sitting squatted on their heels, occasionally on a _petate_ made
from _tules_ (reeds), but they seem to prefer Mother Earth with their
children tumbling about. We got through the crowd to the door of the
church where clouds of incense, smoke from numberless candles held in
pious hands, and a persistent, almost visible, odor of Aztec, _la race
cuivrée_, further thickened the air.
No one noticed us. When you may have come fifty kilometers on foot to
worship a _Dios Todopoderoso_ a stranger or two doesn't count. They
were kneeling thickly pressed around the high altar, bending, with
their sombreros or their burdens laid in front of them, with their arms
extended, heads raised, a grave, strange-eyed race, at the oldest of
all occupations, communion with its Maker.
Peons almost never sing, but a wheezy organ was playing, and the
priest, whom I could just see, was giving the blessing after Mass.
The _Ite missa est_ did not, however, empty the church as it does the
temples of more sophisticated races, and it remained tightly packed.
There are some old pictures, De Soto told me, of authentic date of the
first period after the Conquest, but the church was somber, and they
were so darkened by time that one couldn't tell.
As for the Vírgen de los Remedios herself I could only dimly perceive
her over the heads of Indians kneeling before the little chapel of the
shrine, where a few bunches of red-berried branches mingled with the
paper and tinsel flowers. It is a small, wooden figure rudely carved,
holding an Infant Jesus. Tradition has it that on the several occasions
when it was decided to render it more artistic the artist appointed
straightway sickened and died. The figure is supposed to have belonged
to one of Cortés's captains, who brought it from Spain and who clung to
it through all the horrors and dangers of the "Melancholy Night." He
afterward placed it for safe-keeping in a huge maguey plant, where it
was found a generation later by a baptized Indian.
For centuries a great silver maguey, which Madame C. de la B. (also
that unflagging but amusing rejecter of all things Romish, R. A.
Wilson) spoke of seeing, was inclosed in her shrine.
At the time of the struggle for independence startling anecdotes
were recorded in connection with her. She was the patroness of the
Spaniards, who had her dressed in the full regimentals of a general,
in competition with the celebrated Virgin of Guadalupe, the great
patroness of independent Mexico and the Indians. The Mexicans defeated
the Spaniards at the battle of Las Cruces, 1810, and then the Virgin
was summarily stripped of her general's uniform, her sash and various
insignia being torn from her and her _passports_ given her--a touch of
the party spirit which continues to be the curse of Mexico.
The Virgin of the Remedies was, among other things, the great
rain-maker, and in the viceregal days was often carried in gorgeous
processions through the city (of course the naturally rainy months were
_tout indiqués_ for the procession). De Soto tells me there is still an
old proverb, _Hasta el agua nos debe venir de la Gachupina_.[12]
After the Laws of Reform were adopted the silver railing which
inclosed the altar, the great silver maguey, and all the treasures of
jewels and votive offerings, went into the national exchequer, with
the unfortunate result that now there is nothing in the church and
nothing in the treasury. The aforesaid Mr. Wilson, who demolishes every
Aztec dream of Prescott and almost routs Humboldt from the scene, was
particularly wrathy at the idea of the three petticoats she wore, one
embroidered in pearls, one in rubies, and one in diamonds.
Perhaps it was because he only found what he calls a "brand-new Paris
doll" when he was there in 1859, after the Laws of Reform.
I wanted to linger, but pangs of hunger, as well as great banks of
clouds, every possible shade of gray, rolling up high, with here
and there a patchwork of dazzling blue, reminded us that there are
various ways of getting rain. By the time we reached Calle Humboldt it
was nearly three o'clock, and as we lunched great cracks of thunder
sounded, the heavens opened, and then came the rattling of hail. I
thought with pity of the shelterless Indians on the hill, whose whole
life is some simple yet mysterious pilgrimage from the cradle to the
grave, and stupidly wished them all sorts of things they can't have.
_September 3d._
---- writes that everything on the Isthmus is a chaos or a drifting.
The government is so uncertain that nobody dares make any move _except_
the brigands and revolutionaries; and they, it would appear, are always
lively. Revolution comes easily in Mexico; it's done with a light
spontaneity, north, east, west, and south, that "gives to think." It
just bubbles up, now the "lid is off," inherent and artless, like any
other disquieting natural phenomenon.
The great thing to read is Madero's _Presidential Succession_. I have
been looking at it, expecting to be more interested than I am, but the
subject-matter, it seems to me, is only interesting because it applies
to Mexico. Otherwise it is a bit platitudinous--the kind of thing
that in all ages sincere demagogues have preached to the people. It
has, however, served to bring a sort of democratic party, a so-called
government by the people, into being, but any kind of liberal bird,
methinks, is apt to lose a few tail-feathers here.
_September 5th._
Waiting for Tuesday visitors. I tried the first and third Tuesdays,
but it was a bore remembering which, so I am at home every Tuesday.
Sometimes they are interesting, sometimes not, as is the way of "days."
_Later._
Mrs. Martin's English friend from Japan presented his letter this
afternoon. As De Soto and the newly appointed Mexican minister to
Vienna, Covarrubias, were here, and this latter was anxious to get a
lot of Vienna details, the elements were somewhat diverse.
A letter from Cal O'Laughlin tells us that Arthur Willert, of the
London _Times_, is on his way to Mexico to write up the situation
for his paper. He adds that people are beginning to regard affairs in
Mexico as little less serious than the Boxer outrages, and that a good
deal of apprehension is felt. He himself is off for a trip through
Canada to write up reciprocity as the Canadians look at it.
I am sending you a photograph of the "Man of the Hour." As you will
see, being photographed is not his "forte"; he sits wooden-faced in
a huge, carved armchair, with a copy of the Constitution in his hands
and the date 1857 picked out in shining white on the covers. He is now
in Yucatan, making one of his accustomed political _tournées_. He is
developing into a sort of "Reise-Kaiser." It is rumored that from the
state of sisal and henequen he will pick his running-mate.
Gen. Bernardo Reyes was stoned and robbed and mobbed when he attempted
to make a speech the other day, and things are pretty noisy. He
was rescued by the police from the infuriated mob with the greatest
difficulty. He had just resigned his commission in the army in order to
be ready to serve an evidently unwilling country as Chief Executive.
_September 12th, evening._
I sent you a rather hasty line this morning in commemoration of ----'s
birthday, the best and most faithful of friends for this life and the
next. I went to early Mass to San Lorenzo, in the old part of the town,
one of the ways of seeing Mexico City.
Indians were sweeping the Alameda as I passed through, with brooms
of dry bushes tied on to long sticks. A thin, pinky-white sun was
filtering through the lovely trees, and watering-carts were in
evidence, making rather scant tracings on the dusty, untrodden streets
of the night.
A little boy was drinking from a gutter, like some puppy--his morning
meal, I suppose. I do hope he took the pennies I gave him to some place
where he could fill his little "tummy." The population, Indian and
Mestizo only, up and about their tasks, were shivering a little in the
chilly morning. Long lines of _arrieros_, bringing their heavily laden
donkeys into town with the day's provision for _le ventre de Mexico_,
were prodding and exhorting their burros none too gently.
Priests introduced the donkey here in the sixteenth century, to relieve
the Indian of his burdens, and the poor beasts have had an awful time
ever since. The only live stock for whose comfort the Indians are
really solicitous is the fighting-cock. _He_ is fed, _he_ is housed,
and his vagaries and exigencies are tenderly followed.
Elim has just asked me, with a hopeful gleam in his young eye, what
"raining cats and dogs" means, a side-light on the afternoon weather.
The government would love to defer the elections for a while, but the
authorities don't dare not carry out the promised program.
To-day Arthur Willert, the very agreeable London _Times_ correspondent,
just arrived, lunched with us, and we got a view of Mexico from another
angle, and a lot of outside news. Evidently they are pessimistic in
Washington. He comes to tea to-morrow to meet the McLarens and Von
H., to whom he also has a letter. As Von H. is busy hunting down the
perpetrators of the Puebla outrage, with his own strength and time and
money, he does not see anything _couleur de rose_, and Willert will get
nothing cheerful from him.
Saturday we dined at the new British Legation, the first dinner Hohler
has given there. It is really quite lovely. A dado of Puebla tiles has
just been completed around the hall and stairway, and the large rooms
are sparingly and very decoratively arranged with H.'s good things,
pending the arrival from England of the government furnishings.
The new houses here are generally horrors; they don't even build them
with _patios_, and it seems criminal to shut out of daily life this
beauty of light and sky. Many of the new buildings are almost like
miniature New York tenements, with light-shafts only for some of the
rooms. My _patio_, with its square of heaven, is an abiding joy.
A cable came from Prince Festetics, whom we had congratulated on the
occasion of his new title. But it all seems a far dream of a far past.
Luncheon here yesterday--to the Horigutchis, the Norwegians, Mr.
Wilson, of course, and Mr. Bird from New York. Mr. Bird brought a
letter to us, and is down here in connection with a mining claim that
has been on the Embassy files for nearly twenty years to one of the
richest mines in Mexico. He is accompanied by a white-bearded, magnetic
old gentleman of some ninety years.
_September 13th._
Last night a huge banquet in honor of the ambassador given by the
leading male American citizens. The consuls all over Mexico sent
telegrams of congratulation, and Mr. Wilson made one of his accustomed
polished and trenchant speeches. Mr. Hudson's toast (he is the clever
editor of the _Mexican Herald_, that no breakfast is complete without)
was to "Mexico present and future." It was not more optimistic than
the occasion required, but certainly more so than the actual situation
warrants. He did touch on the most vital question, as to whether the
results of the election will be peaceably accepted by the people, and
hoped they would recognize the necessity of abiding by the result of
the polls next month. All sorts of political shades are appearing. It
isn't just one solid Madero color, as it was four months ago.
_September 15th, morning._
This is Independence Day here, and Heaven alone knows how Mexico
will celebrate it. To-night at the palace, which I have not yet seen
officially, is held the famous ceremony of the "Grito de Dolores."
_September 16th._
Everything quiet in Calle Humboldt. N. has gone to the Embassy for late
work, servants are invisible, the infant is in the "first sweet dreams
of night," and I can have an hour with you about the celebration last
night, which was most interesting.
I went rather _contre gré_. The heavens had been more than usually
lavish with their water-gifts during the afternoon, and the house was
damp and chilly. But I got into the black velvet with the gray and jet
design, so easy to don, as any black dress should be, and we were ready
when the ambassador came for us.
We passed through the brilliantly lighted and beflagged Avenida San
Francisco to the Zócalo, where an immense crowd was already assembling.
Mounted police were dashing to and fro as we passed under the "Puerta
de Honor," through which the _Corps Diplomatique_ enters on official
occasions. The huge bronze statue of Benito Juarez, still and shining,
caught the _patio_ lights. I suppose the real Benito was watching the
proceedings also from some angle, _up_ or _down_, I can't say.
We went up the broad stairway with the handsomest and reddest of
carpets, which Allart said had been bought for the _Centenario_
celebration. We entered the Sala de Espera at the top, where our
wraps were disposed of, under a huge allegorical picture of "La
Constitución." We then went through a series of really handsome
rooms in the sumptuous style; with their great proportions and high
ceilings they are most impressive. Everywhere are hung pictures of
their illustrious men, who mostly did not die in their beds--Hidalgo,
Morelos, Iturbide, Juarez, Diaz.
At one time I found myself in a huge room, and looking down upon me
was the delicate, ascetic face of Hidalgo--"other-worldliness" stamped
all over it. The scroll in his hand, proclaiming independence to
Mexico, the same kind, unfortunately, I should judge, that we were
there to celebrate, testified to the fires consuming him from the
earthly furnace of liberty and regeneration, in which he dreamed of
purifying his nation and his race. The pictures, however, are mostly
more remarkable for their size and the value of their frames than for
their artistic work.
We were received with dignity and ceremony by President de la Barra and
the members of his Cabinet. But Madero was the center of attraction as
he moved about with a dreamy, pleased expression, not unduly elated,
however. A sort of simplicity stamps all that he does. The women were
mostly in hats. Their afternoon costumes are apt to be the dressiest.
But the _Corps Diplomatique_ was _en grande toilette_. We had been
wondering, in absence of notification from the Foreign Office, what we
were to wear, but accepted Hohler's verdict that "after seven o'clock
you can't go wrong in evening togs."
As we strolled about the handsome rooms a life-size painting of the
German Emperor, given on I don't know what occasion, was the only
European sovereign we met. There are many fine Chinese vases. In the
red room, they told me, those supporting the candelabra had belonged
to Maximilian, but during viceregal days much very beautiful Chinese
porcelain found its way to Mexico from the East to the port of
Acapulco, and was brought up to the capital on the backs of Indian
runners.
Señor Calero, the very clever Minister of Justice, took me out to
supper. The table was high, and as we stood instead of sitting at our
destined places we were not too far from our plates.
Calero speaks unmistakable American-English extremely well, with
a slight Middle-West twang. He knows almost all the things we
Anglo-Saxons know, and some that we don't. Though still in deep
mourning, black studs, cuff-buttons, vest, etc., for his first wife,
he was accompanied by a pretty, shy bride of two weeks, who seemed
to be very pleased at finding herself standing just across the table
from him. I suppose there is some rule here about wearing black which
does not take into consideration possible early reblossomings. He
is extremely clever, and I fancy very ambitious. However, as honors,
wealth, and power are the natural objects of human life, why not?
The table was decorated with three splendid silver _épergnes_, and some
very large, fine fruit-dishes, all bearing the tragic and imperial
crest; though I understood from Allart that the plate used for the
service of the supper dated from Diaz's time, and was first used when
the famous Pan-American Congress met in Mexico City.
A blaze of light came from the great crystal chandeliers, and the walls
and windows were hung with crimson brocade. We went through a long
menu, with many courses and appropriate wines. I think no expense was
spared. De la B. is used to functions, anyway.
Of course, the great moment of the evening was the ringing of the
Independence Bell. The President stepped out on the little balcony
overlooking the Plaza, a few minutes before midnight, followed by
Madero, and voiced the celebrated cry, "_Libertad é Independencia_,"
while just above the balcony sounded the _Campana de la Independencia_,
which Hidalgo rang to call the patriots together in Dolores on the
night of September 15, 1810.
Then the great bells of the cathedral rang out, and cheers and cries
came from a crowd of about a hundred thousand people.
The President asked me to go out on the balcony; I was the only lady
of the American Embassy present, and I stood there for a few minutes
between him and Madero and looked down upon those thousands of upturned
faces. I felt the thrill of the crowd. Nameless emanations of their
strange psychology reached me. But also I was sad, thinking of the
impossible which has been promised them.
Madero was very silent, but his hands twitched nervously as he gazed
out over that human mass he had come to save. I felt how diverse our
thoughts as we stood looking down on the faces, on that forest of
peaked hats, on police riding down the little avenues which traced
themselves between the crowd. Everything was orderly. I think Gustave
Le Bon could have added another chapter to _La Psychologie des Foules_.
[12] We must get even the water from the Spanish woman.
X
The uncertainty of Spanish adverbs--Planchette and the destiny
of the state--Madame Bonilla's watery garden-party--De la
Barra's "moderation committee"--Madero's "reform platform"
_September 21st._
To-day we go for a farewell lunch at the Austrian chargé's, who is
leaving almost immediately. His cousin, the new Austrian minister,
Riedl von Riedenau, and his American wife, have arrived and are to have
his house.
I have been out very little lately--only to a dinner at Hohler's and
a luncheon at the Embassy. This is not a climate where foreigners can
put screws on themselves with impunity. The mornings are indescribably
clear-washed, brilliant, radiant, but the trouble about all this beauty
is that it is too high. Very few resist it _à la longue_.
I have been reading C. F. Lummis's _Spanish Pioneers_--a noble picture
of their romantic achievements. I am sending it. Please keep it with my
other Mexicana. I am also sending _Howard's End_, this last a history
of a life, to fill a dark afternoon.
I hear Elim, who is picking up a lot of Spanish, remonstrating with
Elena, saying, "_No mañana, orita!_"[13] His infant soul has perceived
the full significance of the fatal word _mañana_. _Orita_, I have
discovered, is also apt to be followed by a maddening wait; and, in
general, Spanish adverbs of time awaken uneasiness.
_September 23d._
Last night there was a big dinner at Von H.'s, at which I did the
_maîtresse de maison_. I wore the pastel-blue satin with the silver
embroidery and the dull-pink bows. I thought I had ruined it forever in
Vienna, at the French Embassy, when the French ambassador had his ball
of twenty couples only, for the Princesse de Parme, and I gaily swept
the floor with it during some hours. Gabrielle, however, who realizes
that the source of gowns is far, has resurrected it.
There was much talk of the great reliance Madero places on the spirits.
It is said that Madame M. goes into spiritualistic trances, and when in
that condition answers doubtful questions, and that the planchette is
fated to play a rôle in the destiny of the state.
However that may be, there is a most authentic story of Madero's having
consulted the spirits through the medium of the planchette some years
ago. When he asked what the future had in store for him he was told
that he would one day be President of Mexico. He is supposed to have
arranged his life in conformity to this prophecy, which put him in a
condition of mind where everything that happened of happy or unhappy
augury bore on the fulfilment of this destiny. It is certainly one way
of coercing fate.
There was an amusing but watery garden-party at Madame Bonilla's. We
found ourselves at one time sitting under a dripping arbor of white
musk-roses in a rain resembling a cloudburst. A large lizard fell from
the arbor on to the ambassador's head, and thence into my lap, and
various other zoölogical specimens were washed down from time to time.
The ambassador, immaculately garbed in newly arrived London clothes,
suggested, but rather feebly, the impossible feat of going home. After
everybody's clothes were spoiled, we made a two-hundred-yard dash to
the uninhabited, picturesque house, where it speedily got dark. There
were no means of lighting, of course, as the house had not been lived
in since the dear old candle days. The French minister, so handsome
and most carefully dressed in gray, was also perfectly miserable under
the arbor, with the elements at work, though he repeated at intervals,
"_Faisons bonne mine à mauvais temps_," and recklessly took what had
once been my black tulle hat, now turned into a formless thing of gummy
consistency, under his immaculate gray "wing."
The Latins in general, and the French in particular, don't care about
unsuccessful _al fresco_ entertainments. The volcanoes, as I stood
at one of the wide windows, showed themselves from time to time, in
strange rendings of the heavens by narrow threads of lightning, with
something frightening and portentous in the aspect of their red-brown
peaks. Above them were great, shifting masses of blue-black clouds.
Finally the violence of the storm passed and a chastened group of
picnickers groped their way down the broad old stairway into the little
_patio_, where the autos were waiting, and we were infolded in some of
those strange shadows that seem to creep up from the earth rather than
descend from the heavens.
I have a lovely photograph of the volcanoes, with a pine-tree in the
foreground, taken from the Bonillas' place. I am sending it.[14]
I have just come back from looking up at my starry square. Unknown
constellations are near, but you are far. Good night.
_September 25th._
We notice there is a coldness in Maderista quarters at any praise of
President de la B. He is too popular. He could unite in his person
too many factions, old and new. Even that invisible "smart set" might
re-emerge from Paris or the country. Up to now I have not laid eyes on
a member of what would be known in Vienna as the _erste Gesellschaft_,
with the exception of young Manuel Martínez del Campo, who began
his diplomatic career under Diaz and is now Third Introducer of
Ambassadors.
De la B. has appointed a "moderation committee." Its real use, when all
is boiled down, is, if possible, to prevent the various factions from
calling one another names, or even taking one another's lives. I say,
"God bless our home."
General Reyes is very strong in certain quarters. I liked his eyes,
shrewd yet kindly, and his firm hand-clasp, when I met him that time at
the British coronation housewarming. For some reason, outside the army
he is not popular. The "common people" (I don't know just what that
expression means here) don't like him. With postponement either he or
De la B. _might_ be elected, though De la B. reiterates that he does
not want it. Now the Madero tide is high, and will without doubt wash
him into the presidency.
_September 27th._
Elections in the land of revolution and maguey are to be held on
Sunday. Everybody is wondering how the people will stand the change
from the iron hand to _sufragio efectivo_.
Just back from lunch at the French Legation. Mr. Lefaivre is never so
happy as when he is offering hospitality. Their beautiful old silver is
out, the dining-room glistening with it, priceless dishes and platters
from Madame Lefaivre's family.