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Celebrating a Victory—General Serrano—a Cuban Sacristan—His View of Mary Magdalene—Sunday—The Theatre de Tacon—General Serrano’s Wife—A “Norther”—The Fish Market—Brilliancy of the Fish—A Venerable Cosmopolite—The Slaves—The Chain Gang—The Cerro—A Count’s Country-house—No Twilight—Oranges—Polyglot Dinner—Lottery Ticket.
Sunday, March 4th.
After all was over, the sacristan, dressed in a blue woollen gown and wide embroidered white cambric collar, escorted us over the edifice. Its external, so quaint and unique, so like a relic of the middle ages, with towers and walls marred and rent, and crumbling with the rapid effects of the moist climate rather than of time, did not indicate so much beauty and art as existed within. It is chiefly in the Moorish style, the numerous paintings mostly from Rome, and nearly all copies from the best masters. The sacristan made himself jolly; offered to robe me in the bishop’s vestments and ornament me with the crosiers, and staffs, and mitres, and what-nots, in the robing-room. But I, being less familiar with these sacred emblems than he, felt less contempt, and declined the honor. One of the paintings, a dark old dilapidated affair hanging in an ante-room, represents Christ talking earnestly to Mary Magdalene. She turns her coquettish head from him in a most coquettish way, and with a look of more affected than real shame and sorrow. The old fellow pointed it out to us, and, with a significant twinkle, said to Mr. S——, in Spanish,—
“That was Jesus Christ’s woman.”
To Mr. S——’s exclamation of astonishment, he replied,—
“Of course he was a man, like the rest of us.”
We paused before the modest tomb of Columbus, whose remains were interred in the chancel of the Cathedral many years ago, with respectful ceremonies and magnificence. His bas-relief in marble is placed in much the same position as the bust of Shakspeare in the Avon church. From the Cathedral we passed to the miniature garden separating it from the seminary. This contains flowers, trees, shrubs, a fountain in the centre. The sacristan picked me a bouquet of pretty purple and pink blossoms without odor, bowing to my “gracias” most graciously, and upon receiving a little fee, instead of “begging for two reals more,” as D—— says he did upon his departure, the old man seemed surprised that he received anything at all.
Staid American eyes are struck by the spiritual stolidity of these people. Favorites of nature, crowned forever by her flowers, inspired by her fresh and friendly breezes, basking always in her fondest sunlight, they receive all these gifts in forgetfulness of the giver. It being Sunday, all kinds of festivities riot in increased abandonment. The shops, unlike those of most towns in Europe, are open; tailors and shoemakers are at their work in little dark dens resembling those to which the mechanics of Naples retreat on rainy days; and, though forbidden by law, Sunday trade flourishes thriftily, as if Sundays and religions were an impertinent restriction upon a Cuban’s right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
Monday, 5th.—This morning we walked on the Cortina to inhale the cool sea breezes which there defy the scorching tyranny of even this sun. How refreshing, after panting through those hot, fuming, dusty, noisy streets, to sit under that dense shade, upon the marble seats, with the tired city hidden behind you, and the blue tranquil bay sleeping in its brightness before! The Morro lies peacefully on the other side, brown, and dim, and silent as a weary lion. From the lighthouse of the castle are floating flags of various colors, to me inexplicable. But Mr. S—— explains. The different shapes and colors indicate the kind and nationality of any vessel that is descried making for the port; so that long before even the glasses of watchers in the city can discern anything, it is known by these flags that preparations must be made to receive the newcomer; that friends are approaching, or friends must be left behind; that partings and meetings are to resume their tyranny in the world.
Evening.—The Theatre de Tacon, or Opera House, disappointed us. It is large, airy, and convenient, but plain and bare to a degree. It being “Commandment Night,”—that is, the Captain-General having signified his intention of being present, and the rejoicings not yet over—the usual opera was omitted. First, a national anthem, sung by one hundred performers. Then followed a Spanish comedy, capitally acted, I could be sure, though as good as ignorant of the language. Then came some divine airs from the opera of the Bohemian Girl, sung by Gassier. Her voice is full, sustained, in some passages, touching. But the embonpoint! Alas, why must women of the poetical South always be so unpoetically fat! Or why are we not blind to the incongruity of passion and adipose tissue. These Spaniards are critical and enthusiastic judges of music; never tolerate a bad thing; applaud and hiss vociferously.
But to me the attraction of the evening was the lovely marquise, wife of the Captain-General (sometimes I can understand how a port may be absolutely panic-struck with a woman’s beauty). A Creole by birth, with a fortune of several millions, she married Serrano, who became embassador to France, where he spent the greater part of her wealth in maintaining the honor of Spain, by a magnificence which is said to have eclipsed that of the Emperor. So he is sent here to recruit; that is, to rob the Cubans of a million or two, as his predecessors have done. The Governor’s
