A BEAUTIFUL OLD MEXICAN CHURCHPhotograph by Ravell
A BEAUTIFUL OLD MEXICAN CHURCHPhotograph by Ravell
I discovered a decided hint of original sin in Elim yesterday. When I told him to kneel in church he said his leg hurt him; when I told him to make the sign of the cross he said his arms hurt him, and his neck was like a ramrod when I told him to bow his head.
April 27th.
A year ago to-day we set out on our tropical adventure, and the end is not yet. I said to the ambassador yesterday,à proposof picnics, "What shall we do next Sunday?" He answered: "You may be on a war-ship next Sunday."
However, the climax may not come for months, and it may not come that way when we do leave, but it would be a fine finale!
Later.
Your letter from Mentone of April 15th has just been handed in—twelve days only; did it fly through space? I ask myself.
I have been reading an account of the death of the great viceroy, Bucareli, which tells of the famous courier who was sent to announce the nomination to his successor, Mayorga, then in Guatemala, building a new capitol near the old, destroyed by earthquake. He did the distance, over pathless mountains and deep valleys, in seven days, spurred on by the motto of "the king is dead, long live the king"—in this case translated into an old Mexican saying of "No es lo mismo virrey que viene que virrey que se va" ("A viceroy that comes is not the same as a viceroy that goes").
The Mexican post, in the old days, was auctioned off to the highest bidder by the state, not a confidence-inspiring way of communication, and it ended by wealthy people having their own runners. Now, in twelve days, a letter takes its flight from the shores of the Mediterranean to the Mexican heights!Autre temps, autres mœurs.
There is from the time of the wars of independence the picturesque tale of the "Courrier Anglais"; nothing English about it, except that an Indian horseman by the name of Verazo would leave Mexico City intime to reach Vera Cruz for the arrival of the packet from Southampton, and in his saddle-bags would be the whole diplomatic and mercantile correspondence of the capital.
He never stopped, except to jump from one horse to the other at the relay stations, and was allowed privileges of safe-conduct by all shades of combatants, regular and irregular. Once arrived at Vera Cruz, he would eat copiously, sleep for a couple of days, and then return with the mails to Mexico City, ready to repeat his exploits the next month.
Do you remember that poem of Bret Harte's, "The Lost Galleon"? I came across it the other day, fingering a volume of American poetry. It, too, evokes pictures of runners bringing mails and valuables from the Orient up from Acapulco, and begins:
In sixteen hundred and forty-oneThe regular yearly galleon,Laden with odorous gums and spice,India cotton and India rice,And the richest silks of far Cathay,Was due at Acapulco Bay.
In sixteen hundred and forty-oneThe regular yearly galleon,Laden with odorous gums and spice,India cotton and India rice,And the richest silks of far Cathay,Was due at Acapulco Bay.
In sixteen hundred and forty-oneThe regular yearly galleon,Laden with odorous gums and spice,India cotton and India rice,And the richest silks of far Cathay,Was due at Acapulco Bay.
In sixteen hundred and forty-one
The regular yearly galleon,
Laden with odorous gums and spice,
India cotton and India rice,
And the richest silks of far Cathay,
Was due at Acapulco Bay.
The luncheon at the Villa des Roses was very pleasant. The place is kept by a Frenchwoman with a fine touch and an excellent cellar. She has some wonderfulpâté de foie grasin a greatterrine, just out from France, and hermacédoine de fruitswasarroséewith an ancient and mellow maraschino. The table was spread in a long glass veranda, with thickly blossoming rose-vines, crimson rambler, trailing over it. The Lefaivres, the Riedls, Von Hintze, the ambassador, Rieloff, De Vilaine, Kilvert, Seeger, the Schuylers, and ourselves made up the party.
Mr. Potter's lavishness as to menu made us feel somewhat "boa-constrictory" as we rose from table, but wewere able to get into the garden and have our photographs taken by Baroness R., which I send you.
April 29th.
Burnside goes to the "front," which now means Huerta's army against Orozco's; changes of front are among the natural phenomena here. It appears General Huerta is full of resource and has contrived to enlist and equip a large force in this short month.
I did not tell you of the dinner at the German Legation the other night for the new Minister of Foreign Affairs, Don Pedro Lascurain. Mrs. Stronge presided, with him on her right, and I sat on his other side.
He is a tall, spectacled, near-sighted-appearing man with a pleasant expression, but I understand he can see farther than most down financial and political vistas. He has a naturalflairfor business, having made a large fortune by real-estate purchases in the new section of the town, is moderate in the political sense, honorable and very pious.
He told me about theSagrado Corazón, the church he is building almost entirely out of his own pocket for the Jesuits in the Calle de Orizaba near his house. It had been so badly cracked in what is now simply known as the "Madero" earthquake (June 7, 1911), not as a "sign from heaven," that work had to be suspended on it while the foundations were strengthened. N. said he remarked quite simply to him, in the course of a conversation, "Why do you Americans talk of intervening in Mexico? You own it already."
He has replaced Calero, sent as ambassador to Washington. I predict that Calero will know a good deal more about us than we do about him before he is done.
After much hesitation, Aunt L. has rented the big house near the station to General Garcia Hernandezof the "military zone." They would have taken it if she hadn't. It's certainly ideal for strategic purposes; it commands a view of the whole country and the railway is comfortingly near at hand. The large fly in the ointment is that quantities of dynamite have been stored in it. She has been waiting for days to go to Juchitan, where things are lively again. She does not dare to drive over, and the train has not been going for some time, a commentary on the regeneration of Mexico. If the taxes are not paid there are fines, and they have to get to Juchitan to pay the taxes or the usual devil gets the hindmost. Batches of wounded from there have been brought in to San G.
Yesterday we went a-picnicking again to El Desierto—three motors full—Mr. Potter, Mr. Butler, Mademoiselle de Tréville and her mother, Burnside, Seeger, the ambassador, and ourselves. We all met at the Embassy, where there was an immense amount of telephoning between N. and the governor, Rivero, as to whether the first detachment of soldiers, supposed to have gone early in the morning to prepare the scene for festivities by clearing the brush of Zapatistas, really had departed.
After circling round and round the Embassy, the sun so broiling we could not sit still in it, we finally started off, the gentlemen bulging with pistols, the motors heavy with cartridges. We were preceded by a military auto containing two officers and eight men. They nearly choked us with their dust, and only when we got off the highway into the lovely forest stretch did we begin to "take notice" again. Then the glinting of uniforms through the great trees, Miss de Tréville boldly trilling some lovely variations on "The Star-spangled Banner," the general feeling of adventure, not unmixed with pride as to our boldness, made us once more "rejoice in the green springtime of our youth," according to Nezahualcoyotl.
By the time we reached the luncheon site we felt ourselves perfect daredevils and ready for anything. The only risk we did run (I hate to relate it) was when a pair of excited mules, driven by a wild-eyed Indian, coming fromquién sabewhere, dashed upon us as we were sitting innocently at lunch in the idyllic spot I wrote you of. They were prevented by a big tree, only some four yards off, from completely demolishing us. The wagon was smashed, and the picnickers fled in all directions. The first thought of each was that it was the prelude to a Zapatista play, and wewereon their stage. However, all's well that ends well: and here I am on my sofa again.
The political mess thickens. So much might have been done, if all the efforts of the government had not been expended on keeping in office. War-ships are announced, some of ours, and the English and French and Germans will take a look, too.
A curious complication about the railways has come to a head, involving not alone money, but life. Shortly after Madero came in he endeavored to get rid of the American railroad servants, who tried to get the matter taken up in Washington, and there was a lot of unofficial talk besides. Madero had ordered that, after a certain date, all orders must be written in Spanish; the trainmen, while speaking Spanish, in the majority of cases, could not write it sufficiently well for prompt and efficient service. Mr. W. has been so convinced from the beginning that Madero could not fill the position that he has lost interest in personal communications. So he sent N. up to Chapultepec to see Madero and explain to him the bad effect this would have. There were even threats of boycott on the northern frontier by union trainmen, who considered it would be an unjust act, as many of the men had been in Mexico since childhood, andthere were many of them over age who couldn't get jobs in the United States. N. told him it was very impolitic, etc., etc.
Madero thought it over and said in French: "You can tell the ambassador that the order very probably will not go into force, though it is impossible for me to revoke it." N. reported this to the ambassador. Several days afterward, on April 17th, he met Mr. Brown on the links. Mr. Brown said, with a smile, "That order went into force to-day" (Mr. B. had to sign it as president). N. hurried off to the ambassador, who was naturally very annoyed, and said N. must have misunderstood Mr. Madero. N. thought his goose was cooked; that Madero would go back on him and throw the interview in with a lot of other Mexican apocrypha.
But Madero was most decent about it all and said: "Yes, I did tell Mr. O' S. so, but I was unable to prevent the order from going into force." The result has been that a large body of trained men who couldn't negotiatela lengua castellanahave been obliged to leave the country, to their own and Mexico's detriment.
Madero's idea was to "democratize" the national railways—i.e., to load the system with as many employees as possible. At the end of the Diaz régime there were a few dozen competent inspectors; under the Madero régime they had been increased tenfold.
The green parrot I brought from San G. is chirping in the next room—quite a member of the family, but dreadfully backward as to languages.
The "Apostle" begins to feel the need of armed forces—A statesman "who is always revealing something to somebody"—Nursing the wounded at Red Cross headquarters
May 4th.
As you will see from the inclosed clipping, posters all over town containing the same, Madero is in a bad condition. Reports from Huerta's army are that disease, typhus, and black smallpox are rife. Burnside is up there now watching operations.
Huerta states that he will not lead his three thousand troops to certain death against Orozco's myriads, strongly intrenched, until his preparations are complete. Some kind of end is perhaps in sight. The only diplomat at Madame Madero's reception Thursday was the Belgian wife of the Japanese chargé. I intended to go, but was trying to mend a broken night with a siesta, and it slipped my mind till too late.
Battle of Puebla,May 5th.(A year ago to-day we landed in Vera Cruz.)
The town is flagged and there has been a big military parade, with the beautiful Mexican brass echoing through the streets. It is the most popular of the lay festivals, commemorating the victory of General Diaz and General Zaragoza over the French at Puebla (1862).[47]
There is a hint of "Prætorian Guard" creeping into the presidential surroundings, and other signs that the "Apostle" is beginning to feel the need of armed forces at his back. Appeals to virtue are not proving any more sufficient for government here than they would be elsewhere. It's the uselessness of governments trying to change the formulas of the human heart that strikes me most; and the Mexican heart, undisciplined, passionate, multiform, illustrates it so completely.
May 7th.
Your letter with theImpressions d'Italieprogram has come. I, too, long for the beautiful land. So much reminds me of it here, and yet there is really not the remotest likeness between Mexican and Italian atmosphere.
They are expecting a battle, a big one, within twenty-four hours. Every one and everything is hanging on the turn of that event.
Madero is as simple as a child in many ways, and as impulsive, but simplicity isn't the first requirement for manipulating government in the land of the cactus. A Spanish proverb took my attention the other day to the effect that "an official who cannot lie may as well be out of the world," and Madero is as honest as the day. If language is given to conceal our thoughts, he makes little use of the covering. It is complained of him that he is always revealing something to somebody.
Of course all business enterprises are deadlocked, and many dark, as well as light, complexioned ones, having "things to put through," doubtless long for intervention.
May 10th.
Things social have "slumped" since some weeks. Nobody in the face of all the uncertainties feels convivialor has any courage about planning for something that may not materialize in the very precarious future.
Our bucolic and innocent picnic at the Desierto, where the only harm took the shape of mules, has been turned into a sort of orgy by some of the San Antonio and El Paso papers, in which champagne, Spanish dancers, frisky foreign diplomats, cold-eyed and depraved American "interests," are in the foreground, while the background is occupied by a faithful but scandalized Mexican guard. Of such is the kingdom of history.
The dinner that the governor of the Federal District gave last night for the ambassador is the only official thing for some time. It was the usual conventional Mexicandîner de cérémoniewith its French menu, many courses, and appropriate wines for each. It does not give the effect of having the least resemblance to what they do whenen famille, but presents rather a set, very expensive, restaurant effect. I sat between the governor and De la Barra, who took me out.
To his refreshment, I think, the talk revolved about the Eternal City rather than the eternal Mexican situation. As ex-President of the republic he received many honors in Italy, decorations from the king and the Holy Father, and isplus catholique que jamais. Any one like De la B., who has practical experience of government, however, knows that all is not quiet on the plateau, let alone the situation in the north. Madame de la B., looking very pretty but pale, wore a handsome bluepailletéedress, so good that it was doubtless got in Paris,en routeto Rome.
Ernesto Madero and his wife were also there. She loves going out, and always has a pleased, not at allblasélook on her handsome face, which is most attractive. I imagine Don Ernesto istrès-finwith real gifts. We always say the Madero government remindsus of the Medici, with the fine arts and the strong hand cut out. One of them is President, one of them almost more than President, Don Ernesto is Minister of the Treasury, Rafaél Hernandez, his cousin, Minister of Fomento. Another brother, Emilio, is with the army, etc., etc., etc., down through the generally computed two hundred and thirty-two members. It's the most complete system of nepotism since the aforementioned Florentine days.
Huerta is reported to be making good progress driving Orozco back north of Bermejillo, where Captain Burnside now is.
May 14th.
To-night deep nostalgia possesses my heart; the seasons have swung round again. At four o'clock the first rain drenched the city.
This morning to the Red Cross, where a solid three hours' work awaited Madame Lefaivre and myself, looking neither to the right nor to the left. A larger number than usual waiting to be attended to, the wounded coming in, not only from the real seat of battle, but as the results of skirmishes all round, and, of course, the usual casualties of the city.
We will have a lot in next week from the battle of Tuesday; it takes about six days for the wounded to get in from the north.
The doctors are very gentle, and the patients so very patient—scarcely a whimper or a groan. Sometimes only a contraction of the features when suffering agony. True Indian stoicism. The Spanish flows, and my "medical" Spanish is now in competition with my "kitchen" Spanish.
Madame Lefaivre and I are the only ones who keep to our schedule days. The Mexican ladies can't; either the rooms are filled to overflowing with them, picture-hatscoming and going, darkening the horizon, or they don't appear at all.
Aliotti, the new Italian minister, has arrived, and was among my callers this afternoon. His beautiful wife is not with him, as she could not stand the altitude. He is just from Rome, from the Foreign Office, and is extremely clever. He finds Mexico somewhat far from his special "madding crowd."
A letter from Aunt L. says a man from Istlaltepec had come dashing in a few minutes before to tell the general that the rebels were sacking the hacienda of Don Panfilo Ruiz near Istlaltepec, the banker I met at Juchitan. Various inhabitants of a town beyond had been killed, and people were arriving at San Gerónimo on foot or on horseback, fleeing for their lives under a broiling sun.
The mounted troops and the infantry were got out and departed for the scene of trouble, and the band played as usual at four o'clock on Sunday, the music tending to calm the people, though all were wondering what was going on on the other side of the Istlaltepec hill. Five miles, it seems to me, is a little too near for comfort. Aunt L.'s house was surrounded by soldiers ready to surrenderorattack. "Viva Mexico!"
Several days ago a pastoral letter from the Archbishop of Morelia was published. In it he gives his flock the salutary advice to keep out of politics altogether. I think every one realizes that Diaz enforced protection for all and everybody, and it will take years for things to settle down.
There is a fair amount of politics in these letters, but if one happens to be so inclined one finds oneself taking politics in with the air. They are everywhere, yet it seems to me, of the threads of destiny that are being spun, I get only a few loose ends. Great foreign interests, oil, ore, and transport, play themselves outwith many a shift and twist, against the Mexican political film, shaking, unstable, distorted, now too big, now too small, out of proportion as they come down the stage or go off. But always of breathless interest.
May 20th.
The King of Denmark is called into another kingdom, where he is not king. How suddenly the summons came, when he was strolling about Hamburg in the evening, unattended! The end of mortality, kingly or otherwise; but I have lost an irreplaceable friend.... Peace to his soul! I am so sorry you did not see him on the Riviera. Do you know that — too has gone? I remember that luncheon she gave for him in — and didn't ask me, and how surprised and displeased he was when he came in for a moment in the morning and said, "I will see you at lunch," and I answered, "Not asked." We had to laugh, it was so ridiculous.
How tragic, too, the death of the young Cumberland prince with Von Grote, his aide-de-camp![48]We used to see them both so often in Vienna.
The Mexican episode may be drawing to a close, butquién sabe?All life down here assumes a mysteriousness, even in its simplest manifestation. The natural phenomena, the things we consider quite impersonal in New York or Paris or Berlin, seem to perform their operations here in an astoundingly intimate way. A sunset is a more than daily occurrence, due to the cold fact that the earth revolves on its axis just so often; that moonlight experience of last autumn remains in memory, and a consciousness is always with one of an intimacy with natural decrees.
The faultfinding Americans who come here, and really love it, though they talk loudly about the national failingsand sigh for "honest Americans," are under the spell of this intimacy with the natural world, though they don't often analyze it; this delicious, satisfying sensation of being included in the operations of destiny, not being hung solitarily between birth and death.
I never look up at the Southern Cross without my heart, too, leaping up—and thinking, with Humboldt, of the lines he quotes from Dante, "Io mi volsi a man destra e posi mente all' altro polo, e vidi quattro stelle."[49]
The rainy season is full upon us, for which all are thankful. There has been a great deal of illness in the town, the dust-storms were unusually severe, and the collection of microbes carried hither and thither would break a microscope. The mornings seem made in heaven, and, after weeks of being dust-veiled, the volcanoes are out again in all their splendor.
Tuesday, 22d.
Many people calling to-day; among others charming Manuelito del Campo, just married to the handsome niece of Madame Escandon, of the Puente de Alvarado. They are making bridal visits. She wore a regardless beige gown, with Paris written all over it, and beautifully put on over a lovely, small-hipped figure. I wish them well.
Mr. de S. stayed after all had gone. He is very sad at the disintegration of government, and in fact why should any Mexican be cheerful? The past is destroyed,the present tottering, and the future hidden. He is always most understanding andsimpático.
A short, terrific thunder-storm came on as we sat talking and afterward everything was drenched and dripping in the corridor andpatio. As I stood at the door with him we were led to talk of destinies. I said that, for my part, I had no hunger, all glories and all miseries were known to me, and I was learning to feed upon myself. But he remained silent, stroked Elim's hair, called himbuen mozo, and went out. As always, it is each one to his own path, and one is lucky to meet, even for a second of time, some one going the same way.
To-day I closed forever the covers of Strindborg's hideous, hauntingFroken Julie, that horrid conflict of souls in a kitchen. But once read, can I ever wipe it out of memory?
May 23d.
The ambassador says we will all go home on a war-ship if "the break," as the possible event is colloquially known, does come. Can't you see us all stowed away, according to the protocol, on one of the war-ships, and various dissatisfactions, however carefully things are arranged, as to rank and previous condition of servitude?
May 25th.
Orozco acknowledges defeat in the north, laying it at the doors of the United States. The neutrality laws prevented him from getting in the required arms and munitions.
The government is very cheerful, full of smiles at the progress of the Federal troops under General Huerta, who have wiped out, in much blood, the blot on the Federal escutcheon; for Rellano, lost by Gonzalez Sala, is now retaken by Huerta. Orozco, in his retreat, is destroying railways and bridges, and there will be bigbills for some one to foot. Huerta, it appears, has shown generalship of a high order.
But I have been under gray skies, following the great procession that carried Frederick the Seventh to his last resting-place. The three Scandinavian kings, Gustavus of Sweden, Haakon of Norway, and the new ruler and son, all so tall, like vikings of old, walked side by side, heading the procession, the first meeting of the three since the dissolution of the union between Norway and Sweden in 1905.
Queen Alexandra, the Dowager Empress of Russia, and King George of Greece,[50]always so agreeable, were there to mourn their brother, and many another of the familiar figures on the Copenhagen screen of memory. It was a breaking up of family ties to them—to the world, only a new king of Denmark.
You remember that cold, bright December day, with its sparkling snow, and frosty, glistening trees, when we went to Roskilde to see the ancient church where the kings of Denmark sleep their last sleep? And now, on a May morning, to the strains of the great organ, that captain and that king departs whose friendship I had. Again, peace to his soul!...
Several days ago I discovered at an old bookshop at the Calle del Reloj, off the Zócalo, a first edition of Madame Calderón de la Barca's book, 1843, Boston, decidedly worn as to its leather binding, but in excellent condition otherwise—unfaded print on unyellowed paper. I wish she could cast that pleasant objective eye of hers on my Mexico; I believe she would recognize the political housekeeping!
Around about the Zócalo are many second-hand shops; also in the Volador old books are to be found. But they are mostly yellowed manuscript—copies of the accountsof theadministradoreson the old Spanish estates, books on medicines and herbs, records of lawyers' fees, and the like. Generally the title-pages are missing, and always all the engravings.
I have a copy ofPeriquillo Sarniento, the "Gil Blas" of Mexico, but it is difficult reading for a foreigner, full of satiric allusions to political events of the period and to purely local conditions. It was published in Havana in 1816, when the author, De Lizardi,El Pensador Mexicano, was there to escape the consequences of his satiric jibes. He wrote, curiously enough, another book (La Quijotita) dealing with the higher education of women, which, in Mexico, has scarcely been repeated in the hundred years.
May 28th.
I wonder, as I write, if you are walking the green fields of Rankweil; my heart accompanies you.
Things are going on very pleasantly from day to day, as far as we, personally, are concerned, but the national machine seems clogged and creaking, in spite of the victories in the north.
Oaxaca is in a state of complete revolution. Six thousand Indians have risen, and the whole country is seething with brigandage, flourishing greenly under the weak central rule. It will take years for things to settle down.
On Sunday another picnic is being got up. The ambassador, of course, J. B. P., Mr. Butler, the Bonillas, Professor Baldwin, who is giving a course at the university here, Aliotti and Mr. Brown, president of the National Railways. I always take Elim for thedias de campo. He is quite a feature of the gatherings and good as gold, playing by himself.
One Indian's view of voting—Celebrating the King's birthday at the British Legation—A single occasion when Mexican "pillars of society" appear—Reception at Don Pedro Lascurain's
Sunday evening, June 2d.
We had a very lively picnic to-day at the Peña Pobre, all gathering at Calle Humboldt, where we waited vainly for Professor Baldwin. At last, after fruitless telephoning, we started through the shining city, out the Tlalpan road, past the Country Club, where the links were black with golfers, through thetrès-coquetTlalpan, to the Peña Pobre hacienda.
I drove out with the ambassador, the Italian minister, Mr. Brown, Mr. Potter, and Mr. Butler. We got the necessary permission from the obliging administrator at the door of the hacienda, and then passed on through the lovely rose-garden to a wilder, gorge-like spot, where a long, weather-stained table was built under the shade of some eucalyptus-trees.
The ambassadorial butler took charge of things at this special, strategic point, and we wandered about the lovely spot. The paper-mills are so discreetly hidden that one wouldn't know they existed. The Peña Pobre is near the celebrated Pedregal, or Malpais, a prehistoric lava-stream, which the crater of Ajusco is supposed to have contributed to the landscape, and which has been for centuries, with its caves and retreats, the beloved of bandits and all shades of delinquents. Montezuma issupposed to have hidden there his gold and silver treasure, and Cortés is said to have found it and shipped it to Spain.
As all the picnickers were in good form, we had a particularly cheerful lunch, enlivened by the usual discussion of the perfectly patent truth that self-government is not native to the Mexicans. There were those who knew what they were talking about in the assemblage.... Don Benjamin Butler gave his touching story of one of his peons coming to him with a piece of paper and asking what it said. "It says you have a right to vote." The peon thereupon put the artless question, "For whom shall I vote?" Don Benjamin further explained that Estebán Fernandez was the only candidate in their state (Durango). "I'll vote for him if you want me to, but I'd rather vote for you," was the answer.
It's Indian, charming, but it bears little relation to the simon-pure Anglo-Saxon democracy that they are trying totrydown here.
The party was further enlivened by the curious case I discovered in a home newspaper of the old gentleman, found dead, whose body was identified by two sons, of around about fifty years of age, who had never met until the inauspicious occasion. For half a century he had had families in adjoining towns. I thought he must have been a bright old gentleman. Mr. Potter thought he must have had some money, too.
We got as far on the return trip as the Country Club, when it began to pour, the golfers dashing in from all points to take refuge in the celebrated "nineteenth hole," not dry, either. The sun showed itself for a moment before setting, and flung a few lovely flame-covered scarfs about the dazzling heads of the volcanoes; butthe world we were in remained damp and dark, and we turned home quite willingly.[51]
I found an invitation, on returning, from thechef du Protocole, in the name of the Minister for Foreign Affairs and Señora de Lascurain, for a reception at their house on Friday afternoonen obsequio del Honorable Cuerpo Diplomático.
June 4th.
Yesterday a large reception at the British Legation in honor of the King's birthday. The Union Jack was flying high over the entrance as we went in, the house was filled with beautiful flowers, and there was much health-drinking and good wishes. The official world, Mexican and foreign, of course out in full force, and the colony—altogether a very pleasant occasion, with that special English feeling of "empire" behind it all.
Mrs. Stronge has been ill, but she was seeing a few friends up-stairs in the charming corner room, with its view of the volcanoes. The old quotation came, as so often, to my mind,Si á morar en Indias fueras, que sea donde los volcanes vieres.
The pet of the Legation, a bright green parrot, or, to be more precise, a green,brightparrot, brought from Bogotá, was helping her receive. I came home with the ambassador, who goes to Washington for two weeks over the northern route, and Schuyler is to "enjoy" his absence. Now I must close; Tuesday visitors are beginning to arrive.
June 5th, evening.
This morning at 8.30 I heard dear Aunt L.'s voice outside my door. She had arrived from Orizaba withLaurita, who has masses of beautiful red-gold hair. She is now sitting in a big armchair, doing nothing, I am thankful to say, thoughThe House of Mirthis within reach when she feels like reading. So glad to have her here.
June 7th.
The reception at the Casasuses last night was a most gorgeous affair. He is one of the fewcientíficosstill visible in Mexico City, a man of much cultivation and erudition. He has preserved his relations with the Madero family, also his money, but there is that in his eye which makes one feel that he has not preserved his illusions.
The reception was to open his splendid new house in the Calle de los Heroes, which has been building since some years, and also for thecontrat de mariageof his eldest daughter. A fine band was sounding as we went in through thezaguán. The greatpatiowas covered with a sort of light-blue velum, and behind it were myriads of star-like lights. The great fountain was ablaze, too, and everything was decorated with wreaths of marguerites, recalling the name of the fiancée, who is to marry a son of the famous Justo Sierra, Minister of Public Instruction under Diaz.
Madame C., large and impressive and a blaze of diamonds, was flanked by her two pretty, slim daughters, veryjeune filleas to dress, but rather sophisticated as to expression. Thenoviawas in white, and the younger girl in a similar costume of blue.
All strata of society were there, even the "pillars," holding up things for this single occasion; charming-looking and beautifully dressed women I had not seen before—some of that invisiblechicheriaI suppose; the official set, the military, etc., etc. There were some fine jewels—great plaques of emeralds much in evidence—andone lady wore a strange necklace of very large, very lustrous, almost square pearls.
The rooms are elaborately furnished in the modern French style. The brocade-covered walls hung with expensive modern French paintings. Portraits of Monsieur and Madame Casasus, by one of the great French artists, I forget which, were in the large pink-and-gold salon. The magnificent library, with thousands of volumes, the collection of a lifetime, was furnished from London by Waring and had long tables bearing atlases and big in-quarto volumes, deep leather chairs, and reading lamps, most inviting.
The supper was lavish to a degree; it was whispered about that the cost of the entertainment was fifty thousand dollars. Madame C. presided over the huge square table of the diplomats, loaded with great candelabra, beautiful imported fruits in massive silver dishes and rare flowers in tall silver vases. I was taken down by a general whose name I didn't get, in the fullest of regimentals, who had lost an arm in some one of the interior campaigns—I think Madero's.
The champagne flowed; Frenchpâtés, asparagus, all sorts of things which had come from long distances, were passed by liveried servants. Don Sebastian Camacho, sighting his ninetieth year, was the beau of the occasion, carrying his years lightly and gallantly,entouré de dames. We came away at one o'clock, leaving things in full swing, the music and the pounding of the dancing feet echoing through the greatpatio.[52]Now I am off to the Red Cross.
June 8th.
Yesterday Red Cross all the morning, and the reception at the Lascurains' in the afternoon. The heavens opened punctually at five, and an unusually bountiful supply of water fell upon the sons and daughters of the nationsen routeto the function. We descended with the Chermonts at the door during a baby cloudburst.
The house is a big, handsome dwelling consisting of one very high-ceilinged floor of rooms, with a charming urned railing, lifted up against the sky, and hung with Bougainvillea, wistaria, and honeysuckle, blooming in their turn. Inside it reminded me of the Carlton Hotel in London, but must be most comfortable to live in, though theHonorable Cuerposeemed to spread out rather thin over its large spaces.
Its great feature is the wonderful aviary, on the side away from the street, where dozens of the rarest and most gorgeous birds live together in peace and apparent happiness. Don Pedro, whose special hobby they are, showed them to me, but I only remember the names of a few, and a mass of flying, singing color. "Mexican caciques," the lovely yellow-and-black oriole of the tropics, most beautiful bluejays, much more gorgeous than ours, for to their brilliant coat of blue-and-white are added crests and plume-like tails—andhuacamaiasand parrokeets, who made their part of the inclosure look like carnival time.
Mr. Lefaivre took me out to the very elaborate tea, spread in an immense dining-room. The baby cloudburst, which in his victoria he got the full advantage of,and the continual destruction of French property in one part or another of the republic made him rather pessimistic. He says they always give him the fullest promises, when he lodges his complaints, and then nothing further happens any more than if he had lodged themoutre tombe.
Don Pedro has a bright-eyed, agreeable, clever daughter who helped her mother receive. She brought out a fine linen square on which we wrote our names to be embroidered by her nimble fingers later on.
I feel about Lascurain a note of sincerity and a lack of personal aims and ambitions. Certainly nothing save patriotism could have led him to accept a place in the Cabinet. He has wealth and position, and only fatigues and uncertainties, storms and dangers, await him in the ship of state.
Legation d'Autriche-Hongrie,Sunday, June 9th.
Am writing this, as you see by the letter-head, at the Riedls', waiting for the picnic party to assemble. I am, unfortunately, always on time, a bad habit, and not cured by over a year ofmañana.
The R.s have a sun-flooded house on the corner of Havre and Marsella in the new part of town, and I am scribbling this at the desk in the drawing-room, done up in yellow brocade, flower-filled and comfortable, and with its reminiscences of other posts in the way of signed photographs and bric-à-brac.
The chiffon scarfs arrived yesterday, having survived the temptations of the customs, the pink, blue, purple, and petunia, just as you had done them up. This is the land of scarfs. No lady is complete without one or many and I will baptize the "pink 'un" at Mr. Potter's to-morrow night at dinner. I never go anywhere Sunday evening, as after the all-day bouts in the countrymy sofa and my books are my best friends. We are to go out to Xochimilco and the clans are now approaching to the sound of motor-horns, etc. There will be a repacking in of merrymakers and baskets when all are assembled.
June 10th.
I have just come from taking Aunt L. up to Chapultepec. The view from the castle was entrancing, the volcanoes touched with rose and all the other mountains swimming, blue and purple, in the sunset light. I stopped at the British Legation on the way back to see Mrs. Stronge, who is much better. Now I must dress to go to Mr. Potter's for dinner.
June 11th.
I wore the petunia-colored scarf last night at dinner. Mr. Potter was in great form and quite outdid the champagne in sparkle, and we quipped and quirked till a late hour. My last sight was Don Benjamin Butler giving a few steps of thejotain the hallway. Am now sending Elim and Laurita with Gabrielle up to Chapultepec Park. A beautiful, cloudless, dustless morning. Josefina, a little paler, a little thinner, and, if possible, more deft, is here concocting me a tea-gown out of a pink satin evening dress and a white lace one. Nothing can be cleaned here. There is a place calling itselfTeinturerie Française et Belge—but I bade an immediate and regretless farewell to the things that returned.
June 18th.
Am waiting for my Tuesday callers in a really lovely tea-gown, constructed of the two evening dresses. Josefina may soon, however, be making robes for angels instead of mere mortals.
There has been a little political upheaval. One of our best friends, the governor of the Federal District—i.e.,Mexico City and suburbs—had a tilt with the Minister of Gobernación, Flores Magon, with the result that he is no longer governor. During all the troubles Mexico City has been as peaceful under Rivero's régime as Zürich, all due to his sagacity and energy, and now the usual earthly reward of virtue, somewhat Mexicanized, is his. He was a richhacendádobefore coming into the political arena, and his friendship for N. has been most useful to all.
June 19th.
One of the loveliest of morns—a true "bridal of the earth and sky," and it is the date on which, nearly fifty years ago, Maximilian, Miramon, and Mejía were led out to be shot.
History records that as the guard opened the heavy door of the prison, saying, "Ya es hora" ("The hour has come"), the three men stepped out into a world of surpassing loveliness; no cloud was in the faultless sky, no wind disturbed the shining air.
They embraced, taking a last look at the blue and lovely dome above. At the foot of the Hill of the Bells the firing-squad awaited them. They fell dead at the first volley. Maximilian had begged to be shot in the body, that his mother, in cruel suspense in far Vienna, might look again upon his face. His last words were, "Viva Mexico!" Mejía was silent. What Miramon said I know not, but their hearts were open to God.
Mr. S. and his daughter, a beautiful girl, arrived early this morning. As we are probably soon to leave Mexico, they are good enough to let us stay on in our present quarters for the remaining time, and will occupy the small apartment down-stairs. I had a great bunch of pale sweet-peas put in her room.
Going to Chapultepec this afternoon with Aunt L., also taking Miss S. and Mrs. Parraga, a Mexican friend ofAunt L.'s, to be presented, after which we go to Madame Lefaivre's.
June 20th.
Administration faces were wreathed in smiles at the reception; the Orozco revolution is not only dying the usual unnatural death, but it seems likely to be interred. General Huerta knows the value of a few well-placed blows, but nothing seems to stay "put" here. Nearly every shade of Mexican has fitted himself out with one or more grievances, and underlying it all is that quite peculiar organization of Latin-American society whereby one set of opinions may be uniformly expressed in public, while the intellectual classes, in secret, hold entirely opposing ones.
A terrible downpour during the reception. From the windows ofla vitrina, as the long, glass-inclosed balcony leading out of the "Salon of the Ambassadors" is called, Mexico City was a damp, dull thing, buildings and streets showing as great dark scratchings. There was no light in the sky and the hills were obscured by curtain-like, formless clouds with coppery linings.
When we got home it was still raining in torrents, and we descended in the adjacent garage. In doing so I caught my skirts, hung in air, and finally fell to the ground, my dress torn to bits and myself shaken to the same. When I looked at my hands to see if they were still hanging to my wrists, I saw that my big emerald was missing from its setting.
It was not simply raining. The sky was opening and letting the water out, and it was quite dark in the garage. About a dozen Indians and several employees stood about. I cried, "Mi esmeralda!" and we all proceeded to look. I was passing my hand over the floor near various Indian hands when suddenlyIfelt the smoothness of the stone. An Indian said to me, "Dios es con usted"("God is with you"). Well, it was not fated to be lost that time. I have just left it atLa Perlato be well reclamped into the setting, thankful that that companion of my wanderings is still with me.
The sweet, full letter from Rankweil is received. I long to smell the sunset meadows with you.
June 23d, evening.
After a day of skimming over the valley with Aunt L., the Seegers, Mr. Butler, and Mr. de Soto.
I had long wanted to go out to Huehuetoca to see the famoustajo de Nochistongo, the great cut in the mountains, the most interesting point of the wonderful system of draining the lakes of the Valley of Mexico. It was a problem to Aztec rulers, viceroys, and presidents, finally solved, like a good many other things, in the Diaz epoch—and always bound up with the joys and sorrows of the valley. The Lake of Texcoco, the largest of the six lakes, hospitably receives the waters of the other lakes to such an extent that once it was considered to have a "leaky bottom," draining down to the Gulf of Mexico.
There were immense floodings of the city in old days, and in 1607 one so great that for several years the streets were traversed in canoes, and the saintly Archbishop of Mexico used to be poled and rowed about, distributing food to the starving.
The Huehuetoca road runs out through Azcapotzalco, once a teeming Toltec and Aztec center, now only the haunt of Indians and an infrequent archæologist. Any and every turn of the soil there reveals traces of lost races. At the next town, Tlalnepantla, though we were all feeling more in the mood for general effects than detailed inspections, we did our duty and went into the interesting old church, finding it full not only of sacredrelics, but of profane, in the shape of carved Indian stones and various sorts of monoliths. In the cold, ancient baptistry is a strange prehistoric cylindrical vase.
There are still traces of the earthquake of several years ago, whose rendings revealed a wealth of buried objects. Several Indians, gathered about the motor as we came out, furtively drew from their knotted shirts some objects which properly belonged to the government—obsidian knives and a few masks, like those in the museum at San Juan Teotihuacan. We bought them out, and proceeded to Cuautitlan, the old posting-town I have written you about.
Mr. de Soto says that tradition has it that here was born Juan Diego, the Indian to whom the Virgin of Guadalupe appeared. You see how interesting it is along these roads. Each step is always historic or legendary, as well as beautiful. The next village is Teoloyucan, where one branches off to go to Tepozotlan.
Since leaving the posting-town we could see the belfry of the church looking pink and lovely against especially blue and lovely hills. The foreground was of maguey and maize fields stretching away to the mountains. Hedges of nopal, graceful willows and pepper-trees, and Indian life, mysterious, yet simple, living itself out on road and field. We were held up for quite a while by a dozen burros laden with fresh, shining skins bulging with pulque. A great deal of unnecessary prodding of the unfortunate animals went on, the usual audience appearing from the hedges at the noise.
The hacienda of the former governor of the Federal District, Landa y Escandon, now in Europe, is out here. It contains most beautiful works of art, Spanish and viceregal, and many priceless Chinese and French porcelains,these last presentations when various ancestors were at various French courts.[53]
We thought for a moment of asking the administrator to show us over it, but succumbed instead to the invading magic of the road and the pleasant inertia of the automobile. As you will see, it wasn't a day to improve one's mind, but rather to bathe one's soul. As we got into the mountains near the famous "cut of Nochistongo," we spoke the name of the grand old Indian now a-wandering in exile, and talked of the solemn dedication ceremonies when the engineering marvel was completed in 1900 under his auspices.
In connection with the making of the "cut" and the canals winding through and between the lakes are ancient, sad tales of forced Indian labor, drivings, exposures, and deaths; a sort ofmitawhere each had to lend not only a hand, but often give a life. In the old days the viceroys made annual visits to Huehuetoca, lasting several days, conducted with regal splendor.
Nature seemed inconceivably gentle and beautiful there, with its vistas of translucent hills, all gradations of green and gray and blue softly rolling, meeting the eye and falling away. The volcanoes were of clearest white in the pure air, and the shining valley was a gem set within it all. We stopped by a delightful old bridge with its battered viceregal coat of arms, a relic of the ancient post-road to Zacatecas, over which a silver stream flowed into the Casa de Moneda (Mint) in Mexico City, to flow again in shining piastres across the ocean to Spain.
I suppose I will be sorry I didn't examine the "cut" a little more carefully, but the day was such a flood of soft light that details were quite swept away, sotant pisfor Huehuetoca. As it was, we didn't get back to towntill nearly three o'clock, when we repaired to the Automobile Club where "Martinis," sandwiches and fruits, partaken of on the veranda, restored us, and we started out again to San Angel.
A perfect afternoon, no sign of rain, and anything as opaque as a house seemed unspeakably repugnant to our souls. At San Angel we wandered about in a deserted garden-like orchard. Roses, heliotrope, and lilies mingled with fig, quince, apricot, peach, apple, and pear trees, and soft crumbling pink walls inclosed them all. Beyond were more beautiful blue hills linked to those of the morning, and now swimming in the afternoon haze the volcanoes towering above in a splendor of mother-of-pearl.
These old Mexican gardens are beautiful beyond words, but I think one must feel the magic of them in the flesh—not out of it—to know the full enchantment. Later we went into the inn, once a great monastery, now transformed into a "hotel with all modern conveniences," as the prospectus says, and where, for a moment, I thought of going when we first arrived.
Some of its ancient beauty is left; old chests and ecclesiastical chairs, and long, carved refectory tables fill the corridors, and pictures of saints and priors hang on the thick walls. There is a charmingpatiosurrounded by cloisters, where monks once walked, saying their breviaries and their beads, and where now tables are placed from which tourists renew and strengthen the flesh.
Above is a terrace bounded by a lacy, intertwining design of grayish-pink balcony. In the center of the court is an oval double-basined fountain, with a little palm planted in the middle of the top one, and water-lilies in the lower one. Masses of crimson rambler were in their last luxuriance, and shining lemon and orange trees, with fruit thick upon them, grew in the little flower-beds. There is a large, new, glass-inclosed roomwhere the proprietor, quite a character, likes to have his patrons go. A corner of the old refectory was sacrificed to do this modernizing, but we had the tea served at a table in thepatio, and watched the patch of blue sky get pink and the colors of the flowers darken. When we finally turned homeward in an indigo-colored world it was to find the volcanoes like two great flaming torches, casting strange lights upon the dark-blue earth over which we sped. Nothing but night could have induced us to leave the beauty of it all for brick-and-plaster man-made dwellings.
June 27th.
Professor Mark Baldwin and Mr. Butler came for lunch—and very pleasant. The application of the American mentality to the elusive Mexican equation is always a more or less stimulating process, and one generally feels comfortably, somewhat smugly, superior in spite of the fact that one never gets beyond the X. Professor Baldwin sent me his book,The Individual and Society, made up of lectures given at the university here, and dedicated to Ezechiel Chavez, Sub-Secretary of Public Instruction. It is most interesting and I am posting it with this.
June 29th.Peter and Paul's Day. After which our beloved friend used to leave Rome.
A sweet letter from Aunt Louise inclosing one of dear Mr. Stedman's poems, "The Undiscovered Country." I have tucked it into my mirror, where I can look at it while having my hair done. It begins: