was desirous to visit it again; so he joined me, under the conduct of
our young friend, Señor----, to visit that and the hospital of San Juan
de Dios. The hospital we saw first. It is supported by the
government--that is to say, by Cuban revenues--for charity patients
chiefly, but some, who can afford it, pay more or less. There are about
two hundred and fifty patients. This, again, is in the charge of the
Sisters of Charity. As we came upon one of the Sisters, in a
passage-way, in her white cap and cape, and black and blue dress, Dr.
Howe said, "I always take off my hat to a Sister of Charity," and we
paid them all that attention, whenever we passed them. Dr. Howe examined
the book of prescriptions, and said that there was less drugging than he
supposed there would be. The attending physician told us that nearly all
the physicians had studied in Paris, or in Philadelphia. There were a
great many medical students in attendance, and there had just been an
operation in the theater. In an open yard we saw two men washing a dead
body, and carelessly laying it on a table, for dissection. I am told
that the medical and surgical professions are in a very satisfactory
state of advancement in the island, and that a degree in medicine, and a
license to practise, carry with them proofs of considerable proficiency.
It is always observable that the physical and the exact sciences are the
last to suffer under despotisms.
The Presidio and Grand Cárcel of Havana is a large building, of yellow
stone, standing near the fort of the Punta, and is one of the striking
objects as you enter the harbor. It has no appearance of a jail without,
but rather of a palace or court; but within, it is full of live men's
bones and of all uncleanness. No man, whose notions are derived from an
American or English penitentiary of the last twenty years, or fifty
years, can form an idea of the great Cuban prison. It is simply
horrible. There are no cells, except for solitary confinement of
"incomunicados"--who are usually political offenders. The prisoners are
placed in large rooms, with stone floors and grated windows, where they
are left, from twenty to fifty in each, without work, without books,
without interference or intervention of any one, day and night, day and
night, for the weeks, months or years of their sentences. The sights are
dreadful. In this hot climate, so many beings, with no provision for
ventilation but the grated windows--so unclean, and most of them naked
above the waist--all spend their time in walking, talking, playing, and
smoking; and, at night, without bed or blanket, they lie down on the
stone floor, on what clothes they may have, to sleep if they can. The
whole prison, with the exception of the few cells for the
"incomunicados," was a series of these great cages, in which human
beings were shut up. Incarceration is the beginning, middle and end of
the whole system. Reformation, improvement, benefit to soul or body, are
not thought of. We inquired carefully, both of the officer who was sent
to attend us, and of a capitán de partido, who was there, and were
positively assured that the only distinction among the prisoners was
determined by the money they paid. Those who can pay nothing, are left
to the worst. Those who can pay two reals (twenty-five cents) a day, are
placed in wards a little higher and better. Those who can pay six reals
(seventy-five cents) a day, have better places still, called the "Salas
de distinción," and some privileges of walking in the galleries. The
amount of money, and not the degree of criminality, determines the
character of the punishment. There seems to be no limit to the right of
the prisoners to talk with any whom they can get to hear them, at
whatever distance, and to converse with visitors, and to receive money
from them. In fact, the whole scene was a Babel. All that was insured
was that they should not escape. When I say that no work was done, I
should make the qualification that a few prisoners were employed in
rolling tobacco into cigars, for a contractor; but they were very few.
Among the prisoners was a capitán de partido (a local magistrate), who
was committed on a charge of conniving at the slave-trade. He could pay
his six reals, of course; and had the privileges of a "Sala de
distinción" and of the galleries. He walked about with us, cigar in
mouth, and talked freely, and gave us much information respecting the
prison. My last request was to see the garrotte; but it was refused me.
It was beginning to grow dark before we got to the gate, which was duly
opened to us, and we passed out, with a good will, into the open air.
Dr. Howe said he was nowise reluctant to be outside. It seemed to bring
back to his mind his Prussian prison, a little too forcibly to be
agreeable. He felt as if he were in keeping again, and was thinking how
he should feel if, just as we got to the gate, an officer were to bow
and say, "Dr. Howe?" "Yes, sir." "You may remain here. There is a charge
against you of seditious language, since you have been in the island."
No man would meet such a danger more calmly, and say less about it, than
he, if he thought duty to his fellow-beings called him to it.
The open air, the chainless ocean, and the ships freely coming and
going, were a pleasant change to the eye, even of one who had never
suffered bonds for conscience sake. It seemed strange to see that all
persons outside were doing as they pleased.
XVIII.
HAVANA: Bullfight
A bullfight has been advertised all over the town, at the Plaza de
Toros. Shall we go? I would not, if it were only pleasure that I was
seeking. As I am sure I expect only the contrary, and wish merely to
learn the character of this national recreation, I will go.
The Plaza de Toros is a wooden amphitheater, in the suburbs, open at the
top--a circle of rising seats, with the arena in the center. I am late.
The cries of the people inside are loud, sharp, and constant; a full
band is blowing its trumpets and beating its drums; and the late
stragglers are jostling for their tickets. I go through at a low door,
find myself under benches filled with an eager, stamping, shouting
multitude, make my way through a passage, and come out on the shady
side, for it is a late afternoon sun, and take my place at a good point
of view. A bull, with some blood about his fore-quarters and two or
three darts (banderillas) sticking in his neck, is trotting harmlessly
about the arena, "more sinned against than sinning," and seeming to have
no other desire than to get out. Two men, each carrying a long, stout,
wooden pole, pointed with a short piece of iron, not long enough to
kill, but only to drive off and to goad, are mounted on two of the
sorriest nags eyes ever beheld--reprieved jades, whom it would not pay
to feed and scarcely pay to kill, and who have been left to take their
chances of death here. They could hardly be pricked into a trot, and
were too weak to escape. I have seen horses in every stage of life and
in every degree of neglect, but no New York Negro hack-driver would have
taken these for a gift, if he were obliged to keep them. The bull could
not be said to run away from the horses, for they did not pursue; but
when, distracted by sights and sounds, he came against a horse, the
horse stood still to be gored, and the bull only pushed against him
with his head, until driven off by the punching of the iron-pointed pole
of the horseman.
Around the arena are sentry-boxes, each large enough to hold two men,
behind which they can easily jump, but which the bull cannot enter; and
from these, the cowardly wretches run out, flourish a red cloth at the
bull, and jump back. Three or four men, with darts in hand, run before
the bull, entice him by flapping their red cloths, and, as he trots up
to them, stick banderillas into his neck. These torment the bull, and he
tries to shake them off, and paws the ground; but still he shows no
fight. He trots to the gate, and snuffs to get out. Some of the
multitude cry "Fuera el toro! Fuera el toro!" which means that he is a
failure, and must be let out at the gate. Others are excited, and cry
for the killer, the matador; and a demoniacal scene follows, of yells
and shouts, half-drowned by twenty or thirty drums and trumpets. The
cries to go on prevail; and the matador appears, dressed in a
tight-fitting suit of green small-clothes, with a broad silver stripe,
jerkin, and stockings--a tall, light-complexioned, elegantly made,
glittering man, bearing in one hand a long, heavy, dull black sword, and
in the other a broad, red cloth. Now comes the harrying and distracting
of the bull by flags, and red cloths, and darts; the matador runs
before, flings his cloth up and down; the bull trots towards it--no
furious rush, or maddened dash, but a moderate trot--the cloth is
flashed over his face and one skilfully directed lunge of the sword into
his back neck, and he drops instantly dead at the feet of the matador,
at the very spot where he received the stab. Frantic shouts of applause
follow; and the matador bows around, like an applauded circus-rider, and
retires. The great gate opens, and three horses abreast are driven in,
decked with ribbons, to drag the bull round the arena. But they are such
feeble animals that, with all the flourish of music and the whipping of
drivers, they are barely able to tug the bull along over the tan, in a
straight line for the gate, through which the sorry pageant and
harmless bull disappear.
Now, some meager, hungry, sallow, sweaty, mean-looking degenerates of
Spain jump in and rake over the arena, and cover up the blood, and put
things to rights again; and I find time to take a view of the company.
Thankful I am, and creditable it is, that there are no women. Yes, there
are two mulatto women in a seat on the sunny side, which is the cheap
side. And there are two shrivelled, dark, Creole women, in a box; and
there is one girl of eight or ten years, in full dress, with an elderly
man. These are all the women. In the State Box, under the faded royal
arms, are a few officials, not of high degree. The rest of the large
company is a motley collection, chiefly of the middle or lower classes,
mostly standing on the benches, and nearly all smoking.
The music beats and brays again, the great gates open, and another bull
rushes in, distracted by sights and sounds so novel, and for a few
minutes shows signs of power and vigor; but, as he becomes accustomed to
the scene, he tames down; and after several minutes of flaunting of
cloths and flags, and piercing with darts, and punching with the poles
of the horsemen, he runs under the poor white horse, and upsets him, but
leaves him unhurt by his horns; has a leisurely trial of endurance with
the red horse, goring him a little with one horn, and receiving the pike
of the driver--the horse helpless and patient, and the bull very
reasonable and temperate in the use of his power--and then is enticed
off by flags, and worried with darts; and, at last, a new matador
appears--a fierce-looking fellow, dressed in dark green, with a large
head of curling, snaky, black hair, and a skin almost black. He makes a
great strut and flourish, and after two or three unsuccessful attempts
to get the bull head on, at length, getting a fair chance, plunges his
black sword to the hilt in the bull's neck--but there is no fall of the
bull. He has missed the spinal cord and the bull trots off, bleeding in
a small stream, with a sword-handle protruding a few inches above the
hide of his back-neck. The spectators hoot their contempt for the
failure; but with no sign of pity for the beast. The bull is weakened,
but trots about and makes a few runs at cloths, and the sword is drawn
from his hide by an agile dart-sticker (banderillero), and given to the
black bully in dark green, who makes one more lunge, with no better
success. The bull runs round, and reels, and staggers, and falls half
down, gets partly up, lows and breathes heavily, is pushed over and held
down, until a butcher dispatches him with a sharp knife, at the spinal
cord. Then come the opened gates, the three horses abreast, decked with
ribbons, the hard tug at the bull's body over the ground, his limbs
still swaying with remaining life, the clash and clang of the band, and
the yells of the people.
Shall I stay another? Perhaps it may be more successful, and--if the new
bull will only bruise somebody! But the new bull is a failure. After all
their attempts to excite him, he only trots round, and snuffs at the
gates; and the cry of "Fuera el toro!" becomes so general, with the
significant triple beat of the feet, in time with the words, all over
the house, that the gates are opened, and the bull trots through, to his
quarters.
But the meanness, and cruelty, and impotency of this crowd! They cry out
to the spear-men and the dart-men, and to the tormentors, and to the
bull, and to the horses, and to each other, in a Babel of sounds, where
no man's voice can possibly be distinguished ten feet from him, all
manner of advice and encouragement or derision, like children at a play.
One full grown, well-dressed young man, near me, kept up a constant cry
to the men in the ring, when I am sure no one could distinguish his
words, and no one cared to--until I became so irritated that I could
have throttled him.
But, such you are! You can cry and howl at bull-fights and cockfights
and in the pits of operas and theaters, and drive bulls and horses
distracted, and urge gallant gamecocks to the death, and applaud opera
singers into patriotic songs, and leave them to imprisonment and
fines--and you yourselves cannot lift a finger, or join hand to hand,
or bring to the hazard life, fortune, or honor, for your liberty and
your dignity as men. Work your slaves, torture your bulls, fight your
gamecocks, crown your dancers and singers--and leave the weightier
matters of judgment and justice, of fame by sea and land, of letters and
arts and sciences, of private right and public honor, the present and
future of your race and of your native land, to the care of others--of a
people of no better blood than your own, strangers and sojourners among
you!
The next bull is treated to a refinement of torture, in the form of
darts filled with heavy China crackers, which explode on the neck of the
poor beast. I could not see that even this made him really dangerous.
The light-complexioned, green-and-silver matador dispatches him, as he
did the first bull, with a single lunge, and--a fall and a quiver, and
all is over!
The fifth bull is a failure and is allowed to go out of the ring. The
sixth is nearly the same with the others, harmless if let alone, and
goaded into short-lived activity, but not into anything like fury or
even a dangerous animosity. He is treated to fire-crackers, and gores
one horse a little--the horse standing, side on, and taking it, until
the bull is driven off by the punching of the spear; and runs at the
other horse, and, to my delight, upsets the rider, but unfortunately
without hurting him, and the black-haired matador in green tries his
hand on him and fails again, and is hooted, and takes to throwing darts,
and gets a fall, and looks disconcerted, and gets his sword again, and
makes another false thrust; and the crippled and bleeding animal is
thrown down and dispatched by the butcher with his short knife, and
drawn off by the three poor horses. The gates close, and I hurry out in
a din of shouts and drums and trumpets, the great crowd waiting for the
last bull--but I have seen enough.
There is no volante waiting, and I have to take my seat in an omnibus,
and wait for the end of the scene. The confusion of cries and shouts and
the interludes of music still goes on, for a quarter of an hour, and
then the crowd begins to pour out, and to scatter over the ground. Four
faces in a line are heading for my omnibus. There is no mistaking that
head man, the file leader. "Down East" is written legibly all over his
face. Tall, thin, sallow, grave, circumspect! The others are not
counterparts. They vary. But "New England" is graven on all.
"Wa-a-al!" says the leader, as he gets into the omnibus. No reply. They
take their seats, and wipe their foreheads. One expectorates. Another
looks too wise for utterance. "By," ... a long pause--How will he end
it?--"Jingoes!" That is a failure. It is plain he fell short, and did
not end as he intended. The sentiment of the four has not yet got
uttered. The fat, flaxen-haired man makes his attempt. "If there is a
new milch cow in Vermont that wouldn't show more fight, under such
usage, than them bulls, I'd buy her and make a present of her to
Governor _Cunchy_--or whatever they call him."
This is practical and direct, and opens the way to a more free
interchange. The northern ice is thawed. The meanness and cruelty of the
exhibition is commented upon. The moral view is not overlooked, nor
underrated.--None but cowards would be so cruel. And last of all, it is
an imposition. Their money has been obtained under false pretences. A
suit would lie to recover it back; but the poor devils are welcome to
the money. The coach fills up with Cubans; and the noise of the
pavements drowns the further reflections of the four philanthropists,
patriots and economists.
XIX.
HAVANA: More Manners and Customs
The people of Cuba have a mode of calling attention by a sound of the
tongue and lips, a sort of "P--s--t!" after the fashion of some parts of
the continent of Europe. It is universal here; and is used not only to
servants and children, but between themselves, and to strangers. It has
a mean sound, to us. They make it clear and penetrating; yet it seems a
poor, effeminate sibilation, and no generous, open-mouthed call. It is
the mode of stopping a volante, calling a waiter, attracting the
attention of a friend, or calling the notice of a stranger. I have no
doubt, if a fire were to break out at the next door, a Cuban would call
"P--s--t!"
They beckon a person to come to them by the reverse of our motion. They
raise the open hand, with the palm outwards, bending the fingers toward
the person they are calling. We should interpret it to be a sign to go
away.
Smoking is universal, and all but constant. I have amused myself, in the
street, by seeing what proportion of those I meet have cigars or
cigarettes in their mouths. Sometimes it has been one half, sometimes
one in three. The cigar is a great leveller. Any man may stop another
for a light. I have seen the poor porters, on the wharf, bow to
gentlemen, strangers to them, and hold out a cigar, and the gentlemen
stop, give a light, and go on--all as of course.
In the evening, called on the Señoritas F----, at the house of Mr.
B----, and on the American young lady at Señor M---- 's, and on Mrs.
Howe, at Mde. Almy's, to offer to take letters or packets. At Mrs.
Almy's, there is a gentleman from New York, Mr. G----, who is dying of
consumption. His only wish is to live until the "Cahawba" comes in, that
he may at least die at sea, if he cannot survive until she reaches New
York. He has a horror of dying here, and being buried in the Potter's
Field. Dr. Howe has just come from his chamber.
I drove out to the bishop's, to pay my parting respects. It is about
half-past eight in the evening. He has just returned from his evening
drive, is dressed in a cool, cambric dressing-gown, after a bath, and is
taking a quiet cigar, in his high-roofed parlor. He is very cordial and
polite, and talks again about the Thirty Millions Bill, and asks what I
think of the result, and what I have seen of the island, and my opinion
of the religious and charitable institutions. I praise the Belén and the
Sisters of Charity, and condemn the prison, and he appears to agree with
me. He appreciates the learning and zeal of the Brothers of Belén;
speaks in the highest terms of the devotedness of the Sisters of
Charity; and admits the great faults of the prison, but says it was
built recently, at an enormous out-lay, and he supposes the government
is reluctant to be at the expense of abandoning it and building another.
He charges me with messages of remembrance and respect to acquaintances
we have in common. As I take my leave, he goes with me to the outer
gate, which is kept locked, and again takes leave, for two leave-takings
are the custom of the country, and returns to the solitude of his house.
Yesterday I drove out to the Cerro, to see the coolie jail, or market,
where the imported coolies are kept for sale. It is a well-known place,
and open to all visitors. The building has a fair-looking front; and
through this I enter, past two porters, into an open yard in the rear,
where, on the gravel ground, are squatting a double line of coolies,
with heads shaved, except a tuft on the crown, dressed in loose Chinese
garments of blue and yellow. The dealer, who is a calm, shrewd,
heartless-looking man, speaking English as well as if it were his native
tongue, comes out with me, calls to the coolies, and they all stand up
in a double line, facing inward, and we pass through them, preceded by a
driver armed with the usual badge of the plantation driver, the short,
limber whip. The dealer does not hesitate to tell me the terms on which
the contracts are made, as the trade is not illegal. His account is
this--The importer receives $340 for each coolie, and the purchaser
agrees to pay the coolie four dollars per month, and to give him food,
and two suits of clothes a year. For this, he has his services for eight
years. The contract is reduced to writing before a magistrate, and two
originals are made, one kept by the coolie and one by the purchaser, and
each in Chinese and Spanish.
This was a strange and striking exhibition of power. Two or three white
men, bringing hundreds of Chinese thousands of miles, to a new climate
and people, holding them prisoners, selling their services to masters
having an unknown tongue and an unknown religion, to work at unknown
trades, for inscrutable purposes!
The coolies did not look unhealthy, though some had complaints of the
eyes; yet they looked, or I fancied they looked, some of them, unhappy,
and some of them stolid. One I am sure had the leprosy although the
dealer would not admit it. The dealer did not deny their tendency to
suicide, and the danger of attempting to chastise them, but alleged
their great superiority to the Negro in intelligence, and contended that
their condition was good, and better than in China, having four dollars
a month, and being free at the end of eight years. He said, which I
found to be true, that after being separated and employed in work, they
let their hair grow, and adopt the habits and dress of the country. The
newly-arrived coolies wear tufts, and blue-and-yellow, loose, Chinese
clothes. Those who have been here long are distinguishable from the
whites only by the peculiar tinge of the cheek, and the form of the eye.
The only respect in which his account differed from what I heard
elsewhere was in the amount the importer receives, which has always been
stated to me at $400. While I am talking with him, a gentleman comes and
passes down the line. He is probably a purchaser, I judge; and I leave
my informant to follow what is more for his interest than talking with
me.
The importation has not yet existed eight years. So the question, what
will become of these men, exotics, without women or children, taking no
root in the land, has not come to a solution. The constant question
is--will they remain and mix with the other races? Will they be
permitted to remain? Will they be able to go back? In 1853, they were
not noticed in the census; and in 1857, hardly noticed. The number
imported may, to some extent, be obtained from the records and files of
the aduana, but not so as to be relied upon. I heard the number
estimated at 200,000 by intelligent and well-informed Cubans. Others put
it as low as 60,000. Certain it is that coolies are to be met with
everywhere, in town and country.