Lola showed us her establishment and explained the architecture of a Cuban house. If chance has put a chimney somewhere, they place the kitchen near it. Light and size are of no account, neither is cooking of any importance.
CUBA, February, 1873.
We make such crowds of acquaintances it would be useless to tell you the names. The Marquise San Carlos sent her carriage for us the evening of her soirée. All the company was assembled when we arrived: the Marquis, the Dean of Havana, and two abbés were playing tresillo, a Spanish game of cards.
A group of men stood in the corner and seemed to be talking politics, as far as I could judge from then gesticulations. A few ladies in sweeping trains, and very décolletées, sat looking on listlessly. The daughter of the house was nearing the piano. The Dean said to me, with a sly smile, "Now is the coup de grâce!"—his little joke. She sang, "Robert, toi que j'aime. Grâce! Grâce!" etc. Also she sang the waltz of "Pardon de Ploërmel," a familiar cheval de bataille of my own, which I was glad to see cantering on the war-path again. In the mean time conversation was at low ebb for poor Laura. She told me some fragments which certainly were peculiar. For instance, she understood the gentle man who had last been talking to her to say that he had been married five times, had twenty- eight children, and had married his eldest son's daughter as his fifth wife. I afterward ascertained that what he had intended to convey was that he was twenty-eight when he married and had fifteen children. That was bad enough, I thought.
I sang two or three times. The gaiety was brought to rather an abrupt close, as the Marquis received a telegram of his brother's death. The Abbé went on playing his game, not at all disturbed (such is the force of habit); but we folded our tents and departed.
The hours are sung out in the streets at night, with a little flourish at the end of each verse. I fancy the watchman trusts a good deal to inspiration about this, as my clock—an excellent one—did not at all chime in with his hours. Perhaps he composes his little verse, in which case a margin ought to be allowed him….
The bells in the churches are old and cracked and decrepit.
All the fleet, and any other boat that wants to join in fire off salute, to wake you up in the morning.
I bought to-day the eighth part of a lottery-ticket.
The Captain of the Port thinks his English is better than his French, but sometimes it is very funny. He says: "Don't take care," instead of "Never mind"—"The volante is to the door"—"Look to me, I am all proudness"— "You are all my anxiousness."