The Pearl of the Antilles, or An Artist in Cuba

CHAPTER XV.

AN EVENING AT THE RETRETA

A Musical Promenade – My Friend Tunicú – Cuban Beauties – Dark Divinities – A Cuban Café – A Popular 'Pollo' – Settling the Bill

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What will we take in the way of refreshment?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVI.

AT A CUBAN BALL

The Philharmonic and its Members – A Street Audience – The Guests – Engaging Partners – 'La Carabina' – 'La Danza Criolla' – Dance Music – Refreshments – A Pretty Partner – A Night with Cuban Gamblers – Spanish Cards – An Old Hand – 'Temblores!'

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

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

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