Part 6

A delightful dinner at Mrs. Wilson's last night, everything bearing the special dainty touch of the _embajadora_. The table was a mass of La France roses and violets, and the pink-shaded silver candelabra emerged from light clouds of pale-pink gauze. Large and deliciously prepared _langoustes_, very difficult to get here, formed the _pièce de résistance_ of the dinner, which was most lavish throughout.

On Mrs. Wilson's right was Rafael Hernandez, first cousin of Madero, a very handsome man of about thirty-five, with dark eyes and flashing white teeth and brilliant coloring. Every now and then you come across some one here with what we could call a "complexion," and you never forget it.

I am interested in seeing the members of the coming dynasty appear on the political stage. Hernandez, a lawyer of repute, is now Minister of Justice. I sat between Mr. Lie, the Norwegian minister, who is a son of the author, Jonas Lie, and we talked a bit of Scandinavian literature. I read only last winter his father's great, sad book, _Les Filles du Commandant_. I had known him slightly in Berlin, when he was military attaché, before what we used to call the "divorce" of Sweden and Norway. Hohler was on my other side, and between courses we did quite a tidy bit of confidential journeying on the political chart. He is ready to crown King George and Queen Mary to-morrow at the new Legation.

_June 22d._

This morning we went to the coronation service for the King of England and Emperor of India in the English Church. The thought of the same prayers going up everywhere for him on whose dominions the sun never sets was solemn and imposing. The _Te Deum_, preceded by the Litany beseeching the Lord to have mercy on miserable sinners, alone kept it in the note of mortality. The town is flagged, and, though we had no king in person, we had the most royal weather.

Several hundred people were at the reception, all the _chers collègues_, various members of the government, and the British colony, of course, with a certain number of curios, such as all colonies produce on national occasions. The Legation is not yet furnished, though the chancery is in full blast, and Hohler has his study most comfortably arranged with a lot of his own good things. He has just found an old Spanish cabinet--a mass of ivory, mother-of-pearl, and silver inlay--that makes you wish you were a burglar.

At five o'clock President de la Barra, very smiling and spick and span, arrived, accompanied by his staff. He was welcomed by the national hymn played with much spirit by an excellent orchestra. Others of the government were Emilio Vasquez Gomez, Ministerio de la Gobernación (Interior), and Mr. and Mrs. Pimentel y Fagoaga (Mr. P. is a banker and president of the city council). Mr. Creel, former ambassador to Washington, white-haired, pink-complexioned, un-Mexican-looking, I also met.

Later General Reyes appeared, once, possibly still, the idol of the army. You can never know here, for between sunrise and sunset the victorious hero can become a hunted fugitive. There is something about General Reyes, with his upstanding mien, long, white beard, shrewd eye and air of experience, which would not have fitted badly into the presidential frame. I am told there was a psychological moment when fate was ready for him, but now it is too late; other forces have crystallized.

Everybody was making the rounds of the Legation, which is going to be most attractive and convenient, the only fly in the ointment being the garden. During the building large quantities of lime and all sorts of unproductive refuse were left about, and Hohler thinks he will have to change the whole soil. Up to now nothing save the irrepressible but beautiful pink geranium has been willing to grow.

I was borne, with the French chargé, on a steady tide, setting through the long, unfurnished dining-room, to a temporary grotto-like inclosure, the walls of which were lined with palm-trees and hung with the Union Jack, where the refreshments were served. I heard a little joke going around with the punch among the somewhat homesick colony, "Can you hear the crowns settling on the brows of King George and Queen Mary?" It mingled harmlessly with the congratulations and hand-shaking and health-drinking of a very pleasant and, one hopes, auspicious occasion. In London the sun had long since set on the actors in a new page of England's history.

_June 25th._

There is no doubt about the rainy season having set in. Rain fell yesterday during three hours in drenching sheets that darkened the city. I could scarcely see across the street; but I had the lights turned on and proceeded with Prescott's _Conquest_, not read since years. I am entranced by his vivid, flowing style and the wealth of reference and learning. The very initiated have said that it is not all true, but if it isn't it ought to be, it's so good. The copy I am reading was published by Galignani in Paris in 1844, and must be a first edition, as his preface bears the date, "Boston, October 1st, 1843."

In a small section of the bookcase near my divan, where I sit or rest or where the tea is brought--where I always am, in fact--are the poets. I can reach out and refresh myself with almost any of them. There is a set in that old-fashioned blue-and-gold binding, such as you used to have (1878 is its date), containing Shelley, Keats, Byron, Tennyson, Longfellow, Whittier, Mrs. Hemans, _et al._ But they are only a few of the denizens of the "poets' corner." Palgrave's _Golden Treasury_ is the first book on the first shelf.

Peter and Paul's Day, _June 29th_.

The saints' days follow quickly here. Also I find that instead of indifferentism the churches are packed with men, women, and children on all occasions. Am now waiting for Madame Chermont, the agreeable American wife of the Brazilian secretary, and we drive to Chapultepec Park with our children and listen to the music. A fine military band plays by the largest of the natural lakes, and it is the great morning rendezvous of Mexico City. The two boys will disport on the grass and incidentally have a few "good" fights plastered in between the gentler occupations of catching butterflies and picking flowers.

_Evening._

I made calls all the afternoon, two violent thunder-storms enlivening the getting in and out. At Madame Lie's an almost terrifying darkness fell, lasting for an hour or so. The lights were turned on, but we all continued to look like specters, with an unnatural, lusterless saffron light filtering in at the windows, showing the Indian butler coming and going quietly with the tea things, and lighting up delicate sprays of yellow-brown orchids from the Hot Country on the table in some Scandinavian silver vases. At six o'clock, as I came home, the volcanoes appeared like heaps of purest gold piled against the blackest of clouds.

San Pedro y Pablo seems to be celebrated here by the giving of toy pistols, and other noisy weapons, to children. There was more or less "popping" going on all the morning. For some reason there is a legend to the effect that the devil roams abroad on this day seeking whom he may devour.

I thought of San Paolo Fuori le Muri and the celebrations in the great Basilica, and the Roman world on its way out of the Porta San Paolo past the pyramid of Caius Cestus and the grave of Keats.

_June 30th._

Your earthquake letter received. Remember, the Paris _Herald_ has to live.

We see a good deal of the ambassador, and also of Dearing, clever and courageous. When the ambassador will leave I don't know; but we do know the greatest benefit a chief can confer on his first secretary.

Dearing is trying his hand at translating Mallarmé, and last night we were turning the "_Frisson d'hiver_" round about, but we didn't do to it what he did to "The Raven."

It begins: "_Cette pendule de Saxe qui retarde et sonne treize heures parmi ses fleurs et ses dieux, à qui a-t-elle été?_"

We dine at the Austrian chargé's to-morrow. Everything always very _soigné_. He has an Austrian cook, I believe, and a pleasant mania for cleanliness. He will soon be leaving, as Baron Riedl from Rio Janeiro, his cousin, is appointed minister here. You remember him and his American wife from Rome.

I am sending a huge bundle of zarapes, dull blue and white, sewed up in canvas--so nice for the garden, and for Elliott on his terrace.

VI

Speculations as to the wealth of "the Greatest Mexican"--Fourth of July--Madero as evangelist--The German minister's first official dinner with the Maderos as the _clou_.

_July 1st._

There are great speculations as to Diaz's wealth, and millions are put to his account with a light hand.[5] Some say he has twenty millions in Spain, in Paris, in Wall Street. I am sure I hope he _has_ feathered his nest--both he and Limantour. As I remarked before, the Romans that made the roads probably did, but they made the roads. There is a not-negligible quantity in Mexico, in abeyance for the moment, which is very suspicious and uncertain, not of the honesty of Madero (all parties allow that), but of his ability to handle the situation, which demands civic talents of a high order.

President de la Barra has a pension plan which will doubtless give him much trouble, as it will have to include all of Mexico, or those left out will know why. As was observed by some one the other day, the more the Mexicans try to change Mexico the more it remains the same thing.

Practically new electoral methods are to be tried out, and how Madero, unless he has a secret _flair_ for civic matters, is to solve them is what we are all waiting to see. The people's ears are full of promises. The government would promise the snow of Popo--anything; but there is a ditty being sung about town now that gives one food for thought:

_Poco trabajo_, Little work, _Mucho dinero_, Much money, _Pulque barato_, Cheap pulque, _Viva Madero!_ Long live Madero!

It's a bit wabbly for founding a government on, but doubtless represents very accurately the dreams of the _pelados_ (skinned ones), as the peons are called.

You speak of the subscriptions for the earthquake relief here. It was not a national disaster. National disasters take other forms in this latitude. Scarcely a ripple is left, and as for the money to repair the city and close the splits in the streets, the municipality gives that and the contractors jump for joy.

I do not minimize the dangers here, but, of course, I don't draw highly colored pictures, being sure of your interest in any statement of facts, however plain they may be. I have rarely felt safer anywhere than in Mexico City; certainly never more comfortable and continually interested. We often walk home after dinners or bridge. The clean-washed air is so refreshing after being in rooms, however large, at this altitude. The gendarmes stand at every few crossings with their lanterns. The streets are deserted, dry, and clean. There is no _Nachtleben_. The program is here early to bed, early to rise, and the thrice-blessed siesta to renew the day.

I am sending off a delightful book by Flandrau, _Viva Mexico_. It has the real sparkle and "feel" of this magnetic land. How true a word he spoke when he said, "One does not go to Latin-America just to see what it is like, or because one has seen it before and chosen to return, but because circumstances in their wonderfully lucid way have combined to send one."

I have just had a letter from the King of Denmark. You know how promptly he always answers, _la politesse des rois_. But the old Copenhagen days with their blues and grays and Aryan ways of thought and habits of life are immeasurably remote from these, not only geographically and in time, but psychologically.

The other evening at the Arbeu Theater, where Virginia Fabregas, an old favorite here, was playing, my eye was suddenly arrested by the profiles as I looked from the box down a row of seats. They were so diverse, so strange, like those one comes across on the ground floor in the corner rooms of museums--Mongol, Indian, Aryan. There did not seem to be any one type. It was just a patchwork loosely sewn together, the bits coming out of unknown generations from the desires of the four corners of the earth.

_July 3d._

The rainy season _bat son plein_. Immense quantities of water are thrown down from the heavens between three and six every day, after which it has always cleared, with the exception of that historic evening when the mob was "out" to destroy the creator of its present Mexico. How quickly republics, not alone this strange Indian republic, put away their great! It is most discouraging to one desirous of finding all good things in that form of government.

I have finished De Solis. Also I have "read" a grammar, and, of course, there are the servants, instillers of that rather patchworky thing called kitchen-Spanish, and there are the newspapers. A teacher is coming next week. I haven't yet felt like mapping out any special plan of study, being in readiness at certain hours, but am enjoying the "simple life" thrown against this colorful background of a colorful race in revolution.

Only two dinners this week, at the Brazilian chargé's, and on Sunday the German minister gives his first dinner. He has taken a large furnished house in the Calle Liverpool, very expensive and suitable, as far as space goes, for a Legation. It belongs to a wealthy Mexican who was seduced, however, by _art nouveau_. Large hat-racks and high jardinières in the form of giant pansies in natural colors furnish the great hall and testify to his ruin.

Von H. endeavored to strike some sort of average by hanging some beautiful rugs from the square railing of the second story. His good furniture from Europe arrived in such a state that he said nothing was needed, as case after case was unpacked, but brooms to sweep out the debris.

_July 4th, evening._

Our Fourth-of-July celebration took place at the Tivoli Eliseo in the Puente de Alvarado, which is like any picnic ground anywhere (unless you look up at the matchless sky). There was the usual accompaniment of pink lemonade, peanuts (called _cacahuetes_ here), and brass bands. There was a luncheon with speeches which would have stirred my national soul more if I weren't still in a half-dream at finding myself in this strange and gorgeous land. As I was leaving the festive scene word was passed round that Madero was coming and would speak.

I stood on the outer fringe of the crowd, which I did not try to penetrate, and found it most interesting to see, even at a distance, the evangelist "evangelizing." Madero's face, so familiar in photographs, and which seems featureless but for the broad forehead and black, pointed beard, becomes illuminated as he speaks, and his gestures are continuous, the voice soft, with a smooth flow of words. I could not catch what he said, but I knew it was his work of hypnotizing Mexico.

A more material diversion, N. told me, was created later by a cock-fight, forbidden by the police, but secretly adored, which took place in a little inclosure. There is no doubt about that animal being in every sense the cock of the Mexican walk. He is the only beast really cherished by them. He even shares the precious hat, and his idiosyncrasies and caprices are tenderly studied. When he fights little knives are tied onto his legs, which is why the sport, though brilliant, is short as far as the cock is concerned.

I keep wondering how Madero can "divide up the great estates" and deliver them to that unknown, and here even unlabeled, quantity, "the people." According to the Plan de San Luis Potosí, it would seem as if Mexico were a cake one had simply to cut into and then pass around the slices.

There is an underlying excitement in the European contingent of the Diplomatic Corps. The sending of the _Panther_ to Morocco looks like one of those Franco-German incidents that we were familiar with when in Berlin, and may lead to real difficulties.

_July 8th._

To-day what started out to be a little golfing lunch, gathered together by N. in the sunny morning hours when it seems it will never rain again, turned into a sort of _disputa_ about many things, within four walls. A tremendous hailstorm came up and darkened and nipped the town, so the "foursome" sat long talking, the water pouring from the roof. Leclerq, Koch, and Nacho Amor are all cultivated, agreeable young men. Amor was educated at Stonyhurst, and has the soft, pleasant voice and delightful English of Mexicans who have passed young years in England.

As I write, near and very brilliant stars, under which I was not born, are shining into the _patio_, and in a moment I must go and walk about the inner veranda and look up into that dazzling bit of heaven in the square frame of the house. If it were only not so far and unsharable with my beloved ones!

_July 10th._

Last night the German minister gave his first big dinner, at which the Maderos, making their début in official international life, were the _clou_. We arrived as it was striking eight, but the Belgian minister, whom we met going in, said they had already arrived.

I found the large room rather full, with a hitherto unsampled Mexican contingent. Von H. was standing by the door, near the Maderos, and we were presented almost immediately. Madero, seen at close range, is small, dark, with nose somewhat flattened, expressive, rather prominent eyes in shallow sockets, and forehead of the impractical shape. But all is redeemed by expression playing like lightning over the sallow, featureless face and his pleasant, ready smile.

He speaks French and some English, preferring the former, but lapses continually into Spanish, his ideas coming too fast for a foreign medium, and he uses many gestures. There is something about him of youth, of hopefulness and personal goodness; but I couldn't help wondering, as I looked at him during the dinner, if he were going to begin the national feast by slicing up the family cake.

Madame Madero might be a dark type of New England woman with a hint of banked fires in her eyes. There is a sort of determination in the cut of her face, which is rather worn, with an expression of dignity. She, too, is small and thin, and was dressed in an ordinary high-necked black-and-white gown, a narrow "pin stripe," with the most modest of gold brooches holding the plain, high collar. She gives an impression of valiance without any hint of worldliness, or desire for any kind of flesh-pot. I pictured her at Chapultepec, and somehow could not fit her in as châtelaine of that high-standing palace.

Of course all the other guests were in their best "bib and tucker." I wore that "Spitzer" white satin with the floating scarlet and black tulle draperies. It seems very magnificent here; but in Paris, at Madame Porgès's great dinner, and at the Russian Embassy, the train did not seem quite so long and slinky, nor the drapery so tight around the ankles, as the dresses of the wonderful Frenchwomen.

As we went into the dining-room I saw, a mile off, the unmistakable name O'S. by Madero's, and naturally thought it was for me. I sat down, then had to take my appointed place quite a good deal higher up by the Minister of Foreign Affairs. So disappointed. It was N., however, who was to help him fill the "suburbs" of the table. Countess Massiglia presided; on her right was the Minister of Foreign Affairs; then I came; then an elaborately uniformed but, as far as I was concerned, anonymous military gentleman whose card was under his napkin--which he did not use.

The Maderos are reputed enormously wealthy; their wealth is mostly invested in lands, however. I understand Madero spent all the available family cash on the revolution, though he told N. last night that no revolution had ever been carried through so cheaply from the standpoint both of men and of money.

Von H. does things very well. The courses were accompanied by wines of special, rare vintages, and his dinner was lavishly and handsomely presented. He has the same majordomo that the Towers had in Berlin--that huge, blond man (I forget his name). I asked him how he liked Mexico; he permitted himself the hint of a sigh, and said it was not Berlin, adding, "_Aber es giebt nichts zu machen_."

Madame Madero was placed between the Italian minister and the Austrian chargé, our host having the wife of the Norwegian minister on his right and Madame Romero on his left. N. said Madero was very militaristic, considering he was come to bring peace, and somewhat suspicious of the United States.

On the other side of Madero was that anomaly, a Mexican _vieille fille_, whose name I did not get. I supposed she belonged to one of the two or three elderly military men present. N. suggested to Madero his falling in with the views of the United States in the regulating of claims, and he said the following in French, "You Americans always act on the presumption that we Mexicans are always in the wrong." N. said this was _à propos_ of his remark, "Now, Mr. Madero, you are going to be President, and I know when your government gets in you will clear up all matters pending between the two countries, and let us begin with a clean slate."

There had been some discussion among us all as to how Madero should be seated at table. He was the undoubted next President, the leader of the _Ejército Liberatado_, but actually at the moment he was without official status of any kind, and could not be placed above plenipotentiaries with their definite ranking.

Von H. cut the Gordian knot, rather informally, by putting him next N. "so that they could have a talk," which they did!

Handsome young De Weede turned up yesterday, having made the ascent of Orizaba, a great feat. He came down in a dreadfully burned condition, however, and spent some days in bed attended by a physician. He is the son of our friend, the Dutch minister in Vienna.

He returns there as first secretary with his father, regretting Washington very much.

He had seen the Hitts in Guatemala, and showed me photographs he had taken of their house with its lovely _patio_, fountained and flower-planted. The roughly paved street gave the outside a desolate look which it doubtless has not really got under that sky, as blue as this. It was so nice to see De W. again, and the "welkin rang" with reminiscences of the _Kaiserstadt_ and the happenings of our mutual friends.

_July 12th._

Von H. has been criticized for having had Madero at a formal dinner, where he could not have the first place at table, being the _Liberatador_ and more than all the others put together. However, I imagine it is those who were not at it who felt critical. I inclose the menu. Apart from the _huachinango_, the wonderful Mexican redsnapper, the fish that Indian runners used to bring up on their backs from Vera Cruz for Montezuma's delectation, it might have been a handsomely presented dinner anywhere in the world.

This morning I took De W. to the museum to look over the treasures, pre- and post-Cortesiana. The building forms part of the Palacio Nacional, some of which dates back to the great captain, and it was the celebrated Casa del Estado during the viceregal period. The old colonnaded _patio_ is a beautiful receptacle for a flooding sun, as well as the altars and carvings of a bygone civilization. In the middle are the Sacrificial Stone, and the great Calendar Stone, which has contributed more than anything else to give the Aztecs their reputation for scientific achievements. They adjusted their festivals by the movements of the heavenly bodies, fixed the true length of the tropical year, etc.