higher up on the great ridge they showed themselves again in all
their splendor and the air got quite cold, communicating a sensation
of excessive lightness and purity. The hills around are bare of
vegetation.
Mr. de S. said that the first conquerors wanted to make the beautiful
plateau resemble in all things the Castilian soil, which in so many
places is arid and treeless. However that may be, every authority the
country has ever had has taken literally "a whack" at the trees, till
these hills are bare and dry. Great stony, waterless gorges separate
the immense stretches of maguey--endless, symmetrically planted
fields, stretching to barren hills, from which the French, during their
occupation, cut the last timber.
There is a feudal aspect to the old, high, wall-inclosed haciendas,
with their battlements and turret-holes, always the belfry of a
chapel showing above. Everything that is needed for the life of the
Indian--which isn't much--is contained within their walls, together
with the much more costly and complicated machinery of the pulque
industry. "_Pulque fino de Apam_" is inscribed on each little
blue-and-pink _cantina_. The view, as we turned back, was enchanting,
showing us Mexico as it appeared to the conquerors when Cortés first
looked upon it and called it "_La más hermosa cosa del mundo_" ("The
most beautiful thing in the world"). Beyond--far beyond the enchanting
hills to the east, is the drop into the land of coffee and pineapple
and banana and a thousand heavy scents unknown to this thin air.
Gorgeous but ominous masses of clouds began to roll up on the wide
horizon, and shortly afterward over the shining green plain moved a
misty wall of fast-approaching rain, and there were deafening peals
of thunder, with great white flashes of lightning. In a moment, it
seemed, even before the chauffeur could button down the curtains, we
were deluged, and the road was a rush of gray water, with a pelting of
hail on the motor-top. Some Indians, in the long, thatch-like capes of
grass that they wear as raincoats, passed us--the water dripping from
the bamboos on to their bare feet.
Then began a slipping and skidding down the hill and a search for
the nearest shelter. The view toward the great Apam plain was dark
and splendid, with here and there a heavy bar of light falling on the
fields of maguey. At last we found ourselves within sight of the rather
sizable village of Calpulalpam, and decided to ask shelter at the San
Cristobal hacienda known to Mr. de S., slipping down the hill in a
second cloudburst that made the auto feel like a fly in a millrace.
In inconceivable mud, not even an Indian in sight, we went in through
the great gate in the feudal-like wall, with a church of baroque design
built into it, where we found ourselves in a roughly paved court with
an old fountain. The gate was fortunately near the entrance to the
dwelling of the _administrador_, a Spaniard, as the _administradores_
nearly always are.
He welcomed us warmly into _la casa de ustedes_, appearing with
_El Pais_ in his hand. He pressed us to stay for the _comida_.
We delicately answered that we had sandwiches, and only wanted
shelter, but we allowed ourselves to be persuaded. His once-handsome
wife shortly appeared, dressed in a white sack and a blue rebozo,
accompanied by several boys and a really beautiful girl of about
eighteen, and we all went into the long, low-ceilinged dining-room. The
_administrador_ and his spouse sat cozily side by side, the children
near them, and we three at the other end, together with a friend
of theirs--some local functionary. The room was dusky, the windows
curtained _outside_ by sheets of water, but the table was bountifully
spread with such a typical repast of well-to-do Mexicans of that class
that you will be interested in the menu.
We began with a _sopa de frijoles_,[63] followed by plates of hot
tortillas, and a big dish of rice decorated with fried eggs, slices
of fried bananas, and bacon. _Mole de guajolote_[64] was the _pièce de
résistance_. I inclose the receipt for it, which Madame Lefaivre sent
me the other day. Taking it from the philosophic point of view, it is
the image of their politics; _melé_, _melo_, _mole_, and the result
very indigestible.
Pulque was served in lovely old engraved glass-jars, and was very
liberally poured out to us in only slightly smaller glasses. It was the
far-famed _Pulque fino de Apam_, but seeing that we did no more than
politely sip in spite of all the urging (if one could lose one's sense
of smell, one _could_ go ahead), the _administrador_ disappeared, and
came back with a dusty bottle of _Xeres_ of some old mark.
There were various sweets on the table: _cajetas de Celaya_,[65]
celebrated all over Mexico, guava jelly, and a sweet looking somewhat
like it, called _membrillate_, made of quince-juice. The little local
functionary seemed somewhat annoyed to find us there. I suppose he
looked on that Sunday dinner as his special appearance, and strange
people had come in and monopolized the stage. His contribution to the
conversation was the complaint that when Americans come to Mexico they
continue to speak English. I pointed out that most of us would give
half our kingdom to possess in return _la lengua castellana_, and that
we did not _all_ use it _all_ the time because we couldn't. At this
point Mr. S. humbly said he was speaking what he thought was Spanish,
and he answered, "You are an exception," but he continued a somewhat
muffled conversation with Mr. de Soto.
The more I looked at the daughter the more I saw she was of an
extraordinary loveliness; not Spanish, not Indian, but some third
thing--was it Arab?--showing distinctly through these two. She looked
at us as if we kept the keys of the gate of heaven, _i.e._, escape from
the hacienda. The only door open to her, however, is marriage, and that
will lead to a stone wall, as far as horizon is concerned.
She said she longed to see Mexico City, if only _once_, and asked me
about the _tight_ skirts--hers were long and flowing. _Enfin_, she is
ready for life, but the functionary seemed to have a proprietary eye on
her.
They were all as nice and pleasant as possible, and so hospitable.
After lunch we made the rounds of the hacienda buildings. The family
to whom the vast estate belongs must have been absent not only one, but
two generations--from the look of the rooms. It was the quintessence of
"absentee landlordship."
We went through what seemed acres of corridors and half-dismantled
rooms, with an occasional piece of good furniture or an old, faded
brocade curtain. The library had rows upon rows of yellowing books
and countless volumes of accounts of bygone _administradores_ of the
estate, the same thing that one finds piled up in every bookshop in
Mexico City. In the days before it was easy to get away, some one,
however, had loved the classics, for one case was full of richly bound
Latin books.
There were numberless fascinating little courtyards. One had a
cypress-tree pressed against an oval, barred window; another, only
half-inclosed, had a fig-tree growing higher than the top, and out
beyond was the great Apam plain, light and cloud rapidly passing over
the green, maguey-planted stretches. There was something sad and lovely
about it all, and Guadalupe seemed a sort of "Mariana in the moated
grange." There were vast granaries, too; wheat growing easily at this
altitude, in addition to the pulque.
We went at last into the little chapel where there were some old,
carved _prie-Dieu_, covered with faded brocade, and the altar was
a charming example of Churrigueresque, with small, gilded saints in
elaborately carved and gilded niches, surrounding a large, central
figure of Saint Christopher. It was all, somehow, melancholy-inducing,
and made us remember that the "whole round world is but a sepulchre,"
as Nezahualcoyotl put it.
We took a photograph of Guadalupe, standing on a little outer stairway
leading to the _entresol_, where the family sleep and the girl dreams
her dreams. I was only sorry some Prince Charming had not been with
us. She had a distinctly yearning expression as we drove away into the
great world; there was, probably, far back, some venturesome blood, but
she will doubtless get the functionary.
_September 29th._
Last night, one of Von Hintze's big dinners. He has been such a good
friend from the first, and we have been a part of all his dinners,
which have been many. _Paso á paso se va llegando_, and this is likely
to be the last. I felt as if I were back in Vienna, as Auersperg sat
on one side of me and Riedl took me out. A handsome Captain Bazaine was
also there. That name found in Mexico awakens historical thoughts, and
now that I am to leave it all, perhaps forever, the least tap on memory
and a thousand things spring into consciousness.
Mrs. Stronge presided; Hohler was there, the Hugo Scherers, Mr. Carlos
de Landa, Mr. Hewitt, the Von Hillers, and we played bridge till late.
Conditions are going from bad to worse here, and I feel an increasing
sadness at leaving all this touching, appealing beauty of Mexico to
the powers of darkness, or if not of darkness, of such uncertainty that
evil only can come.
The "Apostle" has become the _mono de Coahuila_. The favor of
republics is more short-lived than that of princes. How true a word La
Rochefoucauld spoke when he said, "_On loue et on blâme la plupart des
gens parce que c'est la mode de les louer ou de les blâmer_."
Gustavo, _ojo parado_, would perhaps like to be President, and feels
himself superior in intelligence and will to his brother, who is, as a
fact, decidedly under his dominion.
If "Panchito" did not feel that he is upheld by the world of spirits,
and I should add by a passionate, resolute consort, he might abdicate;
everything here is possible except peace, and it is still "up" to the
heavens to perform miracles and so relieve the Mexicans themselves of
the tedium of installing a stable government.
[60] A Mexican herb inducing insanity.
[61] Gustavo Madero was apprehended, as he was lunching in
this restaurant in the Avenida San Francisco in company
with General Huerta, February 18, 1913, and was shot
while attempting to escape early the next morning. _Vide A
Diplomat's Wife in Mexico._
[62] "Step by step one reaches the end."
[63] Bean soup.
[64] Turkey stew with Chile gravy.
_Receipt for the famous "mole de guajolote"_
Pepper and salt
Cinnamon
Grains of sesame
Chile ancho }
Chile mulato } Three kinds of peppers
Chile verde }
Anis
Almonds
One piece of chocolate
One piece of sugar
Laurel
Cloves
All ground separately on the _metate_, then ground together
and put into the saucepan, where the turkey already boiled is
waiting, cut up in bouillon.
I don't know if _mole_ must be made from the second joint of
the turkey leg, but my pieces always prove to be that when
scraped. The sauce is so thick that the anatomy is completely
masked when one helps oneself.
[65] Boxes of sweets from Celaya.
XXVIII
Good-by to Mexico, and a special farewell to Madame
Madero--Vera Cruz--Mexico in perspective
_October 1st._
We take the _Mexico_ of the Ward Line on the 10th. So sorry not to be
going with Madame Lefaivre straight to France, but we think it will be
well to wrap the Stars and Stripes about us for a space.
This is only a word. I sit among open boxes in what will never again
be my home, "things I have known and loved awhile." Through it runs my
Mexican _étape_, my "rosary of the road."
_October 3d._
Madame Lefaivre and I have each received diplomas and testimonials from
the Red Cross, and a very polite note from Madame de Palomo. It was a
curious and salutary experience in things human.
The ambassador sent N. a really beautiful letter of appreciation.
He has a quite perfect epistolary turn--finished off by a very chic
signature, and has been all that a chief could be during the long,
strange Mexican months, while Mrs. Wilson has been the kindest, most
considerate of friends.
_October 5th._
This morning I went up to Chapultepec to say good-by to Madame
Madero. As I drove up the winding way in the white morning the flowers
were shining softly along the embankments, the trees were feathery,
unsubstantial, the birds singing "like to burst their little throats."
It might have been the road to Paradise instead of to the abode of
care.
I went in through the great iron gate, the guard saluting, across the
flat, stone terrace where some cadets were at drill, and got out at the
glass doors leading up to the big stairway. The President was standing
there as I drove up, his auto waiting to take him to the palace to a
Cabinet meeting. I thought he looked slightly--very slightly--troubled,
though I had a feeling that his head was still in the morning clouds of
the dazzling day. He wished me a _bon voyage_ and _prompt retour_ and
drove away. Our personal relations with them both have always been most
friendly.[66]
I imagine there has been little or no change in his psychology along
the lines of practical statecraft. His true habitat is the world of
fancy, where he feels himself protected and led on by benign powers as
definitely as was Tobias by the angel. A state of mind like that can
be very compelling, and he _may_ witness what the unkind say is his pet
ambition--his own apotheosis.
The dim progression of Mexican events seems to have left his spirits
untouched, though his fleshly being must be a mass of black-and-blue
spots from the hard facts he bumps into. "One man with a dream at
pleasure," but I felt like leaving him a pocket edition of _Le Prince_.
I thought Madame Madero showed the strain of that climb from obscurity
and prison up the _via triumphalis_ to the presidential peaks. The
flood of morning light, as we sat on the terrace, did not spare her
worn and anxious face. I have an idea that she is very practical, but
it is not her practicality, but her husband's dreams, that brought them
to Chapultepec. It's a situation to discourage common sense.
She was, as always, courteous and friendly, but a puzzled look was on
her face, and I felt that there were questions that she would have
liked to put to me, that the circumstances forbade. We spoke of the
work she is just now especially interested in, for the amelioration
of the Mexican woman's lot--the organizing of the lace and embroidery
industry, _à la_ Queen Elena, in Italy, several years ago. There is a
really lovely product here, the drawn linen work--_deshilados_, it is
called--introduced by the Spaniards and practised through generations
in cloisters and religious schools.
She told me that in Puerto Rico one hundred thousand women had been
organized, and she wanted to do the same here, asking me if I could not
interest people in New York in the industry.
I felt how frail her body, but how determined her will as we embraced
in the dazzling morning. About us was the perfume of the rare and
lovely shrubs of the _patio_, the splash of the fountain, the singing
of birds, the lustrous hills, the shining volcanoes; that crystal air
enfolded us, closer than human touch, but beneath us was the restless
city and the shifting will of the Mexican people.
On board the _Mexico_ in Vera Cruz Harbor.
_October 10th._
We got down last night over the International; so many friendly faces
at the station--_une belle gare_--reminding me of the unforgetable
going away from Copenhagen. The Minister for Foreign Affairs, and the
_Chef du Protocole_, nearly all the colleagues, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson,
Aunt Laura, and many American friends were there.
The train departed at last without the slightest warning, but, the hour
being at hand, we were standing near the steps, and as it quite slyly
began to move out I was pushed into it by friendly hands with my load
of flowers. Various other passengers had only time to scramble into
the baggage and rear cars; and so, without any sound except those of
friendly adieux, we slipped out of the station into the starlit valley,
toward the hills that hold the splendors of this Indian world.
I had a feeling as of some one who leaves treasure behind, and the
thought that my eyes will probably never again rest on the beauty of
Mexico gives me a clutching at the heart. "_Heureux ceux qui n'ont pas
vu la fumée de la fête de l'étranger et qui ne se sont assis qu'aux
festins de leurs pères._"
It is seventeen months since we landed, but changing governments have
not changed Mexico.
On arriving, at 7.30, we repaired to the Arcades of the Hotel
Diligencias of somewhat branded reputation, in one of the little
rickety cabs. If its back flap is loose, you have a lovely breeze. If
not, you feel as if you were in a "hot country" _not_ of earth.
I asked for tea, but when it was poured out I decided 'twere better
to do in Vera Cruz as the Veracruzanos do, and ordered, as a farewell
tribute, "chocolate Mexicano," which, though it brought my own
temperature up to the boiling-point, was very good.
The dissolving sensation is not unpleasant after having one's nerves
screwed up to the last turn by all those "high" months. Something thick
and stiff, in very small cups, being served on an adjacent table to a
couple of _indigènes_, was "chocolate español."
Afterward I went across the palm-planted Plaza, that I had only seen
in the dim light of my arrival, to the old cathedral--wind-swept,
sun-enveloped, rain-deluged, the patine of centuries making it lovely
beyond description, with its flying buttresses and quaint gargoyles,
and its pink belfry, in which swing old, green-bronze bells.
Inside, the modern Veracruzanos have let themselves "go" as regards
art. Cheap stained-glass windows, "made in Germany," and realistic
portrayals of saints in agony, one more appalling than the other,
encumber the chapels, and, I hate to record it, only paper and tinsel
flowers were on the altars. But I turned my thoughts to One who walked
upon the waters, and prayed for a safe voyage.
They tell me there are fish as beautiful as flowers to be seen in the
market, but instead of continuing the investigation of Vera Cruz in the
garish light of its October day we went back to the ship. On our way
we met an Oxford friend of N.'s, a young Englishman, perfectly turned
out in spotless white, who might have been called suddenly before the
viceroy (I find myself getting a little wild) without the slightest
change in his raiment. He hadn't spoken with one of "his kind" for
weeks, and was not expecting any one. England's true conquest of the
world, it seems to me, identity, habits, customs, unchanged by that
most potent of all alchemies--the tropics.
The German and Russian ministers take the _Mexico_ as far as Progreso,
whence they depart on some sort of hunting expedition, and promise
aigrettes and similar vanities. We have all been sitting on the breezy
side of the boat, sipping lemonade, talking of Mexico in perspective
and "letting him who will be wise." Vera Cruz is a memory of color,
green and pink and white, merciless sun, refreshing breeze, and the
Veracruzanos, of all shades and origins, coming and going, carrying on
their heads the abundances of earth and sea. I post this in Havana.
_October 12th._
Last night, in the dim prow, some Indians were chanting in mournful,
wailing voices, a half-sensuous, half-imploring air of sad peoples. As
it floated toward me in the soft, thick darkness it possessed me with
its melancholy--but I must trim my lamp for other nights.
[66] Francisco I. Madero and José María Pino Suarez were
killed when being transferred from the palace to the
Penitenciaría on the night of Saturday, February 22, 1913.
_Vide_ page 215, _A Diplomat's Wife in Mexico_.--E. O'S.
THE END