AT EL DESIERTO, APRIL 29, 1912(Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and Elim in the foreground)
AT EL DESIERTO, APRIL 29, 1912(Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and Elim in the foreground)
LUNCHEON AT THE VILLA DES ROSESIn front row (left to right) Mr. de Vilaine, Mlle. de Tréville, Ambassador Wilson, Madame Lefaivre, Mr. J. B. Potter, Mr. Rieloff (German Consul-general), Mrs. Nelson O'Shaughnessy, Von Hintze, Mr. Kilvert, Mr. Seger
LUNCHEON AT THE VILLA DES ROSESIn front row (left to right) Mr. de Vilaine, Mlle. de Tréville, Ambassador Wilson, Madame Lefaivre, Mr. J. B. Potter, Mr. Rieloff (German Consul-general), Mrs. Nelson O'Shaughnessy, Von Hintze, Mr. Kilvert, Mr. Seger
One scarcely ever hears of the Mexicans hunting theirgame, though there are occasional shooting parties toward the lakes where the wild duck abound. Some one remarked they would seem to be too busy stalking one another. The Riedls, the Bonillas, Von Hintze (who is not much given to picnicking on Sunday, generally spending the holy day hunting the perpetrators of the Covadonga outrage of last July), Mr. Potter, Mr. Butler, their English friend Mr. Leveson, Mr. Seeger, the ambassador and ourselves, made rather an imposing array as we proceeded through the wilderness, which, however, was "paradise enow."
As you know, when picnickers get hold of a joke nothing but separation or annihilation causes them to let it go, and Mr. Potter started a gentle but persistent one as we walked along, about not fearing snakes, as the presence of the O'Shaughnessys in a forest on St. Patrick's Day could not do less than rid the paths of them or analogous reptiles. I was sorry we didn't meet a boa-constrictor, so that he might have said his neglected Sunday prayers. It was so delightful, under the shade of the great trees, the sun filtering through with such a fresh warmth, and the birds singing so sweetly upon what seemed, indeed, a snakeless paradise that we were positively sorry to come upon the deep, flat space that holds the old monastery, near whose walls a long table, evidently known to generations of picnickers, was waiting to groan with our twentieth-century edibles.
After we had bestirred ourselves with the unpacking, festivities proceeded as if on a stage. We were almost immediately surrounded by dozens of Indians, men, women, and children, who furtively and fortuitously inhabit various parts of the old cloister. During and afterward they received the overflow from "Dives's table." Several little tots found pieces of ice,which they carried off in the greatest excitement—doubtless never seen before, and overrated as to nutritive qualities.
We refreshed ourselves to the usual accompaniment of quips about life in general, and in particular what each would do, especially the fair sex, if surprised by Zapatistas—who give a spice of danger to festivities in these parts—as "Emiliano's" capital is only over the near-by blue hills. There was an exceedingly knotty and delicate question hovering in the air, as to whether, in the event of the Zapatistas performing their usual rites of removing garments, "would it be better to be with friends or strangers."
Suppositions about Mexico's future bind every assemblage together, and Riedl insisted on conversing only in a strange and ingenious language of his invention, composed of Portuguese, picked up in Rio, Italian in Rome, and Spanish in Madrid and here—too amusing and clever for words, and something new to the echoes of that spot.
As he said, "What's the use of traveling if you don't learn something?" And he insisted on sitting near part of his own contribution to the picnic, a long and very special kind ofsalami(sausage) from his native land, to be taken with some equally celebrated schnapps, calledSlimbowitz, also from his native land, and contributing to cordial relations.
After lunch we walked about the old ruined monastery, inexpressibly lovely in that solitary spot. Trees grow from what once were cloisters and cells; the mother-church in its midst is crumbling, pink, vine-grown, delicious. Thomas Gage, an English monk who visited Mexico in 1625, found it then in full blast. The old retreat is a mass of lovely, unexpected details, long galleries, carved lintels, bits of sculptured vaulting, romantic inclosures, and everywhere some natural growth to fling a living charm about it all.
The pink belfry still has its old bell, but now when it rings it warns Zapatistas of the approach of gendarmes instead of calling monks to prayer. Supporting it and the church behind, roofless and overgrown, are low, very broad flying buttresses, and several small chapels are still domed and cupolaed. Fine trees grow everywhere, and the whole is inclosed by pink, flower-grown, old walls.
The largepatio, filled with bits of columns, stone beams, and crumbled mortar, was made lovelier still by some young and beautiful cherry-trees in full blossom, that rose gently but persistently against the background of decay.
About five o'clock the sun began to come slanting through the trees, bringing a warning of night with it, so we regretfully had the things packed to leave the snakeless paradise, the day done instead of before us—and there is always a difference. We found ourselves going rather quietly through a blackly purple forest, though overhead the sky was still pale blue.
When we got out into the Toluca highway we saw that a great dust-storm was blowing over the valley. There was no sight of the city; Lake Texcoco and the hills were veiled. We and the motors were shortly all of a light, yellowish-gray tinge. The fine earth of the road has not had a drop of moisture since last September, so you can imagine. We didn't even try to wave farewells when we got into town, but each rolled off in the direction of his own roof, to remove the marks of pleasure. Certainly the six or eight motors must have been a scourge to the dusty villages through which we passed.
I do enjoy the evenings so, after these long outings, in a tea-gown, with writing-pad or book on my comfortablesofa, knitting the little thread to cast across the waters....
March 18th.
De la Barra is now in Paris and preparing to return. I notice a further darkening of faces at the imminent prospect.
A Latin-American said to me,à proposof this, "It is a sign of degeneracy when nations arrive at a point where they are willing to rend their country into a thousand bits rather than tolerate the personal success of another." Our beloved maxim, "There's always room at the top," could be changed here into "there's never room at the top."
However, everything is interesting, and even the pamphlet I have just looked over concerning the celebrated Tlahualilo case has the usual color to it. The river Nazas flows down through the lands of the Tlahualilo claim, theaguas baldíasoverflow the banks at certain seasons and are used for the irrigation of the Laguna district. The T. Co. had contracted with the Mexican government regarding its development, including irrigation-works, placing of colonists, buildings, etc. The Mexican proprietors round about wanted the water, too, and the T. Co. found itself in the impossibility of fulfilling its contracts, because it could not get the water necessary to the cotton crops.
Lack of water is a terrible question in Mexico, cursed with irregular rainfalls, and rivers few and far between. The Madero family own much territory in this part of Mexico, and wanted water for themselves. This is an example of the complications arising when the interests of a family are the same as the interests of the government over against foreign capital, without which, however, Mexico cannot exist. The case was pending during the Diaz régime, and now apparently it isfritosince the Madero incumbency, with the inevitable judgment that they had had sufficient water to fulfil their contract, but had failed to do so.
Humboldt, with his usual up-to-dateness, said, "Tout devient procès dans les colonies espagnoles." There is certainly no change between his time and mine.... One has an impression that Cortés knew what he was about when he asked the king not to send him lawyers, but monks and priests, and of these latter he did not wantles chanoines. The separation of Church and State is certainly a blessing to the Church.
So few have loved Mexico for her beauty; they mostly only want her for what they can get out of her. I wonder even her geographical position is left.
The last two nights, for a change of air and scene. I have been readingVanity Fair, and ithaschanged things. I found it with all the "bead" on it, as if it had just been poured from the master's brain. I remember when I read it first, in my early teens, asking you why Rawdon Crawley threw the jewel at Lord Steyne. Looking back on things, I am still of the opinion that one should do one's classics very young; the flavor never leaves one and no harm is done.
March 24th.
This afternoon I went to call on Madame Madero. She has been ill, and, of course, very anxious. I went out of the glare of the hot terrace into the comparative dimness of the room, where she was lying with a handsome satin spread covering her, a rosary in her hands, and some newspapers on the bed. Her eyes were bright with fever, and a pink spot was on each cheek, but it seemed something besides fever was burning there. She is clever enough to know when to worry, and my heart went out to her; the political mills are waiting togrind her and the man whose destiny she shares and whom she loves.
The newspapers were announcing in large head-lines the operation of the Federal commanders around Rellano—Trucy Aubert, Blanquet, and Gonzalez Salas, who was once Minister of War and among the "232," being Madero's cousin. Orozco is headed apparently full to the south toward Torreon, and, say the timid and doubtful, to Mexico City. From where I sat I could see through the slit in the half-drawn curtains the glittering volcanoes and the blue, translucent hills; the deathless beauty of it all gave me a pang. Any human destiny, even clothed in the supreme office, seemed insignificant, and only the "last four things" of account....
March 25th.
Last night Gonzalez Salas, in a fit of despair, finding himself cut off from his army, which had been scattered and demoralized by the main army of Orozco, committed suicide in the train that was carrying him from defeat.
All day long the city has been flooded with rumors, and a not infrequent "Viva Orozco!" has been heard.
Squads ofruraleshad been patrolling the streets, picturesque, but giving an additional note of unrest.
A Cabinet meeting was hurriedly held in the Palace. Can the disaster be retrieved? is what foreigner and native alike have been asking themselves all day. I dare say a large proportion of the population are ready to turn "Orozquista" at the slightest further indication of fate. There's always a "military genius" here ready and generally able to upset whatever existing apple-cart there be.
Zapata looms large on the horizon, as he has chosen this auspicious moment to declare that he would descend upon the fold with his cohorts, not, however, gleamingin purple and gold. The beauteous morning sun revealed various notices to this effect pasted up during the night in the heart of the city by daring Zapatistas.
I haven't seen them, but a rumor is as good as a fact for unsettling the public. However, I did see thatLa PerlaandLa Esmeraldahad their iron windows drawn down upon their glittering treasures, when I took a turn down the Avenida San Francisco a little while ago—and many other shops had done the same.
I have no doubt the population of the submerged-tenth quarter, through which Zapata would have to pass, coming inviathe Tlalpan and Country Club road, would enjoy rallying to his call. Our street seemed at one time already in the hands ofrevolucionariosin the shape of hundreds of newspaper boys—babes who could scarcely hold their papers, but whose bright little eyes can distinguish the national currency at any distance, and big boys and old women.
They scented large editions from the offices ofLa Prensa, and there was much begging for centavitos right under my windows to buy copies with. Shrieks and howls mingled with cries of "La Prensa!" and "Viva Orozco!" The trolley-cars were blocked, and we seemed the focus of the Orozco victory as far as the capital was concerned. It was late when an adequate police force appeared on the scene and formed a cordon about the lower part of the street. Even as I write they are calling an extra, which I am sending down for. It has been an exciting day, and all exciting days in Mexico are blood-colored.
March 31st.Palm Sunday evening.
This morning I went to the Church of San Fernando. The sun was shining softly as I passed down the street of the Hombres Ilustres in through the little palm- andeucalyptus-planted plaza, in the middle of which, surrounded by the most peaceful of flower-beds, is the statue of Guerrero (shot in Oaxaca in 1831). His body lies in the old cemetery near by.
A soft, shining peace was over everything, and I felt inexpressibly happy and in accord with it. No hint came to me, as I walked along, of any bloody sacrifice of God or man. Little groups of Indians were waving their palms, kneeling at the door of the church, or walking about, and a few were selling elaborately plaited branches.
Though San Fernando is in a populous quarter, the tide has set to other shrines. Once it was the center of great activities, for from this church and the monastery and seminary adjoining were fitted out all the missions to the Californias. Padre Junipero Sierra and Padre Magin Catalá, and many other holy youths, burning with a zeal we don't even dimly comprehend, came from Spain to be trained here before starting out into unknown wildernesses, "for souls and for Spain." It's all so mysteriously suggestive.
The church has a pinkish-brown baroque façade, beautifullypatinée, and the old doors are carved in a noble, conventional design. As I went in it seemed rather empty, a few Indians and a fewgente decenteonly, praying before the purple-draped altars. Dreary, immense, uninteresting paintings decorate the walls now; but its interior was once hallowed, dim, gleaming with the gold of Churrigueresque altars and retablos, carvings, embroideries, and beautiful silver and gilt candelabra and vases.
Afterward I went to the cemetery adjoining the church, known as that of the Hombres Ilustres, where a somnolent custodian let me in. The most prominent tomb is that of Juarez, dating from somewhere in theeighties. He is represented with his head lying in the lap of a weeping woman, symbolic of the sorrows of the nation (and tears enough to make a river have been shed by women here, since then). I asked myself, by his tomb, what has it availed to scatter the treasures of the church? All are poorer and none, alas, the wiser.
Guerrero, of the little flower-planted plaza, Comonfort, Zaragoza, lie near, all executed by the hand of some one momentarily stronger. Generals Mejía and Miramon, the companions in death of Maximilian[40]on the fatal morning of June 19, 1867, repose here too.
In Mexico it is difficult to live for your country without the certain prospect of dying for it, but I must confess that to me the readiness with which the men of Mexico give up their lives is impressive and affecting. It is at least removed from the conventionalities of other types of political men, where mostly each one intends to live comfortably by as well as for his country, until he dies of disease, orAnno Domini.
Inspired by the wonted passion for moving things, a huge new panthéon is being constructed near by, and some day all these tired bones must make another journey. I think the cemetery as it is would make a good school-room for the study of the history of Mexico since she began her struggle for "independence."
Later we went out to the Country Club, where there was a luncheon of the usual contingent, and spent the afternoon following various friendly golfing squads over the beauteous links, beginning with the ambassador, Mr. Parry, Mr. McCarthy, and N. The volcanoes, now in one aspect, now in another of their beauty, were as gracious to the foreigner as to theindigène. The short, wiry grass, something like the tough grass ofScotland, made the most luxurious of carpets as we strolled along, though now it is dried to the palest yellow—the greens kept green only by exhaustive efforts—a lot of Yankee push behind the hand that wields the hose. At sunset we drove home through a world of sifted gold. Such are the days of Mexico.
Mexico's three civilizing, constructive processes—A typical Mexican family group—Holy Week—"La Catedral" on a "canvas" of white flowers—Reply of the Mexican government
April 3d.
Yesterday Aunt L. received a telegram necessitating her immediate presence in San G. Things are getting lively there again. I saw her off in the hurrying, crowded station with a pang, and the house seemed quite empty when I got back....
I have begun a very interesting edition of the letters of Cortés by Archbishop Lorenzano, from the latter part of the eighteenth century. When all is said and done there have been three civilizing, constructive processes in Mexico. The Spanish conquerors, the Church, through the marvelous energies of friars and priests,andinvested foreign capital.
Every visible sign of civilization comes under one of those three heads, and is not to be blinked. Each has evolved inevitably out of the elements of the previous condition. Diaz, when he formally invited foreign capital and gave guarantees, was the expression of this last very concretely. He kept pace with events, or else ran ahead. I have discovered, however, that it is permitted to be malicious, stupid, selfish, a bore, vain, vicious, dull, hard-hearted, the oppressor of the poor; but it is an unpardonable sin to be ahead of one's time. To be behind it is an unassailable patent of respectability.
It seems to me, however, that he who looks forward to a change in the affairs of the world, rather than he who looks on them as changeless, is less likely to be mistaken; and great rulers have always sensed evolutions.
April 4th,Holy Thursday, evening.
The whole of Mexico seemed afield to-day, with a hint of Sunday best as they made the rounds of various churches for the visits to the Repository—thegente decente, as well as thosesin hechos y derechos.[41]
I went through the shining Alameda, where again Indian life was beating its full around the little booths—preparing for the Resurrection morn. There is something simple and affecting about the way they regulate their commerce by these festivals of the year, this peaceful, almost rhythmic flooding in and out of the city. Now the booths are full of toy wagons, with screaming, harsh-sounding wheels, rattles of every description—in fact, any harsh combination of sounds which represents the breaking of the bones of Judas.
The Indian must have gods—and it is better to have him worshiping the image of one God, the God of gods, and His attributes, than sacrificing to Huitzilopochtli, Quetzalcoatl, and their like, in blood and terror, or wandering in the colorless and empty places of unbelief.
At San Juan de Dios I came upon a family group so charming and so artless that I could scarcely take my eyes from them. The mother, a straight-haired Indian woman, with the usual small, loose upper garment and the straight piece of cloth wrapped about her hips, had the sweetest little baby peeping out from the rebozo which bound it across her back. An old oil-can,filled with what I know not what, was by her side. The father carried a platter of dusty pink sweets, and a tribe of soft, bright-eyed, smiling children accompanied them. The next youngest to the baby was on the father's shoulder, who laid his hat before him with his platter, on the altar steps. His eyes were uplifted. All were silent and immobile, even the baby looking intently at the altar of the Repository, banked with flowers, ablaze with candle-light, and decorated with a few cages wherein were some small, bright-plumaged birds.
The church is part of an old chapel erected in the sixteenth century to Nuestra Señora de los Desamparados (Our Lady of the Forsaken Ones); but somehow that group fulfilling its destiny did not seem forsaken, but a part of the mysterious human fabric of which I myself was just as mysterious a bit. Before the beautiful recessed portal in the rich baroque façade, whose adjacent wall is ornamented in a Mauresque design, a remnant of the earliest colonial period, was a varied assortment of beggars—also not disinherited, it seemed to me—but called to partake of the sorrows of theMadre de Dioswhom they so loudly invoked as I passed in.
The feature of the church is the statue of St. Anthony of Padua, which once was among the group ofsantosin the façade, but had been cast down during the anti-church riots of 1857. For many years it lay covered with mud and dust in a ditch by the Alameda. Now it is a mass of votive offerings—milagrosthey are called—in the shape of hearts, limbs, etc., whatever organ had been damaged by the casualties of earthly existence. I espied an ingenious presentment of a liver in copper hanging in its proper anatomical place on the person of thesanto. The Indians have the strange habit of making their offerings to this shrine in groupings of thirteen—thirteen candles, bouquets containing thirteenflowers etc.—commemorative of the death of San Antonio on the 13th of June (1531).
I can't see how the Indian is benefited by the suppression of religious ceremonies. Gods hemusthave. And when one comes out into the Alameda, the sun shining on the belfries and domes of the many churches surrounding it, filtering through the lovely foliage of the park about which the Indian tides sweep, fixed as the laws that govern other tides, one feels the bounteousness of the natural world, and a desire to render thanks tosomething.
The long, narrow, flower-planted atrium of San Diego, from the early part of the sixteenth century, flanks the charming old house where the presses of theMexican Heraldturn out world news on the site of the Aztec market-place, ortinquiz. But though the outer seeming of life is changed, I could but think me of the changelessness of the human heart.
Good Friday Evening.
A sickening heat was in the air all day, with a something withering and nerve-disturbing about it, though, as the thermometer goes, the temperature was not high.
I went early to the little near-by church of Corpus Christi. The singing of "Dulce lignum" made me think of the great ceremonies at St. John Lateran, and much that is no more. I returned at 2.30, when a strange-faced priest with an "inner" look and a something burning in his voice, a Spaniard by his accent, was finishing the "Three Hours." Afterward, in company with Indians and black-rebozoed women, I followed the Stations of the Cross....
Holy Saturday.
Mexico City is one vast "rattle," the most dreadful sounds everywhere to commemorate the holy, still day, and as for Judas, he is a legion in himself.
The Calle de Tacuba presented a strange sight. Stretched on wires or strings from one house to the other were bright-colored, hideous figures, representing themaldito[42]dangling in grotesque attitudes against the blue sky. On various street corners he is being burned in effigy. Firecrackers are exploding as I write, bells are ringing from every belfry. Grief is noisy in the tropics, even for the laying in the tomb of the Son of Man.
When I came out of the cathedral I stopped at the flower-market near by. It is a modern, ugly, round, iron-roofed affair, but the flowers, the bright birds in their bamboo cages, and, above all, the dazzling air, fling a charm about it. Every modern, ugly thing in Mexico seems easily transmuted. In the old days the Indians brought their flowers straight to the Plaza in canoes by the Viga Canal.
An Indian, with what I can only call a "canvas" of white flowers, on moss and wire, about two feet square, was putting in an outline of red and purple stocks. When I asked him what he was going to represent he answered, quite simply, with a look at the church, "La catedral." A very young Indian carrying a tiny white coffin on his head passed us, as I spoke to him, and he stopped his work and made the sign of the cross.
In the arcades several "Evangelistas," scribes, were surrounded by the unlettered and unwashed—and I found some tattered children, so easily made happy, looking at stands stocked with pink, syrupy drinks and cornucopias filled with ices. But mostly the attention of the crowd was concentrated on a huge magenta and blue Judas who was going up in a blaze of infamy on the corner.
A domestic tragedy awaited me when I returnedhome. One of the servants, while praying before the image of Nuestra Señora del Sagrario in the Church of Corpus Christi, had her pocket-book removed. In it were some coral ear-rings, a lottery ticket, and the remains of her month's wages, just received.
She seemed more disturbed by the loss of the lottery ticket than the other articles, and kept saying, "Quién sabe, Señora?" and that she had chosen the number 313, after a very precise dream of three white rabbits, one black cat (this latter the same, I fancy, that disturbs the slumbers of Calle Humboldt), followed up by the three children of her aunt, dressed in unaccustomed white. It wasalmostconvincing. As the door of the pantry opened when supper was being served the words "Tres conejos" (three rabbits) floated into the dining-room, with an accompanying "Quién sabe?"
Dia de Pascua,April 7th.
Happy Easter to my precious mother on this loveliest of Resurrection morns! San Felipe was crowded to suffocation—quite beautiful music in the rolling, gorgeous style, and everybody, even the beggars at the doors, with what they call here acara de Pascua(Easter face). This is only a word while waiting to motor out to Tlalpan to the Del Rios' for adia de campo.
April 10th.
To-day, luncheon here for Mlle. de Tréville, the singer, and her mother, who are the guests of the ambassador. We all miss dear Mrs. Wilson, who has returned suddenly to the States on account of the illness of her son, Warden, at Cornell. Rieloff was among the guests and we are to dine there on Saturday and have a musical evening afterward. He was consul-general in Hong-Kong when Von Hintze was out there as lieutenant on Prince Henry's staff. Now, what the Mexicans would call theircategoríais reversed.
April 11th.
I do hope, though probably vainly, that Madame Madero doesn't seeallthe dreadful caricatures appearing about her husband.El Mañana, edited by an extremely clever Porfirista, has apparently set out to grind him to powder, and there is one,El Multicolor, edited by a Spaniard, sometimes quite ribald, which I should say is preparing to bury the remains with scant ceremony.
There was a cartoon the other day, which I am sending, representing Madero being kicked down a long, broad flight of stairs in the palace on to a transatlantic liner bearing the fateful nameYpiranga,[43]the historic ship that bore Diaz across the bitter waters. The Latin-American mind is at its best in satire, and with the dart well poisoned they kill off their public men by the dozens.
April 14th.
The Mexican government is decidedly upset to-day at the receipt of a notification from Washington to the effect that the United States will hold Mexico and the Mexican people responsible for illegal acts sacrificing or endangering American life or property. It is a simultaneous warning to both Madero and Orozco, and thebon motof the situation here is, "Is necessity the mother of intervention?"
April 16th.
I am still numbed and dazed by the reading of theTitaniccatastrophe.
April 17th.
The Mexican government replies to our notification of the 14th, first cousin to an ultimatum, inwhich we call categoric attention to the enormous destruction of American property, ever on the increase in Mexico, and the taking of American life, contrary to the usages of civilized nations.
The United States expects and demands that American life and property within the Republic of Mexico be justly and adequately protected, and will hold Mexico and the Mexicans responsible for all wanton and illegal acts sacrificing or endangering them.
We further insist that the rules and principles accepted by civilized nations as controlling their actions in time of war shall be observed. Any deviation from such a course, any maltreatment of any American citizen, will be deeply resented by the American government and people, and must be fully answered for by the Mexican people. The shooting of the unfortunate, misguided Thomas Fountain by Orozco (said T. F. was having a little fling seeing life, and death, too, with the Federal forces) is deplored. Orozco "answers back" that naturally he executed Fountain, who was "fighting in the enemy's army." Several Americans, employed on the Mexican railways, have also been murdered by the revolutionists.
The Mexican reply, drawn up by the long-headed, very prudent Don Pedro Lascurain, the new Minister for Foreign Affairs, says Mexico finds itself in the painful position of not recognizing the right of our government to make the various admonitions which are contained in the note, since these are not based on any incident chargeable to the Mexican government, or which could signify that it had departed from an observance of the principles and practices of international law.
TheImparcialwas very fierce this morning, considering us both rough and inconsiderate, and saying that Mexico has merited better treatment at our hands.
Mostly they seem to think that we ought to take things as we find them or depart. I don't think much can be done in Latin America by threats or menaces. It is either definite force or tactful coaxing; and, anyway, the Monroe Doctrine can never be anything but a sort of wolf in sheep's clothing to the Latin-American peoples.
El País, which is the official Catholic organ, says the note is "the first flash of lightning," and, without doubt, some gorgeous storm-cloudsarerolling up.
Don Porfirio is more completely vindicated than he could ever have hoped, or even wished.
The home of President Madero's parents—Señor de la Barra returns from Europe—Zapatistas move on Cuernavaca—Strange disappearances in Mexico—Oil—The President and the railways
April 23d.
Have been busy to-day looking over things and getting boxes and trunks off to be repaired. A feeling of migration is in the air. A lot of damage was done getting to Mexico. A locksmith asked fifteen francs to open that small trunk where I keep my papers and give me a new key. He took the fifteen francs, but brought no key until pressure was put on him, when he sent back a key that fitted, having, however, a large, ornamental wrought-iron handle from the viceregal period. I should say that takes up more room than all our other keys together. It would look better in avitrine.
If the end comes suddenly, which I don't believe, we can get out comfortably and with the philosophy engendered by the fact that, after all, these are not our Lares and Penates.
We dine at the British Legation to-night. The Stronges are very comfortably and handsomely installed, though the drawing-room, with its pale-blue hangings, endless modern chairs and cabinets and small tables, sent out from England, make it less artistic, to my mind, than in its former spare furnishing with Hohler's lovely old things.
Just home from the Country Club, where I left N. starting out on a "foursome" with Susana Garcia Pimentel,[44]Señor Bernal, her brother-in-law, and an unknown fourth. On those beautiful links she seemed more beautiful than ever, with a tall slenderness, an exceeding and arresting straightness of feature, long, idealized "Hapsburg chin," and what we call a "complexion" not often seen here. She was Diana-like as she started off in a thin, extremely expensive, white, unmistakably French dress and an equally French flopping Leghorn hat, the little Indian caddy following with thearrow-case.
I called on Madame Madero, senior, yesterday, and found more than a hint of the patriarchal—sons and daughters and grandchildren coming and going. They seem quiet, dignified people. The father came in as I was sitting there with various other visitors, and the two daughters rose and kissed his hand and called himpapacito. The devotion of families and the permanence of ties here is quite remarkable, a decided contrast to the more airy conjugal relations in the United States.
After tea had been served we went into the big drawing-room, where I sat with some anonymous, silent, big-hatted, small-footed Mexican women, while Angela Madero sang charmingly and easily, without the tiresome urging so often necessary. She speaks of going abroad or to New York to study, when political affairs are quite settled. The house,[45]recently built in the handsomeColonia Juarez, Calle Berlin, is comfortable but banal, without the good things of the "old" families. Few books—in fact, like most of the modern Mexican houses.
As I came out the air was darkened by one of the great dust-storms that sometimes come up toward twilight at this time of the year. The strains of "The Rosary," which Angela twice sang with real feeling, followed me, together with thoughts of a family who, once rich, obscure, and happy, now find themselves perched on the dizzy, uncertain peak of Mexican politics. I wonder if the elder members don't sometimes sigh for the good old days.
April 24th.
Yesterday the ambassador gave a large musical in honor of Mlle. Tréville, who is leaving soon, at which Mrs. Schuyler and I presided. The rooms were filled with Easter lilies. Miss de T. sang really beautifully the aria of "La Folie," from "Ophélie," "Super vorreste," some songs of Mr. McDowell's, and, as her last encore, gave the ever-popular Mexican song of home and homesickness, "La Golondrina." Her voice has a beautiful, bird-like quality and herécoleof the best; she studied in Paris and Brussels.
Madame Madero came, looking a little thin, in a nice, black lace dress, over some shining white, with a sister resembling her, though without any suggestion of Madame Madero's banked fires; her two sisters-in-law, Angela and Mercedes, also accompanied her. Madame Ernesto Madero, always very pretty, with a bright, fresh look, in spite of her many children, was in black lace, with a large picture-hat. Indeed, I was fearful at one time that the unusually large assortment of black picture-hats, in conjunction with the Easter lilies, would make the room somewhat funereal in spots.
The wholeCorps Diplomatique, which had not been out in force for some time, was there. The governor of the Federal District, Don Ignacio Rivero, now a great friend of N.'s and most useful in many ways, came with his wife, whom I hadn't met. The Guatemalan minister presented his handsome bride, the Cuban minister, General de Riba, who, it appears, is breaking hearts galore with his tenor voice and handsome face, was there; and Madame Simon, as always, sparkling and interested, surveyed the scene with her long lorgnette.
Theclouof the occasion was the appearance of Mr. de la Barra, just back from Europe. He was amiable, tactful, and inscrutable, but I wonder what he really thinks of the slopes of Avernus, down which the government seems to be sliding, and not gently, either. He has taken a big house, quite ex-presidential-looking, in the Calle Hamburgo, and the largest of packing-boxes are being emptied in front of it. The Embassy staff were out in full force, of course—D'Antin, interpreter and legal adviser since many years; Palmer, now diplomatic secretary to the ambassador and very capable; Parker, first clerk; and others.
Mr. Potter and Mr. Butler came in late and stayed late, and we spoiled our dinners sitting around the dining-table, eating sandwiches and sweets and talking about the party. We screamed with laughter at Mr. Potter's cutting from one of the big New York dailies, which quite solemnly states that Zapata is a natural product of the Diaz rule, and is merely avenging the innocent and oppressed ones. We all had a conviction that they had rather be unavenged. What twaddle the people have to read, anyway. As for me, school begins with my first waking moment and continues without a recess till I pass from this land of the unexpected and unsuspected to that of dreams.
April 25th.
The newspapers have been having large head-lines the past two days regarding the Zapatistas, for "the Attila of the South" is moving on Cuernavaca from the north, and it seems but a question of time before the lovely town falls into his hands. The Federal garrison is estimated at only a few hundreds, while the Zapatistas have between four and five thousand men.
The inhabitants are anxious to be allowed to surrender, as Zapata has declared that if there is resistance he will sack and burn the town, "piously" leaving nothing standing but the cathedral, according to his solemn promise to the bishop. There was quite a tidy bit of warning at Huitzilac, when that town was stormed, as to what might happen to Cuernavaca, which is full of refugees from Guerrero and the southern part of Morelos. This most fertile and lovely state, wherein may be seen "all the vegetable kingdoms of the world in a moment of time," is practically in the hands of the Zapatistas, shading off into "Salgadistas" and endless other "istas," coloring the country-side independently. In all this the women and children seem the pity of it. At home or afield, they are continually being caught up into mysterious traps of destiny. Even here in my house there are, from time to time, curious disappearances.
Josefina, the silent, consumptive seamstress who comes to sew and mend, has one of those vanishing sorts of lives. She has wonderful hands, and can copy with her slender, tapering fingers the most complicated French clothes. In fact, if one were able to get the stuffs here, one couldn't tell the copy from the original, cut and all. She has just been copying that rather intricate Jeanne Hallé purple-and-black blouse. Except for the inside waistband, whose origin is nameless, like Josefina, you can scarcely tell them apart,not a sixteenth of a centimeter's difference in length, breadth, or width.
She sits in the sun by an open window, and has egg and sherry at eleven and before she goes home, but the sands of her life are slipping fast. She lives in a room with three other consumptive sisters. The eldest went out one night to get some oil for their lamp. It is now ten days, and she has not returned. Is she working in the powder-mills, or what? Who will care, and who could if he would inform himself of her fate—just gone out into the night.
Madame Bonilla, from whom I got Josefina, has been an angel of mercy to her and her sisters, and tried unsuccessfully to rearrange their housing, inviting Josefina to live at her country place and supply her with work. But one can only battle so far with Indian situations. After a certain point everything seems to slip away into mystery, racial and individual.
Does not constitutional democracy seem a snare and a delusion if two-thirds of the population are composed of such? It brings a smile, but of despair, to the face. My very good Indian washer-woman, not long ago, left me. The usual excuse of an aunt or a grandmother, or some one being ill or dead, was not used. She just stood there with her three children, clutching the ends of her rebozo, that the last, fat little baby was rolled up in, and repeated that she must return at once to her pueblo whose Indian name I didn't catch. She had a sort of an antique, troubled look. I asked Cecilia if she knew what the matter was. She answered the usual "Pués quién sabe, Señora?"
We got some things together for the children, and I gave her a fewpesos, and she went off, out of my life, out of the security of food and lodging that was hers, tomelt into the endless generations of Indians; I felt uncomfortable for long after.
Talking about housework, I wish some of the airy stipendiaries of other climes, or even the women of those sections of my native land where they don't have "help," could really know what it is here, where half the female energies of the nation are engaged in the grinding of corn. They don't do it occasionally, but every day, and hour after hour, or the nation would starve.
It's one of the most appalling things in Mexico, this grinding of the mother literally between the upper and nether stones. How can a nation advance when the greater part of the women pass their lives grinding corn, making tortillas, and bearing children? There is no time or strength left to sketch in the merest outline of home-making, let alone a personal life, or any of the rudiments of citizenship.
April 26th.
Yours about the catastrophe in the Bay of Tangier is received. My heart aches. To think of parents being brought back out of the darkness of death by drowning, to call forthreechildren and find nothing! It is Greek, terrible. You remember them from Berlin days and those lovely little ones.
Last night we dined at Mr. Walker's with our military attaché and Mr. Knoblauch; they are all keeping bachelor quarters in Mr. W.'s handsome house next door to the British Legation, in his wife's absence. The talk turned on oil. Though the Aztecs used it for their temple floors, the Spaniards left it in the rich breast of Mother Earth. Now it looks as if it were going to be the center of foreign interests in Mexico, replacing in the inevitable evolution of things its romantic mining history.
Mr. Doheny, the pioneer of the industry, has had one of those careers only possible to the man of genius. He appeared on the scene of the future oil-drama (the state of Vera Cruz),[46]looked about him, installed a plant of many millions, and whenhewas ready, the oil gushed up—a sort of twentieth century striking of the rock—to say nothing of Moses.
Lord Cowdray's enterprise was not less spectacular nor less profitable. Nature did not, however, wait onhispreparedness, for suddenly from his lands the greatest oil-well in the world, Las Dos Bocas, gushed out, and for months burned upward in a great column of smoke and fire, and flowed out to the sea, a burning waste of light and heat, before it could be capped.
Now that modern-sounding thing, an oleoduct, carries a vast stream from one of the other great wells (Potrero del Llano) to Tampico, to the sea, where navies and merchant-ships await it, and we have begun a new era in the mechanical activity of the world.
Mr. Walker enlivened it all with amusing tales of Indian laborers and their ways when driven by Anglo-Saxons who suffer not the wordmañana. Underneath it is the beat of world-passions and world-needs, and Mexico, lovely and uncertain, finds herself at once the stage of mighty interests—and their battle-ground.
After dinner we betook ourselves to the big living-room, where the phonograph was turned on, giving forth such national lyrics as "You Have Another Papa on the Salt Lake Line," and "My Wife's Gone to the Country,Hurray, Hurray!" The nearest we got to the classics was the air from "Martha."
Burnside drove us home, after a turn in the dim, mysterious park. The immense and splendid "Ship" was stretching low across the starry heavens, and there were great spaces of intensest black between the groupings of the constellations. These stars, under which I was not born, have a strange and quieting influence on me. One cannot look other than with stillness and awe on their luminous rhythm, compared to the restless and confused "who knows whence, whither, or what" of the Indian destinies they shine on. All that "vast and wondering dream of night" which "rolls on above our tears."
Mr. J. B. P. gives a big luncheon at the Villa des Roses to-day, and has sent me the list to seat. You see that we do move about, though somewhat warily, in these regions of political quicksands.
The ambassador has always had the gravest doubts as to Madero's competency. Nothing any of us have seen, up to now, has been encouraging. It is one thing to inflame a country by promises of everything to everybody; it's another thing to rebuild a state, as he set out to do, from ruins, or even to sustain law and order, as he knew it, and benefited by it, in his youth. That dreamy face of his makes me think of the school-boy's definition of an abstract noun, "something you can't see," and those hands, with their soft and kindly gestures, are so unfitted for grappling with this special Leviathan—and consequences are pitiless. Alas for thepeu de politique et beaucoup d'administrationof Diaz!