and wettest hour. Such an unexpected pleasure! There are not many
Americans to visit Mexico this summer. All the people who used to
come in their private cars and bring a note of home and gaiety are
conspicuous by their absence. There is no way of heating the houses,
and sometimes during the rainy hours there is a cold dampness which
is very penetrating. Stirring the embers of old acquaintance and
talking of "home" happenings was a very pleasant way of alleviating the
temperature this afternoon.
_July 17th._
Don't fear that I shall do anything rash about going to Tehuantepec in
the present state of things. I have even given up the trip to Puebla.
They are fighting and killing there again, and in Calle Humboldt they
are not.
Notwithstanding the press, which has its liberties and the smiles
of the government, things are not really very stable. Aunt L. writes
that San Gerónimo has been filled to overflowing with refugees from
Juchitan, the county-seat, twelve miles away. The feeling there between
the Maderistas and Porfiristas is very bitter, and has just culminated
in an uprising of the Indians against the new Federal authorities,
who had to fly for their lives from a howling mob of two thousand
Indians armed with rifles, clubs, and machetes. The Federal General
Merodia made no resistance, but came with the civil authorities of the
government to San Gerónimo, giving the mob no excuse for sacking and
robbing Juchitan. Every house in San G. is full, and furniture piled
in the street. It seems to me no one but the Mexicans will be surprised
that the overthrow of Diaz has not brought about the millennium.
De Weede,[6] who departs this evening for Vienna _via_ the Grand Cañon
and the Yellowstone Park, has just been squeezed into N.'s frock-coat
and top-hat (not carrying such _impedimenta_ himself) to call on the
President. The Dutch minister lives in Washington.
General Crozier comes for dinner on Wednesday. We have just lunched
at Stalewski's (the Russian minister's), and he served the delicious
_blinis_ with caviar that all expect when lunching there. He often
takes remote journeys into the interior, coming back with a silver
ingot and curious bits of carving. The diplomatic species always
dream dreams, and his is to tread again the streets of Berne. In the
evening Captain Sturtevant, our military attaché, gives a dinner at the
American Club for General Crozier.
_Later._
I have spent a last delightful evening with Prescott, and Humboldt is
waiting in five attractive, clearly printed old volumes, Paris, 1811,
that Mr. de S. brought me yesterday. Now, just a century after, I am to
turn the pages. I have also some volumes of Alaman, who brings things
down to 1846.
I forgot to speak about my Spanish teacher, with whom I have been
studying as well as "Castellano." Her mind is about as mobile and
receptive as a tin saucepan upside down, and she is always late.
Sometimes her watch stops, sometimes the tramcar won't stop, sometimes
she forgets her purse or her keys, and has to go back, etc.
She is still young, heavily powdered, insistently perfumed, big-busted,
tightly laced, tightly skirted, and keeps a very short foot in a tight,
high-heeled slipper in front of her. She hates the sun, as I discovered
when I tried to have the first lessons in the sunny corridor.
This morning she told me in a lackadaisical, dreamy way that the noise
of the typewriter (she has some sort of afternoon office work, for
which she is doubtless totally unfitted) was not good for her; that
she had been thinking over things, and had concluded that, if I would
arrange it, introducer of foreign ladies to the President's wife was
what she was fitted for. She said I probably did not realize what
temptations the _despacho_ office offered.
I dare say she has met a few devils in her day. She wound up by saying
that the society of ladies would be less of a strain. It was all done
quietly; she has evidently dreamed dreams. She did not streak her face
when she wept, dabbing her large black eyes carefully with a coarse
lace handkerchief drenched with cheap scent. I explained as gently as I
could that the position she was thinking of was filled by the _chef du
protocole_. Though, without doubt, her life is completely commonplace,
she gave me the feeling of really not understanding anything at all
about her, and that is one of the charms of Mexico. An illusion of
elusiveness is continually presented that keeps one on the chase for
the pleasure of the chase. You never get anything or anywhere, but your
interest is kept up--which, after all, is the great thing.
[5] This was a time-honored calumny told to all new-comers
in Mexico, and believed by many chiefly because it would have
been so easy for Don Porfirio to enrich himself to any extent
he pleased. The facts are that his ambitions lay rather in the
direction of power for himself and peace and progress for his
country than in that of the amassing of riches. He was a man
of the simplest personal habits, though he always maintained
a state dignified and befitting his high office.
During his years of exile he and his beautiful wife lived
in the quietest manner on an income sufficient only for the
ordinary comforts of life. The last will and testament of "the
Greatest Mexican" further proved that he could be called to no
such accounting by the Final Judge.
As for Señor Limantour, he inherited a large fortune from his
father, principally in real estate, that increased in value
during those years of prosperity which his long and able
administration of the finances of Mexico did so much to bring
about.
[6] In the autumn of 1911 Maurice de Weede was accidentally
killed at a shooting-party in Austria.
VII
The old monastery of Tepozotlan--Lively times on the
Isthmus--The Covadonga murders--The Chapultepec
reception--Sidelights on Mexican housekeeping--Monte de
Piedad
_July 21st._
Yesterday General Crozier, Mr. de Soto, and myself motored out to the
old church and monastery of Tepozotlan. The morning was indescribably
white, with a dash of diamond-powder on its lovely face, and from the
very door every turn of the wheel took us over historic ground.
We turned down the celebrated Puente de Alvarado, where the dashing
captain for whom it is named is supposed to have made his great leap
on July 1st, the date of the retreat of the _Noche Triste_, when the
Spaniards were fighting their way out of this same road, the Tacuba
causeway, to the hill where the Church of the Virgin of the Remedies
stands. We passed the famous _Noche Triste_ tree, which those who live
here view with composure and indifference, but which still excites the
new-comer. And what's the use of an imagination if one can't be stirred
by the picture of Cortés sitting under the great cypress and weeping
as he took note of gap after gap in the ranks of the companions of his
great adventure?
There is an old romantic verse that I picked out the other day, instead
of preparing verbs, picturing Cortés sitting under the great tree, one
hand against his cheek, the other at his side:
_En Tacuba está Cortés
Con su escuadron esforzado.
Triste estaba y muy penoso,
Triste y con grande cuidado,
Una mano en la mejilla
Y la otra en el costado_, etc.
In Tacuba was Cortés
With his most valiant squadron.
Very sad and much distressed,
Very sad and greatly anxious,
One hand against his cheek
The other at his side.
As we got out of the city a white sun, the glory of these windless
mornings of the rainy season, was shining on what seemed a world of
crystal objects set in blue and green and lilac. I was so proud of
my Mexico that the general said I acted as if I had "taken over" the
country. The little grayish, yellowish adobe huts reminded him of
Chinese vistas in color and outline; but to me it was Mexico only,
unique, endlessly beautiful.
The road was once the great highway to the north; but the deep ruts,
almost morasses, made us suspect that many a _jefe político_ has sent
his wife to Paris or gone there himself instead of repairing it. All
along were milestones bearing half-obliterated inscriptions and arms
of forgotten viceroys, who used to keep the road up for the crown or
themselves--rather a contrast to the deep ruts of the now neglected
highway. Since the railway was built even Cuautitlan, the once famous
_primera posta_ from Mexico City to the north, has been abandoned, and
our motor was the only vehicle in the broad, deserted streets, which,
however, filled with Indians, as if by magic, at the sound of our horn.
For nearly an hour we could see the delicate belfry of Tepozotlan
flattened against a gray-green background of hill, while the sun
was touching everything near us with a sort of white incandescence,
the maguey-fields seeming like rows of stacked silver spears. One
thing about the Mexican vistas--they do not lose their charm as you
approach; and as we got into the square of the little village we found
a beautiful old church, inclosed with its _patio_ by a luscious pink,
low-scalloped wall. These _patios_ are a feature of every old Spanish
church. The friars used them as school-rooms, as courts of judgment, as
medical dispensaries. Indeed, all that had to do with the temporal and
spiritual needs of the Indians was transacted in them.
The Tepozotlan _patio_ is grass-grown, shaded with pepper and palm
trees, paved with sunken grave-slabs, bits of cactus growing about
them, and there is a lovely cypress alley leading to the door of
the small _parroquía_. From this we passed into the great church,
built with the adjoining seminary by the Jesuits toward the end of
the sixteenth century, and restored nearly a hundred years ago, in
Iturbide's time. As reminder of his brief imperial career we found the
Mexican eagle painted in profile on the old wooden benches.
The church is a triumph of the Churrigueresque school (I have learned
to spell this word, but never, never, will it casually trip from my
tongue). The vault is simply a madness of gilt carving, and there
is a beautiful high altar and many side altars of the richest and
most varied designs, all the gold having a lovely reddish patine.
We investigated the organ loft, but found only a broken organ with
yellowing ivory stops and keys, and a few dusty missals with all the
engravings and title-pages gone.
The general is not ecclesiastically inclined, and the visit to the
old monastery, so bare, so stripped of all belongings, was most
cursory. We soon betook ourselves to the cypress alley and the warm
sun outside, lunching in the auto in the village square, with children
and old women clustering about and waiting for the crumbs from the
banquet. The latter was somewhat marred for us by the discovery that
the mineral-water opener had been forgotten. The motor was drawn up
near a little pink-and-blue pulque-shop called _El Recreo del Antiguo
Gato_,[7] but it contained no help for us; neither did a search at a
still smaller one rejoicing in the name of _El Templo de Venus_,[8]
on the other side of the Plaza, prove successful. However, the general
pointed out hopefully that it would soon begin to rain.
On the way back we did get caught in one of the usual infant
cloudbursts, which left the difficult roads of the morning almost
impassable, and several times we had to get squads of Indians, who rose
up apparently from the solid earth, to help pull the car out of various
huge morasses. I thought at one time we could not get back for the
dinner I was giving for General C.; but having the guest of honor with
me, I felt fairly philosophic.
The ditches in some places were thickly carpeted with a long-stemmed,
yellow, lily-like flower, and though warned that nobody would pick me
out if I slipped into the black water underneath, I gathered great,
heavy scented bunches, while the gentlemen and the Indians wrestled
with the conveyance. Mr. de S. said the unfailing remark on the part
of the Indians was, "_No quiere andar_" ("It does not wish to go")--a
favorite and sometimes final phrase here about machinery that is out of
order.
_Later._
There have been lively times on the Isthmus. The former Federals
against Maderistas. Aunt L.'s big house has been taken by the
government for a hospital. A cruel uncertainty about affairs Mexican
presses heavily everywhere.
The dinner for General C., after the long day at Tepozotlan, went off
very pleasantly. He says he is here only _en touriste_, but he has
the recording eye. The German minister returned from investigating the
horrid Covadonga murders just in time to get into his evening things.
Dearing, De Soto, Sturtevant, Mr. and Mrs. McLaren, _et al._, made
up the dinner guests. The McL.'s are strong supporters of the Madero
movement, and hope more than it seems reasonable to hope from such a
movement in such a country.
Von H. is up to his eyes in the complications of the Covadonga murders
where four Germans, one of them the wife of a manufacturer, were
literally hacked to death in their factory. They were caught in a large
room with one frightened Spaniard, the others having fought and shot
their way out. Sixty-eight in all were killed and some two hundred
wounded, nearly all Spaniards. Whether this is to be laid at the doors
of the "Liberating Army" or is simply a little independent fling of a
bandit chief called Zapata is not yet known.
Von H. has sent out a circular to his nationals, urging caution. He
intends to bring the guilty ones to justice himself if the government
does not; there was a light in his eye as he announced it, and a click
of the teeth.
[Illustration: MEXICAN WOMEN WATER-CARRIERS
Photograph by Ravell]
Emilio Madero, brother of Madero, is chief of the also troubled zone
of Torreon. Circulars are being distributed by his orders begging
the people to respect foreign lives and property, and explaining the
necessity of the continuance of foreign capital, intelligence, and
method in the country. They also state that any one voicing sentiments
hostile to Spaniards, or other foreigners, Americans included, will
find no place in the _Ejército Libertador_ (Liberating Army).
The servants seem such nice human beings. All their defects are small,
and they are so honest. I feel myself more and more fortunate to have
got this nice, practical arrangement with the _je ne sais quoi_ of
culture and breeding added.
The whole machinery runs comfortably, economically, and agreeably. I
never scorn the _pesos_, or even the _centavitos_ they return to me
from the kitchen when we have been out, or things were _less_ expensive
than they expected in the market. Is it not all of a touching honesty?
Some grim fatality attended my first waving back of the _centavitos_
with a grand air. Either the bells were not answered, the food was
not carefully prepared, the dinner was late, or some such thing. Now
I accept the _centavitos_ and life takes its normally smooth course.
I had been warned not to refuse these offerings of simple hearts; and
these same fatalities were foretold me by others more experienced in
Mexican domestic psychology than I.
_July 27th._
Home from another reception at Chapultepec. I always enjoy them, the
setting is so perfect and the elements so diverse. The iron circle
is not as tight as formerly, and this afternoon a sunset so gorgeous
was going on that it made us all ashamed to sit between four mere
brocade-covered walls, so there was much walking about the terraces.
There is a single great pine growing near the castle, where you look
over the terrace toward the volcanoes, like the umbrella pines of
the Borghese Gardens. It was black to-day with scallopings of bronze
against the sky, and as I stood there, looking at the beauty of it all,
talking with one of the President's handsome brothers (the one that is
shortly going on a financial mission to London), I realized, suddenly,
the obvious and persistent compensations of life.
Afterward we went down the little winding stairway leading from _la
vitrina_, the glass-inclosed balcony looking over the side toward the
city, to the large east terrace, where an elaborate and abundant tea
was served at small tables. Hohler took me down. I felt quite mellowed
by all the beauty, and he, in spite of a certain matter-of-factness, is
always appreciative. There is generally among the _Corps Diplomatique_
a note of _nil admirari_. Mostly they _have_ seen a lot, and it's in
the note not to show surprise; but no one could look without a stirring
of the soul on the marvelous vistas from the terraces.
Hohler was about to set out on one of his periodical journeys when
he uses "wheeled things," as Belloc expresses it,[9] as little as
possible, and he showed me a tiny edition of Ovid, _ars amatoria_, that
he was taking with him.
A long letter came from General Crozier this morning, from Puebla. He
had found Madero at Tehuacan, and had had an interesting hour with him.
The day before he had had an interview with the Minister of War, who
sent an officer with him to visit various military establishments, the
college at Chapultepec, the cartridge-factory at Molino del Rey, the
powder-factory at Santa Fé, etc.
What he thought of it all I know not; he is one of the discreetest of
mortals. He says he is taking a regretful departure from Mexico, where
he found so much of interest and friendly courtesy. Certainly good
wishes and regrets follow him.
_July 28th, afternoon._
The Agadir incident bids fair to become more than an incident. Asquith
has just said that England, to the last man, the last ship, the last
shilling, will stand by France. We won't talk of the little panthers
to-night at dinner.
As I was walking home from the Embassy this morning I found myself
wedged in by some motors, near the trolley line, and had to wait, while
a black funeral car, familiar but unhygienic, passed under my nose.
The plain coffins, with or without palls (this had none), are placed in
an open, sideless tramcar, sometimes with flowers, sometimes without.
They have to pass the broad Avenida de los Insurgentes to get out to
the Panteon de Dolores, the big, modern cemetery behind Chapultepec
hill. There are agitations, from time to time, to prevent the carrying
of these obviously not hermetically sealed coffins through the city,
scattering germs and odors of mortality. Foreigners generally turn
their heads and try not to breathe; but the Mexicans take off their
hats and make the sign of the cross.
_July 29th._
I have spent several afternoons with Humboldt, quite intimately and
cozily, to the sound of heavy water falling from the roof, and the room
so darkened by the deluge that I have had my lights turned on. He says
that Peñon I wrote of will, one day, destroy Mexico City. Will it be
_Anno Domini_ 1911? I envy him his beautiful gift of accurate seeing.
None of the marvels of Nature, none of her vagaries, showed themselves
to him in vain; and he is astonishingly up to date.
I have begun to prowl about for "antiques." No one escapes the fever,
and in its delirium I wandered this morning to the Monte de Piedad,[10]
which is housed in an ancient building facing the cathedral. An old
tablet over the door records that it was founded in 1775 by Terreros,
Conde de Regla, one of the most romantic figures of the eighteenth
century, as, by a lucky chance, he became the owner of the Real del
Monte mines at Pachuca.
Among the people he was the subject of as many fables as Crœsus.
When his children were baptized the procession walked upon bars of
silver, and when he was made Conde de Regla he invited the King of
Spain to visit his mine, assuring him that if he did so his feet should
never touch the earth.
The Monte de Piedad was founded for the purpose of keeping the poor
out of the clutches of the usurers. Going in on the ground floor,
directly from the street, I found myself in a crowd of elbowing people
of all classes, leaning over glass-inclosed show-cases, where jewels
and silver and small objects of value are exposed. In the large space
immediately back are samples of everything used by man except things
that need to be fed.
After having fingered the greatest number of objects that, in my right
mind, I would have no possible use for, I concentrated my energies on
a pearl pin, the pearl really visible to the naked eye, and bought it
for thirty dollars; but I expended more than thirty dollars' worth of
time and energy, even as those things go here. It's a scarf-pin and,
somehow, in its old, brilliant setting, it seemed to try to tell a
tale. Perhaps it had held some viceroy's lace? I will send it to you
for St. Augustine's Day.
[7] Recreation-ground of the Ancient Cat.
[8] The temple of Venus.
[9] _The Road to Rome_, Hilaire Belloc.
[10] National Pawn-shop.
VIII
Elim's fourth birthday party--Haggling over the prices of old
Mexican frames--Zapata looms up--First glimpse of General
Huerta--Romantic mining history of Mexico.
_August 3d._
Again it is the blessed anniversary. It seems but a moment of time
since my arms received my son. He asked me, the first thing this
morning, at what time he would be four years old. When I told him
it had already happened he set up a dreadful howl. It appears he had
expected to feel himself becoming four, as he informed me when he got
his breath. I only send this line to you on this, his fourth mark on
the shores of life. Now I must be up and doing. The sun is flooding the
_patio_.
_Later._
His birthday party was sweet, but I was deathly homesick for you, when
kind and friendly strangers came, bringing their gifts and good wishes.
He had his cake, and the four candles for the years he had blessed
my life. The two little Japanese, Madame Chermont's little boy, the
two handsome children of the Casa Alvarado, the little Simon boy (too
sweet, with his dark curls and big eyes), Dearing, Arnold, and Palmer,
from the Embassy, came.
Von Hintze, who loves little children, dropped in late with a book of
fairy tales. Mrs. Laughton brought Æsop's Fables, not many pictures
in it, and as Elim opened it at a printed page he said, with shining
eyes, "_Endlich habe ich ein Lesebuch_." He has spent a good deal of
time, since, holding it upside down and asking not to be disturbed
while reading. He and Jom Chermont had a clash of arms, and Bobo, the
two-year-old little Jap, ran the whole show with singular competence.
An invading nostalgia possessed me all the afternoon, and I kept
thinking of the beautiful word the Portuguese chargé, De Lima, taught
me a few days ago at dinner--"_saudades_," meaning memory of dear
and early scenes, or of loved ones, or of all these things together.
I presented my son with two tortoises and a little green bird, a
_clarine_, which can be kept on the oleander terrace, though he had
asked for a monkey and a crocodile.
I see that Abbey is dead. The wonder of those reds of the "Parsifal"
frieze in the Boston Library has followed me for years. _Tout a une
fin_, but when an artist dies there is a double end. I have just come
across most beautiful photographs of Mexico--gum-prints and callotypes,
after some special process by an artist named Ravell, who has a
remarkable eye for this beauty and evidently a soul to receive it.
_August 8th._
To-day was my usual Tuesday at home. Elim, in spotless white, played
quietly under the tea-table most of the time with his little legs
sticking out. Torrents of rain, and only a few callers, among them the
German Consul-General, Rieloff, very musical, asking us for dinner,
and Mrs. Cummings, handsome, competent, and warm-hearted, the wife of
the head of the cable company, and a friend of Aunt Laura's since many
years.