University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER XVIII.

At break of day, I am in the delightful sea-baths
again, not ill-named Recreo and Elíseo.
But the forlorn chain-gang are mustered before
the Presidio. It is Sunday, but there is
no day of rest for them.

At eight o'clock I present myself at the Belen.
A lady, who was passing through the
cloister, with head and face covered by the
usual black veil, turned and came to me. It
was Mrs.—, whom I had seen last evening.
She kindly took me to the sacristy, and
asked some one to tell Father—that I
was there, and then went to her place in
church, While waiting in the sacristy, I saw
the robing and unrobing of the officiating
priests, the preparation of altar ceremonials by
boys and men, and could hear the voices and
music in the church, on the other side of the

great altar. The manner of the Jesuits is in
striking contrast with that at the Cathedral.
All is slow, orderly and reverential, whether
on the part of men or boys. Instead of the
hurried walk, the nod and duck, there is a
slow march, a kneeling, or a reverential bow.
At a small side altar, in the sacristy, communion
is administered by a single priest.
Among the recipients are several men of
mature years and respectable position; and
side by side with them, the poor and the
negroes. In the Church, there is no distinction
of race or color.

Father—appears, is unrobed, and
takes me to the gallery of the church, near
the organ. From this, I looked down upon a
sea of rich costumes of women, veiled heads,
and kneeling figures, literally covering the floor
of the church. On the marble pavement, the
little carpets are spread, and on these, as close
as they can sit or kneel, are the ladies of rank
and wealth of Havana. A new comer glides
in among them, seeking room for her carpet,
or room of charity or friendship on a carpet already
spread; and the kneelers or sitters move

and gather in their wide skirts to let her pass.
Here and there a servant in livery winds his
way behind his mistress, bearing her carpet,
and returns to the porch when it has been
spread. The whole floor is left to women.
The men gather about the walls and doorways,
or sit in the gallery, which is reserved
for them. But among the women, though
chiefly of rank and wealth, are some who are
negroes, usually distinguished by the plain
shawl, instead of the veil over the head. The
Countess Villanueva, immensely rich, of high
rank, and of a name great in the annals of
Cuba, but childless, and blind, and a widow, is
led in by the hand by her negro servant. The
service of the altar is performed with dignity
and reverence, and the singing, which is by the
Jesuit Brothers themselves, is admirable. In
the choir I recognized my new friends, the
Rector and young Father Cabre, the professor
of physics. The "Tantum ergo Sacramentum,"
which was sung kneeling, brought tears
into my eyes, and kept them there.

After service, Mr.—came to me, and
made an engagement to show me the benevolent

institutions on the Bishop's list, accepting
my invitation to breakfast at Le Grand's, at
eleven o'clock. At eleven he came, and after
a quiet breakfast in a side room, we went
to the house of Señor—, whom he well
knows, in the hope that he would go with
us. The Señor was engaged to meet one of
the Fathers at noon, and could not go, but
introduced to me a relative of his, a young
student of medicine in the University, who
offered to take me to the Presidio and other
places, the next day.

It occurred to us to call upon a young
American lady, who was residing at the house
of a Spanish lady of wealth and rank, and invite
her to go with us to see the Beneficencia,
which we thought she might do, as it is an
institution under the charge of nuns, and she
was to go with a Padre in full dress. But the
customs of the country are rigid. Miss—
was very desirous to go, but had doubts. She
consulted the lady of the house, who would
know, if any one could, the etiquette of Havana.
The Señora's reply was, "You are an
American, and may do anything." This settled

the matter in the negative, and we went
alone. Now we drive to Don Juan—'s.
The gate is closed. The driver, who is a
white, gets off and makes a feeble and timid
rap at the door. "Knock louder!" says my
friend, in Spanish. "What cowards they
are!" he adds to me. The man makes a
knock, a little louder. "There, see that!
Peeking into the keyhole! Mean! An Englishman
would beat the door down before he
would do that." Don Juan is in the country,
—so we fail of all our expected companions.

The Casa de Beneficencia is a large institution,
for orphan and destitute children,
for infirm old persons, and for the insane. It
is admirably situated, bordering on the open
sea, with fresh air and very good attention to
ventilation in the rooms. It is a government
institution, but is placed under charge of the
Sisters of Charity, one of whom accompanied
us about the building. Though called a government
institution, it must not be supposed
that it is a charity from the crown. On the
contrary, it is supported by a specific appropriation
of certain of the taxes and revenues

of the island. In the building, is a church
not yet finished, large enough for all the inmates,
and a quiet little private chapel for the
Sisters' devotions, where a burning lamp indicated
the presence of the Sacrament on the
small altar. I am sorry to have forgotten the
number of children. It was large, and included
both sexes, with a separate department
for each. In a third department, are
the insane. They are kindly treated and not
confined, except when violent; but the Sister
told us they had no medical treatment unless
in case of sickness. (Dr. Howe told me
that he was also so informed.) The last department
is for aged and indigent women.

One of the little orphans clung to the Sister
who accompanied us, holding her hand, and
nestling in her coarse but clean blue gown;
and when we took our leave, and I put a
small coin into her little soft hand, her eyes
brightened up into a pretty smile.

The number of the Sisters is not full. As
none have joined the order from Cuba, (I am
told literally none,) they are all from abroad,
chiefly from France and Spain; and having

acclimation to go through, with exposure to
yellow fever and cholera, many of those that
come here die in the first or second summer.
And yet they still come, in simple, religious
fidelity, under the shadow of death.

The Casa de Beneficencia must be pronounced
by all, even by those accustomed to
the system and order of the best charitable institutions
in the world, a credit to the island of
Cuba. The charity is large and liberal, and
the order and neatness of its administration
are beyond praise.

From the Beneficencia we drove to the Military
Hospital. This is a huge establishment,
designed to accommodate all the sick of the
army. The walls are high, the floors are of
brick and scrupulously clean, as are all things
under the charge of the Sisters of Charity;
and the ventilation is tolerable. The building
suffered from the explosion of the magazine
last year, and some quarters have not yet been
restored for occupation. The number of sick
soldiers now in hospital actually exceeds one
thousand! Most of them are young, some
mere lads, victims of the conscription of Old

Spain, which takes them from their rustic
homes in Andalusia and Catalonia and the
Pyrenees, to expose them to the tropical heats
of Cuba, and to the other dangers of its climate.
Most had fevers. We saw a few
cases of vomito. Notwithstanding all that is
said about the healthfulness of a winter in
Cuba, the experienced Sister Servant (which,
I believe, is the title of the Superior of a
body of Sisters of Charity) told us that a
few sporadic cases of yellow fever occur in
Havana, in all seasons of the year; but that
we need not fear to go through the wards.
One patient was covered with the blotches of
recent smallpox. It was affecting to see the
wistful eyes of these poor, fevered soldier-boys,
gazing on the serene, kind countenances
of the nuns, and thinking of their mothers
and sisters in the dear home in Old Spain,
and feeling, no doubt, that this womanly,
religious care was the nearest and best substitute.

The present number of Sisters, charged with
the entire care of this great hospital, except
the duty of cooks and the mere manual and

mechanic labor necessarily done by men, is
not above twenty-five. The Sister Servant
told us that the proper complement was forty.
The last summer, eleven of these devoted
women died of yellow fever. Every summer,
when yellow fever or cholera prevails, some
of them die. They know it. Yet the vacancies
are filled up; and their serene and ever
happy countenances give the stranger no indication
that they have bound themselves to
the bedside of contagious and loathsome diseases
every year, and to scenes of sickness
and death every day.

As we walked through the passage-ways,
we came upon the little private chapel of the
Sisters. Here was a scene I can never forget.
It was an hour assigned for prayer. All who
could leave the sick wards—not more than
twelve or fourteen—were kneeling in that perfectly
still, secluded, darkened room, in a
double row, all facing to the altar, on which
burned one taper, showing the presence of the
Sacrament, and all in silent prayer.—That
double row of silent, kneeling women, unconscious
of the presence of any one, in their

snow-white, close caps and long capes, and
coarse, clean, blue gowns,—heroines, if the
world ever had heroines, their angels beholding
the face of their Father in heaven, as they
knelt on earth!

It was affecting and yet almost amusing,—
it would have been amusing anywhere else,—
that these simple creatures, not knowing the
ways of the world, and desirous to have soft
music fill their room, as they knelt at silent
prayer, and not having (for their duties preclude
it) any skill in the practice of music, had
a large music-box wound and placed on a
stand, in the rear, giving out its liquid tones,
just loud enough to pervade the air, without
forcing attention. The effect was beautiful;
and yet the tunes were not all, nor chiefly,
religious. They were such as any music-box
would give. But what do these poor creatures
know of what the world marches to, or
dances to, or makes love by? To them it
was all music, and pure and holy!

Minute after minute we stood, waiting for,
but not desiring, an end of these delightful
sounds, and a dissolving of this spell of silent

adoration. One of the Sisters began prayers
aloud, a series of short prayers and adorations
and thanksgivings, to each of which, at its
close, the others made response in full, sweet
voices. The tone of prayer of this Sister was
just what it should be. No skill of art could
reach it. How much truer than the cathedral,
or the great ceremonial! It was low, yet
audible, composed, reverent: neither the familiar,
which offends so often, nor the rhetorical,
which always offends, but that unconscious
sustained intonation, not of speech, but of
music, which frequent devotions in company
with others naturally call out; showing us
that poetry and music, and not prose and
speech, are the natural expressions of the
deepest and highest emotions.

They rose, with the prayer of benediction,
and we withdrew. They separated, to station
themselves, one in each ward of the hospital,
there, aloud and standing, to repeat their
prayers,—the sick men raising themselves on
their elbows, or sitting in bed, or, if more
feeble, raising their eyes and clasping their
hands, and all who can or choose, joining in
the responses.