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.
When the curtain has fallen upon the three-act drama, my dressing-room
is besieged by a host of Cuban friends, who have come to wish me success
and to inspect my make-up behind the scenes. All congratulate me on my
effective disguise, and promise to assist towards giving me a warm
reception.
Nicasio remains with me till the last moment, to run over my part again,
put the finishing touches to my toilette and inspire me with confidence.
But now the big bell, summoning all stragglers to their places, is
heard, the audience resume their seats, and the curtain rises for 'Los
Mocitos del Dia.'
The scene of the farce is laid in the interior of a 'ventorillo,' or
fruiterer's shop, in Cuba, with real bananas, plantains, sugar-cane,
cocoa-nuts, mangoes, Panama hats, and limp hand-baskets distributed
about the stage. Juana, the mulatto girl--attired in a low-necked,
short-sleeved cotton gown and a coloured turban--is discovered smoking
an enormous cigar, and washing clothes in a kind of flat tub, called in
Creole vernacular a 'batea.' She soliloquises in the drawling nasal tone
peculiar to her race, and adopts a Spanish _patois_ which abounds in
abbreviated words, suppressed s's, unlisped z's, and s-sounding c's.
After singing the 'Candelita,' a favourite Cuban ditty, Juana discourses
upon her master Don Gabriel's objections to 'lo mocito,' as she calls
them, and describes their rakish habits.
Enter Teresita's lover, Ramon.
The 'mocito' desires an uninterrupted interview with his mistress, and
offers to bribe the mulatto with silver 'medios' if she will warn the
lovers of the 'enemy's' approach by singing the 'Candelita' outside.
Juana accepts the bribe, which she places carefully within the folds of
her turban after the fashion of her tribe, and vanishes in quest of her
young mistress.
Enter Teresita.--'Valgame Dios! Ramon?'
Ramon.--'Teresita de mi vida!' (Love-scene.)
Teresita refers to her father's dislike to 'los mocitos,' whom Don
Gabriel declares to have no occupations save those of gambling and
dancing, and who go about 'perfumed with eau-de-Cologne and violet
powder.' Her papa's notion of a model son-in-law is an individual who
savours of the workshop. Such a man Don Gabriel has discovered in the
person of Mister Charles (pronounced Charleys), the engineer of Don
Hermenejildo Sanchez' sugar estate.
Ramon is disgusted with this information.
'What!' he exclaims, 'you married to a "fogonero"--a stoker! I will
never consent to such a union--first because of my deeply-rooted love
for you, and secondly because of my patriotic feeling on the subject.
This is a question of race, Teresita mia. It is war between coal and
cafe-a fight between brandy and bananas. Yes; rosbif _versus_ fufu.
Mister Charleys is a bisteque (beefsteak), and I am your tasajito con
platanito verde machucado!' (a favourite Creole dish).
The infatuated fruiterer is, nevertheless, resolved to make up a match
between his daughter and the industrious mechanic, and, accordingly,
brings Mister Charleys home with him.
Mister Charleys, who has fortified himself with a strong stimulant, is
waiting at the wing for his cue, in company with the 'call-boy' (an old
man in this instance), who holds a copy of cues in one hand and a
lighted candle in the other. The call-boy whispers 'Fuera!' as a signal
for me to disappear from the wing, gives me an encouraging push, and the
gloom behind the scenes is suddenly exchanged for a blaze of gas, and a
theatre full of enthusiastic spectators.
Following Don Gabriel, who leads the way, I am greeted with a round of
hearty applause in acknowledgement of my effective make-up, and when I
give utterance to the opening words, in which reference is made to the
heat of the weather, and to the difficulties Mister Charleys has
encountered in his quest after refreshment, the house is convulsed.
Some time, however, elapses before I can thoroughly appreciate my
situation, and realise the fact that all this applause and laughter is
due to my appearance on the stage. I easily overcome the temporary
agitation induced by the glare of the lamps and the gaze of the hundreds
of upturned faces before me; but I cannot withstand the behaviour of the
gentleman in the domed trap. His perpetual prompting, combined with his
perceptible enjoyment of the new piece, is, to say the least of it,
confusing, and fills me with misgivings of a premature 'hitch.'
The play proceeds. I am formally introduced to the ladies, whose hands I
squeeze awkwardly and savagely, while Don Gabriel--whom I address as Don
Guebriel--sings the praises of Mister Charleys.
Enter my rival Ramon, disguised as a Catalan shopkeeper, in false
whiskers, and a tall white hat with a black band. Shopkeepers in Cuba
are usually natives of Barcelona, and the object of Ramon's disguise, is
to persuade Don Gabriel that he is one of that money-making community.
He talks Spanish with the approved Catalonian accent; introduces himself
as 'Dun Panchu Defulou, Cutulan y cumerciante,' and offers to traffic
with his host. The imposture is, however, short-lived. In a hard squeeze
of the hand which I give the sham Catalan at parting, he inadvertently
roars out in a good Creole accent:--
'Ay! ay! ay! caramba, suelte usted.' (Oh! for goodness' sake, let go!)
The old gentleman suspects his maiden sister of aiding and abetting the
dangerous 'mocito,' and there is every reason for his suspicion; Dona
Lola having persuaded herself that it is she, and not her young niece,
who is the object of the 'mocito's' solicitations. Deluded with this
notion, the elderly spinster facilitates Ramon's visit to the house, and
there is a scene in which she helps to conceal him in a huge barrel used
for storing charcoal. One of the chief 'situations' in the farce occurs
when Don Gabriel, at the instigation of Mister Charleys (whom Ramon
nicknames Mister Estornudo, or Sneezer, from the resemblance of his name
to a sneeze as expressed in Spanish), fires a loaded pistol at the
barrel and its human contents.
It is during the action of this scene that the questionable phrase,
already referred to, should be delivered by the Yankee engineer.
The cue being given, I am in the act of repeating the lines, when the
voice of Don Baltazar, the manager, to whom is apportioned the role of
Ramon, is heard imploring me, from the barrel, to omit the words.
Conscious of the presence of his Excellency the Governor, the manager is
suddenly seized with misgivings as to the manner in which the expression
will be received, and will not risk his Excellency's displeasure. My
fellow-comedians, who are all Cubans, urge me to proceed. The prompter
thinks I have forgotten my part, and repeats the text--so often, indeed,
that the spectators in the third row of the stalls at last overhear him,
and call unanimously for the correct version of the play.
'These poor Span---- ' I begin. The barrel trembles visibly.
'Por Dios,' hisses the manager, bobbing up from the barrel like an
undecided Jack-in-the-box--'for Heaven's sake, don't compromise me!'
The audience begin to show signs of impatience. Again the prompter
maddens me by giving the text.
Myself (_aside to prompter_): 'Bar--ajo! sir, I know my part.'
Mister Charleys (_very loud to audience_): 'These poor Spanish brutes
want civilising badly!'
'Bravo! Muy bien!' from the Cuban party.
Groans and loud whistling from the Spaniards.
'That was well said!' observes a voice.
'Fuera!' (Turn him out!) observes another.
'It was a good home-thrust!' cries the first.
'Fuera ese hombre!' (Turn out that man!) shrieks voice number two.
'Polizia!' The theatrical president rises angrily from his box and
summons the police.
The male spectators who occupy the pit-stalls begin to be as unruly as
they are at a bull-fight. The ladies move from their boxes to the
lobbies.
The censor is sent for by the president. The manager is charged to
appear by the censor; and anon Ramon, _alias_ Don Baltazar Telon y
Escotillon, his face and dress besmeared with charcoal, steps into the
president's 'palco.'
'Bravo! Bien!' from the audience, whose good-humour is at once restored
by this new and unexpected diversion.
A mighty conference is held in the president's box, and the matter of
dispute is warmly discussed with suitable gesticulations. The question
is, however, finally decided in favour of the manager.
Order being now established, the president's box is cleared, the actors
resume their positions on the stage, and the farce, which proves a great
success, terminates happily.
When the performances are over, and I have attired myself in the costume
of the country, I join my friends in the front of the house.
Don Benigno and his family congratulate me on my successful debut and
express a hope that it will not be my last appearance on the Cuban
stage.
Tunicu, Bimba and others of my Pollo friends overwhelm me with
compliments, and as soon as I am at liberty, they hurry me and Nicasio
off to the nearest cafe, where a substantial supper is soon provided.
Cachita and her relations are equally warm in their praises, and
Cachita's father, Don Severiano--to whom I am for the first time
introduced--very much rewards my efforts, by inviting me to pass a few
days, during the approaching summer, at his coffee estate, whither he
and his family are bound.
As for Don Baltazar, the manager--he is so rejoiced at the success of
his plan of presenting the public not only with a 'real Yankee from the
United States,' but with one of the 'original' followers of the divine
art of Apelles, that he induces me to repeat the performance; and 'Los
Mocitos del Dia' is forthwith announced for another evening.