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-à-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 Elyseés, 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.