Gran Teatro Tacon
Havana, Cuba
9 p.m., Thursday
27 September 1888
Havana’s Grand Tacon Theater is the third largest in the world, a fact that is constantly pointed out to foreign visitors by its proud Spanish patrons. The greatest theatrical productions of Europe, the United States, and Latin America include the Tacon in their itineraries. It is truly Havana’s window to the world and draws the island’s privileged class of Spaniards, along with the Criollo Cuban upper crust, like moths to a flame when the famous appear there.
Such was the case the evening I attended, my first in this imposing monument to the fine arts. Fronting the alabaster statue of Queen Isabella Segunda in the central park, the theater presents an imposing image, dominating the other structures in the area. Inside, you are even more impressed. The word spacious does not accurately describe its interior proportions; the place is simply enormous, lit by the largest array of gasoliers I’ve ever seen.
The male gentry reposes in comfortable seating in the main arena near the stage, and from this crowd rises a cloud of cigar smoke. Lessers sit behind them, farther removed from the performance but no less pungent. The highest strata of Spaniards sit nearer to heaven in more than one hundred separate balcony boxes set in five layers along the side walls, well above the merely wealthy. Ladies, dressed to the hilt and with fans aflutter, are included in this rarified altitude.
The royal box, decorated in crimson damask and gold satin and trimmed with gold-leafed railings and cherry woodwork, is the closest of the elite to the performance. It is guarded at its entry by the sixteenth-century costumed soldiers of the palace and serviced by eighteenth-century costumed butlers from the captain-general’s private apartments.
The view from the altitude of the box is remarkable. Beyond the thousand attendees in their private boxes, fully two thousand spectators are jammed into the room below you under the largest chandelier in the Americas. It is a seething mass of glittering jewels, colorful attire, and buzzing conversation, with the periodic billows of cigar puffers everywhere, like so many volcanoes. At any one time, at least a quarter of them were staring up at me in the royal perch, a disconcerting thing when I first experienced it.
The captain-general and his lady were fashionably late, so I was initially the sole occupant and target of conjecture for those below. The audience was obviously discussing that yanqui naval officer, about whom so much had already been said in the city’s salons and social circles since my Havana fencing debut. Was that really only two days before?
Feeling like a bird in a cage, I sat down and waited for Don Sabas to arrive and the production to begin, as did everyone else in the place, from the servants to the actors to the snobs below me. How odd, thought I, to be in this extravagant and envied place, where normally I would not even be in the cheapest seats at the rear of the main floor. And all because I’d reacted instinctively and shoved a spoiled brat out of the way of a homemade bomb.
A commotion in the hallway behind the booth alerted me to stand. Just as a barrage of trumpetry sounded from the orchestra pit, the guards stamped to attention, and all the uniformed men in the room stood, faced my box, and executed the hand salute. The captain-general, ruler of this last great remnant of the glory of Spain, had arrived with due pomp and circumstance.
Waving a hand to the masses, he emerged alone from the curtained entry to thunderous applause, all eyes on his patented smile, which reminded me of Theodore Roosevelt’s irrepressible grin. It was then that I realized there were only two chairs, green velour wingbacks with a pattern of gold embroidered crowns of Castile and Leon, set out in the box. Evidently, it would only be Don Sabas and me. We would have privacy, and I recalled his comment about that the previous evening.
“This will be quite enjoyable,” he said to me while taking his seat. “Though it has an anti-monarchial air to it, I personally asked for this drama to be played here. Did you know that Victorien Sardou wrote it just for Madam Sarah Bernhardt. She is my favorite actress. Is she not yours, Commander?”
I sat down, trying to act comfortable. Flutes of champagne miraculously appeared in our hands from silent attendants.
“I’ve never seen her perform, Your Excellency. I look forward to this play.”
“I have just talked with her behind the stage.” He paused, then raised a finger for emphasis. “She is the most beautiful woman in history—other than my wife, of course. Sometimes a little too self-confident, as are so many of the French, but still, very beautiful. I have heard that England’s Prince of Wales is one of her lovers.”
I’d heard the same thing while in England a year earlier but had discounted it as idle rumor. “I do believe the lady is recently married, sir.”
He laughed. “How very American of you to bring that up, Commander. Yes, Sarah has been married to some Greek actor in London—I forget his name—for six years. I am told he is addicted to morphine. So perhaps there is a shade of gray there in her marriage. Besides, how can a husband like that possibly provide the same attraction to a woman like her as a future king of England? There is a—how do you say it in English?—an . . . allure, yes? There is an irresistible allure to men with political power and wealth and confidence, a magnetism that gathers women like Sarah Bernhardt to them. It is human nature, I think, this attraction of the most beautiful of women to the most manly of men.”
He was warming rapidly to the issue, so much so that I began to wonder which man was the subject of his hypothesis regarding Bernhardt—the Prince of Wales or himself? I found his fascination quite interesting, particularly in light of the March 1887 New York Times article I’d read. In it, Bernhardt described the audience during her first performance at the Tacon in Havana as “odious people” who smoked and expectorated a lot but hadn’t grasped her presentation in the least.
I decided not to bring that up, instead asking, “Are we to be deprived of Doña Matilde’s lovely company this evening, Your Excellency?”
“Sadly, yes, my friend. My dear wife Matilde begs your forgiveness, but less than an hour ago she informed me that her head was aching and she did not feel strong enough for an evening at the theater. She was very much anticipating seeing you again and hopes that she will have another chance in the future.” He chuckled. “I have the impression she is an admirer of yours, Commander.”
She’d bowed out less than an hour earlier? That would have been right before I got to the theater. Then why were there only two chairs set out when I’d arrived? No, our privacy was premeditated, which meant the captain-general wanted to say, or ask, things he hadn’t been able to in front of the others at the dinner in his apartment.
I bowed slightly and said, “I offer my best wishes for her recovery, sir, and would be delighted and honored for another chance to spend time in her company.”
As the orchestra tuned up and the house manager prattled on from the stage about upcoming concerts, Don Sabas and I spoke polite nothings about the hot weather, the recent hurricanes that summer, and the design of the theater, during which I happened to spot out of the corner of my eye a familiar face studying me from two boxes away.
Doña Belleza Ortiz y Cardonne winked and smiled demurely at me, the invitation fleeting but obvious. Then the ceiling and wall gasoliers dimmed simultaneously across the cavernous room, the stage lights brightened, and we were plunged into Sardou’s story about Italian love and treachery just after the battle of Marengo in northwest Italy in 1800. The French victory over the Hapsburg Austrians was where Bonaparte cemented his military reputation and subsequently catapulted his political ambitions.
“Do you know of Marengo, Commander?” inquired Don Sabas pleasantly, as an actor appeared onstage and delivered his lines in French, which I thought odd: A play about Italians was delivered in French to Spaniards in Cuba. Something of the story was bound to be lost in translation.
“Only the basic information about it, Your Excellency. I am not as well versed in European military history as you are.”
“Ah, yes, military history is a specialty of mine. I find it better to learn from those who came before me than to provide bitter lessons for those who come after me. Marengo was the crucial turning point for Napoleon, a victory that propelled him as first consul of France after his coup d’etat the previous year, and the battle that the French have rewritten ever since to proclaim his greatness as a general.”
He leaned over and with a sly expression said, “But there is a little-known component of Marengo that many people do not know. It has nothing to do with the glory of French soldiery or Napoleon’s skills. Instead, it involves the dark arts of espionage. I believe the word you use in English is ‘skulduggery.’”
He noted my facial reaction. “Yes, indeed, Commander, I am speaking of the nefarious work of spies.” Don Sabas’ head slowly shook in disapproval. “That lower province of human endeavor that gentlemen of authority do not care to enter themselves, of course, but are always compelled to use.”
Some sort of dramatic action was taking place onstage, but I could not tear myself away from the man in front of me, intensity radiating from his eyes as he described what had happened eighty-eight years before. “You see, Commander, there was a double agent for the Austrians who deceived Napoleon into splitting his forces and sending them to the northern and the southern flanks. A huge mistake. That deception worked well at first, but just then the cunning Corsican—and in my opinion, all Corsicans are cunning—understood his error. He began reinforcing his center just as the Austrians attacked. The outcome was in doubt for a long time, but the French army eventually beat them. The rest, as it is said, is but history, written by the victors. I have always had one question that has remained without an answer. Can you guess what it is?”
I had a strong inkling, but I said, “No, sir. With your knowledge of military campaigns, I can’t imagine any important detail you don’t know.”
The intensity faded from his face and he looked saddened, as if he was about to pass along bad news about an old mutual friend. “Oh, it is not an important factor, Commander, just a personal interest in the human side of the affair. I have always speculated on what happened to that spy when Napoleon found out about him? We do not even know the man’s name, or how he perished. Such is the way with spies, is it not? They are doomed to live a lonely, fearful life in the shadows, never receiving their due for any success, paying the ultimate price for failure by dying far from their friends and family, not even in the company of comrades, as would a soldier. And in the end, even their masters forsake and forget them as mere disposable pawns in the great game of nations.”
I digested all this as the Captain-General of Cuba sat back in his chair and drained his glass, eyes still on me, with the ghost of a smile crossing his face. A noncommittal response was my choice, though it came across as rather moronic, given the circumstances.
“A very interesting point about Marengo and the role of military intelligence, Your Excellency. It is something I did not know. You are quite the historical scholar, sir.”
Don Sabas made no comment. Only that knowing smile indicated his thoughts. I was rescued from further embarrassment when the house exploded in applause, for Act One had ended and the curtain was closing. Unknown to me, while I’d sat there completely mesmerized by my companion’s monologue, Sarah Bernhardt had made her appearance onstage and the place had loved it.
As if he’d been watching her the whole time, my companion said, “What a great actress she is!” Then he stood, swept his hand around the room, pointed down to the stage, and cried out, “Bravo!” Soon everyone, including the yanqui spy, was on his feet, echoing the captain-general’s sentiment.