Chapter 46

MY DÉBUT 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 Señor 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 rôle 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.

Doña 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 rôle, 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 bóte en bóte,' 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 pálcos. Nicasio is seated in the third row of the stalls, together with Tunicú, Bimba, and a host of their Pollo companions. Don Benigno, Doña 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