yesterday during three hours in drenching sheets that darkened the
city. I could scarcely see across the street; but I had the lights
turned on and proceeded with Prescott's _Conquest_, not read since
years. I am entranced by his vivid, flowing style and the wealth of
reference and learning. The very initiated have said that it is not
all true, but if it isn't it ought to be, it's so good. The copy I
am reading was published by Galignani in Paris in 1844, and must be
a first edition, as his preface bears the date, "Boston, October 1st,
1843."
In a small section of the bookcase near my divan, where I sit or rest
or where the tea is brought--where I always am, in fact--are the poets.
I can reach out and refresh myself with almost any of them. There is a
set in that old-fashioned blue-and-gold binding, such as you used to
have (1878 is its date), containing Shelley, Keats, Byron, Tennyson,
Longfellow, Whittier, Mrs. Hemans, _et al._ But they are only a few of
the denizens of the "poets' corner." Palgrave's _Golden Treasury_ is
the first book on the first shelf.
Peter and Paul's Day, _June 29th_.
The saints' days follow quickly here. Also I find that instead of
indifferentism the churches are packed with men, women, and children
on all occasions. Am now waiting for Madame Chermont, the agreeable
American wife of the Brazilian secretary, and we drive to Chapultepec
Park with our children and listen to the music. A fine military band
plays by the largest of the natural lakes, and it is the great morning
rendezvous of Mexico City. The two boys will disport on the grass and
incidentally have a few "good" fights plastered in between the gentler
occupations of catching butterflies and picking flowers.
_Evening._
I made calls all the afternoon, two violent thunder-storms enlivening
the getting in and out. At Madame Lie's an almost terrifying darkness
fell, lasting for an hour or so. The lights were turned on, but we
all continued to look like specters, with an unnatural, lusterless
saffron light filtering in at the windows, showing the Indian butler
coming and going quietly with the tea things, and lighting up delicate
sprays of yellow-brown orchids from the Hot Country on the table in
some Scandinavian silver vases. At six o'clock, as I came home, the
volcanoes appeared like heaps of purest gold piled against the blackest
of clouds.
San Pedro y Pablo seems to be celebrated here by the giving of toy
pistols, and other noisy weapons, to children. There was more or less
"popping" going on all the morning. For some reason there is a legend
to the effect that the devil roams abroad on this day seeking whom he
may devour.
I thought of San Paolo Fuori le Muri and the celebrations in the great
Basilica, and the Roman world on its way out of the Porta San Paolo
past the pyramid of Caius Cestus and the grave of Keats.
_June 30th._
Your earthquake letter received. Remember, the Paris _Herald_ has to
live.
We see a good deal of the ambassador, and also of Dearing, clever and
courageous. When the ambassador will leave I don't know; but we do know
the greatest benefit a chief can confer on his first secretary.
Dearing is trying his hand at translating Mallarmé, and last night we
were turning the "_Frisson d'hiver_" round about, but we didn't do to
it what he did to "The Raven."
It begins: "_Cette pendule de Saxe qui retarde et sonne treize heures
parmi ses fleurs et ses dieux, à qui a-t-elle été?_"
We dine at the Austrian chargé's to-morrow. Everything always very
_soigné_. He has an Austrian cook, I believe, and a pleasant mania for
cleanliness. He will soon be leaving, as Baron Riedl from Rio Janeiro,
his cousin, is appointed minister here. You remember him and his
American wife from Rome.
I am sending a huge bundle of zarapes, dull blue and white, sewed up in
canvas--so nice for the garden, and for Elliott on his terrace.
VI
Speculations as to the wealth of "the Greatest
Mexican"--Fourth of July--Madero as evangelist--The German
minister's first official dinner with the Maderos as the
_clou_.
_July 1st._
There are great speculations as to Diaz's wealth, and millions are put
to his account with a light hand.[5] Some say he has twenty millions in
Spain, in Paris, in Wall Street. I am sure I hope he _has_ feathered
his nest--both he and Limantour. As I remarked before, the Romans
that made the roads probably did, but they made the roads. There is a
not-negligible quantity in Mexico, in abeyance for the moment, which
is very suspicious and uncertain, not of the honesty of Madero (all
parties allow that), but of his ability to handle the situation, which
demands civic talents of a high order.
President de la Barra has a pension plan which will doubtless give him
much trouble, as it will have to include all of Mexico, or those left
out will know why. As was observed by some one the other day, the more
the Mexicans try to change Mexico the more it remains the same thing.
Practically new electoral methods are to be tried out, and how Madero,
unless he has a secret _flair_ for civic matters, is to solve them is
what we are all waiting to see. The people's ears are full of promises.
The government would promise the snow of Popo--anything; but there is
a ditty being sung about town now that gives one food for thought:
_Poco trabajo_, Little work,
_Mucho dinero_, Much money,
_Pulque barato_, Cheap pulque,
_Viva Madero!_ Long live Madero!
It's a bit wabbly for founding a government on, but doubtless
represents very accurately the dreams of the _pelados_ (skinned ones),
as the peons are called.
You speak of the subscriptions for the earthquake relief here. It was
not a national disaster. National disasters take other forms in this
latitude. Scarcely a ripple is left, and as for the money to repair the
city and close the splits in the streets, the municipality gives that
and the contractors jump for joy.
I do not minimize the dangers here, but, of course, I don't draw
highly colored pictures, being sure of your interest in any statement
of facts, however plain they may be. I have rarely felt safer
anywhere than in Mexico City; certainly never more comfortable and
continually interested. We often walk home after dinners or bridge. The
clean-washed air is so refreshing after being in rooms, however large,
at this altitude. The gendarmes stand at every few crossings with
their lanterns. The streets are deserted, dry, and clean. There is no
_Nachtleben_. The program is here early to bed, early to rise, and the
thrice-blessed siesta to renew the day.
I am sending off a delightful book by Flandrau, _Viva Mexico_. It has
the real sparkle and "feel" of this magnetic land. How true a word he
spoke when he said, "One does not go to Latin-America just to see what
it is like, or because one has seen it before and chosen to return, but
because circumstances in their wonderfully lucid way have combined to
send one."
I have just had a letter from the King of Denmark. You know how
promptly he always answers, _la politesse des rois_. But the old
Copenhagen days with their blues and grays and Aryan ways of thought
and habits of life are immeasurably remote from these, not only
geographically and in time, but psychologically.
The other evening at the Arbeu Theater, where Virginia Fabregas, an
old favorite here, was playing, my eye was suddenly arrested by the
profiles as I looked from the box down a row of seats. They were so
diverse, so strange, like those one comes across on the ground floor
in the corner rooms of museums--Mongol, Indian, Aryan. There did not
seem to be any one type. It was just a patchwork loosely sewn together,
the bits coming out of unknown generations from the desires of the four
corners of the earth.
_July 3d._
The rainy season _bat son plein_. Immense quantities of water are
thrown down from the heavens between three and six every day, after
which it has always cleared, with the exception of that historic
evening when the mob was "out" to destroy the creator of its present
Mexico. How quickly republics, not alone this strange Indian republic,
put away their great! It is most discouraging to one desirous of
finding all good things in that form of government.
I have finished De Solis. Also I have "read" a grammar, and, of course,
there are the servants, instillers of that rather patchworky thing
called kitchen-Spanish, and there are the newspapers. A teacher is
coming next week. I haven't yet felt like mapping out any special plan
of study, being in readiness at certain hours, but am enjoying the
"simple life" thrown against this colorful background of a colorful
race in revolution.
Only two dinners this week, at the Brazilian chargé's, and on Sunday
the German minister gives his first dinner. He has taken a large
furnished house in the Calle Liverpool, very expensive and suitable,
as far as space goes, for a Legation. It belongs to a wealthy Mexican
who was seduced, however, by _art nouveau_. Large hat-racks and high
jardinières in the form of giant pansies in natural colors furnish the
great hall and testify to his ruin.
Von H. endeavored to strike some sort of average by hanging some
beautiful rugs from the square railing of the second story. His good
furniture from Europe arrived in such a state that he said nothing was
needed, as case after case was unpacked, but brooms to sweep out the
debris.
_July 4th, evening._
Our Fourth-of-July celebration took place at the Tivoli Eliseo in the
Puente de Alvarado, which is like any picnic ground anywhere (unless
you look up at the matchless sky). There was the usual accompaniment
of pink lemonade, peanuts (called _cacahuetes_ here), and brass bands.
There was a luncheon with speeches which would have stirred my national
soul more if I weren't still in a half-dream at finding myself in this
strange and gorgeous land. As I was leaving the festive scene word was
passed round that Madero was coming and would speak.
I stood on the outer fringe of the crowd, which I did not try to
penetrate, and found it most interesting to see, even at a distance,
the evangelist "evangelizing." Madero's face, so familiar in
photographs, and which seems featureless but for the broad forehead
and black, pointed beard, becomes illuminated as he speaks, and his
gestures are continuous, the voice soft, with a smooth flow of words. I
could not catch what he said, but I knew it was his work of hypnotizing
Mexico.
A more material diversion, N. told me, was created later by a
cock-fight, forbidden by the police, but secretly adored, which took
place in a little inclosure. There is no doubt about that animal
being in every sense the cock of the Mexican walk. He is the only
beast really cherished by them. He even shares the precious hat, and
his idiosyncrasies and caprices are tenderly studied. When he fights
little knives are tied onto his legs, which is why the sport, though
brilliant, is short as far as the cock is concerned.
I keep wondering how Madero can "divide up the great estates" and
deliver them to that unknown, and here even unlabeled, quantity, "the
people." According to the Plan de San Luis Potosí, it would seem as if
Mexico were a cake one had simply to cut into and then pass around the
slices.
There is an underlying excitement in the European contingent of the
Diplomatic Corps. The sending of the _Panther_ to Morocco looks like
one of those Franco-German incidents that we were familiar with when in
Berlin, and may lead to real difficulties.
_July 8th._
To-day what started out to be a little golfing lunch, gathered together
by N. in the sunny morning hours when it seems it will never rain
again, turned into a sort of _disputa_ about many things, within four
walls. A tremendous hailstorm came up and darkened and nipped the town,
so the "foursome" sat long talking, the water pouring from the roof.
Leclerq, Koch, and Nacho Amor are all cultivated, agreeable young men.
Amor was educated at Stonyhurst, and has the soft, pleasant voice and
delightful English of Mexicans who have passed young years in England.
As I write, near and very brilliant stars, under which I was not born,
are shining into the _patio_, and in a moment I must go and walk about
the inner veranda and look up into that dazzling bit of heaven in the
square frame of the house. If it were only not so far and unsharable
with my beloved ones!
_July 10th._
Last night the German minister gave his first big dinner, at which the
Maderos, making their début in official international life, were the
_clou_. We arrived as it was striking eight, but the Belgian minister,
whom we met going in, said they had already arrived.
I found the large room rather full, with a hitherto unsampled Mexican
contingent. Von H. was standing by the door, near the Maderos, and
we were presented almost immediately. Madero, seen at close range, is
small, dark, with nose somewhat flattened, expressive, rather prominent
eyes in shallow sockets, and forehead of the impractical shape. But
all is redeemed by expression playing like lightning over the sallow,
featureless face and his pleasant, ready smile.
[Illustration: VON HINTZE, GERMAN MINISTER TO MEXICO
(1911 to 1914)]
He speaks French and some English, preferring the former, but lapses
continually into Spanish, his ideas coming too fast for a foreign
medium, and he uses many gestures. There is something about him of
youth, of hopefulness and personal goodness; but I couldn't help
wondering, as I looked at him during the dinner, if he were going to
begin the national feast by slicing up the family cake.
Madame Madero might be a dark type of New England woman with a hint
of banked fires in her eyes. There is a sort of determination in the
cut of her face, which is rather worn, with an expression of dignity.
She, too, is small and thin, and was dressed in an ordinary high-necked
black-and-white gown, a narrow "pin stripe," with the most modest of
gold brooches holding the plain, high collar. She gives an impression
of valiance without any hint of worldliness, or desire for any kind of
flesh-pot. I pictured her at Chapultepec, and somehow could not fit her
in as châtelaine of that high-standing palace.
Of course all the other guests were in their best "bib and tucker." I
wore that "Spitzer" white satin with the floating scarlet and black
tulle draperies. It seems very magnificent here; but in Paris, at
Madame Porgès's great dinner, and at the Russian Embassy, the train did
not seem quite so long and slinky, nor the drapery so tight around the
ankles, as the dresses of the wonderful Frenchwomen.
As we went into the dining-room I saw, a mile off, the unmistakable
name O'S. by Madero's, and naturally thought it was for me. I sat down,
then had to take my appointed place quite a good deal higher up by the
Minister of Foreign Affairs. So disappointed. It was N., however, who
was to help him fill the "suburbs" of the table. Countess Massiglia
presided; on her right was the Minister of Foreign Affairs; then I
came; then an elaborately uniformed but, as far as I was concerned,
anonymous military gentleman whose card was under his napkin--which he
did not use.
The Maderos are reputed enormously wealthy; their wealth is mostly
invested in lands, however. I understand Madero spent all the available
family cash on the revolution, though he told N. last night that no
revolution had ever been carried through so cheaply from the standpoint
both of men and of money.
Von H. does things very well. The courses were accompanied by
wines of special, rare vintages, and his dinner was lavishly and
handsomely presented. He has the same majordomo that the Towers had in
Berlin--that huge, blond man (I forget his name). I asked him how he
liked Mexico; he permitted himself the hint of a sigh, and said it was
not Berlin, adding, "_Aber es giebt nichts zu machen_."
Madame Madero was placed between the Italian minister and the Austrian
chargé, our host having the wife of the Norwegian minister on his right
and Madame Romero on his left. N. said Madero was very militaristic,
considering he was come to bring peace, and somewhat suspicious of the
United States.
On the other side of Madero was that anomaly, a Mexican _vieille
fille_, whose name I did not get. I supposed she belonged to one of
the two or three elderly military men present. N. suggested to Madero
his falling in with the views of the United States in the regulating of
claims, and he said the following in French, "You Americans always act
on the presumption that we Mexicans are always in the wrong." N. said
this was _à propos_ of his remark, "Now, Mr. Madero, you are going to
be President, and I know when your government gets in you will clear up
all matters pending between the two countries, and let us begin with a
clean slate."
There had been some discussion among us all as to how Madero should
be seated at table. He was the undoubted next President, the leader
of the _Ejército Liberatado_, but actually at the moment he was
without official status of any kind, and could not be placed above
plenipotentiaries with their definite ranking.
Von H. cut the Gordian knot, rather informally, by putting him next N.
"so that they could have a talk," which they did!
Handsome young De Weede turned up yesterday, having made the ascent of
Orizaba, a great feat. He came down in a dreadfully burned condition,
however, and spent some days in bed attended by a physician. He is the
son of our friend, the Dutch minister in Vienna.
He returns there as first secretary with his father, regretting
Washington very much.
He had seen the Hitts in Guatemala, and showed me photographs he
had taken of their house with its lovely _patio_, fountained and
flower-planted. The roughly paved street gave the outside a desolate
look which it doubtless has not really got under that sky, as blue as
this. It was so nice to see De W. again, and the "welkin rang" with
reminiscences of the _Kaiserstadt_ and the happenings of our mutual
friends.
_July 12th._
Von H. has been criticized for having had Madero at a formal
dinner, where he could not have the first place at table, being the
_Liberatador_ and more than all the others put together. However, I
imagine it is those who were not at it who felt critical. I inclose the
menu. Apart from the _huachinango_, the wonderful Mexican redsnapper,
the fish that Indian runners used to bring up on their backs from
Vera Cruz for Montezuma's delectation, it might have been a handsomely
presented dinner anywhere in the world.
This morning I took De W. to the museum to look over the treasures,
pre- and post-Cortesiana. The building forms part of the Palacio
Nacional, some of which dates back to the great captain, and it was
the celebrated Casa del Estado during the viceregal period. The old
colonnaded _patio_ is a beautiful receptacle for a flooding sun, as
well as the altars and carvings of a bygone civilization. In the middle
are the Sacrificial Stone, and the great Calendar Stone, which has
contributed more than anything else to give the Aztecs their reputation
for scientific achievements. They adjusted their festivals by the
movements of the heavenly bodies, fixed the true length of the tropical
year, etc.
For some generations after the discovery of the Calendar Stone in
the subsoil of the Plaza it was cemented onto one of the towers of
the cathedral, and only in the eighties was removed to the museum.
The Piedra de Sacrificios is appalling when one thinks of its origin
and use; but with an extremely handsome young man leaning against it,
under that warm sun, in that mellow old courtyard, it was not, for the
moment, so dreadful to contemplate. Its true home was the top of the
great temple, and there Cortés found it.
During the siege of the city the conquerors, watching from afar,
are said to have sometimes seen their own captured comrades led up
the great stairway to the stone on which they were placed, their
chests opened with a special razor-like knife made of obsidian, the
palpitating heart torn out, held for an instant toward the sun, _this_
sun, and then flung at the feet of the god of war. Huitzilopochtli, the
aforesaid god, is a huge block of basalt, half man, half woman, who
was "born" just as one sees him now, with the addition of a spear in
the right hand, a shield in the left, and on his head a crest of green
plumes, going Minerva one better. Thousands were sacrificed to him
yearly under this wondrous sky, enfolded by this softly penetrating,
vivifying sun.
Afterward we went up and saw the "Maximiliana" for "Auld Lang Syne,"
not much nor very interesting--a huge amount of cristofle silverware
and the saddle used by the unfortunate emperor when he was captured
at Querétaro (May 15, 1867). The pictures of Maximilian, one on a
dashing white charger, show him a full-lipped, blond-bearded, blue-eyed
Austrian obviously unable to cope with the Mexican political situation.
Carlota, in pale blue and pearls, hangs by him. These portraits are by
Graefle, the Viennese court painter of the period. Napoleon the Third,
the cause of all their troubles, hangs near with Eugénie--a copy of the
Winterhalter portrait of her, I think.
We took a look at the relics of Juarez, the "man in the black coat," as
the only Mexican ruler that didn't wear uniform is called. The plainest
of civilian garb of the late sixties was in the _vitrine_, and near by
was the bed in which he actually managed to die. This last, as far as I
can see, is unique among Mexican relics, Mexican public men not having
the habit of dying in bed.
Dearing has gone away, on three months' leave, and N. is at his desk.
I must stop and take my baby on my lap. He has been standing by my
side, saying, "Dy will be done." He is being taught various prayers,
and repeats them on all occasions. He is waiting with a bit of
blotting-paper to blot my letter, which I am sure he will do, and wants
to know if you got the last thousand kisses.
_Evening._
These past two days I have lunched at Coyoacan. Yesterday at the
house of some American friends of the ambassador's--the Becks--who
are charmingly situated in a huge old house surrounded by a great,
tall-treed garden, and filled with lovely old things. Mr. Potter,
who is down here to watch over large interests of his own and other
people's, is most witty and entertaining, and with his friend, Mr.
Butler, went with us. The day before Mrs. Laughton, who had met De
Weede, asked us all for lunch at the Casa de Alvarado. I was glad
to show him some more "local color," and that beautiful old house is
simply oozing with it.
After lunch we went into the garden for our coffee, while Elim played
with Mrs. Laughton's two little children; but, even with young voices
sounding, a soft sun shining upon lovely flowers, and sipping coffee
under the pleasant shade of the rose-grown arbor, the garden is eery
and melancholy-inducing.
On our way back we stopped at the Zócalo, and went to the Academia San
Carlos, the national picture-gallery, _Academia de las Nobles Artes de
Mexico_, as it was called under the viceroys. It has a huge collection
of plaster casts which cost the king several hundred thousand _pesos_.
Do you see the "Laocoön," the "Apollo Belvedere," the "Young Hercules,"
etc., being brought up on Indian backs from Vera Cruz? The _patio_ and
corridors were full of scaffolding and plaster scrapings as we passed
in.
Humboldt speaks of seeing great halls lighted with Argand lamps,
evidently then the _dernier cri_ of illumination, and the Indian, the
Mestizo, and the son of the "grand seigneur" side by side, drawing and
modeling from the antique molds. Tolsa, the celebrated artist of the
"Iron Horse," taught here.
We took a glance only at some of the boresome, well-painted academic
modern canvases, which made us feel like dashing into the street to
get some _real_ pictures. The rooms where the early Mexican painters,
the Echave brothers, Cabrera, etc., hang were closed for repairs
or cleaning. Indeed, the whole place was at sixes and sevens, each
object plastered with from two to five numbers. As we had "met" most
of the casts in European museums, it didn't matter. We walked up the
gay Avenida San Francisco and stopped in at "El Globo," a café much
frequented from this hour on. On coming out De W. took photographs
of the Jockey Club, its blue and yellow tiles particularly brilliant
against some threatening rain-clouds, and some others of the charming
entrance to the old Church of San Francisco opposite; he said they
could be hung as "Sacred and Profane Love." We got back to Calle
Humboldt as the heavens opened and deluged the town.