The Pearl of the Antilles, or An Artist in Cuba

CHAPTER XXIX.

A CUBAN WEDDING

A number of Don Benigno's relatives and friends have, like ourselves, taken refuge in the peaceful city of Havana. Some of them purpose remaining here till affairs at Santiago are more settled, while others, like Don Benigno, intend to make New York their temporary abode.

Surrounded by his friends, the Don begins to feel at home again. Every evening he holds a tertulia at his temporary residence, as of old, and upon these occasions I recognise many familiar faces. Señor Esteban, the lawyer, Don Magin, the merchant, and Don Felipe, the sugar planter, are the Don's guests again. Doctor Francisco and his family have also arrived in Havana, en route for Europe: for even our medical friend has been in danger of arrest for having administered to some wounded 'patriots' at a village near Santiago.

Don Manuel is of course a constant visitor at Don Benigno's, but I do not envy him the term of courtship which precedes the marriage, nor is the ceremony itself very inviting.

In his capacity of lover, Don Manuel is bound to submit to many hardships. He may not meet his fiancée alone under any circumstances; her society must be enjoyed only in the presence of the numerous friends and relatives who visit her at all hours of the day and evening. Then, he is expected to return some of these visits, in company with his future bride, her mother and sister. He must also submit to certain formalities required of him by the priest who is to unite the 'promessi sposi,' and the most irksome of these is that of confession. Paquita confesses, and that is nothing new to her, but it is otherwise with the young officer. In short, until Don Manuel is actually a happy husband, his position is by no means enviable, and for my own part, I would gladly relinquish two years of married life in Cuba for half an hour's secret love-making at a certain grated window!

The wearisome ordeal at length comes to an end – the nuptial day arrives. The ceremony, such as it is, takes place very late in the night; indeed, it is early morning before Don Manuel and his male friends reach the cathedral, where the event is to be celebrated. A single bell tolls like a funeral knell as we enter a small chapel connected with the sacred edifice. It is a dreary apartment, dismally lighted with two long wax candles. Nobody is present, save Don Manuel, the male friends already mentioned, and the sacristan, who enlivens us by trying (and failing) to beautify, with false flowers and false candles, a miserable altar-piece at one extremity of the chapel. The young officer's importance as a bridegroom is not at present appreciated, either by himself or by his friends, with whom he converses upon indifferent subjects, and who, like myself, are attired in ordinary walking costume.

Presently a Quitrin, drawn by a couple of mules, with a black postilion in jack-boots, halts without. The bride, accompanied by her mother and a friend, alight, and, without taking notice of anybody in particular, pass silently into the chapel. The importance of Don Manuel's position does not reveal itself by this act, nor is it considerably improved, when the ecclesiastic, who is to marry the happy pair, emerges from a dark corner, smiles artificially around him, and exhausts the rest of his amiability with the ladies. But the priest is not so unconscious of Don Manuel as that gentleman supposes. Soon he singles the officer out from the group of males, and bids him follow the bride, and his future mother-in-law, into an adjacent chamber. But little is required of the bridegroom besides his signature to a paper, which he does not read; and when the holy man has addressed something or other to him in the Latin language, he is politely requested to withdraw. Shortly after Don Manuel's retirement, the bride and her escort issue from the mysterious chamber, and, after saluting us all round, take their departure and drive away. Don Manuel's distinguished position seems to be scarcely increased by these proceedings; but when his friends congratulate him, the lights of the chapel are extinguished, and the decorations on the miserable altar-piece are stowed away, he endeavours to realise the feelings of a married man. Don Manuel follows his friends as they lead the way to the bride's parental roof, consoling himself with newly-rolled cigarettes as he walks along.

It is nearly two A.M. before we reach the scene of the festivities, where most of the guests are already assembled. A long table has been tastefully arranged with sweetmeats, cakes, fruit, wine, and other luxuries, and some of the guests, whose appetites could not be restrained, have already inaugurated the festivities. Much confusion, uproar, and struggling after dainties peculiar to a Cuban banquet, prevail, and it is not without an effort that the young officer contrives at last to find a place near his bride. Healths are drunk and responded to incessantly, and often simultaneously; rather, as it would seem, for the excuse of drinking champagne and English bottled ale, than from motives of sentiment.

When enough cigarettes have been smoked, and enough wine and beer have been disposed of, all the company rises with one accord. The ladies throw light veils across their shoulders, the gentlemen don their panamas; and the bride and her mother, together with the bridegroom and all the guests, followed by an army of black domestics, leave Don Benigno's habitation, and marching in noisy procession along the narrow streets, arrive at the bride's future home. It is a one-storied dwelling with marble floors and white-washed walls, and is furnished with bran-new cane-bottomed chairs and other adornments belonging to a Cuban residence. The huge doors and windows of every apartment are thrown open to their widest and the interior being brilliantly lighted with gas, the view from the street is almost as complete as within the premises. Everybody crowds into the latter, and examines the arrangements of each chamber with as deep an interest as if they were wandering through an old baronial mansion with cards of invitation from its absent owner. The reception-room, the comedor or dining-room, the out-houses round the patio or court-yard, are carefully inspected by the throng, who are irrepressible even in respect to the dormitory assigned for the use of the bridegroom, and that allotted to the bride, and situated in quite a different quarter.

Everybody's curiosity being satisfied, everybody, save the newly-married pair and a few black domestics, is wished a 'muy buenas noches,' or, more correctly speaking (for the hour is 4 A.M.), a very good morning.

CHAPTER XXX.

CUBANS IN NEW YORK

I am a prisoner in the Morro Castle again, and this time my fellow captives are more numerous. We occupy separate apartments. The chamber which has been allotted to me is considerably smaller than that of the fortress at Santiago. So small that the floor measures barely four feet in width, and seated in my narrow cot, my head approaches within a few inches of the ceiling. Don Benigno, his wife, his unmarried daughter, and the pretty Ermiña, together with a score of Cuban families, are all imprisoned in the same stronghold, whence there is no escape. For we are encompassed on every side by a moat so deep and so wide that no engineering skill would avail to connect us with terra firma.

This is, however, not the Havana Morro, nor is it the fortress at Santiago de Cuba; but an American steamer called the 'Morro Castle' and bound for New York, where – wind and weather permitting – we shall all arrive, in little more than four days!

Although the month is January, the atmosphere is still sultry and oppressive; so much so that most of the passengers prefer to sleep on deck. But on the morning of the third day of our voyage, there is a perceptible change in the temperature. The passengers are seen to shiver and to huddle together in warm corners of the cabin. Everybody has exchanged his or her summer clothing for warmer vestments. The ladies appear no more in light muslin dresses, and without any head covering. The gentlemen have eschewed their suits of white drill and Panama hats, and have assumed heavy over-coats and flannel under-clothing. It is a 'nipping and an eager air,' closely resembling winter, and reminding everybody of the fact, that in one short hour we have tripped lightly from the perpetual summer of the tropics into the coldest season of the north. Some sea water which had been hauled up in a bucket half an hour ago was perfectly tepid, and now when the bucket is lowered and raised we are amazed to find that the contents are icy cold!

Next day the liquid in our water jugs is discovered to be in a freezing condition, and fires have been lighted in all the stoves. But our chilly Creoles derive little or no warmth from these artificial means, although they are swathed in garments ten inches deep.

Great is the joy when the 'Morro Castle' at last sails into the wide and picturesque harbour of the great American city, and when we have safely landed, satisfied the Custom-house officers, and are finally lodged in a comfortable hotel in Broadway, our happiness is complete.

Numbers of Cuban families are already encamped in the hotel which Don Benigno has selected for himself, family and friend, and at the table d'hôte where we take our first American meal, the conversation is held exclusively in the Spanish language. Don Benigno is delighted to find himself among his countrymen again, and as the city is over-run with Cuban refugees, he soon meets many of his old friends. Some of them tell him that, having had their property confiscated, and being too old to take part in the revolution, they intend to remain in America, where they hope to improve their fortunes; while the more able-bodied are recruiting with a view to certain secret expeditions to Cuba.

Tunicú, who joins us shortly after our arrival, is of course overjoyed at our appearance, and welcomes some of us literally with 'open arms!' Having passed some weeks in New York, he is of course already acquainted with everybody of note in the city, and is familiar with American ways. He tells us all about the Cuban 'Laborantes' of New York, and how they are labouring in behalf of their bellicose countrymen. How juntas are held, and how the Cuban ladies take a prominent part in these meetings, and provide funds for the relief of their sick and wounded compatriots in arms. Tunicú informs us that a grand bazaar, with this object in view, is now being promoted by these energetic señoras, and when Doña Mercedes hears of this, she and her daughters are soon busy at their favourite occupation. Tunicú says that the proceeds of the bazaar will not be wholly devoted to the purpose for which it is publicly announced, but that a large amount will be set apart for the purchase of arms and accoutrements; it being whispered that another fillibustering expedition is contemplated, and that great hopes are entertained of its safe departure from America. He says that an important landing has been lately effected at Guanaja – a small town on the Cuban coast – where Manuel Quesada, the newly-appointed general of the Cuban army, has arrived with eighty well-drilled men, 2,700 muskets and necessary ammunition.

Besides the bazaar money, large amounts are raised by giving public concerts and by an occasional dramatic performance at one of the Bowery theatres, at which a stirring drama founded on the Cuban revolution is presented.

The concerts, however, prove more attractive and remunerative; especially if it is announced that a young and lovely Creole, attired as 'Liberty' and holding a Cuban flag in her hand, will sing a patriotic ballad. Equally effective are recitals from the famous Cuban poets – Heredia and Placida. When the 'Himno del Desterrado,' by the first-named author, is given, it is always received with great applause by the Cuban members of the audience and by those who understand the beautiful language in which this favourite poem is written. But nothing pleases the mixed audience of Cubans and Americans half so well as when a renowned pianist favours them with a performance on the piano of a 'Danza Criolla.' At the first strains of their patriotic melody, the Creoles present become wild with enthusiasm. The Cuban ladies wave their handkerchiefs with delight, while their brother-patriots stand on their seats, and for the moment drown their favourite music with loud and prolonged cheering, accompanied by shouts of 'Viva Cuba libre!' (Long live free Cuba!) 'Muerte á España!' (Death to Spain!) and other patriotic sentiments.

The American people are unanimous in their sympathy for the Cuban cause, and the sentiment is popular even with the New York shopkeepers, who already offer for sale 'Cravats à la Cespedes,' 'Insurrectionary Inkstands,' and 'Patriot Pockethandkerchiefs.'

Important meetings, too, are held at Cooper's Institute, Steinway Hall, and other public places, at each of which a great concourse of American sympathisers gathers. Many eminent orators preside at these meetings, and endeavour with all their eloquence to urge upon the Congress at Washington the necessity for immediate recognition of the rights of the Cuban belligerents. Annexation is, of course, suggested, and slavery loudly denounced.

One eloquent speaker is of opinion that the present struggle of the Cubans for independence and self-government belongs to the same category as the American Revolution in 1776; that it should excite the sympathy of all friends of popular progress, and that it deserves every kind of assistance that other nations may be able to render.

Another well-known orator, connected with the church, declares that 'the Cuban cause is just, and that the wrongs against which the Cubans have revolted are such as should arouse the indignation of mankind, inasmuch as these wrongs include taxation without representation, the forced maintenance of slavery, the exclusion of all natives of the island from public service, the denial of the right to bear arms and of all the sacred privileges of citizenship and nationality.'

A third speaker avers, among other sentiments, that, in proclaiming the abolition of slavery, the patriots of Cuba have given conclusive evidence that they share the most substantial ideas of modern democracy, and that their political principles are in unison with those which inspire and govern the profoundest thinkers and statesmen of the age. That while men of free minds in all countries must view with interest and hope the uprising in Cuba, 'we, as citizens of the Republic of North America, and near neighbours of the beautiful and productive island, recognise a special obligation towards those patriots who are toiling and fighting for its emancipation from Spanish tyranny.'

'It is the duty of our Government,' concludes another speaker, amidst loud and prolonged applause, 'to recognise the belligerent rights of the Cubans at the earliest practicable moment, and thus to show the world, that the American nation is always on the side of those who contend against despotism and oppression; and we earnestly entreat the Executive at Washington that there may be no unnecessary delay in dealing with this important subject.'

But in spite of these demonstrations of public sympathy, the mighty House of Representatives cannot be induced to join in the popular sentiment. Memorials are addressed to the American President, and persons of influence labour in behalf of the Cuban cause. Upon one occasion a party of Cuba's fairest daughters 'interview' the President's wife and secretary, but nothing comes of it except more sympathy and more able editorials in the New York papers, in which it is again suggested that a bold and decisive policy should be commenced with regard to Cuba and to American interests there, and that the shortest way to settle now and for ever all difficulty relative to that island, is to send out a powerful fleet and to recognise the independence of the people of the Pearl of the Antilles.