beautiful hills to the west. Something like Italy and yet not at all
like it in the feeling of light and color. For the first time I looked
down on the city from a great height, seemingly on a level with the
hills that hold the cup-like valley, and I saw again in all their
beauty the two shining volcanoes flanked by the matchless hills. There
was an immense exhilaration in the fitting of the mind to such a remote
and gorgeous horizon, and suddenly I found it did not matter if it were
peopled or not; it seemed quite complete, even humanly. There was a
wonderful lightness about the air. Little puffs that one could not call
wind came and brushed our faces with a brilliant yet feathery feeling.
The Ajusco hills with their suggestions of brigands (I have not been
thinking much of brigands since the tales of Raisuli and Perducaris and
Miss Annie Stone) gave a "human" touch to the whole.
In going out of the city we passed through Tacubaya, a very attractive
suburb with handsome houses hidden in great gardens, and an old palace
of some archbishop; but the most interesting thing about it was the
Indian market, spread out on the steep, cobblestoned highway. There was
just enough room for the motor to pass between the mats on which were
spread their wares. Great piles of pottery, bright rolls of cotton,
were laid on squares of cloth, or little mats made of rushes, and
there were infinitesimal groupings of eatables of various kinds, little
piles of five nuts, or three oranges, or little heaps of melon-seed, or
beans.
Indians, picturesque beyond description, were bending, selling, buying,
just as they have done since prehistoric days. It was the brightest
bit of color I have ever seen, with the thread of Indian life that it
was strung on. The Indians compose themselves into beautiful pictures
everywhere, and further on the road was full of pottery-makers, bent
beneath their huge loads, basket-makers, sandal-makers, women and
children equally laden, going with their quick Aztec trot to their
journey's end.
All was quiet in the little villages through which we passed. I wonder
if they know something has happened to their Mexico?
_May 29th._
In the revolutionary lull we have all been vaccinated, and I have been
looking into the drinking-water question quite exhaustively.
I felt rather discouraged when the doctor suggested boiling even
the mineral water, _Tehuacan_, from a place near Orizaba. In general
the microbe question keeps foreigners busy, and more alarmed if they
have children than the sound of artillery. One has to learn to live
here. The food leaves much to be desired, and if we were delicate or
gourmets, there would be a great deal of difficulty ahead.
Friday Mr. and Mrs. Wilson and the Embassy staff come for dinner, the
first time I will have had any one except those dropping in informally.
I don't know how it will turn out. There is a nice American range in
the kitchen, but the cook, it seems, prefers the classic _brasero_, and
a turkey wing to fan the coals. It is not as primitive as it sounds,
however, for the _brasero_ is a tiled affair and has holes on the top
for saucepans. They say the American stove would make even the saints
too hot. How they produce the nice roasts or bake with the thing is a
mystery to me.
However, the whole cooking business is beyond me, though I have put an
embargo on _riñones_ (kidneys). Every time there is a halt in remarks
about the menu, Teresa suggests _riñones_, which I despise with my
whole soul. I am not enthused by organs, anyway, as food. I would
put an embargo on _cabrito_ (kid), but stewed it's objectively one of
the best dishes she prepares, and I would eat it under another name.
A certain _sopa de frijoles_ would be nice anywhere, and with slices
of lemon and hard-boiled egg in it is really delicious, and recalls
vaguely the thick mock-turtle soup of my native land. There is a "near"
apricot, called _chabacano_, ripe at this season, but it's only "near,"
and there are quantities of small, fragrant strawberries.
At Hye de Glunek's I ate, for the first time, the very fine mango, in
its perfection. The eating recalls stories of the original fountain-pen
and the bath-tub, but the fruit is delicious, even the first time you
eat it, with a slightly turpentiny, very clean taste, and cascades of
juice. There is a way of sticking a single-pronged fork into one end,
while you peel it with a knife, and then proceeding, which makes its
consumption possible in public.
[Illustration: MEXICAN WOMEN SELLING TORTILLAS
Photograph by Ravell]
To-day we lunched with the British chargé in his temporary quarters,
as the new Legation, which is going to be a delightful dwelling, built
with some regard for latitude and longitude and altitude, is not yet
ready for occupation. Hohler came to Mexico from Constantinople, and
wherever he goes collects works of art. In his apartment were all
sorts of quite beautiful, Oriental bric-à-brac and hangings, which,
somehow, did not seem as Oriental here as they would in other places.
Simon, the newly arrived French _Inspecteur des Finances_ of the Banco
National, with a brilliant Balkan record behind him, was also there
with his wife. They are "enjoying" the Hôtel de Genève, while awaiting
the arrival of their Lares and Penates, stalled somewhere between Vera
Cruz and Mexico City, and Madam S.'s maid is already down with typhoid
fever.
Yesterday, when N. boarded the tram, a smartly dressed, handsome
Frenchwoman had just got on with neither Mexican money nor vocabulary.
He came to her assistance, and they felt quite like long-separated
friends on discovering "who was who" at the luncheon. In the center
of the table was a lovely silver bowl of old Mexican artisanship,
filled with unfamiliar, theatrical-looking fruits. I compromised on a
_granadita_, which is like a pomegranate in color and taste, but small
and oblong in shape. Of course the "old hands" were trying to enlighten
the new-comers, but it was rather the blind leading the blind. Nobody
can tell what the gigantic political changes will lead to, or what
this new wine of fraternity and equality, fermenting in the oldest of
bottles, will do to their heads. A gentle joke as we got up from the
table, about the pictures in last week's _Semana Ilustrada_ (showing
insurrectos burning bridges), to the effect that the national sport
might soon prove to be _la promenade_, if artless, was more to the
point.
There is a good deal of talk here about something called the "Plan
de San Luis Potosí," apparently the building stones of a new Mexico.
It's the manifesto Madero made at that town in the early stages of
his revolution, a rather personal and arbitrary political document,
in which he declares himself the mouthpiece of the nation's will, and
pronounces the last election of Don Porfirio illegal. It was, as far
as I can see--which is not, of course, very far--like all his other
"elections." Madero finished by saying that the republic being without
a legitimate government, he assumes the provisional presidency. It's so
simple it may succeed, and the Diaz government left a comfortable sum
in the treasury to begin operations with, some sixty-five millions.
_May 31st._
The "official" family dinner went off all right, so I am having the
ambassador and Mrs. Wilson, Von Hintze, Hye, the Austrian chargé, and
De Vaux to dinner on Sunday--eight in all. This is the limit, not
of the table and the dining-room, but possibly of the handmaidens.
Leclerq, who is departing for Brussels and the Foreign Office,
has given me the use, till I have made other arrangements, of his
table-silver. I do, indeed, sigh for the silver and linen in Vienna.
Madame de la Barra receives the _Corps Diplomatique_ on Saturday
afternoon. It will be her inaugural reception as first lady in
the land, and, indeed, the first complete tableau of the _chers
collègues_ that I will have seen since our arrival. I suppose I will
get a glimpse, at least, of some of the up-to-now invisible Mexican
statesmen.
Life goes on here quietly, as far as I am personally concerned, but
underneath it all there is the unmistakable beat and throb of changing
governments, the passing of the old order, the beginning of the new,
with all its potentialities. It is a many-colored background. I am
sending an illustrated paper of the shooting done by the mob in my
street, _La Semana Ilustrada_, which is printed at the other end
of Calle Humboldt, as is also _La Prensa_, a newspaper belonging to
Francisco Bulnes, the cleverest of the publicists here, and a star
among the intellectuals. I am between the making of history and its
annals.
The _Courrier du Mexique_ and the _Mexican Herald_ I read daily.
The _Courrier du Mexique et de l'Europe_ (_Ancien Trait d'Union_)
was founded in 1849, and has survived many vicissitudes and many
governments. Its files would make strange reading, with their
succession of political hails and farewells--or rather farewells and
hails.
Gabrielle is doing very well, though she is suffering from _Heimweh_
for Vienna. The Austrian chargé sends me accumulations of the _Neue
Freie Presse_ to sweeten what she calls "diese Mexico." The Indian
maids are almost too good to be true. There's a dusting and a sweeping
going on that would satisfy a better housewife than myself.
I am quite in love with my street--it has so much for the eye, so
much to intrigue the imagination. As I told you, just opposite is the
Finance Ministry. Endless motors belonging to the old and new régime
and the intermediate, the _Trait d'Union_ régime, fraternize in front
of it. Diagonally across is the home of Diaz's son, Porfirio, who seems
to have neither the talents nor the ambitions of his father. The house
is a very Mexican-looking affair, though not after the good old models.
It is a reddish pink, with superfluous cupolas and bay windows, all
lined with pale blue. Great vines of the magenta-colored Bougainvillea,
"the glory of Mexico," hanging everywhere, further enliven it. The tiny
triangular garden also has various obstreperous and violent-colored
botanical specimens.
A little farther down the street, however, is the real gem, for there
I perceived, in passing, storied Spanish-American life being enacted.
It's a low one-storied house with heavily grated windows, only a
couple of feet up from the street. Behind that grating I actually saw
a pink-robed señorita sitting, with a flower in her hair and a letter,
which I knew must have been a love letter, in her hand, all just as it
ought to be, as far as local color is concerned.
The other night, hearing the sound of music, I stepped out on the
balcony. Behold! there were the outlines of some kind of Romeo
playing the mandolin, in front of that window. It's so complete, so
ridiculously like what it ought to be, you will think I have added
something, but you don't have to add anything here; it's always all
there. That end of the street is where the offices of _La Prensa_ and
of _La Semana Ilustrada_ are, and the little newsboys (_papeleros_)
bring things quite up to date when they dash past crying out new
editions.
The other end of the street, which is short, gives on the Plaza de la
Reforma, where the new, handsome Foreign Office is, and the beautiful
equestrian statue of Charles the Fourth of Spain, which Humboldt said
could only be compared to that of Marcus Aurelius on the Campidoglio.
There are two or three handsome houses belonging to Mexicans between
me and the Plaza. The Suinagás', whose daughter is married to a French
diplomat, and the Saldivars', next the Finance Ministry, are other
houses in the good old style of several generations ago. In former
days the streets were familiarly spoken of as _calles de Dios_ (streets
of God); pious, picturesque, but probably not resembling those of our
eternal abiding-place!
[Illustration: NELSON O'SHAUGHNESSY
(Secretary of the American Embassy, Mexico, 1911-1912)]
[Illustration: PAUL LEFAIVRE
(French Minister to Mexico, 1911)]
[Illustration: FRANCISCO LEON DE LA BARRA
(President _ad interim_ of the Mexican Republic between Diaz and
Madero)]
[3] I had three glimpses of the "King in Exile." First in
Rome, the Easter Sunday of 1913, after the Madero tragedy.
As I went across the Piazza Barberini I saw flying from the
middle window of the _piano nobile_ of the Hotel Bristol, the
Mexican colors, floating there by what strange chance, the
eagle holding in its claws the antique serpent against the
green, white, and red. As I went up the stairway there were
numberless and unmistakable Mexicans on the landings, and
several priests were waiting in the antechamber.
Doña Carmen came in almost immediately with the "grand air" I
had heard about, handsome and composed, a veritable queen in
exile. She was dressed with extreme elegance and simplicity,
in a perfectly plain, dark-blue gown; around her throat was
a pearl necklace. After the greetings she seated me on the
gaudy, gold-and-blue sofa, and took her place beside me. Once
or twice her eyes filled as we spoke of Mexico, but mostly
there was a remote look in them.
When Don Porfirio entered the room I knew him for a leader of
men. _Anno Domini_ had weakened his will, perhaps, but had
not bowed his proud figure nor dulled the piercing look in
his eye, which I remember as hazel with a very large, light
iris, the pupil dark and fiery. We could not but speak of the
Madero tragedy, Don Porfirio talking in Spanish, I in French.
I found myself slightly trembling. He repeated several times,
"I foresaw it all--my method was the only one," and once he
added, "How shall one judge men other than by results?" I saw
in his eye that same remoteness which I think an observer
would have found in mine also; for instead of the gaudy
hotel room I saw Chapultepec high up, swung in a strange
transparency and Don Porfirio's destiny blocked out against
it.
In Paris, that same summer of 1913, at the Hotel Astoria, I
witnessed another _étape_ of the painful, unfit Odyssey from
hotel to hotel. The antechamber was filled with their luggage,
plastered with endless hotel tabs. Don Porfirio's mien was not
quite so majestic, his heart was more broken, his hope less,
his years seemed heavier, and they were uncertain where next
to turn their steps, to San Sebastian or to some "cure" in
Switzerland.
On my way back to Mexico on the _Espagne_, September, 1913, I
was sitting idly watching the Spanish shores off Santander.
There were some Syrians on board suspected of _quién sabe_
what disease, and we were not allowed to go ashore to visit
the old town. About four o'clock a small launch was seen
approaching. In it were Don Porfirio and Doña Carmen and
Don Porfirio's daughter, Doña Amada (Madame de la Torre),
whom they were bringing to the ship, which was crowded with
returning Mexicans, anticipating the pacification of the
country by Huerta. At the news that the "grand old man" was
in the launch there was a rush for the railing. Don Porfirio
could not come on board on account of the quarantine. It was a
tragic moment when he took his daughter in his arms, and many
eyes filled with tears as she tore herself from him and came
hurriedly up the gangway. Farewells were waved as the launch
turned toward the land. Don Porfirio, upright, majestic,
motionless, had his eyes fixed on the ship with its prow
toward Mexico. Who would, if he could, have searched his heart
or said of what he was thinking, the old, the illustrious, the
once powerful, in "the fell clutch of circumstance"?
As long as I live his figure will be to me the sign and symbol
of nostalgia, as he stood in the small launch, his head bared
under the brilliant sky, the bright spot of his red necktie
accenting the whiteness of his hair, watching with longing
eyes the ship turned toward the land which had given him
birth, and which he in return had made great and honorable
among nations.
IV
First reception at Chapultepec Castle--First bull-fight--A
typical Mexican earthquake--Madero's triumphal march through
Mexico City--Three days of adoration
_June 4th._
Yesterday we went to the De la Barras' first reception, a tea neither
formal nor informal, at beautiful Chapultepec, lifted high up on the
historic hill overlooking the city and the beauteous valley, in its
gorgeous setting of mountains and volcanoes.
There is a pretty grotto-like modern entrance at the foot of the hill
which takes visitors to the elevator, a shaft pierced in the rock,
and from the darkness one steps suddenly on to the enchantment of the
terraces with their matchless view. There is a winding road which takes
longer, ending at the great iron gateway of the military school, and
one must cross the broad terrace, where the cadets are walking about or
drilling.
Madame de la Barra, herself a widow, the sister of the President's
first wife, has only been married a few months, and is smiling, fair,
and un-Mexican-looking, of Swiss descent. She was daintily dressed in
some sort of beige chiffon with pearls about her neck, and had easy,
pleasant manners.
There was no chance for conversation. The whole Diaz set, with very
few exceptions, has vanished, not into thin air, but into retirement
or Europe, and society will have to be reorganized from new elements.
These new elements did not seem at first view to be very malleable.
A circle of iron, in the shape of ladies--old, middle-aged, and
young--kept formed about Madame de la B., and I was wedged in, for
quite a while, between a granddaughter of Juarez wearing, among other
things, a huge and, it appears, historic emerald pendant, and a young,
inquiring-looking woman. I mean inquiring for these climes, where
external phenomena only remotely give rise to speculation. She was in a
décolleté mauve passementerie-trimmed gown, with a train--what we would
call an evening dress. The experienced foreign diplomats mostly kept
outside the circle.
Mr. de la B. was moving about the beautiful flower-planted terraces,
smiling, suave, _homme du monde_, as well as President of Mexico, but
the skein from which he is to knit the national destinies is somewhat
tangled. He and Mr. Wilson were colleagues in Brussels. Now the turn of
the wheel has made him President, and Mr. Wilson ambassador.
Some of the well-seasoned foreigners were predicting immediate
difficulties in the disbanding of the revolutionary forces, which seem
to be composed of those who don't want to be disbanded, those who want
to be disbanded immediately, and those who want to be ban_dits_.
I must say I found it all very interesting--a little gem of a picture
of life in Mexico. As a sudden darkness rose up from the valley, rather
than fell from the sky, one of the volcanoes gone suddenly blue, the
other still aflame, the gathering melted away.
_June 6th._
Yesterday, Pentecost Sunday, I went to Mass in the cathedral where
Maximilian and Carlota were crowned, and Iturbide and his consort.
It is a large, ornate structure, though the lowish roof, earthquake
height, I suppose, takes away from the effect of the interior. Three
huge altars and a choir also combine to spoil the perspective, but it
is imposing and the outside is a lovely grayish pink. It is built on
the site of the great Aztec temple, over countless images and remains
of the _teocali_ (temple), which the conquerors demolished as soon as
they got their breath, after the taking of the city.
I found it full of a multicolored crowd. The Indians were most in
evidence, but there were all sorts and conditions of people. Despite
what is said to the contrary, the Church has an enormous influence
on life here--on institutions, habits, and customs. The convents,
monasteries, and seminaries were suppressed in 1859, and no one since
has been allowed to leave money or property to the Church by will, but
here as elsewhere there is no way to prevent the Church from getting
rich. With a constantly renewing collection of individuals having no
personal wants, concerned largely with the promises of another life,
the aggregate of their activities through the ages will always be
enormous in the way of mathematical progression; and I don't see in
a free world why they haven't as much right to spend their money and
energies that way as in the usual spending for personal and mundane
aims.
In the afternoon we went to the bull-fight; it was De la Barra's first
appearance at one as President of the republic, and a great occasion.
The vast crowd was very enthusiastic. We saw every color of garment,
every shade of face, every shape of hat, under the blue, blue sky. We
_de la haute_, or, for that matter, anybody who can pay the price, sit
in the shady side of the ring. The sunny half is occupied by dazzled,
smiling Indians.
The President was greeted by the magnificently played national air, and
the stirring of the great concourse as it rose, and the _vivas_, had a
something impressive. A moment or two after, the _entrada_ took place.
Some beloved matador, whose name I don't know, was greeted with cheers
that rivaled those offered to the President. He had on a gorgeous
blue-and-gold cloak, resting on one shoulder, the body of the cloak
caught up and held with the left hand on the left hip, leaving the
right arm free. He was followed by other less-resplendent individuals
(the men of his _cuadrilla_), and soon the ball really opened by the
dashing out of the door of a splendid dark bull.
I hid my eyes at the goring of the horses, poor old Rosinantes
that they were, ready for the grave, and other high-lights of the
occasion. The President gave many purses. It was a very expensive
afternoon, doubtless, but it will increase his political popularity.
The gaily-dressed _toreros_ would go up to the box after their special
"coups," and, with uncovered heads, hold out their hats, and he would
lean forward and present the purses. At one time the arena was covered
by hats of all sizes and descriptions thrown by enthusiasts, and
returned to them by the various bull-fighters. As you will suspect,
however, "bull-fight _me_ no bull-fights." It isn't one of those things
that it will please me some day to have done, according to the Latin
poet. I would like to sponge it out of memory.
The dinner here this evening was not a success. Perhaps the scent of
the bull-fight hung around me still or perhaps the personal elements
did not combine chemically. The dinner itself was all right. There is
a delicious, fat-breasted quail (_codorniz_) to be had at this season.
The conversation was of prophecies concerning the 7th, when Madero, the
"Messiah," the "Bridegroom of Mexico," whom he is to lead into paths of
peace and plenty, is to enter the city. I kept quoting:
"One man, with a dream at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown."
_June 7th._
This morning, at 4.30, the town was shaken by a tremendous earthquake.
I was awakened by the violent swaying of the house, so violent that
as I jumped up I could not keep on my feet. There was a sound as of
a great wind at sea, and on all sides the breaking of china and the
falling of pictures. Elim, who was fortunately sleeping in my room,
awakened and clung to me, asking, "What is the matter with the ship?"
N. was calling from his room and trying to open the door.
My first thought was that we were in some dreadful, mysterious storm,
_not_ of earthquake. When things had quieted down a little, and I
could get to the window, I looked out. The streets were full of people
in their night garments, in the most complete demoralization, some
on their knees, others under the lintels of the doors. There was a
groaning and a calling on God, accompanied by a still very sensible
movement of the roof-line. Servants finally appeared, white and
terror-stricken, with long, black hair floating down their backs and
their shoulders, hunched up under their _rebozos_.
I was sorry for the damage done to the S.s' nice things--by shipwreck
_and_ earthquake. Our house is a good old house, strongly built in a
firm quadrangle; yet the shape of my room at one moment was not square,
but diamond-shaped!
_Later._
I have just come back from a look about town. I saw the wrecked
barracks in the Puente de Alvarado. Sixty soldiers were buried under
the debris, and the _ambulanciers_ were bringing out the silent,
plaster-covered forms as we passed. A big warehouse at one of the
railways was completely wrecked, but there was no loss of life as the
employees, of course, were not there at that hour. Everywhere were
great ruts and splits in the streets, which looked, in places, as if
they had been plowed up.