Tuesday, 6th.—The thermometer has fallen from 90 to 75 degrees. This is the result of a “norther,” which drives the cold waters of the Atlantic furiously into our bay; changes the usual moist perspiring atmosphere into a husky dryness; turns the roads, almost the paving-stones, into dust; shrivels and browns the foliage in the country; and with its cold puts the low-necked dresses, pantings, and fans of our hotel-ladies in their trunks. So we ventured on a walk, even at high noon, to our favorite Cortina, keeping on the shady side, and stopping at the fish market. It is palpably true that God set his dyed bow in the heavens; but I did not before know that he also set it in the floods to reassure us that we should have no more floods,—else where did these fishes learn this trick of exaggerated brightness? Of all the myriads ranged on the endlessly long metallic tables, I do not remember one in quaker costume. Everywhere a fantastic variety of colors and gradations and combinations of shades. Joseph’s coat would have looked plain beside them. May not the excessive phosphorescence, latent, or developed in the native waters of these fishes, explain in some way their pre-eminence of color?
Wednesday, March 7th.—At last we have a room possessing the fundamental doctrines of a room, viz., four walls of its own. It was formerly the library of the bishop, who built the palace and lived in it several years, and is now, by the way, enormously rich, and “they say” hints not egregiously pious. Our room has an ambitious window, from which we always see the sky, and nothing else. The door, protected by fanciful iron gratings, opens upon the dining-room. The floor, of the usual black and white marble, resembles a chess-board with the squares placed diagonally. As queen of this chess-board, I am in a fair way to be checkmated, as well as its king, if the jolly priest continues his jolly suppers. The rest of the room would suit me well enough, if it were not so discouragingly convenient. With the exception of a kind of wooden-tiled ceiling, and one of the beds furnished with stretched canvass instead of a mattress, you might suppose yourself commonplacely domiciled in a respectable hotel in Yankeedom.
Thursday, 8th.—This morning Mr. S. brought his venerable friend Mr. R——. He is a Frenchman, though born in Baltimore and educated in England; has lived indefinitely on the Continent; is waiting to die in Cuba. He is delightful, thoroughly a cosmopolite, speaks many languages, knows everything and everybody. Long intimacy with this government, its officers, and many of the nobility, has made him au fait in the policy and intrigues as well as customs and characteristics of the island. Lady Wortly is indebted to him for her anecdotes of Cuba. I have been able to correct many false impressions received from various writers; for instance:—
The line of separation between Creoles and Spaniards is not distinctly drawn. The Creoles sympathize in these victorious rejoicings; would be perfectly satisfied with an allegiance to Spain, if they could have a voice in their own government. Creole ladies are lighter in color, better educated, less rigid in forms of etiquette and propriety than the Spanish. But everywhere the negro blood is so intermixed, that it is impossible to make a distinct separation between any of the races; a fact of difficult management in the event of self-government, or any step towards it. He says there are not fifty families in the island untainted by African blood. It seems very natural that a dark race should have less repugnance to a black race than white people have.
We all know the greater leniency of the laws here, with regard to slaves, than in the United States. I find, in addition, that there is, in Cuba, much more indulgence and affection between master and slave, unless it be on the remote plantations. In our drives, particularly through the suburbs, I continually see negroes and their Creole mistresses, dressed equally well, lounging on the balconies, not as equals, but in a way that indicates affectionate intimacy, and a gayety too abundant to suggest the true dolce far niente. I am told that, almost without exception, masters here would be willing to free their slaves in case of remuneration.
Among the many foolish arrangements of this government, the chain-gang seems to be a wise one. It is a penitentiary on the highway. My author on Cuba, says of this chain-gang, “It is Sunday; but no rest for them.” The truth is, they always rest on Sunday, unless unusual circumstances occur; as, for instance, a road that must be finished for some great occasion.
Thursday evening, March 9th.—This evening drove to the Cerro, three miles distant, to visit the country house of Count Fernandino, an intimate friend of Mr. R——, who accompanied us. Contrary to Mr. R——’s expectations, the family, consisting of the old widowed count, and his son and daughter-in-law, had not yet left their winter residence in the city. An old family servant, however, conducted us everywhere, with equal pride and pleasure. The house is a quaint, irregular structure. You stumble everywhere upon recesses, balconies, unexpected rooms, and general surprises. In the drawing-room are two genuine Claude Lorraines, and two Vernets. I was sorry to be hurried away from them to the billiard-room; the octagon library, the high, large, open piazza, roofed with vines and paved with marble, where two hundred dancers find fantastic toe-room; the curious chambers, busts, statues, curiosities everywhere.
But the grounds we only saw from the tower, and without them we have seen nothing. They are extensive and beautiful; here a rustic bridge crosses the mysteriously winding brook which branches into a fanciful bathing-house, hung with pictures of naiads and water-gods; there stands a little airy temple overhung by doting cypresses, and sacred to its only inhabitant,—an exquisite marble Venus. Wherever chance leads your steps, it will be sure to reveal some new beauty of tree, or flower, or shrub, or arbor, or rustic seat; some avenue looking far out upon the wonderful campagna. As the short and sudden twilight comes, a lovely waterfall catches the light coming from the distant Morro, with level, and distinct, and separate rays over the city spires and roofs, over its pale, irregularly planted lights and absorbing shadows. Many of the trees and shrubs are from Europe and Asia. The gardener gave me a spray from an Australian tree, imported when a small slip, for which the count paid seven hundred dollars. He also gave me two handfuls of bouquets, some of them from his own private nursery, by which he makes a hundred dollars per month, in addition to his wages. Mr. R—— tells me that, in the last hurricane, most of the trees in these grounds were prostrated; that he saw the count and countess, when they first discovered the desolation, crying like children. The great difficulty in gardening here is to repress vegetation, it being nearly impossible to curb its rank luxuriance. If left to itself, any garden will in two or three years become a dense impenetrable tangle of trees, vines, flowers, and weeds. But it is time to hurry away from all this loveliness. A few minutes ago we were watching the sunset emparadising both heaven and earth; now, before we have time for a second sigh at its departure, night has dropped upon us like a silent and intangible avalanche, with no interluding, apologistic twilight to warn or to reconcile us.
March 10th.—Rose this morning, as usual, at six. So soon as bathed and dressed, commenced the day in the customary national style; namely, by a vigorous attack upon a pyramid of huge oranges, which B—— has just brought in, paying twelve cents for ten. He gives me two-thirds of each, for the remaining third and the privilege of peeling them. I am commanded by high authority to devour twelve every morning; until I achieve that I cannot be said to like oranges, or even to eat them.
After the nine o’clock breakfast, appeared the white head of Mr. R——, and, immediately after, a portable set of chess-men, with which he challenged me to a game. He has not played much for twenty-eight years. I did not play much before that time; so, not unequally yoked together, we fought long and desperately; and who do you think won? My modesty declines to answer.
Dinner at four, with the usual English courses and bill of fare, except an interspersion of here and there a Spanish or French dish; for instance,—garlic, onions, and oil, flavored with