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.)