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.