Notwithstanding the mosquito nuisance and indifferent drainage, the
traveller's first impression of Havana is distinctly agreeable, and the
pleasing illusion is never completely destroyed. The harbour is
wonderfully picturesque. Opposite the entrance stands the Morro Castle,
built by Philip II. of Spain in 1573. It was formerly almost a
_facsimile_ of that curious little castellated Moorish fortress which
faces the beautiful Monastery and Church of Belem, at Lisbon, but has
been considerably altered of late years in the process of adaptation to
uses of modern warfare. Then comes in view the other historical
fortress, La Punta, also erected by our Queen Mary's sinister consort.
To the left are two rather sharp promontories, crested by several fine
churches, one "Los Angeles," fully two hundred years old--an age in the
New World corresponding to hoar antiquity in the Old. Beyond these, upon
a number of low-lying hills, rises the city, an irregular mass of
one-storied dwellings, painted a vivid ochre, and interspersed with
church domes and towers, with here and there tall, lank cocoa palms, or
a tuff of banana leaves waving over some garden wall. Vessels from every
part of the world, feluccas, with their swallow-shaped sails, some
dazzling white, others a deep-red brown, fill up the foreground--whilst
canoe-like market boats, laden with tropical fruits, fish, vegetables,
and flowers, and rowed by negroes naked to the waist, scud in all
directions over the deep-blue waters.
Arriving, as I did, from New York, which I had left deep in snow, this
summer scene was most exhilarating, and the exceeding transparency of
the Cuban atmosphere added considerably to its beauty. Everything seemed
unusual, novel, and, above all, utterly unlike what I expected. The
impress of the mother-country, Spain, is felt and seen everywhere, and
modern American influences are barely perceptible as yet. From the sea,
Havana might be Malaga or Cadiz, but when you land, memories of Pompeii
immediately crowd upon you. What we should call the city proper, the
commercial quarter of the Cuban capital, consists of a labyrinth of
narrow lanes, traversed by one or two broadish streets, the two
principal of which are known all over Southern America and the West
Indies as Calle O'Reilly and Calle O'Bisbo, and run from the Governor's
Palace right out to the walls of the city. Few of the houses which line
these lanes and alleys are more than one storey high, but that one
storey is so exceedingly lofty that it would make three in an average
London dwelling. The lower half of every house is painted either a deep
darkish blue, a deep Egyptian red, or a vivid yellow ochre; the upper
part is always a dazzling white. As in Pompeii, you notice rows of
stucco columns, painted half one colour half another. Peeping through
the ever-open doorways you may, as you pass along, obtain something more
than a mere casual glimpse of the interior of the dwellings. If you are
early enough, you may behold the family at its toilet, for there is very
little privacy anywhere in Cuba, every act, from entry into life to its
final exit, from baptism to burial, being serenely performed in the
utmost publicity. The lower windows, overlooking the street, are
protected by heavy iron bars, and behind these you may, in certain
quarters of the town, see lively groups of Havanese Geishas, their faces
thickly powdered with rice flour, their long black hair plaited, and
their opulent charms displayed to liberal advantage--"sono donne che
fano all'amore!"
The frequent curious overhanging windows, with their iron bars, would
give the place a prison-like appearance, were they not painted in the
most brilliant colours--orange, scarlet, and pea-green. More frequently
than not, the fragrance of the family dinner falls pleasantly on your
olfactory nerve, and you may even catch a glimpse of the cook, a
negress, invariably presiding over the charcoal stove in the kitchen,
turban on head, a long calico skirt streaming behind her, and in her
mouth the inevitable cigarette, without which no Cuban coloured lady can
be happy.
There is no West End, so to speak, in Havana, the mansions of the
wealthy being scattered through every part of the city. Some of the
better sort of houses are exceedingly handsome, but they are all built
on one plan, in the classical style, with an inner courtyard, surrounded
by handsome marble or stucco columns. I imagine them to be designed much
on the same plan as the villas of ancient Rome. You first look into a
fine hall--generally either built of white marble or else stuccoed to
look like it. Here the family Victoria or old-fashioned Volante is
usually stowed away. Here also stands, rather for ornament than use, a
sedan-chair, which is, more often than not, richly painted and gilded.
Beyond this hall is the Pateo, in the centre of which there is usually a
garden rich in tropical vegetation, shading either a fountain or a large
gilded aviary full of brilliant parrots and parrakeets. In some houses
there is a picture or statue of the Virgin, or some Saint, with a lamp
burning before it day and night. In the Pateo, the family assembles of
an evening, the ladies in full dress; and as it is generally brilliantly
illuminated, the pleasant domestic scene adds greatly to the gay
appearance of the streets, which fill with loungers in the cool of the
evening.
The Havanese shops are plentifully supplied with European and native
goods, but, as in almost all tropical countries, very few of them have
windows, and the wares are exposed in the open, as in an Eastern
bazaar. Only a few years ago the jewellers' and goldsmiths' shops were
renowned throughout the Western world, but now, unfortunately, they are
entirely ruined. Even in 1878, when the shoe first began to pinch in
Cuba, many fine jewels, and some beautiful specimens of old Spanish
silver, Louis XV. fans, snuff-boxes, and bric-A -brac of all kinds, were
offered for sale. Often a negress would come to the hotel bearing a
coffer full of things for inspection; the mistress who sent the good
woman must have had implicit trust in her servant, for she frequently
sold her wares for very considerable sums. Few of the Havanese magnates
and rich planters have anything worth selling left them nowadays, but
only a few years ago Havana was a happy hunting-ground for bargain
seekers.
The handsomest street in Havana is the Cerro, a long thoroughfare
running up a hill at the back of the town, bordered on either side by
enormous old villas, in the midst of magnificent gardens. The finest of
these mansions belongs to the very old Hernandez family, and is built of
white marble in the usual classical style. The adjacent villa,
Santoveneo, has a lovely garden, and used to be famous for its
collection of orchids, the late Countess de Santoveneo, a very wealthy
lady, being a great collector. She was a clever, agreeable woman, well
known in Paris, where she usually spent the summer and autumn. In the
midst of a perfect forest of cocoa palms stands the former summer villa
of the Bishops of Havana, now a private residence.
Then, one after the other, follow the handsome dwellings of the
Havanese aristocracy--of the Marquese dos Hermanos, of the Duque de
Fernandina, of the Conde Penalver, of the Marqueza d'Aldama, etc. The
cacti in these villa gardens are of amazing size and shape, some showing
leaves thick and strong enough to bear the weight of a full-grown man.
In the gardens of the Conde de Penalver there is a glorious mangoe
grass, the first I ever saw, and the finest. Unfortunately, these Havana
Edens are infested all the year round by swarms of mosquitos. The
residents seem skin-proof, and do not appear to suffer from the insects'
attacks. But woe waits on the unwary new-comer who tempts fate by
lingering in these lovely gardens!
There are several delightful public promenades in the city and its
suburbs, the Paseo de Isabel for instance, with its wide pavement and
its stately central avenue of flowering trees. Here stands an
exceedingly imposing monument, the Fontana de India, which would put our
all too notorious "shaving-brushes" in Trafalgar Square to shame. On the
summit of a snow-white marble pedestal is a fine statue of the Antilles,
represented by an Indian maiden airily attired in robes of nihil, and
adorned with beads and a head-dress of plumes. Cornucopias full of
tropical fruits and flowers rest at her feet, and four monstrous
dolphins cast down volumes of foaming water into a spacious marble
basin. Forming a background to this remarkable work of art are the
public gardens of La Glorietta, with their oleander groves and towering
palm trees. In the great pond the Victoria Regia floats its colossal
silver cups. Hard by is the Campo de Marte, or Mars' field, where the
soldiers drill, and beyond which stands the splendid palace of the
Aldama family, in the midst of a glorious tropical garden.
The Calzada de la Reina is another wide street, running from the Campo
de Marte, to the Calzada Belancion and the Paseo de Tacon. This is the
fashionable shopping street, and, as a rule, crowded with carriages in
the early morning hours, when the Cuban ladies make their purchases. No
Havanese lady ever condescends to leave her victoria to enter a
shop--the shopman invariably brings out his wares for her inspection,
and the bargaining takes place in the open street, and is often very
animated and amusing.
The Paseo de Tacon is, however, by far the finest promenade in the city,
and quite worthy of any capital in the world. A very broad drive passes
between a double row of splendid acacias of the "peacock" variety--so
called on account of their huge tufts of crimson and yellow flowers. The
Paseo dates back to 1802, and is adorned by several handsome statues and
memorial columns. Of an evening it blazes with electric light, and,
moreover, boasts an interminable switchback railway, a great source of
amusement to the young fry of Havana. At the extreme end of Tacon,
which, by the way, is sometimes as animated with carriages and
pedestrians as the Champs ElyseA(C)s, are the Botanical Gardens, which are
surprisingly fine. Imagine all the conservatories of Kew and the Crystal
Palace without their glass roofs, and you may then form a vague notion
of the glories of these gardens. There is an avenue of cocoa palms here
which is of almost unearthly beauty. I remember seeing these Gardens
illuminated for a _fiesta_ with myriads of coloured lights, and
surpassing in fairylike beauty any transformation scene ever devised at
dear old Drury. The stems of the palm trees, "all set in a stately row,"
seemed converted into pillars of gold, and, far above, a good hundred
feet and more, scintillated clusters of tiny lamps, like jewels among
their waving fronds.
Of an early winter morning--a winter morning in Cuba is like an ideal
one in late May in our latitudes, Tacon Gardens are delightful, they are
so well arranged and so full of interest. In the centre is the Quinta,
or summer-house, which you reach by a very long verdant tunnel, formed
of Pacific roses and the clustering yellow banksia. Here also I first
made the acquaintance of the duck plant, or _Aristolochia pelicana_ of
which more anon, and of the divinely beautiful Cuban morning glory,
_convolvulus major_--with its immense bunches of the deepest blue
flowers. In the evening the moon-flower opens its colossal white disks,
and the night-blooming cerus is also a perennial attraction to those who
have never seen it burst into glory at a given hour, and shed around an
almost too powerful odour of attar of roses.
Take Havana for all in all, in times of peace it is by far and away the
pleasantest city in the Southern Hemisphere--the most resourceful, for
it has capital public libraries, museums, clubs, and theatres. Of an
evening it is quite charming. Then the streets are thronged with people
until early morning. The bands play selections from the latest
operas--even Wagnerian airs--the seA+-oras and seA+-oritas parade up and
down with their attendant cabaleros, and mostly in evening, nay, full
ball dress, with only a lace veil over their heads. A brilliant double
line of equipages fills the central drive, and very smart many of them
are--as well turned out as any in Hyde Park or the Bois. The cafA(C)s, and
there are hundreds of them, are dazzling with electric and incandescent
light, and packed by a motley crowd as picturesque as it is animated.
Negresses, in gaudy cast-off finery, offer you _dulce_ or sweetmeats,
and coloured boys cry "limonata" and ice water. Everybody has a
cigarette between their lips or their fingers. Banjos twang and
mandolines tinkle in all directions, and if you chance to get a good
seat at the CafA(C) Dominico, or the Louvre, where the world of fashion is
wont to assemble to suck ice drinks through long straws, smoke
cigarettes, and criticise their neighbours, you can pass many an amused
hour, watching the passing show of this West Indian Vanity Fair.
If it please you to leave the gay throng to its devices, its cigarettes,
and its scandal, to quit the flaring thoroughfares and betake yourself
to the semi-deserted bye streets, you will find plenty to attract and
amuse you. Here, for instance, is a street so narrow, you might shake
hands across it. The mellow tropical moonlight falls only on the roofs
of its tall one-storied houses, and on the tapering campanile of some
church or convent, which it transforms for the time being into a column
of burnished gold. A vivid glare across the street attracts your
attention. It proceeds from a cavernous-looking tavern, whose otherwise
gloomy interior is lighted up by strings of Chinese lanterns. A crowd of
negroes, smoking cigars or cigarettes, stand in a confused group round a
couple, consisting of a huge Congo black naked to the waist, and a lady
of a few shades lighter hue, dancing the obscene Cubana, to the intense
gratification of the dusky spectators. Down another still narrower
street, across a little Plaza, and we find ourselves in a sort of
covered gallery, where whole families of respectable citizens, gran'pa
and gran'ma included, are supping _al fresco_--by the light of a number
of curious brass lamps, such as the old Romans used. Not far off you
catch a glimpse of the sea glistening in the moonlight, which turns the
distant suburb of Regla, on the opposite side of the harbour, into rows
of ivory dice, the square one-storied houses looking for all the world
like those pernicious toys on a colossal scale. Resisting the pressing
invitation of a party of gaudily dressed ladies seated in the huge
cage-like window of a house hard by, we find ourselves, by a sudden
turn, in the Cathedral Square. Although late, the great church is open
and brilliantly illuminated, and within we can see the pious throng,
kneeling before the high altar, chanting Ave Maria--
_Ora pro nobis, nunc et in ora mortis nostris._
Commend to me a city of the Latin race for delightful contrasts, and I
assure you Havana is no exception to the rule.
The picturesque _volante_, once as essentially Cuban as the gondola is
Venetian, has entirely disappeared, at all events from the streets of
the capital. It is, or perhaps I should say it was, a very
singular-looking vehicle, with its wonderful spider-web-like wheels, its
long shafts, and its horse or mule, upon whose back the driver should
perch in a clumsily-made saddle. It had something of the litter on
wheels, and was usually occupied of an afternoon on Sundays and
holidays, by two or three ladies, magnificently dressed in full ball
costume, and blazing with jewels, the fairest of the trio sitting on the
knees of the other two. The _volante_ was sometimes splendidly decorated
with costly silver platings and rich stuffs. The negro driver wore a
very smart dark blue and red cloth livery, covered with gold lace, high
jack-boots coming almost up to his waist, and carried a long
silver-mounted whip in his hand; victorias and landaus have usurped the
place of these old-world coaches, excepting in the country, where they
are often to be met with on the high roads.
For its size (the population is about 230,000) Havana is exceptionally
well supplied with public and private carriages. You can hire an
excellent _victoria de plaza_ for 1 fr. 50 the hour, and a custom, which
the London County Council might imitate and introduce with advantage,
has long been in use in the Cuban capital. To avoid extortion from the
cab-drivers, the lamp-posts are painted various colours, red for the
central district, blue for the second circle, and green for the outer.
Thus, in a trice, the fare becomes aware when he gets beyond the
radius, and pays accordingly. Trouble with the Havanese hack coachman,
usually a coloured man, and very civil, is of the rarest occurrence.
Although an eminently Catholic city, Havana cannot be said to be rich in
churches. A goodly number have been destroyed during the various
rebellions, especially those of the middle of the century (1835), when
the religious orders were suppressed. The largest church is the Merced,
a fine building in the _rococo_ style, with handsome marble altars and
some good pictures. It is crowded on Sundays and holidays by the
fashionable world of the place, the young men forming up in rows outside
the church as soon as Mass is over, to gaze at the seA+-oritas and their
chaperons. The Cathedral is the chief architectural monument of interest
in Havana. It was erected for the Jesuits in 1704 on the site of a much
older church built in 1519, and dedicated to St Cristobal, the patron of
the city. The first Bishop of Havana was an Englishman, a Franciscan
named Fray JosA(C) White. He occupied the See from 1522 to 1527. The old
cathedral being considered too small, this church was converted into a
cathedral in the present century. It is built in the usual
Hispano-American style, with a big dome, and two stumpy towers on either
side of the centre. Internally the effect is rather heavy, owing to the
dark colour of the marbles which cover the walls, but compared with most
churches in these latitudes, the edifice is in exceptionally good taste,
with a remarkable absence of the tawdry images and wonderful
collections of trumpery artificial flowers and glass shades which, as a
rule, disfigure South American churches. The choir would be considered
handsome even in Rome, and the stalls are beautifully carved in
mahogany. Almost all the columns in the church are also mahogany, highly
polished, producing the effect of a deep red marble, most striking when
relieved, as in this case, by gilt bronze capitals. In the choir is the
tomb of Columbus. The great navigator died, as most of my readers will
doubtless be aware, at Valladolid, in Spain, on Ascension Day 1506, and
his body was at first deposited, after the most pompous obsequies, in
the church of San Francisco, in that city.
In 1513, the remains were conveyed to the Carthusian monastery of Las
Cuevas, at Seville, where King Ferdinand erected a monument over them,
bearing the simple but appropriate inscription:--
"A CASTILE Y LEON
NUEVO MUNDO DIO COLON."
Twenty-three years later, the body of Columbus, with that of his son
Diego, was removed to the island of San Domingo, or Hayti, and interred
in the principal church of the capital; but when that island was ceded
to the French, the Spaniards claimed the ashes of the Discoverer, and
they were carried to Havana and solemnly interred in the Cathedral on
the 15th January 1796. The remains, which by this time, it seems, were
scanty enough, were placed in a small urn, deposited in a niche in the
left wall of the chancel, and sealed up with a marble slab, surmounted
by an excellent bust of the bold explorer, wreathed with laurel. The
inscription, a very poor one, excited considerable ridicule, and a
pasquinade was circulated lamenting the absence of the nine Muses on the
occasion of its composition.
Of late years, however, the inhabitants of San Domingo[13] have set up a
protest in favour of certain bones which have been discovered in their
own cathedral, and declare by their gods, or by their saints, that never
a bone of Columbus left their island, and that the relics of the great
Christopher in the Cathedral of Havana, unto which so many pilgrimages
have been made, are as apocryphal as were those of certain saints
mentioned by Erasmus.
As a matter of fact, so far as I can make out after the perusal of a
number of pamphlets on the subject, only half the bones of Columbus were
taken to Havana. The priests at San Domingo kept back a portion of the
body and hid it in the south of the sacristy of their Cathedral, where
it was discovered with many evidences of its authenticity in 1877.
Of the other numerous Havanese churches there is not much to be said,
except that nearly all have remarkable ceilings, decorated in a sort of
mosaic work in rare woods, often very artistic in design. Columns of
mahogany are frequently seen, and nearly all the churches are lined
with very old Spanish or Dutch tiles. The Church of Santa Clara,
attached to a very large nunnery, is a favourite place of devotion with
the fashionable ladies, who squat on a piece of carpet in front of the
Madonna, with their negro attendant kneeling a few feet behind them.
When the lady has performed her devotions, the sable footman takes up
her carpet, and follows her out of the church, walking solemnly a few
feet behind her. In the Church of the Merced there is a very curious
picture representing a group of Indians being slaughtered by a number of
Spaniards. In the centre is a wooden cross, upon the transverse portions
of which Our Lady is seated, holding the infant Jesus in her arms. In
the corner is a long inscription of some historical importance. It runs
thus:--
"The Admiral, Don Christopher Columbus, and the Spanish Army, being
possessed of the 'Cerro de la Vega,' a place in the Spanish island,
erected on it a cross, on whose right arm, the 2nd of May, 1492, in
the night there appeared with her most precious Son, the Virgin,
Our Lady of Mercy. The Indians, who occupied the island, as soon as
they saw Her, drew their arrows, and fired at Her, but as the
arrows could not pierce the sacred wood, the Spaniards took
courage, and, falling upon the said Indians, killed a great number
of them. And the person who saw this wonderful prodigy was the V.
R. F. Juan."
The Jesuits have an important college for boys in Havana. Annexed to it
is the Observatory, said to be the best organised in South America. The
church is handsome, and over the high altar hangs a famous holy family,
by Ribeira. In connection with this college there is also a museum and
library, especially rich in drawings and prints, illustrating Cuban
life and scenery, from the sixteenth century down to our own times.
The wooden images of saints on the altars in the Havanese churches are
most picturesque, and their costumes often very quaint. St Michael, for
instance, may appear in white kid dancing shoes and a short velvet
frock, and the Madonna is usually attired in the cumbersome Spanish
court dress of the sixteenth century; with farthingale and ruff
complete.
A remarkably fine old church is San Francisco, long since desecrated and
converted into the custom-house. It has a noble tower, and stands in a
conspicuous position down by the harbour. In the suppressed monastery is
a vast room with a glorious cedar-wood ceiling. San Francisco is famous
in the annals of Havana for a triple murder, which took place upon its
altar in 1833, before the Church was converted to profane purposes, and
was still one of the most popular shrines in the city. Hard by is an
old-world cafA(C)--the Leon de Oro--which in those days was tenanted by an
Italian with a pretty wife. The worthy man got jealous of her, and,
finding out that her paramour was the Secretary of the Captain-General,
Don Alonzo Vales y Sandoval--watched his opportunity to avenge himself.
It chanced that the noble Don was ordered to watch by the Sepulchre in
this church on Holy Thursday evening. Dressed, therefore, in his scarlet
robes, as a member of the Confraternity of the Sacred Blood, the unlucky
gentleman was apparently absorbed in prayer before the altar, when the
infuriated Italian dealt him a blow in the back with a stiletto, which
killed him there and then. Before the horrified congregation could
arrest him, he murdered his wife, who was kneeling in prayer close by
her lover, and then stabbed himself--all of which uncanny tragedy I
found solemnly related in choice Spanish in an old Havana journal, dated
June 17, 1833.
The numerous charitable institutions in the capital, and throughout the
island, are well managed, and generally clean. The Casa de Beneficencia,
founded by the famous Las Casas, as an asylum for the extremes of life,
the very young and very old, is especially interesting. It is managed by
those admirable women, the Little Sisters of the Poor. Nothing can
exceed the exquisite cleanliness of the Lazar House, situated at some
distance from the city, in which six nuns and two priests have banished
themselves from the world in order to tend the many hapless lepers on
the island.
But admirably managed, roomy, and well endowed though they undoubtedly
are, the charitable establishments of Havana do not supply the demand,
for the place swarms with beggars, especially in these recent hard
times. Never, no, not even in Spain or Italy, have I seen such terrible
beggars as those of Cuba. They haunt you everywhere, gathering round the
church doors, whining for alms, insulting you if you refuse them, and
pestering you as you go home at night, never leaving you till you either
bestow money on them, or escape within your own or some friendly door.
Kingsley described Havana as "the Western Abomination," so low was his
opinion of the moral tone of its inhabitants. Whether his judgment was
right or wrong, I dare not say, but I know enough to convince me that
the average Havanese drawing-room can provide quite as much ill-natured
gossip as any in London. Here, as elsewhere in Southern America,
religion has become a mere affair of ceremony and outward observance,
with little or no moral influence. I am assured that of late years there
has been a considerable reaction, and that numerous missions have been
preached by priests and friars, imported from Europe in the hope of
exciting the zeal of the native clergy, which has very possibly been
affected by the enervating influence of the climate. Be this as it may,
the churches in Cuba are a never-failing source of interest, by reason
of the quaint and everchanging scenes their interiors exhibit. In some
of them the music is admirable in its way, although entirely of an
operatic character. At the Merced there is a full orchestra, and the
principal singers from the opera may often be heard at High Mass.
Church has always, in Latin countries, been the scene of a good deal of
quiet flirtation, and I remember one Sunday morning, in the Cathedral of
Havana, being initiated by a friend into the mysteries of fan language.
We watched an extremely good-looking and richly apparelled young lady,
who, after she had said her preliminary devotions, looked round her as
if seeking somebody. Presently she opened her fan very wide, which, as
the Cuban who was with us at the time assured us, meant "I see you."
Then she half closed it; this indicated "Come and see me." Four fingers
were next placed upon the upper half of the closed fan, signifying, "At
half-past four." The fan was next dropped upon the floor, which, we were
told, signified the fact that the lady would be alone. A Havanese lady,
who is expert in this system of signalling, can talk by the hour with
the help of her fan, and of a bunch of variously coloured flowers, each
of which has some special meaning.
Amongst so pleasure-loving a people as the Cubans, public amusements
hold a far more prominent place than they do in any of the United
States, with, perhaps, the sole exception of New Orleans, and the
carnival at Havana was at one time the most brilliant in the Americas.
For many years, however, its glories have been declining, and during the
last few decades the upper and middle classes have taken scant part in
the festivities. I can remember, however, many years ago, seeing the
famous ribbon dance performed by people of quality in the open streets.
A gaily-dressed youth walked in front of the company, holding a pole,
from which floated a number of coloured ribbons, which the various
couples held in their hands, and threaded into a kind of plait as they
moved gracefully round the leader of this _al fresco_ cotillon. It was a
very pretty sight to see hundreds of masqueraders parading the streets,
engaged in this graceful pastime, and each band accompanied by a group
of musicians. Throughout the carnival the negroes are allowed to mingle
with the white population in all festivities, and even in the great
gala procession of carriages, which passes round the gaily decorated
city during three successive afternoons, the negroes' donkey tandems and
brilliantly draped waggons are permitted to take their places among the
equipages of their masters. The negroes formerly went about the streets
masked and disguised, and as they formed one-third of the population,
there was no lack of variety of costume, but neither bon-bons nor flower
throwing had any place in this somewhat formal pageant. The Cubans
evidently do not appreciate cut blossoms, for you rarely, if ever, see a
bouquet in their houses, although their gardens simply blaze with every
sort of flowers.
After sunset the revel begins in earnest. The negroes come out in their
thousands, carrying lighted Chinese lanterns hanging from the top of
bamboo poles. They shout and leap, and at every open space they dance to
the sound of tom-toms and horns, their two chief musical instruments.
All the theatres have a masked ball, that of the _Tacon_[14], which is
the finest and largest theatre in the Southern Hemisphere, being
exclusively devoted to the upper and middle classes. Here there is a
great display of jewellery, the ladies, as in Italy, wearing the little
loup mask and a domino, while most of the gentlemen are in evening
dress. Of recent years, the ball at the _Tacon_ has greatly diminished
in gaiety and local colour. The usual European dances fill the entire
programme, and there is very little difference between this _veglione_
and any in Nice, Rome, or Naples.
At the "Payrete," an immense theatre near the _Tacon_, matters are quite
otherwise, and the coloured element largely prevails. An outlandish
orchestra, consisting of the usual horns and tom-toms, bangs a wild,
savage melody, with a kind of irregular rhythm, marking time, but
without the faintest vestige of tune. The couples stand and jig, facing
each other,--occasionally in a manner which is better left undefined,
but usually with a solemnity defying all description. Now and again the
male dancers utter a piercing whoop, and the couples forthwith change
sides. It is impossible to conceive that fun or amusement can be
extracted from such a monotonous performance. But that these good people
do find enjoyment in it cannot be questioned, since they frequently
continue performing this dance, which is known as the "Cubana," for many
hours at a stretch, without moving a yard from the spot where they
began. Another popular dance is the Canga, a sort of slow waltz, which,
when danced by the class which dances in public in Havana, is the most
indecent spectacle conceivable. Meanwhile the barbaric orchestra bangs
ever, making noise enough to raise the dead--tom-tom whack, tom-tom
wick, tom-tom whoop--_e da capo_. It ends by maddening the European ear,
and the onlooker is forced to bolt or risk an epileptic seizure, or some
such misfortune. This weird carnival ball, as seen from a box, is one of
the most singular sights imaginable, but the spectator must make up his
mind to evil smells as well as noise--all the perfumes of Araby would
not sweeten the theatre. The scenes in the brightly lighted streets
outside struck me as infinitely preferable. The crowded cafA(C)s, before
which groups of smartly dressed young negro mandolinists play, and very
creditably, selections from popular operas, in the confident hope of
being treated to ices, or something stronger, have a distinct and
original charm. Punctually at twelve o'clock on Shrove Tuesday the
cannon boomed from Morro Castle, announcing that King Carnival had just
expired. On the morrow, the pious crowded the churches to receive the
penitential ashes. Lent began in earnest, and was very rigorously kept,
so far as the eating of flesh was concerned. An average Cuban negro
would sooner take poison than a mouthful of meat on the abstinence days,
although, I fear, his moral sense might easily be weighed and found
wanting in other particulars.
The Cubans, notwithstanding their worship of the tom-tom and the horn,
and the popularity of noisy music, possibly imported from Africa by the
Congo slaves who swarm on the big plantations, are a very musical race.
The _Tacon_ opera-house, which can accommodate 5,000 persons, is, in its
way, a very fine theatre, built in Italian fashion with tiers of boxes,
one above another. They are separated by gilded lattices, so as to
afford every possible means of ventilation. Round each tier of boxes is
a sort of ambulatory or verandah, overlooking the great Square. The
upper gallery is exclusively devoted to the coloured people, who, on a
Sunday, fill it to suffocation. They are considered the most critical
part of the audience, and their appreciation or disapproval is generally
well founded, and liberally demonstrated. The first two rows of boxes
belong to the aristocracy and wealthy merchants, and the display of
jewellery on a gala night used to be quite amazing. The lower part of
the house is divided into a pit and orchestra stalls. When crowded, the
_Tacon_ presents a really fine appearance. The stage is, I should say,
as large as that at Covent Garden, and the operas are perfectly mounted
and staged. A great peculiarity of this theatre is the orchestra, which
is of almost unrivalled excellence, although at least one half of its
performers are coloured, and some of them full-blooded negroes. I think
I am correct in saying that on several occasions the conductor himself
has been a coloured gentleman. Two of the very best performances of
_AA-da_ (with Campanini and Volpini) I ever enjoyed, I saw at the
_Tacon_, where some of the greatest vocalists of the present century
have appeared, including Malibran, Grisi, Mario, Alboni, Tedesco, Patti,
Nilsson, Nevada and Guerrabella (Miss Genevieve Ward). I have seen it
stated that Mme. Adelina Patti made her dA(C)but in the Filarmonia of
Havana. This is an error. This theatre is at Santiago, and it was there
the fascinating prima donna won her first laurels. Her mother and
father, Signor and Signora Barili Patti, both of them singers of the
first rank, made, if I am not misinformed, their last appearance on the
stage at the Tacon theatre. The Cubans do not care for the Spanish
national drama. They prefer adaptations from the French and Italian;
and Havana, unlike Mexico, has not produced a single dramatist of note.
Spanish companies come every year from Madrid, but they are rarely well
patronised. On the other hand, Ristori, Salvini, Duse, and Sarah
Bernhardt have received almost divine honours in the Cuban capital.
One night I dropped into the _Torrecillas_, a little fourth-rate house,
and on going to the box-office to pay for my seat, to my utter
astonishment I found the employee absent, although the theatre was open,
and a crowd thronging in to attend a gratuitous rehearsal of a piece
which was to be performed on the following evening for money. The house
was dimly lighted. The orchestra consisted of a piano, and the back
scene was formed of odds and ends of scenery jumbled together in the
funniest confusion. A stoutish young fellow, a sort of Sancho Panza, was
rehearsing the company, the ladies of which lounged about in various
parts of the house, smoking incessant cigarettes. The play was one of
the kind known in Spain as a "Zarzuela," or farce. The plot was simple
enough, dealing with the adventures of a runaway negro, who tried to
become manager of a strolling troupe of players. The fun consisted in
admirable delineation of each character, and the spirited acting. One
scene, representing the appearance of the troupe at Mocha, a country
village, was irresistibly droll. Some of the actors went down among the
audience, pretending to be country spectators, and cracked excellent
jokes at the expense of the troupe on the topics of the day, and popular
abuses in general. In the last scene the national "Garacha" was
admirably danced. It is as objectionable, in itself, as the "Cubana,"
but it was quite transformed by the grace of the artists.
The bull-ring and the cock-pit are still national institutions
throughout Cuba. Each city has its ring and its cock-pit. I drove out
one Sunday to the "Galleria," as it is called, at the corner of the
Calle Manuel, in a rather low quarter of Havana. I found a motley
assembly of beggars, cake-vendors, and negroes, hanging about the entry
and the box office, if so I may call it, which was neat and smart enough
for a metropolitan theatre. The price of admission to the best seats was
only two shillings. Passing a bar, before which a noisy crowd was
drinking gin and _aguardiente_, blaspheming and quarrelling, I found
myself in the "Galleria," which is of circular form built of open
wood-work, exactly like two large round hen-coops placed one on top of
another. There were four galleries, with several rows of chairs,
thronged by an excited betting crowd, which included the usual
proportion of negroes, but no women. As I entered, a fight had just come
to a close, and the noise was deafening. Everybody was shouting and
gesticulating at once. In a few moments the bell rang, and comparative
silence ensued. The ring was cleared, and two men appeared in the
centre, each holding a beautiful bird in his hands. The Cuban breed of
cocks, although small, is remarkably well-proportioned and elegant. I am
no expert in cock-fighting and will simply jot down my impressions of
the combat. At first I found it interesting enough, but, by and by,
when the stronger bird crippled its antagonist, the poor, bleeding
creature was artificially excited to continue the battle to the bitter
end, by being "restored" with spoonfuls of Santa Cruz rum blown in a
spray from the mouth of its owner over its head, and the sight grew
simply disgusting. I was relieved when it was all over, and the poor,
beautiful bird lay dead. The audience interested me far more than the
fight. The people around me were so absorbed in the death struggle that
some faces grew ashen pale, others flushed, their eyes rolled, they
roared, they bellowed, and they pantomimed from the lower to the upper
galleries. DorA(C) alone could have done justice to the scene, but,
picturesque though it was, it was a degrading exhibition of cruelty and
base passion. The upper classes, I am glad to say, have long ceased to
frequent the "Galleria," and some of the best houses have even closed
their doors to young men known to be frequenters of these cock-pits. I
did not see a bull-fight while I was in Cuba. They were, I suppose, not
in season, otherwise they are as frequent and as popular there as in
Spain and the south of France. They are conducted in exactly the same
ceremonious and pageantic manner as in Spain, and almost as
magnificently, and, needless to say, they are as bloody, if not more so,
and quite as demoralizing. If it were not hypocrisy on the part of an
Englishman in these days of "general bookmaking," when the "special,"
announcing the names of the "winners," is more eagerly bought up than
any containing political news of the highest importance, I might descant
on the immorality of the Cuban weekly lottery. Everybody is interested
in it, and I am assured it is "a curse" to the country. Doubtless it is
so, and so, indeed, are our own "winners." Gambling in some shape or
other seems inherent in the human race, and I cannot see much difference
between the Havanese lottery and our own racecourse. Both are equally
dangerous to those who cannot afford to bet. In Cuba the wretched negro
starves himself to put his last penny on some favourite number, and in
London the bootblack goes without his dinner in the hope of doubling the
"winner."