EDUCATION--LAST NIGHT IN SAN ANTONIO--FAREWELL.
One of our number, visiting the public schools of San Antonio one day,
found the course of studies for boys of very respectable extension,--it
comprised all the usual elementary branches, including the History of
Spain, such a history of that country at least as is good for Cuban boys
to learn. For the education of girls, a single hour was reserved, and
into this were crowded the necessary reading and writing, a little
instruction in accounts, and the geography of the island. My friend
remonstrated against this unequal division of the spoils of time, but
those in authority insisted that it was according to the rights of
Nature, as follows.
_American._ Do you mean to say that boys should be taught five or six
hours a day, and girls only one?
_Schoolmaster._ Certainly.
_American._ Why do you make this difference?
_Schoolmaster._ Because women need so much less education than men.
_American._ Why is that?
_Schoolmaster._ They have less mind, in the first place, and then their
mode of life demands less cultivation of what they have.
_American._ What knowledge do you consider necessary for a woman? only
reading and writing, I suppose.
_Schoolmaster._ Yes, and a little arithmetic. They must fill up the rest
of their time with sewing, and household matters.
_American._ But supposing you were required to add something to this
small amount of instruction, what would it be?
_Schoolmaster_ (after some reflection). I scarcely know, unless indeed
_a slight coloring of Grammar_.
Our American, now excited, brings in view the good of the race. "Do you
not think," he says, "that by elevating the organism of the mothers, you
elevate the intellectual chances of the whole race? Stupid mothers will
have stupid sons,--the results of culture are inherited."
The master replies that that is not his business, but Don Juan, who
happens to be present, being appealed to, assents, and thinks it might
be as well if a mother could have an idea. So far, so good, but a
jealous-hearted woman to whom the conversation was reported smiled to
observe how both American and Cuban made woman subservient to the
interests of the race. "And if she should never be a mother," said this
one, "educate her for herself, that she may give good counsel, and
discern the noble and the beautiful. For women are good to inspire men,
as well as to bear them, and for their own sakes, they have a right to
know all that elevates and dignifies life." And this brings to mind
another brief conversation overheard in one of our voyages.
_Young Wife_ (holding up a number of the "Atlantic Monthly"). Ought
women to learn the alphabet, dear? what do you think?
_Young Husband._ Oh! certainly--don't they have to teach it?
But the time draws nigh for us to leave San Antonio. Our return passages
are engaged in the next Isabel. If this steamer prove such a Bird of
Gladness as the papers and her consignees say, then our once weary
voyage will become a veritable translation,--only three days of
sunshine, smoothness, and turtle-soup for luncheon, and you land in
Charleston in undisturbed equilibrium of manners and of dress. Well,
more of this anon.
But to-night is our last night in San Antonio. We have danced our last
_contra-danza_ with Dotor Hernandez, and had our last chat with Maria
Luisa and her mother. Juanito was there, that evening, and as we were
all in a musical mood, he played through whole piano-forte arrangements
of "Norma" and "Lucia," and we all screamed through the score, some six
notes too high for the voice, Papa and Mamma applauding us, and did
wonders in "Casta Diva" and "_Chi mi frena_." But this is all at an end,
and one of us stands alone at her open window, and looks for the last
time on the quiet scene,--just before her is the little pasture where
the goats pick up a scanty subsistence all day, and where shadows and
moonlight play such wild freaks at night. This morning, as she sat at
that window and worked, two men in haste carried a coffin past it. She
always sees coffins, and sometimes writes about them,--that one gives
tone to her thoughts to-night. For the house opposite is now dark and
still,--the parlor where Mariquilla embroiders her chemises, and Dolores
pulls lint for the sick is silent and deserted. The trees stand up there
in the moonlight, and the river runs among its shallows so near that one
hears its voice. And Hulita thinks: fifty years from this time--that
river will be running just as it is now, and those trees, or others like
them, will be standing at the angle of the picture as I now see them,
but where shall we, friends of to-day, be? Dead, or old enough to die.
Juanito will be a man in years, then, with white hairs, scarcely
remembering the American lady who praised his compositions in
church-music. The Dotor, Papa, and Mamma cannot be alive, Maria Luisa
will be a Grandmother, and if Hulita lives, her infirmities will make
death a welcome deliverance. So she envies that moon, the trees, the
river, who can all stay and be eternal. She saw the coffin to-day,--very
like she will see the whole no more. Good-night, dear moon, dear
shadows, dear unlearned, unsophisticated people,--I shall leave you
to-morrow, forget you never.
And the next day comes the bustle of departure, and packing of trunks,
for we are to take the afternoon train down to Havana. Doña Tomasita
sends a parting gift of fruit, as much as one man and one stout boy can
carry. The fruit is as follows: one bushel of golden, honeyed
oranges,--oh! the glory of all oranges are those of this island,--the
same quantity of _chaimitos_ and _mameys_, and a huge fagot of
sugar-cane. We hasten to share these good creatures with those
immediately at hand, having lauded Doña Tomasita to the skies and paid
her messengers. What could be carried away we took with us. Then came
the parting with Polonia, who wrung her hands as usual, and cried out:
"Know thou, girl, that I shall miss thee much." "And I thee, too, thou
dear old half-mad charcoal figure,--thou art human, though black, and
canst ache over the ironing-table as well as another. Let these few
reals console thee, as far as may be, for the loss of my sympathy. If we
ever get the Island, I will help thee to ease and good wages.
"But not so to thee, roguish Antonio. 'Art thou not free and perfidious?
We intrusted a sum of money to thine hand to pay the negro
baggage-carrier, and to slightly fee thyself, and we ascertain all too
late, by the complaints of the injured negro, that thou didst slightly
fee him, and pay thyself for services never rendered. Wherefore dread
our coming, or the Day of Justice, by whomsoever administered!'"----
We have taken affectionate leave of the family of the house opposite,
promising to write, with the remainder of our mortal lives as the vague
term of fulfilment. A trinket or two made the younger ones happy, while
the whole family solemnly united to bestow on me a little set of
vignettes of Cuba, folded fan-fashion, and purchasable for the sum of
five reals. Not without much explanation was it delivered to me,--this
was the Cock-fight, this the Bull-fight, this the Tacon theatre. I
received these instructions without any of that American asperity which
led a celebrated Chief Justice to say: "There are some things, Mr.
Counsel, which the Court is supposed to know," and gratefully departed.
We walked to the _dépôt_, in the hot afternoon sun, our smaller pieces
conveyed on a barrow, and the huge trunk resting, for fifty cents, on
the head of a stalwart negro.--_Mem._ A negro could carry the round
earth on his head, if he could only get it there. And here came the
discovery of Antonio's vileness,--he had had an eighth of an ounce,
wherewith to pay the carriers. According to the bargain, as rehearsed to
us, he was to pay them a dollar and three fourths, which would leave him
three reals for himself. He professed to have done this with so
ingenuous an air, that we were a little ashamed of so small a fee, and
added thereto the small remnant of our change. Only at the last moment,
when the train was puffing and smoking alongside, did the poor blacks
venture to say that one dollar was very little for carrying all those
trunks. Our hearts were stirred, but the train was there, the purse
empty, and Antonio out of sight. Wherefore, let him, as before said,
avoid our second coming.
But there never was a departure without an omission. Something you have
forgotten that you meant to take, or you have brought with you something
that should have been left. Wending your way from an English mansion of
splendid hospitality, a stray towel has found its way into your
portmanteau. Before you have discovered this, a confidential letter from
the housekeeper overtakes you informing you of the fact, and begging you
to return the missing article at once, which you do for six stamps, with
a slight tingle in the cheek. In the present instance we have taken
nought that was not ours, but we have left an article of domestic
dignity and importance.
Stranger, if you should ever sit at that tea-table in the hotel at San
Antonio, with the lamp smoking under your nose, and the three tasteless
dishes of preserves spread before your sight, a cup of astringent
nothingness being offered to you, and a choking stale roll forming the
complement of your evening service,--if there and thus you should see a
white teapot, with bands of blue, that looks as if it had seen better
days, oh then remember us! For we had scarcely settled ourselves in the
cars, when a pensive recollection came over us. It was too late to do
anything,--we only touched the shoulder of our friend, who was as usual
intent upon palms and scenery, and remarked, with a look of melancholy
intelligence, "The Teapot is left behind!"