Part 25
Recently a band of Mexican regulars made the journey from El Paso, _via_ the United States, to some point in Sonora. Several of the more up-to-date papers at home are worrying for fear, unless our Monroe Doctrine be more extensive and comfortable, the "house guests" won't stay. There is one consoling aspect to the Zapatista outrages, as far as Madero is concerned. They always relate to his own people, and so can be dismissed. But the outrages in the north are not so easily disposed of where American and Mexican _meum_ and _tuum_ is involved.
A letter from ----, dreading life, fearing death. His is a ravaged existence and "pain's furnace heat within him quivers." I sent him the inclosed verses, which came to me in the night. It is the simplicity of death, after all, that is its wonder.
To ----
Why should I fear to die? When all I love do tread Among the quickened dead? If they, then why not I?
If their wills have reposed From acts the sense hath known, Why then myself alone Affright and uncomposed?
Shall I not rather deem If they give back no groan, They lie not there alone, In some cold, heavy dream?
But have returned home, As one at eventide By his swept fireside Sitteth, but not alone.
* * * * *
So steadfast are the laws That bind us each to each, They scarcely give us pause To weep that which they teach.
_Sunday evening._
A long day. N. is at the Embassy; the house is quiet, except for water still dripping heavily from the roof. My Mexican sands are slipping, and this morning my eyes looked their last on the so-familiar beauty of the plateau. Early Mr. de S. and Mr. S. and myself started out from the city, down the shining Avenida San Francisco, through the Zócalo, past the palace, through the Calle de la Moneda, where the French troops entered in 1863, out past the San Lázaro station, on to what was once the ancient Aztec causeway.
There we met three fishermen, clad only in small breech-clouts, with long poles over their shoulders, on each end of which were small nets full of little fish. They were moving along silently, swiftly, the sun glistening on their wet bodies, just as from the night of time dark men have moved over that causeway.
We passed the sun-baked Peñon Viejo, with its clump of trees, its bits of cactus growing on its grassy sides, and the old Church of Santa Marta on a farther hill. On one side the road is bounded by the white _tequesquite_ shores of Texcoco, with little piles of soda gathered up at intervals. On the other are the green, sweet-water shores of Lake Chalco, and the little lake of San Martu, so near the Texcoco lake that there is just room between for the railway and the motor road. At Los Reyes, about eighteen kilometers out of town, we branched off to Texcoco over a highway running through maize-planted fields, under the great cypresses and eucalyptus-trees of the Hacienda de Chapingo, along more corn-fields, till we bumped into Texcoco.
The usual Sunday market was in full blast around the _portales_ of the Plaza, and there was a coming and going in the old church as I stepped in for a moment. Here Cortés lay by his mother and his daughter for over one hundred and fifty years. The little near-by chapel, with its antique baptismal font, was built by the Conqueror himself, and shows how limited were the means he had at his command when bivouacking in the "Athens of Mexico." As I bid farewell to these scenes of his romantic deeds and the long-time resting-place of his venturesome heart, I bethought me of his watchword:
_Por el rey infinitas tierras_ _Y por Dios infinitas almas._
We went on toward the beautiful little village of Magdalena, entered through some wonderful plantings of organos cactus, and at the entrance was the little pink-and-blue pulque-shop, with its motto, so true of all things earthly, "_Paso á paso se va llegando_."[62]
The sun shone through the cypress and eucalyptus in the atrium of the lovely old church, and Indians, in clean, white clothes were going to Mass. There was an assortment of wide, flounced petticoats, quite striking in these days of tight skirts. All was as I had first seen it, except that some feet would never tread these paths again, while others were beginning to toddle about, and nature had blossomed and reblossomed, and I myself was to pass. That was all.
As we went on we seemed, for a while, to lose the volcanoes, but 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.