Saturday, 24th.—When we had drunk the delicious coffee and milk, or, more accurately, milk and coffee, which our landlady brings so soon as we are awake, or should be, we hurried off for the early ride.
What can be more fresh and innocent, more externally young, than this tropical nature! She is a robust Titaness, it is true, but always out of her strong comes forth sweetness, and no riddle either. How readily she justifies the taste which decks her in these early mornings with all her jewels! And then she is so tender, so peaceful, so serene. Her tears, thank heaven, like those of infants, are not tears of sorrow. Her tempests, tornadoes, and straits of passion have been studiously kept from us. It is true one misses that “sense of promise everywhere” with which our Northern springs console their sweet virgin hearts, for nature is always here in her fruition of beauty; “her every future is already in her every present.” “The world,” says Plato (and he knows), “is God’s epistle to mankind.” Here the manuscript is written in a large, generous hand; the ink flowed freely; the thoughts are largely outlined.
Even the people, in spite of numerous reports of robberies, have almost universally an innocent and amiable expression of countenance and the most unoffending, respectful way in the world. Even the horses, I am constantly assured, are never vicious. A lady might ride at random any of the native species with safety. It may be that an habitual and contented indolence is largely among the causes, but it strikes me that harmlessness is the most apparent characteristic of these children of the sun.
I must have forgotten to tell you of a remarkable phenomenon which we met every morning coming in to market from the country, or already arrived when we leave. It moves like an animal; its physiognomy is that of a vegetable. The first thing you see advancing upon you is a huge heap of corn-stalks, called fodder, I think, at home, and mollacca here. It is very high above, and trails upon the ground below. By careful examination, you may discover at one end of it a muzzled appearance resembling a horse’s head; from the other extremity dangles a possible appendage you would declare to be his tail, while sometimes, by careful scanning and difficult investigation, you may count four feet under the thing, upon which it seems to move. Sometimes, eight or ten of these mysterious apparitions are fastened in a procession by a rope, pace slowly along with one negro to drive or conduct it, often sitting astride on the top of this superstructure. After many investigations, I venture to affirm that the framework of this architecture is actually a horse buried, yet alive and doing well. It would also have amused you to see the great sun-umbrellas nearly all these countrymen carry on horseback; not of the dark orthodox colors, but a bright light red alternated with blue or yellow, tipped with black, or purple bordered with green: an attempt to eclipse the sun in more ways than one.
After breakfast we with our umbrellas walked over to accept the invitation of Father M—— to see his garden, or rather the garden in the courtyard of the Marquis of V——, in whose vacant house the priest lives alone and free of expense. Finding that he had not yet returned from morning mass, we took the liberty of avoiding the scorching sun of the garden by rambling through the great deserted corridors, chambers, and antechambers, all built and furnished in Spanish style and only occupied, like most of the great houses out of the cities, one or two months of every year. Presently, after I had duly ensconced myself to rest in one corner of a sofa behind the door of the grand drawing-room, came in the priest, jolly as the priests of romance, saluting us with a stunning volley of Spanish and politeness; we replying in smiles and nods which Mr. S—— did not translate, and in English, which he did. The reverend father is a short man even for a Creole, and when sitting suggests the form of a pyramid; but the little twinkling gray eyes situated near the apex of the structure suggested anything rather than the sepulchral. After we had seen and duly admired some of the frescoes in the rooms and all the distant views from different upper piazzas and windows, the priest, with the air of one who is doing you an uncommon favor, invited us to visit his sanctum. I put on a look of becoming gravity and awe, and, with a feeling of profound grief at my ignorance of the mysteries of science, and, alas! of art and theology, and with profound gratification that there are some works, even in Cuba, where science and wisdom find refuge, where learning and piety shake hands, I follow the father and the gentlemen follow me.
We enter a dark, long passage leading to this cell of midnight vigils and occult research; the door slowly opens, I reverently enter upon—heaps of tinsel leaves and flowers, with scissors and glue and all the paraphernalia for flower-making; piles of bouquets lie on the bed, all with silver leaves exactly alike, and each one with a brick-red rose in the centre. They are to decorate the church on Easter Sunday; they are the only proofs of piety and science and lore that the sanctum of our jolly priest possesses.
After dinner, Father M—— came in, bringing a gentleman who said we could have a house of his in the country. We go at once on our horses, to find a river of remarkably clear and pure water running behind the house among the trees, all most inviting; but the house is wretchedly dilapidated, kitchen to be built, and, withal, a Creole overseer is to occupy one half of it. Thus nonplussed, we resign all thought of a permanent location in the country, and decide to spend our time in travelling over the island so soon as the interest of Guiness is exhausted.
From this place we ride to Le Armistad, the ingenio of Mr. D——, our first Guiness friend, with the hope of getting some guirappa or cane-juice to drink. It is said to have remarkable fattening as well as curative power. But the machinery is silent, the chimneys are smokeless, the odor of nice sweet cake only regales the nostrils of the memory; and so, redisappointed, we turn again toward home, and ride through the hedges by the light of a Venus that has a halo as distinct as you may have seen around the moon. Instead of fast horsemen with dangling sword and pistol-equipped saddle, we only meet sleepy-looking market-men returning home astride the collapsed panniers, which in the morning bulged at each side of their horses like huge saddle-bags, stuffed with all kinds of fruits or poultry, and these poor horses would think themselves fortunate if fruits and ducks and chickens were all that is packed upon their devoted backs. Not only all the fodder and charcoal go to town in this way, but I saw this morning four exhausted-looking creatures wilting along through the mid-day sun with chairs, tables, and bedsteads, piled high upon their backs, and sometimes a good-for-nothing-looking negro mounted on the top of all openly rejoicing in that “bad eminence.”
Sunday, March 25th.—Awoke too late and too weary for early mass this morning. Immediately after breakfast I was attracted to the window by martial music and a procession. The landlady came in, saying it was the burial of an officer’s child. First came the musicians, mulattoes with handsome serious faces; after them boys in the dress of novices, then the priests in robes. But no relatives or mourners were to be seen, for the immediate friends of the dead never go to the burial, do not leave their houses on these occasions. It is not considered decent or appropriate anywhere on the island. One is constantly impressed with the truth that geographical nearness has little to do with real nearness. All the customs of this country ally it much more nearly to Europe than to America.
I stood looking carelessly on at the long procession, with only curiosity excited, when I am attracted by the peculiarly sad and solemn and tender expression in the faces of the soldiers who follow. I see tearful eyes turned toward the centre of the group. I look—what an apparition! Never shall I forget the shock, the thrill, the agony of the sight. Upon an open litter carried in the hands of these soldiers it lay, the little angel face of rarest possible loveliness, wreathed with flowers that are pale and fair, but not so fair and pale as itself. The little dead hands full of white flowers are raised and clasped in a supplicating attitude, the little heavenly form, just the fatal and familiar size, is robed in a trailing white satin shroud, and over this unearthly vision shines the burning sun with mocking glare, and upon it stare the passers-by with indifferent faces through which no broken heart has ever looked. But with this wonderful image some mother’s soul at home is blackened, with this wonderful image the blackness of the grave will be brightened. Ah, that grave! It will hold another dead infant upon its heart, but it will give back none in return!