tion>Anonymous
Rambles in Cuba
Published by Good Press, 2021
EAN 4064066169640
Table of Contents
In the Tropics—First View of Havana—Entering the Bay—Surrounded—Landed—A Street in Havana—“Queen’s Hotel”—A Breakfast—The Harbor—The Coolies—The Plaza de Armas—Cuban Women—A Volante—Fine Avenues—A Priest—Shopping.
Havana, March 1, 18—.
I was not disenchanted. A mist had possessed, like a dream, the blue quiet of the entire bay, half dissolving its masts and sails, softening the picturesque battlements of Morro Castle, throwing over the walls, domes, and spires of the city an air of hoary distance so complete that I half fancied those solitary palm-trees waved their arms over some city half-buried in the mirage of deserts, or the pages of some mediæval romance.
But the dream departs, and so must we. Stirring music from the two men-of-war lying at anchor unite with the first sounds from the long, low barracks close by, and with the signal guns from the Morro, to say that the sun is risen, and consequently we may go on shore.
First comes the pilot,—a stout Spaniard in supernaturally white trousers and inexplicably thick overcoat. He sits under the awning of his boat, and is rowed by twelve bronze, attenuated creoles, dressed in wide-mouthed jackets, bare feet, much hair,—a few wearing turbans.
The steps are lowered; the pilot comes on deck, says good-morning to the captain, in dislocated English, and goes forward to his duty.
We make the difficult entrance of the bay, to find ourselves assailed by every species of small craft. All have awnings, are rowed by negroes, black to hyperbole (B—— says coal would make a white mark on them), or by coolies, or creoles; and all are importuning us, with frantic gestures, imploring or menacing looks, bad Spanish or worse English, to let them carry us ashore.
Here come boats laden with oranges, or shells, corals, and sponges for sale; there a pocket edition of a steamboat brings the health-officer,—without whose inspection no one can come here, even for his health,—and presently a more elegantly ornamented boat, with oarsmen in livery, brings the Captain-General’s aid-de-camp, dressed as if freshly emerged from a Paris bandbox, and anxiously inquiring if there is news from Spain. Captain —— replies that there is a victory over the Moors, and that he brings important dispatches from the Spanish minister at Washington, which he must deliver in person. Therewith he accompanies the officer to the Government House, the bundle of documents under his arm.
Meanwhile the passengers are in great perplexity what hotel to go to, and I am beginning to feel that sense of desolation and isolation so natural to a stranger in a strange land, when B—— appears, bringing a gentleman with a kindly English face, and introduces Mr. S——. At once we are at home and in safe hands. His boat waits for us. In five minutes we are in the Custom House to get a permit in exchange for our passports (for both an enormous fee is demanded), and to await the luggage. This is soon ranged on great tables before us; all the trunks are opened at once; travellers, servants, Spaniards, negroes, anybody, as well as the officials, can critically inspect the mysteries of ladies’ linen and laces.
The hotel being distant but a block, we walk in the street. A Cuban lady would as soon think of walking a rope, and would do it as well.
Do not figure to yourself Broadway: when I talk of a street in Havana, I mean a fissure; an opening, in extremely straitened circumstances, between two stone walls, which the Cubans, being diminutive people, are able to get through. The sidewalks are in proportion. By dint of cautious and careful attention to the exigencies of my centre of gravity, I was able much of the time to get a foothold on the outer edge of them, while my crinoline, repulsed by the wall on one side, attracted in self-defence Mr. S——, who walked down in the street on the other.
We have not even time to glance at the inconceivable novelties on every hand, for “Queen’s Hotel”, the first English sign we have seen, is here over the arched gateway. We walk through an open passage leading to the court, and up the marble steps to an elegant saloon. This hotel, like every other in the city, is overflowing; so we are obliged to take, for a few days, “the room behind the curtain;” that is, one end of the parlor, with only a calico wall between our prospective sleep and the rows—not groups—of English, Irish, French, but mostly American guests. I say rows, because the chairs here are always placed in two straight lines in front of the long open windows, thus bringing their occupants in a perpetual vis-à-vis.
Meantime, Creole and negro waiters are bringing in breakfast to the adjoining room, which, is partitioned from the airy courtyard only by high arches and pillars. Every thing looks temptingly fresh and clean,—quite the reverse of all we have heard of the filth and bad cooking of Cuba. Fried fruits in great variety, numerous mosaics from the animal, vegetable, and I know not what kingdoms of nature, of which I can only remember the name picadille, vary the bill of fare. Café au lait comes in after breakfast is over.
Night.—All day guns have been firing, flags flying from balconies, windows, and housetops, and endless preparations for a grand illumination to-night in honor of the victory.
This afternoon we took the steam ferry across the bay, to get a view
