house is on another sand-ridge. After a last pleasant chat about our
affairs, their affairs, and Mexican affairs we departed for our train
in a great darkness that the stars made no impression on, the wind
still tearing down the sandy streets. I was sorry not to visit the
breakwaters--_rompeolas_, they call them--but would probably have been
blown overboard.
From the veranda I could see ships that had come from Morning Lands,
riding at anchor, and later the sun went down in quiet majesty over
the great, flat waters of the Pacific. I was so near the Atlantic that
I thought of Humboldt's expression of "tearing the Isthmus apart, as
the pillars of Hercules had been torn in some great act of nature,"
and Revillagigedo's[29] dream of a canal joining the Atlantic to the
Pacific.
Mr. Buchanan said the first authentic mention of the Isthmus was in
a conversation between Montezuma and Cortés, as to the source of the
quantities of gold the Spaniards saw. Cortés, who was of an inquiring
turn of mind at any mention of the shining stuff, sent Pizarro, and
then Diego de Ordaz (he who tried to ascend Popocatepetl, and got a
volcano added to his crest), to investigate, coming here himself after
the rebuilding of Mexico City, _en route_ to Honduras. He received
a grant of the whole territory round about--"Las Marquesadas," as
they are still called, after his title, _Marqués del Valle de Oaxaca_
(Marquis of the Valley of Oaxaca).
This morning there is still a great rattling of the windows and the
doors, but not a sign of gnat or mosquito. I must arise and further
investigate isthmian life. The _huacamaia_ in the fig-tree has been
making himself heard since dawn. I knew that if I did not tell you of
Tehuantepec and Salina Cruz now, you would never hear, and I think what
those names have meant to you during the years. It's all a memory of
drifting sands, women as straight as their own palm-trees, slim, naked
boys, fierce wind, and, in the harbor, the great port works, built by
foreign energy and capital.
_January 14th._
Going up, up, with a ringing in my ears out of the "blazing tropics"
into the Tierra Templada. I am traveling with a parrot in a cage, and
a nondescript little animal called, I think, a _tajon_, in a box with
slats! After a very cursory survey last night, it seemed to belong to
the 'coon family. I (who wish all animals well, but not too near) dimly
apprehend the Mérida family on the "Ward Line" traveling with their
parrot, when I consider that I was put onto the Pullman last night in a
thick, inky, tropical darkness, with a parrot in a cage, and a _tajon_
in a box with slats. The amiable colored porter is looking after them
in the baggage-car, and the back veranda with the oleanders, beyond
the dining-room, is their ultimate destination. I say nothing of the
parting; Aunt L. has promised to come soon.
The glorious Pico de Orizaba has just shown its lovely white head
between two dissolving blue ridges. Last night I reread _Le Journal
d'Amiel_, which, with _Monsieur Le Coq_, I picked up as I was leaving
the house. As up-to-date in the jungle as anything would be.
[29] Fifty-second viceroy.
XVII
Gathering clouds--"Tajada" the common disease of
republics--Reception at Chapultepec--Madero in optimistic
mood--His views of Mexico's liabilities to America
_January 17th._
I have not written since my word in the train. Too busy taking up daily
threads, and there have been various dinings and lunchings out. On my
return I found yours saying that another yellow-stamped instalment of
the _Arabian Nights Entertainment_ had come in on your breakfast-tray.
Just put Mexicans instead of Persians, or whatever they were, intrigues
for power in a Latin-American republic, instead of the intricacies of
Haroun-al-Raschid and his _califat_, change your longitude, and you are
"Orientée" as exactly as the pyramids!
_January 19th._
(My brother's birthday).
To-night I am thinking of Elliott,[30] and, as so often, _before_ his
days of physical and spiritual anguish, of the beautiful brow with its
lines of thought, and the straight limbs as he moved freely among the
other sons of men. But however dear in his activities, where pride
was a factor, he is infinitely dearer to me now, stretched, broken,
while others divide his garments. I ask myself to-night at this seventh
turning of the years of pain, what I have not asked him. Has he drunk
the chalice, or is he still putting it away?
His mind is naturally occupied with intellectual equations. He as
naturally rejects the mystical; there is nothing "vicarious" to him.
Life is only what rationally and definitely is to be discovered by each
one, no possible doing of another's work. I remember quoting to him
once, _à propos_ of destinies and the end of the ends: "_Ego sum alpha
et omega, principium et finis_," and he answered, "Each one is his own
alpha and omega."
I know little, after all, of his spiritual life. His intellectual
life I can read like any fine book, the technicalities of a trained
mind superior to mine, inspiringly surmised, but not understood. He
is not _anima naturaliter christiana_, but all the same, he must hang
in his body on the cross of Christ crucified, and his only hope is in
acceptance of it, along the lines of redemption, cut off as he is from
the exercise of his splendid natural gifts. Results for him mean the
hunting out of definite, secret combinations, in definite, scientific
areas, and his mind is speculative only in an intellectual sense.
I shall, perhaps, never know how far the "Crucified" has convinced
him, but to-night, in thinking of him, _sitio_ comes again and again
to me. He has been so thirsty for the employment of his gifts, whose
value he knows, in a clear, common-sense way, as he also knows what has
not been given him, and the suppression of that gift of industry seems
sometimes to me the most painful nail that holds him. Don't let what I
have written make you unhappy. Mother-wounds bleed and burn so easily.
In this quiet, beauteous night, with the _patio_ holding a thick,
silver moonlight spilling over the square, dark roof, this gorgeous
Indian world in strange unrest about me, and I myself far enough
away to see, I can speak. Show him this some time when he is healed.
What an adoring sister thought cannot hurt. I unite myself with the
millions who have had their loved ones hanging on the cross, who have
heard their _sitio_. But as the emotions of each are measured by their
personal experience, this, my brother's thirst, moves me more deeply
than even that of sacramental martyrs, who gave willingly, where he
gives resistingly. "And everywhere I see a cross where sons of men give
up their lives." ...
_January 20th._
Things are bubbling up, boiling, geyser-like, and the public in a
fair way to get scalded. Yesterday a bill was passed through Congress
suspending the constitutional guarantees in various of the near-by
states, Morelos, Tlaxcala, Puebla, Vera Cruz, and others.
It would seem that all of Mr. Madero's chickens are coming home to
roost, and demands for the cutting up of the Mexican cake sound from
all sides. But what was easy for Madero to promise in the first passion
for the regeneration of "his" people is proving not only impractical,
but impossible. What's the use, anyway, of giving waterless lands to
Indians without farming implements, whose only way of irrigating would
be prayers for moisture to pre- or post-Cortésian gods? Let those who
have been divested of their illusions by hard facts govern the state,
_I_ say.
[Illustration: BOATS ON THE VIGA CANAL
Photograph by Ravell]
Outside of a few political agitators, who cares for politics here
except as a means of livelihood? What each one is a-fevered for is
the disease commonly attacking republics. Above the Rio Grande they
call it graft. _Tajada_ it is called here, but the name doesn't
matter. Republics are notoriously susceptible, and here it grows
with a lushness comparable only to the jungle. Now when the reins
of government are in many regions given over to those completely
unversed in statecraft or even in the rudiments of "mine and thine"--a
lower-class contingent, naturally destructive, unimaginative, and
completely ignorant--what can one expect?
_January 23d._
Aldebert de Chambrun[31] called yesterday afternoon and came back for
dinner. He is just down from Washington, being _à cheval_ between the
two posts. It brought back old childhood days. Now he is in the full
tide of a brilliant career, and scintillating with the celebrated De
C. wit. They all have it--delightful, _fin_, glancing from subject
to subject, illuminating and refreshing, giving a "lift" to any
conversation they partake of, sometimes unsparing, but oftener kind.
It's completely unlike the Spanish-American satire, which I am now
beginning to understand, and which has its own value, though it is
mostly cruel and demolishing, and seems to suffer with difficulty the
neighbor's good fortune.
_January 26th._
Yesterday was the first reception at Chapultepec since several weeks.
We drove up during a chill dropping of the sun, to find quite a
grouping of foreign and domestic powers. The _Corps Diplomatique_ was
almost complete, De Chambrun going with the Lefaivres. I talked with
Calero, and Vasquez Tagle, Minister of Justice, a scholar of note, they
tell me, deeply versed in law and of the highest probity. Though he had
a serious face, there was a twinkle in his eyes.
N. walked up and down the terrace with the President for a long time.
He said he had a very interesting conversation, accidentally turning
on the claims of Americans who had been killed or wounded during the
revolution, in El Paso and Douglas. N., thinking it well to improve
the shining hour, pointed out to the President the special character
of these claims; that during a revolution by which he had established
himself as President of Mexico his soldiers, in taking positions held
by President Diaz's troops, had killed and wounded, on American soil,
several peaceful American citizens. This constituted a claim that
could not be denied by any international tribunal, to say nothing of
the violation of American territory. N., finding Madero in optimistic
mood (not that this is unusual), advised him strongly to settle these
claims, which were not large, and were leading to much criticism of his
government, when things might go so pleasantly. He even quoted to him,
"_Qui cito dat bis dat_."
Madero replied: "All that will be settled in due time," but he did not
seem to feel that it was as important as N. thought it was, saying,
"They should have got out of harm's way." He also said the amounts
claimed were exorbitant (that "madonna of the wash-tub" wanted one
hundred thousand dollars) and he did not see how, without bringing
the matters before a court of arbitration, he could come to a decision
as to proper compensation. N. said that, as the question of Mexico's
liability was certain, he need not be afraid to admit the validity
of the claims in principle--to get a good railroad lawyer in Texas to
find out for him how much such injuries would be paid for by a railroad
company in event of such injuries occurring on a United States line,
and then quadruple the amount. This seemed to make an impression on
him, but in the shifting sands of Mexican liabilities will probably
lead nowhere.
I found myself standing by ---- on the terrace, after we had taken
leave of Madame Madero, and as I said good-by, I added, "Perhaps some
day we will be paying our respects to _you_ here."
Even in the sudden dusk that had fallen I saw flash across his
face in answer, as if written in words, the look that men of
ambitious temperament, gifted with will and intelligence necessary
to achievement, have had in all ages when the object of desire is
mentioned. I imagine he has little hope and no illusions about the
present situation. I am struck all the time by the exceeding cleverness
of the clever men here. What, then, _is_ the matter?
In the evening a very pleasant dinner at the French Legation,
illuminated by several European stars, or rather comets, as they
quickly disappear from these heavens.
The Duc de R. took me out. He is small, with clever, unhappy eyes and
the world-manner, with a hint of introversion, most interesting. I
found, when I came to talk with him, that he was possessed of immense
knowledge, rendered living and _actuel_ by his personality, and his
mentality is of that crystal type equally lucid in the discussion of
facts or ideas.
He has just returned from a trip through Oaxaca, where he has large
mining and railway interests, and is _en route_ for Paris, _via_ New
York. He walked home with us afterward, telling us about that southern
country, which he knows as only one knows a country gone through on
horseback, and, of course, he was turning the international flashlight
on it all.
Mr. de Gheest sat on my other side. He has come on a brief business
visit with his handsome very _jeunesse dorée_ son, Henri.[32] I had
never met them before, but his charming wife and I have listened to
Wagner cycles together in Munich. They were married strangely enough,
in Mexico, and lived here for a while afterward.
M. de G. is trained and brilliant in discussion of international
affairs, witty, _risqué_, and unsparing. They come for lunch to-morrow.
I must say I was what one would call extremely well placed at table!
_January 27th._
Most amusing lunch here to-day, the Gallic sparks flying in all
directions! The De Gheests, De Chambrun, the Lefaivres, Allart--and our
Anglo-Saxon selves as listeners.
De G. was very amusing about some business rendezvous with Mexican
banking associates. One important meeting fell through because the
banker's little granddaughter was having a birthday. The second came
to grief because another luminary's wife's aunt's sister-in-law, or
some sort of remote relation, had died, and, of course, it's a rather
far journey from Paris to Mexico to find oneself tripping over family
occurrences....
Then we got on to the eternal land question. There's a lot said
about the 80 per cent. speaking out and asking for land, but _vox
populi_ here bears very little resemblance to _vox dei_, and it's only
confusing when a few (generally oppressors, not oppressed) do begin to
mutter.
Madero walked to the presidency on the plank of the distribution of
land, which he promptly and inevitably kicked from under him--it
didn't, couldn't hold. It appears that he bought from one of the
computed two hundred and thirty-two members of the family a large tract
of land in Tamaulipas, but when it was parceled out it came so high
that no Indian could buy it, and wouldn't have known what to do with it
had he bought it.
What he loves is his adobe hut running over with children and
surrounded by just enough land, planted with corn, beans, and peppers,
not to starve on, when worked intermittently, as fancy or the rainfall
indicate. The Indians certainly seem, under these conditions, a
thousand times happier than our submerged tenth, but it's never any
use comparing especially dissimilar matters. Anybody who has been to
Mexico, however, knows that the Indian of the adobe hut has little
or no qualification to permit of his being changed into a scientific
farmer by the touch of any wand. And as for slogans! They're all right
to get into office with, but try tilling the soil with them!
_January 31st, evening._
... And so the anniversaries come. I feel but a stitch between your
destiny and Elim's, holding the generations together in my turn. I am
distant from you, but I embrace you all--the dear ones of my blood.
I realize the fortuitousness of mine and all other human experiences.
I have never had the things I worked for, prayed for, hoped for, but
always something unexpected, which showed itself as inevitable only
after it had happened, though at the time it seemed to come as a blow
or a gift, accidentally, unrelatedly. The path has always lain where I
never had an intimation of the tiniest trail. "Strange dooms past hope
or fear" of which we all partake....
[30] Elliott Baird Coues, + Zürich, January 2, 1913.
[31] (1917) Le Colonel de Chambrun, croix de guerre, grande
croix de la Légion d'Honneur, cité many times à l'ordre de
l'armée for deeds of bravery, and once, in the autumn of
1915, "pour sa gaité communicative dans les tranchées"--so
indicative of his special talents and great heart.
[32] Henri de G. (Lieutenant 4th Zouaves), wounded at Verdun,
June 9, 1916. Croix de guerre in Belgium, 1915, Légion
d'Honneur, Verdun, 1916.
XVIII
Washington warns Madero--Mobilization orders--A visit to the
Escuela Preparatoria--A race of old and young--The watchword
of the early fathers
_February 1st._
To-day a military lunch--De Chambrun, Captain Sturtevant, just leaving,
and our new military attaché, Burnside, just arrived. Speculations as
to the potentialities of the situation put a bit of powder into the
menu, and the appearance of small fat ducks awakened a few hunting
reminiscences, but mostly it was martial.
In the afternoon I made some calls with De C. First to Mrs. Harold
W.'s, where we actually found an open fire in the big, book-lined
living-room. Some exotic-looking logs of a wood priceless in other
climes were making a sweet and long-unheard, comfortable, sputtering
sound. She kept us waiting, though pleasantly, while she donned a most
becoming, diaphanous, fur-trimmed, white chiffon tea-gown (the fair sex
are apt to dress for De C.), coming down about twenty minutes later,
looking extremely pretty.
Mr. W., who is associated with one of the large oil companies, came
in just as we were leaving. There are few combinations he does not
understand about the modern Mexican mentality; but he views its varied
facets in a most enlightened way, and flings a kindly, inexhaustible
humor about it all.
After that De C. paid his respects to Mrs. Wilson, who has just
returned. She was looking very handsome in her mourning garments, and
De C. pronounced her decidedly ambassadorial. We then wound up at the
French Legation, sitting for an hour in Mr. Lefaivre's book-filled
study, warmed by a well-behaved little oil-stove, fingering volumes of
past poets, and talking present politics.
_February 2d, Candlemas._
This is the day of the signing of the Guadalupe-Hidalgo treaty
terminating the war of 1847, which one can only hope will continue to
bear fruit. Its motto is, "Peace, Friendship, Limits, Settlement," and
there is a street named for the auspicious document.
_February 5th, evening._
Quite a flutter in town because of orders from Washington yesterday
for mobilization, or what amounts to it; the military forces being
commanded by the War Department to be ready for immediate concentration
on the border. Head-lines of the newspapers are almost American in size
and sensation.
The United States warns Madero that he must protect Americans and
American interests from injury by rebels, and Mexican ears are to the
ground, listening for the possible tramp of American feet this side of
the Rio Grande. The government is distinctly discomfited. They need to
know exactly where they are "at" with the United States, _On ne fonde
pas sur un sol qui tremble_.
Poor Madero! Uneasy lies the head that wears the Mexican crown, except
in the case of Don Porfirio, who had a genius for meeting emergencies,
increased by his vast knowledge of men and conditions, acquired during
the hazards of his career before he became President, and doubtless
by the responsibilities afterward. Anyway, the Mexicans are stepping
lively, with their weather eyes out. The old adage that the only thing
they hate more than an American is two Americans seems to be to the
fore. From the viewpoint of Mexican history, we do rather appear as
their predestined natural enemies and not to be trusted along any line.
This morning I went with Mr. de Soto to visit the Escuela Preparatoria.
It is long since I had taken a _tournée_ with him, and it is just as
well to improve the shining hours. No one knows when the trump will
sound. All is quiet in the house; N. is at the Embassy, and won't be
back till the small, wee hours.
The Escuela Preparatoria, most interesting, was formerly the Colegio
de San Ildefonso, which the Jesuits completed in the middle of the
eighteenth century, after the order to consolidate their various
schools and seminaries into one. It covers an entire city block, and is
so massive that, though it is somewhat out of plumb, as are most of the
great edifices built on this soft soil, it will long stay in place.
It is built of tezontle with a wine-colored staining, and has noble,
broad doors and rows of mediæval-looking windows piercing the façade,
and altogether is most imposing. As we passed in under the majestic
old doors, wide enough to admit a couple of coaches and four abreast,
students were being drilled in the beautiful colonnaded _patio_, said
to be a remnant of the immediate post-Cortés period.
We went first to the Sala de Actas to see the famous
seventeenth-century choir-stalls, once the glory of the San Agustin
church. Everything one sees in Mexico has been most provokingly ripped
from where it belonged and put somewhere else. I got quite sad at the
thought of the continual transfers. Something beautiful always gets
lost in the changes.
As I sat in one of the fine old seats, I discovered that it had bits
of "local color" in the shape of a monkey and a parrot, cunningly but
charmingly introduced among more austere religious symbols; and when
I folded up the next seat I found a quite lovely carving, on the under
side, so that it looked equally well in use or disuse.
As we went up the broad stairway there was a scuffle of young feet
along one of the beautiful old arched corridors, and a hurrying from
one class-room to another, just as so many generations before this had
scuffled and hurried, pushing on and being replaced. The foundation of
the school as it now is dates from Juarez's time, and was founded by
a man called Gabino Barreda, a disciple of Comte. Many of the Mexican
élite who did not or would not send their sons abroad were educated
here. Men like Justo Sierra and Limantour passed through it, too.
When we got up on to one of the great flat roofs, by way of various
interesting bits of stairs, the most glorious sight was spread out.
The volcanoes had such long mantles of snow that they seemed encircled
and united by the same band of white. About us lay the city with its
sun-bathed domes and roofs, and Mr. de S. quoted me the old lines, "_Si
a morar en Indias fueras que sea donde los volcanes vieres_."[33]
I was horrified by the appearance of the Church of Nuestra Señora
de Loreto, built in the last century, which was as _désorientée_ and
uncertain-looking as Mexican politics. Mr. de S. said the sinking was
not caused by any disturbance of nature, but rather of man. There was a
difference of opinion among high ecclesiastical authorities as to the
materials to be used, so they decided the issue by constructing one
of the walls of hard stone, and the other of a more porous kind, with
the result that one side began straightway to sink. Now the dome seems
to be pulled down over it, the whole looking as if it might collapse
entirely at any minute; so we decided to visit it immediately, though
it's always a wrench to tear oneself from the enchantment of the view
in Mexico.