From flag to flag

The new, unfamiliar, and ever-varying street sights were an unfailing source of entertainment. The bulk of commercial business is transacted in the early morning. Clattering volantes, carrying merchants and bankers from princely homes around us to city offices, were the earliest sounds. Then followed a succession of peripatetic venders all day long. The milkman, with one poor little cow and straggling, muzzled calf, was our first visitor. In response to his shrill call, “Lêché,” Martha ran out and watched the dexterity in milking so as to overflow the cup with foam that subsided long before he turned the corner, revealing very little milk for a real.

The vegetable, fruit, and poultry men, with various jingling harness-bells, discordant cries or whistles, seemed to pass in an endless procession, with long lines of heavily laded ponies, the head of each tied to the closely plaited tail of its leader, the foremost one mounted by a guajiro (native peasant), his shirt worn outside the pantaloons, and belt ornamented with a broad knife. Poultry, generally tied by the feet in great bunches and thrown across the pony’s back, or attached to various parts of the saddle, dangled in a distressing condition until a purchaser was found; when released, it was often hours before they could stand. Sometimes the ponies were laded with meloja—young stalks of green corn, that had been sown broadcast—and one only saw great heaps of green, with the tips of the ears, switch of the tail, and stumbling feet of the weary animal visible. The water of the city, conducted from house to house in pipes, was so foul that even the poorest families denied themselves other necessaries to afford drinking-water brought from the springs at Marianao, nine miles distant, and carted in ten-gallon kegs all over the city. We paid a doubloon ($4.25) a month for it, delivered to us tri-weekly in those kegs. About noon, dulceros, with tinkling triangles or shrill calls, that always attracted children and servants, passed with large trays deftly poised on their heads, bearing little bowls and cups of freshly made sweetmeats, preserved guavas and mammees, grated cocoanut stewed in sugar, and a very delicious custard made with cocoanut-milk, besides various other fruit-preparations. Families daily supplied themselves with dessert from these dulceros, who walked the streets with their wares exposed, oblivious of sun or dust.

Volantes were generally kept inside the houses, and the horses stabled next to the kitchen. I have dined in elegant houses in Havana where as many as four vehicles were ranged against the dining-room walls, and the noise of stamping hoofs could be distinctly heard. In the cool of the evening, volantes and victorias sallied out of the houses. The fair occupants in full evening costume, already seated, their trailing robes, of brilliant colors and light, gauzy material, arranged to float outside the open vehicles, with shoulders and arms bare, and raven locks crowned with flowers, among which were tiny birds mounted on quivering wires, made a display of striking and unusual elegance. The coachman in full livery, silver-laced jacket, silver-buckled shoes, and immense spurs of the same metal, the horses prancing under the weight and jingle of silver-mounted harness and light chains, all proceeded in gay trot to join the endless procession that made the paseo in Havana the most animated and bewitching sight imaginable in those affluent days of Cuba.

At night, doors and windows of houses were flung wide open, showing a vista of rooms, from the brilliantly lighted salon through bedroom after bedroom, until the line of view vanished at the kitchen; bright lamps swung from all the ceilings, even that of the veranda; and in long rows of rocking-chairs, in never-ceasing motion, the señoras gayly chatted and sipped ices; while idle strollers in the streets paused to admire and audibly comment upon the elegant ladies or listen to the light nothings that were being uttered with so much spirit and gesture.

I never knew when the shops in Havana closed, nor when they opened their doors, nor saw them with all the shutters up, even on Sunday—except during the last three days of holy week, when business of every nature is entirely suspended. Returning after midnight from opera or ball, one found every store brilliantly lighted and thronged with jostling crowds. In the hot days, two or three hours’ shopping before breakfast was not unusual. The same men stood behind the counters day and night, many in their shirt-sleeves and smoking; though the most overworked human beings in existence, they always appeared fresh, and were exceedingly amiable and accommodating, even to the extent of leaving their own counters and accompanying strangers to other stores to act as interpreters. The leading merchants had men in their employ who spoke both French and English.

The Havana señoras generally made purchases from samples sent to their houses; if they visited the shops at all, it was after early morning mass, or the evening drive on the paseo, when goods were brought to the volante for their inspection. They were quite as critical as any other shoppers; so the obliging merchant often brought to the narrow side-walk, where there was scarcely room for a person to pass, roll after roll of elegant goods, and patiently waited while the ladies with calm complacency examined them.

At Miro y Otero’s (our grocers) I often found the whole establishment at breakfast. A long table was spread down the middle of the store, the members of the firm and every employé, including the porters and cartmen, were seated around the board; if a customer entered, some one would rise, wait upon him, and then resume breakfast. There were no dining-rooms or lunch-counters where business men and clerks “stepped out” at meal-times. In offices, ware-rooms, banks, commercial houses, and stores, meals were served to all employés. Numberless little bodegas, and cheap, dirty shops were scattered about the purlieus and back streets, where white and colored laborers side by side ate fried fish or garlic stew, and drank aguadiente (native rum) or red wine. In some of the bodegas of the lower order asses were kept tied to the counter, to be milked on the spot, for invalids and people of delicate digestion. The coffee served at these very bodegas was rich and delicious. Often after we moved to the country and visited Havana, I fortified myself for the early start home on the train, at one of these places, with a cup of coffee, “fit for the gods,” and a sovereign preventive of headache so sure to follow three hours’ ride in a close car filled with tobacco-smoke. Smoking is so universal that every car is a “smoking-car.”

All Saturday the streets were thronged with beggars, many of them dirty, diseased, deformed, and repulsive; a few, healthy in appearance and handsomely attired, were followed by attendants carrying bags to receive alms. They visited shops, and were invariably rewarded with contributions mostly of small wares, a spool of thread or cheap handkerchief. One mendicant, with his license conspicuously exposed (all beggars in Havana are licensed), passed frequently up our street ringing a small bell. Servants came out from the various houses, and, by giving him a piece of money, had the privilege of kissing a blest but dirty picture that hung on his breast. I was frequently surprised by a call at my veranda-window, from an elegantly dressed lady, her flowing train, of fine linen lawn, decorated with elaborately fluted rufflings, and her stylishly dressed hair partly concealed by a scarf of rich Spanish lace. I was utterly at a loss to understand a rapid formula she repeated in a low, musical voice. To my perplexed look and shake of the head, she always bowed and gracefully moved away—only to return and repeat the performance the following week. Subsequently I learned she was a licensed mendicant. Every Saturday—the only day they were allowed to ply their calling—she was in the habit of leaving her two nicely dressed little boys at the house of a count on the cerro, and begging.

In the courts of many aristocratic and wealthy houses, food was distributed in generous quantities to all who applied, and even comfortable seats were provided for those who desired to rest while they ate. This was generally done in fulfillment of a vow made to the Virgin or a saint in time of distress. A lady living near us, when her children were ill, made a vow to keep the cerro church in perpetual repair, if their lives were spared. It was the daintiest of little churches, all pure white and gold inside, with an elaborate altar of marble decorated with flowers and tall silver candlesticks, and a noticeable absence of tawdry display and wretched daubs of pictures which disfigure so many Catholic churches. Although the family was subsequently exiled from Cuba for political reasons, and for years resided in Paris, the vow made long before was religiously kept. Though now restricted in means, their great wealth squandered and confiscated, no doubt the church still receives their careful attention. I had a fine opportunity to admire it.

Vaccination, like baptism, is compulsory in that much-governed country; while the former, performed by surgeons appointed by the government for that especial service, is absolutely gratuitous, the minimum pay for the latter is two dollars, the church rendering no service without an equivalent. The morning papers each day announced the church where vaccination was to take place, as our journals furnish the weather indications.

At the appointed day for the cerro church, Martha and I presented our baby at the vestry, where were already four little darky babies. The surgeon was kind enough to quiet any anxiety I might have evinced by announcing that he had white virus and black virus, and he never got them mixed. Our addresses were registered, and we were told to report the following week at same time and place. Martha and I, after the operation, followed the colored party into the church, and as the French express it, “assisted” in the baptism of the little Africans. I was nervous about the white virus and black virus, and was greatly relieved to find it did not “take”; but the next week the polite official presented himself at our door. He was kind enough to believe we did not appreciate the importance of vaccination, and when the second application of the lancet proved successful, our little lady was furnished with a formidable certificate necessary for admission into any school in Cuba.