SANTA FÉ
Santa Fé is the most delightful of places. It has a charm all its
own. It is small, quaint, and intensely old. It is far removed from
other American towns--just as far as west is from east. It represents
the quintessence of New Mexico, and at the same time--so it is
alleged--sets the standard of art in America.
The first words of a mediocre Easterner when he enters the _plaza_ of
Santa Fé are "Heavens'n earth! what kind of a hole have I struck now?"
But if he has a soul underlying that eastern veneer of his, if he
has an appreciation for art and beauty in architecture unimpaired by
familiarity with gigantic skyscrapers, he will repent those words. His
disdainful grin as he first catches sight of the Art Museum and sees
an edifice of mud with ne'er a corner that could be called sharp, will
fade slowly from his face, and once he has recovered from the shock of
the "sudden uniqueness" of everything, his look will turn to one of
wonder and admiration.
Santa Fé is small. It contains no more than 6,000 inhabitants--a
curious mixture of Mexicans, Indians, and Americans. Its population,
moreover, is at a standstill. As the capital of a State of 160,000
square miles, it seems ludicrous, until one reflects that there are but
50,000 people in the whole country. Of Spanish origin, it is laid out
in Spanish style, with the _plaza_ or public square in the centre.
Around the _plaza_ are arranged most of the more important buildings.
These, with few exceptions, follow closely the "adobe" architecture
of the "Pueblo" Indians, combined with the architecture of the later
"Franciscan" Missions that were instituted by the Spanish Friars, who
in the early days of colonization penetrated far into the continent.
In the forefront of every march and every exploration there was always
the brown-robed Franciscan, bearing along with his crucifix the trowel
and the book. To convert, to build, and to teach--these were the
self-imposed tasks to which he consecrated his life. Especially do we
honour him as a builder. Living among a passionate people, who resented
the intrusion of strange gods among their own, often surrounded by
cruel and relentless foes, the type of his structures was determined
by the conditions of his existence. There must be a church in which to
preach the new religion, a convent in which to live, and along with
these, a school in which he might give instruction. These must be
connected and compactly placed to serve as a fortress against present
enemies; and they must be massive, to withstand the ravages of time.
There were eleven such churches in New Mexico alone prior to the
landing of the _Mayflower_--and more than fifty others were established
during the century which followed.
This is the only type of architecture that can be referred to as truly
"American," saving perhaps the unenvied skyscraper of the East. This
latter, however, belongs to no school and knows no creed; it is not
indigenous to the soil or produced by environment, native material, or
climate. Instead, it defiles the heavens and cuts the landscape into
futuristic nightmares of edge and angle.
By far the choicest flower of this renaissance style is the New
Art Museum at Santa Fé. Recently completed, it is admired by all,
architects and laymen alike. It embodies the designs of six of the
ancient Spanish Missions, three centuries old, some of which have now
disappeared. The others are fast decaying with the ravages of time.
The outlines of the Museum are plastic, smooth, and flowing, rising
in curves and terraces, without stiffness, sharpness, or repetition.
There is a noticeable lack of symmetry, contrasting so much with the
style of the Californian Missions. Consequently, there is a different
composition and an added charm with every new position or change
of aspect. Inside are paintings and sketches of Indian, Mexican,
and desert life and scenes, specimens of native handiwork, and an
exhaustive library.
Across the road, on the opposite corner, is the Governor's Palace, the
oldest governmental building in the States. Its appearance would in
modern eyes hardly justify the term "Palace." It is a very unimposing
building of native architecture but contains relics, trophies, and
works of art brought from all corners of the Western world. Within its
adobe walls are housed prehistoric remains of the extinct civilization
that thousands of years ago thrived in Western America.
[Illustration: THE ART MUSEUM AT SANTA FÉ.]
[Illustration: THE OLDEST HOUSE IN AMERICA, AT SANTA FÉ.]
But not only the public buildings of Santa Fé are of Pueblo
construction. Many of the latest private edifices, both residential and
commercial, are of this strange architecture. The offices and works of
the "Santa Fé Water and Light Company" give one the impression of its
unique application to business buildings. But for sheer delight give
me the private dwellings. It is beyond my power to convey an adequate
impression of the soft beauty of one of these exquisitely-designed
houses, with its smooth-flowing profiles, its shady "patio," open-air
bathing pools and well-planned garden. One must go and see to
understand and feel the charm of it all.
But from the Mexican houses as residences Heaven preserve me! Seldom do
they boast more than one story; the roof is flat, and very often grass
and weeds are found thriving thereon. The "adobe" walls are recovered
from year to year throughout the ages as the hand of Time and the
ravages of weather work their destructive way. It can almost be said
that a Mexican house never grows old. The sun-baked mud that forms
its walls withstands the weather to an extraordinary extent. There is
a little house in a little street in the outskirts of Santa Fé, now
uninhabited, from whose roof rises a notice-board: "This is the oldest
house in America," it reads. It was supposed to have been built over
250 years ago.
The citizens of Santa Fé are not progressive. The climate is against
them. They do not run any risk of over-exertion; a considerable time
is spent in eating ices, drinking cold concoctions, and lounging about
the _plaza_ in the early hours of the afternoon. Here it was that I
developed this Western habit. In almost every Western town there is a
central square shaded with many trees, or palms in the hottest places.
The good citizen and the weary traveller alike are welcome here. They
lie about on the grass, or sit on their toes as only a Westerner knows
how. Thus pass the blazing hours. It is a treat to find oneself away
from the eternal hustle and bustle of city life and in the midst of
languid, easy-going freedom. I had several photographs that I took to
the drug-store to be developed and printed.
"Shall I call in to-night for them?" I said.
"To-night? Why, We won't be able to get them through for four days," he
replied, amazed at my ridiculous presumption.
"But in New York they develop and print in one day only. Surely you're
not behind New York?"
"Oh, we don't do things like that in this part of the country, friend;
you've made a big mistake. Nobody hurries in New Mexico!"
By dint of special pleadings, I got the photographs in three days. They
were nearly all ruined with having been hurried!
For three days I created quite a furore in Santa Fé. The news of
my doings and misdoings was published daily in the _Santa Fé New
Mexican_ during my stay. I evidently afforded just the right kind of
newspaper fodder that New Mexico wanted. My fame had spread all the
way from Kansas City long before I actually fell upon the anxious
population. My article on Roads, etc., was reproduced immediately after
its publication in Kansas, together with several caustic editorial
comments. Here is one example:--
"SEES AMERICA BY COW-PATH."
English Warrior gets little rest touring America by Motor-cycle.
"Roads? What roads? I haven't seen any roads. I have been
following a place where cows had been walking...."
Here is another heading to a two-column "article":--
"COW-PATHS"--and not roads in America:--Verdict of British Royal
Airman here on Motor-cycle.
And again (this headed a quarter-page "Report").
"BALLOON"--Only way to get over New Mexico roads, declares British
Aviator.
I was pounced upon immediately after my arrival. No sooner was I
settled down in a good steaming hot bath (oh, joy untold!) than the
telephone bell in my room rang. I let it go on ringing for two or three
minutes. It would not stop. I jumped out and lifted the receiver.
"A reporter is here to see you, sir."
"Och, Hell! Tell him I'm having a bath," and I banged the receiver down
and plunged again into the tub.
In a minute there was a knock at the door. "No use trying to shake off
an American reporter," I told myself.... "Come in!"
The result appeared in next morning's paper--not the result of
MY observations, be it noted, however. Amongst other
statements the following was laid to my charge:--
"In my opinion the old Prairie-Schooner is far superior to a
motor-car (for travelling in New Mexico). If you can't get a
schooner, try horse-back travel. I really believe some horses
could get through the mud and dodge the boulders. (It was almost
funny there!)... But the ideal form of transportation over these
United States is a big dirigible, say 700 ft. in length, modelled
on Great Britain's R.34. (It had just recently crossed the
Atlantic, hence the introduction.)... I might have suggested the
use of an aeroplane, but I have been told two aviators got stuck
in Santa Fé last winter owing to the deep snow in the environs. So
then, after seeing your roads, I should recommend the R.34 type of
machine in which to travel...."
Suffice it to say that I never mentioned Prairie-Schooners, dirigibles,
or aeroplanes! We talked (or rather our friend the reporter did) about
the many notorieties that had passed through Santa Fé of recent years,
and the Lowell Observatory at Flagstaff some 500 miles away.
Every day during my stay our friend the reporter called in at my
hotel. Every day appeared in the press a lengthy report of an alleged
interview.
What an interminable worry it must be to newspaper editors of the West
to provide adequate copy for their hungering readers!