RETURN TO HAVANA--SAN ANTONIO AGAIN.
Not many days did we tarry in Havana, on our return. We found the city
hot, the hotel full, the invalids drooping. The heat and the confined
life (many of them never crossed the threshold) began to tell upon them,
and to undo the good work wrought by the mild winter. They talked of
cooling breezes, and comfortable houses, with windows, carpets, and
padded sofas. Home was become a sort of watchword among them, exchanged
with a certain subdued rapture. One of them was on the brink of a longer
journey. He had been the worst case all winter, and since our arrival,
had rarely left his room. A friend was now come to take him to his
father's house, but he failed so rapidly, that it was feared the slender
thread would be broken before the sailing of the steamer should allow
him to turn his face homewards. The charities of the Cubans, such as
they are, do not extend to the bodies of dead Protestants,--for them is
nothing but the Potter's Field. This gross Priest, that shameless woman
shall lie in consecrated ground, but our poor countryman, pale and pure
as he looked, would defile the sainted inclosure, and must be cast out,
with dogs and heretics. So there was a sort of hush, even in the
heartless hotel-life, and an anxious inquiry every morning,--"Is he yet
alive?"
"Just alive," and for a moment, people were really interested. But the
day of departure came at last, and he was carried on board in a chair,
his coffin following him. His closed eyes were too weak to open on the
glorious tropical noon, and take a last leave of its beauty, and of the
dry land he was never to see again; for he died, we afterwards learned,
the day before the vessel reached New York, without pain or
consciousness. And many thus depart. In this very hotel died glorious
Dr. Kane, having, like a few other illustrious men, compressed all the
merits of a long life in the short years of youth. When he was carried
from these walls, a great concourse rose up to attend him, and when the
procession passed the Governor's palace, the dark Concha himself, the
centre of power and despotism, stood at the gate, hat in hand, to do
reverence to the noble corpse. A practical word àpropos of these things.
A flight to the tropics is apt to be like a death-bed repentance,
deferred to the last moment, and with no appreciable benefit. Not only
giving,--everything is done twice which is done quickly,--Time and
Disease having between them a ratio too mysterious and rapid for
computation. Ye who must fly, wounded, from the terrible North, fly in
season, before the wound festers and rankles,--otherwise you escape not,
bringing Death with you. Do not rush moreover to a hotel in the heart of
Havana, and falling down there, refuse to be removed. Pulmonary patients
rarely profit in Havana, whose climate is tainted with the sea-board,
and further, with all the abominations of the dirtiest of cities. Santa
Cruz has a better climate than Cuba,--so has Nassau, but in Cuba there
are better places than Havana. San Antonio is better,--Guines,
Guanabacoa, even Matanzas, are all healthier. Best of all is to reside
on a coffee or sugar-plantation in the interior, but to attain this
object, special letters are necessary,--as before observed, neither
_your_ Banker, nor _our_ Consul, will help you to it.
We find little news in Havana. B. has gone to Trinidad de Cuba,--C. has
gone to New Orleans. The Bachelor who daily treated to oranges is among
the departed, and remembering his benefactions, we wish him a safe
return and continuance of celibacy. Carnival has been gay,--Concha gave
a Ball, and our Consul plucked up heart and went, and introduced eight
of our countrywomen, elegantly dressed, no doubt, and not speaking a
word of Spanish, nor the Consul neither,--one of the requisites of an
American foreign Official being that he shall be capable of no foreign
language. This rule has been rigorously adhered to by the
Administration for twenty years past, and in some instances, a
tolerable ignorance of English has been added, as a merit of
supererogation. However, to return to the Ball, one of the ladies
performed in Boarding-school French, and as far as looks went, they made
a decidedly good impression. The little English Lords are
expected,--Ladies, do not flutter so!--it is not the fascinating English
Lord who has glittered like a diamond for two years past on the finger
of Washington diplomacy. These are Boys, and by all accounts, good ones.
There is an Englishman at the hotel already, and he quarrels with his
victuals in a manner that is awful, quite reminding one of the stories
of unthankful children, whom the wolves get. And he labors with the
unknown Spanish like a ship at sea, and steers for this dish and that
with undistinguishable orders. Though I know him not, I must help him
when I see him struggling so for his dinner, winking, pointing, and
sputtering to the waiters without result. The wretch has been in Italy,
and would make the softer idiom serve his turn here. "_Riso, eh, riso,
riz, rice_," says he, with extended index. "_Trae el arroz al Señor_"
comes timely to his aid, and with a few more helpings he is fed, though
not satisfied. So irrational, so unappeasable is his appetite, that one
cannot help thinking he has heard the story of the Belly and the Members
in his youth, and has determined to avenge the injured ganglion of its
ancient tormentors.
But among so many faces, remembered and sketched with little pleasure,
there is one whose traits I must record as a labor of love. It belonged
to one of the recent arrivals at the hotel, and was first seen in strong
contrast with the countenance of the gluttonous Englishman, which it
regarded with grave wonder. Expressive dark eyes, fine brows, heavy
black hair, and a clear skin, subdued by ill-health, were its principal
points of interest, but such enumeration can give you no more idea of
its charm than an auctioneer's catalogue of furniture can suggest the
features of a happy home. I had heard of its owner, but had never seen
her before, yet we met somehow like people who had known each other,
and a few commonplace phrases ended in a dialogue like this: "Are you
A?"--"Yes,--are you B?"--"Yes;" and eternal friendship, though not
sworn, set in immediately, and still perseveres. Modesty forbids us to
praise our friend,--the very epithet "my friend," says the utmost we can
say for any one. So I must not further celebrate my new-found treasure,
who from this moment became the companion of all my steps in Cuba. I
will only say that she was an apple-blossom of our Northern Spring,
grafted upon a noble Southern stock, and turning her face now to the
regions of the sun for healing warmth. Readers! you have all heard of
her,--you would all give your ears to know her name. Keep them, you
shall not.
In this pleasant company we sought San Antonio again. My friend was not
doing well in Havana, and the graceful head was bowed every day lower by
pain and weakness. But once out of the pent-up city, the head rose like
a lily after rain, and all the little journey was pleasure and
surprise. The tangled thickets, the new trees, the strange flowers,
filled her with admiration. This was Cuba. Havana was, what is
everywhere almost alike, the World. And soon we came to the clear,
low-running river, with its green, bushy banks. And the next whistle of
the steam-engine, like a fairy horn, called up the pretty village, with
its streets and bridges, its one church, and its diminutive Plaza. We
walk along the newly paved street, lined with small dwellings built of
palm and plaster. The naked children are playing at the doors, the
fathers and mothers are making cigars, or smoking them, the soldiers are
walking vacantly about, and the small shopkeepers are looking out from
behind their dull counters, piled with the refuse of the better markets.
Here is the American Hotel, and just opposite, the eternal piano is
playing "Norma," as it always did twelve hours out of twenty-four, and
was a nuisance. But let me not grumble, for at the door of that house
stand Mariquilla and Dolores, to welcome me back, and, hearing their
voices, Norma leaves the instrument of her revenge, and comes out to
embrace me. It is pleasant, is it not, to arrive where some one is glad
to see you? These kind people quite warm my heart with their welcome.
Mrs. L. at the hotel, too, is always glad to see a boarder, especially
if he have with him a trunk that looks like staying. So we are fèted all
around, and have the best rooms given us, and are happy.
In the evening, I betake myself to the house opposite, which was
familiar to me in my earlier visit, but of which I now speak for the
first time. Its inmates are in comfortable, though moderate
circumstances, and their habits are the type of Cuban village-life. Here
I meet the accustomed circle,--fie! they have no _circle_, but sit in
two long parallel lines, and rock, and smoke at each other. Papa is a
small, slight Spaniard, with good manners and no teeth. Mamma is not
more than forty,--a massive, handsome woman, with that dignity of
expression which is beyond beauty,--she is simple in her dress, and
quiet in all her ways, but her thoughtful eyes make you remember her.
Mariquilla is a buxom girl, some thirty years of age, who uses ten
cosmetics in her bath, and still preserves a tolerably fresh complexion.
Dolores is quiet and gentle, and spends her days in taking care of two
little motherless children, whose father brings them every morning, and
takes them away at night. Maria Luisa, whom I call Norma, is the only
daughter of the family. She is pretty and modest, slight and small, like
her father, but with fine eyes. She is a great Belle, we are told, in
the neighborhood, and her musical accomplishment is considered
prodigious. Besides these we find Dotor Hernandez, the village
Physician, an Aragonese, thick-set and vigorous, with a good honest
face, and Juanito, the Music-Master, a youth of eighteen, from
Barcelona, with straight black hair, a pock-marked countenance, and a
pair of as mischievous black eyes as ever looked demurely into the
mysteries of the divine art. He is just offering cigarettes to all the
family. Mamma has taken one, so have Dolores and Mariquilla,--he hands
me the little packet with: "_Te fuma, Hulita?_" and seems rather
surprised at my refusal, supposing doubtless that women of a certain age
smoke, all over the world. One small lamp dimly illuminates this family
party. When music is proposed, two candles, not of wax, are lighted, and
placed on the piano. I sing a song or two, which they are good enough to
call "_muy bonito_," and then, Maria Luisa, invited in turn, thunders
through "Norma," from Overture to Finale. Oh! I have not described the
piano,--it is a grand one, and bears the name of Stoddard. It should be
about sixty years old, and would seem to have been through three
generations and ten boarding-schools. It is a sort of skeleton piano,
empty of music, and the rattling of its poor old bones makes mine ache.
After the Opera, dancing is proposed. Juanito is disabled with a lame
hand, and Maria Luisa volunteers to play the new _contra-danza_. It is
christened "the Atlantic Telegraph," and is full of jerks and
interruptions, having nothing very definite about it. We have learned
the _contra-danza_ of Dolores, on a former occasion, but now they all
say "Hulita must dance with the Doctor," and to that consummate honor
she resigns herself. That distinguished functionary divests himself of
his cigar, polishes his perspiring forehead with his handkerchief, and
offers himself as a candidate for her hand. "_Vamos_," he says, and they
begin a slow, circling measure, to a music which is nondescript. Quiet
work this, none of your spasmodic Waltzes, kicking Polkas, and teetotum
jigmarigs. This gentle revolution seems imitated from the movement of
the planets, or perhaps the dance of the seasons,--gravity pervades
it,--it is a slow eternity. The rest of the family group has resolved
itself into couples,--we all go round and round, and suddenly confront
each other for a right and left, and look delighted, and then go round
again. This dreamy performance goes on, until we have just sense enough
left to remember that there is such a thing as bed-time. We break off,
inquire the hour, find it late, say that we must go, which occasions no
surprise. The piano ceases,--the candles are put out. There is a
general kissing and "_Buenas noches_, _Hulita_." Dotor Hernandez sees us
home. We pass every evening at the house opposite, and all the evenings
are like this.