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-a-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 'Tocolo mejor que tu!' which means Tocolo 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 estas pinton.'

The following ditty, attached to a favourite Cuban danza, called 'La Chupadera,' meets with many admirers. In the original it begins:—

iAy! si lo se, que yo estoy diciendo, Que la chupadera a real esta 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:—

iAy! Policarpio; toma la sopa, Mientras que esta caliente; Tomela, chino, que te se enfria!

in which Policarpio is recommended to drink his soup while it is hot, and not to wait until the nourishment is cold and unpalatable.

iArrempuja! 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 Espanol doy medio; Por un Cubano—un doblon; Y por un Dominicano iDoy 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 casaras, Casate 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 a las cinco de la manana 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 diran 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 imprimi, 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 naci solo para padecer; iNo te acuerdes mas de mi! No tengo ningun placer, Desgraciada y sin salud; Yo naci solo para padecer. Mira, iay! la virtud No se consigue asi, &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 Cafe 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 cafe 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 napa,' 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:—

'Hola! Musyer Fransoir, je vous conose!' 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:—

iAy! Caridad; iay! Caridad; iay! Caridad, Cuidao' con la luna si te da. iCa-la-ba-zon! tu estas 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 personae 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 Jose 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 'Hola! Don Gualterio. No me conoces?' 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 Tunicu, 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 a 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 gueiros 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 cafes, 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, cafe noir, and a kind of soupe a 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 cafe noir and a genuine Yara. I then betake myself to the nearest coffee-house. After black coffee cometh what is popularly termed 'plus-cafe,' 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! garcon! Una copita con cognac!' The waiter hears, but does not obey, having already too many copitas on his mind. 'Alla voy, senor!' 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.

iAy, ay, ay! que me estoy muriendo, si. iAy, ay, ay! por una mulata; Y ella esta 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 gueiro 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 reves.

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 cafe. 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 gueiro 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-cafe; 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 masque 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 senorita, 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 Tunicu—Cuban Beauties—Dark Divinities—A Cuban Cafe—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 'bombas.' 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 Tunicu 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, Tunicu 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. Tunicu 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 pies, 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.

Tunicu'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 Tunicu, 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 Dona 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 Dona Mercedes.

'Fulana de Tal!' exclaims Tunicu 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 Snufa'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 Nicolas, son of Nicolas Neira, director of the St. Michael copper mines. They say young Nicolas will have thirty thousand dollars if he marries, and when his governor dies will be a millionaire. Old Nicolas 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 Tunicu; 'Cachita Perales, with her mother Dona 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 Tunicu. '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 senorita, 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 Ingles, Don Gualterio, bosom companion of Don Nicasio Rodriguez y Boldu,' whom everybody has heard of. Then all four stroll round the promenade; Tunicu 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 Tunicu 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.

Tunicu 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 Tunicu and myself, visit the occupants of the terrace to exchange greetings with some of the dark divinities there. Tunicu 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, Tunicu says they would contract the whitest of alliances.

Descending the broad flight of steps of the cathedral, Tunicu invites me to partake of some refreshment at a neighbouring cafe. The round marble tables of the cafe are crowded with fashionables fresh from the Retreta. Some of Tunicu'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 cafe noir and a petit verre,' is Tunicu'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 cafe 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 Tunicu.

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, garcon! 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.

'Esta 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 cafe, 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 cafe, 'otra dia tocara a 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 senoritas 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 hara usted el obsequio de cederme esta 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 senorita be good enough to consent, with you, to my taking a turn with her?' or, as it is better expressed in Spanish, 'La senorita sera 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 Guantanamo—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. Tunicu 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 senorita 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 Cocuye, the Chupadera, the Calabazon, the Sopimpa, the Mulata, the Pollita Americana, Merenguito, Lunarcitos, Al Mediodia, and 'a las Bellas Cubanas.' The clarionet takes the lead in the band of black musicians, and the gueiro and tambours serve to mark the peculiar chopping compass which is the leading feature of the creole dance. The gueiro proper is an instrument made from the hard fruit whence it derives its name. The gueiro 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 'ambigu,' 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 ambigu 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 senorita'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 ambigu is a small apartment, where gentlemen—and some of the older ladies too—may enjoy a smoke while they sip their cafe and cognac.

Of course Tunicu 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 'simpaticos.' There is no telling what conversation such topics might lead to, if Cachita's mamma, Dona Belen, did not interrupt our tete-a-tete 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 Tunicu'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 'monte,' '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. Tunicu'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, Tunicu 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!' 'Carambola!' (the billiard cannon), 'Caracoles!' (shells), and 'Caracolito!' (a small shell).

One of the greatest gamblers at the Philharmonic is Don Vicente. Tunicu 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 Tunicu. 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 Tunicu 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 Tunicu, '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 Denouement 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 roles 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 versa. 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. Tunicu 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 senoritas, 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 senoras have brought slave attendants, who crouch in waiting on the ground behind them. Tunicu 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. Tunicu 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 Tunicu 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 Tunicu, 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 Santisima.' 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 DEBUT 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 Senor 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 role 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.

Dona 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 role, 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 bote en bote,' 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 palcos. Nicasio is seated in the third row of the stalls, together with Tunicu, Bimba, and a host of their Pollo companions. Don Benigno, Dona 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.