We had early dinner here, at the hospitable residence of a rich American planter, who has built himself a large and handsome house, just outside the town, and furnished it sumptuously. It was very pleasant to meet cultivated and intellectual women in such an out-of-the-way part of the world, and we took leave of our host and hostess—the lady an excellent botanist—regretfully, bearing away with us big baskets of luscious fruit and a bouquet of exquisite flowers.
Late in the afternoon we embarked for Santiago on board a neat little steamer which plies along the coast from Havana twice a week. We should gladly have stayed a little longer at Trinidad; but the following was Palm Sunday, and I was anxious to reach Santiago for Holy Week, although my companion, being nothing like so indefatigable a sightseer as myself, was much put out by my persistence.
The coast line between Trinidad and Santiago is extremely pretty—at least what we saw of it, for darkness soon sets in in these latitudes, there being absolutely no twilight, as in more northern regions. We were able, however, to admire the very beautiful cluster of "cays" which rise out of the sea in all directions, some of them large enough to be habitable, though they are left desolate, and others mere barren rocks, with a palm tree or so growing on their crests. The effect they produced in the setting sunlight was exquisite enough to excuse the enthusiastic encomiums of Christopher Columbus when he first beheld them, and mistook them for the islands mentioned by Marco Polo as being off the coast of Asia.
At last the sun went down in a glorious blaze of purple and gold; a blue darkness enveloped the enchanting scene. The night air was delightfully balmy, so we sat on deck until quite late, being joined by several American and Cuban ladies and gentlemen who were going our way. A remarkably intelligent Bostonian, Major B——, said in the course of conversation, that he felt sure Cuba would, within a few years, have passed out of Spanish hands into those either of England or America. He had apparently great interests in the island, knew every inch of it, and assured us that its fertility and resources were incalculably great. It was, he said, in a very backward state.
"On the majority of the plantations," he continued, "there are no improved implements of husbandry—no labour-saving machines—nothing, indeed, which indicates an advanced or advancing agriculture, although the machinery for grinding the cane and making sugar is often of the best and latest pattern. With the most generous of soils, there is worse culture in Cuba than anywhere else in the civilized world, except, perhaps, in the southern parts of Italy or Spain, and in both instances from like causes—that is, from the consolidation of immense landed estates in the hands of a few, mainly absentees—and the consequent withdrawal of the sources of national wealth from general circulation.
"There are, comparatively speaking, only a small number of acres of cultivable land held by small proprietors, who work on their own soil. The largest number of acres are owned by Spanish and Cuban grandees, some of whom have not been in the island for twenty years. They draw their revenue hence to dissipate it in a whirl of frivolity, either in Paris or Madrid. This system of accumulation in mortmain has hung for generations like a millstone around the necks of the Cuban people, and will, I am afraid, continue so to do. The abolition of slavery will, however, surely make a difference. Very soon the large estates will have to be cut up for want of sufficient hands; and the raising of cane, the grinding of it and the making of it into sugar, will become two different occupations, similar to the plan adopted in Germany, where the sugar-maker either buys the beet crop entirely from the farmer, or grinds the beets on shares of the sugar made. Then, again," remarked our new friend, "I cannot help alluding to the vast difference in characteristics,—though they spring from the same race,—between the Cubans and the Spaniards. The aggregation of men into cities for purposes of trade, though necessary, does not tend to develop their intellectual faculties. The habit of acting in masses, or with masses, as every urban population must do, breeds a tendency to sacrifice duty to political expediency. Principles are continually yielded to the will of others, and lose their sacredness. In a rural population there is more isolation and more individuality. This is peculiarly the case with the Cuban planters, farmers, guarijos, and labourers. An agricultural population has always been deemed the most simple-minded, and its character, whatever it may be, the most unchangeable. So here, also, the Creoles are more unsophisticated than the Spaniard, and have fewer of the vices and needs of modern society.
"After all, nations, like individuals, grow up under the influence of a vast body of experiences. Not one cause, but a multitude of causes, extending through many years, make people different from each other,—even those of the same race, as is the case here in Cuba. They may be gradually moulded, by these experiences, into absolute antagonism. The Spaniards are well aware of the fact, and do not hesitate to say so. They acknowledge that they can raise almost everything in this beautiful and fertile isle—except Spaniards. Though, year after year, there is a steady stream of immigration from the home country, it does not change the characteristics of the natives. It appears to be a law of immigration that, if not the immigrant himself, his children at all events, are sure to adopt the modes of thought of the people among whom their parents have made their home. How could it be otherwise? The children grow up with the children of the country, and it becomes their country. The most durable of all associations—those of childhood—make the children of the immigrant as faithful and as patriotic as those of the men who have lived for generations in the country. All in vain does Spain pour her troops into this island. Granted that by superior numbers she maintains her sway over this people,—what a barren conquest it is, when you come to think of it! The Cubans hate those who govern them, and the Spaniards never feel secure. True, history tells us of but one way by which the national character of a people can be modified, and that is by conquest; but even conquest, without beneficial administration, producing assimilation, fails, as it must fail where there is an absolute rule by one antagonistic people over another, which engenders hatred, and foments a passionate rebellion, even at the risk of martyrdom. The Spaniards are a fine race, but they utterly misunderstand the difference which has grown up between themselves and the Cubans. Although they acknowledge them their own children, they persist in treating them as inferiors, and governing them accordingly. Every attempt at improvement on the part of the Cubans is systematically stamped out by the Government.
"The abolition of slavery has not proved a blessing either to the slaves or their late owners. Like everything Spanish, it has been badly planned, and has brought ruin to thousands without benefiting the negroes.
"The island is cruelly overtaxed, to keep up a garrison fifty times more numerous than would be necessary if it were properly administered. I am quite sure Spain will eventually lose this rich possession. I assure you, and without the least prejudice, I think her quite incapable of keeping it. She has had any amount of experience, but of the wrong sort; and as to her men, her governors and commanders, however honest they may be in their own country, so soon as they land here they grow either corrupt or tyrannical."[18]
Morning found us running along some of the grandest coast scenery in the world: at this point the Macaca or Sierra Maestra Mountains rise boldly from the sea, to the height of 5000 and 6000 feet. The Ojo del Toro, one of the highest peaks of the range, is fully visible far away in the extreme distance, and towering above it you perceive the sharp peak of Turquino, the loftiest in the whole island, 6800 feet high. I was much struck by the resemblance between this coast-line and that between Nice and Monte Carlo. The colouring is almost identical, the sea as deep a blue as the Mediterranean; and the slopes of the rocky mountains are clothed with the same rich tints, shading from indigo to the palest grey. At about ten o'clock we were informed we were nearing Santiago, but it was a considerable time before the city rose in sight, long, even, after we had passed Cabanas, the first fort.
Santiago Bay is shaped like a champagne bottle, with a narrow neck and an oblong body. It is a most difficult harbour to enter, and the town ought to be impregnable; but the fortresses, although architecturally imposing,—especially the Morro, which looks like a mediæval castle, its walls rising straight out of the rocks,—are, I am assured, mere toys so far as modern warfare is concerned. The bay itself, on which the city is built, spreads out, once you have passed the straits, like a glorious lake, circled by green hills, thickly covered by the most varied vegetation, with groups of tall palm-trees standing out conspicuously here and there. Presently, a turn brings you in front of the city, with its lofty cathedral towers, and its brightly painted houses, terraced up the hill to a height of about 500 feet above the level of the sea.
There is no more picturesque bay in the world than this, unless, indeed, it be that of Naples. The scene is so enchanting, so brilliant, that one is perfectly enraptured, and feels inclined to burst into open applause, as if in the presence of some grand stage effect. Everything seems to have been arranged by nature for some pageant. Nor is the illusion lost on landing, for as you climb the steep streets you are constantly attracted by some picturesque and unusual object or view. Here, for instance, facing you, as you step to earth, is a fruit stall such as you can only see in Santiago. Thousands of huge bunches of bananas, varying in colour from the deepest apple-green to the palest gold, cover its lofty walls. These green ones are unripe, and are intended for exportation. Then come countless rows of pineapples, pyramids of oranges, baskets of crocodile pears and custard apples, and enormous clusters of purple plums.
We put up at an hotel kept by an old Cuban, who, understanding European ways, gave us two separate though very tiny bedrooms, and made us as comfortable as possible. For luncheon he sent us up an excellent omelette, the first we had tasted since we left New York. I remember, too, we had ripe mangoes here, for the first time, and liked them only fairly well. Tropical fruit, barring bananas, oranges, and pineapples, is, to my thinking, mighty insipid. The Cuban mango, however, has its charms.
Santiago de Cuba is by far the most historical city in the country. It was founded in 1515 by Diego Velasquez, who landed here, in obedience to the commands of Diego Columbus, on his first voyage from Hayti, to take formal possession of the island. From the port of Santiago, too, Juan de Grijalva started in 1518 on his famous expedition for the conquest of Yucatan. Hitherto also came Hernando Cortez, bent on the same undertaking.
Less than a quarter of a century after these memorable visits, the place had become so peopled with new settlers that it was elevated to the dignity of a city, and, in 1527, was created a bishopric. A year later, Narvaez set forth hence on his memorable expedition for the conquest of Florida, whence "he never more returned." Later in the same year Hernando de Sotto arrived, accompanied by over a thousand armed men, to assume the command of the entire island. He brought with him his wife, Doña Isabella de Bobadilla, a lady who was famous for her beauty and her virtues. During his celebrated expeditions into the Americas, he left her here, in the responsible position of Governess of the island. She was the only woman who ever ruled in Cuba. Her sway was beneficent and mild, but the chroniclers relate that when months and even years passed without her receiving any letters from her husband, she "pined and languished, and fell into a lethargic state, so that her life was despaired of." Whether Doña Isabella Bobadilla died in Cuba or returned to Spain, I have never been able to ascertain. There is no mention of her having been buried in the Cathedral here, where Velasquez was certainly entombed, for in 1810 his body was found by some workmen in a stone coffin, at a distance of about twenty feet below the soil.
The rest of the history of the town is a repetition of that of Havana, a series of sieges by pirates and buccaneers. In 1662 it was attacked by Lord Windsor, and bombarded by a squadron of fifteen vessels. The English landed, destroyed the Morro Fort, blew up the Cathedral, and otherwise behaved themselves more like Pagans than Christians.
On Palm Sunday morning, we went to the Cathedral to see the great function of the blessing of the palms. The church is very large—the largest in the island—and built in the usual Hispano-American style, with a squat dome in the middle, and two rather fine towers on each side of the façade. The nave is of unusual width, and the side chapels, of which there are a great number, are full of rare marbles, and splendid mahogany woodwork. The stalls in the magnificent choir and the seats throughout the church are all made of solid deep red mahogany; the edifice otherwise presents nothing of interest, excepting the priestly vestments, very fine specimens of old Spanish needlework. We found the church packed, most of the ladies being in deep mourning, but in low-necked dresses, which, at so early an hour, produced a startling effect. It afforded us an opportunity for a most interesting study of feminine shoulders, varying in tint from the snowy white of the Creola, to the dainty olive of the mulatress, and the ebony black of the ladies who originally hailed from the Congo. The stately ceremonies, on this solemn occasion, were exactly the same as those in all other Catholic churches throughout the world. The priests, however, carried some very fine palm branches, their long fronds tipped with gold tinsel. In the afternoon there was a sermon preached by a fiery little Capuchin monk, who banged his hands on the edge of the pulpit with such force that I am sure they must have been black and blue by the time he had finished.
In the evening we went for a long drive through some of the most beautiful scenery I have ever seen. On the following day there was not much in the way of sacred pageantry. On Holy Thursday the whole town turned out in deep mourning to visit the Sepulchre in the Churches. Meanwhile the opera house, the theatres, and all other places of public amusement were hermetically closed, and Santiago did not present a very lively appearance, but as we had plenty to see in the neighbourhood, this did not trouble us much. The Good Friday procession was well worth seeing. It was a miniature edition of the procession which takes place in Seville, and was of interminable length. All the confraternities took part in it. At intervals, life-sized groups made in carved wood, representing episodes in Our Lord's Passion, were carried on the shoulders of ten or a dozen negroes. Then came the image of Our Lady of Sorrows, dressed in the full Court costume of the sixteenth century, made of cloth of silver, with a mantle of the richest purple velvet. This was followed by the Archbishop and his clergy, and the grandees of the place, wearing their decorations, officers in uniform, and gentlemen in evening dress. The effect of the procession winding through the narrow streets was extremely picturesque, and it was received on all sides with profound respect, for the people of Santiago are the most orthodox on the island, and also, by-the-way, the most intelligent and the best-looking. Their good looks are said to be due to their numerous inter-marriages with French women, daughters of emigrants from San Domingo, who made their appearance here at the end of the last century. Many of the ladies of Santiago are quite beautiful, and would be much more so if they did not plaster their faces with cascaria powder to such an extent that many of them make themselves look like female clowns.
On Holy Saturday morning we were awakened, very early, by the most hideous noises, firing off of pistols, squibs, and rockets. The population were busily engaged in hanging Judas Iscariot, an effigy of this archtraitor being actually suspended to a lamp-post opposite our hotel, while a vast assembly round it yelled excitedly, insulting it with an earnestness that might have been intelligible had it been Judas in the flesh instead of a sham, stuffed presentment.
Santiago was at one time quite a literary centre. Some years back one or two learned priests devoted themselves there to the study of botany and astronomy, among them being Padre Luis de Montes, who made a complete catalogue of the flora of the island. Doña Luisa Perez de Montes de Oca, a native of Santiago, has written some of the finest sonnets in contemporary Spanish literature, and Doña Gertrude Gomez de Avellanda, also born at Santiago, is another delightful poetess, whose name is well known where-ever the Spanish language is spoken. One name, however, towers, in Cuban literature, over all others—that of José Maria Heredia, who was born at Santiago in 1803. His father, a gentleman of considerable position and wealth, and ardent patriot, was exiled to Mexico, and carried with him his motherless child, then only three years of age. At sixteen Heredia lost his father, and returned to Havana, where, in 1823, he was admitted to the bar, and sent to practise at the Supreme Court of Puerto Principe. His open expressions of indignation at the manner in which his country was mishandled, and his well-known liberal opinions on political and social subjects, eventually roused the suspicions of the Government, and he was privately advised to leave the island with all speed, unless he wished to end his days in prison. He took the hint, abandoned Cuba for America, and settled in New York. In 1825 he published his first volume of poetry, which contained the celebrated "Exiles' Hymn," the opening lines of which are singularly appropriate to present circumstances.
| "Fair land of Cuba! on thy shores are seen |
| Life's far extremes of noble and of mean, |
| The world of sense in matchless beauty dress'd, |
| And nameless horrors hid within thy breast. |
| Ordain'd of Heaven the fairest flower of earth, |
| False to thy gifts, and reckless of thy birth, |
| The tyrant's clamour, and the slave's sad cry, |
| With the sharp lash in insolent reply,— |
| Such are the sounds that echo on thy plains |
| While virtue faints, and vice unblushing reigns. |
| Rise, and to power a daring heart oppose! |
| Confront with death these worse than deathlike woes, |
| Unfailing valour chains the flying fate, |
| Who dares to die shall win the conqueror's state!" |
Another very remarkable poem, published a little later (1833), is the famous "Niagara," made familiar to English readers by the late Mr Cullan Bryant's noble blank-verse translation. Never has the grandest of cataracts been more magnificently described, but, even in the presence of its overwhelming majesty, Heredia could not forget the mournful beauty of his beloved Cuba, and through the tremendous sound of its waters he thought he detected the rustling of the palms of his native forests, when tossed about by some overwhelming storm. Heredia died in Mexico in 1838. He was a man of exceeding integrity, and most generous and amiable. As a poet, he is acknowledged among the greatest who have cast honour on the tongue of Calderon and Cervantes.
Milanes is another poet who first saw light at Santiago. He was a man of humbler origin than Heredia, and of more subtle and refined genius. He died young, of consumption, but his works, which were published some years after his death, are considered classics by the Spanish. They are perfect in form, exquisite in thought, but intensely melancholy. It has been said of Milanes that "he saw life through tears." The greatest poet Cuba has produced after Heredia, Gabriel de la Concepcion Valdes, better known by his nom-de-plume of Placido, was born, not at Santiago,—although he passed some years of his life there,—but at Matanzas. He was a mulatto by birth. Nature and fortune were against him. His origin was of the lowest; his father was a half-cast slave, and he was hideously ugly, miserably poor, and very imperfectly educated. Yet he triumphed over every obstacle, and has left a great name in Hispano-American literature. In 1844, rumours of an intended rebellion among the slaves having reached the ears of the Captain-General at Havana, a number of negroes and even poor whites (Guajiros), suspected of sympathising with the slaves, were arrested, and some scores of them suffered death under the lash. The poet Placido, of whom the whole coloured population was intensely proud, was accused of having fermented this rebellion by his eloquence. He was forthwith arrested, and thrown into prison, and, though he protested his innocence, he was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to be shot. Fortunately for literature, some time elapsed between the passing of the sentence and its execution, and the delay enabled him to compose his two finest poems—the sublime "Prayer to God" and the touching "Farewell to his Mother." These fine works would alone suffice to make the name of any poet in any language. Placido met his fate on 8th June 1844, in the Great Square of Matanzas, together with nineteen other persons, accused of abetting the negro rebellion. He walked from his prison with a firm step and unbandaged eyes, and himself gave the signal to fire. Unfortunately, he was only wounded, and fell in great agony to the ground. The crowd was moved to horror and pity, but Placido silenced his many friends present, and, rising to his feet, said firmly, "Farewell, world,—ever pitiless to me." Then, pointing to his own brow, he cried, "Soldiers, fire here." In another instant he fell dead—shot through the head.
Placido addressed several graceful sonnets to the Queen Regent of Spain, Christina, mother of Isabella II., who took some interest in his fate, and openly expressed her indignation when she learnt of his tragic death. Mr William Hurlbut, in his Pictures of Cuba, gives an admirable study of the works of this remarkable poet. "Placido's images," says he, "are often pathetic in their originality, as, for instance, when he compares the sudden passing of the moon from behind the cliffs into the open starlit sky, to the advent into the ball-room of a beautiful woman, superbly dressed, and wearing a cashmere shawl. Quaintly barbaric this image seems, yet how charged it is with the sad history of gorgeous dreams and warm visions, prisoned in the poet-brain of an outcast and a Pariah."
It would be scarcely just to Havana, if I were to create an impression that Cuban literary genius was peculiar to the Eastern Province. Havana has also produced several fine poets. Ramon Zambrana, who, by-the-way, married the poetess Doña Luisa Perez de Monte de Oca, is a lyrist of the first rank. His story is quite a romance. The poems of Doña Luisa de Oca were published under a manly nom-de-plume. Admiring them exceedingly, Zambrana entered into a correspondence with the author, then living at Santiago. It was only after keeping up a very lively and interesting correspondence for over a year that he accidentally discovered he had been writing to a woman. A very trivial incident revealed the truth. In one of her letters the lady enclosed, by mistake, a note intended for her milliner. On this the gentleman determined to proceed to Santiago and make the acquaintance of his fair correspondent, whom he discovered to be both beautiful and wealthy. Very soon after the marriage, unfortunately, Zambrana fell ill, and died in the flower of early manhood.
Don José de la Luz y Caballero, who was for a long time Director of the College of San Salvador, was also the author of some excellent poetry, and of a very valuable work on Cuban folk-lore. His views were altogether too advanced to suit the Government, and he was considerably persecuted in consequence. He joined the insurrection under Cespedes, and was killed in the engagement off Bayanno in 1866. Among the minor poets of Havana may be mentioned Zequeira, Lecares, Palma, Mendira, and Pina.
In a country where the censorship weighs so heavily on the press, and on literature in general, as it does in Cuba, prose writers find little or no scope for their talent. Poetry, especially high class poetry, does not appeal to the masses so readily as prose, and being considered less dangerous is more leniently dealt with. Besides, it is generally published "for private circulation alone." Cuba has produced a few good local historians, among them the compiler of a work which has been of the greatest assistance to me in the historical portion of this book—Los tres historiadores de la Isla de Cuba—a collection of the chronicles of Herrera, Valdes, and Urietta, with copious notes and additions.
Although local journalism dates from the middle of the last century, the Cuban newspapers of the present day are of the flimsiest and most stupid description. They are even worse than those published in Constantinople, the censorship being, if anything, more childishly interfering than that of Abd'ul Hamid. Barring a few telegrams from Madrid and New York, the great political events in Europe and America are barely noticed at all. On the other hand, you will find plenty of information concerning the life of the calendar saint of the day, of St Rosa of Lima, for instance, or of the Blessed Filomena.
Although music is universally popular in Cuba, I know of no distinguished Cuban composer, musician, or vocalist. Yradié has collected and elaborated a number of Cuban popular airs, and Bizet has immortalised the Habanera in Carmen, but the first ten bars of that air are the only ones he has retained without alteration, though characteristic rhythm is well preserved. The less celebrated Paloma, by Yradié, is, I think, more genuinely Cuban. The negro melodies of the island are absolutely barbaric, and devoid of time and tune. They have nothing in common with the charming plantation airs of the Southern States of America.
Before leaving Santiago de Cuba we drove out to the celebrated Cobre Mines, some four hours distant from the city, but unfortunately there had been some accident on the previous day, and we were unable to descend into them. The scenery along the road, from Santiago, is magnificent. We went a little beyond the mines, and visited the shrine of Nuestra Señora de la Caridad de Cobre, a famous place of pilgrimage, which, however, has lost a good deal of its picturesque interest since the erection of the brand new church, large and garish, in which the holy image is enshrined. As it was not a fiesta there were very few pilgrims, and I, having seen many other like shrines in Europe, was much more interested in the enormous Caruba trees growing abundantly in the neighbourhood, which were hung with giant pods, a yard long, containing casia, a dark brown paste, which is made into a syrup, and said to be very beneficial in cases of sore throat. We brought back a wonderful collection of pods and giant beans of all sorts, and some beautiful ferns and flowers, which I contrived to press as soon as I reached the hotel. However, before leaving Santiago I was presented with a large album containing a complete set of the ferns of the island. Among the commonest I noticed are our much prized gold and silver ferns, and some exquisite maiden-hairs, which, I am assured, have never been successfully transplanted. Whenever I turn over the pages of this album with its faded fern leaves, the memories of a delightful week spent in Santiago crowd into my mind, and I seem to see, as in a vision, the exquisite bay and the kindly denizens of the old City, built by Diego Velasquez, a good four hundred years ago.
The steamer which had brought us from Cienfuegos also took us to Nuevitas. The coast scenery is marvellously fine, and full of interest on account of its association with Columbus, who was familiar with every yard of it. We passed Baracoa, the oldest city in the island, with its picturesque, castle-crowned hill and its splendid mountain background.
Nuevitas is said to be the place where Columbus landed, though recent students think he really first stepped on shore at Carmello, in the neighbourhood of Havana. It is now the port of Puerto Principe, an important town some forty miles distant. The bay of Nuevitas is very fine, but we miss the lofty mountains of Santiago—this country being more or less flat, but very rich in vegetation, and beautifully green. Nuevitas does a good trade in sponges and turtles, and is the depot for the shipment of sugar and molasses, this being a great cane country.
Puerto Principe itself is the counterpart of any other Cuban town. They are all exactly alike—the same narrow streets of one-storied, brightly-painted Pompeian-looking houses, the same wide Plaza with the same rococo church with its twin towers and flat dome, and the same formal Almeida full of tropical plants, where the people parade of a Sunday evening, to the strains of the local band. It is a fairly lively place, and is reported to be a well-known centre of rebellion.[19]
CHAPTER X.
Some Weird Stories.
NO account of Cuba would be quite complete without some reference to the superstitious observances of the negro population, which have not failed to affect, by a kind of reflex action, the ideas and customs of the white inhabitants of the island.
The negroes have a smattering, of course, of Catholic teaching, and a tincture of the superstitions which affect the lowest order of Catholic mind. Super-added to these—or perhaps I should rather say, underlying them—we find a great mass of Voudistic legend and tradition, and a consequent observance and practice of those dark, weird, and blood-curdling mysteries known as the worship of Obi. The origin of this form of idolatry is lost in antiquity. It was known in ancient Egypt, where the serpent was called Ob or Aub. Traces of it appear even in Holy Writ. Moses charges the Israelites "not to inquire of the demon Ob"—described in the Vulgate as "divinator" and "sorcilegus." The Witch of Endor is called Oub or Ob in the original, and the word appears translated as Pythonessa, or Witch.
The African slaves imported their strange rites into the West Indies when they were carried into slavery, and clung to them with all the tenacity of an oppressed and cruelly handled race.
The occult power possessed by the Obi man or woman is believed to be hereditary, but it rarely develops until the individual attains an advanced age. Fetish worship is a fundamental doctrine, and the Obi man has the power of causing the Obi, or evil spirit, to pass into any object he may select, such as the jaw-bone of a horse, or the body of a monkey. To these objects, living or dead, the worshippers offer fruit, fowls, and flowers. The ceremony of calling the spirit into its new abode is full of mystery and horror, and is generally performed at dead of night, and in some lonely and sequestered spot, far from Christian and profane eyes.
Many a curious story have I heard, of strange fate and cruel misfortune, connected with the dark practices of negro witchcraft. The following tale, which was related to me by a relative of the victim, will serve as an instance of Obi power. I need scarcely say I do not ask my readers to believe it, but I am quite sure my informant, by no means an uneducated man, placed the most implicit faith in every word he spoke.
A certain wealthy Cuban planter, whom I will call Don Pablo, once suspected an old negro in his service of being an Obi man. He had but recently returned to his estates, from a long sojourn in Europe, and was determined to suppress, so far as in him lay, the diabolical ceremonies which, his overseer assured him, were frequently performed by certain of the negroes on his plantation, who had thus acquired a vast influence over their fellows. One night, Don Pablo followed his overseer into the forest, and reached a deserted hut, evidently used as a fetish temple, just as the rites began. He hid himself among the jungle, and watched his opportunity. The assemblage consisted of some twenty to thirty negroes, of both sexes, plentifully bedecked with beads, shells, and feathers, but otherwise stark naked. They opened proceedings by performing a sort of Pyrrhic dance, shouting as they whirled round and round, and brandishing their torches. Presently the door of the hut opened, and the Obi man appeared. He was very old, and quite greyheaded. His naked body was marked with white paint to represent a skeleton, and his appearance under the pale moonlight and the livid glow of the torches was weird beyond description. Don Pablo half wished himself at home—for, like all his race, he was both excitable and superstitious. In due time, the Obi man brought forward a huge toad, in which, after many ceremonies, he declared the Obi or fetish to be embodied. This done, he began to worship it, and to indulge in certain strange and obscene antics. Don Pablo, in his indignation, burst from his hiding-place, pistol in hand, commanding the Obi man to desist, and disperse the gathering, or take the consequences. To his surprise, the old priest utterly defied him, and boldly told him that if he persisted in disturbing the strange rites, the most fearful misfortunes would befall him. The audacious speech was answered by a ringing shot, which ended the Obi man's career, and broke up the meeting in wild confusion. A few days afterwards, whilst Don Pablo sat at dinner, his wife fell suddenly forward and expired. In less than a fortnight his only daughter died, of some quickly developed and mysterious disease—probably poison. Broken-hearted and alarmed by these crushing blows, following in such swift and merciless succession, the unhappy man betook himself to a neighbouring plantation, and sought to propitiate the offended deity through another well-known and potent Obi man, but the attempt failed absolutely. The wizard declared he had no power to undo the mischief, for, he alleged, the deceased Obi man was far more influential with the spirits than himself. The miserable Don Pablo returned to his desolate home to find a letter announcing the death of his only son, who had been suddenly carried off in Paris, whither he had been sent for his education.
The number thirteen is considered an unlucky and even fatal one in Cuba. If you have a fever, the Obi man or woman will give you a little bag containing twelve seeds of garlic, which you put under your pillow, and in the morning you are sure to awake quite well,—unless, indeed, the witch has maliciously inserted a thirteenth seed, in which case you may as well order your coffin at once.
The evil eye is as prevalent as in Naples, and most houses are protected from it by a horseshoe, such as we often see, for the matter of that, in non-superstitious England! An Obi man or woman always has the evil eye—mal de ojo—and can do harm by mere force of will power, even if the object be many miles removed. If you have incurred the Obi man's anger, your undertaking, whatever be its nature, is sure to fail; and on your return home, you may find your favourite child has been stung by a scorpion, or is dying of the fever, that your blacks are afflicted with some fell disease, and your herds stolen, or decimated.
Some Obi women are famous as prophetesses. There was a negro witch on the plantation of Doña Mary d'O——, an American lady, the widow of an exceedingly rich Cuban planter, and a most kindly and hospitable lady. One morning our hostess took us down to the negro quarters, to visit the dusky pythoness, whom we found sitting in the shade of some huge banana plants, smoking her cigarette. She rose to greet her mistress, and I was struck at once by her tall, commanding figure, and the stately manner in which she wore the long draperies of scarlet and white calico, which fell in ample folds (none of the freshest, I am forced to add) down to her feet. Her name was appropriate to her profession—Proserpina—Pina, for short. In answer to our greeting and inquiries after her health, Proserpina informed us she was well, but that owing to certain portents, she dreaded the near approach of some misfortune. Sure enough, very shortly afterwards, the vomito nigro appeared among the plantation hands, and many of them were swept away. Proserpina was a skilful palmist, and told us our future with a fair degree of success. She informed my fellow-traveller, and quite truly, that he would die within eight years, and assured me I should live to be very old and very rich. I would fain hope the oracle may yet come true! "Pina" persistently refused to work, but her mistress, thinking it well to be on good terms with a personage so greatly looked up to by her fellows, allowed her to take her own way. She was in great demand among the plantation hands, in cases of sickness and childbirth, and she was not above accepting her fees, like any other lady doctor, exacted them, in fact, under threat of awful penalties. This venerable dame, like most of her profession, was an adept in the compounding of philtres and deadly poisons, the ingredients of which recall, in some cases, the uncanny mixtures prepared by the weird sisters in Macbeth—scorpion's blood six drops, the head of a toad, the belly of a snake, the poison of a black spider, and strange herbs gathered by moonlight. The whole mixed in a cauldron over a fire fed with dead men's bones, and boiled between midnight and dawn.
Every thoroughbred Cuban believes in ghosts and haunted houses. To this day certain plantations stand desolate, because nobody will face the spirits which haunt them—proof, if proof were needed, of the awful crimes committed within their walls. Before Tacon's time, such high roads as there were in the interior of the island were very unsafe, and gangs of banditti infested various parts of the country. They waylaid travellers, murdered them, and stripped their bodies. Many years ago a well-known lawyer at Porto Principe was arrested and charged with organising and financing a gang of monteros who had turned highwaymen, and killed and plundered various wealthy travellers on their way to certain plantations in the interior. In the course of his trial it transpired that the bodies of the victims were buried under the kitchen floor of a wayside fonda (inn), the precise spots having been revealed to a negro seer by the ghosts of the slain. To this day, nobody will pass that fonda on All Souls Eve, because they are sure to see the spirits of the murdered men barring the road, and supplicating the passer-by to have a mass and de profundis offered for the repose of their unshriven souls.
Divers plantations have an evil reputation because negroes have been burnt there in days long gone by for practising the rites of Obi, or because their cruel masters desired to get rid of them, for reasons of their own. When the tempest is at its height, you may yet see, wandering among the palm trees, a black form wreathed in flames, whose wailing shriek rises even above the howling of the storm.
The superstitions of the blacks affected the whites: it could hardly be otherwise; for, however strong caste prejudice may be, the dominant race must absorb some proportion of the prejudices inherent in those who have nursed and waited on them in their tenderest and most impressionable years. Cases have occurred, and may occur even now, in which white men and women of the lowest class have joined in the strange and repellent rites of the African religion, if so it can be called. But I need hardly say that the more educated Cubans, though they admit the existence of a strange and mysterious faculty in certain of the negro priests and priestesses, hold themselves utterly aloof from such demoniac and degrading practices.
Whilst we are on gruesome subjects, I may be excused if I take the opportunity of saying something about Cuban funeral customs, which have, however, been greatly modified of late years, in the large towns, owing to the advance of education, and to some slight improvement in the popular appreciation of hygiene. Twenty years ago, however (and even now, in the interior), the corpse used to be dressed up in its best clothes, the man in his frock-coat, white cravat, and patent-leather boots, the woman, if married, in her Sunday go-to-meeting best, or if she were a young girl, in white, with a wreath of flowers round her head. Thus arrayed, the body, after being exposed in a sort of lying in state in one of the principal apartments of the house, would be conveyed to the cemetery, with the lid of the coffin open, so that parents and friends might be able to admire the final toilette. This custom, which is still general among the Eastern orthodox Greeks, led in the course of time to the formation of a singular band of resurrectionists, who, after some wealthy person's funeral, were wont to steal away by night to the cemetery, dig up the body and despoil it of its fashionable garments, which constantly found their way to the second-hand clothiers. At present, among the educated classes, and in the large cities, the coffin lid is closed. But a compromise has been devised by the introduction of a plate-glass lid, through which the pleasing spectacle of the deceased lying at rest, bedecked with this world's finery, can be enjoyed without risk. A Cuban funeral procession is generally of very great length, and usually accompanied by a band of musicians, the town band for preference, playing operatic airs and even dance music. I once saw a young lady borne to her last home, her coffin covered with splendid wreaths, and surrounded by weeping friends, to the tune of the then popular Baccio waltz. Formerly, as in the East, men and women used to be hired as mourners, and being trained for the purpose, howled dismally enough to raise the dead. But they have been abolished, except in country places, where, in Cuba as elsewhere, old fashions die hard.
Among the guajiros, monteros, and poor whites generally,—and I believe also amongst the Catholic negroes,—a ceremony takes place on the night between the death and the funeral (which, by the way, always occurs within twenty-four hours), which bears a strong resemblance to an Irish wake: it is called a velorio; literally, watch or wake. The friends and relatives gather round the coffin, and spend the night watching by the body, which is placed in the centre of the chamber, the coffin being unclosed, covered with wreaths of flowers and bouquets, and flanked by six lighted candles. Originally this ceremony, like the Irish wake, was doubtless intended to be of a highly devotional character, but it has degenerated, by degrees, into a sort of orgie. A table covered with viands is set at one end of the room, and close to it stands another of still greater importance, bearing numerous bottles of aguardiente, gin, and wine. Frequent libations to the health of the departed soul soon produce their effect, and the family begins to express its grief in the most uproarious manner, by dismal exclamations, hair-tearing, and breast-beating. They address the dead as if he were still living.
"Ah! my poor darling," they say, "don't make any mistake. We are sorry indeed to lose you, but at present you see we are preparing the funeral baked meats for those who loved you less than we do. When they have all got their drinks, we will return, so don't be impatient. By and by we will howl dismally enough to please you." (Luego te vamos gritar.)
As the night wanes, and the aguardiente grows lower in the queer-looking bottles, the company can no longer restrain its grief. Everybody becomes inconsolable at once. When dawn comes, and with it the confraternities and the cura, to fetch the coffin, they not unfrequently find the company singing, dancing, and shouting as if possessed. And here I may observe that the Cubans can drink more aguardiente and gin, without showing any unsteadiness, than any other people on the face of the earth. They contrive to keep their legs at all events, though I am afraid they very frequently lose their heads.
Nothing more dismal can be imagined than a Cuban cemetery, which is usually located in the most arid spot in the neighbourhood of town or village. The Cubans never dream of planting a tree or a shrub near the graves of their lamented, for whom, by the way, they wear official mourning about six times as long as in any other country. At one extremity of the cemetery invariably stands the unpretentious chapel. In the centre is the common field, where the poor and the coloured Catholics are buried,—no heretic being allowed to rest in this cheerless campo santo. The wealthier among the departed are commemorated by funereal monuments and slabs inserted in the wall surrounding the grave-yard, which give their titles at full length, and most unstintingly commend their virtues.
In the cemetery of Santiago, which, by the way, is one of the dreariest fields of death I have ever beheld, there is a very interesting monument erected to the memory of the celebrated Doctor Antomarchi, who attended Napoleon I. at St Helena during his last illness. It is not remarkably artistic, but is sufficiently imposing to attract attention. I must say I felt greatly interested to learn why and wherefore Antomarchi elected to pass the last years of his life in Santiago de Cuba. This is the information I obtained concerning him. It seems that, shortly after the Emperor's death, he made a tour of the world, in search of a missing brother, whom he had not seen or heard of for many years. Chance threw them together in the streets of Santiago, and Antomarchi determined to take up his abode in the same town as the only other surviving member of his family. As he had a considerable fortune, he took handsome apartments in one of the best streets of the city, set up as oculist, and received patients for eye diseases, in the treatment of which he seems to have been fairly successful. He often spoke of his illustrious patient, and described his last hours. Dr Antomarchi was a generous man and charitable to the poor; and although he only lived a few years at Santiago, where he fell a victim to the yellow fever in 1826, he was so greatly esteemed that this monument was erected to his memory by public subscription.
The friend with whom I was travelling was, like myself, an ardent admirer of Napoleon, and ordered a magnificent wreath to be placed on the tomb of the man who closed the great Emperor's eyes, and who, like his imperial master, was destined to end his days in a tropical island.
In these Cuban cemeteries you may occasionally notice certain large land crabs sidling along with a lazy air, as if they had had an exceedingly good dinner. All I will say anent them is, that they are often suspiciously covered with earth, and that I would not eat one of them to save my life. The negroes, however, declare them to be of exquisite flavour.
CHAPTER XI.
Plantation Life.
IT is only by visiting two or three of the great plantations, of various kinds, that one can form any idea, not only of the agricultural wealth of the island, but of the extraordinary beauty of its flora.
There are plantations and plantations in Cuba, just as there are country houses and country houses in England: some (I am speaking of the island before the present rebellion) are magnificent; others are distinctly rough and tumbledown. The first sugar plantation I had the pleasure of visiting was situated some miles from Havana, and belonged to an American gentleman. The approach to the family residence (casa de vivienda) was through handsome iron gates and an apparently interminable avenue of magnificent Royal palms, which, by the way, although they produced a most imposing effect, on account of the exceeding height of the vault of deep green foliage, suspended some eighty to ninety feet above our heads, afforded little or no shade, for their superb trunks are as straight as darts, and as smooth as so many greased poles at an old-fashioned English country fair.
In front of the very large one-storied house was an open space, converted into a garden by our charming hostess, a Bostonian lady, devoted to floriculture. It was, I remember, conspicuous for the number of its immense bushes of flaming hibiscus, then in full and glorious bloom. Hiding modestly in the shade were some homely pale pink roses, which had been imported from New England, and which, I was assured, required the greatest possible care. Their sweetness seemed not a little overpowered by their gorgeous and sturdy rivals, whose vivid flowers were as large as the crown of my Panama hat. The drive up to the house was fenced in by perfect walls of orange trees, whose strongly scented starlike blossoms mingled with the ripe and golden fruit. On either side of the door were the finest banana plants I have ever seen, their velvety leaves being fully ten to fifteen feet in length. At the door stood our host and hostess, eager to welcome us with true American cordiality. Mr G—— insisted upon our taking a cocktail there and then, and a most refreshing and grateful beverage it proved to be, after our long and dusty drive. The hall of this hacienda, an enormous apartment, with a highly polished floor, served also for drawing-room and place of general meeting. It was most beautifully furnished, and at every turn the careful supervision of a woman of culture was evident.
Here were immense Chinese vases full of fresh cut flowers, trailing boughs of the golden trumpet vine, huge bunches of the peacock acacia, and other specimens of brilliant tropical bloom, such as my eyes had never rested on before.
"Ah," said our hostess, "you see I always have cut flowers in my rooms, but you will never find them in the house of any Spaniard or Cuban. Even the negroes seem to object to them, and are apt to throw them away as soon as my back is turned. But what I want you to notice, whilst they are getting breakfast ready for us, are some mantis which we caught this morning in the garden;" and here the lady brought forward a box with a glass lid, containing apparently four or five beautiful green leaves, about the size and shape of a poplar leaf. But they were living insects, so cunningly formed by Nature that even the birds disdain to touch them, be they ever so hungry, fully believing them to be tasteless castaway foliage. The manti family is largely represented throughout the whole of the West Indies, from the sly gentleman who looks like a piece of broken brown stick, some four or five inches in length, to the pale green leaf we had just admired, and to yet another species which has all the appearance, and even the indentures and veining, of an autumn-tinted oak leaf, and which, moreover, the better to deceive its enemies, flutters to the ground exactly as if the wind had detached it from the bough of some tall tree.
Everywhere in this fine hacienda, all that wealth could procure to increase comfort had been introduced by a lavish and tasteful hand. The lofty bedrooms, I remember, were deliciously clean and airy, and the brass bedsteads—a real luxury in the tropics—were surrounded by the whitest and most impenetrable of mosquito netting. The coloured servants, too, looked sleek and happy, and spotless, in their snowy liveries.
Our host informed us that although since the emancipation of the slaves he paid his ex-slaves a weekly wage, he had purposely kept up the numerous institutions in connection with the plantation which were universal in the slave days, but which many of the native planters had latterly dispensed with, much to the inconvenience and regret of the poor black people, now left, with little or no experience, to their own devices. There was a sort of hospital on this estate, where the sick were looked after, and a nursery, in which the little black gentry were screened from the blazing sun, and carefully watched over by several old ebony and mahogany-tinted ladies deputed for the purpose. At certain hours of the day the mothers were allowed to tend their little ones, and to pass with them a half-hour or so of that supreme bliss which is so dear to every mother's heart.
After a well served and most enjoyable luncheon, and a cigarette, we sallied forth to see the sights of the place.
A sugar-cane field does not present a particularly inviting appearance, not more so than the ordinary cane jungles you so frequently come across in the Genoese Riviera. When green it is pretty enough; but ripe, it has a distinctly disorderly appearance, and is not to be compared with an English wheat field in the golden month of August.
There are two sorts of cane: the criolla or native cane, which, I was told, was first imported from the Canaries by Columbus on his second voyage. It is considered the least excellent in quality, and is not largely cultivated by the planters. They leave it to the negroes, who consume vast quantities of molasses—when they get the chance. The Otahite is the finest cane. It is very thick, and grows to a height of from six to sixteen feet. As in the case of all the cane family, the stem is divided into angular joints, which vary in length as the cane tapers upwards. The moist, soft pith contains the sweet juice, which, when pressed out by machinery, is converted into sugar. The sugar harvest commences late in January, and ends in May, the planting season taking place during the breaks in the wet season, which lasts from June to the end of November. The cane is not grown from seed, as is generally stated, but from slips taken from the top of the plant, the lower leaves of which are stripped off. When stuck in the ground at regular intervals, to a depth of about two inches, the cane slips soon take root, and in about six months grow to maturity, sometimes, but very rarely, attaining a height of twenty feet.
The field we first visited was a very large one, the ripe canes, of a pale green turning to grey, undulating over it to a considerable distance. There must have been some thirty or forty men, women, and children working in this plot, under the supervision of a mounted over-seer. The men cut the cane with a small hatchet, the women gathered it together and tied it into bundles, whilst some of the negroes and most of the children peeled off the leaves, which are good for fodder, or hoisted it on to the high-wheeled carts, each drawn by four prodigiously long-horned oxen, of the breed so dear to the Roman art student.
The sky above was hazy, almost an English grey, and everything was subdued to its tone, whereby for once we avoided that glare which, in warm climates, so often destroys the effect of those soft and fleeting tints of "middle distance." Some dozen carts piled with the silver-grey canes filed off in a slow procession down the white-sanded road towards the hacienda, the noble-looking oxen occasionally lifting their heads to give vent to their feelings, and express their opinion of things in general, by a prolonged bellow. Each team was led by a negro, with a wide straw hat on his head, and wearing only a pair of white drawers. Bobbing up and down among the uncut canes we could see the bright turbans of the negresses, and occasionally a little ebony imp would turn an impossible somersault right in front of us, and then drop on his knees in the expectation, promptly realised, of a liberal donation, as the price of his queer antic.
The carts take the cane to the mill, where they are unloaded, and where huge wheels, worked by steam, or latterly by electricity, press the sugar out of them,—the engine never ceasing its evolutions night or day. In the old times, the negroes were worked, as I have elsewhere stated, as many as nineteen and even twenty hours a day, at this, to them, terrible season. Even now, their hours are very long, but they are at liberty to strike for higher wages if they choose, and I am assured they very often do so.
It is very interesting to watch the cane being thrown into the mill, and to observe the great wheels whirling round and round, while the continuous river of pale green syrup flows into its wooden trough-like receptacles, whence it is taken in buckets to the furnaces to be clarified. In its first state it soon turns acid, and consequently has to be boiled and clarified immediately, or else it would be ruined; and this is one of the principal reasons why there is such a press of work during the sugar harvest. It cannot be neglected for a single hour, and relays of hands have to relieve each other constantly, rest being impossible, even on the Sabbath. The juice, after being boiled and clarified, is filtered through vats, which, up to the rim, are filled with bone black and changed every six or eight hours, until the juice turns colour. According to the punctuality and skill with which the bone black is changed, so does the quality of the sugar increase in excellence. This apparently simple process is one of the chief expenses, as well as one of the subtlest arts, of sugar-making. Once clarified, the sugar goes through a variety of mechanical processes—very absorbing to the spectator, but not particularly so to the reader,—until it is eventually converted into moist sugar. Some portion, however, is retained, and sold as molasses, and golden syrup. When duly prepared for exportation, it is tightly packed in wooden cases, which are sealed up and strapped with slips of raw hide, ready for market.
Our first evening on this plantation was delightfully spent. After dinner,—which, by the way, was served as it would have been in an English country house, everybody being in full evening dress,—we had some excellent music. A young Cuban lady and gentleman entertained us by singing some of the national airs, as arranged by Yradié. The lady sang with great spirit, and her rendering of la Paloma and of the Habanera from Carmen was simply perfect. I have never heard the latter song sung with greater spirit, except by the famous Madame Calvé. Then two negro musicians were ordered to appear and give us a sample of their skill. One of the men, who evidently belonged to some very black and fierce Kaffir tribe, had a melodious baritone voice, and sang several African melodies, which were recalled to my memory some years afterwards, by some of the music so dear to the Asiatics of Constantinople, which is of the same nasal and twangy description, with endless cadences, and a certain absence of tune, which should win the approval of all faithful Wagnerians.
As the night was exceedingly clear, before retiring to rest we went for a stroll in the gardens. It was my first experience of the transcendent beauties of a full moon in the tropics. Even the glories of an Italian moonlight must fade before such radiance as I now admired. The light shed by this southern "orb of night" was almost as golden as that of the sun, and yet the shadows remained quite dark; hence a vigorous contrast of light and shade, such as I have never seen elsewhere. The effect as we passed under the long avenue of palm trees was most striking. We might have been in the nave of some giant Gothic cathedral,—its columns were represented by the grey stems of the towering Royal palms, whose interlaced foliage, high above our heads, suggested the wonderful roof of Henry VII.'s chapel at Westminster. Some of the hedgerows in the garden were quite white with the "moon flower," a sort of snowy night-blooming convolvulus, the flowers of which are of immense size, and as flat and thin as a sheet of paper. This flower is an annual; several of its seeds which I carried back with me to England have succeeded very well.
The next sugar plantation we visited was near Matanzas; but although I saw several other sugar estates, they did not particularly interest me, as they were, though perhaps on a larger scale, almost exactly like the first we had inspected. I was, however, delighted with my first coffee plantation: I shall not easily forget its fresh beauty and delightful odour. The coffee berry was introduced into Cuba from Hayti, in 1742, and has flourished greatly, but the trade has of late considerably diminished in importance. Nothing can exceed the beauty of a coffee field. The plants are grown from seed, and are planted in rows sometimes covering a thousand acres. To screen the shrubs from the prodigious heat, they are carefully protected by other plants, such as the banana and the pomegranate tree, under whose shade the shrubs grow freely. Very often the cocoa plant is grown on the same plantation as the coffee shrub. There are three kinds of chocolate-producing plants—the caracas, the pods of which are red; the guayaquil, which bears purple pods, whereas those of the criolla are yellow. The tree is not pretty: it looks too much like a small stunted pear-tree, and the fruit grows in a very odd manner, not in clusters among the leaves, but along the trunk, from the ground upwards, the seeds being protected by thick, heavy pods, which, sticking out as they do at regular intervals, produce a most whimsical appearance. The fruit is ripe for gathering between June and December, at about the same time as the coffee, the blossoms of which are in full glory early in February,—distinctly the best month in which to visit a coffee estate, and enjoy its loveliness to the full.
The hacienda to which the plantation I first visited was attached, belonged to a Cuban gentleman, and was a great contrast to the finely-appointed mansion we had recently left. There was no garden, and the front door was usually encumbered by a noisy group of stark-naked little darkies of both sexes, whom we generally caught tormenting some queer-looking animal which they had caught in the fields—a land tortoise or a baby iguana. They were always sprawling between our feet, but though they sometimes got more kicks than ha'pence, they seemed perfectly happy, and as jolly as sandboys. The entrance-hall was occupied by a double row of rocking-chairs, and by a large deal table, on which our breakfast and dinner were served, invariably without tablecloth or napkins. There were, however, any number of looking-glasses, gorgeous French clocks, artificial flowers under glass shades, and stupendous bronze lamps, such as you buy at the Louvre or the Bon Marché, by way of works of art; there was a collection of framed but extremely primitive chromos, representing scenes in the life of the Blessed Virgin, and others in gay Parisian life, as it appeared at Mabile and at the Bal de l'Opera, in the golden days of Müger. No books or newspapers were anywhere to be seen; on the other hand, there was a plentiful supply of playing-cards and dominoes, with which we contrived to amuse ourselves during the evening, or, as I ought rather to say, throughout the night, for nobody dreamt of going to bed till two o'clock in the morning. The planter was a very hospitable man, who gave us the best of wines, and we had several very palatable Cuban dishes, the dinner always winding up with the inevitable roast sucking-pig, strongly flavoured with garlic. The Señora was a very stout lady of forty, who lolled about the house all day long in an old red flannel dressing-gown: when she was not rocking in a chair, she was swinging in a hammock, with four or five negresses in attendance on her. They all seemed on the best of terms, but as they spoke patois, I could not understand their jokes, possibly made at our expense, for they used to look at us slyly, and then burst into roars of ill-suppressed laughter. Be that as it may, the Señora was a very different personage in the evening from the rather disorderly-looking, middle-aged female, without shoes and stockings, who was so busy doing nothing all day long. By supper-time she was gorgeous, dressed up in the very latest of Parisian toilettes, her magnificent glossy black hair carefully dressed, her podgy fingers blazing with diamond rings, and her face so thickly coated with rice flour that you could scarcely distinguish her features, except her lips, which were painted cherry red, and her eyebrows, which were artificially arched. She had a rather pretty daughter, called Dolores, who spent her days much after her mother's fashion. There was yet another daughter, at a convent in Havana, and a third, about seven years of age, who played with the little niggers on the doorstep. There was a really fine grand piano in one corner of the room, every single note of which was out of tune, and on this delightful instrument the Señorita and a long, thin young German, whose exact position in the family I never could define,—I think he must have been the agent's son,—played airs from Luisa Miller, Ernani, and other pre-historic operas, systematically disarranged for the piano, for four hands, by a certain Signor Campara. They were exceedingly proud of their performance, and, once started, there was no possibility of stopping them until the cards were produced. Then they flew to the table and took a most active interest in a game at "Nap," at which I lost a considerable sum of money the first night, and won it back again the second, to the Señora's extreme and evident annoyance.
The most extraordinary part about this house was that there were no single bedrooms. They were replaced by two dormitories on opposite sides of the house, one for gentlemen and one for ladies. It was all very odd and amusing, but the hospitality was unbounded. On the last evening of our stay a baile or dance was given in our honour, to which some of the neighbours came, and danced the creola, and a very elaborate country-dance in which I was forced to join. I am afraid I did not acquit myself with much grace, for I was perpetually mistaking the figures, which provoked much laughter. The ball ended at about two o'clock in the morning, and most of the company went home on horseback, after a supper at which no less than four infant pigs were consumed. I never saw such a people as the Cubans for pork and sucking-pig,—about the very last dish I should have expected to have come across in those latitudes. We took leave of our friends with no little regret, for though they were primitive and very superficially educated people, their manners were excellent, most courteous, kindly, and well-bred. The Señora, however, could never keep herself from laughing at our Spanish, and at the evident reluctance with which we endeavoured to make believe we enjoyed certain impossible dishes,—a roast iguana among the number. I did overcome my repugnance to partaking of so unpleasant-looking a reptile, and found it tasted exactly like tough roast chicken.
Whilst we were staying with this amiable family we were initiated into the mysteries of guava jelly-making by a tall mulatress, who acted as cook to the establishment, and who was evidently held in great respect by every member of the community, especially by the darksome urchins, who, although they haunted her kitchen in the hope of purloining titbits, constantly received sharp raps on their woolly pates, from a prodigiously long iron spoon. There was no very great mystery about the guava jelly,—the process is exactly like that of compounding any other fruit-jelly; and as to the paste or cheese, I think that between the making of it and damson cheese there is only the difference which exists between Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee. However, I frankly admit my devotion to guava paste. And as to the jelly,—the Easterns say we may hope to enjoy in the next world those things which we like best to eat in this,—therefore pray I, that when I shuffle off this mortal coil, I need not relinquish all hope of an occasional treat of guava jelly!
A sketch of Cuba which contained no mention of tobacco would be very much like "Hamlet" without the Prince of Denmark. The name of the dusky chief whom Christopher Columbus found inhaling the fragrant leaf of the tabaco, as he called it, should have lived even to our days. But, like that of many another unknown hero, his title is unrecorded, and probably neither Columbus nor his savage friend ever imagined the prodigious results that were to grow out of the conversation, in the course of which the Indian instructed the discoverer of the New World as to the value and properties of the strange weed, the soothing properties of which he seemed so greatly to enjoy. Little did they foresee that within a hundred years a Mahommedan Kaliph and a Christian Pope were both to fulminate excommunication against such of their followers as ventured to indulge a taste they deemed unworthy and unclean. The aboriginal Indians did not smoke tobacco after our present fashion. They inhaled the fumes through a forked cane, the two prongs of which they applied to their nostrils, whilst the longer end was plunged among the burning leaves. Such implements are still used, I am assured, by the negroes in Cuba, and elsewhere, when they desire to forget their sorrows in the dreamy sleep thus artificially produced.
Like the vine, tobacco depends for its quality on certain peculiarities of soil and climatic influences, which have hitherto baffled investigation. Thus the Cuban tobacco grown in the Vuelta Abajo district is the finest in the world; and, though the plant grows luxuriantly in other parts of the island,—as at San Juan dos Remedeos and at Rematos,—its quality never attains the perfection of that which ripens in the immense fertile plain which extends westward from Havana. This part of Cuba is known as the Vuelta Abajo, or "lower valley," in contradistinction to the upper end of the island called Vuelta Arriba, or "higher valley." Fortunately for the tourist, the best tobacco plantations in the island are within an easy journey from the capital, and close to a village called Guanajay, some twelve miles from the sea, and accessible by train. It is situated in the midst of very pretty scenery, of an essentially sylvan character, the numerous tobacco fields being dotted with magnificent palms and tropical trees. Few tobacco plantations exceed a size of thirty acres. Each is provided, as a rule, with a dwelling-house, some cattle-sheds, and a few drying-houses. The processes of growing and preparing the plant are of the simplest character, and do not require any special machinery. The tobacco is not sown in the open field, but in small prepared plots, whence the seedlings are transplanted when they are a few inches high, and set out at regular distances in the fields. The Nicotiana,—now common in most English gardens,—grows taller in Cuba than in this country, usually reaching a height of from 6 to 8 feet. Each plant is carefully tended until it is ready for harvesting. All superfluous and ill-shaped leaves must be removed, and the greatest care taken to protect the plants from the vivijagua, a very large and malicious ant, which is quite capable of destroying a whole crop within a few hours. The field hands employed in this cultivation are almost all blacks, who possess an instinctive knowledge of the needs of each plant, and gather the leaves with an astonishing delicacy of touch, and absence of over-handling. When the harvesting and curing time arrives, the leaves are gathered into bundles of from thirty to forty each, for the best, and from twenty to thirty, for the second quality.[20] Some eighty to a hundred of these bundles, when pressed and tied together, form a tercio or bale, weighing about 200 lbs., in which form the tobacco is transported, on muleback, to Havana. A tobacco plantation is a very pretty sight, and the fragrance is delightful, for a certain number of plants in each plot are allowed to flower for seeding purposes. The sowing-time lasts from June to October; the harvest begins in December and goes on till May.
Some idea of the importance of the tobacco trade is conveyed by the fact that one hundred million cigars, valued at about two million sterling, are annually imported into England alone. The earliest shipments take place in June and July, and are mostly sold to Germany; the British market being supplied in October and November, when the tobacco is thoroughly mellowed.
Almost all the Cuban tobacco planters are Spaniards, and the trade, with few exceptions, is entirely in their hands. Two great foreign firms, however, stand out prominently. The first, that of Messrs Bock & Co., is English, and world renowned; the second is German, Messrs Behrens & Co., who are the owners of the cigar connoisseur's latest "pet," the brand "Sol." With hardly any exception, all the other brands of any renown—the Flor de Cuba, Corona, Villa y Villa, Flor de J. S. Murias, Pedro Murias—are in the hands of the Spaniards. It is a curious fact that hitherto no American firm has risen to exceptional renown among the cigar manufacturers of the world, although the neighbouring isle of Key West has lately sprung into prominence as a tobacco land of much promise, and several important firms have been established there with a fair measure of success. The true Havana cigar is made in Havana only. Some of the large firms, such as Bock & Co., employ from three to five thousand hands, almost all Spaniards and Cubans, white labour being preferred, on account of the delicate processes through which the tobacco has to pass before it is converted into a cigar. Although there are certainly more than a hundred cigar manufacturers in Havana, only two or three of the factories are really worth visiting. The Corona is perhaps the most striking, because it is located in what was until quite recently the gorgeous palace of the Aldama family, in the Campo Marte. The magnificent marble staircases and saloons, with their splendidly frescoed ceilings, are now turned "to viler purposes," the tesselated pavements are trodden by the zapatos of the cigar makers, and the Court of Olympus, in the vaulted roof of the state ballroom, looks down upon busy groups of tobacco sorters and cigar makers. Each cigar maker sits before a low table. He begins operations by taking the tobacco leaf and spreading it smoothly before him. Then he cuts out certain hard fibres which might interfere with the shape of the cigar. Next he rolls up the leaf into the correct shape, and if he be a skilful workman he will do this without further recourse to knife or scissors. The cigars vary in length according to the brand: they were made much longer formerly than they are at present. Some used to measure eight inches, but now four inches is the most usual length. Prices vary from thirty to one thousand dollars per thousand cigars.
No women are employed in the manufacture except for arranging the cigars in boxes and pasting down the lids with their well-known and brilliantly printed labels. The boxes, which are made of cedar wood, form another important branch of Havanese industry. The Cubans themselves never smoke cigars: they all use cigarettes, which most of them make and roll, with a delicacy and grace peculiar to themselves. It is somewhat remarkable that although the Cubans literally live with a cigarette between their lips—they begin smoking the first thing in the morning, and continue until they go to bed—they seem absolutely impervious to any form of nicotine poisoning. May not its prevalence in European countries be the result of smoking inferior and dirty tobacco? I was much struck, when visiting the various tobacco factories in Havana, with the scrupulous cleanliness everywhere observed. The cigar makers are obliged to wash their hands constantly all through the day, and no dust or dirt is tolerated anywhere.