We drove at once past the walls of the city, upon the Paseo de Isabel Segunda and the Paseo Tacon,—said to be the finest avenues in this hemisphere,—with their five or six rows of magnificent palms, their smooth, broad roads, statues, fountains, and gardens, and, far in the distance, the luxurious plains, the graceful green slopes of hills and mountains, the wonderfully tall, solitary palms and cocoa-trees, standing like imposing sentinels to keep the voluptuous vegetation from running riot, and over all the doting sunlight bathing its pet island in a never-ending tide of fervor.
No wonder these people love gay hues, paint their houses in the brightest colors, wear dresses and carry umbrellas dyed in rainbows; for nature sets the example of brilliancy everywhere. The phosphoric waters surrounding the island reply to every touch, every question, of oar, with “colors dipped in heaven.” Even the smallest fishes have, almost without exception, selected their scaly wardrobes from prismatic excesses.
Last evening a game of whist, with a Catholic priest to complete the party. He is a charming, accomplished Irishman; is more clever at repartee, and more graceful in compliment, than any man I ever saw. What infinitely delicate things he said! and all with as much feeling as if he had learned both flattery and feeling in courts, instead of catechisms. But he is so extravagantly fond of the game, and scolded B—— so tempestuously, yet politely, for little mistakes, that I was thankful to have the indulgent face of Mr. S—— for partner, instead of that of the charming priest. He deplores the religious condition of Cuba, and ridicules every thing else in it; shrugs his shoulders sententiously at all these patriotic ebullitions, and declares that volantes are just fit to carry chickens in. I even heard him, yesterday, at breakfast, imitating the sing-song tone of the Cuban priests in their masses, the comical expression of his face equalling the irresistibly funny intonations of his voice.
Saturday evening, March 3d.—A shopping excursion, with Mr. S—— for guide and interpreter. In some shops they knew a little French, but less English. I was obliged to use French for articles of attire which Mr. S—— could not manage in Spanish, and, among us all—three or four clerks usually looking on to help and laugh—I think a linguistical hash was concocted as droll as any vegetable or animal arrangement that comes on our hotel tables; and that is saying a great deal, when you consider the oils, peppers, and garlics that are pressed into the service.
Here merchants do not name the shops after themselves, as Americans do, but more modestly and tastefully. The shop is christened with a name of its own, as in Europe. For instance, on one corner you have Pobre Diablo (Poor Devil), and on the corner opposite Rico Diablo (Rich Devil); then we have all the saints—and sinners—in the Calendar, so that the shop can change hands without losing its identity. Shops containing magnificent goods have often a very humble appearance, because ladies do not walk the streets, or leave their volantes—those darling volantes, which are their feet, their couches, their homes, the body of which they are the soul, and which I have many times seen standing, much at home, in the corners of their parlors! So all the goods are kept in great boxes, and carried out to the volantes, where my lady condescends to sit in state and in attire to inspect, and, without knowing it, to pay twice the value of all she buys.
On coming home, we took another turn in the Plaza de Armas, where festivities still continue. We are fortunate to be here at this time, for it is a continual holiday, and will be so nearly all of next week. Illuminations of all sorts, fine bands of music, awnings and flags of red and yellow,—the national colors of Spain,—carriages and volantes full of richly-dressed people, promenaders in Sunday-costume—all these are to be met in every street of the city. I have been much amused at promiscuous Moors in effigy, hanging out of the windows, in the centre of huge doorways, or dangling from a cord over our heads in the middle of the street. They are usually in full Moorish costume, and pierced pathetically through the heart. Our driver flourished his whip vigorously in passing, mostly ending by a patriotic cut at the devoted images.
Close by this promenade we found a refreshing seat and ice-cream in the famous Dominica. The cream was fruit-flavored and built up pyramidally in an overgrown wineglass. On the plate under it, lay a long brown coil, looking like a cigar, and tasting like a baked combination of brown sugar, well-beaten eggs, and flour. This is designed as a spoon to eat the towering cream with, and to eat with the towering cream. Many ladies sit at the tables, but more remain before the doors and windows in their volantes, receiving sweet liquids from the waiters, and dispensing sweeter and more liquid glances to the admiring cavaliers gathered around them.
