Sunday, February 14 1886
The next day was Sunday, and Mother and I rose in strained near-silence. Our monosyllabic interplay was a dance I knew well. I could not appear too buoyant, for then she would think I wasn't taking the quarrel seriously. But if I remained utterly silent, she would accuse me of punishing her for having feelings of her own. A treacherous landscape, filled with pitfalls.
Fortunately, we had a diversion at hand. The previous evening, Gestefeld had arranged a full itinerary for us: a ride in the country, an afternoon at the bullfights, and an evening at the theatre. “A typical Mexican Sunday,” he had explained.
“What about your duties at the paper?” I'd asked.
“No duty on Sunday.”
“No? Whyever not?”
“Because no papers are published on Monday. In Mexico, no one is expected to work on Sunday. It truly is a day of rest. Quite civilized, actually.”
We were to begin our day of rest by attending church. “Though not the Cathedral or the Basílica de Guadalupe,” he had advised. “See those later, when you can linger and admire the architecture. No, go to San Jerónimo on the far side of the park, or else to La Profesa. You'll have a better experience.”
So before dawn, with only a few shared words of necessity, we obeyed the summons of the bells and crossed the park to Templo de San Felipe Neri, commonly known as La Profesa—“the Professed.” Once a Jesuit abode, it had housed a famous conspiracy that had preferred a dictator to the rule of the masses, which lead to the rise of our friend Iturbide as president.
As a church it was definitely ornate, but neither fish nor fowl—it seemed to have a foot in both the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, with its head in the nineteenth. I overheard a pair of tourists discussing its importance as a transition between early and modern baroque design. Knowing nothing of architecture, I took their word for it.
Personally, I was far more interested in the people. As there were no pews, everyone knelt on the floor to pray. There was a complete lack of hierarchy. A wretched beggar could kneel beside a wealthy dandy without drawing comment. Very different from home, where the janitor at our church was expected to remove any indigents from view so they would not spoil the prayers of the prosperous.
As we entered, Mother and I were hissed at. It was startling, and took me several moments to discover why. “Take off your hat,” I whispered to Mother, removing my own. The hisses subsided. I noted that ladies wore lace coverings for their heads and faces. They also wore black, quite in opposition to the colorful Sunday costumes of home. I wondered if we had inadvertently stumbled on a funeral. But no, this appeared to be a regular Sunday service.
I didn't understand much of what was preached that morning, no more than I would have understood a Catholic mass at home. But I learned the Latin responses, and murmured them with everyone else. I did not know if it was proper to take Communion, but I was game and would have risen to take the cup and wafer if Mother had not restrained me.
The service ended and, despite the early hour, we exited to find the street absolutely packed with people. The sun was barely up, but the markets were positively thronged. Bands were playing in the parks, and all the shops were open. The flower merchants were mobbed. Wandering hawkers peddled ice cream, pulque, candies, cake, and a dozen other delicacies.
Sunday was a popular moving day, as well. For months to come, Sundays would show us cavalcades of well-dressed people carrying furniture from one abode to another. Even policemen, their arms polished and gleaming, their horses finely brushed, transported their belongings on Sundays.
I had imagined, in such a religious country, that Sunday would be a true day of rest. But it seemed to be the most vivacious day of the week!
Though tempted to shop, we hurried back to our rooms. The next part of Gestefeld's itinerary was a ride to see the castle of Chapultepec.
Having taken Mrs. Charter at her word, we'd sent to her hotel to borrow riding apparel, and expected to find it waiting at our rooms. Upon our arrival, however, the messenger had only an apology. “The señora had no idea you meant to ride on a Sunday. She expresses her surprise that you would require riding gear on a day meant for prayer.”
I was quite frustrated, to say the least. While I fumed, Mother was calm. “Beggars and choosers, my dear. The shops are open.”
I shook my head to that. I was not about to spend good money on fancy riding apparel for just one day's ride. “We'll go as we are.”
Most of the ladies we had observed rode sidesaddle, which called for a habit that was long on one side and bifurcated beneath so as to conceal the leg while ahorse. I did my best to duplicate this effect by draping my one large shawl around my waist and using Mother's red scarf to cinch it in place. “There!”
Mother imitated my achievement with the shawl, then looked up. “What about our heads?” We had no wide-brimmed hats such as we had seen others wearing. Mother ended up using another scarf around her head, while I, believing one hat to be as good as another, took my tall, rounded bonnet and plopped it on top of my head.
When Gestefeld and his party arrived, they discovered us in our improvised riding gear. Observing their expressions, Mother whispered, “They must think we look like gypsies.”
They complimented us, of course, though with wide eyes. One young caballero asked, “Is this common riding attire in America?”
“Oh, yes,” I told him nonchalantly.
Gestefeld introduced several gallant men, including a pair of diplomats and a writer for his newspaper. The Mexican members of our party were quite young, and eyed me as a fish eyes a skewered worm. With the distinct feeling I would be courted throughout the whole day, I was once again grateful for my mother's presence.
Which I owed to Wilson.
I was thinking of him when a fellow with a thin moustache came up. He appeared to be our guide, and I had the momentary thought that I much preferred Wilson's fuller moustache to his. “Are you ready, señorita? You appear concerned.”
My concern came from Wilson, who was half a continent away. I shook it off. “All ready.”
Our guide wagged a finger. “No, no. First, I say, `Vamos?' You reply, `Con mucho gusto.' This means `with great pleasure.' Now try. Vamos?”
“Con mucho gusto,” I said, smiling.
And we set off to see the paradise of Mexico: Chapultepec.
♦ ◊ ♦
It was a glorious morning ride. I was incautious in my saddle, for which I paid in soreness several days thereafter. But I had not ridden since my childhood and had never mastered the reins as I did after watching our guide. I mimicked his clicks and jabs, and the horse beneath me responded to my every whim. With my red sash wrapped around my waist, I felt like quite the proper cowboy.
Mother was perfectly at home in her saddle, and rolled her eyes at my glances in her direction. I recalled her riding out with Father, and wondered if that was when she had mastered the skill. Or had it been with her first husband, perhaps? A question worth asking, when we were on more steady ground.
Besides, this was a day for vibrations and vistas. I could have been happy enough just to ride all the day through, even without the sights promised us. But sights were what we were there to behold, so I tried to catalogue them.
My first surprise came when we arrived at a tall set of gates guarded by both mounted and unmounted soldiers. I thought it strange to have to pass through guarded gates to enter a park. But apparently this park was also home to the castle that was the seat of government.
Our journey took us along the Paseo de la Reforma, which cut through part of the massive park on the north side of the hill. The boulevard was so wide we could have raced five teams of horses abreast. It seemed a remarkable achievement. When I asked Gestefeld about it, he said, “It was originally called the Paseo de la Emperatriz, after Maximilian's wife Carlota. He had it built after the style of his home in Austria.”
I wondered how long it had taken to build, and I was acutely aware of how spare my knowledge of Mexican history truly was. “He didn't reign long, did he?”
“About three years from arrival to arrest,” said Gestefeld. “You know his history?” I shook my head. “He was a royal Habsburg, but a younger brother, so he made his career in the navy. When the French invaded Mexico they asked him to become the emperor. He refused, until some Mexican monarchists convinced him.”
“I'm surprised America didn't object.”
“We were a little occupied in '63,” observed Gestefeld.
“Oh. Of course. Still, I can't imagine the Mexican people were pleased to have an Austrian ruling them.”
To my surprise, our Mexican escorts shrugged. One caballero said, “No-no, of course not. Yet he was better than some. He forbade the labor of children.”
“He forgave the debts of the poor,” added another fairly.
“And la emperatriz raised vast sums to house the destitute,” remarked a third. “Together, they adopted Iturbide's children, so their heirs would be Mexican.”
Gestefeld smiled at me. “Local feelings are complicated, as you see.”
Not for me. As un-American as it might seem, I was suddenly in love with the deposed emperor. “He seems quite the humanitarian.”
“Perhaps, señorita,” said the first speaker. “Perhaps he could have been, had he lived in different times. But his coming dispossessed the great Juárez, hero of the people.”
I looked to Gestefeld for explanation. “Benito Juárez,” he explained. “Their Abraham Lincoln and King Arthur in one. The once and future emancipator.”
Our most loquacious companion nodded. “However fair Maximilian might have been, he was, as you say, not Mexican. And when he tried to strike down Juárez and the rebels, it only hastened his end. All of Mexico rose up.”
“It helped that the French withdrew their troops,” added Gestefeld. “And our war was over, so we were able to exert a little influence, too. Monroe Doctrine and all that. He was arrested, tried, and executed. Firing squad,” he added.
I wondered if he had been shot by the very children he had liberated, then realized that with only three years in his grand office, those children had barely grown at all. “What happened to his wife?”
“Went mad. I understand that she's living in Europe, denying to this day that her husband is actually dead.”
“How horrible!” exclaimed my mother. “That unfortunate woman.”
To console us with diversions, the caballeros pointed out several fine statues. “There, the explorer Columbus. There, the last Aztec ruler, Cuauhtémoc. And there, on the horse, Charles IV of Spain.”
“Really?” I asked, surprised.
Our guide shrugged. “It was made during his lifetime. They talked of melting it down after la Revolución, but wiser heads prevailed. It is a thing of beauty, and part of our history. It would be foolish to deny either.”
I nodded, though it seemed strange to me, honoring someone who was considered an enemy of the nation.
The boulevard was more a place to be seen than to see. Fashionable people promenaded themselves, showing off their fine clothes, best horses, and new carriages. The conveyances far outshone those in Pittsburgh. We saw tally-ho coaches, elegant dogcarts, English gigs, and handsome coupés, all drawn by the finest hot-blooded studs in the world. Cream-colored horses with silver manes and bobbed tails that would have caused slack-jawed crowds to gather in the north were entirely common in Mexico City.
Among the moneyed set, the fashions were extraordinary. We saw powdered women in high French opera heels, covered in lace, brocade, and fresh flowers, walking alongside men in tile hats and long coats, with knobby canes and heels taller than those of their female companions. I found it remarkable that while the men wore tights to cover their legs, the fashionable women went out with only the stockings of Eve.
Several women stared at my strange riding habit. One even clicked her tongue at me in distaste. It made me laugh, which I was glad to see infuriated her.
“The trees are enormous,” observed Mother.
Gestefeld laughed politely. “Oh, believe me, they are dwarfs to the ones further on.”
“These trees are the silent witnesses of history,” said our guide. “They provided shelter to Montezuma, Cortés, Iturbide. Here is where our Niños Héroes laid down their lives to defend their country. Here is where the last battle with your country was fought forty years ago.”
“And now it is to be the home of President Díaz,” added Gestefeld, piquing my reporter's interest. He informed me that the palace had been vacated as a residence since the fall of Maximilian, and been made the home of the Astronomical, Meteorological, and Magnetic Observatory. “But three years ago the observatory was moved to the archbishop's home in Tacubaya. Ironically, that was just after President Díaz broke his vow to step aside and instead ran for reelection. He won, of course. Now Chapultepec Castle is going to be his presidential residence.”
Just then, we emerged from the trees and I saw the castle itself. Situated at the top of Chapultepec Hill, it was not my notion of a castle, derived from storybooks. It was more a palace, though with a rough stone base. Only two stories tall, it was impossibly wide. A modest tower rose from what looked like the middle—which was undergoing construction—with a number of peasants and craftsmen swarming over it, even on a Sunday. President Díaz meant his home to be both modern and impressive.
“It is the only honest-to-goodness castle in North America to have housed royalty,” observed Gestefeld.
Impressed as I should have been, I thought of our own proud observatory in Pittsburgh and imagined some rich politician claiming it for his home. Shame on President Díaz for taking this palace back from the people!
We rode around the castle nesting on the hill above us. Once, as we were crossing a stream, I remarked to our guide, “Chapultepec. What does it mean?”
“Grasshopper,” replied our guide.
Imagining some dark invocation, like “sacrifice” or “hill of God,” his answer made me laugh. “Why? Because it's shaped like a grasshopper?”
“Some say so. But there are many insects in the forest as well. Personally, I think it's named for them.”
Around the back of the castle, we reached another gate and encountered a scene worthy of an artist's brush. A small adobe house stood beside an old aqueduct. Its front porch held half-clad Mexicans selling coffee and pulque to passing horsemen.
There was quite a line, with everyone waiting their turn. Our guide assured us we would want something to drink before the next leg of our adventure, so we dutifully took our place in line.
Through the nearby gate came a constant stream of natives with burros bearing burdens destined for market. There must have been two hundred mules between us and the gate, but the beasts were the souls of patience as their masters waited in line for their drink. It was so amusing that I laughed, wondering which ones were the animals lining up to drink and which were the tolerant masters. Then I realized that I was in line with all the rest, which only made me laugh harder.
A song was being sung by those waiting, and also by those who had drunk more than one helping.
Sabe que es pulque—
Licor divino?
Lo beben los ángeles
En vez de vino.
I asked our companions to translate. They took a moment, carefully omitting anything that might be inappropriate for a young lady's ears, but at last emerged with this genteel ditty:
Know ye not pulque—
That liquor divine?
Angels in heaven
Prefer it to wine.
The pulque and coffee shop was not the only enterprise at hand. Some peóns had decided to compete by boiling water for tea or cooking small strips of meat on flat stones over charcoal fires. The wives of these entrepreneurs sat about knitting, weaving, or cooking their own repasts, which looked far better than the half-cooked strips of mystery meat offered up on sticks to the riders.
Our turn came, and Mother and I accepted our coffee, which was absolutely miserable enough to make me gag. “I should have had the pulque.”
“I could not have blamed you,” she agreed, surreptitiously dumping the contents of her cup onto the earth.
Remounting, we turned toward the gates and headed out into the sun-dappled wilds beyond the borders of Mexico City. Here the Paseo de la Reforma ended, so we leapt a ditch and galloped off into the open space before us.
It started badly, as we traveled through a cloud of dust for at least a mile, unable to see or breathe. Even the horses were coughing.
“Is it always this way?” I asked through a mouthful of grit.
“This is uncommonly bad,” said Gestefeld, barely audible for the hand across his mouth and nose. I could only grunt in response.
Finally, our guide decided we should find shelter until the dust settled. “There is a hacienda nearby where we get a drink and change roads. Vamos.”
He did not mention who lived at the hacienda, and we did not ask, so I was quite surprised when we came to a village of natives going about their daily business in spite of the sand.
“These are the Huichol,” our guide said once we were under cover. He paid them a few small coins, and they rushed past the straw mat that served as a door. In moments we had cool water to slake our thirst and wash the dust from our throats.
Refreshed, I studied the home, which looked to be wholly organic—not adobe or brick, but something else entirely. “What is it made from?”
“The leaves of the maguey plant,” explained our guide. “They use it for everything: clothes, construction, rope, even alcohol. For centuries it has been so.”
The sand soon began to clear, and I smiled to see naked children running out of doors. Not far off, a herd of horses sheltered in the shade of trees. One native with a bridle in each hand was leading the horses two by two toward a walled pond. He, too, was entirely naked. With a horse on either side of him, he waded into the water, the animals docilely ambling along with him. Together they walked straight through the pond. At one point he entirely disappeared, with only the horses' heads above the water. Then the trio rose together on the far side, glistening and beautiful.
Resuming our journey, we started up a high hill with a monument visible at the top. As we ascended, we passed several plain wooden crosses. The inscriptions asked travelers to pray for the souls of the deceased.
I'd never been one for retaining literature. I tended to remember plot and characters more than poetry. But one line from Byron came forcibly to mind:
And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea:
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
The monument atop the hill turned out to be a marble memorial for the Mexicans killed defending Casa de Mata and Molino del Rey—the House of the Dead and the Mill of the King. It troubled me to think that these memorials were to men killed by Americans.
The mill still functioned properly, with no sign of the old war upon it. Behind it stood Dolores—the City of the Dead. I found the cemetery disquieting in its beauty, with its strange wooden statue of Christ holding the globe in his palm, its many candles and flowers, and its plucked lawns encompassed by apple and peach trees. Eating fruit grown in a graveyard seemed ghoulish.
Fortunately—for us, at least—a funeral was in process, so we could investigate no further. Consequently, we skirted Dolores, which took us through a thicket of resentful pulque plants that pricked the legs of the men and tried to pull my skirt clean off. The horses suffered worst, and were obviously relieved once we were clear of them.
Next, we reached the gorgeous ancient city of Tacubaya. Where once had resided Montezuma's favorite chief, now lived Mexican millionaires. A band was playing in the central square, and the markets were so lively and cheerful we bought two small jugs of cream, overpaying scandalously.
Our guide halted atop another hill, pointing to a weather-beaten frame house and waterwheel. “The name Tacubaya means `where water is gathered.' Inside is the spring that has offered water for hundreds of years.”
Gestefeld began describing how the water made its way to the aqueduct. I was less interested in the mechanics of it than in the woman doing her washing in the trench alongside the waterwheel, and the two boys with buckets hung along poles on their shoulders hauling water back home.
The day became a blur, and I later had to reconstruct so much through talks with Mother and Gestefeld: La Castañeda, the great pleasure gardens. The natives shooting at birds for sport. Mixcoac, with its own gardens and the remains of the American barracks, and the terrible puns on its name. Shaking his head, Gestefeld explained that Mexicans loved bringing Americans here. “Once, some fool referred to the town as Miss Quack's. They will never let us live it down.”
One unforgettable moment was our encounter with the shaggy, curly-horned cow that startled us on our shortcut to the paper mill. We had evidently intruded on her private grazing land, for she charged at us as if she were a bull. Laughing, we turned to fly like Mr. Vanderbilt racing Maud S.
“We have eluded our bovine assassin,” said our guide once we'd leapt a nearby trench.
“But I've lost my hat!” I replied, hand flapping the air over my head.
That ignited a series of protests from our Mexican companions, who had remained respectful and amused by our trip so far. Seeing an opportunity for gallantry, they vied with each other for the honor of retrieving my lost chapeau. So violent did their oaths become that I was afraid it would come to blows. At last, one overmastered the others by simply leaping the trench and riding back toward my hat, once again entering the domain of the territorial heifer.
“He might be killed,” said Mother breathlessly.
“If only we had some capeadores to distract her,” cried one fellow. “Señorita Bly, you have been to the bullfight?”
“No,” I told him. “Not yet.”
“She's going this afternoon,” said Gestefeld.
“Ah, but you must allow me to be your escort!”
Smiling, I gestured to the brave fellow rescuing my hat. “That honor must go to him, mustn't it?”
The gallant's eyes twinkled. “If he dies, may I take you?”
“What a horrible thing to say!”
“He's close now,” said our guide.
We all turned our attention to the cow, who was raising and lowering her head and scratching at the turf. But she allowed him to dismount and pluck up my hat. Back in his saddle, he gave her a brave salute and then raced back to us, leaping the ditch with bravado.
As I replaced my hat, I thanked its savior. Wary of giving too much praise, I added, “Naturally, she let you retrieve it. She is a woman, she understands. Clearly she is proud of her headgear, and would never deny my mine.”
It was considered a highly witty comment, though the young men laughed perhaps a little too much. During the whole ride back, they kept exhorting me to smile more, grinning at me and performing ridiculous saddle or rope tricks to make me laugh. It was aggravating.
We reached our rooms a little after one o'clock, having ridden nearly thirty miles. Though my hat had been rescued from the cow, it had not preserved my face. My cheeks were blistered from the sun, while my nether regions were blistered from the saddle. It was time for siesta, and I longed to drop onto my bed without even shaking the dust from my clothes.
But I could not. We had just time enough to change our attire before heading off to our first bullfight, and after that, an evening of theatre.
Sunday—a day for relaxation!