If there was a spot on the round earth where a somewhat weary fugitive
might spend a few quiet days in absolute retirement, undisturbed by
inquisitive intruders, it must surely be the little Mexican town of
Jalapa. Situated on a gentle hill not far from the snowy dome of
Orizaba, about midway between the hot coast and the lofty central
plateau, Jalapa is a mass of green verdure and possesses a delightful
climate. All about on the slopes of Orizaba and in the green valleys are
extensive coffee plantations, watered by delightful streams. Everywhere
great umbrageous trees, tropical in their luxuriance, shade the
approaches to the old town. Jalapa itself consists of a few streets of
white buildings with irregular tile roofs, a squat cathedral of the
Spanish-American type, fertile green gardens carefully walled in, and of
course a plaza, which at this season of the year was abloom with fragrant
lilies.
To Brainard, after a week of circuitous wandering through Mexican
villages, sleeping and eating in filthy places, it seemed a veritable
oasis. As the mule cart in which he had completed the last part of his
erratic journey slowly dragged him up the shady hill, he had visions of a
good bath and a day or two of complete idleness before moving on to Vera
Cruz, to take the boat for Havre. His clothes sadly needed attention,
and he was uncomfortably aware that in addition to a useful acquaintance
with the Spanish language he had also acquired a miscellaneous assortment
of vermin from his recent wandering. The somnolent streets in the hot
May afternoon were nearly deserted, so that his arrival in the town
aroused little attention. As the mule cart drew up in the courtyard of a
clean-looking hotel next to the cathedral and opposite the pretty plaza,
he congratulated himself thoroughly on his luck. Having seen his bag
deposited carefully in one of the enormous bedrooms that faced the plaza,
and accomplished the desired bath, he descended to the patio on an
exploring expedition. Near the trickling fountain in the center of the
_patio_ a well-dressed man was seated, reading a book. Brainard
instinctively felt that he must be an American from the appearance of his
clothes, although his face was hidden by the book. On the small iron
table by his side an iced drink was standing. The stranger reached for
this and dropped his book long enough to perceive Brainard.
“Hello!” he said calmly, “when did you arrive?”
Brainard recognized the fight-trust magnate whom he had met on the
Overland Limited.
“You here too!” he exclaimed. “What brings you down here?”
Hollinger sipped his drink and eyed the young man as though to say,—“we
don’t ask that sort of question in these parts—it is very crude of you.”
“Oh, business and pleasure,—that combination which carries us mortals
most everywhere,” he observed and with a slight stress added,—“the same I
judge that brought you to Mexico.”
“Exactly,” Brainard laughed. “I can’t say how much is business and how
much pleasure.”
“And possibly a dash of—something else?” Hollinger suggested genially.
“Well, let’s have another drink on it. _Mozo_! . . . A southern
gentleman who resides in Jalapa has taught these people how to make his
favorite form of booze. It is cooled by snow brought from the mountains
on mule back—and is very refreshing.”
When the waiter had brought two high glasses filled with the crystal
flakes of snow, the fight-trust magnate grew more expansive.
“Yes, shortly after I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance I
found the climate of California uncongenial to my nerves, for the first
time in my life, and having business interests in Mexico I took a little
vacation. Delightful time of the year here, don’t you think?”
Brainard agreed enthusiastically.
“You didn’t make a long stay with us on the Coast,” Hollinger remarked,
with the shadow of a smile. Brainard knew that the fight-trust man
suspected his story, but judged it wiser to avoid personal confidences.
For this reason he refrained from inquiring whether the American’s
business had to do with some notable encounter that was to be staged in
Mexico in order to avoid the laws in the States. Hollinger’s next remark
seemed to indicate that such was his “business interest” in this country.
“We are apt to look down upon Mexico,” he said sententiously. “But it is
a great country. We say that it is not civilized. That is just why it
is a great country. It is not civilized in our peculiar, narrow way, and
hence we deny that it has any civilization.”
“It certainly has fleas,” Brainard threw in flippantly.
“Exactly, young man—it has fleas and therefore you think it is barbarous.
You have been brought up among a people that regards cleanliness as above
godliness and the other fellow’s godliness of more importance than his
own! That is what is called Puritanism. You understand me?”
Brainard nodded. He began to comprehend the results of Hollinger’s
reading on the Overland.
“Now,” continued Hollinger, clearing his throat, “I have nothing to say
against Puritanism. It’s a very good thing for some people. It did some
mighty fine work in the world.”
“Discovered Plymouth Rock, for instance.”
“Yes, and created the nicest lot of little hypocritical tight-wads there
in New England the world has ever seen. We needed those tight-wads out
west—we needed their bank accounts, I mean to say. But we don’t need ’em
any longer, only they can’t understand it and keep shoving their morals
in our faces. That’s the trouble with America all over at the present
date. Puritanism breaks out here, there, and everywhere, like the
measles. And it always means trying to make the other feller as good as
you think he oughter be—and a damn sight better than you are yourself!”
He paused to send for another drink. Brainard wondered what the august
author of the great epic would have thought of this twentieth century
criticism of his theory.
“Now Mexico is free from all that sort of cant, and that is why I said
Mexico was destined to be a great country. In Mexico they let the
individual alone. You see, the Church is supposed to look after the
morals of the community. That is a great relief—it simplifies life and
makes it much more honest. The Church does the best it can, and the
State helps it out when necessary. But the Church don’t expect too much,
the Catholic Church I mean, of human beings, and so it isn’t
disappointed. It all works beautifully! You’ll never find in Mexico
such a fool performance as that going on in San Francisco to-day.
They’re no puritans in California either. They don’t want reform—they
don’t want to shut up the cafés and French restaurants and prevent the
city council from getting its little rakeoff—not a bit of it! It’s only
this puritan bug has got hold of some ‘better than thous’ among us, and
they are raising hell.”
He paused to finish his drink and wipe his brow.
“It always heats me to think,” he explained. “But I was saying that for
this reason Mexico has a great part to play in the future. For one
thing, it furnishes us Americans a possible place to live in when our own
country has one of these righteous attacks and is cleaning house. Lovely
country, lovely climate, lovely people—if you know how to handle ’em
right. No, sir, I hope they’ll never civilize Mexico in my time any more
than it is civilized at present. The natural man needs a country, and
Mexico is his country. . . . Come on—let’s have a look at the town. The
band will be playing in the square a little later, and you will see some
of the prettiest girls you ever saw in your life.”
The fight-trust man lighted another cigar, put on his panama hat, and
tucked an arm under Brainard’s elbow, and thus they sallied forth to
explore Jalapa. Brainard might not agree with his friend’s
anti-puritanism, but he heartily agreed with his praise of Mexico. At
this gentle hour of the late afternoon soft rosy clouds hovered about the
white head of old Orizaba. The gardens, glimpses of which might be
caught through iron-barred gates, were fragrant with flowering trees, in
which the birds sang madly. After a short ramble about the outskirts of
the town, they returned to the plaza, which was now fairly filled with
men and women and children, gathered to hear the military band and to
enjoy the fragrant coolness of the dying day. Many of the brown _peon_
girls were pretty, and the Spanish women, pallid and black-haired, with
white mantillas, quite fascinated the young American. A fountain shot a
lively jet of water into the sunlight. The great white lilies drooped
their golden chalices under shining leaves. The band of Indians at the
other end of the square played operatic music that came through the soft
air languorously in harmony with the atmosphere.
“Where in America, the land of the puritan, can you get so much for your
money?” Hollinger demanded. “It is only in the lands of license that the
people delight in innocent things.”
He flung a copper coin to a beggar woman, who crossed herself and blessed
him.
“It is even pleasant to give to the beggars, instead of subscribing to an
orphan asylum! We make virtue so dull and inhuman.” . . .
As they strolled towards the hotel for dinner, they were joined by a
tall, lean, lank fellow countryman, whom Hollinger introduced to Brainard
as Major Calloway,—“from Alabama, superintendent of the Jalapa-Vera Cruz
branch of the railroad.” The three dined together in the _patio_ with a
young German, who was the agent for a firm of coffee merchants in
Hamburg. They had an extraordinary Mexican dinner, consisting of the
most fiery condiments that Brainard had ever put into his mouth. His
eyes were constantly watering, and he drank quantities of water, much to
the amusement of the others, who swallowed the pungent food with relish.
They sat for a long time over their coffee and some very black cigars
that Calloway produced, listening to the stories the Southerner told. It
seemed that he had been in the country forty years, in fact ever since
the close of the Civil War, in which Calloway had gained his title.
Until recently the railroad had been but a mule tramway and Jalapa not
even a “spot on the map.” He regarded it now as a metropolis. Mexico
according to this old resident was hopelessly tame and civilized under
the firm rule of Diaz and the influx of money-making Americans and
Germans. “You should have seen it in the old days when a man could live
as he liked. Why, they have even got extradition laws for most things
now,” he complained.
“But they don’t use ’em,” the fight-trust man put in suavely.
Listening to the regrets expressed by the railroad manager, Brainard
perceived that the perfect era of freedom and joy was always somewhat
removed from the present time and place. Calloway was most friendly to
the young American.
“I’ll show your young friend one of the old-time places to-morrow. It
isn’t far from here—just a pleasant ride of a couple of hours.”
So a party was arranged for the early morning, and then Brainard excused
himself because of his fatigue, while the others went out to a café for
the rest of the evening.
Before sinking into his clean, inviting bed Brainard stepped to the
balcony to look once more at the snowy crown of Orizaba that shone softly
in the starlight across the valley. The plaza and the street beneath the
balcony were deserted except for an occasional figure that slouched
along, covered even to the head with a long cloak. At the next corner he
saw a young man leaning against the window of a house, talking to some
one within, doing his courting in the manner of the country. A sharp
call rose into the night from the distance, answered by another, and then
all was silence. From the plaza across the street came the sweet scent
of lilies. It was the rich, languorous night of the semitropics, full of
perfume and mystery,—romance for youth,—a bit crude, perhaps, and
elementary, but appealing to every sense.
Brainard sank asleep to dream of a land of enchantment, full of hidden
gardens, the sound of swaying trees and falling water, the scent of
lilies, the sweet glances of dark women.