he calls a _paysage un état d'âme_ not an _état d'atmosphère_. Here
it is both, for the landscape is always wrapped in a wonder-working,
almost tangible air, which is able to induce something mystical in the
most practical or commercial soul. When we descended into the streets
on our way to Nuestra Señora de Loreto they seemed particularly human
and detailed, coming from that height, where everything had been a
splendid _ensemble_. The dip in the long, little plaza is so apparent
that you feel you may get the whole structure on your head. It was full
of beggars hovering near venders of unhealthy, dusty, highly colored
sweets, or hawking hard green fruits about. A green lime or orange
can be a repast here. At the church doors the beggars were lying or
sitting about, just living in their own particularly unconscious way,
descendants of those _sin derechos y hechos_ of the old days, and not
a bit better off now, in spite of all the "Libertad" and "Fraternidad"
and decrying of Spanish and ecclesiastical government.
A beautiful little boy, covered partially with the remains of a
scarlet zarape and tattered white drawers which revealed rather than
concealed his brown hips, carried, slung over his shoulders, two
lively, coal-black hens that he had evidently been sent out to vend.
Accompanying him was an old blind woman clutching at a corner of the
zarape. It tugs at one's heart so, all this beauty and all this misery.
We gave them "centavitos," and the little boy's flashing smile and
the droning voice of the old woman--"_Dios te lo pague, niña_"--as she
heard the sound of the money, were equally pathetic and mysterious.
So often it seems a race of very old and very young here, nothing
of the long maturity we know. An Indian with gray hair, however, is
a rarity; some atavism when one sees it; and as they preserve their
muscular activity till a great age, it's impossible to say how old, but
the race gives a continual impression of just old and young.
_February 6th._
Another agreeable dinner at the French Legation last night. Maurice
Raoul Duval[34] and his English-American wife recently arrived, struck
a charming note of the great and far world. He is a very tall, very
good-looking Frenchman, a polo-player and sportsman of note, hoping to
remake, with interests here, a lost fortune.
An atmosphere of recent married happiness hung about them, with the
romantic adventure of Mexico as background.
His wife was handsome and sparkling in a white-throated way, wearing
a very good black dress and wedding jewels. It was quite a treat to
see something new, we are all sick of one another's things. I am sure
if she had worn the waistband outside one would have seen the word
"Worth." They are to be here some time, and will contribute to the
gaiety of the nations assembled in the vale of Anahuac.
Count du Boisrouvray[35] took me out. He is here to look after the
large estates of his wife, who is now in France, and whose mother, née
De la Torre, is Mexican. Madame Lefaivre tells me she is very beautiful
and gifted, the mother of many little children. Monsieur du B. is
musical--plays the violoncello like an artist. A day or two ago, when
I dropped into Madame Simon's late in the afternoon, they were playing
Mozart beautifully. The clever Frenchman's clever eye is on the Mexican
situation, and finds nothing encouraging, "_plutôt le commencement de
la fin_." Though the French may line every subject, conversationally,
with the agreeable color of some theory, their minds are so constructed
that they can't reject facts.
_February 7th._
Until the small, wee hours last night I was reading a relation of the
foundation of the bishoprics of Tlaxcala, Michoacan, and Oaxaca in the
sixteenth century, printed from the manuscripts in the collection of
Don Joaquin García Icazbalceta, and published a few years ago by his
son, Don Luis García Pimentel, possessed of the finest Hispano-American
library in Mexico.
The story of difficulties surmounted, the dangers overcome, the
founding and building of the various churches and schools and
hospitals, is enthralling, and made me think a little of the _Livre
des Fondations_ of Saint Theresa, that we read at Wörishofen with
so much pleasure. The account of the baptism of the four chiefs of
Tlaxcala, who had such distinguished godfathers as Cortés, Pedro de
Alvarado, Gonzalo de Sandoval, and Cristóbal de Olid, make a page of
the realistic school of to-day seem like a record of tawdry dreams.
The faces of these early bishops and priests of Mexico are
extraordinary. The life is concentrated in and between the eyes,
the foreheads are those of thinkers, the lines about the mouths,
compassionate, yet unflinching, are those of workers, and, however
different the actual structure of the faces, the expression is the
same. I found a couple of old engravings the other day, one of Las
Casas, and one of Ripalda, yellowed, stained, evidently torn out of
some old book. The tale of labors and difficulties overcome is stamped
upon their faces. Their watchword was "_Al rey infinitas tierras, y a
Dios infinitas almas_,"[36] and I can't but think that our political
slogans seem a bit shabby in comparison. Our Monroe doctrine, which
controls their destinies, our dollar diplomacy, and all the rest, make
but a poor figure.
_Evening._
Under the impression of the foundations of the Bishops of Tlaxcala,
etc., I strayed into the Biblioteca Nacional on my way home after some
errands. It is what once was one of the most beautiful churches in
Mexico, San Agustin, built at the end of the seventeenth century.
What remains of the old atrium is rather spoiled by being inclosed with
a high iron railing; but in it stands a statue of my friend Humboldt,
whose soul perceived the "splendors of this Indian world." It is a most
charming building to come upon in those busy, modern streets, where
bankers raise and lower the exchange, and the "interests" have their
visible habitats. One is thankful for every good old stone that has
been left upon another good old stone in Mexico, and the old building
has a beautiful tiled dome in the Mudejar style (Moorish-Christian),
with arabesque designs and a charming façade. The modern iron railing
is decorated with busts of the Mexican great, in early-Victorian style,
from the days of Nezahualcoyotl down to Alaman. But the beautiful
old _basso rilievo_ of San Agustin over the main door tells you
unmistakably that the ages of faith were also the ages of art.
I wrestled with the catalogues, and found they always referred me to
others of various dates, like 1872 and 1881. I spoke with several
very vague and exceedingly polite officials. I dare say my Spanish
contributed to the vagueness. The library is very rich in books
relating to the labors of the Church in New Spain, and in general of
the history of the post-Conquest period. The huge reading-room was once
the great central nave of the church, and a flood of white light pours
in through high octagonal windows. Any time any one moved or walked
there was the sound as of an army. It was the wooden floor acting in
unison with the unsurpassed acoustic qualities of the nave.
Over all was a still, deathly cold that froze the gray matter stiff.
Some students, looking a lead color under their rich, natural tone,
were noisily turning over the pages of their books, and an old man
with a green shade and a magnifying glass was looking at a manuscript.
Otherwise empty space. The reading Mexicans are, I fancy, mostly
engaged in trying to sustain or destroy Madero.
In 1867 Benito Juarez issued the decree which established the
Biblioteca Nacional, and they got the books from the university, and
various monasteries and colleges were also emptied of their treasures.
The night library was formerly a chapel of the third order of San
Agustin, and I was told by some sort of attendant only remotely
interested in the world of books that there was once a celebrated old
walnut choir, with the richest carvings, which I could now find in
the Escuela Preparatoria. It reminded me of the catalogues and _he_
looked like what in "The Isles" Humboldt says they call _un monsieur
passable_. He thinks he's white--you know he isn't; but one leaves it
at that.
Life is short, even here, and art is long, and I think I will send to
New York for anything they have in it that I might want.
_February 7th._
Orozco denies any disloyalty to Madero, or that Chihuahua is about
to secede, but he does say in Spanish, probably still less elegant,
something to the effect that Madero can't do the "Mexican trick."
When Madame Madero called yesterday her rather halting remark that
_Orozco es muy leal_ (Orozco is very loyal) was unconvincing, but of
course they _must_ hope. She was in dark, rich garments, somewhat
too heavy in cut and texture for her size, with a very imposing
plume-loaded hat over her pale, tired face. She now wears a beautiful
string of pearls. All the life is in her vigilant eyes, and if there
is an iron hand in the family, it is hers. Madame Ernesto Madero, very
pretty in the dark, flashing-eyed, color-coming-and-going-way, also
called and said, as a charming girl might have said it, that she was
_muy paseadora_.
Vasquez Gómez, a day or two since, proclaimed himself provisional
President, and has quite a tidy following, with the "seat" of
government in Juarez. It would seem the presidential bee buzzes under
any hat! More and more I ask myself, Why try government according to
our pattern? I can't see that ours is just the cut for them.
There is another cold wave, or _onda fria_, as they call the dreadful
things. This one timed itself for a little dinner I was giving for Mr.
Potter and Mr. Butler. The dining-room, into which I cast a glance
before going to the drawing-room, looked very conducive with its
flowers and shaded lights. The stove appeared a model of heat-giving.
Well, we had just got to the fish when it not only emitted a column of
smoke, but it blew up!
It was removed, and after a disturbed interval the dinner proceeded to
the accompaniment of polite suggestions as to the removal of "blacks"
that descended, from time to time, on the faces and shoulders of the
diners. As we were leaving the dining-room somebody remarked that
there was a smell of burning, and in the drawing-room the oil-stove's
mate was found to be doing the most awful things in the line of
Popocatepetl, when Cortés passed by the first time. It was also
removed.
Madame Lefaivre suggested at this point that we had better frankly
accept _le temps comme le bon Dieu l'avait envoyé_, so scarfs and
shawls were brought, with suggestions of overcoats. Everybody began to
smoke and we got out the bridge-tables. They refused to play bridge,
however, with my nice Vienna packs of cards, which are innocent of
numbers at the corners. After a while, with the smoking, the process of
digestion, the jokes, the companionship in misery, things got better,
and the little party broke up at only one o'clock, very late for
Mexico. They said they were too cold to go home. It was a fine sample
of the "tropics."
At Von H.'s dinner for the Minister of Foreign Affairs, the other
night, it was even worse. His large drawing-rooms are to the north,
though _his_ stoves were working _auf commando_. After the long
and elaborate dinner, during which the fair sex were visibly "all
goose-flesh," we had our wraps brought and turned up our fur collars,
which put a different complexion on events and ladies.
[33] "If thou goest to dwell in the Indies let it be where
thou seest the volcanoes."
[34] Maurice Raoul Duval, + fallen on the field of honor,
Verdun, May 5, 1916.
[35] Count du Boisrouvray, 14th Hussards, promu chef de
bataillon pour faits de guerre. Chevalier de la Légion
d'Honneur, croix de guerre, many citations; the first to enter
Thiaumont when it was retaken.
[36] "For the king infinite lands, and for God infinite
souls."
XIX
A tragic dance in the moonlight--Unveiling George Washington's
statue--The _Corps Diplomatique_ visits the Pyramids of San
Juan Teotihuacan--Orozco in full revolt
_February 10th._
We were all awakened last night by a terrible, inhuman, mewing sound
coming from the _patio_. It reminded us of "The White Leper" of
Kipling. The moon was chiseling every stone and plant in the courtyard;
a small light was in the porter's room, where a struggle seemed to
be going on. All of a sudden a tall, stark-naked Indian, with his
arms held stiff above his head, burst out and began to dance about in
the moonlight, making strange passes and dippings of the body before
something imaginary; there was a sort of sacrificial gesturing to his
madness.
N. got his revolver and started down-stairs, fearing homicidal mania,
when suddenly he threw himself in a corner, huddled up, and became
unconscious. After a long delay the men came from the _manicomio_
(mad-house) and his body was picked up like a loose bundle; but I felt
as if I never needed to read about prehistoric, sacrificial rites--I
had seen them in the moonlight, in the person of that poor Indian, gone
insane.
I went down to see Magdalena, his mother, later on. She was sitting
with her head in her hands in the little porter's lodge, surrounded
by two or three of his children. _He_ is a "widower." When she saw me
she suddenly cried out, "_Señora, mi hijo! mi hijo!_" and her old eyes
looked at me with the mother-look of helpless compassion for suffering
sons through the ages--tearless, personal, tortured. I was troubled and
saddened as I came up the stairway into the sunny veranda. But at the
potent hour of pulque I heard sounds which, though not of mirth, seemed
consoling.
_February 13th._
Pleasant luncheon here today--the Raoul Duvals, and De Chambrun, who
is returning to Washington to-morrow, after which we all predict a
total eclipse of the sun. The more I see of him the more I appreciate
that French imaginative, speculative, analytical, yet constructive
type of mind, with its flashing play of wit, its easy intellectuality,
always ready to look at the most personal thing impersonally; this
last so precious in the interchange of thought; and it's all very much
in relief against this Latin-American background, where everything is
always passionately personal.
De C. told us of his visit to the prison of San Juan Ulua, when he was
last in Mexico. Evidently it is a horror. Madero had sworn that one
of his first acts would be to do away with it, but there it is still.
Nobody really trusts the situation here. Some one remarked that the
quiet before something dreadful is going to happen is what is known as
peace in Mexico. De C. had been off for a few days with the army, in
the adjacent scenes of action. A general showed him his school medals
by the camp-fire. One was for French, of which he did not know a word;
the other was for geography, and he seemed to hear of Morocco for the
first time by that same firelight. However, all he really needs to know
is where the Zapatistas are.
The R. D.'s have taken a furnished house in Calle Dinamarca. Everybody
flies, as soon as possible, from the evident evils of the hotels to
any kind of unknown. They came in, looking so smart, she in a dark-blue
tailor and a chic, flower-covered purple hat.
The plateau is thawed out again, and we will have no more cold this
year. They tell me March and April are the warmest months here, before
the rains begin to announce themselves.
_February 19th._
This morning, in a flood of sun, but with a "tang" in the early air, we
went to meet Aunt L., and now she is comfortably resting with a book,
_not_ about Mexico.
_February 22d._
This auspicious day was celebrated here by the unveiling of the
large monument in white marble of George Washington in the Glorieta
Dinamarca. The official Mexican world was out in force, also the
diplomats. All the Americans in town, in whose hearts he was, indeed,
first that day, watched the falling of the cloth from the face and form
of the immortal George. Platforms had been built around the circle,
the police kept beautiful order, and it might have been an "unveiling"
anywhere, except for the outer fringe of peaked-hatted _pelados_
(skinned ones), who gather wherever any are gathered in any name.
I was deeply thrilled as the well-known features showed themselves,
and our national air, beautifully played, rose to the shining heavens.
The figure is standing, clad in a long cloak, and can be seen from the
four streets leading into the circle.[37] The President gave a short
address, and Mr. Wilson made one of his finished speeches--a happy
combination of Stars and Stripes and Eagle and Cactus. I saw Aunt L.'s
eyes fill as our looks met. They do stir one, these commemorations in
foreign lands, where one feels to its fullest the privilege and pride
of participation in a great citizenship.
_February 25th._
Yesterday I had a luncheon for Aunt L. Baroness Riedl, Madame Chermont,
Mrs. Cummings and Mrs. Chemidlin (these latter friends of many years),
Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Kilvert, and Mrs. Hudson came. In the evening we dined
at the Embassy. I thought it warm and spring-like, but Aunt L., though
piled with furs, nearly froze. It evidently isn't with impunity that
one comes up from the tropics to visit a niece on the plateau.
_February 28th._
I am feeling a bit fagged this morning after the interesting, but quite
exhausting, official "picnic" yesterday, to the celebrated pyramids
of San Juan Teotihuacan, offered to the _Corps Diplomatique_ by the
_Gobierno_.
We met at the Buena Vista station for an 8.30 special train--a rather
motley assemblage of some fifty or sixty persons, those who had the
habit of jaunts in their blood, and those who had not.
The weather was the usual lustrous thing, only to be matched in beauty
by what we had had the day before, and what we will have to-morrow. I
looked about the various groups of señoras and wondered would they hold
out, their garbs not being for such occasions.
One of the ladies asked me and Baroness Riedl if we were sisters.
We look more unlike than Thorwaldsen's "Night and Morning," but we
decided afterward that, as we had on tailored suits, white blouses with
lace-trimmed jabots, small hats, neat veils, tan shoes, and parasols,
we must have presented a certain superficial likeness of origin and
atmosphere.
The Mexican women were mostly dressed in semi-evening gowns, spangles,
paillettes, passementerie, presenting all sorts of touches, as they
caught the light, not connected in the Anglo-Saxon mind with picnics.
They also wore small, high-heeled, patent-leather slippers, and were
accompanied by _niños_ of various ages.
You go out of the city by the hill of Tepeyac, where the Church of
the Virgin of Guadalupe is. All along the road are still to be seen
dilapidated "Stations of the Cross," relics of the viceregal days,
among the shunting tracks and railway-supply buildings.
There was a settling down of the elements of the party, foreign and
domestic naturally gravitating to their kind, as we rolled out. The
President and his wife, his mother and father, his two sisters, Madame
Gustavo Madero, and various other members of the family were with us.
Also the Vice-President and his family. After about an hour we got to
the little village of San Juan Teotihuacan, where all sorts of venders
of all sorts of antiquities, little clay pots, masks, bits of obsidian,
charms of bloodstone, were ready for us. We climbed down the steep
embankment and got into various "buckboards," I suppose they would
call themselves, without any "buck," however, which were waiting to
take us across a sandy stretch to the pyramids, which had seemed only
insignificant mounds as we steamed over the glittering plain.
Our first destination was the Pyramid of the Sun, gigantic, impressive,
as we neared it, and one of the few things giving a feeling of
stability that I have seen in Mexico. The Minister of Public
Instruction and Fine Arts, as we started out over the Path of the Dead,
(Micoatl), was the cock of that special walk, almost putting Madero in
the shade, figuratively, however, as there was not a tree within miles.
The two principal pyramids, dwellings of the gods, were dedicated to
Tonatiuh, the sun, and Miztli, the moon, but there are many smaller
pyramids, supposed to be dedicated to various stars, and which once
served as burial-places for remote, illustrious dead.
As we climbed up the great hewn steps, grass-grown, with all sorts of
cacti making unexpected appearances, I could but think of the small
mark the generations make in passing, and "Why so hot, my little man?"
When N. started up with Baroness R., one of the ladies said to
her: "Why are you going up, and what will you do when you get up?"
Baroness R. said, "We are going to take a look about, and come down."
She glanced rather desperately at the pyramid and then at her tiny,
patent-leather-slippered feet, which must have been in a condition fit
for sacrifice in that broiling sun. She finished by sitting down on the
first step with some other high-heeled ladies, with the same feelings
and the same clothes.
It was a magnificent sight, once up there; the solitary eminence on
which we stood put every thing in a wonderful perspective. Formerly on
the apex of the pyramid there had been a splendid temple, containing
a gigantic statue of the sun, made of a single block of porphyry, and
ornamented with a heavy breastplate of gold. But I was more interested
in Madero, once, at least, a _demi_-god, viewing from this great height
kingdoms and principalities given into his keeping.
His expression was soft and speculative as he gazed about him, not of
one who is tempted to gather things _to_ himself, _for_ himself; and
I must say that, as I looked, I entirely acquitted him of personal
ambitions. He seemed strangely removed from the difficulties of his
situation, as materially and spiritually lifted above them as he was
above the shining plain; but in the city, glistening in the distance,
intrigues and dissolving forces of all kinds were at work against him.
The far and splendid hills to which he perhaps may some day flee showed
horizons of cobalt and verde antique, and they, as well as we, were
folded in a dazzling ambience.
However, you have little time for dreams on official picnics--for just
as I was, so to speak, _partie_--polite yet firm-willed photographers
began to shove the living units into their proper places, with a
special rounding up of the high-lights of the assembly, domestic and
foreign, after which we descended.
I had my usual horrid sensation of falling as I looked from that
great height down those huge steps between me and the not less solid
earth. Mr. Madero gave me his arm and, somehow, I got down. A fierce
sun was shining on us and reverberating from the dry plain as we made
our way to the newly opened museum, where a very complete collection
of objects, found around the pyramids, was carefully arranged in
handsome glass cases; for some years, so _el Señor Ministro_ told me,
the government had been excavating, and countless terra-cotta masks,
similar to those which abounded on the Isla de las Mugeres, off the
coast of Yucatan, had been unearthed. There was also a beautiful
collection of jade objects, effigies, and masks of dead rulers; on the
brow of one of the finest specimens was a diadem, or _copilla_, as the
ancient Mexican crown was called.
If I hadn't been simply done up by the heat I would have been most
interested in going over the collection, for the endless terra-cotta
heads and masks, with entirely different features, mark the different
races who have inhabited the plateau. My friend Humboldt, with whom
I spent the evening, also the early night hours, and who had done the
same thing just a hundred years ago, says the teocalli were _orientés_
as exactly as the Egyptian and Asiatic pyramids, and that the race
the Spaniards found there attributed them to a still more ancient
race, which would place them in the eighth or ninth century. They
are composed of clay mixed with gravel, and covered with a wall of
amygdaloid. What seems to be a system of pyramids is disposed in very
large streets, following exactly the meridians, and which end at the
four faces of the two great pyramids.
After an hour in the museum, which seemed _quite_ an hour, I must say,
there was a welcome announcement of lunch, and we walked along a path
called "Camino de Muertos,"[38] "walk of the _half_-dead," one of the
exhausted foreigners called it, and descended into the cool dimness of
a great and beautiful grotto, where long tables, flower-decorated and
elaborately spread, awaited us.
The _Corps Diplomatique_ sat at the President's table; Von Hintze
was between Baroness Riedl and myself, and an unidentified Mexican
official or member of the dynasty was on my other side. The lunch was
sent out from town by Sylvain and was most excellent. We could look out
at a great patch of blue sky, and fringing the brilliant edges of the
grotto were various cacti and rows of peaked hats and a single graceful
pepper-tree. The Indians always spring up, as if by magic, from any
place where there is a gathering.