Part 45 (1/2)

We went to the theater with Marquise San Carlos. ”All the world is here,”

said she. Certainly it looked as if all Havana filled the Tacon, which is a very large theater. Every box was full, and the parquet, as Lola told me, contained the _haute volee_ of the town; the open balconies were sacred to the middle-cla.s.s, while in the upper gallery were the n.o.bodies, with their children, poor things! decked out with flowers and trying to keep awake through the very tiresome and _demode_ performance of ”Macbeth.” Tamberlik sang. What a glorious voice he has! And when he took the high C (which, if I dare make the joke, did not at all resemble the one Laura and I encountered coming out of New York Harbor) it was all I could do to sit quiet. I wanted to wave something. The prima-donna was _a.s.soluta_, and must have been pickled in some academy in Italy years ago, for she was not preserved. She acted as stupidly as she sang.

Each box has six seats and are all open, with the eternal lattice-door at the back, and separated from its neighbor by a small part.i.tion. It was very cozy, I thought; one could talk right and left, and when the gentlemen circulated about in the _entr'actes_ smoking the inevitable cigarette, which never leaves a Cuban's lips except to light a fresh one, all the lattice-doors are eagerly opened to them. Lola presented all the _haute volee_ to us, the unpresented just stared. I never realized how much staring a man can do till I saw the Cuban. I mentioned this to Lola, to which she responded, ”It is but natural, you are a stranger.”

”Dear friend,” said I, ”I have been a stranger in other lands, but I have never seen the like of this. If I was an orang outang there might be some reason, but to a simple mortal, or two simple mortals, like my sister and myself, their stares seem either too flattering or the reverse.”

”Why, my dear,” she replied, ”they mean it as the greatest compliment, you may believe me.” And she appealed to her husband, who confirmed what she said. All the gentlemen carry fans and use them with vigor; the ladies are so covered with powder (_cascarilla_) that you can't tell a pretty one from an ugly one. If one of them happens to sneeze, there is an avalanche of powder.

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 _soiree_. All the company was a.s.sembled when we arrived: the Marquis, the Dean of Havana, and two abbes 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 _decolletees_, 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 grace!_”--his little joke. She sang, ”Robert, toi que j'aime. Grace! Grace!” etc. Also she sang the waltz of ”Pardon de Ploermel,” 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 Abbe 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.”

The houses are generally not more than one story high, built around an open court, on which all rooms open. In the middle of this is a fountain; no home is complete without a fountain, and no fountain is complete without its surroundings of palms, plants, and flowers. In one of the rooms you can see where the _volante_ reposes for the night. You only see these glories at night. When the heavy bolts are drawn back you and everybody can look in from the street on the family gathering, basking in rocking-chairs around the fountain, and in oriental, somnolent conversation.

CUBA, _February._

The annual _soiree_ of the Governor and his wife took place last night.

The Captain of the Port came to fetch us. The palace is, like all other official buildings, magnificent on the outside, but simple and severe within. There was a fine staircase, and all the rooms were brilliantly lighted, but very scantily furnished, according to our ideas.

We must have gone through at least six rooms before we reached the host and hostess. Every room was exactly alike: in each was a red strip of carpet, half a dozen rocking-chairs placed opposite one another, a cane- bottomed sofa, a table with nothing on it, and walls ditto. There are never any curtains, and nothing is upholstered. This is the typical Cuban salon.

There was an upright piano and a pianist at it when we entered, but the resonance was so overpowering that I could not hear what he was playing.

Laura and I (after having been presented to a great many people) were invited to sit in the rocking-chairs. The gentlemen either stood out in the corridor or else behind the chair of a lady and fanned her. _Dulces_ and ices were pa.s.sed round, and every one partook of them, delighted to have the opportunity to do something else than talk.

When the pianist had finished his Chopin a lady sang, accompanied by her son, who had brought a whole pile of music. She courageously attacked the _Cavatina_ of ”Ernani.” The son filled up the places in her vocalization which were weak by playing a das.h.i.+ng chord. She was a stout lady and very warm from her exertions, and the more she exerted herself the more frequently the vacancies occurred; and the son, perspiring at every pore, had difficulty to fill them up with the chords, which became louder and more das.h.i.+ng.

Countess Ceballos, with much hemming and hawing, begged me to sing. I felt all eyes fixed on me; but my eyes were riveted to the little, low piano- stool on which I should have to sit. It seemed miles below the piano-keys.

”How could I play on it?” Evidently none but long-bodied performers had been before me, for when I asked for a cus.h.i.+on, in order to raise myself a little, nothing could be found but a very bulgy bed-pillow, which was brought, I think, from the mother country. There was a sort of Andalusian swagger about it.

The dream ”that I dwelt in marble halls” was no longer a dream. Here I was singing in one. I sang ”_Ma Mere etait Bohemienne_,” and another song which had an easy accompaniment. It took me a little moment to temper my voice to these shorn rooms.