Cuba Past and Present

by Richard Davey

The Guajiro of bygone times, with his bright eyes and his guitar, is the starving reconcentrado of to-day. I like to think of him as he was, not as he is. Let us, therefore, behold the Señor and the Señora Guajiro in all the glory of their war-paint, en route for the procession of the Angel, for instance, in their village church of Santa-Fé. The Señor is dressed up in all his Sunday go-to-meeting best, a costume very like that of our own coster-boys, and the same blood doubtless courses through their veins, for I am assured, on authority, that Whitechapel 'Arry and his "donah" originally came from the sunny land of Spain, in Merry King Charles II.'s time, to sell oranges to benighted Britishers, and that, liking us and our ways, he then and there condescended to take up his abode amongst us. Certainly the Cuban Guajiro shares 'Arry's propensity for mother-of-pearl and silver buttons, with which he covers every available part of his clothing, his jacket, his waistcoat, and his trousers. By her lord's side tramps the faithful Guajira, a very beautiful young matron, frequently, with delicate, regular features and soft brown eyes with sweeping lashes. Her gown is made of gaudy chintz, patterned with flaring bunches of roses. Most probably the fabric was made in England in the tasteless early Victorian days, and intended as furniture covering. Its train sweeps up a cloud of dust, for it would be derogatory for any respectable Guajira to lift her skirts like those miserable English and American women, who hold up their petticoats to their knees, and go picking their way along as if they were treading on eggs and were afraid of breaking them. The very negresses know better. Nevertheless, the Guajira takes good care to display her very small, brown, stockingless feet, thrust into a pair of green or red zapatos, or slippers, in which she intends to dance the Creola. Over her shoulders is a China crape shawl, either white or rose-coloured—a wedding present,—and her raven tresses are set off by a bunch of wax-like stephanotis or of scarlet hibiscus. Before and behind their parents trot the "family," some dozen of them, the baby borne in the arms of a small but very gorgeous negress. As to these little brown ones, I have seen them trotting along without a stitch of clothing, with their hair very neatly brushed and their small tawny feet encased in patent leather shoes, the whole shaded by an old scarlet parasol. Sometimes, however, the Guajiro and the Guajira may be particularly well-to-do, and in this case they do not condescend to trapese along the dusty roads like the common of mortals, negroes and mulattoes and "sich'z," but make a triumphal entry on horseback, or on a little Cuban pony, gloriously bedecked with silver and brass bells and buttons, and long tags of yellow and red worsted balls. Or else they come along on bullock-back, the Guajira sitting sideways on the beast's back, keeping her position by clinging to her husband's waistband. Nothing quainter or more picturesque can be imagined than this, to European ideas, queerest of methods of locomotion. The bullock gallops clumsily enough, but seems to fancy himself immensely in his rather novel character of horse. If, perchance, you meet a dozen or so of these singular equestrians, you are likely to retain a pleasant recollection of their picturesqueness to your dying day.[15]

But let us hasten, or else we shall lose our Guajiro and Guajira in the crowd in the fiesta, and that would be a sad pity. Their first duty is to go to church, where we shall see them praying with pathetic sincerity before the illuminated shrine of Our Lady of the Cobre or of Guadalupe. No philosophical doubt haunts the consciences of these good folk. God and His Blessed Mother hear every word they say to Them, and, as they are on very friendly terms with the Powers that be, they place their affairs most frankly before Them, firmly believing that if they do their best to keep straight, according to their lights, their prayers will surely be heard, else why pray at all? They have a good deal to pray for. The Guajiro slily asks that he may be inspired to bet on the winning cock, and the Guajira has a yellow lottery ticket in her bosom, the number of which was selected at the instance of a notorious African witch. Now that was very wrong, and the Guajira's mind is not at all easy on the subject, for the new Cura, Padre Pablo has told her over and over again that Lolla, the witch, is a black limb of Satan, and that if things were as they ought to be, she would long ago have been burnt at the stake. But still, if Our Lady would but make that number win, there would be ten or twenty dollars to the good, and see what a lot of comforts that would enable her to get. And, besides that, is not the old Guajiro's grandmother, who is nearly a hundred, ill at home, and is she not always wanting medicine, and things that poor people cannot afford to buy, and, the children are really getting too old to go about without any clothing, especially Cassandrina, who is nearly seven years of age. But how is one to buy dresses, in these hard times, for growing wenches, even if they are one's own children, unless a little windfall drops into one's lap? Therefore, "O Most Pitiful Lady of the Cobre, ask your Son, whose image wears such a pretty frock of sky blue satin, with a golden fringe, to let old black Lolla's number win. Por amor de Dios."

Being perfectly satisfied that their prayers are duly registered in the Court of Heaven, the worthy couple and their brood, who, by-the-way, have been staring all the time, with eyes as big as halfpence, at the gorgeous robes of Our Lady of the Cobre, flock out of church into the broad, sunny plaza, where, although it is only six o'clock a.m. (everything in Cuba is done at an unearthly hour on account of the heat), the Procession is already beginning to form, so as to be over before High Mass begins. Bless me, how magnificent it all is! So much better done than in the days of the old Cura, a dreadful old person, concerning whom there were so many queer stories. Since our blessed Pope, Leo XIII., has come to the throne, things have changed for the better.

First come the confraternities of the Precious Blood and of Our Lady of the Cobre, all very decently dressed, the blacks and the whites mixed up, on a footing of perfect equality, holding candles in their hands, without any distinction of caste or colour. Then the Children of Mary, not a few of them dressed up as Saints,—St Agnes with her lamb, St John with sheep-skin wound round his chubby limbs, St Francis as a little monk, and so forth. And lastly, the priests in their showiest vestments, and the choir boys with their incense, and the climax of the function, the Angel,—that is to say, a chariot drawn by two white oxen, whose sweeping horns are tipped with gold foil, in which, on a throne made of leaves and artificial roses, sits a little girl attired as an angel with a flaxen wig, for in tropical countries, where mortals are generally black-haired, all Celestial beings are supposed to be blondes. The angel's wings are made of coloured bits of paper, cut in the shape of feathers, arranged with a distinct eye to artistic effect. When the angel and her chariot arrive in front of the Church the priests bring forth the statue of Our Lady of the Cobre, and place it under a gorgeous canopy, where it remains, whilst the terrestrial angel recites a loja or sonnet, in honour of the Blessed Lady. Then the Benediction is given, all the motley crowd drops on its knees, and afterwards everybody hurries into the Church to hear Mass, and so the religious part of the fiesta ends. Later in the day after the mid-day siesta, we shall find the Guajiro at the cockpit, which women are prohibited by law from attending, so that the Guajira will be discovered sitting outside the village fonda, gossiping with her cousins and friends, and sipping tamarind water, whilst her numerous progeny disport themselves in the middle of the square, where there is a sort of fair in progress. If the favourite cock wins,—and it must surely win on this special occasion,—the Guajiro will be in the best of humours, and he and his wife will dance the Creola until the small hours, for a Cuban dances even when he is half-dead. Long before the sun rises our friends will have wended their way home, and there will be but little joy in their lives until the next fiesta comes round. But as there happen to be seventy-two of them besides fifty-two Sundays, the chintz dress with the big roses will stir up the dust between the farm and Santa-Fé on many an occasion yet, before Christmas comes round again, and everybody goes to pray before the Infante de Dios[16] in the Parish Church.

In the neighbourhood of Cienfuegos, I had the questionable pleasure of beholding a Cuban "duck hunt." In the diary of our good Boy-King, Edward VI., appears the following entry:—

"1550, June 4. Sir Robert Dudley, eldest (surviving) son to the Earl of Warwick, married Sir John Robsart's daughter, Amy, after which marriage, there were certain gentlemen that did strive who should first take away a goose's head which was hanged alive on two cross posts."

The cruel sport, at one time considered a courtly pastime in England, is still a favourite in Cuba. Two posts are set up, some three yards apart, and to the centre of the cross beam a live duck or goose is tied by the legs, head downwards. Then some ten or twenty men on horseback dash under the posts, and the victor is he who "takes away the goose's head" as he gallops through. The wretched bird's head being well greased, it often happens that the poor creature's sufferings are prolonged for many minutes, whilst the wild crew of horsemen strive to wrench it off, without losing their balance or falling from horseback. The hubbub is deafening, everybody shouts at once, and, above the din, you can hear the piercing shrieks of the half-strangled fowl. As all the horses must pass under the comparatively narrow gangway, many are thrown down, while others take fright and gallop off, frequently leaving their caballeros sprawling, and perhaps badly damaged, on the ground. It is a disgusting and most cruel exhibition, and makes one feel sorry that it should have been included among the wedding festivities of so interesting and much to be pitied a heroine as Amy Robsart.

CHAPTER IX.
Trinidad and Santiago de Cuba.

THE next place of importance on our tour was Trinidad de Cuba, a queer little city of about 18,000 inhabitants, with funny old-fashioned houses, their windows protected by thick iron gratings, like those of a mediæval Italian city, scrambling in somewhat disorderly fashion up and down the sides of a steepish hill called the Vija, or Watch Tower. Trinidad is situated about ten miles inland from the sea-shore, and is said to be one of the oldest and quaintest towns in this part of the West Indies, having been founded by Diego Velasquez in 1513. Historically speaking, its chief interest centres round Cortez, who started on his famous expedition to Mexico from the neighbouring bay of Casilda.

In a little shop in Trinidad, where ink and paper and a few old books were sold, I picked up an almost contemporary engraving of Hernando Cortez, which represents him as a fine-looking warrior, attired in a most elaborate suit of richly damascened mail, over which he wears a striped petticoat-like garment reaching below his knees. His feet are encased in plate armour. On his head he wears a splendid helmet, from which float a score of prodigiously long ostrich feathers. In his hand he bears a spear. The background is a view of a distant city, with several palm trees. The features are perfectly regular, and the illustrious Lothario sports a sweeping moustache, and has a dare-devilry expression which the ancient and skilful limner has reproduced with apparently scrupulous fidelity. It is evidently an original portrait, and is dated 1542. It was copied, in all probability, from some contemporary oil-painting, and engraved, of course, in Europe—probably in Flanders.[17]