Kingsley described Havana as "the Western Abomination," so low was his opinion of the moral tone of its inhabitants. Whether his judgment was right or wrong, I dare not say, but I know enough to convince me that the average Havanese drawing-room can provide quite as much ill-natured gossip as any in London. Here, as elsewhere in Southern America, religion has become a mere affair of ceremony and outward observance, with little or no moral influence. I am assured that of late years there has been a considerable reaction, and that numerous missions have been preached by priests and friars, imported from Europe in the hope of exciting the zeal of the native clergy, which has very possibly been affected by the enervating influence of the climate. Be this as it may, the churches in Cuba are a never-failing source of interest, by reason of the quaint and everchanging scenes their interiors exhibit. In some of them the music is admirable in its way, although entirely of an operatic character. At the Merced there is a full orchestra, and the principal singers from the opera may often be heard at High Mass.
Church has always, in Latin countries, been the scene of a good deal of quiet flirtation, and I remember one Sunday morning, in the Cathedral of Havana, being initiated by a friend into the mysteries of fan language. We watched an extremely good-looking and richly apparelled young lady, who, after she had said her preliminary devotions, looked round her as if seeking somebody. Presently she opened her fan very wide, which, as the Cuban who was with us at the time assured us, meant "I see you." Then she half closed it; this indicated "Come and see me." Four fingers were next placed upon the upper half of the closed fan, signifying, "At half-past four." The fan was next dropped upon the floor, which, we were told, signified the fact that the lady would be alone. A Havanese lady, who is expert in this system of signalling, can talk by the hour with the help of her fan, and of a bunch of variously coloured flowers, each of which has some special meaning.
Amongst so pleasure-loving a people as the Cubans, public amusements hold a far more prominent place than they do in any of the United States, with, perhaps, the sole exception of New Orleans, and the carnival at Havana was at one time the most brilliant in the Americas. For many years, however, its glories have been declining, and during the last few decades the upper and middle classes have taken scant part in the festivities. I can remember, however, many years ago, seeing the famous ribbon dance performed by people of quality in the open streets. A gaily-dressed youth walked in front of the company, holding a pole, from which floated a number of coloured ribbons, which the various couples held in their hands, and threaded into a kind of plait as they moved gracefully round the leader of this al fresco cotillon. It was a very pretty sight to see hundreds of masqueraders parading the streets, engaged in this graceful pastime, and each band accompanied by a group of musicians. Throughout the carnival the negroes are allowed to mingle with the white population in all festivities, and even in the great gala procession of carriages, which passes round the gaily decorated city during three successive afternoons, the negroes' donkey tandems and brilliantly draped waggons are permitted to take their places among the equipages of their masters. The negroes formerly went about the streets masked and disguised, and as they formed one-third of the population, there was no lack of variety of costume, but neither bon-bons nor flower throwing had any place in this somewhat formal pageant. The Cubans evidently do not appreciate cut blossoms, for you rarely, if ever, see a bouquet in their houses, although their gardens simply blaze with every sort of flowers.
After sunset the revel begins in earnest. The negroes come out in their thousands, carrying lighted Chinese lanterns hanging from the top of bamboo poles. They shout and leap, and at every open space they dance to the sound of tom-toms and horns, their two chief musical instruments. All the theatres have a masked ball, that of the Tacon[14], which is the finest and largest theatre in the Southern Hemisphere, being exclusively devoted to the upper and middle classes. Here there is a great display of jewellery, the ladies, as in Italy, wearing the little loup mask and a domino, while most of the gentlemen are in evening dress. Of recent years, the ball at the Tacon has greatly diminished in gaiety and local colour. The usual European dances fill the entire programme, and there is very little difference between this veglione and any in Nice, Rome, or Naples.
At the "Payrete," an immense theatre near the Tacon, matters are quite otherwise, and the coloured element largely prevails. An outlandish orchestra, consisting of the usual horns and tom-toms, bangs a wild, savage melody, with a kind of irregular rhythm, marking time, but without the faintest vestige of tune. The couples stand and jig, facing each other,—occasionally in a manner which is better left undefined, but usually with a solemnity defying all description. Now and again the male dancers utter a piercing whoop, and the couples forthwith change sides. It is impossible to conceive that fun or amusement can be extracted from such a monotonous performance. But that these good people do find enjoyment in it cannot be questioned, since they frequently continue performing this dance, which is known as the "Cubana," for many hours at a stretch, without moving a yard from the spot where they began. Another popular dance is the Canga, a sort of slow waltz, which, when danced by the class which dances in public in Havana, is the most indecent spectacle conceivable. Meanwhile the barbaric orchestra bangs ever, making noise enough to raise the dead—tom-tom whack, tom-tom wick, tom-tom whoop—e da capo. It ends by maddening the European ear, and the onlooker is forced to bolt or risk an epileptic seizure, or some such misfortune. This weird carnival ball, as seen from a box, is one of the most singular sights imaginable, but the spectator must make up his mind to evil smells as well as noise—all the perfumes of Araby would not sweeten the theatre. The scenes in the brightly lighted streets outside struck me as infinitely preferable. The crowded cafés, before which groups of smartly dressed young negro mandolinists play, and very creditably, selections from popular operas, in the confident hope of being treated to ices, or something stronger, have a distinct and original charm. Punctually at twelve o'clock on Shrove Tuesday the cannon boomed from Morro Castle, announcing that King Carnival had just expired. On the morrow, the pious crowded the churches to receive the penitential ashes. Lent began in earnest, and was very rigorously kept, so far as the eating of flesh was concerned. An average Cuban negro would sooner take poison than a mouthful of meat on the abstinence days, although, I fear, his moral sense might easily be weighed and found wanting in other particulars.
The Cubans, notwithstanding their worship of the tom-tom and the horn, and the popularity of noisy music, possibly imported from Africa by the Congo slaves who swarm on the big plantations, are a very musical race. The Tacon opera-house, which can accommodate 5,000 persons, is, in its way, a very fine theatre, built in Italian fashion with tiers of boxes, one above another. They are separated by gilded lattices, so as to afford every possible means of ventilation. Round each tier of boxes is a sort of ambulatory or verandah, overlooking the great Square. The upper gallery is exclusively devoted to the coloured people, who, on a Sunday, fill it to suffocation. They are considered the most critical part of the audience, and their appreciation or disapproval is generally well founded, and liberally demonstrated. The first two rows of boxes belong to the aristocracy and wealthy merchants, and the display of jewellery on a gala night used to be quite amazing. The lower part of the house is divided into a pit and orchestra stalls. When crowded, the Tacon presents a really fine appearance. The stage is, I should say, as large as that at Covent Garden, and the operas are perfectly mounted and staged. A great peculiarity of this theatre is the orchestra, which is of almost unrivalled excellence, although at least one half of its performers are coloured, and some of them full-blooded negroes. I think I am correct in saying that on several occasions the conductor himself has been a coloured gentleman. Two of the very best performances of Aïda (with Campanini and Volpini) I ever enjoyed, I saw at the Tacon, where some of the greatest vocalists of the present century have appeared, including Malibran, Grisi, Mario, Alboni, Tedesco, Patti, Nilsson, Nevada and Guerrabella (Miss Genevieve Ward). I have seen it stated that Mme. Adelina Patti made her début in the Filarmonia of Havana. This is an error. This theatre is at Santiago, and it was there the fascinating prima donna won her first laurels. Her mother and father, Signor and Signora Barili Patti, both of them singers of the first rank, made, if I am not misinformed, their last appearance on the stage at the Tacon theatre. The Cubans do not care for the Spanish national drama. They prefer adaptations from the French and Italian; and Havana, unlike Mexico, has not produced a single dramatist of note. Spanish companies come every year from Madrid, but they are rarely well patronised. On the other hand, Ristori, Salvini, Duse, and Sarah Bernhardt have received almost divine honours in the Cuban capital.
One night I dropped into the Torrecillas, a little fourth-rate house, and on going to the box-office to pay for my seat, to my utter astonishment I found the employee absent, although the theatre was open, and a crowd thronging in to attend a gratuitous rehearsal of a piece which was to be performed on the following evening for money. The house was dimly lighted. The orchestra consisted of a piano, and the back scene was formed of odds and ends of scenery jumbled together in the funniest confusion. A stoutish young fellow, a sort of Sancho Panza, was rehearsing the company, the ladies of which lounged about in various parts of the house, smoking incessant cigarettes. The play was one of the kind known in Spain as a "Zarzuela," or farce. The plot was simple enough, dealing with the adventures of a runaway negro, who tried to become manager of a strolling troupe of players. The fun consisted in admirable delineation of each character, and the spirited acting. One scene, representing the appearance of the troupe at Mocha, a country village, was irresistibly droll. Some of the actors went down among the audience, pretending to be country spectators, and cracked excellent jokes at the expense of the troupe on the topics of the day, and popular abuses in general. In the last scene the national "Garacha" was admirably danced. It is as objectionable, in itself, as the "Cubana," but it was quite transformed by the grace of the artists.
The bull-ring and the cock-pit are still national institutions throughout Cuba. Each city has its ring and its cock-pit. I drove out one Sunday to the "Galleria," as it is called, at the corner of the Calle Manuel, in a rather low quarter of Havana. I found a motley assembly of beggars, cake-vendors, and negroes, hanging about the entry and the box office, if so I may call it, which was neat and smart enough for a metropolitan theatre. The price of admission to the best seats was only two shillings. Passing a bar, before which a noisy crowd was drinking gin and aguardiente, blaspheming and quarrelling, I found myself in the "Galleria," which is of circular form built of open wood-work, exactly like two large round hen-coops placed one on top of another. There were four galleries, with several rows of chairs, thronged by an excited betting crowd, which included the usual proportion of negroes, but no women. As I entered, a fight had just come to a close, and the noise was deafening. Everybody was shouting and gesticulating at once. In a few moments the bell rang, and comparative silence ensued. The ring was cleared, and two men appeared in the centre, each holding a beautiful bird in his hands. The Cuban breed of cocks, although small, is remarkably well-proportioned and elegant. I am no expert in cock-fighting and will simply jot down my impressions of the combat. At first I found it interesting enough, but, by and by, when the stronger bird crippled its antagonist, the poor, bleeding creature was artificially excited to continue the battle to the bitter end, by being "restored" with spoonfuls of Santa Cruz rum blown in a spray from the mouth of its owner over its head, and the sight grew simply disgusting. I was relieved when it was all over, and the poor, beautiful bird lay dead. The audience interested me far more than the fight. The people around me were so absorbed in the death struggle that some faces grew ashen pale, others flushed, their eyes rolled, they roared, they bellowed, and they pantomimed from the lower to the upper galleries. Doré alone could have done justice to the scene, but, picturesque though it was, it was a degrading exhibition of cruelty and base passion. The upper classes, I am glad to say, have long ceased to frequent the "Galleria," and some of the best houses have even closed their doors to young men known to be frequenters of these cock-pits. I did not see a bull-fight while I was in Cuba. They were, I suppose, not in season, otherwise they are as frequent and as popular there as in Spain and the south of France. They are conducted in exactly the same ceremonious and pageantic manner as in Spain, and almost as magnificently, and, needless to say, they are as bloody, if not more so, and quite as demoralizing. If it were not hypocrisy on the part of an Englishman in these days of "general bookmaking," when the "special," announcing the names of the "winners," is more eagerly bought up than any containing political news of the highest importance, I might descant on the immorality of the Cuban weekly lottery. Everybody is interested in it, and I am assured it is "a curse" to the country. Doubtless it is so, and so, indeed, are our own "winners." Gambling in some shape or other seems inherent in the human race, and I cannot see much difference between the Havanese lottery and our own racecourse. Both are equally dangerous to those who cannot afford to bet. In Cuba the wretched negro starves himself to put his last penny on some favourite number, and in London the bootblack goes without his dinner in the hope of doubling the "winner."
CHAPTER VII.
Matanzas.
