University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER VII.

Breakfast, and again the cool marble floor,
white-robed tables, the fruits and flowers, and
curtains gently swaying, and women in morning
toilets. Besides the openness to view,
these rooms are strangely open to ingress.
Lottery-ticket venders go the rounds of the
tables at every meal, and so do the girls
with tambourines for alms for the music in the
street. As there is no coin in Cuba less than
the medio, 6 1/4 cents, the musicians get a good
deal or nothing. The absence of any smaller
coin must be an inconvenience to the poor, as
they must often buy more than they want, or
go without. I find silver very scarce here.
It is difficult to get change for gold, and at
public places notices are put up that gold will
not be received for small payments. I find
the only course is to go to one of the Cambios

de Moneda, whose signs are frequent in the
streets, and get a half doubloon changed into
reals and pesetas, at four per cent. discount,
and fill my pockets with small silver.

Spent the morning, from eleven o'clock to
dinner-time, in my room, writing and reading.
It is too hot to be out with comfort. It is not
such a morning as one would spend at the St.
Nicholas, or the Tremont, or at Morley's or
Meurice's. The rooms all open into the courtyard,
and the doors and windows, if open at
all, are open to the view of all passers-by. As
there are no bells, every call is made from the
veranda rail, down into the court-yard, and
repeated until the servant answers, or the caller
gives up in despair. Antonio has a compeer
and rival in Domingo, and the sharp voice of
the woman in the next room but one, who
proves to be a subordinate of the opera troupe,
is calling out, "Do-meen-go! Do-meen-go!"
and the rogue is in full sight from our side,
making significant faces, until she changes her
tune to "Antonio! Antonio! adonde está Domingo?"
But as she speaks very little Spanish,
and Antonio very little French, it is not

difficult for him to get up a misapprehension,
especially at the distance of two stories; and
she is obliged to subside for a while, and her
place is supplied by the parrot. She is usually
unsuccessful, being either unreasonable, or bad
pay. The opera troupe are rehearsing in the
second flight, with doors and windows open.
And throughout the hot middle day, we hear
the singing, the piano, the parrot, and the calls
and parleys with the servants below. But we
can see the illimitable sea from the end of the
piazza, blue as indigo; and the strange city is
lying under our eye, with its strange blue and
white and yellow houses, with their roofs of
dull red tiles, its strange tropical shade-trees,
and its strange vehicles and motley population,
and the clangor of its bells, and the high
pitched cries of the venders in its streets.

Going down stairs at about eleven o'clock,
I find a table set in the front hall, at the foot
of the great staircase, and there, in full view
of all who come or go, the landlord and his
entire establishment, except the slaves and
coolies, are at breakfast. This is done every
day. At the café round the corner, the family,

with their white, hired servants, breakfast and
dine in the hall, through which all the customers
of the place must go to the baths, the billiard
rooms, and the bowling-alleys. Fancy
the manager of the Astor or Revere, spreading
a table for breakfast and dinner in the great
entry, between the office and the front door,
for himself and family and servants!

Yesterday and to-day I noticed in the streets
and at work in houses, men of an Indian complexion,
with coarse black hair. I asked if
they were native Indians, or of mixed blood.
No, they are the Coolies! Their hair, full
grown, and the usual dress of the country
which they wore, had not suggested to me the
Chinese; but the shape and expression of the
eye make it plain. These are the victims of
the trade, of which we hear so much. I am
told there are 200,000 of them in Cuba, or, that
so many have been imported, and all within
seven years. I have met them everywhere,
the newly arrived, in Chinese costume, with
shaved heads, but the greater number in pantaloons
and jackets and straw hats, with hair full
grown. Two of the cooks at our hotel are

Coolies. I must inform myself on the subject
of this strange development of the domination
of capital over labor. I am told there is a mart
of Coolies in the Cerro. This I must see, if it
is to be seen.

After dinner drove out to the Jesus del
Monte, to deliver my letter of introduction to
the Bishop. The drive, by way of the Calzada
de Jesus del Monte, takes one through
a wretched portion, I hope the most wretched
portion, of Havana, by long lines of one story
wood and mud hovels, hardly habitable even
for negroes, and interspersed with an abundance
of drinking shops. The horses, mules,
asses, chickens, children, and grown people use
the same door; and the back yards disclose
heaps of rubbish. The looks of the men, the
horses tied to the door-posts, the mules with
their panniers of fruits and leaves reaching
to the ground, all speak of Gil Blas, and of
what we have read of humble life in Spain.
The little negro children go stark naked, as innocent
of clothing as the puppies. But this is
so all over the city. In the front hall of Le
Grand's, this morning, a lady, standing in a full

dress of spotless white, held by the hand a
naked little negro boy, of two or three years
old, nestling in black relief against the folds
of her dress.

Now we rise to the higher grounds of Jesus
del Monte. The houses improve in character.
They are still of one story, but high and of
stone, with marble floors and tiled roofs, with
court-yards of grass and trees, and through the
gratings of the wide, long, open windows, I see
the decent furniture, the double, formal row of
chairs, prints on the walls, and well-dressed
women manœuvering their fans.

As a carriage with a pair of cream-colored
horses passed, having two men within, in the
dress of ecclesiastics, my driver pulled up and
said that was the Bishop's carriage, and that he
was going out for an evening drive. Still, I
must go on; and we drive to his house. As
you go up the hill, a glorious view lies upon
the left. Havana, both city and suburbs, the
Morro with its batteries and lighthouse, the
ridge of fortifications called the Cabaña and
Casa Blanca, the Castle of Atares, near at
hand, a perfect truncated cone, fortified at the

top,—the higher and most distant Castle of
Principe,

No! Not so! Young Ocean, the Ocean of
to-day! The blue, bright, healthful, glittering,
gladdening, inspiring Ocean! Have I ever seen
a city view so grand? The view of Quebec from
the foot of the Montmorenci Falls, may rival,
but does not excel it. My preference is for
this; for nothing, not even the St. Lawrence,
broad and affluent as it is, will make up for the
living sea, the boundless horizon, the dioramic
vision of gliding, distant sails, and the open
arms and motherly bosom of the harbor, "with
handmaid lamp attending":—our Mother
Earth, forgetting never the perils of that gay
and treacherous world of waters, its change of
moods, its "strumpet winds,"—ready is she
at all times, by day or by night, to fold back
to her bosom her returning sons, knowing
that the sea can give them no drink, no food,
no path, no light, nor bear up their foot for an
instant, if they are sinking in its depths.

The regular episcopal residence is in town.

This is only a house which the Bishop occupies
temporarily, for the sake of his health. It
is a modest house of one story, standing
very high, with a commanding view of city,
harbor, sea, and suburbs. The floors are marble,
and the roof is of open rafters, painted
blue, and above twenty feet in height; the
windows are as large as doors, and the doors
as large as gates. The mayor-domo shows me
the parlor, in which are portraits in oil of distinguished
scholars and missionaries and martyrs.

On my way back to the city, I direct the
driver to avoid the disagreeable road by which
we came out, and we drive by a cross road,
and strike the Paseo de Tacon at its outer
end, where is a fountain and statue, and a
public garden of the most exquisite flowers,
shrubs, and trees; and around them are
standing, though it is nearly dark, files of carriages
waiting for the promenaders, who are
enjoying a walk in the garden. I am able
to take the entire drive of the Paseo. It is
straight, very wide, with two carriage ways
and two foot ways, with rows of trees between,

and at three points has a statue and a fountain.
One of these statues, if I recollect
aright, is of Tacon; one of a Queen of Spain;
and one is an allegorical figure. The Paseo
is two or three miles in length; reaching from
the Campo de Marte, just outside the walls, to
the last statue and public garden, on gradually
ascending ground, and lined with beautiful
villas, and rich gardens full of tropical trees
and plants. No city in America has such an
avenue as the Paseo de Tacon. This, like
most of the glories of Havana, they tell you
they owe to the energy and genius of the man
whose name it bears.—I must guard myself,
by the way, while here, against using the words
America and American, when I mean the
United States and the people of our Republic;
for this is America also; and they here use the
word America as including the entire continent
and islands, and distinguish between Spanish
and English America, the islands and the
main.

The Cubans have a taste for prodigality in
grandiloquent or pretty names. Every shop,
the most humble, has its name. They name

the shops after the sun and moon and stars;
after gods and goddesses, demi-gods and heroes;
after fruits and flowers, gems and precious
stones; after favorite names of women,
with pretty, fanciful additions; and after all
alluring qualities, all delights of the senses,
and all pleasing affections of the mind. The
wards of jails and hospitals are each known
by some religious or patriotic designation;
and twelve guns in the Morro are named for
the Apostles. Every town has the name of
an apostle or saint, or of some sacred subject.
The full name of Havana, in honor of Columbus,
is San Cristóbal de la Habana; and that of
Matanzas is San Carlos Alcazar de Matanzas.
It is strange that the island itself has defied
all the Spanish attempts to name it. It has
been solemnly named Juana, after the daughter
of Ferdinand and Isabella; then Ferdinandina,
after Ferdinand himself; then Santiago,
and, lastly, Ave Maria; but it has always
fallen back upon the original Indian name of
Cuba. And the only compensation to the
hyperbolical taste of the race is that they decorate
it, on state and ceremonious occasions,
with the musical prefix of "La siempre fidelísima
Isla de Cuba."

At 7.30 p.m. went with my New York fellow-passengers
to hear an opera, or, more correctly,
to see the people of Havana at an
opera. The Teatro de Tacon is closed for
repairs. This is unfortunate, as it is said by
some to be the finest theatre, and by all to be
one of the three finest theatres in the world.
This, too, is attributed to Tacon; although it
is said to have been a speculation of a clever
pirate, turned fish-dealer, who made a fortune
by it. But I like well enough the Teatro de
Villanueva. The stage is deep and wide, the
pit high and comfortable, and the boxes light
and airy and open in front, with only a light
tracery of iron to support the rails, leaving
you a full view of the costumes of the ladies,
even to their slippers. The boxes are also
separated from the passage ways in the rear,
only by wide lattice work; so that the promenaders
between the acts can see the entire
contents of the boxes at one view; and
the ladies dress and sit and talk and use the
fan with a full sense that they are under

the inspection of a "committee of the whole
house." They are all in full dress, décolletées,
without hats. It seemed, to my fancy, that
the mature women were divisible into two
classes, distinctly marked and with few intermediates,
—the obese and the shrivelled. I
suspect that the effect of time in this climate is
to produce a decided result in the one direction
or the other. But a single night's view at an
opera is very imperfect material for an induction,
I know. The young ladies had, generally,
full figures, with tapering fingers and
well rounded arms; yet there were some in
the extreme contrast of sallow, bilious, sharp
countenances, with glassy eyes. There is evidently
great attention to manner, to the mode
of sitting and moving, to the music of the
voice in speaking, the use of the hands and
arms, and, perhaps it may be ungallant to
add, of the eyes.

The Governor-General, Concha, (whose title
is, strictly, Capitan-General,) with his wife
and two daughters, and two aides-de-camp, is
in the Vice-regal box, hung with red curtains,
and surmounted by the royal arms. I can

form no opinion of him from his physiognomy,
as that is rather heavy, and gives not much
indication.

Between the acts, I make, as all the gentlemen
do, the promenade of the house. All parts
of it are respectable, and the regulations are
good. I notice one curious custom, which I
am told prevails in all Spanish theatres. As
no women sit in the pit, and the boxes are
often hired for the season, and are high-priced,
a portion of an upper tier is set apart for those
women and children who cannot or do not
choose to get seats in the boxes. Their quarter
is separated from the rest of the house by
gates, and is attended by two or three old
women, with a man to guard the entrance.
No men are admitted among them, and their
parents, brothers, cousins and beaux are allowed
only to come to the door, and must
send in refreshments, and even a cup of
water, by the hands of the dueñas.

Military, on duty, abound at the doors and
in the passage ways. The men to-night are
of the regiment of Guards, dressed in white.
There are enough of them to put down a

small insurrection, on the spot. The singers
screamed well enough, and the play was a
poor one, Maria de Rohan, but the prima
donna, Gazzaniga, is a favorite, and the excitable
Cubans shout and scream, and throw
bouquets, and jump on the benches, and, at
last, present her with a crown, wreathed with
flowers, and with jewels of value attached to
it. Miss Adelaide Phillips is here, too, and
a favorite, and has been crowned, they say;
but she does not sing to-night.