--which in this climate come with a rush--have fallen, and then I mix
fearlessly with the throng, among whom I am but as a drop in a Black
Sea. In my peregrinations I meet a company of negro masqueraders, who,
without the least ceremony, are entering the private dwelling of an
opulent Don. The illustrious family are tranquilly seated in the elegant
sala; but what care their visitors? It is carnival time and they, serfs
of that same house, are licensed to bring themselves and their friends.
They bear between them a painted screen, which they unfold and plant in
the middle of the saloon. It forms a theatrical proscenium on a small
scale. An orchestra of tambours, tin-trays, and nutmeg-grating güiros
opens the performances, and then the actors proceed to saw the air. They
perform this operation in turn, by reason of the limited proportions of
their stage; and one very tall negro, who appears to have been
altogether omitted in the carpenter's calculations, has to speak his
speech behind the top drop. He speaks it trippingly too; for in the
middle of a most exciting monologue, he upsets the whole paraphernalia
and himself into the bargain. The entertainment, including refreshments,
has lasted some fifteen minutes, when the itinerant troupe (who derive
no benefit from their labours save what honour and self-enjoyment yield)
pick up their portable proscenium and walk away.

By far the gayest region of the city during a carnival is the spacious
square called the Plaza de Armas. Here are the governor's house, the
residences of Cuban Belgravia, the cafés, and the cathedral. Myriads of
masqueraders, in every variety of motley and domino, congregate in the
plaza after their day's perambulations, and dance, sing, or bewitch each
other with their disguises. There is a party of masqued and dominoed
ladies: genuine whites all--you can tell it by the shape of their
gloveless hands and the transparent pink of their
finger-nails--endeavouring to hoax a couple of swains in false noses and
green spectacles, both of whom have been already recognised. The
perplexed youths try their hardest to discover their fair interlocutors
by peeping at their profiles through their wire masks, but in vain. At
the next quiet tertulia these same ladies will have rare fun with their
puzzled victims of the night of the masquerade. Within earshot of where
I am standing are a small crew of ancient mariners, Britons every one of
them; unless they happen to be Americans from Boston: it does not matter
which to a Cuban. They belong to the good ship _Mary Barker_, lately
arrived from Halifax, in quest of Cuban copper. Jack has come ashore
to-night to see the sights and collect material for a new yarn, which he
will deliver at his native fireside one of these odd days. Some masker
has approached the group, and has brought them the astounding
information that he--the unknown--belongs to the _Mary Barker_. Jack
turns to his messmates with a bewildered air. Then, addressing the
masker, 'What, Joe?' says he at a venture.

'No, not Joe,' says the man behind the mask. 'Try again.'

'Shiver my timbers!' exclaims Jack, 'I give it up. Here, Tom,' says he
to a shipmate of that name, 'you're good at conhumdrums; just step
for'ard and tell this here lubber who he his.'

Tom tries and fails, but arrives at the possible conclusion that it is
'some o' them 'ere Cubeyans a-making game on us.'

Refreshment stalls stand at intervals along the pavement of the plaza.
Each table has a white tablecloth, and is dimly illumined by candles
sheltered from the wind by enormous stand shades of glass, or lamps of
portable gas. Leather-bottomed chairs are placed invitingly around, and
charcoal braziers for warming drinks keep their respectful distances.
Egg-flip, bottled ale, café noir, and a kind of soupe à la Julienne,
called by the natives 'aijaco,' are dispensed by negress vendors, who
charge double for everything, and drive a roaring trade. Approaching one
of the tables, I call for a plate of aijaco, and am perfectly understood
by the dark divinity, who places before me a pot-pourri of yams, green
bananas, cut pumpkins, 'aguacates,' chicken, and broth of the same. I do
full justice to this rich and substantial repast, and, by way of
dessert, conclude with a very small cup of properly made café noir and a
genuine Yara. I then betake myself to the nearest coffee-house. After
black coffee cometh what is popularly termed 'plus-café,' and this being
an unlicensed spirit, cannot be had in the street. The coffee-saloon is
well patronised, and the air of carnival is here very strong. Everybody
and everything seem to follow the masquerade lead, the very furniture
forming no exception to the rule: for the gas chandeliers are encased in
fancy papers, the walls and pictures are adorned by tropical leaves and
evergreens, the chairs are transformed into shapes of seated humanity,
the marble slabs of the little round tables are partially disguised in
robes of glass and crystal. As for the white-jacketed proprietor and his
myrmidons, including Rubio, the mixer of liquors, behind the counter,
they all wear smiles or holiday faces, while they carefully conceal
their natural sleepiness.

'Mozo! garçon! Una copita con cognac!' The waiter hears, but does not
obey, having already too many copitas on his mind. 'Allá voy, señor!'
he, however, says; and as it is some consolation to know that he will
come eventually, I forgive his procrastination, and bide my time.
Meanwhile, I watch a group of maskers who surround a guitar-playing
improvisatore, who assures his audience in song that he is expiring
because of the faithlessness of his mulatto, who has rejected his
advances with ridicule.

    ¡Ay, ay, ay! que me estoy muriendo, si.
    ¡Ay, ay, ay! por una mulata;
    Y ella está reyendose,
    Que es cosa que me mata!

In an opposite corner are a pair of moralising Davids gravely descanting
upon the frailty of woman to the accompaniment of a windy accordion and
a güiro nutmeg-grater, something after this fashion:--

    Women there are in this world, we see,
    Whose tongues are long enough for three;
    They bear their neighbours' skins about,
    And twist and turn them inside out.
          Pellejo ajeno! lo viran al revés.

This is the whole song, and nothing but the song: for negro melodies,
of which the above is a specimen, are essentially epigrammatic.

A rush is made to the big barred windows and open doors of the café. An
important comparsa of Congo negroes of both sexes is passing in
procession along the street. They have just been paying their respects
to no less a personage than his Excellency the Governor of Santiago, in
the long reception-room of whose palace, and in whose august presence
they have dared to dance! The troupe is headed by a brace of blacks, who
carry banners with passing strange devices, and a dancing mace-bearer.
These are followed by a battalion of colonels, generals, and
field-marshals, in gold-braided coats and gilded cocked-hats. Each wears
a broad sash of coloured silk, a sword and enormous spurs. These are not
ordinary, masqueraders be it known, but grave subjects of his sombre
majesty King Congo, the oldest and blackest of all the blacks: the
lawfully appointed sovereign of the coloured community. It seems to form
part of the drilling of his majesty's military to march with a
tumble-down, pick-me-up step, for as each member of the corps moves, he
is for ever losing his balance and finding his equilibrium; but whether
on the present occasion this remarkable step proceeds from loyalty or
liquor, I cannot say. In the rear of his Congo Majesty's officers are a
crowd of copper-coloured amazons, in pink muslins trimmed with flowers
and tinsel, who march trippingly in files of four, at well-measured
distances, and form a connecting link with each other by means of their
pocket-handkerchiefs held by the extreme corners. Each damsel carries a
lighted taper of brown wax, and a tin rattle, which she jingles as she
moves. The whole procession terminates in a military band, composed of
musicians whose hard work and little pay are exhibited in their
uniforms, which are limited to buttonless shirts and brief
unmentionables. Their instruments are a big drum, hand tambours, huge
cone-shaped basket rattles, a bent bamboo harp with a solitary string,
and the indispensable güiro or nutmeg-grater. There is harmony in this
outline of an orchestra, let him laugh who may. No actual tune is there,
but you have all the lights and shadows--the skeleton, so to speak--of a
tune, and if your imagination be musical, that will suffice to supply
the melody. The peculiar measure adopted in the negro drum-music, and
imitated in 'La Danza' and in church-bell chiming, has an origin which
those who have a taste for natural history will do well to make a note
of. There is an insect--I forget the name, but you may hear it any fine
night in the wilds of a tropical country--that gives out a continuous
croak, which exactly corresponds with this measure.

'Al fin y al cabo,' I have taken my plus-café; and now that it is very
early morning, I take the nearest way to my virtuous home. On my way
thither, I pause before the saloons of the Philharmonic, where a grand
bal masqué of genuine, and doubtful, whites is being held. From my
position on the pavement I can see perfectly well into the salon de bal,
so I will not evade the door-keeper, as others do, by introducing myself
in disguise as somebody else. I observe that the proceedings within have
already begun to grow warm. There is no lack of partners in carnival
time, as everybody, save the black musicians, is dancing the everlasting
contra-danza. Some of the excited toe-trippers have abandoned their
masks. One of these, an olive-complexioned señorita, wears a tell-tale
patch of blue paint on her left cheek; condemning testimony that at some
period of the evening she danced with that 'mamarracho' whose face is
painted like an Indian chief! In a dark corner of the billiard-room,
where two gentlemen attired in the garb of Philip the Second are playing
carambola against a couple of travestied Charles the Fifths, are seated
a snug couple--lover and mistress to all appearance. The dominoed lady
is extremely bashful, her replies are brief and all but inaudible. The
fond youth has proposed a saunter into the refreshing night air, where a
moon, bright enough to read the smallest print by, is shining. His
proposal is acceded to. His heart is glad now: but what will his
feelings be when he discovers that the beloved object is a bearded brute
like himself! The orchestra is playing one of Lino Boza's last danzas.
Lino Boza is, as I have already stated, a negro composer and clarionet
player of great renown in Cuba, and this particular danza is one of the
'pegajosa' or 'irresistible' kind. You have heard it played all over the
town to-day, and to-morrow you will hear it sung with a couple of
doggerel rhymes in creole Spanish, which fit into the music so well as
to 'appear to be the echoes of the _melody_.' The way in which Lino
helps the dancers in their favourite gyrations by his inimitable and
ever-varied performance on the clarionet, should be a warning to
protecting mammas! The step of 'La Danza' is difficult for an amateur to
acquire, but when once it is achieved, and you are fortunate enough to
secure a graceful partner, the result is highly satisfactory. I am
almost tempted to trespass upon the early hours of the morning, for the
sake of the music of 'La Danza' and those open-air refreshment stalls
where everything looks hot and inviting. The night breeze is, moreover,
cool and exhilarating, and, after all, it is not later than nine
P.M.--in Europe. I lead on, nevertheless, in the direction of the
heights of El Tivoli, where I reside; stopping not in my upward career,
save to pay a flying visit at a ball of mulattoes. A crowd of uninvited
are gazing, like myself, between the bars of the huge windows; for the
ball is conducted upon exclusive principles, and is accessible only with
tickets of admission. Two 'policias,' armed with revolvers and short
Roman Swords, are stationed at the entrance-door, and this looks very
much like the precursor of a row. Mulatto balls generally do end in some
unlooked-for 'compromisa,' and it would not surprise me if this
particular ball were to terminate in something sensational.

I am home, and am myself again, ruminating upon the events of the day
and night, and I arrive at the conclusion that the despised and
oppressed negro is not so ill off as he is made out to be, especially in
carnival time. As I enter, our grulla thinks it must be six o'clock, and
essays to shriek that hour, as is her custom; but I startle her in the
middle of her fourth chime, and she stops at half-past three. Then I
climb into my aerial couch, in whose embrace I presently invoke that of
the grim masker, Morpheus!



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.


The Retreta is a musical promenade, or 'retreat,' held upon the evenings
of every Sunday and Thursday, between the hours of eight and ten, in the
Plaza de Armas. Here all the fashionables of Santiago congregate, to
converse and to listen to the military band. Those who reside in the
square itself, or in the adjacent streets, have a few ordinary chairs
conveyed from their houses and planted in a convenient situation near
the music. The promenade is a broad gravel walk, in the centre of a
railed square, and is bounded by little garden plots, fountains, and
huge overhanging tropical trees. Those who have not brought with them
any domestic furniture, occupy, when weary with walking, the stone
benches at the outskirts of the square and in the line of march. The
promenaders form a kind of animated oval as they parade the boundaries
of the gravel walk, and they consist chiefly of ladies attired in pretty
muslin dresses, but divested of all head covering save that which nature
lavishly supplies. The interior of the moving oval thus formed is
exclusively occupied by gentlemen, dressed either in suits of white
drill, Panama hats, and shoes of Spanish leather, or in black coats and
tall beaver 'bómbas.' These fashionables wander about their allotted
ground, occasionally halting to contemplate the moving panorama of
divinities, by which they are encircled. There is much to admire in the
plainest of Creoles, whether the point of attraction be her graceful
manner of walking--and in this no other lady can equal her--the taste
exhibited in her dress, or in the arrangement of her luxuriant hair.

My friend Tunicú is a great authority upon the subject of Cuban beauty,
and appears to be a favourite with everybody. Like most young Creoles of
his kind, Tunicú prides himself upon his intimacy with everybody of
importance in the town. From his point of view, the inhabitants of
Santiago belong to one gigantic family, the different members of which
are all, more or less, related to one another, and to him. Tunicú has
this family, so to speak, at his fingers' ends, and is full of
information respecting their antecedents and their private concerns. He
points out for me some of the leading families who are present at the
promenade. He shows me which are the Palacios, the Castillos, the
Torres, the Brooks, and the Puentes. Those cane chairs are occupied by
the Agramontes, the Duanys, the Vinents, and the Quintanas. Upon the
stone benches are seated the Bravos, the Valientes, and the Villalons.
Those ladies who have just joined the promenaders belong to the
distinguished families of the Ferrers, the Fajados, the Fuentes, the
Castros, and the Colases. He offers to present me to any of the company
whom I may care to become acquainted with; and in proof of his intimacy
with everybody who passes us, he salutes many of the ladies, and
addresses them, whether they be married or single, by their Christian
names.

'Adios, Carmecita!' he remarks, as a young lady of that name sails by
us.

'Au revoir, Manuelica!' he says to a dark beauty with remarkably large
eyes and exaggerated eyelashes.

'A tus piés, lovely Teresita!' says he to another olive-complexioned
damsel, whose chief attractions are a very perfect profile and an
intelligent brow.

'Till we meet again, Marianita!' he observes, when Marianita, who has a
pretty figure and small hands, passes our way.

'How bewitching you look to-night, my pretty Panchita!' he murmurs, as a
charming young girl, with fair hair and a pink and white complexion,
blushes and hurries on.

'Farewell, my fascinating Frasquita!' he ejaculates to an equally blonde
Creole.

Tunicú's fair hearers apparently do not disapprove of these al fresco
compliments, but occasionally acknowledge them by bestowing upon him a
momentary smile or a graceful inclination of the head, as they do with
scores of admirers, who, like Tunicú, venture to give voice to their
sentiments.

Whenever I question my loquacious friend about anybody in whom I may
feel interested, he positively overwhelms me with the most minute
particulars respecting his or her antecedents.

For example: Fulana de Tal is a visitor at Don Benigno's, and for some
mysterious reason Doña Mercedes has, on more than one occasion, offered
her pecuniary assistance.

'Do you know that lady?' I inquire, as Fulana de Tal seats herself
beside Doña Mercedes.

'Fulana de Tal!' exclaims Tunicú with a contemptuous chuckle; 'I should
rather think I do! Fulana de Tal, widow of the late Timothy de Tallo y
Gallo, the large importer of soap and composites, in Candela Street
number sixty-eight, corner of Vela Lane, opposite Snúfa's the
ironmonger. Old Timothy de Tallo failed for forty thousand dollars four
years and ten months ago; ran away from his creditors and embarked for
France, where he died fourteen months after his arrival in Paris. His
widow, related to my uncle Benigno, was left destitute with three
children--two boys, and one girl named Fefita. But nobody starves in my
country! Fefita is engaged to Nicolás, son of Nicolás Neira, director of
the St. Michael copper mines. They say young Nicolás will have thirty
thousand dollars if he marries, and when his governor dies will be a
millionaire. Old Nicolás is awfully lucky--won a hundred thousand
dollars in the Havana lottery upon one occasion, and twenty thousand on
another. He has three coffee plantations and two sugar estates. One of
them is worked by no less than four hundred and fifty slaves. Car-amba!
you should see the procession of mules that arrives in town every day
from the Camino del Cobre: each beast laden with sacks weighing nearly
two hundredweight. When Fefita marries, her mother will be well off
again; meanwhile Don Benigno supports her, though nobody is supposed to
know it.'

'Who is that charming girl with the neat little figure and the dark
frizzled hair?' I inquire, as the object of my admiration, accompanied
by an elderly lady, passes close to where I am standing.

'Oh! that is Cachita,' says Tunicú; 'Cachita Perales, with her mother
Doña Belen--amiable but weak old lady; very much directed by her husband
Don Severiano, who is an old brute--plenty of "paja" (tin) though, but
close-fisted.'

'I fancy I have met the younger lady at the theatre, and at other places
of amusement,' I observe.

'Very likely,' says Tunicú. 'Cachita is fond of amusement. You see, she
has no lover yet to fall back upon, as it were. Lots of admirers,
though; but the old man wants to wed her to young Amador, son of old
Catasus, the rich planter; and the sensible young lady dislikes Amador
because he is a Spaniard, and a coxcomb into the bargain.'

'Are you very intimate with the Perales?' I ask.

'Intimate!' repeats my friend with a scornful smirk. 'Well, I look in at
their tertulia at least twice a week. But you seem interested in the
family--sweet upon the señorita, eh! Admire your taste--acknowledged
beauty, you know.'

'Can you introduce me to the young lady and her mama?' I ask.

Can he? of course he can! He has been waiting till now to do so.

I am accordingly presented to the ladies as 'El Caballero Inglés, Don
Gualterio, bosom companion of Don Nicasio Rodriguez y Boldú,' whom
everybody has heard of. Then all four stroll round the promenade; Tunicú
artfully engaging the old lady, and leaving me to do the amiable with
the pretty creole.

As we walk and converse, the military band continues to play operatic
selections, zarzuela medleys, pots-pourris of favourite airs and Cuban
dances. At ten o'clock precisely the music ceases, and the band removes
to the governor's house which faces the square. At a given signal, a
quick march is played, and before the music is half over, the
instrumentalists depart in procession through the streets leading to
their barracks.

We now take leave of our lady friends, who intimate their intention of
being present at the Philharmonic rooms, where a grand ball has been
advertised for to-night. Many of the invited remain in the Plaza till
the opening of this ball, which is announced by a band of negro
minstrels who come to escort the dancers to the scene of festivities.
During the promenade, partners have been already engaged, and as Tunicú
is a member of the Philharmonic, and has offered to procure me an
admission, I engage myself to the charming Cachita for the first three
dances.

Tunicú and I occupy the interval which precedes the opening of the ball
in various ways. The terrace of the cathedral, which overlooks the
square, is thronged with coloured people, who, not being allowed to join
in the promenade below, watch their white brethren from a distance.
There is, however, among this assembly, a sprinkling of whites, some of
whom are in a state of mourning, and consider it indecorous to show
themselves in public; while others, like Tunicú and myself, visit the
occupants of the terrace to exchange greetings with some of the dark
divinities there. Tunicú is a great admirer of whitey-brown beauty,
especially that which birth and the faintest coffee-colour alone
distinguish from the pure and undefiled. He is also an advocate of
equality of races, and like many other liberal Cubans, sighs for the
day when slavery shall be abolished. Some of the brown ladies whom he
addresses belong to respectable families of wealth and importance in the
town; and were it not for certain rules which society prescribes, Tunicú
says they would contract the whitest of alliances.

Descending the broad flight of steps of the cathedral, Tunicú invites me
to partake of some refreshment at a neighbouring café. The round marble
tables of the café are crowded with fashionables fresh from the Retreta.
Some of Tunicú's companions are sipping and smoking at one of these
tables. The moment we appear, his friends rise, salute us elaborately,
and offer us places at their festive board.

What will we take in the way of refreshment?

This requires reflection, and meanwhile we gather a suggestion or two
from the libations already before us. There are sugar and water panales,
cream-ices, cold fruit drinks, bottles of English ale, and 'sangria' or
rum punch, to choose from.

'When you are in doubt, order café noir and a petit verre,' is Tunicú's
maxim, which we both adopt on this occasion. Cups of coffee and cognac
are accordingly brought, cigarettes are handed round, and the
convivialities of the café proceed. The company at the Retreta is
discussed, and the brown beauties of the cathedral terrace are descanted
upon. One of our party, whom everybody addresses by his nickname of
'Bimba,' is more loquacious than the rest, not excepting the garrulous
Tunicú.

Bimba is a popular character in Cuba, and in some respects represents a
type of the Creole 'pollo,' or man-about-town. He is short of stature,
lean and bony. He has a long thin face, with a very sun-burnt
complexion, a prominent proboscis, and his hair, eyes and eyebrows are
remarkably black and lustrous. The pollo's weakness is over-confidence
in himself and in the ways of the world. To him everything appears
bright and sunny. Nothing in his estimation seems impossible of
realisation. If you are in a difficulty, Bimba is the man to help you
through, or at least to _offer_ to do so! Bimba takes especial care to
let everybody know that he is a 'travelled man' and a linguist; which
literally translated means, that he has spent a few weeks in Havana and
a few months in New York; in which places he has acquired a smattering
of two or three different languages.

Learning that I am an Englishman, Bimba improves the occasion to air all
the Anglo-Saxon in his vocabulary for the edification of his friends,
who marvel much at Bimba's fluency in a foreign tongue. But whether it
is that my residence among Spanish-speaking people has demoralised my
native lingo, or whether it is that Bimba's English has grown rusty--it
is evident that at least three-fourths of his rapidly spoken words are
as incomprehensible to me as they are to the rest of our party.

Bimba's knowledge is not however, confined to languages and to mundane
matters. As a 'man of business' no one can surpass him; though it is
never clear to anybody what kind of occupation he follows. He is,
besides, conversant with most of the arts and sciences. As for
painting--well; he says that he has 'dabbled' in the art for years; and
though he confesses he has not practised it of late, he knows well
enough what materials are used for the construction of a picture. In
proof of this knowledge, he offers to introduce me to a number of
highly 'picturesque' models, and mentions a locality which, he declares,
abounds with subjects worthy of an artist's attention. This locality is
called La Calle del Gallo, and is a street which, I am afterwards told,
is inhabited by certain coloured ladies of doubtful repute.

Being the hour of departure for the Philharmonic ball, the conversation
ceases and the important operation of paying for what has been consumed
must be undertaken. When a party of Cubans meet at a public
refreshment-room, settling the bill is a serious matter. Everybody
aspires to the privilege, and everybody presents his coin to the waiter.

'Here, garçon! Take for all,' says one of the company, offering a golden
doubloon to the attendant.

'Excuse me, I spoke first,' observes another, exhibiting a gold coin of
about the size of a five-shilling piece.

'No, no; it was I,' protests a third; while others, with fingers in
fobs, wink and shake their heads at the bewildered waiter as if to imply
that one of them will settle with the 'mozo' in secret.

The mozo will not, however, accept payment from anybody.

'Está pago ya' (it is already paid for), he observes, and walks away.

The company are amazed. Who could have been guilty of the treacherous
act? and how and when was it performed?

Presently one of the party rises and feigns impatience for his
departure. He smiles, and all declare that he was the culprit.
Subsequently, this individual leads the waiter into a dark corner of the
café, where accounts are squared; by which we know that before the
refreshments were ordered he had arranged with the garden about payment.

'Nada, chicos!' observes the successful payee, as we quit the café,
'otra dia tocará á ustedes.' (Never mind, my boys! it will be your turn
another day.)



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!'


The saloons of the Philharmonic are well suited for dancing as well as
for other purposes. The spacious apartments are entered by enormous
doors, and those which are set apart for the use of the dancers are
separated one from the other by narrow slips of wall. The heat,
generated by the gas, finds an easy egress through the open doors and
unglazed windows, and by these means the ventilation within is only
surpassed by the open air. A balcony--resembling part of a ship's
upper-deck--occupies the entire breadth of the building, and it affords
an excellent promenade and lounge in the intervals of dancing. The
street is crowded with a mixed audience, composed of coloured people and
of whites in mourning, for whose accommodation chairs of all kinds are
brought from their houses in the neighbourhood. The interior of the
Philharmonic is perfectly visible to these spectators of the pavement,
who, consequently, watch the proceedings within, as they would watch an
entertainment at the theatre.

The ladies of the ball are attired in simple muslin dresses of the
grenadine, the tarlatan, or the tulle kind; but no rule is observed with
regard to the cut or shape of their costume. She whom nature has endowed
with a comely figure, adopts the 'decolado,' or low-necked,
short-sleeved fashion, while her less favoured sisters prefer to conceal
their charms behind spotted lace or tulle. In short, the frequenters of
such a ball as that to which I refer are licensed to dress as becomingly
as they please, and only on rare occasions, such as a ball at the
theatre, at the governor's house, or at the mansion of some equally
distinguished person, are the strict rules of French etiquette observed.

The señoritas and their escorts are received in an ante-chamber by nine
of the oldest members of the society, who conduct the ladies to the
dressing-room of the establishment, where a few mulatto girls are in
attendance. Their toilettes being complete, it is considered 'the
correct thing' for one of these nine deputies of the Philharmonic to
offer to escort the lady dancers to the 'salon de bal;' and afterwards
to conduct the non-dancers to a locality set apart for the 'old people,'
for people in a state of mourning, and for those ladies whose lovers do
not approve of their dancing.

The male dancers--the majority of whom are pale-faced gentlemen with
black mustachios, imperials, and cropped hair--appear in ordinary
walking costume, consisting of black frock coats, black or white vests,
and white trousers, and neither they nor their fair partners include
gloves in their toilettes. Fans are used irrespective of sex, as a
creole gentleman considers that such commodities are as indispensable to
him as they are to his lady.

As most of the guests have already secured partners at the Retreta and
elsewhere, and as at all respectable gatherings in Cuba everybody is
supposed to know everybody else, the irksome formalities of introduction
are altogether dispensed with.

'Me hará usted el obsequio de cederme ésta danza?' is in Spanish the
politest form for asking a lady 'if you may have the pleasure of dancing
with her.' But should you be on intimate terms with her, you may inform
yourself whether she is willing to 'take a little turn with you,' by
making the inquiry:--

'Quiere usted que demos una vueltecita?'

If the lady is 'sorry to say that she is engaged,' her answer will be,
'Lo siento; estoy comprometida.' If, on the contrary, she 'will have
much pleasure,' she replies, 'Con mucho gusto.'

It is not unusual for a gentleman who is not dancing to _borrow_ another
gentleman's partner for a 'carabina,' or round or two; for which purpose
the aspirant for that privilege has only to approach the dancing couple,
and in his politest tone say--addressing his remarks indirectly to
both:--

'Will the señorita be good enough to consent, with you, to my taking a
turn with her?' or, as it is better expressed in Spanish, 'La señorita
será bastante amable para que con usted consiente el darme una
carabina?'

Sometimes when the aspirant is very intimate with the couple, he
observes simply: 'Chico; una carabina?' (A turn, old fellow?) and
without waiting for a reply, seizes his friend's partner round the waist
and waltzes her away.

Occasionally the carabina is taken without asking; but this is done only
by certain pollos who are vain enough to believe that they confer an
honour upon the ladies of their preference by confining their evening's
gyrations to carabinas. These attentions, however, sometimes involve the
pollo in a quarrel with the lady's partner, as happened once with a
certain Acha--a Spanish officer from Guantánamo--who fought a duel for
the sake of a carabina which he had danced illicitly with a famous
creole beauty called La Nena.

It frequently happens that the much-desired carabina is graciously
conceded to an unfortunate pollito, or very young gentleman, who has
been unable to secure a partner. Tunicú often avails himself of a
pollito when he happens to be afflicted with an uncongenial partner, or
one whose manner of dancing does not satisfy him!

The famous 'danza criolla' is the favourite dance of the evening:
indeed, with the exception of a vagrant polka and a mazurka or two, this
dance occupies the entire programme.

The danza criolla requires great practice before it can be successfully
accomplished; but no amount of private tuition will help the novice to
acquire the approved step. The best school for the study and pursuit of
the art is a mulatto ball, or such a ball as the Philharmonic society
gives on every Palm Sunday at seven in the morning. There is a very
mixed attendance at the last-mentioned ball, as the members usually
invite their 'guariminicas,' or companions of the carnival. A Cuban
pollo has generally three ladies to whom he is devoted. The first of
these is represented by the señorita whom he is destined to marry one of
these days, but with whom he may not be seen alone. The second lady of
his choice is the afore-mentioned 'guariminica querida,' who accompanies
him about town when any fiesta is held; and the third is the mulatto
beauty, whom he serenades and presents with various gifts in token of
his admiration for her charms.

The step of la danza is distantly related to a slow valse; but being
accompanied by certain graceful movements of the limbs--vulgarly termed,
in creole vernacular, 'la sopimpa'--the excitement is far greater than
it is with the fastest 'trois temps' on record. So great indeed, that
after every other 'round' the couples pause and perform a kind of
lady's-chain in quadrille groups of six or eight. Each dancer gives his
or her favourite version of this remarkable step. Some appear to glide
around as if propelled on wheels; while others define the step by hops,
backward skips and short turns, now to the right, now the left; but all
preserve the same graceful movements of the body.

The pleasures of the dance are greatly enhanced by the quality of the
music, which is more or less inspiriting according to the air selected.
Among the best Cuban dance music are the Cocuyé, the Chupadera, the
Calabazon, the Sopimpa, the Mulata, the Pollita Americana, Merenguito,
Lunarcitos, Al Mediodia, and 'á las Bellas Cubanas.' The clarionet takes
the lead in the band of black musicians, and the güiro and tambours
serve to mark the peculiar chopping compass which is the leading feature
of the creole dance. The güiro proper is an instrument made from the
hard fruit whence it derives its name. The güiro of society is, however,
manufactured out of tin, and shaped like a broad tube rounded at one end
to a fine point To one side is attached a handle; the other side is
furnished with notches or transverse ridges, which being rapidly scraped
by a piece of thick wire, a hollow, grating sound is produced. The
monotony of this sound is varied on the tambours, and neither of those
instruments is used when the dancers pause for the lady's-chain.

It is not unusual for an enthusiastic dancer to present the leader of
the band with a piece of money, as an inducement for the latter to
prolong the dance, and as a graceful tribute to his partner's dancing.
But this proceeding not being always approved of by the rest of the
dancers, a master of the ceremonies--called 'el bastonero'--is sometimes
appointed for the purpose of regulating the duration of the dances; but
as el bastonero is himself a dancer, he takes care to time the dances
according to his own requirements.

At an ordinary Philharmonic ball, such as that which I am describing,
the frequenters of the 'ambigú,' or refreshment room, must pay for what
they consume. This is a serious consideration with the pollo, for he is
expected to invite not only his partner, but also his partner's parents,
brothers, or chaperones, and sometimes a friend or two of the family!
The ambigú refreshment stall provides chiefly hams, lobsters, turkeys,
chickens, fried fish, escabeche (another variety of fish), tongue, and
other substantial viands; all of which are done full justice to by the
señorita's relatives and friends! The appetite of the young lady herself
is, however, more easily satisfied. A cup of thick chocolate with
'panatela' or pound cake, and an 'helado,' or ice is all that she
requires in the way of refreshment; unless, later in the evening, she
prefer a 'jigote,' which is a kind of thick soup made from boiled
chicken, minced fine, and flavoured with herbs.

Adjoining the ambigú is a small apartment, where gentlemen--and some of
the older ladies too--may enjoy a smoke while they sip their café and
cognac.

Of course Tunicú has a variety of partners, but Bimba being partial to
billiards, divides his time between the ballroom and the billiard-table.

Cachita--with whom I dance more than three times in the course of the
evening--makes a delightful partner, and when, after sundry experiments,
we are agreed upon the matter of step, I feel in the seventh heaven!

Cachita's manners and conversation are as agreeable as her dancing is,
and combine to impress me with the fancy that our acquaintance dates
from a more remote period than the present evening. Upon the strength of
my being an artist, she examines me on the subject of Cuban beauty, and
my replies are not unfavourable to Cachita and her countrywomen. In
turn, I interrogate her on the popular impression of foreigners, and
from her responses I gather that the people of nearly every country,
except Spain, hold a distinguished place in a Cuban's esteem. The palm
is, however, given to the Americans and English. Cachita has been early
taught to regard these nations with favour, and that to possess the
political and social advantages which English and Americans enjoy, is
the ambition of every right-minded Cuban.

But politics is dangerous ground to tread, especially when you are
discussing them with a beautiful young lady, who expresses so much
enthusiasm for your 'patria,' and who, moreover, tells you to your face
that your countrymen are 'simpáticos.' There is no telling what
conversation such topics might lead to, if Cachita's mamma, Doña Belen,
did not interrupt our tête-à-tête by coming to inform her daughter that
the ball is nearly over, and that it is time to depart.

No ball at the Philharmonic is said to have terminated until the members
of the society and their male friends have indulged in a little
gambling. So when the ladies and their escorts have departed, and the
gas in the ball rooms has been extinguished, old as well as young pollos
betake themselves to an apartment, where they pass the small hours of
the night in card-playing.

Curious to learn the mysteries of Cuban gambling, I accept Tunicú's
invitation to watch the proceedings, one night after such a ball as that
which I have described.

The chamber into which I am conducted is illumined in one part only,
where a group of gentlemen are seated or standing around a square table.
Having decided whether the game of the evening shall be 'monté,'
'tresillo,' or 'burro,' the dealer proceeds to shuffle the cards, which
he does in an elaborate manner, and afterwards grasps the pack firmly in
his left hand, taking care to conceal the bottom card. The dealer has a
partner who is seated on the opposite side of the table with a pile of
golden 'onzas' before him. These onzas, which represent the 'bank,' look
like medals about to be awarded as prizes for merit, for each coin is of
the size of a five-shilling piece, and is equal in value to seventeen
dollars, or three pounds eight shillings sterling.

Carefully extracting four cards from the top and bottom of the pack, and
after placing them, faces upwards, on the table, the dealer invites the
company to stake their money. Gold in onzas, half-onzas, four-dollar
pieces, and 'escudos,' or two dollars, is produced; but he who is
indisposed to risk more than a fractional part of his money at one time,
expresses his desire by concealing a portion of his coin beneath the
card of his selection. Thus an onza placed half-way under a card
signifies that the owner wishes to stake only half that coin, or eight
dollars and fifty cents. Similarly a fourth of the money being
exhibited, represents four dollars and twenty-five cents.

'Al juego, caballeros!' cries the dealer, and everybody accordingly
stakes his money. Satisfied that the four cards are not equalised, the
dealer, by a dexterous turn of the wrist, reverses the pack, by which
means the bottom card is exposed. If this card does not pair with one of
those on the table, other cards are slowly revealed, till one of the
four on the table has been 'casado' or paired. The nine of spades being
drawn, pairs with the nine of clubs on the table. The banker
consequently pays on this card, and receives on that which lies by its
side. The other two cards are similarly disposed of, and this, with a
few variations, constitutes the game.

With the exception of 'el rey' (the king) and 'la zota' (the knave), a
Spanish pack of cards differs considerably from the French or English
pack. There are no tens, to begin with, consequently the total number of
cards is forty-eight. The queen is also absent. Her majesty is,
however, represented by 'el caballo,' a figure of a knight on horseback.
Clubs (called 'bastos') are veritable clubs of the Hercules pattern; and
a spade is not a spade in this instance, but it is an 'espada,' or sword
of the approved shape. Each player has a favourite card, upon which he
invariably stakes his money whenever it is turned up in the course of
the game. Tunicú's 'winning' colour is 'el caballo' (horse and rider).
Bimba swears by the king, while his neighbour, Don Vicente, has a
partiality for the royal fives of every suit. These gentlemen are fond
of apostrophising the cards of their selection, as if to encourage the
pasteboard to win. Thus, Tunicú not unfrequently addresses his caballo
as a 'noble animal' or a 'trusty steed,' while Bimba speaks of 'el rey'
as a 'right royal gentleman' and a 'just sovereign.' But when, as it too
often happens, 'el caballo' proves faithless, and 'el rey' unprofitable,
their praises are no longer sung, but certain disrespectful adjectives
are applied to them. The Spanish language is rich in oaths, the mildest
of which are some of those expressions which begin with the syllable
'Car,' such, for example, as 'Caramba!' 'Carambóla!' (the billiard
cannon), 'Caracóles!' (shells), and 'Caracolito!' (a small shell).

One of the greatest gamblers at the Philharmonic is Don Vicente. Tunicú
tells me, _sotto voce_, that the old gentleman has had a run of ill-luck
for the past fortnight, and that, having exhausted all his ready cash,
he is about to wager his 'quitrin' and horses. If the five of swords on
the table is not paired in the next draw, Don Vicente will lose his
equipage. The next 'turn up' being a king, and a king being opposed to
the five of swords, Don Vicente loses.

'Watch the old man now,' whispers Tunicú. I glance in the direction
indicated by my companion, and observe that the gambler's right hand,
which for some minutes past had been concealed beneath his shirt-front,
is drawn with violence across his breast.

'A habit of his when he loses an important amount,' remarks Tunicú under
his breath; 'the old fellow has torn his bare flesh.'

Except ourselves, no one present has paid the least regard to the
unfortunate gamester, for until the past fortnight Don Vicente had been
usually lucky.

While the dealer is in the act of shuffling a bran-new pack as a
preliminary to the fiftieth game to-night, the cards suddenly fall from
his fingers, and he, his partner, together with the rest of the company,
turn deadly pale and rush wildly to the broad balcony.

I follow them; though for the moment I am unable to account for this
strange diversion in the proceedings. In another instant, however, the
truth flashes across me. The apartment which we have deserted had, for a
few seconds only, oscillated as if a thousand ghosts were dancing in the
empty saloons adjoining, or as if a train were passing beneath the
floor.

From the balcony I observe that the dark streets are already crowded
with people, most of whom are scantily clothed in night attire. Some are
kneeling and praying aloud for Misericordia! others are shrieking and
invoking a variety of saints, and the greatest confusion prevails.

It was only a 'temblor,' or shock of earthquake, in its mildest form,
but it may be the precursor of a more serious disaster.

'Such a calamity,' says Tunicú, 'has happened ten years ago, when the
earth opened, and many buildings, including the cathedral, fell like
packs of cards to the ground. The inhabitants fled in terror from the
town and encamped for many days and nights in the neighbouring country,
where one is comparatively out of danger.'

Before daylight, another 'temblor,' or trembling of the earth, is felt,
but, like its predecessor, it is unattended with disastrous
consequences.



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.


A Call for seven A.M. would hardly meet with a punctual response were
such an announcement posted behind the stage-door of a London theatre;
but in Cuba the more important business of the day is transacted during
the cool hours of the morning, and it does not surprise Roscius of the
West Indies when he finds himself summoned to a theatrical rehearsal
some three or four hours before breakfast. After that meal, Roscius
makes up for lost sleeping-time by taking a long siesta till the hour of
dinner.

During rehearsal, in the theatre I am describing, the doors are open to
the public, and, there being nothing to pay for admission, the stalls
and private boxes are always well filled by a not very select audience.
Gentlemen of colour are not inadmissible on these occasions; hats may be
worn at pleasure, and smoking is so far from being strictly prohibited,
that manager and actors themselves set the example. I am tempted to
stroll into the theatre during rehearsal, because it is a refreshing
lounge after toiling up the stony, hilly, Cuban streets, and because I
may gather a new fact or two connected with life behind the Cuban
curtain, from my friend who is popularly known as El Marquesito del
Queso. El Marquesito is a great authority in matters theatrical. He
resides permanently in the building itself, and is paid for taking care
of it by night and by day. He is, besides, property-man, costumier, and
a good mimic, often obliging the manager by imitating the bark of a dog,
the crow of a cock, or the bray of a donkey behind the wings. At the end
of the season he is allowed half a benefit, on which occasion only he
delights his numerous patrons by enacting the fore-paws in a dancing
donkey, to the tune of the Zapateo, a popular negro double-shuffle. In
carnival time, El Marquesito lets out dominoes and masks of his own
manufacture, or faded theatrical costumes and properties; and whenever
the Captain-General honours the town with his august presence, it
devolves upon my friend to superintend the decorations of the houses and
those of the theatre, where a grand ball to celebrate the event is held.

His imposing nickname of El Marquesito del Queso, is derived from the
fact that the property-man is in the habit of supping on 'queso' or
cheese, and of afterwards making believe that he has feasted like a
young Marquis.

The curtain being raised for rehearsal, discloses the whole strength of
a very fair company of Spanish actors. None of them bear the
conventional air of strolling players; the men are moustached, and
fashionably attired, and the women, from leading lady to insignificant
super, are elegantly dressed. Apropos of supers, El Marquesito assures
me it is no easy matter to secure the invaluable services of a genuine
white for these purposes. A white lady is not to be had for love or
money; and when fairies are required for a burlesque, the children of
respectable families are sometimes prevailed upon to appear. Male supers
are not so scarce; Spanish soldiers may occasionally be hired; and when
these are otherwise engaged, a dozen stage-struck youths of good family
volunteer their services as chorus, crowd, or army. The important rôles
of quadruped and agitated water are filled by negroes, who, in Cuba,
are, of course, plentiful as blackberries; but when a real black face is
required to figure in the performance, it is represented by a painted
mulatto, for Spanish law in Cuba is strict, and prohibits the genuine
article from appearing on the stage. The theatre opens four times a
week, including Sunday, and the entertainment is varied every night.
To-day the company rehearse a local drama, a zarzuela, and a farce
called 'Un Cuarto con dos Camas' being a version of Morton's
'Double-bedded Room.' A famous actor from Spain is the star of the
present season. At rehearsal he is a fallen star, being extremely old
and shaky, but at night his make-up is wonderful, and he draws large
audiences, who witness his great scene of a detected thief in
convulsions. The prompter is seated under a cupola in the centre of the
stage near the footlights, as at the opera, and his duties are arduous.
It devolves upon him to read over the part of each performer in a
suppressed tone, and to direct their manner of exit and their position
on the stage. He is unseen by the audience, but often heard by them, for
the actors have only a faint notion of their parts, and cannot repeat a
line at night without having it first hissed at them by their friend at
the footlights.

El Marquesito del Queso has much to say upon the subject of censorship
of plays in Cuba. A play, he tells me, cannot be acted before it has
been first submitted to the censor, who, empowered by government, is at
liberty to place his red mark of disapproval over any word, line, or
passage which he may deem offensive to Spanish morality or to Spanish
politics. There is no rule attached to this dramatic censorship, and
each censor, in every town throughout the island, has his own way of
passing judgment; thus, what would suit the politics and morality of
Havana, might be considered treasonable and profane at Santiago, and
_vice versâ_. A capital comedy is often so mutilated by the Cuban censor
as to be rendered dramatically unfit for representation.

All Cuban buildings are constructed with a provident eye to earthquake
and tropical heat, and the theatre is no exception to the rule. The
means of egress are ample and facile, so that in case of emergency the
audience may, comparatively speaking, step from their places into the
street. On every side are huge open windows and doors, by means of which
perfect ventilation is ensured. Fire is also carefully provided against,
and there is always a small regiment of black 'bomberos,' or firemen,
stationed in readiness within the theatre. There are two tiers of
private boxes, and a gallery. The first tier is but slightly elevated
above the pit, enabling the occupants to converse, as is the fashion,
with friends in the stalls. Both tiers have the appearance of an
ordinary dress circle, with a low partition to distinguish one box from
another. There are wide lobbies at the back, and an ornamental iron
grating in front. Like most houses in Cuba, the theatre is without
drapery, the stall-seats and box-chairs, which are cane-bottomed, not
excepted. The interior of a Cuban theatre is barren as a bull-ring.

Despite my intimacy with El Marquesito del Queso, I pay my money at the
doors, before I enter the theatre at night, like everybody else; for in
this proud country it is considered humiliating in a respectable person
to beg an order or a pass. I accordingly purchase two separate tickets;
one for my admission into the theatre, and one for my seat in it;
otherwise, I should have to stand, like the indigent few, at the back of
the boxes. Tunicú sometimes accompanies me on these occasions, and gives
me the names and occupation of most of the audience, whom he seems to
know personally. For the matter of that, everybody in a Cuban theatre is
on intimate terms with everybody else, and there is much conversation
between the occupants of the boxes, who are, with few exceptions,
ladies, and those of the pit, who are exclusively gentlemen. The
señoritas, in low-necked muslin dresses, with a wealth of genuine hair,
and with their inevitable fans, form a pleasing frame of fair humanity
around the picture of dark coats and white drill trousers in the pit.
Their hands are gloveless, and their diminutive fingers are loaded with
rings of great value: for Cuban ladies are fond of jewellery, and make a
great display of it upon all public occasions. Some of the señoras have
brought slave attendants, who crouch in waiting on the ground behind
them. Tunicú points me out the doctor's box, and when that eminent
gentleman appears late in the evening, I recognise him as the man who
saved me from the yellow fever. The doctor, I learn, is strong on that
disorder, but weak on the subject of earthquake, against which, no West
Indian physician has succeeded in finding a remedy. His box is nearest
the principal entrance door, for he is nervous about earthquake, and is
ever on the alert when he visits a theatre. Tunicú informs me that an
earthquake in a theatre is worse than a fire, and gives me the
interesting particulars of such a catastrophe as it happened in the
doctor's own experience. It was a slight affair, he says, a mere
'temblorcito', as he calls it; one wall was seen to crack from top to
bottom, some plaster from an opposite wall peeled off, a globe from one
of the gas lamps fell among the audience, and that was all; but the
panic was terrible for all that, and many were crushed to death in their
attempt to escape.

The stout gentleman who occupies that big box all to himself in the
centre of the theatre, is his excellency the president. No Spanish
entertainment is complete without its president. The curtain may not
rise till his excellency has taken his seat; the actors may not respond
to a call or an encore if the president is not agreeable, and does not
flutter the big play-bill before him, in token of his acquiescence. The
box to the right is the lawful property of the censor, who, like most
Spanish authorities in Cuba, rarely pays for his pleasure. He is
extremely affable and condescending with everybody before the curtain,
though so stern and unyielding behind the scenes. His daughters,
charming young ladies, are with him, and flirt freely with the numerous
Pollos, who come to pay their homage. That stall in the centre of the
pit is occupied by the editor of the _Diario_, a Cuban daily paper,
whose politics and local information are strongly diluted by censorial
ink, and which is, therefore, unintelligible and devoid of interest. The
editor of the _Diario_ is extremely lenient in his reports of
theatrical entertainments, and on him the manager, at least, may always
rely. His contemporary and rival, the editor of the _Redactor_,
government organ, is seated in a stall near his excellency the
governor-general, who is enthroned in a wide stage-box, and is dressed
in full uniform, covered with orders. His excellency is accompanied by
an aide-de-camp and half a dozen bronze-faced, heavily moustached
officers, all of whom are more or less adorned with orders, crosses, and
other military decorations. In the bend of the theatre are the boxes of
the English and American consuls; and within earshot of where Tunicú and
I are seated, is the box occupied by Cachita, her parents and sister,
whom we visit between the acts.

But what are those mysterious enclosures with trellis-work before them
on either side of the proscenium? Those are special private boxes for
the use of persons or families who are still in a state of
half-mourning, and may not yet expose themselves to public scrutiny. But
these boxes are not always occupied by mourners, whispers Tunicú, in
great confidence. There are a certain class, he tells me, who wear a
kind of half-mourning, which never becomes out of fashion; these are the
half-castes or quadroons, who dare not be seen in public with
acknowledged white people. The gallery is as usual devoted to soldiers,
sailors, and persons of slender means; and in the extreme background are
a few benches set apart for the exclusive accommodation of mulatto girls
and negroes of both sexes, most of whom are elegantly attired; for
coloured people are scrupulous in their dress on all public occasions.

After the overture--a medley of Cuban dance music and Spanish fandango,
played upon ordinary instruments by black musicians--a big bell, to
summon all stragglers to their places, is heard, the curtain is raised,
and the performance begins. There is nothing peculiar in a Cuban drama
except that no allusion to political matters is made, and that the
profane and immoral are somewhat freely indulged in. The comic players
perplex the prompter with inordinate gagging, and delight in
personalities with occupants of the orchestra and pit. There is much
applause when the comic man shuffles through the charinga--a popular
negro dance, difficult of performance, and shouts of laughter are
produced in the scene between a Yankee, who speaks very broken Spanish,
and a lady who speaks Spanish with the approved Cuban accent. It is an
enthusiastic and excitable audience.

The entirely new drama is a complete success, owing to the realistic
performance of the famous star from old Spain. That gentleman is on the
point of breaking a blood-vessel in his effort to impersonate the
convulsive thief; but he is saved by the doctor in the private box, who
is suddenly summoned to the actor's dressing-room. This interesting
incident makes a deep impression upon the sympathising public, and
greatly increases the interest of the drama. Then the curtain is lowered
amidst rapturous applause, and calls for the infirm player, who is
presently led on the stage, supported by one of the company and by the
doctor. In the following act, the star astonishes his audience by a
vivid representation of a detected thief gone mad, and his private
convulsions being still fresh in their memories, many are seen to direct
their gaze towards the doctor's box, in doubt whether that gentleman
will not be required to administer also to a mind diseased. But all
conjecture on this point is presently set at rest by the acting madman
himself, who is duly restored to his senses at the conclusion of the
play.

An interval of from twenty to thirty minutes elapses between each act,
during which the whole audience rise from their places and promenade
around and about the theatre. The ladies betake themselves to the
lobbies to flirt, fan, and refresh themselves with ice 'sorbetes.' The
gentlemen from the pit are everywhere. Some are conferring with friends
in the 'grilles,' or mourning-boxes; some are smoking cigarettes in
spacious saloons provided for smokers; others are in the street drinking
'orchata' or 'bul,' a compound of English beer with iced water and
syrup. The stage itself is, however, their favourite resort. Open doors
give access to that mysterious ground from the front of the theatre, and
the pit public is thus enabled to wander into every nook and corner,
from the traps below to the flies above. The players do not shun their
visitors, but rather court their society, for a friend in front is
considered a desirable acquisition, and half-way towards a reputation as
'favourite;' to say nothing of benefit nights at the end of a season. A
small crowd of Pollos waylay the 'first lady' as she leaves her
dressing-room. As many as conveniently can, enter the leading actor's
room to congratulate him on his success and his speedy recovery from the
sensational scene. Another party of Pollos chokes the narrow passage
leading to the premiere danseuse's boudoir, and great is their joy when
they catch a glimpse of the gauze goddess as she flutters hurriedly past
on her way to the green-room. The stage is thronged with these walking
gentlemen, who require no rehearsal or prompter, and whose most
attractive performance consists in unbounded cigarette smoking, and in
getting in everybody's way. It is a miracle how, in the midst of this
dire confusion, carpenters, scene-shifters, and managers contrive to set
the stage for another act; and what a scene would be disclosed if the
drop were to rise prematurely! Presently a voice is heard to cry,
'Fuera!' this being Spanish for 'Clear the stage;' the big bell tolls,
and the audience in due course return to their places in front. The
curtain having been drawn up after the drama, a man comes round, like a
ticket-collector on a railway, to demand the cards of reserved seats
from their holders, and to distribute programmes for to-morrow's
performances. Everybody is in turn disturbed and annoyed, for at that
moment the low-comedy man is singing a comic parody, in a farce called
'The Sexton and the Widow.'

But there is a graver interruption than that caused by the
ticket-collector--an interruption which affects actors as well as
audience, rendering everybody within the theatre walls motionless and
speechless. Some ladies are seen to cross themselves devoutly, and are
heard to utter ejaculations about 'Misericordia' and 'Maria Santísima.'
Every door in the theatre is thrown wide open, and the servants of the
establishment stand before them with lighted candles. What is amiss? I
look for El Marquesito del Queso, but he has disappeared. Fire? The
black bombero firemen are in their accustomed places, and exhibit no
sign that such a catastrophe has occurred. Rebellious outbreak of
runaway niggers? I glance at the military-box, and find the occupants
peacefully inclined. Earthquake? I look towards the doctor's box, and
observe that nervous gentleman perfectly tranquil and unmoved. Hark! a
tinkling bell is ringing somewhere outside the theatre. From my
position in the stalls I can see into the open street beyond, and anon I
descry a procession of church dignitaries in full canonicals, the first
of whom bears the tinkling bell, while the rest carry long wax candles,
the Host, and the sacred umbrella. Their mission at this hour of the
evening is that of administering the holy sacrament to a dying man, and
as they pass along the streets, it behoves all occupants of houses
within the route devoutly to acknowledge the procession as it passes.
The audience and actors accordingly kneel and cross themselves while the
holy functionaries and their sacrament are in view. One of the
ecclesiastical party enters the theatre and glances hurriedly within, to
see that all are in the approved attitude. I am thankful to find myself
doing as the good Catholics are doing, for I know that our visitor has
no respect of persons or creeds, and would call me to order without the
least hesitation, were I inclined to rebel. When the religious
'function' in the street (all public shows, from a bull-fight to high
mass, are called 'functions' in the Spanish language) is out of sight
and hearing, and the candles at the door are extinguished, the
spectators resume their seats, and the farce 'function' on the stage
proceeds.



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.


I have already noted how Nicasio and I have lent our art services at the
theatre whenever scenic decorations were required. Our colour boxes have
also been in demand on certain occasions when the leading performers
were particular respecting the correct pencilling of their eyebrows, the
effective corking of their cheeks, and other attributes of an actor's
'make-up.' Whenever an English play is wanted for adaptation to the
Spanish stage, the manager--very naturally--'falls back upon' the
Anglo-Saxon follower of the divine art of Apelles. Upon one occasion I
am required to translate the famous farce of 'Box and Cox'--a farce
entirely new to a Cuban audience and, consequently, a great success when
interpreted for them into choice Castilian.

One day, application is made to me by Señor Don Baltazar Telon y
Escotillon, impresario and first low comedian of the Teatro Real de
Cuba, who begs me, as a personal favour, to undertake an important rôle
in a new farce which he proposes to present to the Cuban public on the
occasion of his annual benefit.

The farce is from the pen of a popular Cuban author, and is called 'Los
Mocitos del Dia' (Fops of the Period). The subject of the play is of
local interest, with a moral exposing in farcical colours the foibles of
the Cuban 'Pollo,' or dandy, whose taste for pleasure and idleness is
only exceeded by his aversion for manual labour and for early matrimony.
The characters are as follows:--

Teresita, a beautiful young Creole.

Doña Lola, her aunt.

Juana, a mulatto slave.

Ramon, a 'mocito' in love with Teresita.

Don Gabriel, a fruiterer.

Mister Charles, a Yankee engineer from a sugar plantation.

To lend a realistic tone to the last-mentioned personage, the manager
has 'secured the services of a live Yankee from the United States'--at
least, such is his announcement; but, in reality, the gentleman who has
offered to fill the part is an Englishman, and one of 'the famous
followers of the divine art of Apelles.'

'Posters,' bearing my Anglo-Saxon name--which to a Cuban ear has an
imposing sound--are affixed to the corners of every street, and bills of
the play are distributed gratis throughout the town. In accordance with
custom, the beneficee has addressed envelopes, enclosing a programme of
the entertainments, together with a photograph of himself and a 'luneta'
or reserved-seat ticket, to all the known frequenters of the theatre.
Those who appreciate the compliment implied by the talented comedian,
will assuredly lend their patronage on his benefit night, and perhaps
forward twice or thrice the value of the ticket of admission. The
manager is confident of a 'bumper,' and bids me do my best.

To acquit myself with credit is not so easy as Don Baltazar supposes.
First, it is necessary to eschew my irreproachable Spanish, and to
assume that language as it is spoken by an American of the lower orders,
residing in Cuba. During my visits to sugar plantations, I have
sometimes made the acquaintance of certain engineers from Philadelphia,
who, while the cane harvest lasts, are employed to work the machinery
used in sugar making. With these gentlemen before me for models, and
with Nicasio at hand, I study my part.

Contrary to the system adopted by my brother-players, I carefully commit
the whole of my part to memory, noting the grammatical errors, which are
numerous, and the fragments of English which occasionally appear. I am
punctual in my attendance at the rehearsals, which is more than some of
my fellow-comedians can say. When an actor of the Teatro Real de Cuba is
absent from rehearsal, a super or a scene-shifter is called to read over
his part until he arrives.

I have considerable difficulty in following the prompter, whose duty it
is to dictate to the performer the words which the latter afterwards
repeats. Seated in a stage trap before the leader of the orchestra, he
is conveniently within hearing of the actors, who upon the evening of
representation never desert him if they can possibly help it. But I, who
have studied my part after the manner of English actors, could easily
dispense with the Cuban prompter's services. His prompting is
perplexing, and fills me with prospective terrors of a 'break-down.'
Often while I am in the middle of a speech, my officious friend at the
footlights has already whispered the remainder, besides uttering the
words which belong to the next speaker. If I pause for purposes of
'by-play,' the gentleman in the trap is convinced that I have forgotten
my rôle, and insists upon repeating the missing line, though I
expostulate in a low voice, and beg him, by all the saints in the
calendar, to hold his peace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter Teresita's lover, Ramon.

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

Enter Teresita.--'Válgame Dios! Ramon?'

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

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

Ramon is disgusted with this information.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Myself (_aside to prompter_): 'Bar--ajo! sir, I know my part.'

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

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

Groans and loud whistling from the Spaniards.

'That was well said!' observes a voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XIX.

COFFEE GROUNDS OF CUBA.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The second overseer, with his staff of field slaves, fills the yard
which faces us. The faithful vassals have ended their day's toil, and
are come to beg the evening blessing of their lord and master. Blacks of
both sexes and all ages, stand before us in a row; some with machete
reaping-knives under their arms, or bundles of maloja-fodder for the
stable supply; others with the empty baskets into which they have been
plucking the ripe coffee berry. Their evening costume consists of a
loose garment of coarse canvas. The women wear head-dresses of
gaily-coloured handkerchiefs twisted and tied in a peculiar fashion; the
men have broad-brimmed straw hats and imitation panamas. The second
overseer, with his inseparable whip, leans against our balcony with the
air of a showman, as each black approaches with crossed arms to crave
his or her master's blessing.

'La ben'dicion, miamo.'

'It is given,' says Miamo Don Severiano with the supremest indifference.

Being in the country, and moreover tired, we retire for the night at a
reasonable hour. We have to make the best of our extemporised couches,
for our luggage and furniture are yet on their way, and probably will
not put in an appearance before morning. Some of the guests, therefore,
betake themselves to swinging hammocks, while others occupy the mayoral
Don José's catres--a species of folding bedstead not unlike an open
apple-stall with a canvas tray.

Not until we have fairly taken possession of our temporary couches, do
we fully appreciate Doña Belen's fore-thought in providing many yards of
mosquito netting. I have always dreaded a country life, no matter in
what part of the world, on account of strange vermin. A shudder runs
through me at the mention of earwigs and caterpillars; but give me a
hatful of those interesting creatures for bedfellows in preference to a
cot in Cuba without a mosquito net!

What is that sweet creature crawling cautiously towards me along the
brick floor, looking like a black star-fish with a round body?

'Oh, it is nothing, massa,' says my black valet 'I kill him in a minute,
massa.' Which he does with his naked heel. Only an 'araña peluda;' in
plain English, a spider of gigantic proportions, whose lightest touch
will draw you like a poultice. I let the 'cucurrachos' pass, for I
recognise in them my old familiar friend the cockroach, whose worst
crime is to leave an offensive smell on every object he touches. Neither
do I object to the 'grillo,' a green thing which hops all over the
room; for I know it to be but a specimen of magnified grasshopper, who
will surely cease its evening gambols as soon as the light is
extinguished. But oh, by Santiago or any other saint you please, I would
have you crush, mangle, kill, and utterly exterminate that dark brown
long-tailed brute, from whose body branch all kinds of horrible limbs,
the most conspicuous of which are a pair of claws that resemble the
handles of a jeweller's nippers. Only an 'alacran,' is it? Son of the
tropics, it may sound mildly to thee in thy romantic dialect, but in the
language of Miamo Darwin, let me tell you, it is nothing more nor less
than a scurrilous scorpion, whose gentlest sting is worse than the
stings of twenty wasps. If the brother of that now squashed brute should
drop upon me, during my repose, from that roof (which I perceive is of
'guano' leaf, and admirably adapted for scorpion gymnastics), my
appearance at the breakfast-table to-morrow, and for days after, will be
hideous; to say nothing of personal discomfort and fever. Now, a
mosquito net stretched over you on its frame, effectually insures you
against such midnight visitors; and, if well secured on every side, will
even serve to ward off the yard and a half of 'culebra' or snake, which
at certain seasons is wont to invade your bedroom floor at night.

I am awakened at an early hour by Don Severiano's live stock, who hold
their musical matinée in the big yard exactly under my open window. The
bloated and presumptuous turkey-cock, 'guanajo,' is leading tenor in the
poultry programme. First fiddle is the 'gallo Inglés,' or English
rooster. Then come the double-bass pigs, who have free access to the
balcony and parlour. A chorus of hens, chickens, and guinea-fowls,
varies the entertainment; while the majestic 'perjuil,' or peacock,
perched on his regal box, the guano roof, applauds the performance below
in plaintive and heart-rending tones. Before I am up and stirring, a
dark domestic brings me a tiny cup of boiling coffee and a paper
cigarette, and waits for further orders. Don Severiano proposes a stroll
(he tells me) through his grounds. Our horses are soon led out, and we
bestride them, with an empty sack for a saddle and a bit of rope for a
bridle. Better riders than the Cubans I never saw in an equestrian
circus, and steadier and easier-going animals than Cuban horses I have
never ridden on a 'roundabout' at a country fair.

We come upon a sorry sight at one of the 'secaderos,' or coffee-drying
platforms. A young mulatto woman is undergoing 'veinte cinco' on a short
ladder: in other words, is being flogged. They have tied her, face
downwards, by her wrists and ankles, to a slanting ladder, while an
overseer and a muscular assistant in turn administer two dozen lashes
with a knotted thong. She receives her punishment with low groans; when
she catches a glimpse of the spectators, she craves our intercession.

'Perdona, miamo!'

The overseer laughs, and, turning to his visitors, offers his weapon
with a polite invitation that one of us will try our skill. We all
appeal to Don Severiano, and, at our earnest request, that humane
gentleman orders his mayoral to let the culprit off. Smarting salt and
aguardiente are then rubbed in for healing purposes, and the wretched
girl is conducted to a dark chamber, where her baby, five months old, is
shortly afterwards brought her for solace and aliment. I venture to
inquire the nature of her crime, and am assured that it is ungovernable
temper and general insubordination of more than a month's standing.

Our horses are halting on one of the four secaderos, or
'barbacués'--smooth platforms on which the ripe coffee-berry is laid and
raked out to be blackened and baked by the sun. Near the secaderos is a
circle of ground, hedged in like a bull-ring and containing a horizontal
fluted roller, turned by a crank. This roller, or pulping-mill, is made
to gyrate by a mule, crushing in its perpetual journey the already baked
coffee-berry, until the crisp husk peels off and exposes a couple of
whity-brown, hard, oval seeds, upon which are inscribed two straight
furrows. There are winnowing-machines, for separating the chaff from the
already milled grain. In that outhouse a group of dark divinities are
engaged in the difficult process of sieving and sorting. See with what
exceeding dexterity Alicia, Ernestina, and Constancia--the black workers
have the whitest of Christian names--handle their big sieves. Alicia,
cigar in mouth, takes an armful of the winnowed seed from the sack at
her side, and transfers it to her sieve, which she shakes until the dust
and remaining particles of husk fall like floating feathers to the
ground. Then, by an expert turn of the wrist, she separates the smaller
and better quality of seed from the larger and coarser; and by another
remarkable sleight of hand, tilts the former into its corresponding heap
on the ground, and pours the latter into a sack. Constancia is scarcely
as expert as Alicia though. The sieve's perforations are wide enough to
admit the small seed of the 'caracol,' and she separates the two
qualities by the ordinary process of sieving the small and retaining the
great.

Well seated on his chesnut charger, Don Severiano conducts us by a
circuitous path up an exceedingly steep hill. The trees are tall and
ponderous; the leaves are, for the most part, gigantic and easy to
count; the fruits are of the biggest; the mountain tops are
inaccessible; and the rivers contain fish for Titans. Surely giants must
have peopled Cuba, long before Columbus found out the colony! Don
Severiano takes little or no interest in the landscape, his attention
being wholly absorbed by the small round berries, which may before long
be converted into grains of gold, if the coffee crop yield as it
promises.

The pickers are at their work. A score of them are close at hand, with
their baskets already filled. Observe how they choose the dark red, and
eschew the unripe green, or the black and overdone berry. The second
overseer, whip in hand, is ever behind, to see that the pickers do not
flag. He is a genuine white; but his complexion is so bronzed, that you
would scarcely distinguish him from a mulatto, save for his lank hair
and thin lips. He volunteers explanation. He points to the big fruit of
the cacao, or cocoa plant, and shows which are the bread, the milk and
the cotton trees. Learning that I am a foreigner and an Englishman, he
offers some useful information respecting certain trees and plants which
yield invaluable products, such as might be turned to good account by an
enterprising European, but which are unnoticed and neglected by the
wealthy independent native. At our request, he unsheathes his machete
and cuts us a few odd-shaped twigs from a coffee bush, with which we may
manufacture walking-sticks. He exhibits one of his own handiwork. It is
engraved all over, polished and stained in imitation of a snake; and,
as it rests in the green grass, it looks the very counterpart of such a
reptile, with beady eyes and scaly back. On closer acquaintanceship, I
find the second overseer to be a great connoisseur in canes.

It is our breakfast hour, and Doña Belen and the other ladies will not
like to be kept waiting. So we return to the barbacué, where the
powerful odour of roasting coffee is wafted towards us. The black cook
is roasting a quantity of the drab seed, in a flat pipkin over a slow
fire. She is careful to keep the seed in motion with a stick, lest it
burn; and when it has attained the approved rich brown hue, she
sprinkles a spoonful of sugar over it to bring out its flavour, and then
leaves it to cool on the ground. Near her are a wooden pestle and mortar
for reducing the crisp toasted seed to powder; and a small framework of
wood in which rests a flannel bag for straining the rich brown decoction
after it has been mixed and boiled.

Substantial breakfast over, some of us carry our hammocks and betake
ourselves to the adjacent stream. Here, beneath the shade of lofty
bamboos, within hearing of the musical mocking-bird, the wild pigeon and
the humming-bird, in the midst of sweet-smelling odours, we lotus-eaters
encamp, affixing each a hammock between a couple of trunks of trees.
Here, we see nature under her brightest and sunniest aspect, and,
divesting our imagination of oil and canvas landscape, arrive at the
conclusion that trees and plants are very green indeed, and of an
endless variety of shade; that stones do not glitter, save where water
damps them; and that a Cuban sky is far bluer than the most expensive
ultramarine on a painter's palette.



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.'


With my companion Nicasio Rodriguez y Boldú, behold me passing the
sultry months of August and September at the plantation of our worthy
friend Don Benigno, who, with his wife and family, have encamped for the
summer season at a farm-house on his sugar estate.

Our host's party is somewhat larger than usual, consisting of, besides
his wife and family, his eldest daughter's intended, Don Manuel, and
_his_ family. After our arrival, it is found that Don Benigno's premises
cannot accommodate us; we therefore obligingly seek a lodging elsewhere,
and as in the tropics any place of shelter serves for a habitation, we
do not greatly sacrifice our comfort.

Assisted by a stalwart negro, Nicasio and I improvise a lodging on the
banks of the river which flows near Don Benigno's country house. Our
rustic bower consists of a framework of roughly cut branches, and has an
outer covering formed of the dried papyrus-like bark of palms. The
interior is not spacious, but it meets all our requirements. In it we
can swing our hammocks at night, and assume a sitting posture without
inconvenience during the day. Our implements for sketching, together
with a couple of double-barrelled guns and some fishing-tackle,
distributed about the apartment, form agreeable objects for our gaze,
while, at the same time, they are within our easiest grasp. Plenty of
good fishing may be obtained in the deep, wide river which flows at our
feet, and our guns may be equally well employed with sport in the
opposite direction. As for our more peaceful instruments of art, there
is abundant scope for them on every side; and thus we can shoot, angle,
or sketch, as we may feel inclined, without moving from our shady
retreat, which, during the sunnier hours of the day, we dare not desert.

We rise at a very early hour; indeed, it is not yet daylight when our
dark domestic brings us our early cup of café noir and cigarettes. After
refreshing our bodies in the natural gigantic bath which flows before
our domicile, we dress: an operation which does not occupy much time, as
our wardrobe consists simply of coloured flannel shirts, brown holland
trousers, Panama hats, and buff-coloured shoes. Thus attired, with
ammunition affixed to our girdles, and guns shouldered, we plunge into
an adjacent thicket in quest of game; the objects of our sport being
chiefly wild guinea-fowl, quails, partridges, and wild pigeons. No game
license is required of us in these parts, and the sporting competition
is very small, if indeed it exists at all, within earshot of us; at
least, at this hour of the morning we have the field to ourselves. We
hear nothing as yet but the rustling of gigantic ferns, bamboos, and
plantain leaves, together with the occasional song of the winged tribe,
whose united harmony it is our purpose soon to interrupt. The silence
of the grey dawn is eminently favourable to our sport, and the low
bushes which intercept our path screen us from the penetrating gaze of
our prey. The guinea-fowl, or 'gallos de Guinea' as they are styled,
occupy our first attention. At this hour they emerge from their
hiding-places by the score to feed among the dewy heather. We have to
move with extreme caution, for the colour of their soft feathers is
scarcely distinguishable from the ground which they have selected as a
table for their morning meal. Nicasio is in advance of me, tracking a
company of guinea-fowls, whose melodious chirp has caught his accustomed
ear. They are not yet visible, but my sporting friend has halted behind
a bush, and thrown away his white tell-tale panama. This means mischief.
The dark-grey clothes and sun-burnt face of my companion blend naturally
with the surroundings, and, as he crouches motionless on the ground, he,
like the birds just described, is barely discernible. I watch him with
interest and some impatience, for a covey of large pigeons challenge my
weapon close at hand. Their cooing seems to proceed from a great
distance, but, conscious of the enemy's ventriloquial power, his muffled
music does not deceive me. My companion has now levelled his gun, and,
taking steady aim, presently fires. At the sound of fire-arms my pigeons
take flight, and as they rise I fire into their midst. My companion now
discharges his second barrel into a covey of quails, which had been
feeding unobserved within a few paces of him. I take a shot at one of
these birds as it flutters incautiously over my head, and it falls with
a heavy thud at my feet. The firing has reached the quick ears of Don
Benigno's watch-dogs, and anon our favourite animals, Arrempuja and
No-se-puede, come bounding towards us. The sagacious brutes help to
bring in our wounded, which we are gratified to find are more numerous
than we contemplated. Gathering together our spoil, we remove to another
spot, where our performances are repeated, though scarcely with the same
success. The sun has already begun to cast broad shadows along the soil,
and warns us that the hour for our 'tienta pie,' or early meal,
approaches; so we return to our hut, change our damp linen for dry, and
join the company, who are already seated on the broad balcony of Don
Benigno's house, watching the interesting process of milking cows. Bowls
of warm milk are presently handed round by negroes, who bring also new
milk rolls which have just arrived from the village ten miles distant.

'What luck have you had?' inquires our host of his sporting friends.

We exhibit the result of our morning's sport, which gains us much
applause and approving cries of 'Ay! que bonito. Ay! que bueno.' The
black cook to whom we consign our game, promises to do culinary justice
to them at breakfast.

We employ the interval which precedes that late meal in a saunter
through Don Benigno's sugar works, where some of us are initiated into
the mysteries of sugar making and rum distilling. The operations are
conducted under a spacious shed in the piazza which faces the Don's
dwelling-house, and here the whole process, from the crushing of the
newly-gathered cane to the distilling of the aguardiente, or white
brandy, is explained to us by our host, who apologises because he cannot
show everything in working condition at this time of the year. He,
however, enlightens us as to the uses of all we behold, and leaves the
rest to our imagination.

Here is the store-house where the freshly-gathered cane is kept ready
for the crushing process. Under that spacious shed is the engine-room in
connexion with the rollers that crush the cane. Near us are the tanks or
boilers for the reception of the 'jugo' or cane-juice. We are shown the
clarifying pans and the coolers in which the boiled liquid, after being
skimmed, is transformed into sugar grains or crystals. One of the most
interesting sights is the process of separating the molasses, or
treacle, from the crystalline portion of the sugar, which is done by the
action of centrifugal force. The sugar, still in a liquid condition, is
poured into a deep circular pan, which contains a movable drum-shaped
cylinder of wire gauze. The latter is whirled rapidly round by means of
machinery, and in doing so drives the liquid against the sides of the
gauze drum, through the meshes of which the molasses escapes, leaving
the dry white sugar clinging in hard cakes to the sides. Don Benigno
gives us interesting statistics on his favourite subject, informing us
how twelve or fourteen tons of ripe cane may be converted into one
thousand five hundred hogsheads of sugar.

The machinery and engine are at present taking their periodical doze
like a great boa constrictor. The engineer--a native of
Philadelphia--has gone home for the holidays, and will not return till
October or November, when the cane harvest begins and his indispensable
services will be required. He has unscrewed all the brass fittings,
taken out the slender and highly polished steel work, and stowed them
away with fatherly care, while he has greased whatever is immovable,
and then wrapped it up tenderly in machinery swaddling clothes.

Being an Englishman, I am looked upon by the company as an authority in
matters mechanical, and my opinion touching the merits of the
engineering works is consulted. I accordingly peer into everything with
the air of a connoisseur, and happening to catch a glimpse of the
maker's name and address on one of the shafts, observe grandly:--

'Ah, Fletcher and Company, I have heard of the firm.'

We have yet to visit Don Benigno's distillery, where the molasses or
refuse of the sugar is converted into white brandy or rum. This is a
simple process. The raw liquid is first boiled, and the steam which
generates passes through a complication of sinuous tubing until it
reaches a single tap, where it spirts out in fits and starts into the
cold colourless spirit called 'aguardiente.' A glass valve is connected
with the tap, and by means of this the degrees of strength formed by the
spirit are gauged. The distillers are already at work, as the operations
in this department are best accomplished out of harvest time. One of
them invites us to test the strength of the precious spirit, which the
gentlemen of our party do with their mouths, while the ladies are
content to bathe their hands and temples in the icy-cold liquid.

Everybody takes a deep interest in all that is shown by our amicable
cicerone, save, perhaps, Don Manuel and his inamorata, who occasionally
loiter behind congenial cogwheels, huge coolers, clarifying pans, and
other objects used in the process of sugar-making. The attachment which
the lovers conceive for this particular portion of Don Benigno's
possessions is so great, that it is with difficulty that they are
induced to abandon it. Their repeated visits to the same secluded spot
upon subsequent occasions, only confirms our host's theory, that
machinery has a strange fascination for persons of all ages and sexes!

Our morning's perambulations terminate with a visit to the infirmary
where the sick people, employed on the estate, are tended, and a stroll
through the black barracks, which consists of rows of neatly built
cottages, occupied by the Don's slaves and their families.

After a substantial breakfast, which resembles dinner in the variety of
dishes provided, some of our party betake themselves to their
dormitories with a siesta in view, being incapable of any more active
service till the hot hours have passed. Nicasio and I, however, prefer
to improve the sunny moments under the grateful shade of our improvised
wigwam, in which position we may sketch, fish, or shoot without much
exertion: but despite our laudable efforts to do something useful, our
pencils drop from our hands, our angling is neglected, and we surrender
to the overpowering heat.

I am awakened by my companion, who enjoins me, perhaps because I am
indulging too loudly in somnolence, to be silent.

'What is it? Fish or feather?' I ask.

'Both,' he replies, under his breath. 'Hush! it's a river bird.'

'What is its shape?'

'I haven't seen it yet; but it has been chirping among the reeds and
long grasses there, for the last half-hour.'

My friend's gun is half cocked in readiness, and presented through an
aperture in our hut. After a long pause the bird emerges from its
hiding-place, and with astonishing velocity half flies, half skims
across the river, and vanishes between the reeds on the opposite bank.

Bang! bang! go both barrels of Nicasio's 'escopeta,' and both have
missed their mark. My sporting friend is, however, determined to secure
his game, which is an odd-looking creature, with a long neck and longer
legs, similar to a crane. He accordingly fords the river at a shallow
point, and in spite of my remonstrances (for a river bird is not easy to
bag) goes in quest of his prey. At the expiration of a couple of hours,
Nicasio, who has followed the bird two or three miles up and down the
river, returns with it triumphantly, but he is himself very wet,
footsore, and exhausted.

Our fishing is not so successful as our shooting to-day, and we have
soon to abandon both amusements, together with our sketching, for the
day is on the wane, and the ladies have come down to the river to take
their afternoon's bath before dinner. So we modestly withdraw, and
betake ourselves to a neighbouring 'cocoral,' where we refresh ourselves
with the cool drink furnished by the cocoa-nut.

Towards nightfall, when dinner, with its indispensable accompaniments of
café and cigars, is over, our host invites the gentlemen to accompany
him to the plantations of a few friendly neighbours. Horses are
accordingly saddled, spurs are affixed to our boots, and away we gallop.

Our first halt is made at a grazing-farm belonging to Don Benigno, and
kept by his mayoral, or overseer, a stout, bronze-faced man, who, we are
told, rarely moves during the day from a leather-bottomed chair, which
he places slopingly against a post of the verandah. After inspecting
Don Benigno's cattle, which consist chiefly of oxen, cows, and goats, we
ride over to some coffee estates and tobacco farms, whose owners, or
representatives, give us a hearty welcome, and are lavish of their
hospitality, offering for our acceptance everything they possess except
their wives and families, whom they, however, present to us as our
'servants.'

Our time being limited, we cannot partake of their bounty to-night, but
promise to return another day. On the road homewards, we dismount at a
coffee estate belonging to Don Benigno's kinsman, Don Felipe, where we
remain for an hour or so, and watch the performances of a crowd of black
labourers, who are keeping holiday in honour of some favoured saint.
Dancing, with 'tumba' or drum accompaniments, forms the leading feature
in the entertainments. The negroes, in turn, take part in the drumming,
which is performed by bestriding barrel-shaped tambours, and beating the
parchment side rapidly with their hands. The strange measure of the
dance is so varied and well sustained, that the outline of an air may be
easily distinguished. This primitive music is accompanied by a
performance on rattles, by singing, and by scraping the güiro. This
instrument is, in the country, roughly made from a dry calabash, notched
in such a manner that a hollow grating sound is produced by scraping the
rough surface with a fragment of bone. The dancers warm to their work in
every sense. Only two couples volunteer at one time, and when they are
utterly exhausted, others take their place. The partners dance
independently of one another, and only join hands occasionally. The
women, attired in long cotton gowns and coloured turbans, assume a
short, shuffling kind of step, which gives them the appearance of
gliding on wheels, while the upper parts of their persons oscillate, or
sway to and fro in a manner peculiar to their tribe. The men, whose
evening costume consists of buttonless shirts and short canvas trousers,
are more demonstrative than their partners. Sometimes they throw up
their arms in wild ecstacy, or leap madly into the air; varying these
gymnastic performances by squatting, frog-fashion, near the ground, or
turning pirouettes. They get so excited and warm over their gyrations,
that their Panama hats, which have been doffed and donned fifty times,
are thrown away, their buff-coloured shoes are kicked off, and finally
their shirts are disposed of in a similar manner.

Nicasio and I contemplate the animated scene with painters' eyes, and
during the pauses of the dance, we mix and fraternise with the swarthy
company.

Having expressed a wish to immortalise on canvas a couple of brown
divinities, picturesquely attired, our hospitable host, Don Felipe, who
has already offered us his country residence, together with the
surroundings, including horses, cattle, tobacco, coffee, and all that is
his, does not hesitate to add to his list of gifts, the model-ladies
that have attracted our observation; so, after his accustomed
declaration, 'They are at your disposal,' he promises to have them
'forwarded' to Don Benigno's hacienda without much delay.

The lateness of the hour warns us that we must be moving, so after a
parting cup with our host and his family, we remount our steeds, and
turn homewards.

During our absence, the ladies and children have been playing the
old-fashioned round game of loto, over which they are intently occupied
when we join them.

Doña Mercedes is calling the numbers from a bag, but not in the orthodox
way. In order to increase the excitement and confusion of the game, the
playful lady invents noms de guerre for some of the numbers. Number one
is by her transformed into 'el único' (the only one); number two, when
drawn, is termed 'el par dichoso' (the happy pair); and number three,
'las Gracias' (the Graces). Similarly, number fifteen becomes 'la niña
bonita' (the pretty girl); number thirty-two, 'la edad de Cristo,' and
so on up to number sixty-nine, which she describes as 'el arriba para
abajo' (the upside down number). All the tens she gives in their
numerical form, coupled with the creolised adjective 'pelao,' or shaven,
because the ciphers in these numbers are thought to resemble a bald
head.

When 'Loteria!' has been at last shouted by a successful winner, loto is
abandoned, and cards, in which the gentlemen take the lead, are
substituted. Don Benigno proposes the exciting and speculative game of
monté, and all the ready cash of the company is forthwith exhibited on
the table. Long after the children and ladies have retired, the males of
our party continue to gamble over this fascinating game.

While we are finishing our last round but six, a slave enters the broad
airy balcony where we are assembled, and approaching our host, whispers
mysteriously in his ear. Don Benigno directs a look at my companion and
me, and observes, with a smile, 'Señores artistas, your models have
arrived.'

True to his word, Don Felipe has dispatched our swarthy models that same
evening, so as to be in readiness for to-morrow's pictorial operations,
and the good-natured coffee-planter begs as a personal favour to
himself, that we will return his property not later than the day after
to-morrow.



CHAPTER XXI.

LOVE-MAKING IN THE TROPICS.

     My Inamorata--Clandestine Courtship--A Love Scene--'Il Bacio' in
     Cuba--The Course of True Love--A Stern Parent.


I am in love. The object of my affection is, I need scarcely explain,
the fair Cachita, who lives in the heart of sunny Santiago. She has the
blackest of bright eyes, a profusion of dark, frizzled hair, with
eyebrows and lashes to match. It is universally admitted that the
complexion of my inamorata is fair for a daughter of the tropics, but
truth compels me to state that in one sense Cachita is not so white as
she is painted. During the day she plasters her delicate skin with
'cascarilla:' a chalky composition of powdered egg-shell and rum. This
she applies without the least regard for effect, after the manner of
other Cuban ladies, who have a theory that whitewash is a protection
against the sun, and a check to unbecoming perspiration. Towards the
cool of the evening, however, my Cachita divests herself of her
calcareous mask, and appears in all her native bloom.

Since my return from Don Severiano's plantation, I have been a constant
visitor at the parental residence in town, and here, in due course, the
tender passion gradually developes itself.

For reasons presently to be explained, we occasionally meet at the
window of Cachita's boudoir, which is admirably adapted for purposes of
wooing, being wide, lofty, and within easy reach from the street. Like
other Cuban windows, it is guiltless of glass, but anything like
elopement from within, or burglary from without, is effectually provided
against by means of strong iron bars, placed wide enough apart, however,
to admit the arm and shoulder of a Pyramus on the pavement, or the
yielding face of a Thisbe on the other side. An open engagement in Cuba
has many disadvantages which an open-air engagement has not. Seated in
an uncongenial arm-chair, the conventional lover may enjoy the society
of his betrothed any hour of the day or evening, but he may not meet her
by gaslight alone, nor may he exhibit his passion in a demonstrative
manner, save in the presence of others. Warned by these objections,
Cachita and I have agreed to keep our own counsel, and court in this al
fresco way. Besides, it is the Cuban custom for a lady to sit before her
window, in the cool of the evening, and converse with a passing
acquaintance, without infringing the rules of propriety.

Cachita's parents are in the 'comedor' taking their early supper of
thick chocolate and new milk rolls. Doña Belen is a corpulent lady, with
a couple of last century side-curls, and a round, good-natured face. Don
Severiano is a short, shrivelled old gentleman, with a sallow
countenance, closely shaved like a priest's, and a collar and cravat of
the latest fashion. These worthy people are at present ignorant of their
daughter's attachment, and we have agreed not to enlighten them, because
their opinions respecting matrimony differ. Doña Belen is easily won if
a suitor to her daughter's hand can prove his genuine white origin,
while Don Severiano has an extreme partiality for gentlemen with coffee
plantations, sugar estates, or tobacco farms.

The Spanish language is an agreeable medium for expressing the tender
passion; creole Spanish is even more suited to such a purpose, being
full of endearing epithets and affectionate diminutives. I am not
obliged to address my lady-love by her simple name of Caridad; I may
call her Caridadcita, Cachita, Chuchú, Concha, Cachona, Conchita, or
Cachumbita, and be perfectly grammatical, and at the same time fond. The
same romantic language enables me to use such pretty epithets as 'Mi
mulatica' (my little mulatto girl), 'Mi Chinita' (my little Chinawoman),
'Mi negrita' (my pretty negress).

And if these endearing epithets are found insufficient to express my
affectionate regard, I have the option of addressing my beloved in such
terms as:

  Prenda de mi alma!     My soul's jewel!

  Botoncito de rosa!     Little rose-bud!

  Lucero de la mañana!   Dawn of the day!

  Luz de mi vida!        Light of my life!

  Ojitos de cocuyo!      Little fire-fly eyes!

  Consuelo mio!          My own joy!

  Mi merenguito!         My little merengue!

  Ojitos de pega-pega!   Eyes that rivet!

  Mi monona!             My lovely one!

  Mi tormento!           My little torment!

  Mi consolacion!        My consolation!

  Hija de mi alma!       Child of my soul!

and a number of expressions as choice as those quoted above.

Our conversation is carried on in epigrammatic phrases. I need not waste
words by making the long-winded inquiry, 'Do you love me?' It is
sufficient to ask simply, 'Me quieres?' And when Cachita tells me, in
reply, that her love for me may be compared to her fondness for her
mother's precious bones ('Te quiero mas que á los huesitos de mi mamá'),
and when, following suit, I assure my beloved that I value her as I do
the apple of mine eye ('como la niña de mis ojos'), I know well enough
that these are only figures of speech adopted by lovers in the Spanish
tropics.

'Mi corazoncito,' says Cachita, fondly, 'I fear that your visits here
must be suspended for the present.'

'Why so, mi vida?'

'Papacito (Don Severiano) suspects something. His friend, Señor Catasus,
who passes here every evening, has seen us converse at the window more
frequently than custom allows, and he has mentioned it to papacito.'

Old Catasus has a son whom Don Severiano employs, and I fancy that his
interest in Cachita's welfare is not purely disinterested.

'Young Amador is a frequent visitor at your father's house?'

'He comes with others in the evening sometimes.'

'He danced three times with you at the Piñata ball, and he walks with
you on Sunday evenings in the Plaza de Armas, when the military band
plays.'

'You are not jealous?'

'N--no; I am only afraid lest young Amador admires you too much.'

'What of that?'

'Don Catasus has a large coffee plantation, and you know what a
partiality your father has for sons of wealthy planters.'

'Are you angry?'

'No, I am not angry, mi tojosita.'

'Me quieres mucho?'

'Muchísimo, pichona mia. Deme un beso.'

'Before giving you one, you must promise two things.'

'What are they?'

'That you will not be jealous, and that you will go no more to the
Pica-pica balls.'

'I have been only once this season, mi vidita.'

'My black maid Gumersinda was there, and she says that you danced all
night with the mulattoes.'

'I was practising the difficult step of La Danza Criolla.'

'It is danced very improperly by the coloured people at the Pica-pica.'

'Many of my white acquaintances go to these balls, and I am only
following their custom and that of the country.'

'Promise not to go again this season.'

'I promise; so, deme un beso.'

Cachita inserts her soft face between the obliging bars of the huge
window, and as nobody is passing at that moment, I take an affectionate
leave of my 'Piedra.'

My interviews with Cachita at her window become rare on account of Don
Severiano's suspicions, and as Cuban ladies of all ages never leave
their homes to visit their next-door neighbour without a trusty escort,
I have no other opportunity for an uninterrupted tête-à-tête.
Occasionally I meet my fair one at early mass in one of the churches, or
at the musical promenade in the public square, but on these occasions
she is always accompanied by a friend or a relative, and a couple of
black attendants.

On the approach of Cachita's saint's day, Santa Caridad, I favour my
divinity with a little midnight music. Those of my friends whose
sweethearts are called Caridad, join me in hiring a few musicians and a
couple of vocalists. When our minstrels have performed their first
melody, the Sereno, or night-watchman, appears, and demands to see our
serenade licence, because, out of the carnival season, no serenading is
allowed without a special permit from the authorities. After duly
exhibiting our licence, the music proceeds, and when a song, composed
expressly for the lady we are serenading, has been sung, and a few more
danzas have been played, a shutter of the grated window is seen to open,
a white hand with a white handkerchief flutters approvingly between the
iron bars, and a significant flower is offered for the acceptance of him
whom it may most concern.

Tunicú takes a friendly interest in my affaire d'amour, and gives me the
benefit of his experience in such matters.

In the carnival season, and on certain fiestas, I visit my Caridad, in
company with a dozen Pollo friends, amongst whom are Tunicú and Bimba,
and we bring with us a full band of black musicians, bearing ordinary
stringed instruments. Our visit is paid in broad daylight, but we are
masked, and so disguised that paterfamilias cannot recognise his guests;
he is, however, satisfied as regards our respectability, when my good
friend Tunicú privately reveals his name. At the inspiring tones of La
Danza some lady neighbours flock to the scene, and follow us and our
swarthy instrumentalists into our host's reception-room, which is
entered direct from the street by a huge door. Then a dance is
extemporised. The fascinating step of La Danza Criolla lends itself to a
little secret love-making, and with a partner like the graceful Cachita
(to whom alone I disclose myself when my turn comes to visit her house),
I feel in the seventh heaven! But dancing at twelve o'clock in the day,
with a tropical sun blazing in at the windows and open doors, and a room
full of excited dancers, merits some more substantial reward, and in the
pauses of the danza, our hospitable host invites us into his spacious
comedor, where refreshments in the shape of champagne, English bottled
ale, café noir, and dulces, are lavishly dispensed.

Report, which in Cuba travels like a tornado, and distorts like a convex
mirror, poisons the mind of Cachita's parent, Don Severiano, and one
sultry afternoon, Cachita's black maid, Gumersinda, brings me a
billet-doux from her young mistress, which fills me with alarm. Don
Severiano knows all--more than all--and has resolved to separate us by
removing Cachita to one of his sugar estates, eight leagues from town.
For some weeks I hear nothing of her whereabouts, but at last one of Don
Severiano's black mule-drivers halts before my door. He tells me that
Cachita and her family are staying at La Intimidad, a sugar estate; and
after searching among his mule's complicated trappings, he produces a
missive from his young mistress. Absence has affected Cachita, as it
affects other ladies in love, and my fair creole expresses a desire to
see me. Don Severiano will be leaving the estate for town on a certain
day, and, if I am willing, a meeting may easily be effected. Saturnino,
the mule-driver, who is in the secret, undertakes to guide me to the
trysting-place. I accordingly obtain a fast-trotting steed, and follow
him through the intricate country, which, after many hours' riding,
brings us to the neighbourhood of La Intimidad. There my guide conducts
me to a tumble-down negro hut kept by a decrepit negress, and situated
in the midst of a very paradise of banana-trees, plantains, palms, and
gigantic ferns. The fare which my hostess provides consists of native
fruits and vegetables, cooked in a variety of ways, together with
'bacalao' (dried cod-fish), and 'tasajito,' or salted meat, dried in the
sun. After my fatiguing pilgrimage, I refresh myself with a cigarette
and a cup of well-made 'café negro;' I bathe in spring water diluted
with aguardiente rum, and exchange my soiled clothes of white drill for
a fresh suit of the same material. Towards the cool of the evening, as I
sit smoking a long damp cigar before the door of my rustic habitation,
the flapping of huge plantain-leaves, and the clatter of horses' hoofs,
announce the approach of my charmer, who, escorted by the faithful
Gumersinda, has come to visit me in my homely retreat. I assist Cachita
in alighting from her steed, and in due course we are seated beneath the
shade of an overhanging mango-tree, whose symmetrical leaves reach to
the ground, and completely conceal us. We are disturbed by no other
sound than the singing of birds, the creaking of hollow bamboos, and the
rippling of water. Under these pleasant circumstances, we converse and
make love to our hearts' content. The cautious Gumersinda warns us when
the hour for separation arrives, and then we reluctantly part. Our
agreeable tête-à-tête is repeated on the following day, but as Don
Severiano is expected to return the day after, this is our last
interview.

On my road back to town, whom should I meet, at a wayside tienda, but
Cachita's formidable parent, together with his friend Señor Catasus,
and my rival, the young Amador! Don Severiano is furious. High words
pass between us, there is a scene, and I leave the cane-field proprietor
swearing to punish everybody concerned in his daughter's secret
engagement.

Some days after my return to town, I learn that the black maid
Gumersinda, and the mule-driver Saturnino, have suffered the penalty of
slave law at the hands of their owner, who has sentenced them both to a
severe flogging. Through the medium of a friend, I receive a note from
Cachita, to inform me that her father is determined to break off my
engagement with his daughter by a more effectual separation than that
which has been already attempted. 'If you love me,' the note concludes,
'have me deposited without delay.'

To 'deposit' a young lady in Cuba, is to have her legally transferred to
the house of a trustworthy relative, or a respectable family. A legal
document for her arrest is presented at the parental house, and if the
young lady be of age, and willing to sign her assent, no opposition on
the part of her parents will avail. If, at the expiration of the
prescribed period, no reason is shown why the deposited damsel should
not follow her inclinations, the lover may release his precious pledge
by marrying her at once.

In accordance with Cachita's desire, I consult the nearest lawyer, from
whom I obtain a formal document, empowering me to deposit Cachita as
soon as she shall have arrived at her town residence. I await this event
with impatience, but days elapse, and the shutters of Don Severiano's
habitation remain closed. I am soon relieved from my anxiety, but am
horrified to learn that Cachita has been removed from the sugar estate,
and consigned to the tender care of nuns in the town convent. As my
legal powers cannot penetrate that sanctum, I am compelled to await the
natural course of events. Cachita is destined to pass six long months
within the convent walls, during which time Don Severiano confidently
hopes that solitary confinement and holy teaching will have a beneficial
effect upon Cachita's mind. Should this prove otherwise, the period for
her incarceration will be prolonged, until the fire of her young
affections shall have been completely quenched.



CHAPTER XXII.

A CUBAN CONVENT.

     Without the Walls--'El Torno'--A Convent Letter--Accomplices--A
     Powder Plot--With the Nuns--Don Francisco the Dentist.


My creole inamorata has been already immured five long weeks in the
nunnery, expiating there her 'sin' of secret love-making. Nearly five
months must yet elapse before she will be released and restored to her
stern parent Don Severiano: that is, if the nuns' report of her be
favourable; but should the efforts of those estimable ladies prove
unsuccessful, and Cachita persist in following the inclinations of her
heart, the term of her incarceration will be protracted another six
months, when, in accordance with conventual discipline, she will be
required to commence her duties as a novice.

Desirous of ascertaining how far monastic confinement has affected my
Cachita's sentiments, I propose to sound her on the subject by private
communication. Tunicú, whom I consult, tells me that this is not easily
accomplished, and I soon find that his statement is correct. The convent
is a strong building. At fixed hours the outer doors are thrown open,
and disclose a small stone ante-chamber, furnished with wooden benches
like a prison. Here may a pilgrim enter, but no further. There is
another and a stronger door, communicating with the interior, and
accessible only to a favoured few. Near it is a panelled or blind
window, forming part of a 'torno' or turnstile--a mechanical contrivance
by means of which articles for the convent use are secretly admitted.

On more than one occasion have I visited the torno, in the vain hope of
persuading the invisible door-keeper behind to receive some love-tokens
for my captive mistress. Tapping three times on the hollow window, I
pause until a voice murmurs 'Ave Maria!' to which I respond, being well
versed in conventual watchwords, 'Por mis pecados!' The voice inquires
my pleasure. If it be my pleasure to have a missive conveyed to an
immured 'sister,' and I can satisfy my unseen interlocutor by
representing myself as a relative of the captive lady in whom I am
interested, the turnstile rotates with magic velocity, the flat panel
vanishes, and, behold, a species of cupboard with many shelves, upon
which anything of a moderate size may be placed. Having deposited my
letter on one of the shelves, it disappears, with the cupboard, like a
pantomime trick, and the panelled window resumes its original dull
aspect. But whether my document will reach the rightful owner, I can
never ascertain, for days elapse, and no reply is forthcoming. Varying
my proceedings at the torno, I sometimes express a desire to exchange a
few greetings with my cloistered love, by meeting her in a certain
chamber appointed for such a purpose, and conversing with her through a
double grating. But the door-keeper informs me that such a privilege is
accorded to parents only of the immured, who can prove their identity;
so my effort in that direction is a failure.

At Tunicú's suggestion, every Sunday morning I visit the convent chapel
which is attached to the building itself, and is open to the public at
prescribed hours. The chapel is a bare-looking sanctuary of small
dimensions, and easily crowded by a score or two of ladies with white
veils, who come to pay their devotions from the neighbouring houses. At
one extremity of the white-washed chamber is an altar-piece, before
which a priest, assisted by a boy, officiates, and to the left is a
strongly-barred window connected with the interior of the convent.
Behind this window, which is heavily curtained as well as railed, stand
the nuns and other inmates of the cloister, who have come to take part
in the ceremonies. The responses are chanted by this invisible
congregation in a subdued tone. During a certain portion of the
ceremonies, the curtain is partially drawn, and the outline of a thickly
veiled devotee is discerned as she bends forward to kiss the priest's
hand and to receive his blessing. I envy the ecclesiastic, and gaze with
eager interest, as figure after figure approaches in turn; but my sight
cannot penetrate the dark recesses of the curtain, and the lady whom I
seek comes and disappears unrecognised.

I am aroused early one morning by a black messenger, who delivers me a
thick letter, which I open nervously, for I find it comes from the
'Convento de la Enseñanza.' The writing, though the contents savour
strongly of monastic diction, is certainly in Cachita's hand, and is
signed by herself.

'My dream of happiness,' the letter begins, 'can no longer be realised.
My conscience, my teachers, and my father-confessor, all persuade me
that I have sinned in the outer world, and that if I desire to be
absolved, I must repent without delay. Exhorted by the worthy nuns, I
am daily becoming more alive to a sense of my unworthiness, and
convinced of the urgent necessity for beginning a new life of holiness
and virtue. Guided to this blessed convent by the finger of Providence,
I have been enabled, with the assistance of the best of counsel, to
reflect seriously over what has happened, and I have now taken a vow
never again to act from the impulse of my young and inexperienced
heart.'

After dwelling upon the enormity of the offence of making love without
the approval of a parent, the writer exhorts me, by my 'mother,' and by
other people whom I 'hold dear,' to return her letters, and all other
evidence of the past, with the assurance that by so doing I shall
accomplish one important step towards the 'termination of the sad story
of this ill-begotten wooing' (para completar la triste historia de ese
amor desgraciado).

The letter concludes as follows:--

'Perhaps you will receive a parting word from me' (the present document
occupies exactly eight pages of closely written convent paper), 'which
will put an end to this unfortunate story. You must, then, forget me
entirely. Look upon the past as a dream, an illusion, a flash of
happiness which is no more. Never must the name of Cachita escape your
lips. I shall remember you only in my prayers' (the word 'only' is
erased with pencil). 'Fail not to send the letters. And adios! till we
meet in heaven.--CARIDAD.'

The bearer of this letter is Guadalupe, a slave of Cachita's father, Don
Severiano, and she is intrusted with messages to and from the convent.
Twice a week she visits the torno cupboard, charged with changes of
linen and other articles for her young mistress's use. Everything is
carefully examined by a nun, before being consigned to its owner; so
Tunicú's ingenious notion of conveying by this opportunity something
contraband to the fair prisoner cannot be entertained.

Having bribed Guadalupe with a bundle of cigars and a coloured
handkerchief for a turban, I obtain from her, in return, some
intelligence of her young mistress.

'Have you heard how la Niña Cachita fares?' I inquire.

'Badly,' says the negress. 'The monastic life does not agree with her
lively disposition, and she yearns for freedom again, la pobre!'

'Then the nuns have not succeeded in converting her?'

'I think not, miamo. In a letter to her mother, Doña Belen, who has
still a good opinion of your worship, mi amita Cachita ridicules the
Monjas (nuns), and describes their strange ways.'

'Has Don Severiano expressed his intention to release la Niña at the
expiration of her allotted six months?'

'I believe so; but even then, it will be nearly five long months before
she can be with us again!'

The most important information which I draw from the communicative black
is, that my medical friend, Don Francisco, who is a dentist as well as a
doctor, is attending my beloved for professional purposes. I resolved to
call upon Don Francisco, and when Guadalupe has taken her departure with
a packet containing a selection from Cachita's letters, and one of my
own, which I have carefully worded, in case it should fall into wrong
hands, I repair at once to the house of my medical friend.

Don Francisco sympathises with me, and promises to aid me in a plan
which I have conceived for communicating by letter with my absent
mistress; but he warns me that there are many difficulties in the way of
doing so.

'The nuns,' he says, 'who accompany my patient, stand like a couple of
sentinels on each side of her, and no word or gesture escapes their
attentive ears and watchful gaze. He must have more than a conjuror's
hand who can perform any epistolary feat and escape their keen
observation.'

The allusion to conjuring reminds me of my scheme.

Will Don Francisco recommend to his patient a box of his registered
tooth-powder?

He will be delighted to have that opportunity.

'One of my assistants who accompanies me in my convent rounds shall
include such a box in my dentist's bag.'

Don Francisco sees through my 'little powder plot,' as he calls it, and
hands me a box of his patented tooth-powder, beneath which I afterwards
carefully deposit a billet-doux.

But Don Francisco can improve upon my scheme, and staggers me with his
new idea.

'You shall deliver the box yourself!' says he.

The convent rules, he explains, allow him to introduce an assistant, or
'practicante,' as he is called. The same practicante does not always
accompany him in his semi-weekly visits to the convent.

'As I am about to visit La Cachita for dental purposes only,' says the
considerate gentleman, 'you shall on this occasion act as my
practicante.'

Early next morning we are on the threshold of the sacred ground. Don
Francisco boldly enters the stone ante-chamber, which I have so often
timidly approached, and taps with a firm knuckle on the torno.

'Ave Maria Purísima!' murmurs the door-keeper from behind.

'Pecador de mí!' (sinner as I am) replies the practised Don.

'Que se ofrece usted?' (what is your pleasure?) inquires the voice. And
when the dentist has satisfied the door-keeper's numerous demands, a
spring door flies open, and we step into a narrow passage. Here we
remain for some moments, while our persons are carefully identified
through a perforated disc. Then another door opens, the mysterious
door-keeper appears and conducts us into the very core of the convent.
As we look over the convent garden, which is tastefully laid out with
tropical plants and kitchen stuff, a thickly veiled nun approaches us.
The lady seems to be on familiar terms with the dentist, whom she
addresses in a mild, soothing tone, as if she were administering words
of comfort to a sick person. We follow her through a narrow corridor,
where I observe numerous doors, which I am told give access to the
apartments or cells occupied by the convent inmates. We pass a chamber
where children's voices are heard. There is a school attached to the
convent, for the benefit of those who desire their offspring to receive
religious instruction from the nuns. Music and fancy needlework are also
taught, and some of the distressed damsels, who, like Cachita, are
undergoing a term of conventual imprisonment for similar offences,
impose upon themselves a mild form of hard labour by assisting to
improve the infant mind. Cachita, who is a good musician, takes an
active part in this branch of education.

At last we are ushered into a gloomy, white-washed apartment
(everything in the convent appears to be of wood and whitewash), where
our guide takes leave of us.

While the dentist, assisted by his practicante, is arranging his
implements for tooth-stopping on a deal table, which, together with a
couple of wooden chairs, constitute the furniture of this cheerless
chamber, an inner door is thrown open, and a couple of nuns, attired in
sombre black, enter with Don Francisco's fair patient. Cachita is
dressed in spotless white, a knotted rope suspended from her girdle, and
a yellowish veil affixed in such a manner to her brow as to completely
conceal her hair, which, simple practicante though I be, I know is dark,
soft, and frizzled at the top. Her pretty face is pale, and already
wears (or seems to wear) the approved expression of monastic
resignation.

At Don Francisco's suggestion, I carefully conceal my face while Cachita
seats herself between the sentinel nuns.

The dentist, with a presence of mind which I emulate but little,
commences his business of tooth-stopping, pausing in his work to
exchange a few friendly words with his patient and the amicable nuns.
Hitherto my services have not been in requisition; but anon the subject
of the tooth-powder is introduced.

Will La Cachita allow the dentist to recommend her a tooth-powder of his
own preparation?

Cachita is in no immediate need of such an article, but the dentist is
persuasive, and the young lady is prevailed upon to give the powder a
trial.

'You will derive much benefit from its use,' observes Don Francisco. 'My
assistant' (and here the cunning tooth-stopper, being close to his
patient's ear, whispers my name) 'will bring it you presently.'

'What ails la Niña?' inquires one of the nuns, bending forward; for
Cachita has uttered a cry, and swooned away.

'Nothing, señora,' says Don Francisco with the same sang-froid already
noted. 'Only a nerve which I have accidentally excited in my operation.
She will be better presently.'

The dentist desires me to bring him a certain bottle, and with the
contents of this, his patient is soon restored to consciousness.

'Keep her head firm,' says my artful friend, addressing me with a faint
smile on his countenance, 'while I put the finishing touches to my
work.'

I obey; and though my hands are far from being as steady as an
assistant's should be, I acquit myself creditably.

Cachita's mouth is again open to facilitate the dentist's operations,
but also, as it seems to me, in token of surprise at the apparition now
bending over her.

'You will find much relief in the use of this tooth-powder,' continues
my friend, in a careless tone, as though nothing had happened. 'Very
strengthening to the gums. When you have got to the bottom of the
box--just open your mouth a little wider--when you have got to the
bottom of the box--where' (he whispers) 'you will find a note--I will
send you another.'

Cachita, by this time accustomed to my presence, can now look me
fearlessly in the face with those expressive eyes of hers, which I can
read so well, and before the dentist's operations are over, we have
contrived, unobserved, to squeeze hands on three distinct occasions.

Assured by this means of my lover's constancy, I now take my leave of
her, and, advised by my friends, patiently await the term of her convent
captivity, which expires, as I have already stated, in four months and
three weeks.

Upwards of three of these months elapse and I hear nothing more of the
fair recluse, and during that long interval many strange and unexpected
events transpire as to the 'Ever-faithful Isle.'



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.


There has been a sad dearth of news in the tropics for many long months.
The war of Santo Domingo is at an end. The great hurricane at St. Thomas
has passed into oblivion. The rising of negroes in Jamaica is forgotten.
The civil war in Hayti is suspended for the nineteenth time. Not so much
as a shipwreck is afloat; even the yellow fever is on the wane, and not
a single case of cholera has been quoted. The people of the tropics are
enjoying a delightful and uninterrupted repose, and the elements and
climate are perfectly inoffensive. It seems as if our part of the world
had sunk into a delicious paradise, and that my services on behalf of
the _New York Trigger_ would be for the future dispensed with.

I am, shortly, recalled to my journalistic duties by the arrival of some
'startling' news from Porto Rico. An insurrection has broken out in the
interior of that island, where the inhabitants have planted what they
call their 'flag of freedom,' intimating their intention to rebel
against their Spanish rulers.

This is food for the _Trigger_, and I hasten to prepare it daintily, for
transmission by telegraph.

At the office of the telegraph, I meet the American consul's secretary.
Now, as I know that that gentleman is connected with the _Central Press
of Havana_, I conclude that he is upon the same errand as myself. In the
interests of the _New York Trigger_, it is therefore my duty now to
forestall the secretary, by forwarding my news before he has had time to
dispatch his.

The secretary is at the telegraph table scribbling at a rapid rate, and
you may be sure he does not slacken his speed when he becomes conscious
of the presence of the formidable agent of the _New York Trigger_! Only
one instrument is used for telegraphic purposes, so he whose telegram is
first handed to the clerk is first to be served by that functionary.

The system of telegraphy--like every other system in Cuba--is supervised
by the Spanish administration. Every telegram must be submitted to the
authorities before it is dispatched, in case anything treasonable or
offensive to the government should enter into its composition. The
dispatch being approved of, it is returned to the telegraph office and
transmitted in the usual manner. The sender is, however, obliged to pay
for his message in paper stamps, and these must be affixed to the
document; but under no circumstances is he permitted to make his
payments in Spanish coin.

This paper money--which in form resembles postage-stamps--cannot be
obtained at the telegraph office, but must be purchased at the
'Colecturía,' a certain government establishment in another part of the
town. Thus, the unfortunate individual who happens to be unprovided
with sufficient stamps, is often at a standstill.

By a miracle, my important news from Porto Rico is ready for
transmission as soon as that of my rival, the American secretary; but,
unfortunately, that gentleman is before me in presenting his document to
the telegraph clerk. The latter examines the message carefully to see
that nothing is wanting, when, to my great joy, he returns it with the
remark, that the indispensable stamps have not been affixed!

My rival is aghast, and offers to pay in golden doubloons; but the
official is not to be bribed--especially before a witness--so the
American secretary, who is unprovided with stamps, has no other
alternative but to go in quest of them.

Meanwhile I, whose pocket-book is full of the precious paper-money, hand
in my message, which the clerk accepts, and in my presence ticks off to
Havana. From thence it will proceed by submarine cable to the coast of
Florida, where, after being duly translated into English, it will be
transmitted to New York, and to-morrow, if all goes well, it will appear
in the columns of the _New York Trigger_.

On my way to a neighbouring café for refreshment after my labours, I
gather from a printed placard on a wall of the governor's palace, some
further particulars concerning the rebellion:--

'The Spanish troops have had an encounter with the insurgents, and
utterly routed them, with a loss, on the Spanish side, of one man killed
and three slightly wounded. The enemy's losses are incalculable!'

This piece of intelligence, of course, proceeds from government
sources, and is therefore doubtful; but all is fish that comes to my
journalistic net, so I return to the telegraph office, and give the
_Trigger_ the benefit of the doubt.

In the course of the day, I obtain the rebel version of the fight:--

'A great battle has been fought between the _Patriots_ and the
Spaniards, in which the latter were forced to retreat with considerable
losses.'

Twenty-three words more for the _Trigger_.

The revolution spreads; the news circulates, and every mail steamer from
Porto Rico brings correspondence for me from the agent in that island.
Day by day the _New York Trigger_ is filled with telegrams and editorial
paragraphs about the revolution in the Spanish colony; and that widely
circulating newspaper is often in advance, and never behind, its
contemporaries with 'latest intelligence from the seat of war.'

At length a fatal piece of news reaches us.

Afraid lest the revolutionary mania should infect our town, the Spanish
authorities have subjected the mail bags from Porto Rico to an
epistolary quarantine; in other words, all our correspondence is
overhauled at the post-office, and any document bearing upon the
revolution is confiscated.

The central agent in Havana of the _New York Trigger_ is beside himself
when he finds that no more telegrams and news-letters are forthcoming,
and reminds me, per wire, of my duties. It is in vain to assure him of
the true state of affairs, and of my inability to supply him with the
dearly coveted 'intelligence.' He will not believe that my resources
for information are as limited as I represent them to be. One day I
receive a mighty telegram from him, acquainting me with the fact that a
contemporary of the _Trigger_ has actually published some 'startling'
news from the seat of war!

This fearful announcement is shortly followed by another dispatch to the
following effect:--

'If you cannot obtain the news required by remaining in Santiago, leave
immediately for Principe (our alias for Porto Rico). If no steamer is
ready, charter a sailing vessel. Collect all the information you can in
detail, and return without loss of time. N.B. Spare no expense. The
"Gatillo" (Spanish for "Trigger") thirsts for particulars.'

As no steamer is announced to sail before another week, I take the other
alternative, and charter a small sailing vessel.

I land in due time at Porto Rico. I seek our agent, Don Felipe, and
after some trouble, I find him--in jail! He is a native of the village
near the scene of the outbreak, and for some mysterious reason has been
arrested 'on suspicion.'

Assisted by the English and American consuls, to whom I have letters of
introduction, and using the _Trigger's_ dollars for the pockets of the
officials, I ultimately succeed in procuring the agent's release. Don
Felipe then produces press copies of certain communications which he had
dispatched by the last mail steamers, but which had been intercepted at
the Cuban post-office, and, after inviting me to lunch at one of the
finest cafés I have ever had the pleasure of entering, he accompanies me
over the town, where we collect the latest particulars respecting the
insurrection.

San Juan de Puerto Rico is a fine city. The houses are three and four
stories high, and are constructed after the American fashion. The
streets are wide and symmetrically arranged. The roads are all paved and
hilly. Every street leads to a fort, a gun and a sentry; and, in some
cases, to high cliffs with an extensive view of the open sea. In short,
San Juan is a strongly-fortified place. Everything is very clean, very
new, and very modern looking. The cathedral is a noble edifice, and the
theatre is in every way equal to the best buildings of the kind in
Europe.

Crossing an open square, in which appear a number of bronze statues, Don
Felipe conducts me back to the café, where we partake of refreshment,
and arrange the various items of news which we have collected during our
afternoon's ramble over the town.

Don Felipe advises me to dispatch the frail bark which had brought me
from Cuba, and return by the mail steamer which has just arrived from
St. Thomas, and is announced to sail for Cuba early next morning. As
this is by far the speediest way of getting home, I follow my friend's
advice, and accept his invitation to repose for the night at his humble
dwelling.

The rest of the day and evening is passed very agreeably.

The British consul--a fine military-looking old fellow--invites me to
dine with him and his charming family. It is pleasant to speak and hear
spoken one's native tongue again, after being comparatively deaf and
dumb in that language for nearly five years. It is still more
delightful to feel at home with one's countrymen and countrywomen in a
strange land, and thus, when I take leave of my hospitable English host
and his family, I sincerely regret, with them, the brevity of my visit.

I rise at a very early hour next morning, and, accompanied by Don
Felipe, I take my passage on board the 'Pájaro del Oceano,' that being
the name of the steamer which is to convey me to Cuba.

The naval agent of the English mail company, who is a young Cuban named
Fernandez, salutes me as I embark, for we had been slightly acquainted
with one another in Santiago. Before taking leave of Don Felipe, I
introduce him to the mail agent, for by the latter's means I hope for
the future to ensure the safe delivery of my dispatches from Porto Rico
and other islands. Don Fernandez touches at the port of Santiago at
least once a month, and if he can be pressed into the _Trigger's_
service, he will be invaluable to that newspaper.

The mail agent has a compartment on board all to himself, and invites me
to occupy one of the comfortable berths which it contains. He is in
other ways so civil and obliging, that his company is altogether most
congenial during the voyage, and before our arrival in Cuba, we have
become the closest of friends.

I am alarmed to find that our steamer will touch at other ports before
reaching its destination; but Fernandez assures me that the voyage will
occupy much less time than it would if it were made in a sailing vessel,
especially in the present somewhat stormy weather. In short, if all goes
well, we shall sight the Morro Castle in less than five days.

In sorting his correspondence, the mail agent discovers some important
missives addressed to me. These, which he kindly hands to me, I find
come from the _Trigger's_ agents in St. Thomas, Jamaica, and other
islands; and contain some interesting intelligence respecting the
projected purchase by the United States of the Bay of Samana, together
with the particulars of an earthquake near Callao, a scheme for a
floating dock at Kingston, Jamaica, and other topics equally interesting
to Americans. These matters, together with my Porto Rico news, I proceed
to arrange in concise form, for immediate dispatch by telegraph, on my
arrival at Santiago.

Friend Fernandez very much excites my curiosity by exhibiting the mail
bags from Southampton. One of these bags is labelled 'Havana,' the other
'Santiago de Cuba,' and as they contain the correspondence from Europe,
doubtless letters and newspapers addressed to me and Nicasio Rodriguez y
Boldú are among the number. But the mouths of both sacks--which make
_my_ mouth 'water'--are securely tied and sealed, and the mail agent
dares not venture to open them, until they have been deposited at the
Cuban post-office.

On the evening of the following day we land in a boat at Aguadilla--a
small watering-place on the coast of Porto Rico. The village is
represented by a row of tumble-down houses and a scattering of
picturesque negro huts. While my companion confers with the postal agent
of Aguadilla, I occupy the time by a saunter through the quiet,
primitive streets, picking up here and there from a communicative native
scraps of news concerning the insurrection, which I learn is now very
much on the wane.

The business of the mail agent being over, we return to our steamer,
where, after partaking of a hearty meal--in spite of wind and
weather--we turn into our snug berths and chat and smoke our cigarettes
till sleep overtakes us.

We awake early next morning to find that we have already anchored off
Mayagüez.

Mayagüez is an important sea-side town on the Porto Rico coast, and is
surrounded by the loveliest tropical scenery that I have yet beheld in
the West Indies. One long, broad and perfectly level street runs in a
direct line from the quay to the confines of the town. Branching off
from this formidable thoroughfare are a few narrow streets which
terminate in small rivers and streams, across which innumerable little
bridges are thrown.

As we are destined to halt at this delightful spot for several hours, we
make the most of our time. After calling upon our vice-consul--who is
also the English postal agent, and has an office in one of the numerous
warehouses which face the quay--and after having partaken of some
refreshment at a café, my companion and I hail a quaint dilapidated
vehicle of the fly species and drive through _the_ street of the town.
This street beginning with shops, continues with tall private dwellings,
which, in turn, are succeeded by pretty villas, till the open country
suddenly appears.

I am amazed to find that for our drive through the town, half a mile
beyond it and back again, we are charged the astonishingly modest fare
of two-pence half-penny!

We have embarked again and are off to Santo Domingo, where we land on
the following day.

Santo Domingo--the capital of the island of that name--is an antiquated
city, with brown, sombre-looking stone houses intermingled with quaint
towers and gateways, tropical trees, shrubbery and ruins. We reach the
city in a small boat, passing up a long river called the Ozana, and
after Don Fernandez has deposited his mail bags at the post-office, we
wander over the town. My companion knows every part of it well, having,
as he tells me, visited it at least twice a month for the past three
years. Acting, therefore, as a cicerone, he conducts me through the
Calle del Comercio, which is the principal street in the city, but which
has a very dismal and deserted aspect. The cathedral is an ancient
building, and has resisted wind, weather, earthquake, and revolution for
upwards of three hundred years. The interior is full of interest for the
artist and the antiquarian, containing, among other objects, the first
mausoleum of Christopher Columbus. Don Fernandez tells me that the
remains of the great discoverer were originally brought from Spain and
deposited here, and that they were afterwards transferred to the
cathedral of Havana, where they at present repose.

On our way from the cathedral we meet a number of coloured officials
belonging to the republic; and for the first time in my experience, I
behold a negro policeman! We pause before an old picturesque archway
where a sentry is on guard. The sentry is a black youth of not more than
eighteen Dominican summers. His uniform consists of a ragged shirt,
brown holland trousers, and a broad Panama hat. He has apparently an
easy life of it, for his musket reposes in a corner of the gateway,
while he himself is seated, half dozing, on a big stone!

After inspecting the quaint old market-place, together with an ancient
Franciscan monastery called La Forsza, the 'Well of Columbus,' and other
interesting 'sights,' Don Fernandez warns me that the hour for our
departure is near. I accordingly accompany him to the office of the
English consul, where he has to receive the mail bags of Santo Domingo.
We have to wait some time at the consul's office, for important
dispatches from President Baez. I devote the time which elapses before
these dispatches appear, to a little business on behalf of the _New York
Trigger_. There is, however, scarcely any news of importance to be
obtained. Since the war of Santo Domingo, the inhabitants have enjoyed
an uninterrupted peace, and with the exception of a few petty squabbles
with their neighbours, the Haytiens, and the projected purchase of the
Bay of Samana, nothing eventful has transpired in the island.

The President's dispatches having arrived, we take leave of the consul
and the company assembled, and, under the escort of a torn and tattered
negro porter bearing the mail bags, reach the quay. Passing through the
custom-house, which is represented by a roof and eight posts, we embark
in our little canoe, and gliding over the waters of the river Ozana,
which skirts the town, reach our steamer.

In rather more than forty-eight hours the Morro Castle is sighted, and
in due course I land once again at the Pearl of the Antilles.

The various items of information collected during my cruise being
already carefully prepared for telegraphic purposes, I repair without
loss of time to the telegraph office.

Behold me safely seated in the scribbling department of that
establishment, rejoicing in the fact that I am the sole occupant of the
apartment. From the perfect quiet which reigns in the operating room, I
conclude that the clerks are not very busy, and that they are prepared
to 'wire' any number of words which I may present to them. I have no
dread of competition, at least for the present; for even if my rival
correspondents should have received news by the same steamer which
brought me, I know from experience, that some hours must necessarily
elapse before it can be in a condition for telegraphing.

With a triumphant smile, I seize a quire of printed telegraph forms, and
proceed to copy in 'a clear, bold hand' from my notes.

Now to astonish the _Trigger_, and all whom my abundant information may
concern!

I have scarcely finished my first instalment of news, when a telegraph
messenger taps me on the shoulder and staggers me with the information,
that in consequence of a serious interruption in the line of
communication with Havana, the operations of the telegraph are for the
present suspended!

Then I learn for the first time that a great revolution has broken out
in Spain, and that, despite the precautions of the governor of our town,
the revolutionary mania has seized the natives of Cuba, many of whom
have already risen in arms not many leagues from Santiago! Among other
achievements, the rebellious party have cut the telegraph wires and
intercepted the land mails.

There are no railways in direct communication with Havana, and the
postal service is effected by means of mounted carriers. Thus the
speediest ways for conveying news to Havana are cut off, and there is
no other resource but the tardy steamer. I accordingly return without
delay to the 'Pájaro del Oceano,' which is to sail for Havana in three
hours' time, and finding my good friend Don Fernandez on board, I
secretly hand him my big budget of news, begging him by all the saints
in the calendar to deliver the same into the hands of the Havana agent.

I am afraid to think what effect this further delay will have upon the
_New York Trigger_! Still it may be some consolation for the
enterprising proprietor of that newspaper if he find that his
contemporaries are suffering from the same complaint.



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.


'We are in a state of siege!' says my friend, Don Javier, editor of a
Cuban periodical called _El Sufragio Universâl_.

'Y bien, amigo mio; how does the situation affect you?'

'Malisísimamente!' returns Don Javier, offering me a seat at his
editorial table. 'The maldito censor,' he whispers, 'has suppressed four
columns of to-day's paper; and there remains little in the way of
information, besides the feuilleton, some advertisements, and a long
sonnet addressed to 'Lola' on the occasion of her saint's day, by an
amorous Pollo-poet.

The weather is sultry and oppressive. The huge doors and windows of _El
Sufragio Universâl_ office are thrown wide open. Everybody is dressed in
a coat of white drill, a pair of white trousers, is without waistcoat,
cravat, or shirt-collar, wears a broad-brimmed Panama, and smokes a long
damp cigar.

The sub-editor--a lean, coffee-coloured person, with inky sleeves--is
seated at a separate table making up columns for to-morrow's 'tirada,'
or impression. Before him is a pile of important news from Puerto Rico
and San Domingo, besides a voluminous budget from that indefatigable
correspondent, Mr. Archibald Cannie, of Jamaica. More than half of this
interesting news has been already marked out by the censor's red pencil,
and the bewildered sub looks high and low for material wherewith to
replenish the censorial gaps. Small, half-naked negroes, begrimed with
ink--veritable printer's devils--appear and crave for 'copy,' but in
vain.

'Give out the foreign blocks,' says the editor, in the tone of a
commander.

The foreign blocks are stereotyped columns, supplied by American quacks
and other advertisers to every newspaper proprietor throughout the West
Indies. On account of their extreme length and picturesque
embellishments, these advertisements are used only in cases of
emergency.

While the foreign blocks are being dispensed, the 'localista,' or
general reporter, enters in breathless haste. He has brought several
fragments of local information. Four runaway negroes have been captured
by the police. Two English sailors have died of yellow fever in the Casa
de Salud. A coolie has stabbed another coolie at the copper mines, and
has escaped justice by leaping into an adjacent pit. A gigantic cayman,
or shark, has been caught in the harbour. The localista has also some
items of news about the Cuban insurrection. The rebels have increased in
numbers. They have occupied all the districts which surround our town,
destroyed the aqueduct, cut the telegraph wire, and intercepted the land
mails to Havana. There is now no communication with the capital, save
by sea. Troops have again been dispatched to the interior, but their
efforts have proved ineffectual. Upon their appearance, the rebels
vanish into the woods and thickets, and there exhaust the patience and
the energy of the military.

The sub-editor notes everything down, taking care to eschew that which
is likely to prove offensive to the sensitive ears of the authorities.
The material is then given out for printing purposes; for his worship
the censor will read nothing until it has been previously set up in
type. As many hours will elapse before the proof sheets are returned
with censorial corrections, Don Javier proposes a saunter through the
town.

On the way, Don Javier entertains me with an account of the revolution.

'The first grito de independencia,' says he, 'took place on October the
tenth (1868), at La Demajagua--an ingenio, or sugar estate, belonging to
Don Carlos Manuel Cespedes, a wealthy Cuban planter and a distinguished
advocate. One hundred and forty-seven men, armed with forty-five
fowling-pieces, four rifles and a few pistols and machetes, constituted
the rebellious band which, under Señor Cespedes' leadership, had
ventured to raise the standard of independence. Two days after, their
numbers were increased to 4,000.

'When our governor was first told that a party of Cubans had risen in
open revolt, not many leagues from our town, he publicly proclaimed that
the rebellious band consisted of a small crowd of "descamisados," or
ragged vagrants, and runaway negroes, whom a dozen policemen could
easily disperse. In spite of this pretended indifference, he
nevertheless thought fit to communicate with the Captain-General of
Havana. That mighty functionary thought more seriously of the outbreak;
he was perfectly aware of the heavy taxes which had been imposed upon
the inhabitants of our island; of the state of ruin into which many of
our leading planters had been thrown by these taxes; and conscious also
of the oppression and despotism which had been exercised over our colony
during the reign of the lately dethroned Queen of Spain, he doubtless
calculated that the revolutionary mania inaugurated in the Mother
Country would naturally be imitated in the Loyal and Ever-faithful Isle.
But whatever may have been his speculations, certain it is that as soon
as he heard of the rebellious movement, he telegraphed to our governor,
commanding him to dispatch to the scene of the outbreak as many troops
as could be safely spared from the garrison at Santiago. Meanwhile, he
himself dispatched a battalion of tried warriors from the capital.

'Before our apathetic governor had had time to obey the orders of his
chief, an encounter had already taken place at Yara, in the district of
Manzanillo, between some of the rebels and a column of the Crown
regiment who were quartered at the town of Bayamo.

'Our governor was now alive to the gravity of the situation, and in due
course began to take what he called "active measures." Following the
example set by the governor of Manzanillo, he declared our town in a
state of siege; and you will now have an opportunity of judging for
yourself what a siege in Cuba is like.'

The usual military precautions against assault on an unfortified place
have been taken. The entrances to the streets have been barricaded with
huge hogsheads containing sand and stones; small cannon stand in the
plaza and principal thoroughfares. At every corner that we turn, we are
accosted by a sentry, who challenges us three times over: 'Who goes
there?' 'Spain.' 'What kind of people?' 'Inoffensive.' And so forth. The
theatre, the bull-ring, the promenade, are all closed for the season.
The masquerading and carnival amusements are at an end. Payments have
been suspended, and provisions have become scarce and dear. The people
whom we meet have grown low-spirited, and the sunny streets look gloomy
and deserted. We glance in at the warehouses and manufactories, and find
everybody within attired in military costume; for many of the
inhabitants have enrolled themselves as volunteers for the pleasure of
wearing a uniform at their own expense, and of sporting a rifle provided
by the government. The names of those who object to play at soldiers
have been noted down, and their proceedings are narrowly watched.

The Plaza de Armas is crowded with volunteers; their uniform consists of
a blue and white striped blouse, white drill trousers, and a Panama hat,
to the band of which is attached a vermilion-coloured cockade
embellished with silver lace. The majority of these amateur warriors are
Catalan shopkeepers, and clerks from Spanish warehouses.

Don Javier tells me that these gentlemen, together with the Havana
volunteers, represent a very formidable army; and that in the event of
affairs taking a more serious turn, the volunteers would take an active
part in the hostilities.

'The Catalan shopkeepers,' says Don Javier, 'are even more interested
than Spain in preserving our colony under its present administration.'

'Under a more just and humane government, together with the abolition of
slavery, these traders would be considerable losers; for most of them
are large slave-owners, and enjoy certain mercantile privileges, which
would be denied them under a new policy.'

I remind Don Javier that these said Catalans are after all Spaniards
born, and that, whatever their private object may be, for patriotic
reasons it seems only natural that they should desire to maintain order
in the Spanish colony.

'No muy! not a bit of it,' says my friend; 'they are not prompted by any
feeling of patriotism. They have been too long estranged from their home
at Barcelona, and love Cuba and her rich resources too much, to make
that a consideration. I have heard them say that they would take up arms
against their own government, rather than that Cuba should enjoy the
privileges to which I have alluded.'

While we are conversing, a couple of volunteers approach and salute us.

One of them is my friend Bimba, who tells me that he has enlisted,
partly for the 'fun' of wearing a uniform, and partly to ensure himself
against arrest.

'Well, Don Javier,' says he,'are you not one of us yet? And you too, Don
Gualterio, surely you will help to protect our town?'

I plead, as an excuse, my nationality.

'Que caramba!' exclaims Bimba; 'why, your countryman, the clerk in B----
's warehouse, is a volunteer; and so are the S---- 's from the German
house in the Calle de la Marina.'

Don Javier observes that our numerous duties prevent us from joining the
corps.

'Car! Que duties y duties?' says Bimba; 'business is slack with all of
us now. You, Don Javier, will have an easy time of it, notwithstanding
your trade of news-disseminator; for you know, only "official" accounts
of the war are fit for publication in your paper! As for you, amigo
Gualterio, there will be no more triumphal arches wanted for the
present; and no more "monos" (portraits) of defunct people, till the
revolution is over, and then I have no doubt there will be more than
enough to occupy you and your partner Nicasio! The theatre, too, is
closed until further notice, so there will be no more theatricals.'

Leaving Don Javier to chat with the other volunteer, I withdraw with
Bimba to a quiet corner of the square and converse with him in private.

Bimba is one of the favoured few who is aware of my connection with an
American newspaper, because, for obvious reasons, I have always been
careful to preserve my incognito. Now, more than ever, it behoves me to
adopt this precaution.

As a blind to the authorities and in order to facilitate my journalistic
operations, Bimba suggests that I should join the volunteers. He tells
me that our governor has signified his intention to make another sally
with the troops, and that he has invited some of the volunteers to
accompany the expedition. Enrolled as a volunteer, my friend says that
it will not be difficult to obtain permission to follow with others in
the rear of the Spanish regulars, and that by so doing I shall be able
to 'report progress.'

Our mutual friend Tunicú has not yet enlisted, I find.

'That gentleman is otherwise engaged,' says Bimba; 'his leisure moments
are occupied at the house of his uncle Don Benigno, in the enjoyment of
the society of his little mulatto-lady, who is, as you know, Don
Benigno's adopted daughter.'

'What! the pretty Ermiña?' I exclaim; 'why, she is a mere child!'

'She was a child five years ago, when you and your partner were the
Don's guests,' says Bimba. 'Now Ermiña is a grown woman of fifteen
tropical summers.'

'There is some mystery connected with that young lady,' I observe; 'and
I have never yet been able to fathom it. Can you enlighten me?'

'Not much,' returns Bimba; 'I strongly suspect--but let us not talk
scandal in these warlike times. I only know that Ermiña is a remarkably
white mulatto of the octoroon class; that she has been educated like a
lady; and that she is the bosom companion of Don Benigno's daughters.'

My curiosity being aroused, I resolve to probe Tunicú on the subject of
his affaire de coeur, at our next meeting.

Meanwhile I adopt friend Bimba's suggestion and enroll myself in his
corps, and, with others, obtain permission to accompany the troops on
their expedition.

Some days, however, elapse before our feeble-minded governor can make up
his mind to the sally. A couple of Spanish frigates lie at anchor in the
harbour, in readiness to bombard the town if the rebels should effect an
entrance and stir up the inhabitants, their countrymen, to revolt. The
garrison has been considerably augmented by the arrival of fresh troops
from Puerto Rico and Spain, who are quartered indiscriminately in the
jail, the hospitals, and churches, to expire there by the score of
yellow fever, vómito negro, and dysentery. Meanwhile the besiegers make
no attempt at assault, but occasionally challenge the troops to sally
from their stronghold by firing their sporting rifles within earshot of
the town.

Several foreign vessels of war are stationed in the bay ready, if
necessary, to assist the foreign residents of the town. Among these
vessels are the American war steamer 'Penobscot' and H.B.M.'s steam-ship
the 'Eclipse;' the latter having been summoned from Port Royal, Jamaica,
by the English vice-consul of Santiago.

One day a great panic is raised, with cries of' Los insurrectos! Los
insurrectos!' followed by a charge of mounted military through the
streets. It is reported that the insurgents are coming; so everybody
hastens home, and much slamming of doors and barring of windows is
heard. But the alarm proves a false one; and, with the exception of a
few arrests made by the police, just to keep up appearances, no further
damage results.

One memorable night, shortly after the inhabitants have retired, the
terrible cry of 'fire!' is heard throughout the town, and a report
spreads that the insurgents have at last effected an entrance, and set
fire to several houses.

Sure enough, from the roof of our studio, Nicasio and I witness what, at
our distance, seems to be the burning of Santiago de Cuba! The sky is
black with smoke, and from the centre of the town broad flames mount
high into the air. Verily, part of Santiago is in flames, but the cause
of the conflagration is--as we afterwards find--in no way connected with
the insurrection.

A 'panaderia' (baker's shop) and a linen-draper's warehouse, called 'El
Globo,' owned by Catalans, have both caught fire by accident. Under
ordinary circumstances, the disaster would not have created any other
alarm than that which usually accompanies such a rare event as a fire in
Cuba. But having connected its origin with the pending revolution, the
town is thrown into a state of extreme panic, and until the truth is
made manifest, the greatest confusion prevails. Mounted guards and
policemen--armed to the teeth--charge through the streets in all
directions, and the volunteers turn out en masse and congregate in large
numbers before the scene of the conflagration in the Plaza de Dolores.

Even the foreign consuls share for the moment in the popular
apprehension. Their national flags are seen to flutter over their
respective consulates, and a few well-armed marines from the 'Penobscot'
and 'Eclipse' war-steamers are despatched by the captains of these
vessels for the protection of the American and English residents.
Passing the British consulate on our way to the Plaza de Dolores, we
observed a couple of British tars--their cutlasses shouldered and with
revolvers in their belts--on guard at the open doors.

Meanwhile the black 'bomberos,' or firemen of the town, are at their
work. But they are ill-provided with the machinery for extinguishing a
great fire. Only one engine is available, and their water is supplied in
buckets and by means of a long hose which communicates with the
court-yard of an opposite house.

The gallant captain of the British war-steamer offers to provide the
firemen with an engine and men from his vessel; but the bomberos are
able to dispense with this assistance, as their plan of operations
consists chiefly in cutting off all communication with the fire, by
destroying the surrounding houses.

If any proof were wanting to show that the despised, but free and
well-paid negro, is not devoid of ability and energy, these black and
brown bomberos would surely provide ample testimony. A better conducted,
better disciplined body of men than the coloured firemen of Cuba it has
never been my fortune to meet anywhere. Steady, earnest of purpose, and
perfectly free from excitement, they work like veritable negroes, and
they prove as serviceable as the whitest of their bombero brethren.

In less than four hours the safety of the surrounding habitations is
ensured, and the fire, being now confined to the doomed buildings, is
left to burn itself out.



CHAPTER XXV.

CUBAN WARFARE.

     Spanish Soldiers--A Sally--Prisoners of War--'Los Voluntarios'--A
     triumphant Return--Danger!--Cuban Emigrants.


Our vacillating governor having at last consented to another chase after
the rebels, under the leadership of a certain Spanish colonel, a body of
volunteers--myself among the number--join the troops on the appointed
day and march with them from town.

The Spanish troops muster some five hundred strong. Their hand weapons
are of the old-fashioned calibre, and they carry small field guns on the
backs of mules. Every man is smoking either a cigarette or a cigar as he
tramps along. His uniform is of dark blue cotton, or other light
material suitable to the tropical heat. He carries little else besides
his gun, his tobacco, and a tin-pot for making coffee; for the country
through which he is passing abounds naturally in nearly every kind of
provender.

The besiegers have altogether disappeared from the neighbouring country,
and for the first few miles our march is easy and uninterrupted. But
soon the passes grow narrower, until our progress is effected in single
file. Occasionally we halt to refresh ourselves, for the weather is
intensely hot, and the sun blazes upon our backs. To ensure ourselves
against brain fever, we gather a few cool plantain leaves and place them
in layers in the crowns of our Panamas. Our way is incessantly
intercepted by fallen trees and brushwood; but we can see nothing of the
enemy, and hear little besides the singing of birds and the ripple of
hidden water. Many of our party would gladly abandon the quest after
human game, and make use of their weapons in a hunt after wild pig, or
small deer, which animals abound in this part of the country.

'Alto!' We have waded at last through the intricate forest, and halt in
an open plain. It is evening, and as we are weary with our wanderings,
we encamp here all night. A moon is shining bright enough for us to read
the smallest print; but we are disinclined to be studious, and smoke our
cigarettes and sip our hot coffee. Men are dispatched to a neighbouring
plantation in quest of bananas, pumpkins, Indian corn, sugar-cane,
pine-apples, pomegranates, cocoa-nuts, and mangoes, and with this
princely fare we take our suppers. Then sleep overtakes us.

Early next morning we are called to arms by the sound of firing, which
seems to reach us from a hill in the distance. The noise is as if a
thousand sportsmen were out for a battue. Our commander assures us that
the enemy is near at hand, and soon crowds of mounted men appear on the
hill before us. With the aid of our field-glasses, we watch their
movements, and can distinguish their dresses of white canvas, their
sporting guns, and primitive spears. A body of them surrounds a thatched
hut, over the roof of which droops a white banner with a strange device,
consisting of a silver star on a square of republican red. The enemy
appears to be very numerous, and as he marches along the ridge of the
hill, his line seems interminable. All our opponents are mounted on
horses, or mules with strange saddles and equipments.

'Adelante!' We advance to meet the foe. Some hours elapse before we can
reach the thatched hut, as our course is exceedingly circuitous. We find
the hut occupied by a decrepit, half-naked negro, but our birds have
flown. The negro, who tells us he is a hermit, and that his name is San
Benito, can give us no information as to the whereabouts of the enemy,
so we make him a prisoner of war. The opposing forces have left nothing
but their patriotic banner behind them. This trophy our commander
possesses himself of, and bears off in triumph. Then we scour the
country in companies of fifty; but we meet with nothing more formidable,
than a barricade of felled trees and piled stones. Once we capture a
strange weapon, made out of the trunk of a very hard tree, scooped and
trimmed into the form of a cannon, and bound with strong iron hoops.
Upon another occasion we discharge our rifles into a thicket whence
sounds of firing proceed, and we make two more prisoners of war, in the
shape of a couple of runaway negroes.

Though we have had no encounter with the enemy, our 'losses' are not
inconsiderable; many of the soldiers having been attacked by those
terrible and invincible foes--fever and dysentery. In this manner at
least two-thirds of our force is put _hors de combat_. Our colonel is in
despair. As for the volunteers, their disappointment at the unsuccessful
issue is very great.

At length our colonel, disgusted with the result of the campaign, orders
a retreat. The troops willingly obey, and are preparing for their march
back, when twenty of the volunteers come to the front and propose making
one effort to storm the enemy's impregnable fortress. Finding our
colonel opposed to such a wild enterprise, these gentlemen, reckless of
the consequences, plunge headlong into an adjacent thicket, and thence
presently the sound of fire-arms proceeds. For upwards of an hour we
await the return of these mad adventurers, and during the interval the
firing is incessant. Finally the 'besiegers' are seen to emerge from a
distant part of the thicket. When we join them, we find that more than
half their number are wounded, and the rest bear between them no less
than three prisoners of war! For the first time I have the pleasure of
standing before veritable rebels! Two of the prisoners are whites and
are seriously maimed; the third is a mulatto youth of not more than
sixteen years. They are all attired in brown holland blouses, white
trousers, buff-coloured shoes and straw hats. The white men have been
disarmed, but the mulatto lad has still a revolver and machete-sword in
his belt.

The volunteers are elated beyond measure by their formidable(?)
captures, and endeavour to persuade their chief to make another attempt
with the troops. But the colonel will not hear of it, and commands the
men instantly to retreat. The volunteers obey this time, in spite of
their protestations, but before doing so, a horrible scene is enacted.

The mulatto lad, who is only slightly wounded, is bound hand and foot
with strong cords, and consigned to the care of the soldiers, but the
other two unfortunates, who lie groaning in agony on the ground, are
brutally seized by some of the volunteers, who, after maltreating them
in a shocking manner, stab them to death with the points of their
bayonets!

Sickening at the fearful spectacle, I gladly follow the colonel and his
men, who are unanimous in their indignation at the outrage.

A two days' march brings us to the confines of the town again; but
before we proceed to enter, the governor, accompanied by a staff of
officers and a band of music, comes out to meet us. A cart, driven by
oxen, is procured, and upon it are placed the captured cannon and rebel
banner, the former of which is as much as possible concealed by Spanish
flags and flowers. A procession is then formed, and in this way we pass
through the streets, followed by the military band, which plays a hymn
of victory in commemoration of our triumphant return. The houses become
suddenly decorated with banners, blankets, and pieces of drugget
suspended from the windows, and the inhabitants welcome us with loud
cheers and 'vivas.'

Immediately upon quitting the ranks, I repair to the office of _El
Sufragio Universál_, for the purpose of reporting to Don Javier the
result of our expedition. Strange to relate, that gentleman has already
perused a glowing account of our glorious campaign in _El Redactor_, the
government organ in Cuba. The editor hands me a copy of that periodical,
and there, sure enough, is a thrilling description of what we might have
achieved, if we had had the good fortune to encounter the enemy in the
open field!

But the editor has some strange news for my private ear. He tells me
that a fillibustering expedition from the United States has landed with
arms, ammunition, and a thousand American fillibusters, in the Bay of
Nipe, not many leagues from our town. With this reinforcement it is
confidently expected that the rebels will make an attempt to attack the
Spanish troops in their stronghold. Don Javier, who is a Cuban to the
bone, is sanguine of his countrymen's success. With a few more such
expeditions, he is sure that the colony will soon be rid of its Spanish
rulers. Then the editor gives me some extraordinary information about
myself. It appears that during my absence, _El Redactor_ has made the
wonderful discovery that I am one of the agents of an American
newspaper; has referred in its leading articles to the 'scandalous and
untruthful reports' published by its American contemporary, and has
insinuated that henceforth the climate of Cuba will be found by many
degrees too warm for me.

But this is not the worst news which the Cuban editor has to impart. The
cholera, he says, has been raging in many parts of the town, and
innumerable families have in consequence of this disaster and the
continued arrests, fled from Santiago. The majority of them had embarked
in the first steamer announced to leave the island, which happened to be
the 'Caravelle,' bound for Jamaica; others had taken refuge at their
estates in the country, while numbers of young Cubans, who had been
threatened with arrest, had made their escape and joined the insurgent
army.

On my way from Don Javier's office, I meet Bimba, and from him I learn
further particulars respecting this wholesale flight of Cubans. He tells
me that, among the departures are Don Benigno and his family, who fled
to his country estate. That Don Severiano and _his_ family have set sail
for Europe, taking with them my creole lady-love, who had been for this
purpose released from the convent. My friend says that their
destination is Paris. So au revoir, Cachita mia; we may meet again!
Quien sabe?

Bimba then discloses the wonderful intelligence, that among the
passengers by the French steamer bound for Jamaica was my companion
Nicasio Rodriguez y Boldú; and he hands me a letter which my partner had
entrusted to his care. The contents of this document only confirms what
I have already heard. The cholera, the recent arrests, the fact that
Nicasio is the close friend of the formidable agent of the _New York
Trigger_, have combined to induce him to abandon the island before my
return. He urges me to follow his example without delay and embark in
the first steamer which leaves the island. He himself will remain in
Jamaica till he hears from me, and if I am unable to join him there, we
shall--si Dios quiere--meet again in that part of Europe where for many
years we have dwelt together and practised, under more favourable
auspices, 'the divine art of Apelles.'

The first steamer announced to leave Santiago is the 'Pelayo,' and as
this vessel will sail for Havana in four hours' time, I prepare for my
journey to the Cuban capital. Bimba and those of my friends who still
remain in this disturbed part of the Ever-faithful Isle, accompany me on
board. Foremost is the editor of _El Sufragio Universál_, who, after
wishing me a 'bon voyage' and a hearty 'vaya usted con Dios,' secretly
hands me a bundle of papers, containing, among other matters, the
'leavings' of the censor for the past fortnight, which Don Javier hopes
will be acceptable to the proprietors of the _New York Trigger_.

I had almost forgotten Tunicú! 'What has become of him?' I ask.

Bimba tells me that Tunicú has disappeared no one knows whither.

'Eloped with his mulatto lady?' I suggest.

'No muy!' says Bimba; 'la Ermiña accompanied Don Benigno to his estate.
You will probably hear of them again.'



CHAPTER XXVI.

HAVANA CIGARETTES.

     Cigars--The Etiquette of Smoking--A Cigarette Manufactory--The
     Courteous Proprietor--The Visitors' Book--Cigarette Rolling.


That the characteristics of Cuba, and the ways of the people, are better
observed in the Santiago end of the island than they are in Havana, is
apparent to me after my arrival in the latter city. Here I am reminded
in many respects of a fashionable European town--indeed, by reason of
its modern innovations, the Cuban capital has been styled the 'Paris of
the tropics.' Compared with Santiago, Havana offers few attractions to
the traveller in quest of 'Cosas de Cuba,' besides its tobacco; and to
this subject I accordingly devote my attention.

I am in the Louvre. Not the French palace of that name, but a
fashionable café in the heart of Havana. The interior of the Café del
Louvre is tastefully decorated; the walls are concealed behind huge
mirrors, the floor is of marble, and countless tables crowded with
Habaneros and foreigners from all parts of Las Americas, are distributed
about the saloon. At one end is a long 'mostrador' or counter, where
fancy chocolate, confectionary, and tobacco in all its branches are
sold. Here you have your pick of brands, from the gigantic and costly
Ramas cigar to the 'tamaño pequeño' cigarette. But do not suppose that
because you are at the birthplace of your choice Havanas, you will get
those articles at a cost comparatively next to nothing. I, who from
infancy upwards have cherished this fiction, am lamentably disappointed
when I discover what exorbitant prices are demanded for the best brands.
The cedar boxes, with their precious contents, set like gems in the
midst of tinfoil and fancy-cut paper, look inviting; but I seek in vain
for a cigar at the ridiculously cheap rate I have prepared myself to
pay. I try Brevas, and ask for a penn'orth of the best, but am horrified
when I am told that a single specimen of that brand costs five-pence!
The Intimidads alarm me; the Bravas unman me; and as for the Cabañas,
the Partagas, the Henry Clays, and the Upmanns, I am filled with awe at
the bare mention of their value per pound. A real Ramas, I am informed,
is worth eighteen-pence English, while superior Upmanns are not to be
had under ten sovereigns a hundred. In despair of finding anything
within my means at the Louvre counter, I purchase a 'medio's' worth of
cigarettes--a medio, or two-pence half-penny being the smallest coin
current in Cuba--order a cup of café noir, and sally forth in quest of
cheaper smokeables.

Crossing the square where the Tacon theatre and circus stand, I wander
through the narrow, ill-paved streets of the Cuban capital. At the
corner of every hotel, under archways and arcades, I meet with tables
laid out like fruit-stalls, bearing bundles of cigars and cigarettes.
Here, at least, I expect to find something to smoke at a fabulously low
rate. Yes; here are cigars at two, three, and five for a silver
two-pence; but those I invest in do not satisfy me; they are damp, new,
badly rolled, won't draw, and have all kinds of odd shapes. Some are
curved like Turkish scimetars, others are square and flat, as if they
had been mangled or sat upon, while a few are undecided in form like
horse-radish. The vendor assures me that all his cigars are born of
'tabaco legitimo,' of 'calidad superior,' grown on the low sandy soil of
the famous Vuelta Abajo district; but I know what a very small area that
tract of land comprises, and I will no more believe in the abundance of
its resources than I will in those of Champagne and Oporto.

In my peregrinations, I gaze fondly into the interior of wholesale cigar
warehouses, but dare not enter and demand the price of half of one of
those countless cedar-boxes, which I see piled up to the very ceiling in
walls fifty boxes thick. At last I founder on the Plaza de Santa Isabel,
a spacious square, laid out with pretty gardens and tropical trees. Here
is the grand hotel where the Special Correspondent to the _New York
Trigger_ wields his mighty pen. To him and to other acquaintances I
apply for information on the subject of tobacco. My foreign friends
assure me you cannot get a good cigar in Havana at any price, as all the
best are exported to Europe and the United States; unless you prefer
German tobacco, of which great quantities are imported into Havana. The
natives have quite a different account to give. They declare that the
best cigars never leave the country but are easily obtained if you know
where to seek them; and they refer me to the warehouses. Every one whom
I consult graciously offers me a few specimens from his own particular
cigar-case; and as in Cuba it is considered an offence to refuse a man's
tobacco, I am soon in possession of a goodly stock, which I calculate
will last me for the next eight and forty hours at least.

A singular etiquette is observed all over Cuba with respect to smoking,
which a rough Britisher does not always appreciate. An utter stranger is
at liberty to stop you in the middle of the street to beg the favour of
your 'candela,' or light from your cigar. If you are polite, you will
immediately hand him your weed, with the ashes carefully shaken off, and
the lighted end conveniently pointed in his direction. Part of your fire
having been successfully transferred to his cigar, the stranger is bound
to return your property, presenting it, by a dexterous turn of the
wrist, with the mouth end towards you; an operation which requires no
little practice, as it is accompanied with a downward jerk to express
deep obligation. If, after this, you are inclined to abandon your cigar
for a fresh one, you may not do so in the stranger's presence, but wait
till he has disappeared. There is a sort of smoking freemasonry, too,
between Cubans all over the world. A Cuban recognises a compatriot
anywhere, by the manner in which he screws up his cigarette, holds it,
and offers or accepts a light.

Advised by a friend who is a great smoker, I give up my cigar
investigations, and devote my attention to the humbler cigarette. With
this object in view, I ramble down the narrow 'calles' or streets of St.
Ignacio, del Obispo, and de Cuba. At every twelfth house which I pass is
a small shop where only the article I seek is sold. In the
first-mentioned calle is the 'deposito' of the far-famed Cabañas
cigarette; in the second, the Gallito and Honradez stores. I visit the
latter, which holds the highest reputation, and take an inventory of
the stock. I am shown an endless variety of cigarettes at comparatively
insignificant prices; a packet of twenty-six of those mostly in vogue
costing only a silver medio, or two-pence half-penny English. There are
innumerable sizes, from the smallest named Acacias, to the biggest, or
tamaño mayor, called Grandifloras. The floor of the shop is sanded with
burnt cigarette ends, looking like exhausted cartridges, and the
pavement without is peppered with their fragments. Every man or
responsible child whom I pass has a little tube of smoking paper between
his lips, and glancing in at an open restaurant, I observe a group of
feeders, each of whom has a cigarette stuck behind his ear like a pen.

At last I pause before the imposing factory of Louis Susini and Son,
situated in a little plaza in the Calle de Cuba. It is here that the
best cigarettes, popularly known as Honradez, are manufactured. The
exterior of the building, with its marble columns reminding one of a
Genoese palace, is worthy of attention. Above the grand entrance is the
Honradez figure of Justice, bearing the famous motto: 'Los hechos me
justificarán' (my deeds will justify me). But there is much to be seen
within; and as a party of half a dozen ladies and gentlemen are about to
enter, I join them and unite with them in begging permission of the
proprietor to inspect the works. One of the firm soon appears, and after
a polite greeting, kindly appoints an assistant to show us over the
manufactory. We are told that everything in connection with cigarette
making, except the actual growing of the tobacco, takes place within
these extensive premises, and are forewarned that a long afternoon is
necessary to see everything to our satisfaction.

Before we begin, we are politely requested to affix our signatures in a
ledger provided for visitors to the establishment; and having obeyed,
copies of our autographs are made on slips of paper, and, by a
mechanical contrivance in the wall, these are dispatched for some
mysterious purpose to the regions above. At the suggestion of the
cicerone, we follow our names; not by the same means, however, but by
winding staircases and intricate passages. Before starting, we peep into
the engine-room to glance at the steam power which works the machinery
required in the different departments. The first ascent brings us to
spacious store-rooms, where loose cigarettes, and those already packed
in bundles, are kept. The walls are literally papered with cigarettes in
wheels, which look like complicated fireworks. As we move from one wheel
to another, we are invited to help ourselves to, and test, the different
qualities, which some of us accordingly do in wine-tasting fashion;
taking a couple of whiffs from each sample and flinging the rest in the
dust. Further on, we come to a small apartment where the operation of
sorting the labels for enveloping each packet of twenty cigarettes,
takes place. The labels are fresh from the printers; a workman is
standing before a round movable table, and as this revolves, he drops
them into little boxes belonging to their respective patterns. Each
label is stamped with the Honradez figure of Justice, accompanied either
by a charade, a comic verse, a piece of dance music on a small scale, an
illuminated coat of arms, or a monogram pattern for Berlin wool-work.
Some are adorned with artistic designs of a superior order, such as
coloured landscapes, groups of figures, or photographs of eminent
persons.

Another ascent, and we are in the stationery department. It seems odd to
examine large sheets and thick reams of paper, which we have been
accustomed to see only in the form of cigarette books or tubes of small
dimensions. A wonderful variety of rice and other paper is before us.
There are two or three qualities of white, and endless shades of brown
and yellow. Some are lightly tinted as the complexion of a half-caste;
others are quadroon-hued, or of a yellow-brown mulatto-colour. We are
shown medicated and scented papers. The first of these, called pectoral
paper, is recommended by the faculty to persons with weak chests; the
last, when ignited, gives out an agreeable perfume.

Yet another floor, and we are introduced into a long chamber with rows
of long tables, at which a hundred Chinese workmen are engaged in
counting the already twisted cigarettes into bundles of twenty-six, and
enveloping them in their ornamental labels or covers. To accomplish this
operation with necessary speed, much practice and dexterity in the
handling is required. The coolies--a thousand of whom are employed on
the establishment--are, however, great adepts at the art, and patient
and plodding as beasts of burthen. But among the celestials there is one
master-hand who distinguishes himself above all the others by his
superior skill. Piles of loose cigarettes and gummed labels are before
him. Into the former he digs his dexterous fingers, and he knows by the
feel alone whether he has the prescribed twenty-six within his grasp. By
a peculiar shake he humours the handful into its tubular form, and with
another movement wraps it lightly in a paper cover, which he leaves open
at one end and neatly tucks in at the other. He is so rapid in his work,
that we can scarcely follow him with our eyes, and the whole
performance, from beginning to end, looks to us like a conjuring trick.
Our guide tells us how many thousands of packets per day are in this way
completed by these useful coolies.

'Arriba!' Another flight leads to the 'picadura' department, where
tobacco leaves are prepared for cigarette making. The aspect on all
sides reminds us of a room in a Manchester factory. We wade carefully
through a maze of busy machinery. There are huge contrivances for
pressing tobacco into solid cakes hard as brickbats; ingenious apparatus
for chopping these cakes into various sized grains of 'picadura' or
tobacco cuttings; horizontal and vertical tramways for forwarding the
latter to their respective compartments. Near us is a winnowing chamber
for separating particles of dust from the newly cut picadura. We enter
by a spring door which closes after us with a bang, and everybody is
immediately seized with a violent fit of sneezing. Particles of escaping
tobacco dust float in the air and tickle our olfactories. We are
actually standing within a huge snuff-box! After inhaling a wholesale
pinch of this powder, which leaves us sneezing for the next quarter of
an hour, we clamber to the heights of the establishment, and find
ourselves in the printing and paper cutting departments. Here artists
are engaged in preparing lithographic stones and wood blocks with
various picturesque designs for cigarette labels. Gilders are
illuminating labels, and cutters are shaping paper into their cigarette
and label sizes. Further on are printing offices, where all the
letterpress and lithography required in the establishment is
accomplished. This is far from an insignificant item in the manufactory,
for, besides the pictorial and letterpress covers, there are the
Honradez advertisements to print; circulars, pamphlets, together with
dedicatory dance music, and an occasional local newspaper. We linger
lovingly about this interesting department, and, before we leave, the
foreman of the printing office presents each lady member of our party
with a piece of Cuban dance music, upon the cover of which is printed a
few words of dedication, accompanied by the lady's own name in full.
Whilst wondering at the magic by which this mark of attention has been
quietly accomplished, we descend to the ground floor, and are again met
by the courteous proprietor, who presents each gentleman visitor with a
newly-made packet of cigarettes upon which, lo! and behold! are our
names. It is pleasing to see one's name in print, and when it is
witnessed on an ordinary Havana cigarette packet, the charm is greatly
augmented.

Before taking leave of our civil host, we are invited to comment upon
what we have seen, in the visitors' book, and you may be sure that our
observations are not unfavourable to the courteous proprietor and his
interesting exhibition. Susini & Son have published a thick pamphlet
containing a list of names and remarks of distinguished visitors to his
establishment. It is a curious work in its way, for the epigrammatic
effusions are varied, amusing, and composed in at least half a dozen
languages. Some of the authors have chosen a poetic style of commentary,
while others content themselves with matter-of-fact prose. A well-known
signature is here and there recognisable among these cosmopolitan
productions. A famous Italian opera star has rhymed in her native lingo;
a popular French acrobat--possibly one of a company of strolling
equestrians--has immortalised himself in Parisian heroics. M.
Pianatowsky, the Polish fiddler, has scrawled something incomprehensible
in Russian or Arabic--no matter which; while Mein Herr Van Trinkenfeld
comes out strong in double Dutch. Need I add that the immortal Smith of
London is in great force in the book, or that his Queen's English is
worthy of his world-wide reputation?

We are in the act of quitting the Honradez establishment, when it
suddenly occurs to one of us that, after all that has been said and
seen, we have failed to watch a cigarette in actual process of
manufacture. What! have we presided at a performance of 'Hamlet' with
the hero omitted; or are the component parts of cigarettes planted in
the ground to sprout out ready-made like radishes?

I return and ask for information on this subject.

'Perdonen, ustedes,' says our hospitable friend, 'I had forgotten to
tell you that our cigarrillos are rolled by the presidiarios.'

What's a 'presidiario'? A 'presidiario' is a convict, and convicts in
Cuba are sentenced to eternal cigarette-making in lieu of oakum-picking.
The government contract with the manufacturers for this purpose,
and--voilà tout!

Anxious to 'sit out' the whole cigarette performance to the very last
act, I ask and obtain permission to visit the town jail. In one of the
stone apartments of this well-regulated building are groups of convicts
dressed in white blouses and loose trousers of coarse canvas. Amongst
them are Africans, Congos, mulattoes of many shades, Chinese--Chow-chows
as they are called--and sun-burnt whites, who are principally
insubordinate Spanish soldiers and sailors. Each has a heavy chain
dangling from his waist and attached to his ankle, wears a broad-brimmed
straw hat of his own manufacture, and incessantly smokes. Before him is
a wooden box filled with picadura and small squares of tissue paper.
Great nicety is required to roll a cigarette after the approved fashion;
the strength or mildness of the tobacco being in a great measure
influenced by the way the grains are more or less compressed. A smoker
of course finds a tightly-twisted cigarette more difficult to draw than
a loosely twisted one.

The presidiario does not seem to object to his hard labour, but
doubtless prefers it to other kinds of perpetual rolling on a wheel. He
employs no sticky element to secure the edges of his cigarette, but
tucks the ends neatly in, by means of a pointed thimble which he wears
on his forefinger.

Ponder well over this, ye Havana cigarette smokers! and when next you
indulge in a whiff from your favourite luxury, remember that a
pickpocket has had his hand on your picadura!



CHAPTER XXVII.

A MULATTO GIRL.

     An Obscure Birth--Bondage--A Bad Master--A Good God-Father--A Cuban
     Christening--Anomaly of Slavery--A White Lover--Rivals--An
     Important Event.


My contemplated departure for New York is for many days postponed by the
unexpected meeting with Don Benigno's family, who, under extraordinary
circumstances presently to be related, have recently arrived in the
Havana.

My old friends are also bound for the great American city; but at
present they are full of preparations for the approaching marriage
between Don Benigno's eldest daughter, Paquita and the young Spanish
officer, Don Manuel. The latter has lately received a military
appointment in the Cuban capital, and as he contemplates residing there
with his future bride, Don Benigno is anxious that the wedding shall
take place with as little delay as possible.

Before that event, and before Don Benigno and the rest of his family
leave with me for New York, I am made acquainted with the fact, that
another marriage will be shortly celebrated in the Don's family, and
that the betrothed lady is no other than Don Benigno's adopted
daughter, the fair Ermiña!

Don Benigno tells me that for certain reasons this wedding will not take
place in the Ever-faithful Isle. What those reasons are, and how my
curiosity respecting the past of the pretty mulatto girl is at last
gratified, will appear in the following brief narrative, which, as the
matter contained in it was chiefly derived from the young lady herself,
I propose to repeat as nearly as possible in her own words.

       *       *       *       *       *

I was bought and paid for before I was born.

My own mother bargained for, and finally secured me, for the sum of
twenty-five dollars. A kind of speculative interest was attached to my
nativity. Had my sale not been effected previous to my appearance in the
world, I should have become the property of my mother's master, who, in
accordance with the laws of serfdom, might then dispose of me, if he
pleased, at a rate far exceeding my mother's slender savings; and, if
nature had destined me for a healthy boy instead of a girl, my value
would have been still greater.

My mother was a slave belonging to a wealthy coffee-planter. Of my
father I know little, save that he was a white man, and that being a
professed gambler and deeply in debt, he disappeared from Cuba shortly
before I was ushered into the world. His flight concerned no one more
than my mother, for he had promised to purchase her liberty for a
thousand dollars, which was the price demanded by her owner.

There was no world to censure my parent for the trouble she had brought
upon herself, because, in a slave-country, little importance is attached
to such a common occurrence as the birth of a mulatto. My mother's
master would have exhibited a similar indifference, if, indeed, he would
not have rejoiced at the event--for it added a few dollars to his
exchequer--were it not for the fact that Don Vicente had a secret motive
for great displeasure. His slave was a mulatto, belonging to the fair
class known as quadroons. My mother was a comely specimen of her race,
and Don Vicente, being well aware of this, had his own reasons for
qualifying her conduct as an act of disobedience. This act he determined
should receive punishment, and accordingly, when his human property was
convalescent, she was removed, with her infant, to one of Don Vicente's
estates, and there cruelly flogged!

You may be sure that this severe treatment did not increase my mother's
affection for Don Vicente, and, in spite of his dreadful threat to
employ his slave as a common coffee-picker--which, for a mulatto,
accustomed to the luxuries of town life, is worse than sending her to
the galleys--my mother remained true to herself.

Finding menaces of no avail, and afraid of disturbing his domestic
tranquillity, Don Vicente abandoned his purpose and advertised his human
property for hire at so much per month. In its way, this was a sore
trial for my dear parent, for although she heartily loathed her master,
she was greatly attached to his family, at whose hands she had known
only kindness and humanity. Her new master might prove to be as bad as,
or even worse than, her owner, and such a prospect was far from
pleasant. She was, however, agreeably disappointed.

Don Benigno responded to the advertisement, and would have purchased my
mother outright, but the times were critical, and the worthy gentleman
could not afford the exorbitant price demanded for her. He, however,
agreed to hire my parent, who was forthwith removed, with her free-born
child, to her new habitation.

Don Benigno was of course the kindest of masters; in proof of which, his
first act, after procuring my mother's temporary release, was to
interest himself in her child's baptism. For this purpose, he ordered
that every formality connected with this ceremony should be rigidly
observed. He himself officiated as godfather, and, in accordance with
custom, invited my mother's relatives and friends to be present at the
festivities, which were to be held at a small farm on one of his
estates. As is usual on such occasions, my generous godfather sent a
'baptismal token' to every guest. The nearest relatives received an
'escudo de oro,' or two-dollar piece. The next of kin were presented
with pesetas, while the friends were favoured with silver medios. Each
token was pierced with a 'lucky' hole, to which was attached a piece of
coloured ribbon, with my name and the date of my birth printed in gold
letters on either side. The ceremony of christening being over, Don
Benigno gave a grand banquet and a ball, at his farm-house, to which all
the farmers and white country people in the neighbourhood were invited.

My kind godfather was in the habit of investing a 'doblón' of four
dollars every month in the Havana lottery; and he promised that if he
should succeed in drawing a prize, he would devote part of the amount to
the purchase of my mother. But no such good fortune ever happened to
the worthy gentleman, although, upon more than one occasion, he expended
a whole 'onza' in tickets.

Nothing worthy of note transpired during the early years of my
childhood. My health was all that could be desired after my teething--an
operation whose successful issue, it was confidently believed, was due
to the bone necklace which I wore from my birth, and which the good
people of my country consider acts as a charm against the evils imminent
to infancy.

Don Benigno's children--who were somewhat older than myself--were my
closest companions. We were, indeed, more like sisters together, than
young mistresses and maid. As for my dear godfather and Doña
Mercedes--they treated me as a pet child.

Before I had turned fourteen, I was already a grown woman, and, as far
as outward appearance, as white as it is possible for my caste to be.
With the exception of my lips, which are, as you observe, somewhat
_prononcé_, and the whites of my eyes, which are slightly tinged with
yellow, there is no perceptible difference between me and those creoles
whose origin is less doubtful than my own.

Despite, however, my personal attractions, I was fully conscious of the
nice distinction between white and white about which the people of my
country are so jealously exacting; and my dark origin always formed a
barrier between me and my thoroughbred sisters. Whenever Don Benigno, or
his family, addressed me as 'Mulatica,' 'Chinita,' or 'Negrita,' I
sometimes thought of the literal meaning of those endearing epithets!

Tunicú, as you know, was always a frequent visitor at Don Benigno's
tertulia, but at the period to which I now refer, he used to pass some
hours with us during the daytime. I think Tunicú always admired me more
than he did Don Benigno's daughters, and now that I was a grown woman,
he often gave expression to his sentiments. I was by no means insensible
to Tunicú's attentions, for he was a handsome young gentleman, with a
dark brown moustache and imperial to match. His complexion, too, was
several shades darker than my own, though this, of course, did not
detract from the purity of his descent, which was apparent in the clear
white of his eyeballs, the transparent pink of his finger nails, and
other signs peculiar to offspring of white parents.

Our admiration for one another gradually developed itself into something
more serious, until one day Tunicú gave me to understand that he loved
me truly. I think he was sincere, at least I chose to believe so, and,
besides, he gave daily proof of his preference for me to the whitest
ladies of his acquaintance.

Notwithstanding this, the wide gulf of origin which existed between
Tunicú and me could not be concealed, and was continually made manifest.
My white lover was passionately fond of dancing, and frequently attended
at the balls given at the Philharmonic, where I dared not be seen, save
in the capacity of spectator. Crowds of coloured people were permitted,
like myself, to watch the dancing from a distance, but none were allowed
to trespass upon the hallowed threshold. The same stern rule separated
me and my lover at the Retreta in the public square. I might stand, with
others of my class, on the broad terrace of the cathedral and watch the
promenaders, or listen to the military band; but I dared not be seen
with the unsullied gentlefolks below. Occasionally, Tunicú would desert
his white companions, and ascending the broad steps of the cathedral,
pass the rest of the evening in my society. On these occasions I should
have felt supremely happy, but for the painful thought that Tunicú was
sacrificing his position for my sake. The white ladies, who visited at
Don Benigno's, though sometimes deigning to notice me, out of compliment
to their host, secretly hated and despised me; and if they did not
actually scandalise me behind my back, they never forgot to remind those
around them of my parentage, and of the unquestionable difference which
existed between us.

Then there was my mother, whose cruel fate was ever a dark cloud in my
happiest moments with my lover. Thanks to her, I was a free-born woman,
while she, alas! still endured a state of bondage. I often wished that I
might be enabled to turn to profitable account the education which I had
received through Don Benigno's bounty, and in this manner earn enough to
pay for my parent's liberty; but, unfortunately, there are no
governesses in Cuba, and what white lady of respectability would care to
send her child to my school, supposing that I had been able to set up
such an establishment?

Sometimes I indulged in the wild hope that Tunicú might one day take me
to a foreign country, where my past would be ignored, and where we might
be married without regard to the opinion of the world. But my lover,
though always full of projects and promises, had never once alluded to
the subject of matrimony. People broadly hinted that my Tunicú was a
libertine, like some of his companions and that he had no intention of
making me his wife; but we were both favoured with rivals whose
interest it was to speak in these terms. My rivals were the white
ladies, who were jealous of Tunicú's attentions to me, and who never
forgot to openly express their indignation at the relationship which
they knew to exist between me and my lover. Tunicú's rivals were even
more numerous; some of them would show their regard for me by serenading
under my window with a band of music, upon such occasions as my saint's
day, or during the fiestas. I dared not exhibit an indifference to these
attentions, without transgressing certain social laws of the country;
besides, I found that Tunicú himself did not disapprove of them--he
never explained why, but I suppose he considered these little attentions
as a sort of acknowledgment of his good taste, or, perhaps, they
afforded a proof to him of my constancy.

The boldest of my admirers was a young half-caste called Frasquito,
whose mulatto-father was a wealthy tobacco trader and held a high
position among the Cuban merchants.

Frasquito was an occasional visitor at Don Benigno's, for, being an
accomplished musician, he was a great acquisition when a dance was given
at our residence. Once he composed a Cuban danza, and dedicated it to
me, calling it after my name: 'La Bella Ermiña.'

Frasquito was perfectly aware of my relations with Tunicú, but he must
have regarded them with the same levity as others did; for, one day,
happening to be alone with my admirer, he, to my great confusion and
surprise, made me an offer of marriage; assuring me that his father had
already approved of his choice, and promising that if I would accept him
for a husband, he would, previous to the marriage ceremony, procure my
beloved mother's liberty.

I fear that my reply was unsatisfactory to both of us. I could not tell
him with truth that I was betrothed to another, because, though that
other had long appropriated my heart, he had never openly asked my hand.
It was equally difficult to show why I did not avail myself of this
opportunity for effecting my mother's emancipation; and Frasquito knew
too well that I would make any personal sacrifice to release my beloved
parent from bondage.

I, however, told Frasquito that his offer had so taken me by surprise,
that he must give me time to consider of it, and that in the meanwhile
he must never allude to the subject.

Tunicú, to whom alone I confided what had passed between me and my
admirer, scouted the notion of my alliance with the 'son of a nigger,'
as he expressed it; but strange to tell, he did not seem angry at the
fact of matrimony having been proposed by another.

'You are too fair and too refined,' said he, 'for the son of a black
man. When you marry, you must be wedded to somebody having better
antecedents than that, Ermiña mia.'

I felt the truth of his remark, and now began to consider my late offer
in the light of an insult. The mulatto's pretensions to my hand must
surely, I thought, have been induced by his knowledge of my birth, for
he would not have ventured to make such a proposal to a white woman; and
perfectly aware of my secret attachment, he seemed to have implied that
I was incapable of commanding the true love of a white man. Impressed
with these reflections, I resolved to test the truth of the mulatto's
inuendos, and, for the first time, I broached to Tunicú the subject
nearest my heart.

'Do you think, mi amor,' said I to my lover, 'that I shall ever marry as
well as you could desire?'

Tunicú paused, before replying to my question, and then
observed--turning his gaze from me as he spoke:--

'Why should not mi Ermiña marry well? She is young, beautiful,
accomplished--'

--'and the daughter of a slave!' I added; my eyes moistening as I
uttered the terrible words.

For a few moments my lover remained silent and pensive Then recovering
himself, he began to converse in his old, confident, assuring manner,
gratifying my imagination with pictures of events which were never to
happen, and promising things impossible to be realised. At least nothing
ever did happen as Tunicú had predicted, while one event shortly
transpired which in his wildest dreams had never occurred to him.

That event was the Cuban insurrection, which, as you know, has already
affected the lives of hundreds of my unhappy countrymen and
countrywomen; but in what manner it would concern our future destinies,
neither Tunicú nor I could possibly foretell.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

A MULATTO GIRL (_continued_).

     The Slave Trade--Ermiña and her Lover--Panics--'Los Insurrectos' v.
     'Los Voluntaries'--A Wounded Patriot--Spanish Law and Cuban
     Law--The 'Mambís'--A Promise--An Alarm--All's Well that Ends Well.


You already know how, during the early stages of the Cuban revolution,
the inhabitants of Santiago were called upon to enroll themselves as
volunteers; that those who evaded the order were regarded with
suspicion, in many cases arrested, and occasionally shot after a mock
trial; that others who preferred to abandon the town, were punished for
their want of loyalty to their rulers, who confiscated their property.
My good benefactor, Don Benigno, was too old to enlist and even more
disinclined to fight against his countrymen, the rebels; so when the
cholera broke out, he made this a pretext for escaping the vigilance of
the authorities, and fled with his family and belongings to a farm on
his sugar estate. My mother would have accompanied us, but for a
circumstance which obliged her to remain in the town. Her rightful
owner, Don Vicente, had in one day lost half his fortune; the rebels
having encamped at his principal estate and utterly despoiled it. Four
hundred negroes employed on this estate had joined the revolutionists,
and as each slave was valued, on the average, at five hundred dollars,
the loss which Don Vicente sustained may be easily estimated. To provide
against fresh losses, Don Vicente determined to sell all that still
remained to him, and embark with his family for a more peaceful country.
He hoped to realise a large amount from the sale of his town slaves, and
as my mother represented no insignificant item in this valuable
property, she was, of course, included in the list of vendibles. I was
in despair!

'Tunicú, del alma!' said I to my lover, 'if you are as devoted to me as
you profess to be, buy--borrow--beg my beloved parent; but don't let her
fall into strange hands!' My dread lest she should become the property
of an utter stranger, drove me to this appeal.

Tunicú was equal to the occasion, as he always was; whether with the
same disappointing result in view, I could not tell.

'Ermiña de mi corazon!' he replied, 'I am not in a position to buy your
mother. Don Benigno has already borrowed her and must now return her. To
beg her is out of the question. But I think I have a more practical
plan. It may not agree with the laws of this country, and it must be
attended with great personal risk; but I will try it.'

I looked inquiringly.

'I am aware, 'continued Tunicú, with one of his pleasant smiles, 'that
in the course of true love it rarely happens that in order to prove his
affection for his mistress, the lover must first elope with his
lady-love's mother; but circumstances create strange situations, and
under the present circumstances, I see no other alternative than to run
away with your parent.'

Conscious of the great risk attending such an enterprise, and of the
terrible consequences which would inevitably result from an untimely
discovery, I begged that Tunicú would reveal to me his plan of
operations. But to this he objected.

'No,' said he, 'I have found of late that my outspoken projects have
exhausted themselves in words, so you must allow me, for this once, to
keep my own counsel.'

My lover's unusual reply somehow inspired me with greater confidence
than anything he had ever uttered: so, woman though I was, I determined
to restrain my curiosity.

'Whatever your plan may be, dearest Tunicú,' said I, 'I agree to it
blindly.'

'Then,' said he, 'you will also agree to our temporary separation. You
will accompany my uncle to the farm?'

To this I also, though reluctantly, acceded.

So my mother was returned to Don Vicente, with whose family she was to
reside until a purchaser was found. Tunicú remained in town; while I and
Don Benigno's family were conveyed in a covered cart drawn by oxen to
the farm-house.

We arrived opportunely. The town which we had left was, as you know,
already in a state of siege, and shortly after our departure, Count
Valmaseda's dreadful manifesto, announcing that every man, woman, and
child who should be discovered in certain districts of the country were
to be shot like dogs, was published. We dared not now venture beyond the
limits of the farm-grounds, for the report of fire-arms was continually
heard in the neighbouring woods. Don Benigno was in daily fear lest the
volunteers should visit our retreat, for he was well acquainted with the
details of their past iniquities.

Early one morning we were awakened by a negro, who hastened to the
farm-house, shouting as he came: 'Los Insurrectos! Los Insurrectos!'

'The insurgents are coming!' was the signal of alarm usually adopted by
non-combatants, because the insurgents, and not the volunteers, were
said to be the scarecrows of our island.

It was, however, 'Los Voluntaries' and not 'Los Insurrectos' this time,
for a party of volunteers were visible on a distant eminence.

Our black sentinel, however, still persisted in shouting, 'Los
Insurrectos!' The same cry was echoed by other negroes, who, with their
faces tinged with the pale green of a black's fear, came running towards
us with the information that three insurgents were riding within a mile
of our habitation. The statement proved correct, for presently three
horsemen arrived at the farm. All three were armed with revolvers, and
short swords called 'machetes,' and they were attired in brown holland
blouses, buff-coloured shoes, and Panama hats.

One of these men appeared to be suffering great bodily pain, but his
face was so besmeared with dirt and blood, that we could scarcely tell
whether he was a mulatto or a white man. The poor fellow had been
seriously wounded, and groaned in agony as Don Benigno's slaves assisted
him to dismount.

After he had been placed upon a catre in one of our apartments and
revived with a draught of aguardiente, the invalid smiled mournfully
around him, and then, to our unspeakable astonishment, inquired whether
we did not recognise in him Don Benigno's nephew!

I will not describe the scene which followed this disclosure, but I will
endeavour to repeat to you what Tunicú had now to reveal. His first
words caused me great happiness; though the strange tone in which they
were uttered seemed scarcely to correspond with the good news conveyed
in them.

'Your mother,' said he, glancing in my direction, 'is free!'

He now told us how, in spite of his efforts to steal my dear parent, Don
Vicente had succeeded in selling her to a brutal slave-trader, who
contemplated employing her as a common labourer at a coffee plantation,
and how, being aware of this, my lover determined to save her from such
a terrible fate.

Parties of young Cubans were then secretly planning expeditions into the
heart of the country, where their compatriots in arms were concealed,
and this being known to my lover, he lost no time in enrolling himself
among them. A party of these young men were on the eve of departing on
their rebellious or patriotic mission, and as my mother's new master had
already started for his plantation with his recent purchases and
half-a-dozen armed negroes, Tunicú persuaded his companions to help him
to rescue my parent. Well armed, well acquainted with the roads of their
intricate country, and mounted on fast trotting horses, the little band
of warriors followed in the track of the slave-owner, and, after some
hours of hard riding, they succeeded in overtaking him. They then
demanded, in the name of 'Cuban justice,' every slave in his possession,
declaring, that now the Cuban people had risen in defence of their
rights and for the abolition of slavery, they were no longer amenable
to Spanish law.

'We are all Cubans,' said they, 'and well armed, as you see; and we
intend to fight for both causes whenever an opportunity presents
itself.'

Hostile measures were, however, quite unnecessary in this instance. The
eloquence of my brave countrymen sufficed to create a mutiny among the
trader's black body-guard, who with one accord came over to the enemy.
In short, the slaves were all released, and their late owner, after
vowing to be avenged, rode off to the nearest garrison for the purpose
of reporting to the authorities what had happened, and, if possible,
obtain redress for the wrongs he had sustained. In the meantime the
victorious party hastened to join their brethren in arms, some of whom
were encamped in one of the strong fortifications which nature so
generously provides in our well-wooded mountains. But they had scarcely
reached this part of the country, when a battalion of volunteers, guided
by the slave-trader, went in pursuit of them.

Tunicú then described an encounter which afterwards took place between
the latter and the patriots. He said that for upwards of an hour shots
were exchanged, but with no advantage to either side; till the
slave-trader (doubtless acquainted with the roads of this intricate
country) suddenly discovered an opening in the forest. Through this
opening he, followed by a number of the volunteers, entered, and,
sheltered by the surrounding foliage and trees, took deadly aim at those
of their enemies who were exposed to their view. Many of my countrymen
fell in this cruel slaughter, and amongst them were two of the recently
captured slaves. Horrible to relate, one of these slaves was my mother.
Seeing her fall, Tunicú boldly advanced towards the spot whence the
firing proceeded, and there beheld the slave-trader who, he had no
doubt, was my parent's assassin. Without a moment's hesitation, Tunicú
shot this man dead with his revolver. A dozen rifles were levelled at
the daring fellow as he hastened to return to his companions, and
unfortunately a bullet lodged in his side.

My warlike countrymen now retreated to a safe part of the forest, and
here they remained, till the patience and the ammunition of their
assailants were exhausted.

As soon as my lover was sufficiently recovered from his wound, he was
escorted by two of his companions to Don Benigno's farm, where they duly
arrived.

How shall I describe the agony which Tunicú's narrative caused me! My
mother was indeed free, and by the hand of her own master; but alas! how
dearly was her liberty purchased! I consoled myself with the reflection
that my dear parent had been saved from a fate such as was in store for
her had she been recaptured by her owner. Our anxiety was now devoted to
my lover, who had suffered considerably from his long ride to the farm.
We were able to attend the invalid unmolested; though news reached us
that the insurrection was spreading in all directions, and we were in
constant fear that it would reach too near our retreat.

I was happier with my lover during his recovery, than I had ever been.
The perils which he had undergone for my sake seemed to have toned down
his volatile nature, and although his habit of promising had not wholly
deserted him, I had reason to be grateful for at least one sweet promise
which he made me!

'Ermiña de mi alma!' said he, one evening that we were alone together,
'my uncle contemplates leaving with you all for North America, there to
remain till the revolution is over. I cannot accompany you, but we shall
meet there, and if, after your intercourse with the white society of
that country--where you will be treated as an equal--your feelings with
regard to me are unchanged, we will be married, and I will endeavour to
make your life happier than it has hitherto been.'

'Not happier than it is now,' said I.

       *       *       *       *       *

'Los Insurrectos!--Los Insurrectos!'

The insurgents again? No; our swarthy sentinels were wrong this time,
for presently a dozen Spanish troopers, all armed to the teeth, galloped
into our court-yard. We were, of course, greatly alarmed at their
appearance; for we had no doubt that they had come to apprehend my
lover. We were, however, soon agreeably relieved from our anxiety on
this account, by a letter which the officer in command had brought for
Don Benigno. This letter came from his future son-in-law, Don Manuel,
who, since the commencement of the revolution, had been quartered with
his regiment at Manzanillo, not many leagues from our farm. Aware that
we had left town for Don Benigno's plantation, and conscious of the
danger which was now threatening every district in the eastern extremity
of the island, Don Manuel proposed that we should join him without delay
at Manzanillo, and thence proceed to Havana, to which the young officer
was shortly to be transferred. As yet perfect tranquillity reigned at
the Cuban capital; and 'here,' suggested Don Manuel, 'we might remain,'
under his official protection, 'until the rebellion was suppressed.'

'The rest of her story,' says Don Benigno, breaking in at this point of
it, 'is soon told. The soldiers remained with us for two or three days
while we prepared for our departure, and in the meantime they discussed
the merits of our fried bananas with boiled rice, our bacalao and
casabe, our tasajo, our chimbombó, our ajiaco and our Catalan wine.
Then, consigning my plantation to the care of my trusty major-domo, we
all left for Manzanillo, under our military escort. Shortly after our
arrival, Tunicú set sail for North America; for Don Manuel was of
opinion that unless my nephew joined the Mambís (nickname for the
rebellious party), it would not be safe for him to remain in any part of
the Ever-faithful Isle. But we hope to meet him there, and, meanwhile we
intend to practise those virtues of patience and amiability which have
hitherto served us so well--eh, mi Ermiña? My daughter's marriage will
soon be celebrated, and after the nuptials some of us will, I hope--si
Dios quiere--depart for the great city of New York.'



CHAPTER XXIX.

A CUBAN WEDDING.

     Open Engagements--A Marriage Ceremony--A Wedding Breakfast--The
     Newly-Married Couple.


A number of Don Benigno's relatives and friends have, like ourselves,
taken refuge in the peaceful city of Havana. Some of them purpose
remaining here till affairs at Santiago are more settled, while others,
like Don Benigno, intend to make New York their temporary abode.

Surrounded by his friends, the Don begins to feel at home again. Every
evening he holds a tertulia at his temporary residence, as of old, and
upon these occasions I recognise many familiar faces. Señor Esteban, the
lawyer, Don Magin, the merchant, and Don Felipe, the sugar planter, are
the Don's guests again. Doctor Francisco and his family have also
arrived in Havana, en route for Europe: for even our medical friend has
been in danger of arrest for having administered to some wounded
'patriots' at a village near Santiago.

Don Manuel is of course a constant visitor at Don Benigno's, but I do
not envy him the term of courtship which precedes the marriage, nor is
the ceremony itself very inviting.

In his capacity of lover, Don Manuel is bound to submit to many
hardships. He may not meet his fiancée alone under any circumstances;
her society must be enjoyed only in the presence of the numerous friends
and relatives who visit her at all hours of the day and evening. Then,
he is expected to return some of these visits, in company with his
future bride, her mother and sister. He must also submit to certain
formalities required of him by the priest who is to unite the 'promessi
sposi,' and the most irksome of these is that of confession. Paquita
confesses, and that is nothing new to her, but it is otherwise with the
young officer. In short, until Don Manuel is actually a happy husband,
his position is by no means enviable, and for my own part, I would
gladly relinquish two years of married life in Cuba for half an hour's
secret love-making at a certain grated window!

The wearisome ordeal at length comes to an end--the nuptial day arrives.
The ceremony, such as it is, takes place very late in the night; indeed,
it is early morning before Don Manuel and his male friends reach the
cathedral, where the event is to be celebrated. A single bell tolls like
a funeral knell as we enter a small chapel connected with the sacred
edifice. It is a dreary apartment, dismally lighted with two long wax
candles. Nobody is present, save Don Manuel, the male friends already
mentioned, and the sacristan, who enlivens us by trying (and failing) to
beautify, with false flowers and false candles, a miserable altar-piece
at one extremity of the chapel. The young officer's importance as a
bridegroom is not at present appreciated, either by himself or by his
friends, with whom he converses upon indifferent subjects, and who, like
myself, are attired in ordinary walking costume.

Presently a Quitrin, drawn by a couple of mules, with a black postilion
in jack-boots, halts without. The bride, accompanied by her mother and a
friend, alight, and, without taking notice of anybody in particular,
pass silently into the chapel. The importance of Don Manuel's position
does not reveal itself by this act, nor is it considerably improved,
when the ecclesiastic, who is to marry the happy pair, emerges from a
dark corner, smiles artificially around him, and exhausts the rest of
his amiability with the ladies. But the priest is not so unconscious of
Don Manuel as that gentleman supposes. Soon he singles the officer out
from the group of males, and bids him follow the bride, and his future
mother-in-law, into an adjacent chamber. But little is required of the
bridegroom besides his signature to a paper, which he does not read; and
when the holy man has addressed something or other to him in the Latin
language, he is politely requested to withdraw. Shortly after Don
Manuel's retirement, the bride and her escort issue from the mysterious
chamber, and, after saluting us all round, take their departure and
drive away. Don Manuel's distinguished position seems to be scarcely
increased by these proceedings; but when his friends congratulate him,
the lights of the chapel are extinguished, and the decorations on the
miserable altar-piece are stowed away, he endeavours to realise the
feelings of a married man. Don Manuel follows his friends as they lead
the way to the bride's parental roof, consoling himself with
newly-rolled cigarettes as he walks along.

It is nearly two A.M. before we reach the scene of the festivities,
where most of the guests are already assembled. A long table has been
tastefully arranged with sweetmeats, cakes, fruit, wine, and other
luxuries, and some of the guests, whose appetites could not be
restrained, have already inaugurated the festivities. Much confusion,
uproar, and struggling after dainties peculiar to a Cuban banquet,
prevail, and it is not without an effort that the young officer
contrives at last to find a place near his bride. Healths are drunk and
responded to incessantly, and often simultaneously; rather, as it would
seem, for the excuse of drinking champagne and English bottled ale, than
from motives of sentiment.

When enough cigarettes have been smoked, and enough wine and beer have
been disposed of, all the company rises with one accord. The ladies
throw light veils across their shoulders, the gentlemen don their
panamas; and the bride and her mother, together with the bridegroom and
all the guests, followed by an army of black domestics, leave Don
Benigno's habitation, and marching in noisy procession along the narrow
streets, arrive at the bride's future home. It is a one-storied dwelling
with marble floors and white-washed walls, and is furnished with
bran-new cane-bottomed chairs and other adornments belonging to a Cuban
residence. The huge doors and windows of every apartment are thrown open
to their widest and the interior being brilliantly lighted with gas, the
view from the street is almost as complete as within the premises.
Everybody crowds into the latter, and examines the arrangements of each
chamber with as deep an interest as if they were wandering through an
old baronial mansion with cards of invitation from its absent owner. The
reception-room, the comedor or dining-room, the out-houses round the
patio or court-yard, are carefully inspected by the throng, who are
irrepressible even in respect to the dormitory assigned for the use of
the bridegroom, and that allotted to the bride, and situated in quite a
different quarter.

Everybody's curiosity being satisfied, everybody, save the newly-married
pair and a few black domestics, is wished a 'muy buenas noches,' or,
more correctly speaking (for the hour is 4 A.M.), a very good morning.



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.


I am a prisoner in the Morro Castle again, and this time my fellow
captives are more numerous. We occupy separate apartments. The chamber
which has been allotted to me is considerably smaller than that of the
fortress at Santiago. So small that the floor measures barely four feet
in width, and seated in my narrow cot, my head approaches within a few
inches of the ceiling. Don Benigno, his wife, his unmarried daughter,
and the pretty Ermiña, together with a score of Cuban families, are all
imprisoned in the same stronghold, whence there is no escape. For we are
encompassed on every side by a moat so deep and so wide that no
engineering skill would avail to connect us with terra firma.

This is, however, not the Havana Morro, nor is it the fortress at
Santiago de Cuba; but an American steamer called the 'Morro Castle' and
bound for New York, where--wind and weather permitting--we shall all
arrive, in little more than four days!

Although the month is January, the atmosphere is still sultry and
oppressive; so much so that most of the passengers prefer to sleep on
deck. But on the morning of the third day of our voyage, there is a
perceptible change in the temperature. The passengers are seen to shiver
and to huddle together in warm corners of the cabin. Everybody has
exchanged his or her summer clothing for warmer vestments. The ladies
appear no more in light muslin dresses, and without any head covering.
The gentlemen have eschewed their suits of white drill and Panama hats,
and have assumed heavy over-coats and flannel under-clothing. It is a
'nipping and an eager air,' closely resembling winter, and reminding
everybody of the fact, that in one short hour we have tripped lightly
from the perpetual summer of the tropics into the coldest season of the
north. Some sea water which had been hauled up in a bucket half an hour
ago was perfectly tepid, and now when the bucket is lowered and raised
we are amazed to find that the contents are icy cold!

Next day the liquid in our water jugs is discovered to be in a freezing
condition, and fires have been lighted in all the stoves. But our chilly
Creoles derive little or no warmth from these artificial means, although
they are swathed in garments ten inches deep.

Great is the joy when the 'Morro Castle' at last sails into the wide and
picturesque harbour of the great American city, and when we have safely
landed, satisfied the Custom-house officers, and are finally lodged in a
comfortable hotel in Broadway, our happiness is complete.

Numbers of Cuban families are already encamped in the hotel which Don
Benigno has selected for himself, family and friend, and at the table
d'hôte where we take our first American meal, the conversation is held
exclusively in the Spanish language. Don Benigno is delighted to find
himself among his countrymen again, and as the city is over-run with
Cuban refugees, he soon meets many of his old friends. Some of them tell
him that, having had their property confiscated, and being too old to
take part in the revolution, they intend to remain in America, where
they hope to improve their fortunes; while the more able-bodied are
recruiting with a view to certain secret expeditions to Cuba.

Tunicú, who joins us shortly after our arrival, is of course overjoyed
at our appearance, and welcomes some of us literally with 'open arms!'
Having passed some weeks in New York, he is of course already acquainted
with everybody of note in the city, and is familiar with American ways.
He tells us all about the Cuban 'Laborantes' of New York, and how they
are labouring in behalf of their bellicose countrymen. How juntas are
held, and how the Cuban ladies take a prominent part in these meetings,
and provide funds for the relief of their sick and wounded compatriots
in arms. Tunicú informs us that a grand bazaar, with this object in
view, is now being promoted by these energetic señoras, and when Doña
Mercedes hears of this, she and her daughters are soon busy at their
favourite occupation. Tunicú says that the proceeds of the bazaar will
not be wholly devoted to the purpose for which it is publicly announced,
but that a large amount will be set apart for the purchase of arms and
accoutrements; it being whispered that another fillibustering expedition
is contemplated, and that great hopes are entertained of its safe
departure from America. He says that an important landing has been
lately effected at Guanaja--a small town on the Cuban coast--where
Manuel Quesada, the newly-appointed general of the Cuban army, has
arrived with eighty well-drilled men, 2,700 muskets and necessary
ammunition.

Besides the bazaar money, large amounts are raised by giving public
concerts and by an occasional dramatic performance at one of the Bowery
theatres, at which a stirring drama founded on the Cuban revolution is
presented.

The concerts, however, prove more attractive and remunerative;
especially if it is announced that a young and lovely Creole, attired as
'Liberty' and holding a Cuban flag in her hand, will sing a patriotic
ballad. Equally effective are recitals from the famous Cuban
poets--Heredia and Placida. When the 'Himno del Desterrado,' by the
first-named author, is given, it is always received with great applause
by the Cuban members of the audience and by those who understand the
beautiful language in which this favourite poem is written. But nothing
pleases the mixed audience of Cubans and Americans half so well as when
a renowned pianist favours them with a performance on the piano of a
'Danza Criolla.' At the first strains of their patriotic melody, the
Creoles present become wild with enthusiasm. The Cuban ladies wave their
handkerchiefs with delight, while their brother-patriots stand on their
seats, and for the moment drown their favourite music with loud and
prolonged cheering, accompanied by shouts of 'Viva Cuba libre!' (Long
live free Cuba!) 'Muerte á España!' (Death to Spain!) and other
patriotic sentiments.

The American people are unanimous in their sympathy for the Cuban cause,
and the sentiment is popular even with the New York shopkeepers, who
already offer for sale 'Cravats à la Cespedes,' 'Insurrectionary
Inkstands,' and 'Patriot Pockethandkerchiefs.'

Important meetings, too, are held at Cooper's Institute, Steinway Hall,
and other public places, at each of which a great concourse of American
sympathisers gathers. Many eminent orators preside at these meetings,
and endeavour with all their eloquence to urge upon the Congress at
Washington the necessity for immediate recognition of the rights of the
Cuban belligerents. Annexation is, of course, suggested, and slavery
loudly denounced.

One eloquent speaker is of opinion that the present struggle of the
Cubans for independence and self-government belongs to the same category
as the American Revolution in 1776; that it should excite the sympathy
of all friends of popular progress, and that it deserves every kind of
assistance that other nations may be able to render.

Another well-known orator, connected with the church, declares that 'the
Cuban cause is just, and that the wrongs against which the Cubans have
revolted are such as should arouse the indignation of mankind, inasmuch
as these wrongs include taxation without representation, the forced
maintenance of slavery, the exclusion of all natives of the island from
public service, the denial of the right to bear arms and of all the
sacred privileges of citizenship and nationality.'

A third speaker avers, among other sentiments, that, in proclaiming the
abolition of slavery, the patriots of Cuba have given conclusive
evidence that they share the most substantial ideas of modern democracy,
and that their political principles are in unison with those which
inspire and govern the profoundest thinkers and statesmen of the age.
That while men of free minds in all countries must view with interest
and hope the uprising in Cuba, 'we, as citizens of the Republic of North
America, and near neighbours of the beautiful and productive island,
recognise a special obligation towards those patriots who are toiling
and fighting for its emancipation from Spanish tyranny.'

'It is the duty of our Government,' concludes another speaker, amidst
loud and prolonged applause, 'to recognise the belligerent rights of the
Cubans at the earliest practicable moment, and thus to show the world,
that the American nation is always on the side of those who contend
against despotism and oppression; and we earnestly entreat the Executive
at Washington that there may be no unnecessary delay in dealing with
this important subject.'

But in spite of these demonstrations of public sympathy, the mighty
House of Representatives cannot be induced to join in the popular
sentiment. Memorials are addressed to the American President, and
persons of influence labour in behalf of the Cuban cause. Upon one
occasion a party of Cuba's fairest daughters 'interview' the President's
wife and secretary, but nothing comes of it except more sympathy and
more able editorials in the New York papers, in which it is again
suggested that a bold and decisive policy should be commenced with
regard to Cuba and to American interests there, and that the shortest
way to settle now and for ever all difficulty relative to that island,
is to send out a powerful fleet and to recognise the independence of the
people of the Pearl of the Antilles.


_Spottiswoode & Co., Printers, New-street Square, London_.



NEW BOOKS OF TRAVEL.


=The Fayoum; or, Artists In Egypt.=

A Tour with M. Gérôme and others. By J. LENOIR. Illustrated. Crown 8vo.
cloth, 7_s._ 6_d._


=Tent Life with English Gipsies in Norway.=

By HUBERT SMITH. 5 full-page Engravings, and 31 smaller Illustrations,
with Map of the Country showing Routes. In 8vo. cloth, price 21_s._


=A Winter in Morocco.=

By AMELIA PERRIER. Illustrated. Large crown 8vo. price 10_s._ 6_d._


=Ireland in 1872.=

A Tour of Observation, with Remarks on Irish Public Questions. By Dr.
JAMES MACAULAY. Crown 8vo. 7_s._ 6_d._


=Field and Forest Rambles of a Naturalist in New Brunswick.=

With Notes and Observations on the Natural History of Eastern Canada. By
A. LEITH ADAMS, M.A. &c., Author of 'Wanderings of a Naturalist in
India,' &c. &c. Illustrated. In 8vo. cloth, 14_s._


=Bokhara: its History and Conquest.=

By Professor ARMINIUS VAMBÉRY, of the University of Pesth, Author of
'Travels in Central Asia,' &c. Demy 8vo. 18_s._

'We conclude with a cordial recommendation of this valuable book. In
former years, Mr. Vambéry gave ample proofs of his powers as an
observant, easy, and vivid writer. In the present work his moderation,
scholarship, insight, and occasionally very impressive style, have
raised him to the dignity of an historian.' SATURDAY REVIEW.

       *       *       *       *       *

HENRY S. KING & CO.

5 Cornhill and 12 Paternoster Row, London.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Pearl of the Antilles, or An Artist in Cuba" ***

Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.