what they can get out of her. I wonder even her geographical position
is left.
The last two nights, for a change of air and scene. I have been reading
_Vanity Fair_, and it _has_ changed things. I found it with all the
"bead" on it, as if it had just been poured from the master's brain. I
remember when I read it first, in my early teens, asking you why Rawdon
Crawley threw the jewel at Lord Steyne. Looking back on things, I am
still of the opinion that one should do one's classics very young; the
flavor never leaves one and no harm is done.
_March 24th._
This afternoon I went to call on Madame Madero. She has been ill, and,
of course, very anxious. I went out of the glare of the hot terrace
into the comparative dimness of the room, where she was lying with a
handsome satin spread covering her, a rosary in her hands, and some
newspapers on the bed. Her eyes were bright with fever, and a pink spot
was on each cheek, but it seemed something besides fever was burning
there. She is clever enough to know when to worry, and my heart went
out to her; the political mills are waiting to grind her and the man
whose destiny she shares and whom she loves.
The newspapers were announcing in large head-lines the operation of
the Federal commanders around Rellano--Trucy Aubert, Blanquet, and
Gonzalez Salas, who was once Minister of War and among the "232,"
being Madero's cousin. Orozco is headed apparently full to the south
toward Torreon, and, say the timid and doubtful, to Mexico City. From
where I sat I could see through the slit in the half-drawn curtains
the glittering volcanoes and the blue, translucent hills; the deathless
beauty of it all gave me a pang. Any human destiny, even clothed in the
supreme office, seemed insignificant, and only the "last four things"
of account....
_March 25th._
Last night Gonzalez Salas, in a fit of despair, finding himself cut off
from his army, which had been scattered and demoralized by the main
army of Orozco, committed suicide in the train that was carrying him
from defeat.
All day long the city has been flooded with rumors, and a not
infrequent "_Viva Orozco!_" has been heard.
Squads of _rurales_ had been patrolling the streets, picturesque, but
giving an additional note of unrest.
A Cabinet meeting was hurriedly held in the Palace. Can the disaster
be retrieved? is what foreigner and native alike have been asking
themselves all day. I dare say a large proportion of the population
are ready to turn "Orozquista" at the slightest further indication of
fate. There's always a "military genius" here ready and generally able
to upset whatever existing apple-cart there be.
Zapata looms large on the horizon, as he has chosen this auspicious
moment to declare that he would descend upon the fold with his cohorts,
not, however, gleaming in purple and gold. The beauteous morning sun
revealed various notices to this effect pasted up during the night in
the heart of the city by daring Zapatistas.
I haven't seen them, but a rumor is as good as a fact for unsettling
the public. However, I did see that _La Perla_ and _La Esmeralda_ had
their iron windows drawn down upon their glittering treasures, when I
took a turn down the Avenida San Francisco a little while ago--and many
other shops had done the same.
I have no doubt the population of the submerged-tenth quarter, through
which Zapata would have to pass, coming in _via_ the Tlalpan and
Country Club road, would enjoy rallying to his call. Our street seemed
at one time already in the hands of _revolucionarios_ in the shape of
hundreds of newspaper boys--babes who could scarcely hold their papers,
but whose bright little eyes can distinguish the national currency at
any distance, and big boys and old women.
They scented large editions from the offices of _La Prensa_, and there
was much begging for centavitos right under my windows to buy copies
with. Shrieks and howls mingled with cries of "_La Prensa!_" and "_Viva
Orozco!_" The trolley-cars were blocked, and we seemed the focus of
the Orozco victory as far as the capital was concerned. It was late
when an adequate police force appeared on the scene and formed a cordon
about the lower part of the street. Even as I write they are calling
an extra, which I am sending down for. It has been an exciting day, and
all exciting days in Mexico are blood-colored.
_March 31st._
Palm Sunday evening.
This morning I went to the Church of San Fernando. The sun was shining
softly as I passed down the street of the Hombres Ilustres in through
the little palm- and eucalyptus-planted plaza, in the middle of which,
surrounded by the most peaceful of flower-beds, is the statue of
Guerrero (shot in Oaxaca in 1831). His body lies in the old cemetery
near by.
A soft, shining peace was over everything, and I felt inexpressibly
happy and in accord with it. No hint came to me, as I walked along,
of any bloody sacrifice of God or man. Little groups of Indians were
waving their palms, kneeling at the door of the church, or walking
about, and a few were selling elaborately plaited branches.
Though San Fernando is in a populous quarter, the tide has set to other
shrines. Once it was the center of great activities, for from this
church and the monastery and seminary adjoining were fitted out all
the missions to the Californias. Padre Junipero Sierra and Padre Magin
Catalá, and many other holy youths, burning with a zeal we don't even
dimly comprehend, came from Spain to be trained here before starting
out into unknown wildernesses, "for souls and for Spain." It's all so
mysteriously suggestive.
The church has a pinkish-brown baroque façade, beautifully _patinée_,
and the old doors are carved in a noble, conventional design. As I went
in it seemed rather empty, a few Indians and a few _gente decente_
only, praying before the purple-draped altars. Dreary, immense,
uninteresting paintings decorate the walls now; but its interior was
once hallowed, dim, gleaming with the gold of Churrigueresque altars
and retablos, carvings, embroideries, and beautiful silver and gilt
candelabra and vases.
Afterward I went to the cemetery adjoining the church, known as that
of the Hombres Ilustres, where a somnolent custodian let me in. The
most prominent tomb is that of Juarez, dating from somewhere in the
eighties. He is represented with his head lying in the lap of a weeping
woman, symbolic of the sorrows of the nation (and tears enough to make
a river have been shed by women here, since then). I asked myself, by
his tomb, what has it availed to scatter the treasures of the church?
All are poorer and none, alas, the wiser.
Guerrero, of the little flower-planted plaza, Comonfort, Zaragoza,
lie near, all executed by the hand of some one momentarily stronger.
Generals Mejía and Miramon, the companions in death of Maximilian[40]
on the fatal morning of June 19, 1867, repose here too.
In Mexico it is difficult to live for your country without the certain
prospect of dying for it, but I must confess that to me the readiness
with which the men of Mexico give up their lives is impressive and
affecting. It is at least removed from the conventionalities of
other types of political men, where mostly each one intends to live
comfortably by as well as for his country, until he dies of disease, or
_Anno Domini_.
Inspired by the wonted passion for moving things, a huge new panthéon
is being constructed near by, and some day all these tired bones must
make another journey. I think the cemetery as it is would make a good
school-room for the study of the history of Mexico since she began her
struggle for "independence."
Later we went out to the Country Club, where there was a luncheon
of the usual contingent, and spent the afternoon following various
friendly golfing squads over the beauteous links, beginning with the
ambassador, Mr. Parry, Mr. McCarthy, and N. The volcanoes, now in
one aspect, now in another of their beauty, were as gracious to the
foreigner as to the _indigène_. The short, wiry grass, something like
the tough grass of Scotland, made the most luxurious of carpets as we
strolled along, though now it is dried to the palest yellow--the greens
kept green only by exhaustive efforts--a lot of Yankee push behind the
hand that wields the hose. At sunset we drove home through a world of
sifted gold. Such are the days of Mexico.
[39] This is the prince who was taken by Cortés on his
Honduras expedition with the kings of Texcoco and Tacuba.
As punishment for plotting to escape they were hanged head
downward from a tree in the wilderness. Humboldt saw this
represented in a hieroglyphic painting in the convent of San
Felipe Neri, and even Bernal Diaz relates that the companions
in arms of Cortés were "much shocked" at the occurrence.
Now Cuauhtemoc stands in gold and bronze in one of the
_glorietas_ of the beautiful Paseo, high on a marble column,
with Aztec devices on base and plinth, where he can keep watch
on his hills and volcanoes and lakes. He sustained the siege
of Mexico for seventy-nine days, and the inscription says,
"to the memory of Cuauhtemoc and those warriors who fought
heroically in defense of their country MDXXI." Diaz and his
then Minister of Public Works, Riva Palacio, MDCCCLXXVII,
ordered it to be erected, and later it was finished under
Manuel Gonzalez and his Minister of Public Works, MDCCCLXXXII.
[40] The body of Maximilian lies with his kin in the imperial
vault of the Capuchin church in Vienna.
XXI
Mexico's three civilizing, constructive processes--A typical
Mexican family group--Holy Week--"La Catedral" on a "canvas"
of white flowers--Reply of the Mexican government
_April 3d._
Yesterday Aunt L. received a telegram necessitating her immediate
presence in San G. Things are getting lively there again. I saw her
off in the hurrying, crowded station with a pang, and the house seemed
quite empty when I got back....
I have begun a very interesting edition of the letters of Cortés
by Archbishop Lorenzano, from the latter part of the eighteenth
century. When all is said and done there have been three civilizing,
constructive processes in Mexico. The Spanish conquerors, the Church,
through the marvelous energies of friars and priests, _and_ invested
foreign capital.
Every visible sign of civilization comes under one of those three
heads, and is not to be blinked. Each has evolved inevitably out of
the elements of the previous condition. Diaz, when he formally invited
foreign capital and gave guarantees, was the expression of this last
very concretely. He kept pace with events, or else ran ahead. I have
discovered, however, that it is permitted to be malicious, stupid,
selfish, a bore, vain, vicious, dull, hard-hearted, the oppressor of
the poor; but it is an unpardonable sin to be ahead of one's time. To
be behind it is an unassailable patent of respectability.
It seems to me, however, that he who looks forward to a change in the
affairs of the world, rather than he who looks on them as changeless,
is less likely to be mistaken; and great rulers have always sensed
evolutions.
_April 4th_,
Holy Thursday, evening.
The whole of Mexico seemed afield to-day, with a hint of Sunday
best as they made the rounds of various churches for the visits to
the Repository--the _gente decente_, as well as those _sin hechos y
derechos_.[41]
I went through the shining Alameda, where again Indian life was beating
its full around the little booths--preparing for the Resurrection morn.
There is something simple and affecting about the way they regulate
their commerce by these festivals of the year, this peaceful, almost
rhythmic flooding in and out of the city. Now the booths are full of
toy wagons, with screaming, harsh-sounding wheels, rattles of every
description--in fact, any harsh combination of sounds which represents
the breaking of the bones of Judas.
The Indian must have gods--and it is better to have him worshiping the
image of one God, the God of gods, and His attributes, than sacrificing
to Huitzilopochtli, Quetzalcoatl, and their like, in blood and terror,
or wandering in the colorless and empty places of unbelief.
At San Juan de Dios I came upon a family group so charming and so
artless that I could scarcely take my eyes from them. The mother,
a straight-haired Indian woman, with the usual small, loose upper
garment and the straight piece of cloth wrapped about her hips, had the
sweetest little baby peeping out from the rebozo which bound it across
her back. An old oil-can, filled with what I know not what, was by her
side. The father carried a platter of dusty pink sweets, and a tribe of
soft, bright-eyed, smiling children accompanied them. The next youngest
to the baby was on the father's shoulder, who laid his hat before him
with his platter, on the altar steps. His eyes were uplifted. All were
silent and immobile, even the baby looking intently at the altar of
the Repository, banked with flowers, ablaze with candle-light, and
decorated with a few cages wherein were some small, bright-plumaged
birds.
The church is part of an old chapel erected in the sixteenth century
to Nuestra Señora de los Desamparados (Our Lady of the Forsaken Ones);
but somehow that group fulfilling its destiny did not seem forsaken,
but a part of the mysterious human fabric of which I myself was just
as mysterious a bit. Before the beautiful recessed portal in the rich
baroque façade, whose adjacent wall is ornamented in a Mauresque
design, a remnant of the earliest colonial period, was a varied
assortment of beggars--also not disinherited, it seemed to me--but
called to partake of the sorrows of the _Madre de Dios_ whom they so
loudly invoked as I passed in.
The feature of the church is the statue of St. Anthony of Padua,
which once was among the group of _santos_ in the façade, but had
been cast down during the anti-church riots of 1857. For many years it
lay covered with mud and dust in a ditch by the Alameda. Now it is a
mass of votive offerings--_milagros_ they are called--in the shape of
hearts, limbs, etc., whatever organ had been damaged by the casualties
of earthly existence. I espied an ingenious presentment of a liver
in copper hanging in its proper anatomical place on the person of the
_santo_. The Indians have the strange habit of making their offerings
to this shrine in groupings of thirteen--thirteen candles, bouquets
containing thirteen flowers etc.--commemorative of the death of San
Antonio on the 13th of June (1531).
I can't see how the Indian is benefited by the suppression of religious
ceremonies. Gods he _must_ have. And when one comes out into the
Alameda, the sun shining on the belfries and domes of the many churches
surrounding it, filtering through the lovely foliage of the park about
which the Indian tides sweep, fixed as the laws that govern other
tides, one feels the bounteousness of the natural world, and a desire
to render thanks to _something_.
The long, narrow, flower-planted atrium of San Diego, from the early
part of the sixteenth century, flanks the charming old house where the
presses of the _Mexican Herald_ turn out world news on the site of the
Aztec market-place, or _tinquiz_. But though the outer seeming of life
is changed, I could but think me of the changelessness of the human
heart.
_Good Friday Evening._
A sickening heat was in the air all day, with a something withering
and nerve-disturbing about it, though, as the thermometer goes, the
temperature was not high.
I went early to the little near-by church of Corpus Christi. The
singing of "Dulce lignum" made me think of the great ceremonies at
St. John Lateran, and much that is no more. I returned at 2.30, when
a strange-faced priest with an "inner" look and a something burning in
his voice, a Spaniard by his accent, was finishing the "Three Hours."
Afterward, in company with Indians and black-rebozoed women, I followed
the Stations of the Cross....
_Holy Saturday._
Mexico City is one vast "rattle," the most dreadful sounds everywhere
to commemorate the holy, still day, and as for Judas, he is a legion in
himself.
The Calle de Tacuba presented a strange sight. Stretched on wires
or strings from one house to the other were bright-colored, hideous
figures, representing the _maldito_[42] dangling in grotesque attitudes
against the blue sky. On various street corners he is being burned in
effigy. Firecrackers are exploding as I write, bells are ringing from
every belfry. Grief is noisy in the tropics, even for the laying in the
tomb of the Son of Man.
When I came out of the cathedral I stopped at the flower-market near
by. It is a modern, ugly, round, iron-roofed affair, but the flowers,
the bright birds in their bamboo cages, and, above all, the dazzling
air, fling a charm about it. Every modern, ugly thing in Mexico seems
easily transmuted. In the old days the Indians brought their flowers
straight to the Plaza in canoes by the Viga Canal.
An Indian, with what I can only call a "canvas" of white flowers, on
moss and wire, about two feet square, was putting in an outline of red
and purple stocks. When I asked him what he was going to represent he
answered, quite simply, with a look at the church, "_La catedral_." A
very young Indian carrying a tiny white coffin on his head passed us,
as I spoke to him, and he stopped his work and made the sign of the
cross.
In the arcades several "Evangelistas," scribes, were surrounded by the
unlettered and unwashed--and I found some tattered children, so easily
made happy, looking at stands stocked with pink, syrupy drinks and
cornucopias filled with ices. But mostly the attention of the crowd
was concentrated on a huge magenta and blue Judas who was going up in
a blaze of infamy on the corner.
A domestic tragedy awaited me when I returned home. One of the
servants, while praying before the image of Nuestra Señora del Sagrario
in the Church of Corpus Christi, had her pocket-book removed. In it
were some coral ear-rings, a lottery ticket, and the remains of her
month's wages, just received.
She seemed more disturbed by the loss of the lottery ticket than the
other articles, and kept saying, "_Quién sabe, Señora?_" and that she
had chosen the number 313, after a very precise dream of three white
rabbits, one black cat (this latter the same, I fancy, that disturbs
the slumbers of Calle Humboldt), followed up by the three children of
her aunt, dressed in unaccustomed white. It was _almost_ convincing.
As the door of the pantry opened when supper was being served the words
"_Tres conejos_" (three rabbits) floated into the dining-room, with an
accompanying "_Quién sabe?_"
Dia de Pascua, _April 7th_.
Happy Easter to my precious mother on this loveliest of Resurrection
morns! San Felipe was crowded to suffocation--quite beautiful music
in the rolling, gorgeous style, and everybody, even the beggars at the
doors, with what they call here a _cara de Pascua_ (Easter face). This
is only a word while waiting to motor out to Tlalpan to the Del Rios'
for a _dia de campo_.
_April 10th._
To-day, luncheon here for Mlle. de Tréville, the singer, and her
mother, who are the guests of the ambassador. We all miss dear Mrs.
Wilson, who has returned suddenly to the States on account of the
illness of her son, Warden, at Cornell. Rieloff was among the guests
and we are to dine there on Saturday and have a musical evening
afterward. He was consul-general in Hong-Kong when Von Hintze was out
there as lieutenant on Prince Henry's staff. Now, what the Mexicans
would call their _categoría_ is reversed.
_April 11th._
I do hope, though probably vainly, that Madame Madero doesn't see _all_
the dreadful caricatures appearing about her husband. _El Mañana_,
edited by an extremely clever Porfirista, has apparently set out to
grind him to powder, and there is one, _El Multicolor_, edited by a
Spaniard, sometimes quite ribald, which I should say is preparing to
bury the remains with scant ceremony.
There was a cartoon the other day, which I am sending, representing
Madero being kicked down a long, broad flight of stairs in the palace
on to a transatlantic liner bearing the fateful name _Ypiranga_,[43]
the historic ship that bore Diaz across the bitter waters. The
Latin-American mind is at its best in satire, and with the dart well
poisoned they kill off their public men by the dozens.
_April 14th._
The Mexican government is decidedly upset to-day at the receipt of
a notification from Washington to the effect that the United States
will hold Mexico and the Mexican people responsible for illegal
acts sacrificing or endangering American life or property. It is a
simultaneous warning to both Madero and Orozco, and the _bon mot_ of
the situation here is, "Is necessity the mother of in_ter_vention?"
_April 16th._
I am still numbed and dazed by the reading of the _Titanic_ catastrophe.
_April 17th._
The Mexican government replies to our notification of the 14th, first
cousin to an ultimatum, in which we call categoric attention to the
enormous destruction of American property, ever on the increase in
Mexico, and the taking of American life, contrary to the usages of
civilized nations.
The United States expects and demands that American life and property
within the Republic of Mexico be justly and adequately protected,
and will hold Mexico and the Mexicans responsible for all wanton and
illegal acts sacrificing or endangering them.
We further insist that the rules and principles accepted by civilized
nations as controlling their actions in time of war shall be observed.
Any deviation from such a course, any maltreatment of any American
citizen, will be deeply resented by the American government and people,
and must be fully answered for by the Mexican people. The shooting of
the unfortunate, misguided Thomas Fountain by Orozco (said T. F. was
having a little fling seeing life, and death, too, with the Federal
forces) is deplored. Orozco "answers back" that naturally he executed
Fountain, who was "fighting in the enemy's army." Several Americans,
employed on the Mexican railways, have also been murdered by the
revolutionists.
The Mexican reply, drawn up by the long-headed, very prudent Don
Pedro Lascurain, the new Minister for Foreign Affairs, says Mexico
finds itself in the painful position of not recognizing the right of
our government to make the various admonitions which are contained in
the note, since these are not based on any incident chargeable to the
Mexican government, or which could signify that it had departed from an
observance of the principles and practices of international law.
The _Imparcial_ was very fierce this morning, considering us both rough
and inconsiderate, and saying that Mexico has merited better treatment
at our hands.
Mostly they seem to think that we ought to take things as we find them
or depart. I don't think much can be done in Latin America by threats
or menaces. It is either definite force or tactful coaxing; and,
anyway, the Monroe Doctrine can never be anything but a sort of wolf in
sheep's clothing to the Latin-American peoples.
_El País_, which is the official Catholic organ, says the note is
"the first flash of lightning," and, without doubt, some gorgeous
storm-clouds _are_ rolling up.
Don Porfirio is more completely vindicated than he could ever have
hoped, or even wished.
[41] Without civil rights.
[42] Accursed one.
[43] This ship has played a rôle in the destinies of two of
Mexico's rulers, for it not only bore Diaz into exile, but it
was the ship containing the ammunition for Huerta, to prevent
the delivery of which we thought we were obliged to seize Vera
Cruz, April 21, 1914.
XXII
The home of President Madero's parents--Señor de la Barra
returns from Europe--Zapatistas move on Cuernavaca--Strange
disappearances in Mexico--Oil--The President and the
railways
_April 23d._