Edith O'Shaughnessy

First reception at Chapultepec Castle—First bull-fight—A typical Mexican earthquake—Madero's triumphal march through Mexico City—Three days of adoration

June 4th.

Yesterday we went to the De la Barras' first reception, a tea neither formal nor informal, at beautiful Chapultepec, lifted high up on the historic hill overlooking the city and the beauteous valley, in its gorgeous setting of mountains and volcanoes.

There is a pretty grotto-like modern entrance at the foot of the hill which takes visitors to the elevator, a shaft pierced in the rock, and from the darkness one steps suddenly on to the enchantment of the terraces with their matchless view. There is a winding road which takes longer, ending at the great iron gateway of the military school, and one must cross the broad terrace, where the cadets are walking about or drilling.

Madame de la Barra, herself a widow, the sister of the President's first wife, has only been married a few months, and is smiling, fair, and un-Mexican-looking, of Swiss descent. She was daintily dressed in some sort of beige chiffon with pearls about her neck, and had easy, pleasant manners.

There was no chance for conversation. The whole Diaz set, with very few exceptions, has vanished, not into thin air, but into retirement or Europe, and society will have to be reorganized from new elements. These new elements did not seem at first view to be very malleable. A circle of iron, in the shape of ladies—old, middle-aged, and young—kept formed about Madame de la B., and I was wedged in, for quite a while, between a granddaughter of Juarez wearing, among other things, a huge and, it appears, historic emerald pendant, and a young, inquiring-looking woman. I mean inquiring for these climes, where external phenomena only remotely give rise to speculation. She was in a dÉcolletÉ mauve passementerie-trimmed gown, with a train—what we would call an evening dress. The experienced foreign diplomats mostly kept outside the circle.

Mr. de la B. was moving about the beautiful flower-planted terraces, smiling, suave, homme du monde, as well as President of Mexico, but the skein from which he is to knit the national destinies is somewhat tangled. He and Mr. Wilson were colleagues in Brussels. Now the turn of the wheel has made him President, and Mr. Wilson ambassador.

Some of the well-seasoned foreigners were predicting immediate difficulties in the disbanding of the revolutionary forces, which seem to be composed of those who don't want to be disbanded, those who want to be disbanded immediately, and those who want to be bandits.

I must say I found it all very interesting—a little gem of a picture of life in Mexico. As a sudden darkness rose up from the valley, rather than fell from the sky, one of the volcanoes gone suddenly blue, the other still aflame, the gathering melted away.

June 6th.

Yesterday, Pentecost Sunday, I went to Mass in the cathedral where Maximilian and Carlota were crowned, and Iturbide and his consort. It is a large, ornate structure, though the lowish roof, earthquake height, I suppose, takes away from the effect of the interior. Three huge altars and a choir also combine to spoil the perspective, but it is imposing and the outside is a lovely grayish pink. It is built on the site of the great Aztec temple, over countless images and remains of the teocali (temple), which the conquerors demolished as soon as they got their breath, after the taking of the city.

I found it full of a multicolored crowd. The Indians were most in evidence, but there were all sorts and conditions of people. Despite what is said to the contrary, the Church has an enormous influence on life here—on institutions, habits, and customs. The convents, monasteries, and seminaries were suppressed in 1859, and no one since has been allowed to leave money or property to the Church by will, but here as elsewhere there is no way to prevent the Church from getting rich. With a constantly renewing collection of individuals having no personal wants, concerned largely with the promises of another life, the aggregate of their activities through the ages will always be enormous in the way of mathematical progression; and I don't see in a free world why they haven't as much right to spend their money and energies that way as in the usual spending for personal and mundane aims.

In the afternoon we went to the bull-fight; it was De la Barra's first appearance at one as President of the republic, and a great occasion. The vast crowd was very enthusiastic. We saw every color of garment, every shade of face, every shape of hat, under the blue, blue sky. We de la haute, or, for that matter, anybody who can pay the price, sit in the shady side of the ring. The sunny half is occupied by dazzled, smiling Indians.

The President was greeted by the magnificently played national air, and the stirring of the great concourse as it rose, and the vivas, had a something impressive. A moment or two after, the entrada took place.

Some beloved matador, whose name I don't know, was greeted with cheers that rivaled those offered to the President. He had on a gorgeous blue-and-gold cloak, resting on one shoulder, the body of the cloak caught up and held with the left hand on the left hip, leaving the right arm free. He was followed by other less-resplendent individuals (the men of his cuadrilla), and soon the ball really opened by the dashing out of the door of a splendid dark bull.

I hid my eyes at the goring of the horses, poor old Rosinantes that they were, ready for the grave, and other high-lights of the occasion. The President gave many purses. It was a very expensive afternoon, doubtless, but it will increase his political popularity. The gaily-dressed toreros would go up to the box after their special "coups," and, with uncovered heads, hold out their hats, and he would lean forward and present the purses. At one time the arena was covered by hats of all sizes and descriptions thrown by enthusiasts, and returned to them by the various bull-fighters. As you will suspect, however, "bull-fight me no bull-fights." It isn't one of those things that it will please me some day to have done, according to the Latin poet. I would like to sponge it out of memory.

The dinner here this evening was not a success. Perhaps the scent of the bull-fight hung around me still or perhaps the personal elements did not combine chemically. The dinner itself was all right. There is a delicious, fat-breasted quail (codorniz) to be had at this season. The conversation was of prophecies concerning the 7th, when Madero, the "Messiah," the "Bridegroom of Mexico," whom he is to lead into paths of peace and plenty, is to enter the city. I kept quoting:

"One man, with a dream at pleasure,

Shall go forth and conquer a crown."

June 7th.

This morning, at 4.30, the town was shaken by a tremendous earthquake. I was awakened by the violent swaying of the house, so violent that as I jumped up I could not keep on my feet. There was a sound as of a great wind at sea, and on all sides the breaking of china and the falling of pictures. Elim, who was fortunately sleeping in my room, awakened and clung to me, asking, "What is the matter with the ship?" N. was calling from his room and trying to open the door.

My first thought was that we were in some dreadful, mysterious storm, not of earthquake. When things had quieted down a little, and I could get to the window, I looked out. The streets were full of people in their night garments, in the most complete demoralization, some on their knees, others under the lintels of the doors. There was a groaning and a calling on God, accompanied by a still very sensible movement of the roof-line. Servants finally appeared, white and terror-stricken, with long, black hair floating down their backs and their shoulders, hunched up under their rebozos.

I was sorry for the damage done to the S.s' nice things—by shipwreck and earthquake. Our house is a good old house, strongly built in a firm quadrangle; yet the shape of my room at one moment was not square, but diamond-shaped!

Later.

I have just come back from a look about town. I saw the wrecked barracks in the Puente de Alvarado. Sixty soldiers were buried under the debris, and the ambulanciers were bringing out the silent, plaster-covered forms as we passed. A big warehouse at one of the railways was completely wrecked, but there was no loss of life as the employees, of course, were not there at that hour. Everywhere were great ruts and splits in the streets, which looked, in places, as if they had been plowed up.

We took a turn through the Avenida San Francisco, gaily flagged like all the streets through which Madero is to pass. All Mexico seemed afield, despite the fact that we may have another "quake" at any moment. At the corner of the historic Church of La Profesa great crowds were gathered, looking up at the ancient dome and nave, rent in several places. Police were standing in front of the carved doors, in the Calle de Motolinia, to prevent the foolish, as well as the pious, from entering. It is very much out of plumb, anyway, having suffered from other earthquakes in other centuries, when, I suppose, the same sort of crowd gathered about it.

Everybody had a sickly, surprised, pale look, and many, it appears, suffer acute nervous attacks after such an experience. It is the biggest earthquake they have had here in several generations. Mexico City being built on boggy, spongy land is what alone has preserved it from complete destruction on various occasions.

Some speak of Madero's being heralded in by this convulsion of nature as a bad augury: others see in it a sign from heaven. I say, qui vivra, verra.

Madero was supposed to reach Mexico City at ten o'clock, and begin his triumphal march from the station through the great thoroughfares, down the Paseo, the Avenida Juarez, the Avenida San Francisco, to the palace; but it is now 2 P.M. and he has not yet come. As the day wears on the earthquake begins to be interpreted solely as a manifestation of Divine Providence in his favor. No soldiery out. This, I am told, is to show the mob that they are trusted by their champion and savior. It strikes me as a bit too trusting; if any excitement does arise among the mob, already unsteadied by the earthquake shock, how will these people be controlled?

Evening.

At three o'clock Madero passed down the Paseo. Our enthusiasm had somewhat abated after the long wait, but we stood up in a motor in front of our door, and could see the immense concourse acclaiming him. There was a great noise of vivas, mingling with shouts of all kinds, tramping of feet, and blowing of motor horns.

I could just get a glimpse of a pale, dark-bearded man bowing to the right and left. I kept repeating to myself: "Qui l'a fait roi? qui l'a couronnÉ?—la victoire."

It appears that his departure from his ancestral home in Parras, and the journey down, have been one of the most remarkable personal experiences in all history. There were three days of continual plaudits and adoration, such as only the Roman emperors knew (or perhaps Roosevelt when he went through Europe).

People came from far and near, in all sorts of conveyances or on foot, just to see him, to hear his voice, even to touch his garments for help and healing. It appears he had a wonderful old grandfather, Evaristo, founder of what promises to be a dynasty, who died just before we came to Mexico, and who, it is said, had misgivings about the strange turn of the family fortunes.

Well, it is a curious experience to see a people at the moment of what they are convinced is their salvation, to see the man they hail as "Messiah" enter their Jerusalem. I can think of no lesser simile. The only thing they didn't shout was "Hosanna." The roofs were black with people along his route. Many threw flowers and green branches as he passed. As for the equestrian statue of Charles IV., in the Plaza, it was alive with people, who clung all over it, climbing to the top, sitting on Charles's head, hanging to his horse's tail.

Madero could make no speech on his arrival here—loss of voice and sick headache, I see by the evening newspaper. The journey and this climax of his entry into the capital doubtlessly overwhelmed his mortality. The crowd, however, was too intent upon its own experiences to feel any lack. The "redeemer" was with them and his mere presence seems to have been sufficient.

June 8th.

It is after dinner; N. has gone back to the chancery. All doors and windows are open, and a cool, thin, dry night breeze, most lovely, is blowing in.

I sent a Mexican Herald about the temblor and the entry of Madero. The streets are not yet quiet, though the vivas for Madero have somewhat died down.

Even that crowd had its physical limits. I can't understand why, when the streets are burst open, great rifts everywhere, especially in the neighborhood of the Embassy, that there not a vase or a photograph was upset, though some heavy bookcases filled with books, in the basement, were thrown to the ground.

I am reading The Relations of Bernal Diaz, companion and chronicler of the CortÉs expedition. It is quite the most romantic, realistic bit of literature I ever got hold of, and has, here on the spot, a double-distilled charm. I was interrupted for a day by the arrival of that other conqueror.

June 9th.

Knowing how anxious you would be, I cabled on the 7th; now comes your cable asking for news and an announcement from the cable office here that my cable has been returned. It appears the employee just omitted ZÜrich; the address, Waldhaus, he explained in the note, he thought would be enough—the effect of the earthquake on his brain, I suppose.

It appears the New York newspapers said Mexico City was nearly destroyed. You must have been on the qui vive for two days. If the earthquake had been up to the newspaper account, you would doubtless not have heard.

People holding property here are not worrying about natural phenomena. The ever-increasing banditry all over the country, murders of people on isolated haciendas, and general dislocation of business and lawlessness are what worry them. A swift sliding down into the old pre-Diaz brigandage is feared. The slopes are so attractive to the dissatisfied and uncontrolled. Facilis est descensus.

Madero has publicly announced that he will encourage American investments, but that he will oppose all trusts and unjust concessions. It sounds almost too reasonable to be true. He made these statements from some place in the north when he promised to liberate all political prisoners and all prisoners of war. This revolution in Mexico has been full of contrasts, to say the least. Has any one ever seen such an anomaly as we witnessed here? The heads of a solid, recognized government turning over their offices to a relatively few armed opponents. I put it all on Anno Domini, not because so-called democratic principles have suddenly won a miraculous victory. The old dictator's hand was weakened by the stronger hand of time—and a "man with a dream at pleasure," etc.

Found your letter of May 26th on returning from a motor drive with Dearing and Mr. S. to a beautiful old town, Texcoco, where Nezahualcoyotl, the Marcus Aurelius of Mexico, lived.

Except the ancient sun-dial in the palm-planted Plaza, however, there is little to recall that civilization. A big church, built by the friars on the spot of the old temple, was filled with the usual Indian population, sitting and kneeling with their children and their burdens, and as mysterious as that CortÉs found worshiping Huitzilopochtli, or any of their other gods. The Indians are religious, rather in the Oriental sense, it seems to me, than in any way resembling ours. It is certainly not given to the lower-class Anglo-Saxon to kneel with intent, uplifted eyes, outstretched arms, motionless, before some reminder of an invisible God. It does not take us that way. It seems to be as much a part of the Indian's life, that going in and out of churches, as eating or drinking, and just as essential, and why that habit, which seems to compensate for so many things obviously lacking, should be a reproach to those who instilled it I can't see. It's all most interesting to me, fresh from Prescott and Bernal Diaz. A crumbling, picturesque monastery and inconceivably desolate, dusty seminary join the church where the friars used to teach. Oh, the poor friars! There is so little account taken of their ceaseless activities, of how they found a wilderness, dotted it with churches, schools, and hospitals, stamped it with a seal of matchless beauty, brought it out of the worship of greedy gods, human sacrifices, and abominations, counting no cost, and showed as best they might dim shapes of more benign powers. I can't see what all the hue and cry is about, all the revilings. We couldn't match the record. We have disfigured Mexico wherever we have set our seal. Frankly, I'm for the friars.

One enters Texcoco by a broad, broken street leading into the Plaza. Interspersed too liberally between the once handsome low dwellings are the pink-and-blue pulque-shops, with their fringes of colored tissue-paper. The names of these depositories of the licor divino are often curiously bound up with the history of Mexico, and make you feel you have got hold of the "real thing." La Hija del Emperador[4] and La Reina Xochitl, a beauteous patrician, married to a Toltec king, go back to prehistoric days. El Gran Napoleon, with cocked hat and hand in his breast, painted almost life-size on a corner shop, was more picturesque than the one that had a hand in the making of their history. La Mujer del Moro gives the Moorish touch, and La Estrella del Mar recalls the buccaneers as well as the ages of faith. There was a very good one near the little viceregal bridge, with its battered coat of arms, just before we got into Texcoco, called Las Bergantinas, in memory of the spot where CortÉs launched his brigantines in his attempt to take Mexico City, which then was only reached from Texcoco by water. I feel on quite intimate terms with the conqueror. It is CortÉs here, and CortÉs there, and CortÉs everywhere. He put his seal on the whole country, and one walks quite intimately and enthusiastically with him. He was such a human sort of person, and with all his adventurous spirit very grand seigneur. Bernal Diaz tells how well and smartly he dressed, being very particular about his linen, under dark, rich garments, and inclining to a fine gem somewhere on his person, and how pleasantly he played cards, with little jokes running through it all. It reminds me of bridge evenings with the chers collÈgues. But all is historic on this lovely plateau. They can pull down everything and wash it in the most modern of blood, and the scent of ancient and adventurous deeds will hang round it still.

The valley was swimming in a sort of gauzy luminosity, not just light; the volcanoes, well washed yesterday afternoon, were at their most beautiful. We could not bear to turn homeward and went out through the old town, which had also enjoyed a viceregal popularity, as fine old doors and glimpses of vistas into large courtyards showed.

These patios of Mexico are most attractive. One is forever peeking in through doorways of strange houses, where flowers, children, washing, mattresses, water-jars, dogs, sometimes a palm or a cypress, contrive to make something always alluring and mostly lovely. We lunched late in the auto, under the shade of some eucalyptus-trees, and then pressed on through the lovely hills and over meadow-bounded roads till we got to the little village of Magdalena, where an indescribable melancholy mingled with the slanting bronze afternoon light filtering through the shade of the old trees. A grassy Plaza, planted with cypresses and patterned with sunken escutcheoned grave-slabs, led to the pinkish-gray church with its lovely old Spanish doors. A crumbling, broadly scalloped pink wall, with flowers, vines, and spiky green things clinging to it everywhere, surrounded the whole. The warm, lustrous air fell about us like a lovely garment. It was a place of enchantment, where we seemed to clasp hands, for a moment, with a past age of exceeding beauty.

June 11th.

Now that the political excitements have calmed down, the dinners have begun again. The Italian Legation on Tuesday, the Japanese on Thursday (Madame Horigutchi is a Belgian), the Belgian minister the next day, and there is a dinner at the Embassy on Saturday. On the 22d the British chargÉ gives a coronation house-warming in the new Legation, which is not yet finished enough for him to really move into.

Yesterday was again Mr. Wilson's day, and very pleasant. The handsome rooms were filled with roses in their last blooming. The rains wash them out at this season, and indeed at any season they must be plucked at sunrise or they quickly fade at this altitude. The buffet was lavishly spread, Mrs. Wilson dedicated a becoming blue dress, just arrived from Brussels, and I had on what the Mexican Herald kindly called this morning an "exquisite creation of painted chiffon."

The first visitor was Madame de la Barra, with her sweet manner and amiable, unstudied expression, also freshly and Frenchily garbed. I think she would like to branch out and do some entertaining during their short and uncertain tenure. The great castle, with its ravishing terraces, its large spaces, calls for functions. Mrs. Bedford made affectionate inquiries for you. Many of the colleagues came, and many Americans. There was a pleasant coming and going all the afternoon. Mr. James Brown Potter and Mr. Butler, who lives with him, came in late, further enlivening things, as seems to be their wont, and last the ambassador and N., just in from Saturday golf, which, at this season, politically and from the point of view of weather, is a more than usually uncertain game.

The murder of three hundred and three Chinamen at Torreon has made a great row. We were surprised and faintly amused to learn that China demands an indemnity of one million from Mexico. Has Chinese life ever been so high? The whole thing was a horror, however. Terrible atrocities were committed by the troops under Emilio Madero. The Chinamen were mostly market-gardeners peacefully cultivating vegetables in gardens back of their little houses, through which they were hunted and shot down like so many rabbits. There are other horrors related of tying them to horses headed in different directions, of babies on bayonets, etc. It is a most regrettable little fling on the part of the "Liberating" Army. Madero, very averse to shedding blood, is said to be horrified at the occurrence.

It makes me sad to think that, after a century of blood, all is still before the Mexican people, who have left the seemingly solid land of the dictatorship and are headed straight for the mirage of an impossible equality.

June 14th.

Last night was the big dinner at the Italian Legation. Countess Massiglia is an American. I sat between Von Hintze, whom I like very much, and Mr. Brown, president of the National Railway. Dear Mrs. Harriman sent us a letter to him, saying we might need "sudden transportation."

Mr. B. is a power here, one of the twentieth-century conquerors and civilizers. Brains, energy, courage, have taken him far along his successful career, and, incidentally, helped to cover Mexico with railways. It was most interesting hearing at first hand how the curtain had been rung down on the Diaz epoch, for it was he who had arranged for, and been witness to, the tragic departure of Don Porfirio, in those dim, early hours of the 26th. A military train, in charge of some trusted general (Huerta), followed, escorting the illustrious chief from the earthly heights of destiny, in every sense of the word, down the declines of sorrow and old age, out to the great sea.