Chapter 55

HAVANA CIGARETTES.

Cigars--The Etiquette of Smoking--A Cigarette Manufactory--The Courteous Proprietor--The Visitors' Book--Cigarette Rolling.

That the characteristics of Cuba, and the ways of the people, are better observed in the Santiago end of the island than they are in Havana, is apparent to me after my arrival in the latter city. Here I am reminded in many respects of a fashionable European town--indeed, by reason of its modern innovations, the Cuban capital has been styled the 'Paris of the tropics.' Compared with Santiago, Havana offers few attractions to the traveller in quest of 'Cosas de Cuba,' besides its tobacco; and to this subject I accordingly devote my attention.

I am in the Louvre. Not the French palace of that name, but a fashionable café in the heart of Havana. The interior of the Café del Louvre is tastefully decorated; the walls are concealed behind huge mirrors, the floor is of marble, and countless tables crowded with Habaneros and foreigners from all parts of Las Americas, are distributed about the saloon. At one end is a long 'mostrador' or counter, where fancy chocolate, confectionary, and tobacco in all its branches are sold. Here you have your pick of brands, from the gigantic and costly Ramas cigar to the 'tamaño pequeño' cigarette. But do not suppose that because you are at the birthplace of your choice Havanas, you will get those articles at a cost comparatively next to nothing. I, who from infancy upwards have cherished this fiction, am lamentably disappointed when I discover what exorbitant prices are demanded for the best brands. The cedar boxes, with their precious contents, set like gems in the midst of tinfoil and fancy-cut paper, look inviting; but I seek in vain for a cigar at the ridiculously cheap rate I have prepared myself to pay. I try Brevas, and ask for a penn'orth of the best, but am horrified when I am told that a single specimen of that brand costs five-pence! The Intimidads alarm me; the Bravas unman me; and as for the Cabañas, the Partagas, the Henry Clays, and the Upmanns, I am filled with awe at the bare mention of their value per pound. A real Ramas, I am informed, is worth eighteen-pence English, while superior Upmanns are not to be had under ten sovereigns a hundred. In despair of finding anything within my means at the Louvre counter, I purchase a 'medio's' worth of cigarettes--a medio, or two-pence half-penny being the smallest coin current in Cuba--order a cup of café noir, and sally forth in quest of cheaper smokeables.

Crossing the square where the Tacon theatre and circus stand, I wander through the narrow, ill-paved streets of the Cuban capital. At the corner of every hotel, under archways and arcades, I meet with tables laid out like fruit-stalls, bearing bundles of cigars and cigarettes. Here, at least, I expect to find something to smoke at a fabulously low rate. Yes; here are cigars at two, three, and five for a silver two-pence; but those I invest in do not satisfy me; they are damp, new, badly rolled, won't draw, and have all kinds of odd shapes. Some are curved like Turkish scimetars, others are square and flat, as if they had been mangled or sat upon, while a few are undecided in form like horse-radish. The vendor assures me that all his cigars are born of 'tabaco legitimo,' of 'calidad superior,' grown on the low sandy soil of the famous Vuelta Abajo district; but I know what a very small area that tract of land comprises, and I will no more believe in the abundance of its resources than I will in those of Champagne and Oporto.

In my peregrinations, I gaze fondly into the interior of wholesale cigar warehouses, but dare not enter and demand the price of half of one of those countless cedar-boxes, which I see piled up to the very ceiling in walls fifty boxes thick. At last I founder on the Plaza de Santa Isabel, a spacious square, laid out with pretty gardens and tropical trees. Here is the grand hotel where the Special Correspondent to the _New York Trigger_ wields his mighty pen. To him and to other acquaintances I apply for information on the subject of tobacco. My foreign friends assure me you cannot get a good cigar in Havana at any price, as all the best are exported to Europe and the United States; unless you prefer German tobacco, of which great quantities are imported into Havana. The natives have quite a different account to give. They declare that the best cigars never leave the country but are easily obtained if you know where to seek them; and they refer me to the warehouses. Every one whom I consult graciously offers me a few specimens from his own particular cigar-case; and as in Cuba it is considered an offence to refuse a man's tobacco, I am soon in possession of a goodly stock, which I calculate will last me for the next eight and forty hours at least.

A singular etiquette is observed all over Cuba with respect to smoking, which a rough Britisher does not always appreciate. An utter stranger is at liberty to stop you in the middle of the street to beg the favour of your 'candela,' or light from your cigar. If you are polite, you will immediately hand him your weed, with the ashes carefully shaken off, and the lighted end conveniently pointed in his direction. Part of your fire having been successfully transferred to his cigar, the stranger is bound to return your property, presenting it, by a dexterous turn of the wrist, with the mouth end towards you; an operation which requires no little practice, as it is accompanied with a downward jerk to express deep obligation. If, after this, you are inclined to abandon your cigar for a fresh one, you may not do so in the stranger's presence, but wait till he has disappeared. There is a sort of smoking freemasonry, too, between Cubans all over the world. A Cuban recognises a compatriot anywhere, by the manner in which he screws up his cigarette, holds it, and offers or accepts a light.

Advised by a friend who is a great smoker, I give up my cigar investigations, and devote my attention to the humbler cigarette. With this object in view, I ramble down the narrow 'calles' or streets of St. Ignacio, del Obispo, and de Cuba. At every twelfth house which I pass is a small shop where only the article I seek is sold. In the first-mentioned calle is the 'deposito' of the far-famed Cabañas cigarette; in the second, the Gallito and Honradez stores. I visit the latter, which holds the highest reputation, and take an inventory of the stock. I am shown an endless variety of cigarettes at comparatively insignificant prices; a packet of twenty-six of those mostly in vogue costing only a silver medio, or two-pence half-penny English. There are innumerable sizes, from the smallest named Acacias, to the biggest, or tamaño mayor, called Grandifloras. The floor of the shop is sanded with burnt cigarette ends, looking like exhausted cartridges, and the pavement without is peppered with their fragments. Every man or responsible child whom I pass has a little tube of smoking paper between his lips, and glancing in at an open restaurant, I observe a group of feeders, each of whom has a cigarette stuck behind his ear like a pen.

At last I pause before the imposing factory of Louis Susini and Son, situated in a little plaza in the Calle de Cuba. It is here that the best cigarettes, popularly known as Honradez, are manufactured. The exterior of the building, with its marble columns reminding one of a Genoese palace, is worthy of attention. Above the grand entrance is the Honradez figure of Justice, bearing the famous motto: 'Los hechos me justificarán' (my deeds will justify me). But there is much to be seen within; and as a party of half a dozen ladies and gentlemen are about to enter, I join them and unite with them in begging permission of the proprietor to inspect the works. One of the firm soon appears, and after a polite greeting, kindly appoints an assistant to show us over the manufactory. We are told that everything in connection with cigarette making, except the actual growing of the tobacco, takes place within these extensive premises, and are forewarned that a long afternoon is necessary to see everything to our satisfaction.

Before we begin, we are politely requested to affix our signatures in a ledger provided for visitors to the establishment; and having obeyed, copies of our autographs are made on slips of paper, and, by a mechanical contrivance in the wall, these are dispatched for some mysterious purpose to the regions above. At the suggestion of the cicerone, we follow our names; not by the same means, however, but by winding staircases and intricate passages. Before starting, we peep into the engine-room to glance at the steam power which works the machinery required in the different departments. The first ascent brings us to spacious store-rooms, where loose cigarettes, and those already packed in bundles, are kept. The walls are literally papered with cigarettes in wheels, which look like complicated fireworks. As we move from one wheel to another, we are invited to help ourselves to, and test, the different qualities, which some of us accordingly do in wine-tasting fashion; taking a couple of whiffs from each sample and flinging the rest in the dust. Further on, we come to a small apartment where the operation of sorting the labels for enveloping each packet of twenty cigarettes, takes place. The labels are fresh from the printers; a workman is standing before a round movable table, and as this revolves, he drops them into little boxes belonging to their respective patterns. Each label is stamped with the Honradez figure of Justice, accompanied either by a charade, a comic verse, a piece of dance music on a small scale, an illuminated coat of arms, or a monogram pattern for Berlin wool-work. Some are adorned with artistic designs of a superior order, such as coloured landscapes, groups of figures, or photographs of eminent persons.

Another ascent, and we are in the stationery department. It seems odd to examine large sheets and thick reams of paper, which we have been accustomed to see only in the form of cigarette books or tubes of small dimensions. A wonderful variety of rice and other paper is before us. There are two or three qualities of white, and endless shades of brown and yellow. Some are lightly tinted as the complexion of a half-caste; others are quadroon-hued, or of a yellow-brown mulatto-colour. We are shown medicated and scented papers. The first of these, called pectoral paper, is recommended by the faculty to persons with weak chests; the last, when ignited, gives out an agreeable perfume.

Yet another floor, and we are introduced into a long chamber with rows of long tables, at which a hundred Chinese workmen are engaged in counting the already twisted cigarettes into bundles of twenty-six, and enveloping them in their ornamental labels or covers. To accomplish this operation with necessary speed, much practice and dexterity in the handling is required. The coolies--a thousand of whom are employed on the establishment--are, however, great adepts at the art, and patient and plodding as beasts of burthen. But among the celestials there is one master-hand who distinguishes himself above all the others by his superior skill. Piles of loose cigarettes and gummed labels are before him. Into the former he digs his dexterous fingers, and he knows by the feel alone whether he has the prescribed twenty-six within his grasp. By a peculiar shake he humours the handful into its tubular form, and with another movement wraps it lightly in a paper cover, which he leaves open at one end and neatly tucks in at the other. He is so rapid in his work, that we can scarcely follow him with our eyes, and the whole performance, from beginning to end, looks to us like a conjuring trick. Our guide tells us how many thousands of packets per day are in this way completed by these useful coolies.

'Arriba!' Another flight leads to the 'picadura' department, where tobacco leaves are prepared for cigarette making. The aspect on all sides reminds us of a room in a Manchester factory. We wade carefully through a maze of busy machinery. There are huge contrivances for pressing tobacco into solid cakes hard as brickbats; ingenious apparatus for chopping these cakes into various sized grains of 'picadura' or tobacco cuttings; horizontal and vertical tramways for forwarding the latter to their respective compartments. Near us is a winnowing chamber for separating particles of dust from the newly cut picadura. We enter by a spring door which closes after us with a bang, and everybody is immediately seized with a violent fit of sneezing. Particles of escaping tobacco dust float in the air and tickle our olfactories. We are actually standing within a huge snuff-box! After inhaling a wholesale pinch of this powder, which leaves us sneezing for the next quarter of an hour, we clamber to the heights of the establishment, and find ourselves in the printing and paper cutting departments. Here artists are engaged in preparing lithographic stones and wood blocks with various picturesque designs for cigarette labels. Gilders are illuminating labels, and cutters are shaping paper into their cigarette and label sizes. Further on are printing offices, where all the letterpress and lithography required in the establishment is accomplished. This is far from an insignificant item in the manufactory, for, besides the pictorial and letterpress covers, there are the Honradez advertisements to print; circulars, pamphlets, together with dedicatory dance music, and an occasional local newspaper. We linger lovingly about this interesting department, and, before we leave, the foreman of the printing office presents each lady member of our party with a piece of Cuban dance music, upon the cover of which is printed a few words of dedication, accompanied by the lady's own name in full. Whilst wondering at the magic by which this mark of attention has been quietly accomplished, we descend to the ground floor, and are again met by the courteous proprietor, who presents each gentleman visitor with a newly-made packet of cigarettes upon which, lo! and behold! are our names. It is pleasing to see one's name in print, and when it is witnessed on an ordinary Havana cigarette packet, the charm is greatly augmented.

Before taking leave of our civil host, we are invited to comment upon what we have seen, in the visitors' book, and you may be sure that our observations are not unfavourable to the courteous proprietor and his interesting exhibition. Susini & Son have published a thick pamphlet containing a list of names and remarks of distinguished visitors to his establishment. It is a curious work in its way, for the epigrammatic effusions are varied, amusing, and composed in at least half a dozen languages. Some of the authors have chosen a poetic style of commentary, while others content themselves with matter-of-fact prose. A well-known signature is here and there recognisable among these cosmopolitan productions. A famous Italian opera star has rhymed in her native lingo; a popular French acrobat--possibly one of a company of strolling equestrians--has immortalised himself in Parisian heroics. M. Pianatowsky, the Polish fiddler, has scrawled something incomprehensible in Russian or Arabic--no matter which; while Mein Herr Van Trinkenfeld comes out strong in double Dutch. Need I add that the immortal Smith of London is in great force in the book, or that his Queen's English is worthy of his world-wide reputation?

We are in the act of quitting the Honradez establishment, when it suddenly occurs to one of us that, after all that has been said and seen, we have failed to watch a cigarette in actual process of manufacture. What! have we presided at a performance of 'Hamlet' with the hero omitted; or are the component parts of cigarettes planted in the ground to sprout out ready-made like radishes?

I return and ask for information on this subject.

'Perdonen, ustedes,' says our hospitable friend, 'I had forgotten to tell you that our cigarrillos are rolled by the presidiarios.'

What's a 'presidiario'? A 'presidiario' is a convict, and convicts in Cuba are sentenced to eternal cigarette-making in lieu of oakum-picking. The government contract with the manufacturers for this purpose, and--voilà tout!

Anxious to 'sit out' the whole cigarette performance to the very last act, I ask and obtain permission to visit the town jail. In one of the stone apartments of this well-regulated building are groups of convicts dressed in white blouses and loose trousers of coarse canvas. Amongst them are Africans, Congos, mulattoes of many shades, Chinese--Chow-chows as they are called--and sun-burnt whites, who are principally insubordinate Spanish soldiers and sailors. Each has a heavy chain dangling from his waist and attached to his ankle, wears a broad-brimmed straw hat of his own manufacture, and incessantly smokes. Before him is a wooden box filled with picadura and small squares of tissue paper. Great nicety is required to roll a cigarette after the approved fashion; the strength or mildness of the tobacco being in a great measure influenced by the way the grains are more or less compressed. A smoker of course finds a tightly-twisted cigarette more difficult to draw than a loosely twisted one.

The presidiario does not seem to object to his hard labour, but doubtless prefers it to other kinds of perpetual rolling on a wheel. He employs no sticky element to secure the edges of his cigarette, but tucks the ends neatly in, by means of a pointed thimble which he wears on his forefinger.

Ponder well over this, ye Havana cigarette smokers! and when next you indulge in a whiff from your favourite luxury, remember that a pickpocket has had his hand on your picadura!