Mexico, picturesque, political, progressive/Through Lanes and Highways
CHAPTER IV
THROUGH LANES AND HIGHWAYS
The hill of Chapultepec, abrupt enough to assure one of its partly artificial origin, rises some two hundred feet from the valley, crowned by a marble castle, first built under the direction of Maximilian, and now restored for the occupancy of the presidents. Rather tawdry in aspect as one looks up from below, it develops into great beauty on nearer approach. A double row of light and elegant arches in white and pale-tinted marbles supports broad colonnades, from which the main body of the palace springs into the air with an effect of great delicacy and beauty. All the rooms open on these marble balconies; and on the very upper flight, reached by an exquisite stairway with gilded balustrades, have been built fountains and terraced gardens, enchanting as the hanging gardens of Babylon. Around under the arches, the walls have been painted in fine copies of Pompeiian frescos and Greek designs, executed with great purity, both of color and form. This flowery arbor, perfumed and beautiful, thrust up, as it were, into the air, forms the centre around which the rooms of the palace cluster. These are airy, harmonious, fitting for the purpose of summer residence, and contain some marvellous ceilings, wherein Cupids play among tangled flower-wreaths, or blow on conch-shells to weaken sleeping Love. The lower story is hardly as fine as the upper, but the wonderful outlook makes it all royal.
Adjoining the palace, the military academy, a sort of Mexican West Point, gave us a passing opportunity to note the system of instruction provided by Government to prepare its future soldiers and scientists. The course reaches over eight years, and qualifies its graduates, either as officers or engineers. The school seems well conducted, with extreme cleanliness and care; the gymnasium fairly large and well attended, the chemical department supplied with a small but choice apparatus, the drawing-school remarkably good, and the sanitary details in dormitories and dining-halls well carried out. The boys, who enter at fourteen or sixteen, were bright, active fellows, proud of the school, self-respecting without being conceited, and as well bred as young gentlemen anywhere could be. Nearly all spoke more or less English; but, as the last four years' courses are conducted entirely in French, they use that language with an ease and perfection of accent that leaves one in doubt as to their nationality. Perhaps some tacit jealousy prevents their honoring the speech of their next neighbor and whilom conqueror with a place in the curriculum; but it will be strange if this little pique long outlasts the advent of the railroad. The pleasure of the young men in showing their school was only equalled by their enjoyment of our appreciation, and both made a happy mixture of genuine enthusiasm. A fencing-bout given for our entertainment showed extraordinary skill, and I couldn't help wishing the dear sophomore at home might see what Southern vivacity could ingraft on Northern science. It is hard to confess, but—Harvard would be obliged to go to the wall.
The world here, the novel, picturesque world, which seems to belong to some other solar system than ours, leaves such an impression of absolute difference on the mind that even familiar objects put on an unusual expression. You see French bonnets and dresses as unmistakably Parisian as if Felix's monogram were embroidered on the side panel; but the olive cheeks, flashing eyes, and slender figures they adorn change the well-known costumes as if they were disguises at a masquerade. You see gentlemen in the ugly attire which fickle fashion has made the exponent of modern civilization; but they look as unlike matter-of-fact English or business-built Americans as the water-carrier in his leather harness, or the mozo in zarape and sandals. Is that a commonplace horse-car dashing around the sharp corner yonder, with two mules on a jingling gallop, swarthy Indian women smoking at the windows, and a conductor blowing his tin fish-horn like a madman? What is the time-annihilating telephone doing in the corner of this drowsy courtyard under the gray quiet of arches that shadow the unbroken rest of centuries, in this land of procrastination and delay? And of all conceivable anachronisms, what brings a nineteenth-century steam-roller into these fifteenth-century streets, where the paving-stones are still brought in from the quarries on men's backs, and the gravel carried from the pits in sacks on men's shoulders? Even the electric lights at night have an eerie look. They were always unnatural, with their cold white glare and frozen sparkle; but they are a thousand times more unnatural here, glittering above a people and a country as primitive as if the world were a thousand years younger. Those pale candles, like farthing rushlights, that disturb the dark no more than so many glow-worms — they are the Lights o' Mexico for the present.
It is the common people who are the principal interest to the traveller. Clinging yet with Indian pertinacity to ancient customs, following, even in dress, traditions two or three hundred years old, they seem as removed from the pressure of changeful events as the fossil remains of another age brought into the light of day. They work with what might be called passion, so intense is their application to any assigned task. But that over, the relapse into stolid indifference is as complete as before. Good or bad, the gentle, trusting, superstitious, timid, easily yielding nature of the ancestors is continued in the descendants. They could be led to noble ends: they have been driven to base uses. Ages of misrule and oppression have not broken their sweet kindliness of soul, or dulled the instinctive courtesy of loyal devotion to a superior. There is everything to hope for when this people can be roused to a proper understanding of its own importance, and of the threads of advancement lying useless now in their idle hands, but ready to be woven into strong warp and woof of progress.
The seeming unconcern which makes life, both in and out of doors, as open to observation as the air or the sunshine makes them a constant study. One may contemplate manners and habits as if there were no human interests beneath. But, in spite of this outward indifference, a very strong vein of national spirit runs through the people. Hidalgo, Morellos, Guerrero, Juarez, only names to us, are to them living embodiments of vital truths never to be forgotten, brave lights of patriotism and principle that no rain of blood or terror can quench. It is a pity of pities that seventy years of struggle have brought them no nearer freedom of thought and action than they are to-day; still, to have kept alive the impulse of liberty is an immortality for the brave men who died at its altar. In the plazas of many towns rise the monuments to their memory, and the cause they championed: "Tacubuya a sus Martiros," "Chihuahua a Hidalgo;" and the eagerness with which these are pointed out to-day makes the moral plainer.
The city overflows with public buildings of rare interest, both intrinsically and for association's sake. The National Palace contains among its treasures the portraits of the earlier patriots, and the State apartments of Maximilian and Carlotta. Republican and Imperialist alike fell before the fortunes of war, and it is fitting that their relics should be preserved together. An attempt at a practical illustration of liberty is made by allowing every one to enter certain rooms freely. We saw two old women utilizing the principle by smoking very bad cigarettes in the outer reception parlor. In the pretty patio of the museum, the Aztec stone of sacrifice, and some fairly preserved specimens of the ancient gods, move you to a faint understanding of what the far-away, shadowy age meant. The art -gallery held a few really great pictures, among many of less repute. Among the native artists, imagination as yet seems to have taken hold of nothing characteristic of the time or country. This is the more to be regretted, since the land overflows with lavish beauty, and offers wonderful opportunities. So far, the genius of the place has made no particular impression; and the treasures of nature have been passed by for conventional representations of Scriptural subjects of no value. When will a Fortuny or a Gérome arise for Mexico.
Puebla and Mexico, the two principal centres of the country, share more than other places the cosmopolitan character of European cities, as well as the extremes of riches and poverty. While nothing is more superb than their palaces, few things are more squalid than the huts of the poor. The homes of the rich are on a magnificent scale of luxury. An arched driveway leads from the street to the central courtyard tiled with marbles, bright with flowers, statues, and splashing fountains, surrounded by all the appliances which wealth can suggest to indolence. Around this inner pleasaunce the house rises in a series of light-arched galleries resting on carved pillars, communicating by broad outer stairways of stone, and opening into every room by windows and doors of plain or stained glass. Vines and hanging-plants cover the low stone balustrades; gilded cages of mocking-birds and parrots snare the sunshine under the cool arches; and inside the broad, dimly lighted salons and chambers, whatever luxurious taste can bring to aid comfort is lavishly supplied. A host of servants divide among them those more personal services which our rigid aristocrats prefer to render themselves, and a clap of the hands brings instantly a swift and silent attendant. Below, under the arches, on the ground floor, horses stand in their open stalls; there are carriage-rooms, storehouses, and servants' quarters: so that, when the great gates leading to the street are closed, all the elements of luxurious living are complete within. And yet not all the elements: these lavish establishments lack many things which we have been taught to consider necessary for even moderate comfort. Neither grates for fire in the tingling mornings and nights, nor hot-water pipes, nor set-bowls, nor spring-beds, nor kitchen-ranges, nor scores of other common helps, belong to the magnificent ménage of a Mexican nabob. As a partial recompense, their women do not break down before thirty-five with nervous prostration. There is no cloud without its silver lining.
The very poor live within four walls of dried mud, on a floor of the same material. Anywhere upon this a fire of mesquite fagots may be kindled, to cook the universal tortilla, which forms almost the sole food of a large class. A few crockery utensils for cooking and eating, a handbrush for sweeping, some water-jars and baskets, perhaps a bundle of maguey fibres for a bed, and the furniture is complete. The zarape is cloak by day, and covering by night; the smoke flies out of open door or four-paned window, as it listeth; the floor is at once chair and table; and that is all, — or rather, it is not all; for with it stay patience, kindliness, and content, three graces hard to account for with such meagre plenishing.
The churches of the country are always a delight in their outer elevations. A strange mixture of the Italian, Moorish, and Gothic, they still preserve a quaint harmony of design, which greatly assists in accenting the picturesque beauty of the country. The loving labor which makes the facades almost invariably exquisite with fine carving, the delicate hues of the softly tinted stone, the domes covered with burnished tiles of pale or brilliant color, the fretted and soaring shafts of belfry and tower, set like mosaics against the sapphire sky, are revelations to the artistic sense. The interiors rarely carry out the promise of the exteriors. A crudity of color in the glaring decorations makes itself felt within, which is dissipated by the largeness and glow of the outside atmosphere. In many cases some false canon of art has caused the original stone carving of the walls to be covered by wretched prettinesses of stucco; but the revival of better taste is beginning to demand a return to the earlier purity of design. Silver railings and candelabra about the sanctuaries, rare tapestries, and paintings by the old Spanish masters, enrich many; but their effect is often spoiled by the immediate neighborhood of poor and tawdry ornamentation. Still, with all its incongruities, the ensemble is forcible and picturesque. The high altar rises always under the great central dome. Connected with it by a wide central aisle is the choir-room, placed in the nave between two great organs, rich in carven woods, and screens of wrought metal. A dim light filters down from small windows, set high in the lofty walls. From dawn to dark the slow monotone of the Gregorian chant floats in alternate antiphon and response between the robed priests within the sanctuary, and scarlet-gowned, shrill-voiced choristers, half hidden behind tall music-stands. The people, reverent and silent, glide in for a moment's prayer in the pauses of the day's duties; and a certain mystical atmosphere of religious solemnity, which seems to belong by right to the place, forces itself upon the most material nature. The great cathedrals of Puebla and Mexico reach naturally the highest expression of artistic merit, being magnificent in proportion, and richer even than usual in carving and bas-reliefs.
It is Sunday morning in the City of Mexico. The air is filled with the thin tinkling of innumerable bells; and, guided by their stridulous call, the streets swarm in every direction with a church-going multitude. The strange, overpowering smells of the sewerless city are masked for the time by the fragrance of flowers in the hands of every passing woman and child, — flowers massed in the arms of street-sellers, flowers stacked on the corners and gateways of courts waiting for customers; such roses as never were known out-side the Persian Gulistan in long-stemmed dewy bunches; such pyramids of pansies and heliotrope; such tropical gorgeousness of glowing hibiscus and scarlet poppy thrown away for a song or a miserly real, which is cheaper than a song itself. Where do you find the bird voice now that will warble for twelve and a half cents? Out of the great doors of the cathedral, and out of the gateways of the other hundreds of churches, the crowd whirls in a maëlstrom of entering and departing waves, as some one of the different services going on within commences or closes. In the bright, warm air, the sunny plaza is radiant with overflowing life; the shrill cries of the merchants make tumult in your unaccustomed ears; every branch of business seems to have received new impulse from eager groups of buyers, in the clean white shirts and stiff skirts that mark holiday raiment. Across through the trees the white tents of "Aguas Nevades" venders advertise the coolness of their frozen waters; the Indian basket-women are dozing in the midst of their mountainous piles of willow ware; the melon and fruit sellers come and go through shaded paths, with trays of luscious sweetness and color balanced upon their erect heads; and even the dark, solemn-faced children dimple into subdued laughter as they munch the dulces which no one is too poor to buy. Here and there a mozo and his sweetheart walk contentedly hand in hand through the broiling sun, or nestle closely together in the corner of one of the great high- backed stone seats, always either eating or smoking. From the stand in the centre, the band plays its gayest strains; for music here seems to be one of the component elements of happiness. The giddy, dashing small mule-cars, which make up in speed the slow gravity of the rest of the world, spin around one corner to Tacubaya, and another to San Cosmo, and a third to Los Angels: the first class filled with respectable commonplace; the second with a picturesque medley of gleaming teeth and eyes, of bright zarapes and blue rebosos, of positive dirt and superlative happiness. Both classes smoke; all classes smoke; high and low, old and young, clean and filthy, in door and out, every one, everywhere, and always. Perhaps it is because they are carried away by the ruling passion for smoke, that they persist in making their little fires of mesquite on the floors of their huts, and ignore chimneys. The city seems alive with humanity. In open window and balcony, in door and arch way, in plaza and lane and court- yard, the every-day numbers are increased threefold, and the houses have emptied themselves into the streets. The larger shops, being principally conducted by French or Germans, are closed; but the native tiendas, the markets, the cantines and pulquerias, and the omnipresent candaleria are widely open. After mass in the morning is the approved time for shopping among the Indians. The man buys his new sandals, and the woman her new veil; and around each purchaser gather the sisters, the brothers, the uncles, and the cousins, to barter, to haggle, and to enjoy the dear delight of bargaining. Now and again the dark funeral cars pass on the way to the cemetery, — a new treatment of an old subject to which one does not easily grow accustomed. A coffin on an open horse-car, with the traditional bravado of the driver thinly diluted to a weak show of respect by a weed on a plug hat; and a more or less indifferent crowd in the covered cars behind, including every grade of grief, from that of simple acquaintance to chief mourner — is worse even than the dreadful funerals at home, with their long string of hired carriages, which yet have some faint semblance of privacy. In strong contrast come the inexpressibly sad burial processions through the country; the coffin borne on the shoulders of friends, and the little handful of sorrowing people walking behind. This has about it the pathos of homely sincerity, that the bathos of vulgar display; and yet one may be as heartfelt as the other.
Along the Viga Canal, leading to the floating gardens, which are now more a name than a reality, the green, slimy water is covered with flat boats and barges, on their way to and from the markets. These are sometimes very beautiful, with masses of vegetables and flowers piled high in fantastic shapes; sometimes as ugly as garbage and offal can make them. Historians of ancient Mexico paint an exquisite picture of the light peroque of the Aztec, floating with the dawn down the shining water toward the Venice-like city on the lake, wreathed in bloom, its flower-crowned crew chanting hymns to the sun god, and the atmosphere of peace and innocence brightening the scene. But time has played havoc with this, as it has with most poetry; and the passage up and down the Viga is very sober prose indeed. Still it is not without interest; and if one's liver is right, and the stomach in perfect order, it is an experience that should by no means be omitted. But do not go with too strong an idea of the Venetian gondola and the gay gondolier.
Although as a rule the exterior is unprepossessing, yet here and there through the city one comes across palaces equally gorgeous inside and out. That of Gonzales, ex-President of the Republic, is of this latter kind. Frescoed on the street fronts in elaborate decoration of red and gold; the finely wrought balconies and screens gilded; the windows glowing with stained glass and carved frames; and the great trellised gates giving glimpses under the archway of a ravishing courtyard, paved in colored marbles, of arbors and Moorish kiosks, of flowers and fountains and gay awnings, — it looks like the pleasure dome of Kubla Khan, the House of Delight of good Haroun Alraschid, the Palace of Pleasure of Prince Fortunatus, or some magical garden stolen bodily from the Arabian Nights, rather than a real home for real every-day living. If the floating rumors of a country mean any thing at all, the retired official who owns it understands financiering to a degree which makes Boss Tweed a bungler, and Eno a child in petticoats. During the few years of his administration, he is credited with personal subsidies on the national treasury, so continued, so enormous, and so splendidly audacious, as to lift them into the region of high art. On the principle that the man who kills another man is called a murderer, while the one who kills ten thousand others becomes a hero, his transactions, which would seem to belong of right to the New-gate Calendar, are considered in the light of diplomatic triumphs; and, to all appearances, his people are proud of his repute. The only difference of opinion we found in his regard was as to whether he had taken out three millions of dollars or twenty-three. If, as is reported, he has built other palaces and other properties as beautiful as this, he has probably done as much good with the money as if it were left to sink in internecine squabbles, or be stolen by other revolutionary communists; and no doubt he salves his battered conscience with this moral reflection. The present incumbent is made of better stuff.The custom of naming the shops after some fact or fancy has been a constant source of amusement to us all through the country, but it reaches the climax of ludicrous perfection here. It is not altogether new, even at home, to meet a saloon or corner grocery with some such fanciful appellation as "The Arbor," "The Abbey," or "The Golden Lion." But this universal baptism without rhyme or reason, and the utter absurdity to which the limitless tropical imagination has led the sponsors of every business house, from a two-foot-square pulque stand, to a gilded emporium of fashion, would make the framer of the Connecticut Blue Laws laugh out in meeting-time. "The Fountain of Love," "The Triumph of Dynamite," "The Flight of Time," "The Tempest of the Soul," are some of those I find in my note-book, taken indiscriminately along the street. "The Tail of the Devil" and "The Little Hell" might have been placed over their respective liquor counters by a temperance lecturer looking toward the eternal fitness of things; but would he consent to "The Spirit of Purity" and "The Balm of Sorrow," over two similar grog-shops a little farther on?