Ten generations of men have come and gone since Don Antonio de Espego
distilled a subtle Spanish essence in _El Palacio_; and you may break,
you may shatter those walls, if you will, but the scent of Espagna will
hang round it still. Under the witchery of that fast-fading charm, a
troop of attendant graces hover about its _portal_. They bear musical
names of sweet meaning, as the discreet damsels who welcomed pilgrims
to the blessed rooms in the House Beautiful. Perfectio (perfection),
a worthless peon, in Navaho blanket, sweeps the sidewalk; Benito (the
good), a shambling Mexican boy, watching his chance for a spring at
the spoons, brings the daily mail; Mariposa (butterfly), the silliest
of Slowboys, pushes the baby-wagon; while Angellus, an angel whose
form has lost its original brightness, lazily watches her. Three old
witches, whom we familiarly call the Macbeths, were baptized some
centuries ago Feliciana, the Happy; Rosita, little Rose; Hermosa, the
Beautiful.
It is the month of July, and the cotton-wood trees of the Plaza are
a mass of tender leafage in restless flutter, giving color and cool
sound, most grateful in a land where sterility is the rule, fertility
the rare and marked exception. The _acequias_ are open, and they
moisten earth and air in the square of _alfalfa_, or Spanish clover,
knee-deep.
Quite out of reach of the shady trees, in the fiercest blaze of the
sun, sitting on a fragment of the Rocky Mountains, is a statuesque
figure, which might represent the oldest of the Fates, the most
furious of the Furies. It is Blandina, the fair one, the soft one,
of Santa Fé. Her face, like one of her own foot-hills, is worn into
gutters and seams. Not like them so moulded by the action of water,
but by exposure to sharp sunlight and withering wind, destructive
to beauty, which make even young persons appear old. Her skin is a
parchment, which looks as though it might date back to--I was about to
say the Flood; but that would imply that at some prehistoric era she
had felt the sanitary influence of a shower-bath, and I would not harm
an innocent fellow-creature by such an unjust suspicion. Her draperies
are a mere dissolving view. There sits the Mexican woman, day after
day, not begging, nor even reaching out her hand, but following the
passer-by with beseeching eyes, haunting as the eyes of the dead. Like
all the very poor, she keeps a dog and smokes incessantly.
The great mass of population here is very swarthy, and there are but
few who have no Indian blood in their veins. The traveller in New
Mexico may breakfast in a ranche where the occupants have the clear
cinnamon hue; dine at another where the faces are ashen, like the
Malay’s; and pass the night at a third where the courteous host will
show the deep Vandyke brown of the Negro. The explanation is easy. The
different inhabitants of the several places are sprung from various
tribes. The Ute has a dingy, tallow complexion, the Apache is a dirty
ashen gray, while the Mohave girls have cheeks of almost Spanish
transparency.
Besides the luxuries and refinements of the furthest East, the Moors
left behind them in Spain many descendants, the children of Spanish
marriages. Some of these were among the dauntless adventurers who
came to _Nueva Mejico_ in the XVIth century. They intermarried with
the Indians, mingling three strains of blood, which mixture is called
Mexican. The conquering foreigners were not all olive-skinned. Some
of the first who sailed the sea boasted, and evidently were, of the
_sangre azul_, brought into Spain by the wild Goths. The lover of
Prescott will remember his description of the watchful gray eyes of
Cortez, and the clear blue eyes of Alvarado, whose yellow locks, fair
forehead, and beard yellow as gold, gave him a peculiar expression
of sunniness, from which the Aztecs called him _Tonitiah_--“Child of
the Sun.” Scattered at long distances through New Mexico are a few
_ricos_, of almost Saxon fairness, remote descendants of the people
who brought the exquisite architecture of Asia to perfect flower in
the shades of the Alhambra--departing traces of the northern tribes to
which southern Europe owes some of its best elements of strength. Their
blue eyes, glancing from under the slouched _sombrero_, and sunburnt
hair, stringing down the _serape_, affect one strangely. It is like
finding Albinos among the Zuñi and Moqui Indians, and involuntarily
we ask: “What manner of men are these?” Tawny color is seen in every
grade of society and some of the highest citizens are plainly of Indian
extraction. The restless energy of the Spaniard, the quick perception
of the Moor, even the cunning of the roving Apache, appear to be lost
in the sluggish current which lazily beats in the pulses of the modern
Mexican.
Among the common people is one distinguishing trait, the utter lack of
beauty. I have frequented every day crowds, and haunted churches, where
they are to be seen at their best, and have found not one attractive
face. Nowhere on earth comes age so fast or in such repulsive shape.
A lovely baby changes to the plain young girl, somewhat comely, at
fifteen. At twenty-five not a vestige of freshness remains; not a line
to remind one of beauty vanished forever. And oh! the hideous hags
squatted against the walls! There is no speculation in those eyes,
fixed as the eternal gaze of the Sphinx. They look old as that grim
female, and I would as soon think stone lips could part into a company
smile, displaying false teeth, as that these could break into laughter
or song. I wonder what they are thinking about, if they think at all,
or if an earthquake would make them jump. Assuredly, they are the most
opaque of terrestrial bodies, and, under the old black shawl, they sit
immovable, as though all the forces of the universe (rarely heard from
in Santa Fé) could not start them from their secure poise.
Dr. Holmes says “the finest human fruit, and especially the finest
women, we get in New England are raised under glass. _Protection_ is
what the transplanted Aryan requires in this New England climate.” I
fancy “protection” is what the women need in the “excessive,” the
territorial climate analogous to that of Central Asia. On this bleak,
elevated plateau, where the dryness is so intense that meat is cured
without smoke or salt, the juices of the human body evaporate, leaving
early wrinkles. I have seen men in high health return from a month of
camping among the Rocky Mountains with crow’s feet wofully deepened and
the appearance of having “aged” in a very short time.
Perhaps dirt and low diet have helped to finish the completed ugliness
of the Santa Fé witches; but we know extremes of every sort waste
nervous force, and hasten the steps of the common enemy, who sharpens
his scythe for the faces of women, and shakes the sand in the glass
when he measures their years.
Moisture, when it does come, is not the gentle rain from Heaven,
swelling bud and flower, as well as human hearts, to thankfulness.
There is no dew; nor is there showering mist, like that which went
up from the earth and watered the garden eastward in Eden. We have,
instead, high wind-storms, rain streaming in torrents, preceded by an
atmosphere where men and animals are acting lightning-rods for electric
currents; keen, close lightning and the “_live_ thunder” of which Byron
sung. Suddenly the mighty music stops. The sun flashes out in unveiled
splendor, flooding the world with blinding light, and we are tempted
to tread a sun-dance in worship of the glittering God of the Pueblos,
who inhabits eternity, lord of Heaven and earth, son of the morning and
father of all the days.