HAVANA CIGARETTES.
Cigars--The Etiquette of Smoking--A Cigarette Manufactory--The
Courteous Proprietor--The Visitors' Book--Cigarette Rolling.
That the characteristics of Cuba, and the ways of the people, are better
observed in the Santiago end of the island than they are in Havana, is
apparent to me after my arrival in the latter city. Here I am reminded
in many respects of a fashionable European town--indeed, by reason of
its modern innovations, the Cuban capital has been styled the 'Paris of
the tropics.' Compared with Santiago, Havana offers few attractions to
the traveller in quest of 'Cosas de Cuba,' besides its tobacco; and to
this subject I accordingly devote my attention.
I am in the Louvre. Not the French palace of that name, but a
fashionable cafe in the heart of Havana. The interior of the Cafe del
Louvre is tastefully decorated; the walls are concealed behind huge
mirrors, the floor is of marble, and countless tables crowded with
Habaneros and foreigners from all parts of Las Americas, are distributed
about the saloon. At one end is a long 'mostrador' or counter, where
fancy chocolate, confectionary, and tobacco in all its branches are
sold. Here you have your pick of brands, from the gigantic and costly
Ramas cigar to the 'tamano pequeno' cigarette. But do not suppose that
because you are at the birthplace of your choice Havanas, you will get
those articles at a cost comparatively next to nothing. I, who from
infancy upwards have cherished this fiction, am lamentably disappointed
when I discover what exorbitant prices are demanded for the best brands.
The cedar boxes, with their precious contents, set like gems in the
midst of tinfoil and fancy-cut paper, look inviting; but I seek in vain
for a cigar at the ridiculously cheap rate I have prepared myself to
pay. I try Brevas, and ask for a penn'orth of the best, but am horrified
when I am told that a single specimen of that brand costs five-pence!
The Intimidads alarm me; the Bravas unman me; and as for the Cabanas,
the Partagas, the Henry Clays, and the Upmanns, I am filled with awe at
the bare mention of their value per pound. A real Ramas, I am informed,
is worth eighteen-pence English, while superior Upmanns are not to be
had under ten sovereigns a hundred. In despair of finding anything
within my means at the Louvre counter, I purchase a 'medio's' worth of
cigarettes--a medio, or two-pence half-penny being the smallest coin
current in Cuba--order a cup of cafe noir, and sally forth in quest of
cheaper smokeables.
Crossing the square where the Tacon theatre and circus stand, I wander
through the narrow, ill-paved streets of the Cuban capital. At the
corner of every hotel, under archways and arcades, I meet with tables
laid out like fruit-stalls, bearing bundles of cigars and cigarettes.
Here, at least, I expect to find something to smoke at a fabulously low
rate. Yes; here are cigars at two, three, and five for a silver
two-pence; but those I invest in do not satisfy me; they are damp, new,
badly rolled, won't draw, and have all kinds of odd shapes. Some are
curved like Turkish scimetars, others are square and flat, as if they
had been mangled or sat upon, while a few are undecided in form like
horse-radish. The vendor assures me that all his cigars are born of
'tabaco legitimo,' of 'calidad superior,' grown on the low sandy soil of
the famous Vuelta Abajo district; but I know what a very small area that
tract of land comprises, and I will no more believe in the abundance of
its resources than I will in those of Champagne and Oporto.
In my peregrinations, I gaze fondly into the interior of wholesale cigar
warehouses, but dare not enter and demand the price of half of one of
those countless cedar-boxes, which I see piled up to the very ceiling in
walls fifty boxes thick. At last I founder on the Plaza de Santa Isabel,
a spacious square, laid out with pretty gardens and tropical trees. Here
is the grand hotel where the Special Correspondent to the _New York
Trigger_ wields his mighty pen. To him and to other acquaintances I
apply for information on the subject of tobacco. My foreign friends
assure me you cannot get a good cigar in Havana at any price, as all the
best are exported to Europe and the United States; unless you prefer
German tobacco, of which great quantities are imported into Havana. The
natives have quite a different account to give. They declare that the
best cigars never leave the country but are easily obtained if you know
where to seek them; and they refer me to the warehouses. Every one whom
I consult graciously offers me a few specimens from his own particular
cigar-case; and as in Cuba it is considered an offence to refuse a man's
tobacco, I am soon in possession of a goodly stock, which I calculate
will last me for the next eight and forty hours at least.
A singular etiquette is observed all over Cuba with respect to smoking,
which a rough Britisher does not always appreciate. An utter stranger is
at liberty to stop you in the middle of the street to beg the favour of
your 'candela,' or light from your cigar. If you are polite, you will
immediately hand him your weed, with the ashes carefully shaken off, and
the lighted end conveniently pointed in his direction. Part of your fire
having been successfully transferred to his cigar, the stranger is bound
to return your property, presenting it, by a dexterous turn of the
wrist, with the mouth end towards you; an operation which requires no
little practice, as it is accompanied with a downward jerk to express
deep obligation. If, after this, you are inclined to abandon your cigar
for a fresh one, you may not do so in the stranger's presence, but wait
till he has disappeared. There is a sort of smoking freemasonry, too,
between Cubans all over the world. A Cuban recognises a compatriot
anywhere, by the manner in which he screws up his cigarette, holds it,
and offers or accepts a light.
Advised by a friend who is a great smoker, I give up my cigar
investigations, and devote my attention to the humbler cigarette. With
this object in view, I ramble down the narrow 'calles' or streets of St.
Ignacio, del Obispo, and de Cuba. At every twelfth house which I pass is
a small shop where only the article I seek is sold. In the
first-mentioned calle is the 'deposito' of the far-famed Cabanas
cigarette; in the second, the Gallito and Honradez stores. I visit the
latter, which holds the highest reputation, and take an inventory of
the stock. I am shown an endless variety of cigarettes at comparatively
insignificant prices; a packet of twenty-six of those mostly in vogue
costing only a silver medio, or two-pence half-penny English. There are
innumerable sizes, from the smallest named Acacias, to the biggest, or
tamano mayor, called Grandifloras. The floor of the shop is sanded with
burnt cigarette ends, looking like exhausted cartridges, and the
pavement without is peppered with their fragments. Every man or
responsible child whom I pass has a little tube of smoking paper between
his lips, and glancing in at an open restaurant, I observe a group of
feeders, each of whom has a cigarette stuck behind his ear like a pen.
At last I pause before the imposing factory of Louis Susini and Son,
situated in a little plaza in the Calle de Cuba. It is here that the
best cigarettes, popularly known as Honradez, are manufactured. The
exterior of the building, with its marble columns reminding one of a
Genoese palace, is worthy of attention. Above the grand entrance is the
Honradez figure of Justice, bearing the famous motto: 'Los hechos me
justificaran' (my deeds will justify me). But there is much to be seen
within; and as a party of half a dozen ladies and gentlemen are about to
enter, I join them and unite with them in begging permission of the
proprietor to inspect the works. One of the firm soon appears, and after
a polite greeting, kindly appoints an assistant to show us over the
manufactory. We are told that everything in connection with cigarette
making, except the actual growing of the tobacco, takes place within
these extensive premises, and are forewarned that a long afternoon is
necessary to see everything to our satisfaction.
Before we begin, we are politely requested to affix our signatures in a
ledger provided for visitors to the establishment; and having obeyed,
copies of our autographs are made on slips of paper, and, by a
mechanical contrivance in the wall, these are dispatched for some
mysterious purpose to the regions above. At the suggestion of the
cicerone, we follow our names; not by the same means, however, but by
winding staircases and intricate passages. Before starting, we peep into
the engine-room to glance at the steam power which works the machinery
required in the different departments. The first ascent brings us to
spacious store-rooms, where loose cigarettes, and those already packed
in bundles, are kept. The walls are literally papered with cigarettes in
wheels, which look like complicated fireworks. As we move from one wheel
to another, we are invited to help ourselves to, and test, the different
qualities, which some of us accordingly do in wine-tasting fashion;
taking a couple of whiffs from each sample and flinging the rest in the
dust. Further on, we come to a small apartment where the operation of
sorting the labels for enveloping each packet of twenty cigarettes,
takes place. The labels are fresh from the printers; a workman is
standing before a round movable table, and as this revolves, he drops
them into little boxes belonging to their respective patterns. Each
label is stamped with the Honradez figure of Justice, accompanied either
by a charade, a comic verse, a piece of dance music on a small scale, an
illuminated coat of arms, or a monogram pattern for Berlin wool-work.
Some are adorned with artistic designs of a superior order, such as
coloured landscapes, groups of figures, or photographs of eminent
persons.
Another ascent, and we are in the stationery department. It seems odd to
examine large sheets and thick reams of paper, which we have been
accustomed to see only in the form of cigarette books or tubes of small
dimensions. A wonderful variety of rice and other paper is before us.
There are two or three qualities of white, and endless shades of brown
and yellow. Some are lightly tinted as the complexion of a half-caste;
others are quadroon-hued, or of a yellow-brown mulatto-colour. We are
shown medicated and scented papers. The first of these, called pectoral
paper, is recommended by the faculty to persons with weak chests; the
last, when ignited, gives out an agreeable perfume.
Yet another floor, and we are introduced into a long chamber with rows
of long tables, at which a hundred Chinese workmen are engaged in
counting the already twisted cigarettes into bundles of twenty-six, and
enveloping them in their ornamental labels or covers. To accomplish this
operation with necessary speed, much practice and dexterity in the
handling is required. The coolies--a thousand of whom are employed on
the establishment--are, however, great adepts at the art, and patient
and plodding as beasts of burthen. But among the celestials there is one
master-hand who distinguishes himself above all the others by his
superior skill. Piles of loose cigarettes and gummed labels are before
him. Into the former he digs his dexterous fingers, and he knows by the
feel alone whether he has the prescribed twenty-six within his grasp. By
a peculiar shake he humours the handful into its tubular form, and with
another movement wraps it lightly in a paper cover, which he leaves open
at one end and neatly tucks in at the other. He is so rapid in his work,
that we can scarcely follow him with our eyes, and the whole
performance, from beginning to end, looks to us like a conjuring trick.
Our guide tells us how many thousands of packets per day are in this way
completed by these useful coolies.
'Arriba!' Another flight leads to the 'picadura' department, where
tobacco leaves are prepared for cigarette making. The aspect on all
sides reminds us of a room in a Manchester factory. We wade carefully
through a maze of busy machinery. There are huge contrivances for
pressing tobacco into solid cakes hard as brickbats; ingenious apparatus
for chopping these cakes into various sized grains of 'picadura' or
tobacco cuttings; horizontal and vertical tramways for forwarding the
latter to their respective compartments. Near us is a winnowing chamber
for separating particles of dust from the newly cut picadura. We enter
by a spring door which closes after us with a bang, and everybody is
immediately seized with a violent fit of sneezing. Particles of escaping
tobacco dust float in the air and tickle our olfactories. We are
actually standing within a huge snuff-box! After inhaling a wholesale
pinch of this powder, which leaves us sneezing for the next quarter of
an hour, we clamber to the heights of the establishment, and find
ourselves in the printing and paper cutting departments. Here artists
are engaged in preparing lithographic stones and wood blocks with
various picturesque designs for cigarette labels. Gilders are
illuminating labels, and cutters are shaping paper into their cigarette
and label sizes. Further on are printing offices, where all the
letterpress and lithography required in the establishment is
accomplished. This is far from an insignificant item in the manufactory,
for, besides the pictorial and letterpress covers, there are the
Honradez advertisements to print; circulars, pamphlets, together with
dedicatory dance music, and an occasional local newspaper. We linger
lovingly about this interesting department, and, before we leave, the
foreman of the printing office presents each lady member of our party
with a piece of Cuban dance music, upon the cover of which is printed a
few words of dedication, accompanied by the lady's own name in full.
Whilst wondering at the magic by which this mark of attention has been
quietly accomplished, we descend to the ground floor, and are again met
by the courteous proprietor, who presents each gentleman visitor with a
newly-made packet of cigarettes upon which, lo! and behold! are our
names. It is pleasing to see one's name in print, and when it is
witnessed on an ordinary Havana cigarette packet, the charm is greatly
augmented.
Before taking leave of our civil host, we are invited to comment upon
what we have seen, in the visitors' book, and you may be sure that our
observations are not unfavourable to the courteous proprietor and his
interesting exhibition. Susini & Son have published a thick pamphlet
containing a list of names and remarks of distinguished visitors to his
establishment. It is a curious work in its way, for the epigrammatic
effusions are varied, amusing, and composed in at least half a dozen
languages. Some of the authors have chosen a poetic style of commentary,
while others content themselves with matter-of-fact prose. A well-known
signature is here and there recognisable among these cosmopolitan
productions. A famous Italian opera star has rhymed in her native lingo;
a popular French acrobat--possibly one of a company of strolling
equestrians--has immortalised himself in Parisian heroics. M.
Pianatowsky, the Polish fiddler, has scrawled something incomprehensible
in Russian or Arabic--no matter which; while Mein Herr Van Trinkenfeld
comes out strong in double Dutch. Need I add that the immortal Smith of
London is in great force in the book, or that his Queen's English is
worthy of his world-wide reputation?
We are in the act of quitting the Honradez establishment, when it
suddenly occurs to one of us that, after all that has been said and
seen, we have failed to watch a cigarette in actual process of
manufacture. What! have we presided at a performance of 'Hamlet' with
the hero omitted; or are the component parts of cigarettes planted in
the ground to sprout out ready-made like radishes?
I return and ask for information on this subject.
'Perdonen, ustedes,' says our hospitable friend, 'I had forgotten to
tell you that our cigarrillos are rolled by the presidiarios.'
What's a 'presidiario'? A 'presidiario' is a convict, and convicts in
Cuba are sentenced to eternal cigarette-making in lieu of oakum-picking.
The government contract with the manufacturers for this purpose,
and--voila tout!
Anxious to 'sit out' the whole cigarette performance to the very last
act, I ask and obtain permission to visit the town jail. In one of the
stone apartments of this well-regulated building are groups of convicts
dressed in white blouses and loose trousers of coarse canvas. Amongst
them are Africans, Congos, mulattoes of many shades, Chinese--Chow-chows
as they are called--and sun-burnt whites, who are principally
insubordinate Spanish soldiers and sailors. Each has a heavy chain
dangling from his waist and attached to his ankle, wears a broad-brimmed
straw hat of his own manufacture, and incessantly smokes. Before him is
a wooden box filled with picadura and small squares of tissue paper.
Great nicety is required to roll a cigarette after the approved fashion;
the strength or mildness of the tobacco being in a great measure
influenced by the way the grains are more or less compressed. A smoker
of course finds a tightly-twisted cigarette more difficult to draw than
a loosely twisted one.
The presidiario does not seem to object to his hard labour, but
doubtless prefers it to other kinds of perpetual rolling on a wheel. He
employs no sticky element to secure the edges of his cigarette, but
tucks the ends neatly in, by means of a pointed thimble which he wears
on his forefinger.
Ponder well over this, ye Havana cigarette smokers! and when next you
indulge in a whiff from your favourite luxury, remember that a
pickpocket has had his hand on your picadura!