at a most reasonable figure; and then a packet of postal cards
illustrated with views of Cuba. Down in the corner of each card was
the legend, “Made in Detroit.” When I called the attention of the
Spanish salesman to this fact, he declared “there is no such place as
Detroit,” and “undoubtedly the words are the name of the Spanish
artist who designed the cards!”
Leaving the hotel, I sauntered toward the Plaza Grande, an open square
of several acres, traversed by gravel walks, and shaded by many Royal
and other graceful palms; and then crossing it I came to the Prado.
“_Muy bonita esta el Prado_,” (very lovely is the Prado), is the
common phrase of every Habanista; and rightfully are the Habanese
proud of their splendid parklike boulevard.
[Illustration: CALLE OBISPO--HAVANA]
Habana is built upon a low, broad-topped hill, which descends gently
to the water side. On the flattened crest of this hill is the Plaza
Grande, and from the Plaza down to the sea, a mile or two in length,
stretches the Prado;--a wide boulevard on either side of a broad green
strip of park, where a walk-way passes beneath a double row of ancient
and umbrageous trees, and comfortable seats are placed at intervals.
It is on the Prado that the fashion and beauty of Habana drives and
promenades and lingers to see and be seen of all the world. Along its
borders, on either hand, are built many of the noblest mansions of her
merchant and planter magnates. To have a residence upon the Prado is
to command respect.
The Spaniard and Cuban cared little for his streets, but he devoted
himself with lavish attention to beautifying the interior of his home.
Hence, in the Cuban as in the Mexican cities, you often pass along
between bare uninteresting walls, while the costliest marbles, the
richest fabrics, the rarest paintings within, quite hidden from all
curious eyes, may be collected.
Later in the day I wandered through the shopping districts along the
famous Calles Obispo and O’Rielly, streets so narrow that during the
heat of the day they are wholly overspread with awnings while wheel
traffic must go down O’Rielly and up Obispo. Here are gathered in
plain unpretentious buildings many sumptuous shops. The Cuban has not
yet learned the art of window display; he is not up even to the
Mexican in that. But once you are within and know what to ask for,
beautiful fabrics and expensive goods are shown you without stint.
Among other shops, the hat store holds an important place in Cuban as
well as Mexican life. In Mexico, the _sombrero_, costly or cheap,
marks the social status of the wearer and, just so, here in Cuba the
quality of your _panama_ determines the amount of consideration which
you receive. I entered the Hotel Pasaje wearing a modern American felt
hat, and when I bloomed out in a really good _panama_, the clerks and
servants treated me with markedly increased respect. In the same way,
when you enter a shop, the clerk sizes up your hat and treats you
accordingly.
A noteworthy thing about Habana is the great number of cigar stores.
No city in the world possesses so many. Nor are the cigars there
purchased to be surpassed. Every one smokes cigars in Habana. The
cigarette holds the inferior place. The men smoke cigars; the boys
smoke cigars; even many of the women smoke cigars. In Mexico, in the
hotels and railway cars, the ladies were usually smoking cigarettes.
Here in Habana delicate feminine lips close tenderly upon _el segaro_.
There is also much fruit sold at little stands along the street curbs
and at the corners, but in nothing like the quantity or profusion seen
in the Mexican cities, nor have I met any _dulce_ boys with trays of
candied fruits upon their heads.
There are two chief markets in Habana; one is by the water side, where
the fishermen come and where I was greatly interested. There were the
splendid _red-snapper_--which I saw in the markets of Mexico fresh
from the sea,--a large handsome fish of deep-red color, weighing five
or six pounds; and multitudes of sorts I did not know. The other, a
large market where flowers and fruits and vegetables are sold is on
the hill a mile or two from the sea.
The vegetable gardens in the outskirts of the city, are in the hands
of the Chinese, who bring the vegetables to the markets where they are
sold by the Cubans. They work the gardens just as they would in
Shanghai, in Canton, in Pekin; they have come over from China direct;
they already control the greengrocer trade of Habana, and are said to
be fast growing rich.
The markets are neither so large, nor so abundantly supplied as those
of Mexico City, where the fruits and vegetables of the temperate
highlands, and also those of the tropics are offered in the same
stall.
It was the day before Christmas when I visited the larger market, and
the chief interest of the buyers seemed to be centered in the display
of live and suckling pigs. It is the custom of the Cuban to celebrate
his Christmas with a royal banquet of roast pig. So the housewife
selects a “live and squealing dinner,” ties him together by his four
legs and with a cord slung across her shoulder, carries him home,
lustily vociferating beneath her arm. I saw few pigs in Mexico, only
an occasional hog or shoat, lean and wild, scampering along the
wayside in Michoacan; but here, in Cuba, the pig is _el gran Señor_.
The crowds gathering in these markets were in strong contrast to those
of Mexico. Here, were none of the warm brown Indian tints, but instead
the yellow mulatto and the very dark Spaniard or negro. The curious
thing about these Cuban crowds is that the Spanish mulatto, instead of
carrying the white man’s color with the negro’s features, bears, on
the contrary, the white man’s features with the darker color of his
African blood, and hence, the impression created by a Cuban crowd is
rather that of men having Caucasian features shaded in color from the
paler to the darker hues. It is also said, that many of the darker
faces have in them no negro blood at all, but are those of the
descendants of the ancient Moors, who, once the lords of old Spain,
have left as legacy a proud lineage and swarthy skin. To the
unpracticed eye, it is almost impossible to distinguish between the
Spanish negro and the “Black Spaniard.” Thus in Cuba the color line of
race distinction, as drawn in the United States, becomes almost
impossible. Nor does it exist. Men of all shades mingle and mix in
social functions, for who can tell whether the dark face is shaded by
the infused blood of the lowly negro or the haughty Moor?
[Illustration: THE CATHEDRAL--HAVANA]
In the late afternoon I took my way down along the Prado, and,
stopping before No. 55, touched an electric bell. The door opened and
I entered a spacious _patio_; on one side stood a modern
automobile,--on the other, pots of flowering plants, and I entered a
large and airy drawing room.
I might have been in my own country, for it bore the marks of modern
taste. It was the drawing room of _Señora_ ---- who as Miss ----, I
had known and admired in the United States. She expressed delight at
seeing me, greeting me with the cordiality of an old friend. She at
once insisted that I accompany her that evening to Mrs. General Wood’s
private box at the dinner to be given by the citizens of Havana to the
United States naval officers now here with the squadron. The dinner
was to be held in the Opera House. It would be the most notable
function of the year; all that was distinguished in Cuban, Spanish,
and American social, military and naval life would be there assembled.
I was a passing traveler, and my white duck trousers and blue flannel
coat were scarcely the costume to wear among so brilliant a company;
but it was the best I had and what better could I do than accept? My
hostess’ husband, as one of the receiving committee, must be separated
from her and my escort would stand her in good stead.
A few hours later we were ushered into the big theater, and shown with
much ceremony to the private box of the wife of Cuba’s Military
Governor. Here were gathered Mrs. Wood herself, the wife of Admiral
Converse, and the ladies of their entourage. The scene was splendid.
The spacious Opera House, built by the Spaniards with their
appreciation of pomp and ceremony and brilliant functions, was filled
with a distinguished assemblage; from floor to lofty roof were tiers
of boxes, and these boxes were occupied with the beauty and fashion of
Cuba. The great parquet of the theater was floored over and upon this
space were set long tables. The dinner had already some time ago
begun. The company there gathered were nearing the hour when toasts
are offered. Young _Señor_ Garcia, son of the Cuban General, was Toast
Master of the occasion. On his right sat General Wood; upon his left
the Archbishop of Santiago, in rich and gorgeous robes, the first
native Cuban priest to reach that high dignity. The American naval and
military officers were in full dress uniform, and the Cuban Generals
were brilliant in warlike trappings and gold lace. The civilians wore
dress suits, and I was conspicuous as the only guest of the evening in
white duck and blue flannel.
[Illustration: THE FIRST GREENSWORD--HAVANA]
The speeches were in Spanish and English, and great enthusiasm and
good fellowship prevailed. In the course of the evening, most of the
gentlemen present came to pay their respects to the wife of Cuba’s
Governor, and I had the good fortune to be introduced to the greater
part of them.
The sentiment between the Cubans and the Americans is now most
cordial, or, perhaps I should say, between the governing and more
cultivated Cubans and ourselves; for among those whose knowledge of
the United States is gathered chiefly from contact with a soldiery,
not altogether courteous in enforcing order, there is little good
feeling, but rather a sense of sharp antagonism, which, though usually
suppressed, nevertheless now and then crops out.
After the dinner and the closing of the function, I wandered out
beneath the stars along the Prado and through the Plaza Grande to my
hotel. The streets were yet alive with people, although it was late.
In the great square the band had not finished its nightly concert, and
the chairs which, in Havana as in Mexico, are rented to the public,
were yet well-filled with those who lingered to enjoy the music and
the cool night air.
Continuing my way homeward, I caught the distant hum of voices and an
occasional shout. The sounds grew nearer. Looking down the Prado, I
beheld many moving lights. Then a band began to play. A procession was
approaching. I paused to watch. First came a band, men in smart
uniforms; following these were men on horseback, some in uniform, some
in civilian dress. Then came several other bands, and men and boys on
foot carrying banners and lanterns and illuminations. A multitude was
marching through the streets. Every now and then they shouted the name
“Masso, Masso,” and broke into _vivas_ and _bravos_. At the Hotel
Pasaje they halted and renewed their cheers and cries, the wide street
becoming packed with the pressing mob, a cheering crowd, mostly
dark-faced. The procession was a demonstration in behalf of Masso by
the followers of the “Massoista” party. He is the candidate they would
elect to the Presidency of the Cuban Republic in opposition to
Estrada Palma.
[Illustration: SELLING VEGETABLES--HAVANA]
On the afternoon of the following day, I was riding on the tramway in
company with a friend, toward the suburbs on the hill, when a tall and
courtly Cuban came toward us. He took a seat next to my friend and
after a few moments’ conversation, turned to me and said in perfect
English that he had noticed me the night before in the box of
“_Señora_ General Wood,” and, “that he had remarked me for a stranger
in Habana.” He said that he was shortly to leave the car, and asked
whether we would not like to visit an old Cuban mansion, in order to
see how people in Cuba lived in the style of the old _regime_.
Knowing the gracious manner of compliment habitual among the Spanish
peoples, I was going to thank him for the proffered courtesy and
decline; but my American friend, to my surprise, promptly accepted the
invitation. We left the car in company with our guide, _Señor_ ----,
who belongs to one of the oldest Cuban families of French
descent,--and is a lawyer of distinction.
We approached a stately residence built of white marble, a series of
high marble pillars before a marble portico running along the front.
We passed through a small gate within a larger one in a high, wrought
iron fence, through a small glazed door in a large doorway and came
into a high, wide drawing room, extending across the front of the
house. All was white marble,--the floors, the wainscoting, the
doorways;--there was no woodwork anywhere. Handsome rugs lay upon the
floor and French rattan furniture of easy shapes was scattered about
the room. At one side we entered another lofty chamber, similarly
floored and wainscoted, used as a ladies’ boudoir, and thence passed
out across a wide piazza, into a beautiful and well-kept Spanish
garden. The walks were carefully laid out, the beds were full of
blooming plants--there were many palms of different varieties, and a
marble bath house with running water and a large swimming pool. Beyond
the flower garden, we entered a vegetable garden, close to which stood
a commodious stable; then returning to the house _El Señor_ asked
whether we would like also to see the kitchen. We were shown into a
big square room, in the center of which stood an octagonal blue-tiled
“stove,” about ten feet across at the top, and four feet high, a sort
of porcelain table, containing many niches wherein to build small
charcoal fires, a single fire to cook each separate dish. An old negro
servant, a freed slave, was preparing the evening meal. We next
entered the large dining room, with old mahogany furniture, a long
table for banquets, and at one side a small table already set for the
evening meal. There was much handsome silver and cut glass upon the
high, old-fashioned mahogany sideboard. From the dining room we passed
into a library, the shelves filled with French and Spanish and German
and English books. Here the father of my host, an eminent judge, had
gathered about him much of the world’s choicest literature. Then we
came out into the wide _patio_, square and open to the sky, a fountain
playing in the middle, and many potted palms and flowering plants set
round about. The great house was of one story, and all rooms opened
upon the central court. None of the windows were sashed with glass,
and Venetian blinds kept out the light and too much air.
Here, in this sumptuous home lived for half a century one of the
distinguished families of Havana; here now were living the
grandchildren of those who built it.
Our host then led us up to the wide flat roof, whence stretched out
before us a panorama of the city, the bay and the open sea.
My friend, who had long lived in Havana, holding a prominent post in
government employ, had never before enjoyed the privilege of
inspecting so beautiful a Cuban home. As we parted that evening he
turned to me and said, “Perhaps the white duck trousers and blue
flannel coat, which were so conspicuous last night in the box of
Cuba’s Governor General, are to be thanked for this opportunity now
come to both of us.” _El Señor_ had been pleased to show a courtesy to
the guest of the first lady of the Island.
Neither the great cathedral of Havana, nor any of her churches, nor
the honored chapel where Columbus’ bones are supposed to have lain,
nor any of her public buildings, not even the “Palace” of the Spanish
Captain Generals, are of so striking and splendid architecture as one
sees generally in Mexico. The allurement and dazzling fame of the
Empire of Montezuma attracted thither all that was daring and forceful
and brilliant in old Spain. Even the wonders of Cuba and the Antilles
paled before the tales of fabulous wealth and treasure of the conquest
of Cortez. The noble churches and architecture of Mexico have no
rivals among the Cuban cities. Nor is there among the Cubans that
picturesqueness in garb, that striking brilliancy of coloring, which
one sees upon the streets of the Mexican cities. In Cuba you see no
scarlet and green and blue _zerapes_; no purple and blue and pink
_rebozos_; no _rancherros_ and _caballeros_ in velvet jackets and
tight-fitting trousers, laced and spangled and buttoned with threads
of silver and gold; none of the splendor in coloring and dress of the
sixteenth century, which still clings to the street scene in
Mexico. Cuba in its outward aspects is distinctly, unromantically
modern. The black coat is _de rigueur_; the black hat or the _panama_
is the only covering for the head, and even conventional millinery has
begun to drive away the graceful _mantilla_ from the brows of _las
señoras_. There is no poetry, no artistic coloring in the life scheme
of the Cuban. His face and movements lack the vivacity and alertness
inspired by the keen, quickening air of the Mexican Highlands. Even
the clothes he wears and the way he wears them bespeak the heavy, sea
level atmosphere he breathes. Nor has the language of the Cuban
preserved the ancient grace and forcefulness which distinguish the
almost classic Spanish of the Mexican. The Spanish spoken in Cuba has
added to its vocabulary a multitude of words from the French and
English of its neighbors, and from the provincial _patois_ of the
formerly numerous Spanish soldiery.
[Illustration: A CORNER OF THE MARKET--HAVANA]
Another time we rode out to the attractive suburbs of Vendado, where
are many fine houses and extensive gardens, the greater part of them
built in the old Spanish style, but some of the newer buildings after
the fashion of modern American architecture. These last are less
attractive than those which the Spaniard has evolved from his
centuries of living in the latitudes of the tropics.
XXI
Cuba--The Fortress of La Cabaña
HAVANA,
_December 2nd_.
The candle end Captain MacIrvine held in his hand had burned so low
that his fingers were scorching. My last match was burned up. We
should have to grope our way out. Just at that moment a dim flicker of
a distant light gleamed far down the low, narrow tunnelway. It came
nearer, it grew larger; a man was there,--a soldier--yes, a Cuban
officer, a lieutenant of infantry. With him were two ladies; one older
than he, whose face, sweet, but oh, so sad! was furrowed with deep
lines. Her hand trembled on her escort’s arm. The other woman was
younger, quite as young as the lieutenant, and comely to look upon.
“_Si, Señor_,” replied the lieutenant to a query, “I do have one box
of the match. Take of them one half. Take of them all. I do know the
way out.” He handed MacIrvine a box of small wax tapers. Tears were
streaming down the elder woman’s face; the younger gave a sob. The
three passed on and turned up the steep ascent to the left. We were
in the pitch dark again.
[Illustration: FORTRESS OF LA CABAÑA]
“Who is he? Who are they?” I asked. “He is the officer now in command
of this fortification; they are his mother and sister,” MacIrvine
replied, half divining my question. “He is of a prominent Cuban
family. They were people of wealth. The family were at dinner one
evening. A Spanish guard called at the house, sent in a card to the
father, who was an eminent judge. He left the table and went to the
door. He was arrested and brought here, hatless and in his slippers.
When the family went to ascertain why he did not come back to finish
his coffee, they learned that he had been taken to La Cabaña. They
never saw him again. The Spanish authorities reported that he had
‘escaped.’ In fact, he was brought down here into one of these
dungeons, and was walled up alive. These loose rock walls you are now
looking at, filling these low arches along this passageway, all tell
the same tale. Behind every one of these walls, one or more Cubans
have been immured alive. Their bones still rot there.”
When a man was walled in, no record was kept of the dungeon; the
guards were subsequently changed and often sent to another fortress.
No one might know the victim’s burial place, where he was immured with
only a jug of water, a loaf of bread; and the rats robbed him of half
of these. Oblivion in life, oblivion in death.
We were in the deepest, darkest dungeonway of the gigantic fortress,
La Cabaña, which crowns the height across the bay from Havana. The
passage was about four feet wide. Along one side were narrow, low
arches, some three feet in span. Most of these arches were wholly
filled with a wall of large loose rock. Air might pass through between
the chinks, and the rats and lizards could crawl through; an empty
rat, not one full-fattened on the dead within. A few of these walls
had been torn down, and the scattered bones which sharp teeth had not
destroyed had been utterly gathered together and buried in the
beautiful cemetery of the city. But most of these walls were yet
untouched, the story of their unknown dead forever lost. My foot hit
something, I bent down and picked up the tibia of a human arm; the
rats had dragged it through the wall. I laid it back gently on a
projecting shelf of rock, my soul filled with horror, at the tale of
Spanish cruelty it told.
We were a long way from daylight. We had crossed a moat within the
giant fortress. We had passed many cave-like chambers built into the
massive masonry--the casemates where soldiers and officers had lived
in ease. We had entered a small room with stone seats on either hand.
It was the outer guardroom of the series of dungeons behind. We had
pushed open an immense iron grating which swung on rusty hinges like a
door. We had come into a vast vaulted chamber, flagged with huge
stones, the center of the floor being lower than the sides, making the
drain. Along the walls on either hand, all the way, at a height of
about seven feet, were heavy iron rings. To these rings the prisoners
had been chained. Sometimes the chains were riveted to iron collars
welded about the neck. A man might stand on tiptoe in comfort. When
his toes gave out the collar pinched his neck; he sometimes died
overnight before the jail guard discovered that his toes were weak.
Into this great chamber hundreds of Cuban patriots had been crowded.
No air could enter but through the narrow grated door,--no light could
penetrate but the faint glimmering that drifted in through the small
outer doorway. Those who might die were brought to the grating by any
of their fellow-prisoners whose fetters enabled them to move. The
great chamber still stank with the reek of blasted mortality. But this
was not all. At the far end of the vast room was yet another grated
door, now swung open upon rusting hinges. We passed into a second
chamber, lower and longer than the first, obscure with perpetual
gloom. The faintest gleam of God’s sweet day could be scarcely
discerned through the distant door-grating of the first chamber.
Here, too, men had been chained to iron rings at intervals along
either side. With our lighted candle end, we scanned the massive walls
and tried here and there to make out the faintly remaining legend, in
faulty Spanish script, of the hapless creature who had graven here his
dying word. In this remote dungeon, men were pent up to die of meagre
food, of putrid water, of perpetual darkness, and of the foul hot air
that crept in from the outer dungeon.
[Illustration: THE ENTRANCE TO LA CABAÑA]