All Cuban buildings are constructed with a provident eye to earthquake and tropical heat, and the theatre is no exception to the rule. The means of egress are ample and facile, so that in case of emergency the audience may, comparatively speaking, step from their places into the street. On every side are huge open windows and doors, by means of which perfect ventilation is ensured. Fire is also carefully provided against, and there is always a small regiment of black 'bomberos,' or firemen, stationed in readiness within the theatre. There are two tiers of private boxes, and a gallery. The first tier is but slightly elevated above the pit, enabling the occupants to converse, as is the fashion, with friends in the stalls. Both tiers have the appearance of an ordinary dress circle, with a low partition to distinguish one box from another. There are wide lobbies at the back, and an ornamental iron grating in front. Like most houses in Cuba, the theatre is without drapery, the stall-seats and box-chairs, which are cane-bottomed, not excepted. The interior of a Cuban theatre is barren as a bull-ring.
Despite my intimacy with El Marquesito del Queso, I pay my money at the doors, before I enter the theatre at night, like everybody else; for in this proud country it is considered humiliating in a respectable person to beg an order or a pass. I accordingly purchase two separate tickets; one for my admission into the theatre, and one for my seat in it; otherwise, I should have to stand, like the indigent few, at the back of the boxes. Tunicú sometimes accompanies me on these occasions, and gives me the names and occupation of most of the audience, whom he seems to know personally. For the matter of that, everybody in a Cuban theatre is on intimate terms with everybody else, and there is much conversation between the occupants of the boxes, who are, with few exceptions, ladies, and those of the pit, who are exclusively gentlemen. The señoritas, in low-necked muslin dresses, with a wealth of genuine hair, and with their inevitable fans, form a pleasing frame of fair humanity around the picture of dark coats and white drill trousers in the pit. Their hands are gloveless, and their diminutive fingers are loaded with rings of great value: for Cuban ladies are fond of jewellery, and make a great display of it upon all public occasions. Some of the señoras have brought slave attendants, who crouch in waiting on the ground behind them. Tunicú points me out the doctor's box, and when that eminent gentleman appears late in the evening, I recognise him as the man who saved me from the yellow fever. The doctor, I learn, is strong on that disorder, but weak on the subject of earthquake, against which, no West Indian physician has succeeded in finding a remedy. His box is nearest the principal entrance door, for he is nervous about earthquake, and is ever on the alert when he visits a theatre. Tunicú informs me that an earthquake in a theatre is worse than a fire, and gives me the interesting particulars of such a catastrophe as it happened in the doctor's own experience. It was a slight affair, he says, a mere 'temblorcito', as he calls it; one wall was seen to crack from top to bottom, some plaster from an opposite wall peeled off, a globe from one of the gas lamps fell among the audience, and that was all; but the panic was terrible for all that, and many were crushed to death in their attempt to escape.
The stout gentleman who occupies that big box all to himself in the centre of the theatre, is his excellency the president. No Spanish entertainment is complete without its president. The curtain may not rise till his excellency has taken his seat; the actors may not respond to a call or an encore if the president is not agreeable, and does not flutter the big play-bill before him, in token of his acquiescence. The box to the right is the lawful property of the censor, who, like most Spanish authorities in Cuba, rarely pays for his pleasure. He is extremely affable and condescending with everybody before the curtain, though so stern and unyielding behind the scenes. His daughters, charming young ladies, are with him, and flirt freely with the numerous Pollos, who come to pay their homage. That stall in the centre of the pit is occupied by the editor of the Diario, a Cuban daily paper, whose politics and local information are strongly diluted by censorial ink, and which is, therefore, unintelligible and devoid of interest. The editor of the Diario is extremely lenient in his reports of theatrical entertainments, and on him the manager, at least, may always rely. His contemporary and rival, the editor of the Redactor, government organ, is seated in a stall near his excellency the governor-general, who is enthroned in a wide stage-box, and is dressed in full uniform, covered with orders. His excellency is accompanied by an aide-de-camp and half a dozen bronze-faced, heavily moustached officers, all of whom are more or less adorned with orders, crosses, and other military decorations. In the bend of the theatre are the boxes of the English and American consuls; and within earshot of where Tunicú and I are seated, is the box occupied by Cachita, her parents and sister, whom we visit between the acts.
But what are those mysterious enclosures with trellis-work before them on either side of the proscenium? Those are special private boxes for the use of persons or families who are still in a state of half-mourning, and may not yet expose themselves to public scrutiny. But these boxes are not always occupied by mourners, whispers Tunicú, in great confidence. There are a certain class, he tells me, who wear a kind of half-mourning, which never becomes out of fashion; these are the half-castes or quadroons, who dare not be seen in public with acknowledged white people. The gallery is as usual devoted to soldiers, sailors, and persons of slender means; and in the extreme background are a few benches set apart for the exclusive accommodation of mulatto girls and negroes of both sexes, most of whom are elegantly attired; for coloured people are scrupulous in their dress on all public occasions.
After the overture—a medley of Cuban dance music and Spanish fandango, played upon ordinary instruments by black musicians—a big bell, to summon all stragglers to their places, is heard, the curtain is raised, and the performance begins. There is nothing peculiar in a Cuban drama except that no allusion to political matters is made, and that the profane and immoral are somewhat freely indulged in. The comic players perplex the prompter with inordinate gagging, and delight in personalities with occupants of the orchestra and pit. There is much applause when the comic man shuffles through the charinga—a popular negro dance, difficult of performance, and shouts of laughter are produced in the scene between a Yankee, who speaks very broken Spanish, and a lady who speaks Spanish with the approved Cuban accent. It is an enthusiastic and excitable audience.
The entirely new drama is a complete success, owing to the realistic performance of the famous star from old Spain. That gentleman is on the point of breaking a blood-vessel in his effort to impersonate the convulsive thief; but he is saved by the doctor in the private box, who is suddenly summoned to the actor's dressing-room. This interesting incident makes a deep impression upon the sympathising public, and greatly increases the interest of the drama. Then the curtain is lowered amidst rapturous applause, and calls for the infirm player, who is presently led on the stage, supported by one of the company and by the doctor. In the following act, the star astonishes his audience by a vivid representation of a detected thief gone mad, and his private convulsions being still fresh in their memories, many are seen to direct their gaze towards the doctor's box, in doubt whether that gentleman will not be required to administer also to a mind diseased. But all conjecture on this point is presently set at rest by the acting madman himself, who is duly restored to his senses at the conclusion of the play.
An interval of from twenty to thirty minutes elapses between each act, during which the whole audience rise from their places and promenade around and about the theatre. The ladies betake themselves to the lobbies to flirt, fan, and refresh themselves with ice 'sorbetes.' The gentlemen from the pit are everywhere. Some are conferring with friends in the 'grilles,' or mourning-boxes; some are smoking cigarettes in spacious saloons provided for smokers; others are in the street drinking 'orchata' or 'bul,' a compound of English beer with iced water and syrup. The stage itself is, however, their favourite resort. Open doors give access to that mysterious ground from the front of the theatre, and the pit public is thus enabled to wander into every nook and corner, from the traps below to the flies above. The players do not shun their visitors, but rather court their society, for a friend in front is considered a desirable acquisition, and half-way towards a reputation as 'favourite;' to say nothing of benefit nights at the end of a season. A small crowd of Pollos waylay the 'first lady' as she leaves her dressing-room. As many as conveniently can, enter the leading actor's room to congratulate him on his success and his speedy recovery from the sensational scene. Another party of Pollos chokes the narrow passage leading to the premiere danseuse's boudoir, and great is their joy when they catch a glimpse of the gauze goddess as she flutters hurriedly past on her way to the green-room. The stage is thronged with these walking gentlemen, who require no rehearsal or prompter, and whose most attractive performance consists in unbounded cigarette smoking, and in getting in everybody's way. It is a miracle how, in the midst of this dire confusion, carpenters, scene-shifters, and managers contrive to set the stage for another act; and what a scene would be disclosed if the drop were to rise prematurely! Presently a voice is heard to cry, 'Fuera!' this being Spanish for 'Clear the stage;' the big bell tolls, and the audience in due course return to their places in front. The curtain having been drawn up after the drama, a man comes round, like a ticket-collector on a railway, to demand the cards of reserved seats from their holders, and to distribute programmes for to-morrow's performances. Everybody is in turn disturbed and annoyed, for at that moment the low-comedy man is singing a comic parody, in a farce called 'The Sexton and the Widow.'
But there is a graver interruption than that caused by the ticket-collector—an interruption which affects actors as well as audience, rendering everybody within the theatre walls motionless and speechless. Some ladies are seen to cross themselves devoutly, and are heard to utter ejaculations about 'Misericordia' and 'Maria Santísima.' Every door in the theatre is thrown wide open, and the servants of the establishment stand before them with lighted candles. What is amiss? I look for El Marquesito del Queso, but he has disappeared. Fire? The black bombero firemen are in their accustomed places, and exhibit no sign that such a catastrophe has occurred. Rebellious outbreak of runaway niggers? I glance at the military-box, and find the occupants peacefully inclined. Earthquake? I look towards the doctor's box, and observe that nervous gentleman perfectly tranquil and unmoved. Hark! a tinkling bell is ringing somewhere outside the theatre. From my position in the stalls I can see into the open street beyond, and anon I descry a procession of church dignitaries in full canonicals, the first of whom bears the tinkling bell, while the rest carry long wax candles, the Host, and the sacred umbrella. Their mission at this hour of the evening is that of administering the holy sacrament to a dying man, and as they pass along the streets, it behoves all occupants of houses within the route devoutly to acknowledge the procession as it passes. The audience and actors accordingly kneel and cross themselves while the holy functionaries and their sacrament are in view. One of the ecclesiastical party enters the theatre and glances hurriedly within, to see that all are in the approved attitude. I am thankful to find myself doing as the good Catholics are doing, for I know that our visitor has no respect of persons or creeds, and would call me to order without the least hesitation, were I inclined to rebel. When the religious 'function' in the street (all public shows, from a bull-fight to high mass, are called 'functions' in the Spanish language) is out of sight and hearing, and the candles at the door are extinguished, the spectators resume their seats, and the farce 'function' on the stage proceeds.
CHAPTER XVIII.
MY DÉBUT ON A CUBAN STAGE.