On the Mexican Highlands, with a Passing Glimpse of Cuba

It was late Monday evening when we set sail from Progresso. All day long we were discharging cargo into the lighters, which swarmed around us, while after the passengers and cargo departed larger vessels brought out bales of heniquen, which were quickly stowed below.

Among the passengers who left the ship, were several Americans. One, a large, redheaded, heavy-set man, with genial face and friendly manner, from Mississippi, was a timberman, out buying mahogany in the forests of Yucatan. He told me that Americans are purchasing all the available mahogany now standing in the accessible Mexican forests, and he seemed to regard the mahogany of Yucatan as of especial value. Another of the passengers leaving the ship was a man of small stature and clean shaven. He early attracted our attention by his sanctimonious air, and the frightfully fluent American oaths with which he spiced his games of poker in the smoking room, where in company with a group of flashily dressed and bediamonded Mexicans, he played apparently for the highest stakes. The contrast between his smooth exterior and the noisome contents of his mind, as well as the fact that the two or three hard-faced Mexicans who seemed to have in charge the company of little boys, constantly sought him out in consultation, led to the suspicion that he was the chief trafficker in this death trade. In response to our questioning as to his antecedents and business, he became abusive, and upon my taking his picture with my kodak, he grew angry and afterwards fought shy of all intercourse with his fellow-countrymen. As to who he may really be we know not. When the little boys departed from the ship, we noticed that he also sailed away.

The sun was just sinking, like a ball of fire, into the margin of the western sea, when we weighed anchor and steamed eastward to cross the Strait of Yucatan. The surface of the waters lay calm and quiet as a sheet of glass. We were two nights and a day in reaching Havana, and the one day was spent in crossing the Strait.

Most of the afternoon I have sat or lain upon the forward deck watching the waters and observing the sea life everywhere about me. We have passed innumerable flocks of flying fish. Here and there a few porpoises have tumbled and wheeled about us, but the sharks have disappeared. Also, I have caught sight of my first nautilus, so daintily sailing its convoluted shallop upon the sea. These exquisite shell-fish I have never before seen alive, and I have watched them with keenest interest. They appear only when perfect calm prevails. At the least roughness of the sea, they instantly sink from view. We have also all day been passing through extensive masses of yellow gulf weed, such as I have noticed when traversing the Gulf Stream on transatlantic voyages, only here the weed was in great masses, not yet having been broken up by the tempestuous ocean tides. But we have been accompanied by no birds.

As we drew further eastward the air grew more soft and balmy. We were utterly alone, no craft other than our own appeared anywhere upon the waters.

I fell asleep watching the big stars and dreaming of Spanish galleons and British buccaneers, of Portuguese pirates and French marauders, whose adventurous sails have in the centuries gone by whitened in countless multitudes these now silent seas.

When morning broke, the shores of Cuba bounded the horizon on the south, ten or fifteen miles away. Low sandy reaches stretched along the sea; palms, tall and feathery, were waving in the morning breeze behind the white ribbon of the strand, a faint blue line of mountains lying yet beyond. As we approached the island there seemed to be no break in the coast line, but farther on we discovered a narrow channel, between the fortress of El Moro and the city of Havana and, entering it, came into a harbor, landlocked and storm free, one of the securest in the world. We cast anchor near the projecting rusted wreck of the United States Steamship Maine. I had finished my voyage. I was here to go ashore, while a few hours later the Monterey would turn northward and sail on to New York.

XX

The City of “Habana” – Incidents of a Day’s Sojourn in the Cuban Capital

Habana, Cuba,December 5th.

“Habana,” says the Cuban and Spanish mouth, and the b is so gently uttered that you cannot tell it from a v.

Yesterday morning, Tuesday, we cast anchor beneath the ramparts of the great fortress of La Cabaña (Cabanya) in the wide landlocked bay; many other ships swung to their moorings in the quiet waters, among these the battleship Massachusetts and two cruisers, Kentucky and Kearsarge, of the navy of the United States.

The harbor of Habana, you will remember, is a mile or more wide and nine or ten miles long, capable of accommodating an extensive shipping. Now, since it has been dredged and cleaned of the accumulated filth of centuries, the largest boats may come up to the docks and sea wall along the city’s marge. The larger vessels, however, just as at Vera Cruz, still prefer to anchor out in the bay, and send passengers and freight ashore by means of tugs and lighters.

We were scarcely moored, when a multitude of small boats surrounded us, all apparently offering to ferry us to the city. We ignored their clamor and clambered aboard the large steam tug to which our baggage was also transferred, and were quickly landed at the customshouse.

My two steamer trunks and big basket of Mexican pottery I left in care of the customs officers, and came up into the city with only a valise. The customshouse is a long, low, stone building, with an iron fence shutting it in and enclosing also an extensive paved storage yard. The Cuban officers, who were very polite, are yet under the military control of the United States and of General Wood, and they all spoke English fluently.

Passing out through the great iron gates, we signalled for a cochero, when half a dozen galloped up gesticulating and vociferating eagerly. We choose the cleanest-looking cocha of the lot, a curious ancient vehicle, which seemed to be a cross between the German fiacre and a Parisian voiture. Into this three of us climbed, when we set off on a gallop through narrow streets up into the city, halting at last before the Spanish-kept Hotel Pasaje. It is big and airy, and I have a room at the top where I can catch any breeze which may be blowing. The floor of my chamber is tiled; it is fitted with an iron bedstead with wire mattress, and neat American cottage furniture. An electric incandescent lamp dangles from the ceiling, and there are two large sashless windows with slatted Venetian curtains which may be let down to shut out wind and light. My first view of Habana was from one of these windows. I looked out over a city of flat roofs, where much domestic labor was carried on, and then beyond, across the palm-ornamented plaza and along the beautiful Prado to the sea.

My first commercial transaction was the purchase of really fine cigars at a most reasonable figure; and then a packet of postal cards illustrated with views of Cuba. Down in the corner of each card was the legend, “Made in Detroit.” When I called the attention of the Spanish salesman to this fact, he declared “there is no such place as Detroit,” and “undoubtedly the words are the name of the Spanish artist who designed the cards!”

Leaving the hotel, I sauntered toward the Plaza Grande, an open square of several acres, traversed by gravel walks, and shaded by many Royal and other graceful palms; and then crossing it I came to the Prado. “Muy bonita esta el Prado,” (very lovely is the Prado), is the common phrase of every Habanista; and rightfully are the Habanese proud of their splendid parklike boulevard.

Habana is built upon a low, broad-topped hill, which descends gently to the water side. On the flattened crest of this hill is the Plaza Grande, and from the Plaza down to the sea, a mile or two in length, stretches the Prado; – a wide boulevard on either side of a broad green strip of park, where a walk-way passes beneath a double row of ancient and umbrageous trees, and comfortable seats are placed at intervals.

It is on the Prado that the fashion and beauty of Habana drives and promenades and lingers to see and be seen of all the world. Along its borders, on either hand, are built many of the noblest mansions of her merchant and planter magnates. To have a residence upon the Prado is to command respect.

The Spaniard and Cuban cared little for his streets, but he devoted himself with lavish attention to beautifying the interior of his home. Hence, in the Cuban as in the Mexican cities, you often pass along between bare uninteresting walls, while the costliest marbles, the richest fabrics, the rarest paintings within, quite hidden from all curious eyes, may be collected.

Later in the day I wandered through the shopping districts along the famous Calles Obispo and O’Rielly, streets so narrow that during the heat of the day they are wholly overspread with awnings while wheel traffic must go down O’Rielly and up Obispo. Here are gathered in plain unpretentious buildings many sumptuous shops. The Cuban has not yet learned the art of window display; he is not up even to the Mexican in that. But once you are within and know what to ask for, beautiful fabrics and expensive goods are shown you without stint. Among other shops, the hat store holds an important place in Cuban as well as Mexican life. In Mexico, the sombrero, costly or cheap, marks the social status of the wearer and, just so, here in Cuba the quality of your panama determines the amount of consideration which you receive. I entered the Hotel Pasaje wearing a modern American felt hat, and when I bloomed out in a really good panama, the clerks and servants treated me with markedly increased respect. In the same way, when you enter a shop, the clerk sizes up your hat and treats you accordingly.

A noteworthy thing about Habana is the great number of cigar stores. No city in the world possesses so many. Nor are the cigars there purchased to be surpassed. Every one smokes cigars in Habana. The cigarette holds the inferior place. The men smoke cigars; the boys smoke cigars; even many of the women smoke cigars. In Mexico, in the hotels and railway cars, the ladies were usually smoking cigarettes. Here in Habana delicate feminine lips close tenderly upon el segaro.

There is also much fruit sold at little stands along the street curbs and at the corners, but in nothing like the quantity or profusion seen in the Mexican cities, nor have I met any dulce boys with trays of candied fruits upon their heads.

There are two chief markets in Habana; one is by the water side, where the fishermen come and where I was greatly interested. There were the splendid red-snapper– which I saw in the markets of Mexico fresh from the sea, – a large handsome fish of deep-red color, weighing five or six pounds; and multitudes of sorts I did not know. The other, a large market where flowers and fruits and vegetables are sold is on the hill a mile or two from the sea.

The vegetable gardens in the outskirts of the city, are in the hands of the Chinese, who bring the vegetables to the markets where they are sold by the Cubans. They work the gardens just as they would in Shanghai, in Canton, in Pekin; they have come over from China direct; they already control the greengrocer trade of Habana, and are said to be fast growing rich.

The markets are neither so large, nor so abundantly supplied as those of Mexico City, where the fruits and vegetables of the temperate highlands, and also those of the tropics are offered in the same stall.

It was the day before Christmas when I visited the larger market, and the chief interest of the buyers seemed to be centered in the display of live and suckling pigs. It is the custom of the Cuban to celebrate his Christmas with a royal banquet of roast pig. So the housewife selects a “live and squealing dinner,” ties him together by his four legs and with a cord slung across her shoulder, carries him home, lustily vociferating beneath her arm. I saw few pigs in Mexico, only an occasional hog or shoat, lean and wild, scampering along the wayside in Michoacan; but here, in Cuba, the pig is el gran Señor.

The crowds gathering in these markets were in strong contrast to those of Mexico. Here, were none of the warm brown Indian tints, but instead the yellow mulatto and the very dark Spaniard or negro. The curious thing about these Cuban crowds is that the Spanish mulatto, instead of carrying the white man’s color with the negro’s features, bears, on the contrary, the white man’s features with the darker color of his African blood, and hence, the impression created by a Cuban crowd is rather that of men having Caucasian features shaded in color from the paler to the darker hues. It is also said, that many of the darker faces have in them no negro blood at all, but are those of the descendants of the ancient Moors, who, once the lords of old Spain, have left as legacy a proud lineage and swarthy skin. To the unpracticed eye, it is almost impossible to distinguish between the Spanish negro and the “Black Spaniard.” Thus in Cuba the color line of race distinction, as drawn in the United States, becomes almost impossible. Nor does it exist. Men of all shades mingle and mix in social functions, for who can tell whether the dark face is shaded by the infused blood of the lowly negro or the haughty Moor?

In the late afternoon I took my way down along the Prado, and, stopping before No. 55, touched an electric bell. The door opened and I entered a spacious patio; on one side stood a modern automobile, – on the other, pots of flowering plants, and I entered a large and airy drawing room.

I might have been in my own country, for it bore the marks of modern taste. It was the drawing room of Señora – who as Miss – , I had known and admired in the United States. She expressed delight at seeing me, greeting me with the cordiality of an old friend. She at once insisted that I accompany her that evening to Mrs. General Wood’s private box at the dinner to be given by the citizens of Havana to the United States naval officers now here with the squadron. The dinner was to be held in the Opera House. It would be the most notable function of the year; all that was distinguished in Cuban, Spanish, and American social, military and naval life would be there assembled. I was a passing traveler, and my white duck trousers and blue flannel coat were scarcely the costume to wear among so brilliant a company; but it was the best I had and what better could I do than accept? My hostess’ husband, as one of the receiving committee, must be separated from her and my escort would stand her in good stead.

A few hours later we were ushered into the big theater, and shown with much ceremony to the private box of the wife of Cuba’s Military Governor. Here were gathered Mrs. Wood herself, the wife of Admiral Converse, and the ladies of their entourage. The scene was splendid. The spacious Opera House, built by the Spaniards with their appreciation of pomp and ceremony and brilliant functions, was filled with a distinguished assemblage; from floor to lofty roof were tiers of boxes, and these boxes were occupied with the beauty and fashion of Cuba. The great parquet of the theater was floored over and upon this space were set long tables. The dinner had already some time ago begun. The company there gathered were nearing the hour when toasts are offered. Young Señor Garcia, son of the Cuban General, was Toast Master of the occasion. On his right sat General Wood; upon his left the Archbishop of Santiago, in rich and gorgeous robes, the first native Cuban priest to reach that high dignity. The American naval and military officers were in full dress uniform, and the Cuban Generals were brilliant in warlike trappings and gold lace. The civilians wore dress suits, and I was conspicuous as the only guest of the evening in white duck and blue flannel.

The speeches were in Spanish and English, and great enthusiasm and good fellowship prevailed. In the course of the evening, most of the gentlemen present came to pay their respects to the wife of Cuba’s Governor, and I had the good fortune to be introduced to the greater part of them.

The sentiment between the Cubans and the Americans is now most cordial, or, perhaps I should say, between the governing and more cultivated Cubans and ourselves; for among those whose knowledge of the United States is gathered chiefly from contact with a soldiery, not altogether courteous in enforcing order, there is little good feeling, but rather a sense of sharp antagonism, which, though usually suppressed, nevertheless now and then crops out.

After the dinner and the closing of the function, I wandered out beneath the stars along the Prado and through the Plaza Grande to my hotel. The streets were yet alive with people, although it was late. In the great square the band had not finished its nightly concert, and the chairs which, in Havana as in Mexico, are rented to the public, were yet well-filled with those who lingered to enjoy the music and the cool night air.

Continuing my way homeward, I caught the distant hum of voices and an occasional shout. The sounds grew nearer. Looking down the Prado, I beheld many moving lights. Then a band began to play. A procession was approaching. I paused to watch. First came a band, men in smart uniforms; following these were men on horseback, some in uniform, some in civilian dress. Then came several other bands, and men and boys on foot carrying banners and lanterns and illuminations. A multitude was marching through the streets. Every now and then they shouted the name “Masso, Masso,” and broke into vivas and bravos. At the Hotel Pasaje they halted and renewed their cheers and cries, the wide street becoming packed with the pressing mob, a cheering crowd, mostly dark-faced. The procession was a demonstration in behalf of Masso by the followers of the “Massoista” party. He is the candidate they would elect to the Presidency of the Cuban Republic in opposition to Estrada Palma.

On the afternoon of the following day, I was riding on the tramway in company with a friend, toward the suburbs on the hill, when a tall and courtly Cuban came toward us. He took a seat next to my friend and after a few moments’ conversation, turned to me and said in perfect English that he had noticed me the night before in the box of “Señora General Wood,” and, “that he had remarked me for a stranger in Habana.” He said that he was shortly to leave the car, and asked whether we would not like to visit an old Cuban mansion, in order to see how people in Cuba lived in the style of the old regime.

Knowing the gracious manner of compliment habitual among the Spanish peoples, I was going to thank him for the proffered courtesy and decline; but my American friend, to my surprise, promptly accepted the invitation. We left the car in company with our guide, Señor – , who belongs to one of the oldest Cuban families of French descent, – and is a lawyer of distinction.

We approached a stately residence built of white marble, a series of high marble pillars before a marble portico running along the front. We passed through a small gate within a larger one in a high, wrought iron fence, through a small glazed door in a large doorway and came into a high, wide drawing room, extending across the front of the house. All was white marble, – the floors, the wainscoting, the doorways; – there was no woodwork anywhere. Handsome rugs lay upon the floor and French rattan furniture of easy shapes was scattered about the room. At one side we entered another lofty chamber, similarly floored and wainscoted, used as a ladies’ boudoir, and thence passed out across a wide piazza, into a beautiful and well-kept Spanish garden. The walks were carefully laid out, the beds were full of blooming plants – there were many palms of different varieties, and a marble bath house with running water and a large swimming pool. Beyond the flower garden, we entered a vegetable garden, close to which stood a commodious stable; then returning to the house El Señor asked whether we would like also to see the kitchen. We were shown into a big square room, in the center of which stood an octagonal blue-tiled “stove,” about ten feet across at the top, and four feet high, a sort of porcelain table, containing many niches wherein to build small charcoal fires, a single fire to cook each separate dish. An old negro servant, a freed slave, was preparing the evening meal. We next entered the large dining room, with old mahogany furniture, a long table for banquets, and at one side a small table already set for the evening meal. There was much handsome silver and cut glass upon the high, old-fashioned mahogany sideboard. From the dining room we passed into a library, the shelves filled with French and Spanish and German and English books. Here the father of my host, an eminent judge, had gathered about him much of the world’s choicest literature. Then we came out into the wide patio, square and open to the sky, a fountain playing in the middle, and many potted palms and flowering plants set round about. The great house was of one story, and all rooms opened upon the central court. None of the windows were sashed with glass, and Venetian blinds kept out the light and too much air.

Here, in this sumptuous home lived for half a century one of the distinguished families of Havana; here now were living the grandchildren of those who built it.

Our host then led us up to the wide flat roof, whence stretched out before us a panorama of the city, the bay and the open sea.

My friend, who had long lived in Havana, holding a prominent post in government employ, had never before enjoyed the privilege of inspecting so beautiful a Cuban home. As we parted that evening he turned to me and said, “Perhaps the white duck trousers and blue flannel coat, which were so conspicuous last night in the box of Cuba’s Governor General, are to be thanked for this opportunity now come to both of us.” El Señor had been pleased to show a courtesy to the guest of the first lady of the Island.

Neither the great cathedral of Havana, nor any of her churches, nor the honored chapel where Columbus’ bones are supposed to have lain, nor any of her public buildings, not even the “Palace” of the Spanish Captain Generals, are of so striking and splendid architecture as one sees generally in Mexico. The allurement and dazzling fame of the Empire of Montezuma attracted thither all that was daring and forceful and brilliant in old Spain. Even the wonders of Cuba and the Antilles paled before the tales of fabulous wealth and treasure of the conquest of Cortez. The noble churches and architecture of Mexico have no rivals among the Cuban cities. Nor is there among the Cubans that picturesqueness in garb, that striking brilliancy of coloring, which one sees upon the streets of the Mexican cities. In Cuba you see no scarlet and green and blue zerapes; no purple and blue and pink rebozos; no rancherros and caballeros in velvet jackets and tight-fitting trousers, laced and spangled and buttoned with threads of silver and gold; none of the splendor in coloring and dress of the sixteenth century, which still clings to the street scene in Mexico. Cuba in its outward aspects is distinctly, unromantically modern. The black coat is de rigueur; the black hat or the panama is the only covering for the head, and even conventional millinery has begun to drive away the graceful mantilla from the brows of las señoras. There is no poetry, no artistic coloring in the life scheme of the Cuban. His face and movements lack the vivacity and alertness inspired by the keen, quickening air of the Mexican Highlands. Even the clothes he wears and the way he wears them bespeak the heavy, sea level atmosphere he breathes. Nor has the language of the Cuban preserved the ancient grace and forcefulness which distinguish the almost classic Spanish of the Mexican. The Spanish spoken in Cuba has added to its vocabulary a multitude of words from the French and English of its neighbors, and from the provincial patois of the formerly numerous Spanish soldiery.

Another time we rode out to the attractive suburbs of Vendado, where are many fine houses and extensive gardens, the greater part of them built in the old Spanish style, but some of the newer buildings after the fashion of modern American architecture. These last are less attractive than those which the Spaniard has evolved from his centuries of living in the latitudes of the tropics.