many valuable things then packed away have made their appearance since
the minister's return. Madame Lefaivre returns next month. The luncheon
was for Baron and Baroness Riedl, just arrived from Rio de Janeiro,
_via_ Paris. They will be a great addition to the "Cuerpo."
Baroness R. had on a dark-blue and white foulard, smacking of _La Ville
Lumière_, and a trim, black hat put on at the right angle. We had a
very pleasant lunch. It is always amusing to put new-comers wise to
the actual situation. Of course, the Simons and ourselves are almost
too bright for daily use. Rio is a place with many Austro-Hungarian
interests, but since the days of Maximilian there has been little
enthusiasm about Mexico in the Austro-Hungarian political breast. After
all these years, nearly half a century, there are under a thousand of
Riedl's nationals in the whole of Mexico.
To-morrow night, dinner at the Brazilian chargé's for the Riedls, and
as the other colleagues follow with affairs it will all mean quite a
little round of gaiety.
I must go to the station to meet dear Mrs. Wilson, who arrives on the
eight-o'clock train from Indianapolis, accompanied by her sister.
_September 30th._
Just returned from the Requiem Mass for the five hundred sailors
and officers of _La Liberté_. It was most impressive, with a great
Tricolore unfurled across the high altar. Nearly all the lost were
Bretons, and over a thousand widows and orphans are weeping. The Mass
was held in the Church of El Colegio de Niños, on one of the busiest
down-town corners, and which has survived many different tides of life.
It is now the "French" church, served by French clergy, and is clean
and orderly, but dismantled of beauty or treasures.
It dates from Fray Pedro de Gante, one of the greatest of the friars,
and I dare say was once full of beautiful things, now possessed or
scattered by tourists, or by various breeds of revolutionaries. Mexico
has been such a bottomless, inexhaustible source of treasures fashioned
by the genius of Spain.
The political outlook is still very uncertain. Madero, of course, for
President. The vice-presidency between de la Barra, who does not want
it, another man, Vasquez Gómez, who does want it, and Pino Suarez,
the obscure and evidently not over-popular Maderista candidate from
Yucatan. Personally I shall be most sorry to see the De la B.s go.
They are people of the world. De la B. is a trained diplomat, and these
months of his "Interinato"[15] have been a "finishing-school" indeed.
His father and mother were Chilians, afterward naturalized in Mexico.
Crowds parade the streets crying "_Pino-no-no-no!_" Why Madero
insists on that running-mate we don't understand. Pino Suarez was an
unknown editor of a Yucatan newspaper before fate beckoned to him,
making him first governor of Yucatan, and now pointing him on to the
vice-presidency.
Madero's party, with its banner cry, "_No reelección y sufragio
efectivo_," is called "Progressive Constitutional" (we couldn't do
better at home). His platform, if it will hold under the weight of
virtue and happiness it bears, is quite wonderful.
To begin with, it re-establishes the "dignity of the Constitution,"
and there is to be no re-election. The press is to have its antique
shackles struck off, pensions and indemnities for working-men are to be
introduced, and the railways are to be "Mexicanized," which will make
travel a bit uncertain for a while. Even the _jefes_ must go.
I couldn't explain, if I would, the real uses of the _jefe_. You have
to live in Mexico to understand even dimly his attributes. Madero, whom
no difficulties daunt, even tackles the vexed question of the Indians,
saying that he intends to show the same interest in their affairs as
in those pertaining to other shades of Mexicans, especially in those
of the Mayas and the Yaquis, whose tragic deportations in great groups
from hot climates to cold climates, and _vice versa_, have long been
a blot on the Mexican 'scutcheon. In fact, everything is to be made
over--the judiciary, the army. Foreign relations are to be founded on
brotherly love instead of interest; a fight is to be waged against
alcoholism and gambling; and there are many other reforms I don't
remember now. _Ojalá_, but it makes me sad!
[13] Not to-morrow, immediately.
[14] _Vide A Diplomat's Wife in Mexico._
[15] Interinato, _ad interim_ presidency.
XI
Election of Madero--The strange similarity between a Mexican
election and a Mexican revolution--The penetrating cold
in Mexican houses--Madame de la Barra's reception--The
_Volador_.
_Sunday evening, October 1st._
This morning we started out in good season for a Sabbath run, shaking
the election dust from our feet, or rather wheels, skimming out through
the shining city, which yesterday afternoon had had what may be its
last good bath till next June.
We went out the broad Tlalpan road, black with motors full of golfers,
and when we got to a place called Tepepa began the magic ascent of the
Ajusco hills between us and Cuernavaca, with a continual looking back.
For at our feet was spread the lovely "vale of Anahuac," like some
kingdom laid out in a great chart of emerald, turquoise, and jasper.
An unexpected rain-cloud was threatening from over the western hills,
and across the valley columns of light and shade continually passed
and repassed. Every dome and spire of the city shone, but the hill of
Chapultepec was black, distinct, and solitary, only the castle a white
point. At one moment we found ourselves hanging over the lovely lake of
Xochimilco, with its green, lush, sweet-water shores, and the verdant
band of the lake of Chalco showed itself separated from the barren
white _tequesquite_ shores of Lake Texcoco only by a narrow strip of
roadway.
The two Peñones and the hill of Guadalupe were sometimes dark and
sometimes shining, and a far-off fringe of sapphire hills marked the
valley's end. It was "Jerusalem the Golden," well worth sighing for.
At a place called Topilejo we found a church on a hillock by the side
of the road, its large atrium up a row of grassy steps, entered by
an old carved archway. Looking through it, we saw a strange sort of
festival going on, having a decided Moorish touch.
What seemed to be kings were seated in a row of rush-bottomed stools.
Gaudy crowns of gilded cardboard, or something stiff and glittering,
crowned them, and about them were flung twisted capes, like the Arab
burnoose, with the hood falling back. The play was proceeding _con
mucha calma_ except for a large Indian, evidently "stage manager," who
was trying to bring about some sort of dénouement. Behind was the open
church door. It was about twelve o'clock, and the last Mass had been
said. A melancholy chanting proceeded from some Indians, their hands
tied together, who stood in front of the "kings." It was all strange
and unexpected on those heights.
The village on the other side of the road was in the sneezing and
coughing throes of one of the bronchial epidemics so common in cold or
damp weather in the hills. The children were scarcely covered; I can't
bear to think of all the little brown backs and thighs in these cold
waves. A dreadful, unrestrained-appearing person, in a battered hat
and warm red zarape, looking as if he might have been the "father" of
the village, towered above them all, everything about him bespeaking
pulque. We decided that "song" was what he had given up.
Silent Indians, _carboneros_, inhabit these parts, and their fires
could be seen high up on the wooded mountainsides. They were coming
and going, bent, and almost hidden under great sacks of charcoal.
We sped on till we got to a place called La Cima, the highest point,
whence I wanted to make a dash for Cuernavaca, in spite of brigands,
but the gentlemen and the chauffeur decided against it. Here was a huge
stone cross, _La Cruz del Marqués_; solitary and moss-grown, it still
stands, marking the boundary of lands once granted to Cortés by the
crown, where he passed on the venturesome march to Mexico City from
Cuernavaca.
I indulged my passion for Cortés by walking around the historic cross
and picking an unfamiliar scarlet flower, while the men worried about
Zapata and his brigand host, to whom these hills belong in 1911.
After some parleying we turned back. But beyond the hills lay the Hot
Country, full to the south, its mysterious valleys filled with gorgeous
blossoms, where vanilla, myrtle, jalap, cocoa, and smilax grow. Four
hours down would have brought us into the fullness of its beauty, to
lovely Cuernavaca, once the haunt of kings and emperors, where Cortés
pondered on the insecurity of princely favor and planned his expedition
to the Mar del Sur.[16] Now it is the capital of Zapata, and shunned
since a few months by anybody with anything on his person or anything
negotiable in the shape of worldly station. A great bore. My sentiments
were all for pressing on with the added thrill of danger.
The roads here, with the history of Spain cut into them, and Indian
life flowing ceaselessly over them from sea to sea, from north to
south, are inexpressibly appealing. They are like a string, holding
the beads of Mexican life together, and what "a rosary of the road"
the glories and sorrows of their history would make! I don't feel the
literary call, however. My life is run in another mold. But I have
undergone a violent and probably permanent impression of this race,
this country--its past, its present, its uncertain future, and oh, its
beauty!
_October 3d._
You can't tell an election from a revolution here. It's all lively to
a degree. I have now seen both.
Madero has been duly elected, and the streets rang all night to
_vivas_ for him. Groups were passing continually up and down the
Paseo, spilling into Calle Humboldt. Many students were among them and
Latin-American youth seemed at its noisiest. There were some decided
expressions of other political opinions, voiced largely in the now
accustomed sound of _Pino-no-no-no_, but the Madero tide will doubtless
wash him into the vice-presidency. It's quite irresistible.
Madame de la B. was among my callers to-day, smiling and handsomely
gowned in a new French dress. Of course, she gave no hint of what
she thinks about the situation. She and her husband go abroad after
Madero's inauguration, now set for November 20th. The President is
finally to take the thanks of the Mexican government to the King of
Italy for the special mission sent to represent him at the _Centenario_
of 1910--which seems as remote as the landing of Cortés.
There is no provision for heating in any of the houses here. They tell
me that in December and January, if a _norte_ is blowing at Vera Cruz,
one is almost congealed in Mexico City.
Even now the late afternoons and evenings are cold, but there is a
glorious warm sun every day till the afternoon rains begin, and all
the Indians in the city, come out from _quién sabe_ where, are warming
and drying themselves on curb and bench and against sunny walls all
over town. I suppose it is the only moment of comfort they have. Often
now, instead of rain, there is the most gorgeous banking of heavy, dark
clouds, with hints of orange, red, and purple linings.
_October 5th._
Just returned from Madame de la B.'s reception. She does the "first
lady in the land" very well. The President came in later, to the sound
of the national anthem. He is of infinite tact in these strange days.
He was clad, as usual, in an immaculate gray frock-coat, and showed
no trace of the Procrustean bed he sleeps in. All his Cabinet were
there and the _Corps Diplomatique_, and several well-set-up competent
brothers, who, doubtless, will get some sort of foreign post. After
all, I am rather a believer in nepotism, not too exaggerated. But if
one does not do for one's own, who will?
De la Barra has been a sort of suspension-bridge between Diaz and
Madero, and that he and the republic are still "suspended" is testimony
indeed. The disbanding of the famous Liberating Army, financially and
morally, continues to be the great difficulty, as from it have sprung
all these flowers of banditry whose roots lie too deep, apparently, for
plucking.
I met, at the reception, Don Alberto García Granados, an elderly
man of long political experience, with a clever, perspicacious look,
accentuated by deep lines above the prominent brows, showing that his
eyes had often been raised in surprise or remonstrance. He is a great
friend of De la Barra, and resembles statesmen I have met in other
climes. He is now Minister of Gobernación (Interior).[17]
I had a luncheon to-day for Mrs. Wilson and her sister, Mrs. Collins,
who look very well together--handsome, slim-figured, small-footed,
carefully dressed women. The table was really charming, with heaps of
yellow chrysanthemums. The dining-room is sun-flooded, flower-vistaed
whichever way you look, and its pale-yellow walls, and good old pieces
of porcelain in handsome old cabinets, and fine old engravings on the
wall, all picked up as occasion offered by the Seegers during their
long Mexican years, take the light most charmingly.
Baroness Riedl, Madame Lie, Madame Chermont, and some American friends,
Mrs. McLaren, Mrs. Kilvert, and Mrs. Harwood made up the guests. There
are several menus that the cook produces very well, and Elena and
Cecilia serve quietly and quickly, in neat black dresses, white aprons,
cuffs, and collars.
Some vigilance is needed as to their collars. They loathe them in their
souls, being of the casual, rebozo race, after all, and though they bow
to this especial inevitable, I imagine it comes hard.
I don't often penetrate to the kitchen regions; I couldn't change
anything if I wanted to, and I am not endowed with culinary talents.
But I did see, as I passed through not long ago, fish being broiled
on the beloved _brasero_, which the cook was fanning with the beloved
turkey wing.
One can't change the washing processes, either. Some time ago Gabrielle
noted holes appearing in all our new linen. I told her to investigate
and let me know the result, which she did. I then ascended to the roof
from which all creation, lovely Mexican creation, is stretched out to
view, and the linen floats in the purest, bluest ether.
I found the two washerwomen sitting on their haunches, pounding and
rubbing the linen between stones. I let them know I thought washboards
were what the situation required, but no signs of enthusiasm were
visible. They told me, with an air of complete finality, _es el sol_
(it is the sun), when I pointed out various and obvious signs of
damage.
Just sent off an _Atlantic Monthly_ with a most interesting
contribution, "Within the Pale," by a young Russian Jewess, Mary Antin.
I haven't been seeing the _Atlantic_ for some years and I am glad they
keep their good old historic cover instead of allowing themselves to be
seduced by _art nouveau_, with the usual dreadful consequences.
Elim is climbing all over me as I write. He has been promised a cat
by the drug-store clerk, but, fortunately, there has been some hitch
in the proceedings. You know my feelings toward the felines. Elim can
fling the _quién sabes_ and the _mañanas_ with the best of them, and
evidently takes in Spanish through the pores; he is very little or not
at all with the Mexican servants.
He told me the other day that he could count better in Spanish than in
English, and when I asked him to show me he did very well up to four,
which he replaced by the word "pulque," getting quite argumentative.
I thought it worth while to investigate the intricacies of the infant
mind. I find four is simply the magic hour when the cook leans over
the railing and sings out "pulque" to call the expectant _concierge_
contingent upstairs, for its afternoon refreshment, as fixed as the
laws that govern the hours.
_Saturday noon._
Just home from the _volador_ (thieves' market), with "goods" upon me.
Toward the end of the week it gets increasingly aromatic, as it is
only swept and garnished Saturday afternoon, and it is traditional and
expedient for the foreigner to patronize it on the Sabbath rather than
other days. But having been to "La Joya," a very nice and expensive
antique-shop in the Avenida San Francisco, where I got a frame of
dark wood with ivory inlay, just the size for my Ravell photograph
of the Church at Guanajuato, also a love of a little tortoise-shell
_petaca_ (miniature valise) with silver clampings, I thought to strike
an average in prices at the _volador_, where the sun was shining
brilliantly on purely Indian commercial life.
The "commerce" consisted more than usual, it seemed to me, of the
refuse of ages, collected under irregular rows of booths, canvas- or
board-covered, or simply piled on spaces marked out on the uncomfortable,
hot cobblestones. It all covers what once was the site of the new
Palace of Montezuma, and is named _volador_ after a sort of Aztec
gymnastic game. For a long time it belonged to the heirs of Cortés,
from whom the city finally bought it, and it is close behind the
Palacio.
As I entered the gate there was the usual collection of Indians of
all sizes and colors, but with the same destinies. Many were passing
by with their _huacales_ (crates) filled with bananas and oranges and
various green things, for near by is the great fruit-market of the
city. Some women were selling long plaited strings of onions, and by
the gate was standing a superior-looking individual with a stick twice
as high as himself, on which were stuck white, pink, and blue toy
birds.
Instead of abandoning hope as one goes through these portals, one finds
oneself immensely expectant, one's eyes darting hither and thither in
search of treasure, the eternal something for nothing!
Mexico is called the land of the _sombrero_ (hat), but when I go to
the _volador_ I feel it should be called the land of the candlestick.
There are so many candlesticks in every variety of shape and kind, and
occasionally of great beauty.
[Illustration: ELIM O'SHAUGHNESSY, MEXICO, JUNE, 1911]
[Illustration: MADAME LEFAIVRE, WIFE OF THE FRENCH MINISTER TO MEXICO,
1911]
I was made "perfectly" happy by the discovery of two tiny bronze
_braseros_, somewhat in the form of Roman lamps--such as were filled
with coals and placed on tables to light cigarettes from in the
old days. I also got a large engraved pulque-glass, most lovely for
flowers.
At one booth an experienced _vendeuse_ pulled from her rebozoed bosom
a small velvet case, containing a brooch of flat, uncut diamonds;
but as, at the same time, I distinctly saw spring from that abode of
treasure a very large specimen of the flea family, I came home without
investigating further.
I have some beautiful books on Mexico which have been given me by
various people--mostly large, heavy books,--Lumholz's _Unknown Mexico_,
and Starr's _Indian Mexico_ are the last,--or I would send them, that
you might share more completely my Mexican _étape_. It has been a
strange summer, taking it all in all.
Madero probably comes in on the 10th of November. It makes one's head
swim to think of the mighty changes that are taking place all over the
world. Haughty old China a republic!--and Mexico to be governed solely
by brotherly love! And a free press and nobody to desire to continue in
office! In other words, _all_ to resign and many to die.
In church to-day the beautiful blue bag you gave me was stolen. I
remember two women in deep mourning, black rebozos twisted about their
heads, kneeling devoutly in the pew just behind me. The theft must have
occurred at the moment of the "elevation," because when I rose from my
knees both the bag and the black-robed devotees had disappeared. I had,
fortunately, just left the Louis XV. watch at the jewelers', or that,
too, would have gone.
Madame Lefaivre returned several days ago after a _mouvementé_ trip, as
the _Espagne_ went on the rocks at Santander. Mr. Seeger gave a little
_déjeuner_ for her at the Auto Club. The day was heavenly, and the sky
as clean as if it had been pounded between the stones the washerwomen
use on my roof. Everything was at its greenest.
After the season of rains the flowers, the grass, the trees, emerge
as if new-born. I felt, sitting on the terrace of the club, on the
border of the little artificial lake, as if I were in a loge at the
theater, as if the scene might at any moment be shifted, the black
and white swans be removed, the water turned off, ourselves go off the
stage, leaving only the changeless background of beautiful hills and
diamond-powdered volcanoes.
I like Madame Lefaivre so much, _très dame du monde_. The usual
banalities of the _carrière_ having gone through with, I feel sure
we'll soon begin the regular business of friendship. She had on
a pale-gray dress, which toned in with her gray hair and fresh
complexion. She and Mr. Lefaivre were engaged for nearly fifteen years
before life cleared itself sufficiently of obstacles, of one kind or
another, for them to marry.
De la Barra sails the 23d of next month for Italy. I think it
illustrative of his tact and good will to subtract himself completely
from the very complicated situation, and to let his intention be known
beforehand and reckoned with. Madame de la B. receives for the last
time on Thursday next. In the evening there is a dinner at the Embassy,
and on Saturday the German minister gives one of his big dinners.
This seems all very simple, even banal, but few things are simple and
nothing banal when played out against a Mexican background.
_October 29th._
The political mills here are grinding fast, and not particularly fine.
The Minister of War has been impeached, and President de la B. is
resigning, not even waiting till the legal term of office (November
30th) expires.
Nightly, crowds continue to parade the streets, singing,
"Pino-no-no-no," though "Pino" has been duly elected Vice-President
according to the "angelical returns from that temple of liberty and
love, the polling-box," as one of the unconvinced deputies called the
process.
Zapata has been at the gates of the city and, with eight hundred men,
allowed to pillage near-by towns.
Indeed, there has been a public outcry against the suspicious vitality
of the Zapata movement. There are those who say that the "Attila of
the South" and the President-elect are _muy amigo_, and that if that
General Huerta I wrote of had a really free hand he would, with his
energetic methods, have long since solved that special problem.
The Minister of War, Gonzalez Salas, has stirred up a hornet's nest
by saying that in three days after becoming President Madero would
strangle the Zapata movement. Of course the clever deputies--and there
are many of them--are clamoring to know what is the divine word, the
_sesamo supremo_, that he can pronounce to suddenly put an end to
the horrors of banditry, and if there is such a word, why it wasn't
pronounced earlier.
The inauguration is now set for the 6th. It has been whispered that it
wouldn't be wise to wait. One of the deputies, in his harangue against
Zapata and the possible high protection he enjoys, winds up a decidedly
disenchanted speech, as far as Madero is concerned, by crying,
"Robespierre" (meaning the "Apostle"), "remember that Danton also was
popular!" Maderistas and Pinistas, Reyistas, Vazquistas, Zapatistas say
what they like about one another, and it certainly gives the foreigner
an idea of the riches of Spanish epithet.
Those two children of democracy, "freedom of the press" and "no
re-election," have seen the light of day with infinite difficulty in
various parts of South America. To be present at their first struggling
breaths in Mexico is most instructing. I must say they seem to be
babies of the noisy, wakeful sort, and don't care who or what they
disturb.
A diplomatic dinner is announced at the Foreign Office for Sunday, the
fifth of November.