art from the clever artificers among the ancient Moors. Coats and
pantaloons (I use purposely the word _pantaloons_) and hats are made
of leather, soft, light and elastic as woven fibre. And as for saddles
and bridles, all the accoutrements of the _caballero_ are here made
more sumptuously than anywhere in all the world.
The shops are opened early in the morning and remain open until noon,
when most of them are closed until three o’clock, while the clerks are
allowed to take their _siesta_, the midday rest. Then in the cool
hours of the evening they stay open until late.
Over on one side of a small park, under the projecting loggia of a
long, low building, I noticed, to-day, a dozen or more little tables,
by each of which sat a dignified, solemn-looking man. Some were
waiting for customers, others were writing at the dictation of their
clients; several were evidently composing love letters for the shy,
brown _muchachas_ who whispered to them. Of the thirteen millions
constituting the population of the Mexican Republic, less than two
millions can read and write. Hence it is, that this profession of
scribe is one of influence and profit.
[Illustration: VOLCANO DE POPOCATEPETL]
I have once more visited the famous cathedral which faces the Plaza
Grande. From the north tower of it, to the top of which I climbed by a
wonderful convoluted staircase, ninety-two spiral steps without a
core, I gained a view of the city. North and south and east and west
it spread out several miles in extent. It lies beneath the view, a
city of flat roofs, covering structures rarely more than two stories
high, of stone and sun-dried brick, and painted sky blue, pink and
yellow, or else remaining as white and clean as when first built, who
knows how many hundreds of years ago? For here are no chimneys, no
smoke and no soot! To the south I could descry the glistening surface
of Lake Tezcoco, and to the west, at a greater distance, Lakes Chalco
and Xochomilco. Never a cloud flecked the dark blue dome of the sky.
Only, overhead, I noted one burst of refulgent whiteness. It was with
difficulty that I could compel my comprehension to grasp the fact that
this was nothing less than the snow summit of mighty Popocatepetl, so
distant that tree and earth and rock along its base, even in this
pellucid atmosphere, were hid in perpetual haze.
It is said that peoples differ from one another not merely in color,
in form and in manners, but equally so in their peculiar and
individual odors. The Chinese are said to find the European offensive
to their olfactory nerves because he smells so much like a sheep. The
Englishman vows the Italian reeks with the scent of garlic. The
Frenchman declares the German unpleasant because his presence suggests
the fumes of beer. Just so, have I been told that the great cities of
the world may be distinguished by their odors. Paris is said to exhale
absinthe. London is said to smell of ale and stale tobacco, and Mexico
City, I think, may be said to be enwrapped with the scent of _pulque_
(_Pool-Kay_). “_Pulque_, blessed _pulque_,” says the Mexican!
_Pulque_, the great national drink of the ancient Aztec, which has
been readily adopted by the Spanish conqueror, and which is to-day the
favorite intoxicating beverage of every bibulating Mexican. At the
railway stations, as we descended into the great valley wherein Mexico
City lies, Indian women handed up little brown pitchers of _pulque_,
fresh _pulque_ new tapped. Sweet and cool and delicious it was, as
mild as lemonade (in this unfermented condition it is called _agua
miel_, honey water). The thirsty passengers reached out of the car
windows and gladly paid the _cinco centavos_ (five cents) and drank it
at leisure as the train rolled on. Through miles and miles we
traversed plantations of the maguey plant from which the _pulque_ is
extracted. For pulque is merely the sap of the maguey or “century
plant,” which accumulates at the base of the flower stalk, just before
it begins to shoot up. The _pulque_-gatherer thrusts a long, hollow
reed into the stalk, sucks it full to the mouth, using the tongue for
a stopper, and then blows it into a pigskin sack which he carries on
his back. When the pigskin is full of juice, it is emptied into a tub,
and when the tub is filled with liquor it is poured into a cask, and
the cask is shipped to the nearest market. Itinerant peddlars tramp
through the towns and villages, bearing a pigskin of _pulque_ on their
shoulders and selling drinks to whosoever is thirsty and may have the
_uno centavo_ (one cent) to pay for it. When fresh, the drink is
delightful and innocuous. But when the liquid has begun to ferment, it
is said to generate narcotic qualities which make it the finest thing
for a steady, long-continuing and thorough-going drunk which
Providence has yet put within the reach of man. Thousands of gallons
of _pulque_ are consumed in Mexico City every twenty-four hours, and
the government has enacted stringent laws providing against the sale
of _pulque_ which shall be more than twenty-four hours old. The older
it grows the greater the drunk, and the less you need drink to become
intoxicated, hence, it is the aim of every thirsty Mexican to procure
the oldest _pulque_ he can get. In every _pulque_ shop, where only the
mild, sweet _agua miel_, fresh and innocuous, is supposed to be sold,
there is, as a matter of fact, always on hand a well fermented supply,
a few nips of which will knock out the most confirmed drinker almost
as soon as he can swallow it.
[Illustration: A PULQUE PEDDLER]
I was passing a _pulque_ shop this afternoon when I noticed a tall,
brawny Indian coming out. He walked steadily and soberly half way
across the street, when all of a sudden the fermented brew within him
took effect and he doubled up like a jackknife, then and there. Two
men thereupon came out of the self same doorway, picked him up head
and heels, and I saw them sling him, like a sack of meal, into the far
corner of the shop, there to lie, perhaps twenty-four hours, till he
would come out of his narcotic stupor.
Riding out to the shrine of Guadeloupe the other afternoon, I passed
many Indians leaving the city for their homes. Some were bearing
burdens upon their backs, some were driving donkeys loaded with goods.
Upon the back of one donkey was tied a _pulque_ drunkard. His legs
were tied about the donkey’s neck and his body was lashed fast to the
donkey’s back. His eyes and mouth were open. His head wagged from side
to side with the burro’s trot. He was apparently dead. He had
swallowed too much fermented _pulque_. His _compañeros_ were taking
him home to save him from the city jail.
[Illustration: A FRIEND OF MY KODAK]
[Illustration: DULCE VENDER]
The Mexicans have a legend about the origin of their _pulque_. It runs
thus: One of their mighty emperors, long before the days of
Montezuma’s rule, when on a war raid to the south, lost his heart to
the daughter of a conquered chief and brought her back to
_Tenochtitlan_ as his bride. Her name was Xochitl and she gained
extraordinary power over her lord, brewing with her fair, brown hands
a drink for which he acquired a prodigious thirst. He never could
imbibe enough and, when tanked full, contentedly resigned to her the
right to rule. Other Aztec ladies perceiving its soothing soporific
influence upon the emperor, acquired the secret of its make and
secured domestic peace by also administering it to their lords. Thus
_pulque_ became the drink adored by every Aztec. The acquisitive
Spaniard soon “caught on” and has never yet let go.
The one redeeming feature about the _pulque_ is that he who gets drunk
on it becomes torpid and is incapable of fight. Hence, while it is so
widely drunk, there comes little violence from those who drink it.
But not so is it with _mescal_, a brandy distilled from the lower
leaves and roasted roots of the maguey plant. It is the more high
priced and less generally tasted liquor. Men who drink it become mad
and, when filled with it, sharpen their long knives and start to get
even with some real or imaginary foe. Fortunately, _mescal_ has few
persistent patrons. It is _pulque_, the soporific _pulque_ that is the
honored and national beverage of the Mexican.
[Illustration: VOLCANO DE IZTACCIHUATL]
VII
A Mexican Bullfight
MEXICO CITY,
_Sunday, November 24th_.
A feeling first of disgust and then of anger came over me this
afternoon. I was sitting right between two pretty Spanish women, young
and comely. One of them as she came in was greeted by the name
_Hermosa Paracita_ (beautiful little parrot), by eight or ten sprucely
dressed young Spaniards just back of me. The spectators with ten
thousand vociferous throats had just been cheering a _picador_. He had
done a valiant deed. He had ridden his blindfolded horse around the
ring twice, lifting his cap to the cheering multitude. He was
applauded because he had managed to have the belly of his horse so
skillfully ripped open by the maddened black bull, that all its vitals
and entrails were dragging on the ground while he rode it, under the
stimulus of his cruel spurs and wicked bit, twice around the ring
before it fell, to be dragged out, dying, by mules, gaily-caparisoned
in trappings of red and gold, tugging at its heels! _Paracita_ clapped
her pretty bejeweled hands and cried “_bravo_!” And so did the scores
of other pretty women; women on the reserved seats, elegant ladies and
pretty children in the high-priced boxes on the upper tiers! The
howling mob of thousands also applauded the gallant _picador_! Would
he be equally fortunate and clever and succeed in having the next
horse ripped open so completely, all at one thrust of the bull’s
horns? _Quien sabe?_
The city of four hundred thousand inhabitants, capital of the Mexican
Republic, had been profoundly stirred all the week over the arrival
from Spain of the renowned Manzanillo and his band of _toreadors_
(bullfighters). Their first appearance would be the opening event of
the bullfighting season.
Manzanillo, the most renowned _Toreador_ of old Spain! And bulls, six
of them, of the most famous strains of Mexico and of Andalusia! Señor
Limantour, Secretary of State for Mexico, spoken of as the successor
to President Diaz, had just delighted the _jeunesse dorée_ by publicly
announcing his acceptance of the honor of the Presidency of the newly
founded “Bullfighting Club.” Spanish society and the _Sociadad
Española_ had publicly serenaded _Don_ Manzanillo at his hotel! A
dinner would be given in his honor after the event! Men and women were
selling tickets on the streets. Reserved tickets at five dollars each,
could only be obtained at certain cigar stores. The rush would be so
great that, to secure a ticket at all, one must buy early. I secured
mine on Thursday, and was none too soon. The spectacle would come off
Sunday afternoon at three o’clock, by which hour all the churches
would have finished their services, and the ladies would have had
their _almuerzo_, and time to put on afternoon costume.
[Illustration: SETTING A BANDERILLA]
By noon the drift of all the street crowds was toward the bull ring, a
mile or two out near the northwest border of the city. All street cars
were packed and extra cars were running; even all carriages and cabs
were taken, and the cabmen commanded double prices. I had retained a
carriage the day before. At the restaurant I could scarcely get a
bite, the waiters and cooks were so eager to get through and escape,
even for a single peep at the spectacle. As I drove out, young ladies
were standing in groups at the gateways of many fashionable residences
waiting for their carriages to take them to the ring. As I approached
the arena, the throngs upon the streets and sidewalks blocked the way.
Hundreds of Indians and Mexicans, mostly women, had set up temporary
eating stands along the roadside. Fruit, _tortillas_, steaming broth
and meat roasting over fires, tempted the hungry. These stands would
feed a multitude. It was early, but the city fire department was
already on hand with apparatus to extinguish any possible blaze among
the wooden tiers of seats. A battalion of mounted police sat on their
blood-bay horses at intervals along the road, their gaudy blue and
gold uniforms setting off effectively their dark brown skins. We
entered a large gateway, gave up half of our tickets, and then passed
in to a broad flight of steps. We ascended to the tiers of seats and
chose good places. Presently, two companies of infantry with set
bayonets also entered and took up their positions. Often the mob
becomes so mad with blood-lust, that bayonets are needed to keep
order, sometimes also bullets.
It was an hour before the set time, but none too early. The crowds,
all well dressed on this side, every one of whom had paid five dollars
for a ticket, kept pouring in. Across on the other side swarmed the
cheap mob. Behind me was a row of young Spaniards. They stood up and
called nicknames to all their friends who entered within reach of
their vision. They cheered every pretty well dressed woman. They
howled like mad when the band came in, they fairly burst themselves
when, at last, Manzanillo, the _toreador_, the _matadores_,
_picadores_, the valiant gold-laced company of bullfighters, entered
and marched around the ring.
[Illustration: TEASING EL TORO]
Manzanillo sat on a superb Andalusian charger which pranced and threw
up his forefeet as though conscious of the illustrious character of
his master. Then Manzanillo dismounted and took his place, the
_picadores_ stationed their horses on either side and pulled over
their eyes the bandages to blindfold them, others carrying big
gold-embroidered red shawls, stood all attention, the band struck up,
the door opposite me was thrown open and a handsome, black-brown bull
trotted in. As he passed the gate he received his first attention. Two
rosettes of scarlet and gold ribbons were hooked into his shoulders,
with steel teeth, enough to irritate him just a little. He stood there
amazed. The crowd cheered him. A man in gold lace promptly flaunted a
red shawl in his face. He charged it. The man stepped lightly aside
and bowed to the audience, who cheered vociferously. “Bravo! Well
done!” Then one of the blindfolded horses was spurred toward the bull.
The bull was dazed and angry. He charged right at the horseman. The
horseman lowered his spear and caught the bull in the shoulder. The
bull flinched to one side. The audience cheered the _picador_, but the
bull dexterously turning, charged the horse on the other side, and,
before the poor beast could be turned, drove his sharp horns into his
abdomen, ripped it up and upset the rider and horse in a cloud of
dust. The audience now cheered the bull. A dozen men rushed to the
rescue and dragged the _picador_ away. The horse lay there and the
bull charged it again, and again ripped out more entrails. The
audience cheered the bull, and the bull, encouraged by the applause,
took another turn at the dying horse. Just then a dexterous footman
slung the red sheet in the bull’s face and he turned to chase it. But
all in vain! Charge the red vision all he would, he never caught
anything but thin air! He could never catch the man.
Then the bull saw another horse blindly sidling towards him, for
though blindfolded, the old horse could yet smell the bull and the
blood, and only went forward under the pressure of savage spur and
bit. The bull stood gazing at the horse and rider a moment, then he
charged right at them with head down. He caught the horse in the belly
and ripped out its entrails, which dragged on the ground, while the
brave _picador_ continued to ride it about, and sought yet again to
engage the attention of the bull.
But the bull was now tired. He thought of his mountain pastures and
the sweet, long grass of the uplands. He would go home. He would
fight no more. He wanted to get out, he wanted badly to get out. The
now hissing mob scared him worse than when they cheered. He ran about
the ring trying all the locked doors. He couldn’t force them. Then he
tried to climb over the high wall, to jump over anyway. He was frantic
with pathetic panic. But shouting men stood round the parapet and
clubbed him over the head. So he gave up and returned to the center of
the ring, panting, his tongue hanging out, foam dripping from his
jaws. He was altogether winded.
[Illustration: THE GARDENS OF CHAPULTEPEC]
Now was Manzanillo’s opportunity. He carried a small purple
gold-fringed scarf over his left arm, and his long, straight naked
sword in his right hand. He stood directly in front of the bull. He
caught its eye. He waved the purple banner. Almost imperceptibly he
approached. The bull stood staring at him, legs wide apart, sides
panting, tail lashing, head down, tired but ready to charge. Then,
quick as lightning, Manzanillo stepped up to the bull, straight in
front of him, and reaching out at arm’s length drove the sword to the
very hilt right down between the shoulder blades. It was a mortal
stroke, a wonderful thrust, perfect, precise, fatal. Only a master of
his craft could do just such a perfectly exact act. And as quick as
lightning did Manzanillo step aside, fold his arms and stand
motionless, not ten feet from the bull, to watch him die. He gave only
one sweeping bow to the audience. The Spaniard is a connoisseur in all
the delicate and subtle masterstrokes in this duel of man and beast.
Manzanillo had sustained his reputation as the greatest living
bullfighter of old Spain. The nerve, the agility, the lightning-like
act--too quick for human eye to follow--the perfect judgment of time
and distance and force, all these he had now displayed. The vast
audience broke out into one simultaneous “Bravo,” rose to its feet and
then, like the _matador_, stood silent and breathless to watch the
bull die,--to see the hot blood pour from mouth and nostrils, the
sturdy thighs and shoulders shake, the powerful knees bend. The nose
sank to the dust, the knees trembled, the bull rolled in the sand,
quite dead. Manzanillo drew out his reeking sword. Again he bowed to
the vast multitude, and no human being ever received a more
overwhelming ovation than did he. Flowers were thrown him in heaps.
Sometimes women even take off their jewels and throw them, and kiss
the hero when they later meet him on the street. So great is the joy
of the blood-lust! So has the frenzy of the Roman arena descended to
some of Rome’s degenerate sons. Mules in gay red and gold trappings
now dragged out the bull as they had the horse. There would be
cheap stews for the multitude in the city to-night.
[Illustration: MANZANILLO’S FATAL THRUST]
The next bull was jet-black, big, sturdy, ferocious. He scorned to
charge or gore a blindfolded horse, but he chased a man wherever in
sight. Such a bull is according to the Spanish heart! The audience
cheered him wildly. He ripped up three or four horses just because he
had to, in order to get at the man on their backs. One of the horses
had been ripped up by the first bull, but his dusty entrails had been
put back, the rent sewn up, and under cruel spur and bit he had been
presented to the second bull to be again splendidly and finally ripped
wide open, ridden around the ring by his bowing rider, bloody entrails
dragging in the dust, and applauded to his death by the blood-hungry
multitude! The second bull was game! The _banderillas_ were placed
with danger and difficulty. These are two beribboned sticks tipped
with steel gaffs that are jabbed into the bull’s shoulders, adding to
the irritation of the rosettes, and increasing his desire for revenge.
In the first bull they were perfectly planted and three pairs set in.
In the second only one was got in at first, then a pair, then one
again. Each setting of the _banderillas_ is a dangerous feat! The bull
must be approached from the front. Just as they are stuck into the
maddened animal, the _banderillador_ must step aside. He must be
quick, very quick, as quick as the _toreador_ in planting his fatal
sword thrust. And not infrequently the _banderillador_ gets tossed,
and perhaps gored and killed by the bull. Hence the act, well done,
receives deafening applause. Despite his fierce courage, this splendid
black bull also met at last his inevitable fate, beneath the perfectly
skillful thrust of Manzanillo.
The third bull was the biggest and oldest yet. Horses were ripped up
by him in exciting succession and one _picador_ was caught under his
fallen horse and badly bruised. Nor was it so easy to kill this bull.
The _matador_ lost a trifle of his nerve. The sword only went in half
way. It took the bull some time to bleed internally and die. With the
sword-hilt waving between his shoulder blades, he tried to follow and
gore the _matador_, but his strength began to fail. He stood still,
his head sank down, his knees bent, he knelt. And the vast audience
stood in hush and silence to watch with delighted expectancy the final
oncoming of death. When he rolled over quite dead, the pretty women in
the box behind me shouted and waved their dainty hands in mad delight.
The fourth bull was just ushered in when the brutality and cruelty and
horror of it all quite nauseated me. I rose to go. My friend told
our neighbors that I was “ill.” Otherwise they could not have
understood my leaving in the midst of the fight. Afterward I heard it
declared to be a very fine performance, for, as a little Mexican boy
exclaimed delightedly, “they killed six bulls and thirteen horses! It
was _magnifico_!”
[Illustration: JUAREZ’ TOMB AND WREATHS OF SILVER]
As I sat and looked out on the ten thousand faces of all classes, rich
and poor, all radiant and frenzied with the blood-lust and the joy of
seeing a creature tortured to the very death, and then heard the clang
of the multitudinous church bells, calling to Vesper services, even
before the spectacle was ended, I realized that, surely, I was among a
different people, bred to a different civilization from my own; a
civilization still mediæval and still as cruel as when the Inquisition
sated even fanaticism with its cultivated passion for blood! I also
shame to say that I met to-night two young American ladies, school
teachers at Toluca, going home with two bloody _banderillas_ plucked
from one of the bulls--“Trophies to keep as souvenirs.” They “Had so
much enjoyed the fine spectacle.” Thus do even my countrywomen
degenerate, thus is the savage aroused within their hearts!
VIII
From Pullman Car to Mule-back
MICHOACAN, MEXICO,
_November 25th_.
After the bullfight we had difficulty in finding a _cocha_ to take us
to the railway station. In fact, we could not get one. We were
compelled to depend upon _cargadores_, who carried our trunks and bags
upon their backs, while we jostled along the crowded sidewalks. And
here, I might remark, that there is no such thing as a right-of-way
for the footfarer on either street or sidewalk. You turn to the right
or left, just as it may be most convenient and so does your neighbor.
You cross a street at your peril, and you pray vigorously to the
saints when you are run down.
We left Mexico City about five o’clock in the evening, taking the
narrow gauge National Railway to Acambaro and Patzcuaro, where horses
and a guide were to be awaiting us, and whence we would cross the
highlands of the _Tierra Fria_ and finally plunge into the remote
depths of the _Tierra Caliente_, along the lower course of the Rio
de las Balsas, where it forms the boundary line between the states of
Michoacan and Guererro, on its way to the Pacific.
[Illustration: THE TREE WHERE CORTEZ WEPT EL NOCHE TRISTE]
As we departed from the city, we passed through extensive fields of
maguey, and began climbing the heavy grade which would lift us up some
four thousand feet ere we should descend into the valley of Toluca,
more lofty, but no less fertile than the basin of Anahuac. Before we
crept up the mountain very far, darkness descended precipitately upon
us, for there is no twilight in these southern latitudes.