by her two pretty, slim daughters, very _jeune fille_ as to dress, but
rather sophisticated as to expression. The _novia_ was in white, and
the younger girl in a similar costume of blue.
All strata of society were there, even the "pillars," holding up things
for this single occasion; charming-looking and beautifully dressed
women I had not seen before--some of that invisible _chicheria_ I
suppose; the official set, the military, etc., etc. There were some
fine jewels--great plaques of emeralds much in evidence--and one lady
wore a strange necklace of very large, very lustrous, almost square
pearls.
The rooms are elaborately furnished in the modern French style. The
brocade-covered walls hung with expensive modern French paintings.
Portraits of Monsieur and Madame Casasus, by one of the great French
artists, I forget which, were in the large pink-and-gold salon. The
magnificent library, with thousands of volumes, the collection of
a lifetime, was furnished from London by Waring and had long tables
bearing atlases and big in-quarto volumes, deep leather chairs, and
reading lamps, most inviting.
The supper was lavish to a degree; it was whispered about that the
cost of the entertainment was fifty thousand dollars. Madame C.
presided over the huge square table of the diplomats, loaded with great
candelabra, beautiful imported fruits in massive silver dishes and rare
flowers in tall silver vases. I was taken down by a general whose name
I didn't get, in the fullest of regimentals, who had lost an arm in
some one of the interior campaigns--I think Madero's.
The champagne flowed; French _pâtés_, asparagus, all sorts of things
which had come from long distances, were passed by liveried servants.
Don Sebastian Camacho, sighting his ninetieth year, was the beau of
the occasion, carrying his years lightly and gallantly, _entouré de
dames_. We came away at one o'clock, leaving things in full swing, the
music and the pounding of the dancing feet echoing through the great
_patio_.[52] Now I am off to the Red Cross.
_June 8th._
Yesterday Red Cross all the morning, and the reception at the
Lascurains' in the afternoon. The heavens opened punctually at five,
and an unusually bountiful supply of water fell upon the sons and
daughters of the nations _en route_ to the function. We descended with
the Chermonts at the door during a baby cloudburst.
The house is a big, handsome dwelling consisting of one very
high-ceilinged floor of rooms, with a charming urned railing, lifted
up against the sky, and hung with Bougainvillea, wistaria, and
honeysuckle, blooming in their turn. Inside it reminded me of the
Carlton Hotel in London, but must be most comfortable to live in,
though the _Honorable Cuerpo_ seemed to spread out rather thin over its
large spaces.
Its great feature is the wonderful aviary, on the side away from
the street, where dozens of the rarest and most gorgeous birds live
together in peace and apparent happiness. Don Pedro, whose special
hobby they are, showed them to me, but I only remember the names
of a few, and a mass of flying, singing color. "Mexican caciques,"
the lovely yellow-and-black oriole of the tropics, most beautiful
bluejays, much more gorgeous than ours, for to their brilliant coat of
blue-and-white are added crests and plume-like tails--and _huacamaias_
and parrokeets, who made their part of the inclosure look like carnival
time.
Mr. Lefaivre took me out to the very elaborate tea, spread in an
immense dining-room. The baby cloudburst, which in his victoria he got
the full advantage of, and the continual destruction of French property
in one part or another of the republic made him rather pessimistic.
He says they always give him the fullest promises, when he lodges his
complaints, and then nothing further happens any more than if he had
lodged them _outre tombe_.
Don Pedro has a bright-eyed, agreeable, clever daughter who helped her
mother receive. She brought out a fine linen square on which we wrote
our names to be embroidered by her nimble fingers later on.
I feel about Lascurain a note of sincerity and a lack of personal aims
and ambitions. Certainly nothing save patriotism could have led him
to accept a place in the Cabinet. He has wealth and position, and only
fatigues and uncertainties, storms and dangers, await him in the ship
of state.
Legation d'Autriche-Hongrie,
_Sunday, June 9th_.
Am writing this, as you see by the letter-head, at the Riedls', waiting
for the picnic party to assemble. I am, unfortunately, always on time,
a bad habit, and not cured by over a year of _mañana_.
The R.s have a sun-flooded house on the corner of Havre and Marsella
in the new part of town, and I am scribbling this at the desk in the
drawing-room, done up in yellow brocade, flower-filled and comfortable,
and with its reminiscences of other posts in the way of signed
photographs and bric-à-brac.
The chiffon scarfs arrived yesterday, having survived the temptations
of the customs, the pink, blue, purple, and petunia, just as you had
done them up. This is the land of scarfs. No lady is complete without
one or many and I will baptize the "pink 'un" at Mr. Potter's to-morrow
night at dinner. I never go anywhere Sunday evening, as after the
all-day bouts in the country my sofa and my books are my best friends.
We are to go out to Xochimilco and the clans are now approaching to the
sound of motor-horns, etc. There will be a repacking in of merrymakers
and baskets when all are assembled.
_June 10th._
I have just come from taking Aunt L. up to Chapultepec. The view from
the castle was entrancing, the volcanoes touched with rose and all
the other mountains swimming, blue and purple, in the sunset light. I
stopped at the British Legation on the way back to see Mrs. Stronge,
who is much better. Now I must dress to go to Mr. Potter's for dinner.
_June 11th._
I wore the petunia-colored scarf last night at dinner. Mr. Potter
was in great form and quite outdid the champagne in sparkle, and we
quipped and quirked till a late hour. My last sight was Don Benjamin
Butler giving a few steps of the _jota_ in the hallway. Am now sending
Elim and Laurita with Gabrielle up to Chapultepec Park. A beautiful,
cloudless, dustless morning. Josefina, a little paler, a little
thinner, and, if possible, more deft, is here concocting me a tea-gown
out of a pink satin evening dress and a white lace one. Nothing can be
cleaned here. There is a place calling itself _Teinturerie Française et
Belge_--but I bade an immediate and regretless farewell to the things
that returned.
_June 18th._
Am waiting for my Tuesday callers in a really lovely tea-gown,
constructed of the two evening dresses. Josefina may soon, however, be
making robes for angels instead of mere mortals.
There has been a little political upheaval. One of our best friends,
the governor of the Federal District--_i.e._, Mexico City and
suburbs--had a tilt with the Minister of Gobernación, Flores Magon,
with the result that he is no longer governor. During all the troubles
Mexico City has been as peaceful under Rivero's régime as Zürich, all
due to his sagacity and energy, and now the usual earthly reward of
virtue, somewhat Mexicanized, is his. He was a rich _hacendádo_ before
coming into the political arena, and his friendship for N. has been
most useful to all.
_June 19th._
One of the loveliest of morns--a true "bridal of the earth and sky,"
and it is the date on which, nearly fifty years ago, Maximilian,
Miramon, and Mejía were led out to be shot.
History records that as the guard opened the heavy door of the prison,
saying, "_Ya es hora_" ("The hour has come"), the three men stepped out
into a world of surpassing loveliness; no cloud was in the faultless
sky, no wind disturbed the shining air.
They embraced, taking a last look at the blue and lovely dome above.
At the foot of the Hill of the Bells the firing-squad awaited them.
They fell dead at the first volley. Maximilian had begged to be shot
in the body, that his mother, in cruel suspense in far Vienna, might
look again upon his face. His last words were, "_Viva Mexico!_" Mejía
was silent. What Miramon said I know not, but their hearts were open to
God.
Mr. S. and his daughter, a beautiful girl, arrived early this morning.
As we are probably soon to leave Mexico, they are good enough to let us
stay on in our present quarters for the remaining time, and will occupy
the small apartment down-stairs. I had a great bunch of pale sweet-peas
put in her room.
Going to Chapultepec this afternoon with Aunt L., also taking Miss S.
and Mrs. Parraga, a Mexican friend of Aunt L.'s, to be presented, after
which we go to Madame Lefaivre's.
_June 20th._
Administration faces were wreathed in smiles at the reception; the
Orozco revolution is not only dying the usual unnatural death, but
it seems likely to be interred. General Huerta knows the value of a
few well-placed blows, but nothing seems to stay "put" here. Nearly
every shade of Mexican has fitted himself out with one or more
grievances, and underlying it all is that quite peculiar organization
of Latin-American society whereby one set of opinions may be uniformly
expressed in public, while the intellectual classes, in secret, hold
entirely opposing ones.
A terrible downpour during the reception. From the windows of _la
vitrina_, as the long, glass-inclosed balcony leading out of the "Salon
of the Ambassadors" is called, Mexico City was a damp, dull thing,
buildings and streets showing as great dark scratchings. There was no
light in the sky and the hills were obscured by curtain-like, formless
clouds with coppery linings.
When we got home it was still raining in torrents, and we descended in
the adjacent garage. In doing so I caught my skirts, hung in air, and
finally fell to the ground, my dress torn to bits and myself shaken to
the same. When I looked at my hands to see if they were still hanging
to my wrists, I saw that my big emerald was missing from its setting.
It was not simply raining. The sky was opening and letting the water
out, and it was quite dark in the garage. About a dozen Indians and
several employees stood about. I cried, "_Mi esmeralda!_" and we all
proceeded to look. I was passing my hand over the floor near various
Indian hands when suddenly _I_ felt the smoothness of the stone. An
Indian said to me, "_Dios es con usted_" ("God is with you"). Well, it
was not fated to be lost that time. I have just left it at _La Perla_
to be well reclamped into the setting, thankful that that companion of
my wanderings is still with me.
The sweet, full letter from Rankweil is received. I long to smell the
sunset meadows with you.
_June 23d, evening._
After a day of skimming over the valley with Aunt L., the Seegers, Mr.
Butler, and Mr. de Soto.
I had long wanted to go out to Huehuetoca to see the famous _tajo de
Nochistongo_, the great cut in the mountains, the most interesting
point of the wonderful system of draining the lakes of the Valley of
Mexico. It was a problem to Aztec rulers, viceroys, and presidents,
finally solved, like a good many other things, in the Diaz epoch--and
always bound up with the joys and sorrows of the valley. The Lake of
Texcoco, the largest of the six lakes, hospitably receives the waters
of the other lakes to such an extent that once it was considered to
have a "leaky bottom," draining down to the Gulf of Mexico.
There were immense floodings of the city in old days, and in 1607 one
so great that for several years the streets were traversed in canoes,
and the saintly Archbishop of Mexico used to be poled and rowed about,
distributing food to the starving.
The Huehuetoca road runs out through Azcapotzalco, once a teeming
Toltec and Aztec center, now only the haunt of Indians and an
infrequent archæologist. Any and every turn of the soil there reveals
traces of lost races. At the next town, Tlalnepantla, though we
were all feeling more in the mood for general effects than detailed
inspections, we did our duty and went into the interesting old church,
finding it full not only of sacred relics, but of profane, in the shape
of carved Indian stones and various sorts of monoliths. In the cold,
ancient baptistry is a strange prehistoric cylindrical vase.
There are still traces of the earthquake of several years ago, whose
rendings revealed a wealth of buried objects. Several Indians, gathered
about the motor as we came out, furtively drew from their knotted
shirts some objects which properly belonged to the government--obsidian
knives and a few masks, like those in the museum at San Juan
Teotihuacan. We bought them out, and proceeded to Cuautitlan, the old
posting-town I have written you about.
Mr. de Soto says that tradition has it that here was born Juan Diego,
the Indian to whom the Virgin of Guadalupe appeared. You see how
interesting it is along these roads. Each step is always historic or
legendary, as well as beautiful. The next village is Teoloyucan, where
one branches off to go to Tepozotlan.
Since leaving the posting-town we could see the belfry of the church
looking pink and lovely against especially blue and lovely hills.
The foreground was of maguey and maize fields stretching away to the
mountains. Hedges of nopal, graceful willows and pepper-trees, and
Indian life, mysterious, yet simple, living itself out on road and
field. We were held up for quite a while by a dozen burros laden with
fresh, shining skins bulging with pulque. A great deal of unnecessary
prodding of the unfortunate animals went on, the usual audience
appearing from the hedges at the noise.
The hacienda of the former governor of the Federal District, Landa y
Escandon, now in Europe, is out here. It contains most beautiful works
of art, Spanish and viceregal, and many priceless Chinese and French
porcelains, these last presentations when various ancestors were at
various French courts.[53]
We thought for a moment of asking the administrator to show us over
it, but succumbed instead to the invading magic of the road and the
pleasant inertia of the automobile. As you will see, it wasn't a day to
improve one's mind, but rather to bathe one's soul. As we got into the
mountains near the famous "cut of Nochistongo," we spoke the name of
the grand old Indian now a-wandering in exile, and talked of the solemn
dedication ceremonies when the engineering marvel was completed in 1900
under his auspices.
In connection with the making of the "cut" and the canals winding
through and between the lakes are ancient, sad tales of forced Indian
labor, drivings, exposures, and deaths; a sort of _mita_ where each
had to lend not only a hand, but often give a life. In the old days
the viceroys made annual visits to Huehuetoca, lasting several days,
conducted with regal splendor.
Nature seemed inconceivably gentle and beautiful there, with its
vistas of translucent hills, all gradations of green and gray and blue
softly rolling, meeting the eye and falling away. The volcanoes were
of clearest white in the pure air, and the shining valley was a gem set
within it all. We stopped by a delightful old bridge with its battered
viceregal coat of arms, a relic of the ancient post-road to Zacatecas,
over which a silver stream flowed into the Casa de Moneda (Mint) in
Mexico City, to flow again in shining piastres across the ocean to
Spain.
I suppose I will be sorry I didn't examine the "cut" a little more
carefully, but the day was such a flood of soft light that details were
quite swept away, so _tant pis_ for Huehuetoca. As it was, we didn't
get back to town till nearly three o'clock, when we repaired to the
Automobile Club where "Martinis," sandwiches and fruits, partaken of on
the veranda, restored us, and we started out again to San Angel.
A perfect afternoon, no sign of rain, and anything as opaque as a house
seemed unspeakably repugnant to our souls. At San Angel we wandered
about in a deserted garden-like orchard. Roses, heliotrope, and lilies
mingled with fig, quince, apricot, peach, apple, and pear trees,
and soft crumbling pink walls inclosed them all. Beyond were more
beautiful blue hills linked to those of the morning, and now swimming
in the afternoon haze the volcanoes towering above in a splendor of
mother-of-pearl.
These old Mexican gardens are beautiful beyond words, but I think one
must feel the magic of them in the flesh--not out of it--to know the
full enchantment. Later we went into the inn, once a great monastery,
now transformed into a "hotel with all modern conveniences," as the
prospectus says, and where, for a moment, I thought of going when we
first arrived.
Some of its ancient beauty is left; old chests and ecclesiastical
chairs, and long, carved refectory tables fill the corridors, and
pictures of saints and priors hang on the thick walls. There is a
charming _patio_ surrounded by cloisters, where monks once walked,
saying their breviaries and their beads, and where now tables are
placed from which tourists renew and strengthen the flesh.
Above is a terrace bounded by a lacy, intertwining design of
grayish-pink balcony. In the center of the court is an oval
double-basined fountain, with a little palm planted in the middle
of the top one, and water-lilies in the lower one. Masses of crimson
rambler were in their last luxuriance, and shining lemon and orange
trees, with fruit thick upon them, grew in the little flower-beds.
There is a large, new, glass-inclosed room where the proprietor,
quite a character, likes to have his patrons go. A corner of the old
refectory was sacrificed to do this modernizing, but we had the tea
served at a table in the _patio_, and watched the patch of blue sky
get pink and the colors of the flowers darken. When we finally turned
homeward in an indigo-colored world it was to find the volcanoes like
two great flaming torches, casting strange lights upon the dark-blue
earth over which we sped. Nothing but night could have induced us to
leave the beauty of it all for brick-and-plaster man-made dwellings.
_June 27th._
Professor Mark Baldwin and Mr. Butler came for lunch--and very
pleasant. The application of the American mentality to the elusive
Mexican equation is always a more or less stimulating process, and one
generally feels comfortably, somewhat smugly, superior in spite of the
fact that one never gets beyond the X. Professor Baldwin sent me his
book, _The Individual and Society_, made up of lectures given at the
university here, and dedicated to Ezechiel Chavez, Sub-Secretary of
Public Instruction. It is most interesting and I am posting it with
this.
_June 29th._
Peter and Paul's Day. After which our beloved friend used to
leave Rome.
A sweet letter from Aunt Louise inclosing one of dear Mr. Stedman's
poems, "The Undiscovered Country." I have tucked it into my mirror,
where I can look at it while having my hair done. It begins:
Could we but know
The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel,
Where lie those happier hills and meadows low--
Ah, if beyond the spirit's inmost cavil,
Aught of that country could we surely know,
Who would not go?
Aunt Louise was just back from church, and the text made a sacrilegious
smile overspread my face, "Look to the hills whence thy help cometh."
_Trouble_ is what comes from the hills here. However, I will blight
no illusions when I answer. She had picked a single, beautiful Carl
Bruschi rose in its perfection from her rose-corner, to put upon the
Sunday dinner-table, with a bit of feathery green. I can see her doing
it and "rescuing seedlings from the clutch of weeds," and dusting the
peach-tree, and straightening the hollyhocks, and "feeding much upon
her thoughts."
With her letter came a long letter from Senator Smith, and his
_Titanic_ speech in full.
[51] Peña Pobre has been occupied and evacuated countless
times by Zapatistas, and is now completely laid waste--the
great paper-mills, the gardens, the hacienda buildings. Since
writing these words a vast and blood-stained scroll has been
unfolded, and I think many a one has modified his political
creed.--E. O'S., 1917.
[52] Of the Casasus house nothing but the walls remain.
Everything has been pillaged and scattered. People have
happened on an occasional old volume of the great library, and
an occasional piece of the gilt-and-brocade furniture has been
seen in the second-hand shops. ---- told me that a matter of
importance took him to the house when used as a barracks by
Carrancistas. In the great _patio_ were only a filthy cot and
an old _brasero_ near which a poor _soldadera_ was sitting.
The fountain was dry and full of refuse, and some soldiers
were standing about waiting for their officer, who came in
violently disputing with a woman of the town. From under
the cot, after a few moments, the woman drew out a small,
beautiful old chest clamped with silver and inset with coral,
with which she departed, "the living symbol of the aspirations
of the downtrodden masses," as one of his followers calls Don
Venustiano.--E. O'S., 1917.
[53] These treasures were scattered and destroyed during the
first Carrancista occupation.
XXV
Orozco and his troops flee toward the American border--A
typical conversation with President Madero--Huerta's
brilliant campaign in the north--The French fêtes--San
Joaquin
_July 4th, 4 p.m._
Home from a motor trip and luncheon with Aunt L. at the Country
Club, and now getting ready for a rather inexplicable reception
at Chapultepec. In the evening there is to be a big theatrical
representation to celebrate the glorious Fourth.
_July 5th._
Orozco[54] and his troops are fleeing to the north toward the American
border. When we got up to Chapultepec yesterday we found out that the
fact that it was our "Fourth" had been overlooked in the governmental
rejoicings. Finally, however, the situation cleared, and there were
congratulations all around, everybody free and equal, we congratulating
them because of the defeat of Orozco, they congratulating us on general
and special principles. Bulletins had been coming in all day about
Orozco's flight from the battle-field of Bachimba, with General Huerta
in full pursuit. Madero appears still untroubled, but he has grown
visibly older. "Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown," even if it
is in the clouds.
Refreshments were served at small tables on the great terrace, but the
strangest wind came up, and everything was blown about, table-cloths
flapping, vases overturned, and an uncanny, transient darkness falling.
The immensely tall man, Adolfo Basso, _Intendente del Palacio_--"_beber
Toluca ó no beber_" we call him, looms high at every reception.
I was glad to see Madame de Palomo there. She is of the "other set,"
which appears sometimes for charity, but not for Maderista social
happenings. She is the head of the Mexican Red Cross, and I have
seen her in that way. She has an old house in the Colonia de San
Rafael, Calle Icazbalceta, once fashionable, and some interesting old
furniture and bric-à-brac. One very elaborate and beautifully carved
confessional, in her family for generations, illustrates the history of
St. John Nepomuk. In an artistic flight of fancy on the part of him who
designed it, the head of the king is represented peeping in through a
convenient aperture at the back, trying to hear what the queen confides
while at confession. It's not very theological, but it's human and,
from the point of view of the collector, quite unique.
Mrs. Wilson and I had rather a typical Mexican conversation with the
President. It was _à propos_ of Cuernavaca, which the Zapatista scares
have always prevented me from visiting. To-day, as we stood talking
with Mr. Madero, he said, "Order is now complete," and added that the
Zapatistas were well in hand. We then said we were immensely relieved,
as we wanted very much to motor to Cuernavaca. He assured us it was
perfectly safe and wished us a pleasant journey.
I had barely got home when Carmona came over from the Foreign Office
to say that the President begged the ladies of the American Embassy
to postpone their trip, as it would be better not to run the risks of
travel on unfrequented roads just now.[55]