Part 18

Secretary Stimson has poured oil on the troubled waters by saying there is no thought of intervention in Mexico for pacification and otherwise, but it's all a playing with fire--and a good many American and Mexican fingers are like to be burnt. It would seem 'twere better to let the Mexican revolutions quietly simmer till they boil dry--_we_ can't do a little; all or nothing.

I must say I have some sympathy with Madero, for, having allowed him to "use" the border for equipping and organizing his revolution, he now naturally wonders at our coldness. It's all a puzzle, whichever way one looks. I keep thinking of Don Porfirio's watch on Mexico; what he knew would happen _is_ happening. Prophets may not only be stoned, but justified, in their own country.

The Senate has wisely adopted a resolution authorizing the President to prohibit shipments of war materials into Mexico--at least _we_ won't be feeding fuel to the Mexican fires.

_March 16th._

This afternoon I went out late with Madame Lefaivre; she had come to inquire for Elim, who has had some mysterious ailment which has kept me hanging over his bed in terror for two days. We drove up the Paseo in her victoria, and by the statue of the "Independencia" got out and walked about the broad space surrounding it.

Night was near, though not yet fallen, and the sun had disappeared behind Chapultepec. In the changing light the stars shone in the heavens with a brilliancy I have scarcely ever seen in deepest night. They illuminated a pale-blue dome which had a sort of faded sunset lining. I looked up and saw the Southern Cross, the glory of these skies, hanging just above the horizon, and came home touched and quieted by the beauty of it all, to find my babe awake, in a gentle moisture, the fever gone. So often in Mexico the natural changes bring personal help.

_March 17th, evening._

To-day a delightful picnic at the famous "Desierto," the old Carmelite monastery, deep in one of the splendid forests of the Ajusco hills off the Toluca road.

We met, about fifteen merrymakers, in front of Mr. Potter's house, in the Calle Durango, one of the newest of streets in the newest of the "colonias." All were loudly congratulatory when we appeared, about "St. Patrick's Day in the morning." After a careful packing in of baskets, bottles, and other paraphernalia which always flow most lavishly from Mr. Potter's house, we started out in a long line--where, however, the disadvantages of companionship were soon apparent, as the dust got the hindmost with a vengeance.

It being more necessary to keep the ambassador dusted than lesser objects, he led off, arriving with his luster undimmed. As we passed through Tacubaya, the Sunday market was going its usual picturesque pace, and the trail of equality and fraternity we left behind dimmed many eyes and wares. Once on the high Toluca road we could spread out more, distance lending a decided enchantment.

At Santa Fé, in the great ravine where there has been a powder-factory for a hundred years or so, were unwonted signs of activity. After a stiff bit of steep, broken road, we left the motors in a blessed, grassy, dustless spot, and began a long and lovely walk, through a forest of magnificent oaks and pines. The loveliest of ferns grew beneath them, and there were thick carpets of green and gray mosses, patterned with bright, flowery patches. There was the sweet sound of rushing waters, so rare on the plateau, and occasionally there was a sudden rustle to show that we had surprised some wild living thing, and twice we saw some deer.

One scarcely ever hears of the Mexicans hunting their game, though there are occasional shooting parties toward the lakes where the wild duck abound. Some one remarked they would seem to be too busy stalking one another. The Riedls, the Bonillas, Von Hintze (who is not much given to picnicking on Sunday, generally spending the holy day hunting the perpetrators of the Covadonga outrage of last July), Mr. Potter, Mr. Butler, their English friend Mr. Leveson, Mr. Seeger, the ambassador and ourselves, made rather an imposing array as we proceeded through the wilderness, which, however, was "paradise enow."

As you know, when picnickers get hold of a joke nothing but separation or annihilation causes them to let it go, and Mr. Potter started a gentle but persistent one as we walked along, about not fearing snakes, as the presence of the O'Shaughnessys in a forest on St. Patrick's Day could not do less than rid the paths of them or analogous reptiles. I was sorry we didn't meet a boa-constrictor, so that he might have said his neglected Sunday prayers. It was so delightful, under the shade of the great trees, the sun filtering through with such a fresh warmth, and the birds singing so sweetly upon what seemed, indeed, a snakeless paradise that we were positively sorry to come upon the deep, flat space that holds the old monastery, near whose walls a long table, evidently known to generations of picnickers, was waiting to groan with our twentieth-century edibles.

After we had bestirred ourselves with the unpacking, festivities proceeded as if on a stage. We were almost immediately surrounded by dozens of Indians, men, women, and children, who furtively and fortuitously inhabit various parts of the old cloister. During and afterward they received the overflow from "Dives's table." Several little tots found pieces of ice, which they carried off in the greatest excitement--doubtless never seen before, and overrated as to nutritive qualities.

We refreshed ourselves to the usual accompaniment of quips about life in general, and in particular what each would do, especially the fair sex, if surprised by Zapatistas--who give a spice of danger to festivities in these parts--as "Emiliano's" capital is only over the near-by blue hills. There was an exceedingly knotty and delicate question hovering in the air, as to whether, in the event of the Zapatistas performing their usual rites of removing garments, "would it be better to be with friends or strangers."

Suppositions about Mexico's future bind every assemblage together, and Riedl insisted on conversing only in a strange and ingenious language of his invention, composed of Portuguese, picked up in Rio, Italian in Rome, and Spanish in Madrid and here--too amusing and clever for words, and something new to the echoes of that spot.

As he said, "What's the use of traveling if you don't learn something?" And he insisted on sitting near part of his own contribution to the picnic, a long and very special kind of _salami_ (sausage) from his native land, to be taken with some equally celebrated schnapps, called _Slimbowitz_, also from his native land, and contributing to cordial relations.

After lunch we walked about the old ruined monastery, inexpressibly lovely in that solitary spot. Trees grow from what once were cloisters and cells; the mother-church in its midst is crumbling, pink, vine-grown, delicious. Thomas Gage, an English monk who visited Mexico in 1625, found it then in full blast. The old retreat is a mass of lovely, unexpected details, long galleries, carved lintels, bits of sculptured vaulting, romantic inclosures, and everywhere some natural growth to fling a living charm about it all.

The pink belfry still has its old bell, but now when it rings it warns Zapatistas of the approach of gendarmes instead of calling monks to prayer. Supporting it and the church behind, roofless and overgrown, are low, very broad flying buttresses, and several small chapels are still domed and cupolaed. Fine trees grow everywhere, and the whole is inclosed by pink, flower-grown, old walls.

The large _patio_, filled with bits of columns, stone beams, and crumbled mortar, was made lovelier still by some young and beautiful cherry-trees in full blossom, that rose gently but persistently against the background of decay.

About five o'clock the sun began to come slanting through the trees, bringing a warning of night with it, so we regretfully had the things packed to leave the snakeless paradise, the day done instead of before us--and there is always a difference. We found ourselves going rather quietly through a blackly purple forest, though overhead the sky was still pale blue.

When we got out into the Toluca highway we saw that a great dust-storm was blowing over the valley. There was no sight of the city; Lake Texcoco and the hills were veiled. We and the motors were shortly all of a light, yellowish-gray tinge. The fine earth of the road has not had a drop of moisture since last September, so you can imagine. We didn't even try to wave farewells when we got into town, but each rolled off in the direction of his own roof, to remove the marks of pleasure. Certainly the six or eight motors must have been a scourge to the dusty villages through which we passed.

I do enjoy the evenings so, after these long outings, in a tea-gown, with writing-pad or book on my comfortable sofa, knitting the little thread to cast across the waters....

_March 18th._

De la Barra is now in Paris and preparing to return. I notice a further darkening of faces at the imminent prospect.

A Latin-American said to me, _à propos_ of this, "It is a sign of degeneracy when nations arrive at a point where they are willing to rend their country into a thousand bits rather than tolerate the personal success of another." Our beloved maxim, "There's always room at the top," could be changed here into "there's never room at the top."

However, everything is interesting, and even the pamphlet I have just looked over concerning the celebrated Tlahualilo case has the usual color to it. The river Nazas flows down through the lands of the Tlahualilo claim, the _aguas baldías_ overflow the banks at certain seasons and are used for the irrigation of the Laguna district. The T. Co. had contracted with the Mexican government regarding its development, including irrigation-works, placing of colonists, buildings, etc. The Mexican proprietors round about wanted the water, too, and the T. Co. found itself in the impossibility of fulfilling its contracts, because it could not get the water necessary to the cotton crops.

Lack of water is a terrible question in Mexico, cursed with irregular rainfalls, and rivers few and far between. The Madero family own much territory in this part of Mexico, and wanted water for themselves. This is an example of the complications arising when the interests of a family are the same as the interests of the government over against foreign capital, without which, however, Mexico cannot exist. The case was pending during the Diaz régime, and now apparently it is _frito_ since the Madero incumbency, with the inevitable judgment that they had had sufficient water to fulfil their contract, but had failed to do so.

Humboldt, with his usual up-to-dateness, said, "_Tout devient procès dans les colonies espagnoles_." There is certainly no change between his time and mine.... One has an impression that Cortés knew what he was about when he asked the king not to send him lawyers, but monks and priests, and of these latter he did not want _les chanoines_. The separation of Church and State is certainly a blessing to the Church.

So few have loved Mexico for her beauty; they mostly only want her for 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.