October 31st
Yesterday there was a luncheon at May’s in honor of the Belgians who have come to get the much-talked-of railroad concession—a little matter of five thousand kilometers. Everything is beautifully done at his house, and he has many lovely works of art. The table was a mass of small, yellow chrysanthemums in a beautiful, old English porcelain surtout de table, having a yellow fond; the food was the triumph of a French chef over Mexican material. But, like all houses facing north, the May’s house seemed desperately chilly when one came in out of the bright, fresh autumn day. Simon, the clever French Inspecteur des Finances, came in only when lunch was nearly over. His wife had been in tears most of the time, and we were all a bit jumpy—as there were rumors of a raid on the bank, and we feared that he and the other directors might have been asked for their money or their lives. I invited them all for tea on Monday. Graux, the chief engineer, has a handsome English wife.
When I see the fully furnished salons of others, I long for my Lares and Penates, so safe in Vienna; though, I must say, the drawing-room has begun to look very homelike and comfortable, with its deep chairs, broad writing-desk, small tables, reading-lamps, palms, photographs, books, and bibelots.
In the afternoon we went to a small tea in another world than the political. It was given by Madame de Riba, nee Garcia Pimentel, of the inner circle of the aristocrats, where el gobierno is looked at from more or less of a distance, and where foreigners seldom penetrate. They are the delightful, charming people one sees in the same set all over the world, and remind me of the “cousinage” of the “first society” of Vienna. They constantly intermarry, and, though they travel, they rarely make foreign alliances, and are apt to return to their own country, which, despite its political uncertainties, is more beautiful than any other. There are many works of art left in Mexico from the old Spanish days, and in such houses one finds them. The handsome, agreeable, amiable women, moreover, wear Paris clothes and Cartier-set jewels; the men are dressed by London tailors. The scene yesterday suggested any European capital, and that inner circle where beauty, wealth, and distinction abide. The members of this inner circle are all in favor of the paternal form of government. They themselves exercise a more or less beneficent sway over the laborers on their big estates; and they realize from experience the necessity of a highly centralized government in this country, where, of the fifteen millions of inhabitants, thirteen million are Indians, and the other two million gachupines, mestizos, foreigners of various sorts. Huerta once told N. that the gachupines had spoiled a good race. He casts the stone back as far as Cortés—rather a novel idea!
The bull-fight contingent from Spain arrives to-day. There is great excitement, and with such a spur we all feel that business ought to improve. Lack of money is the crux of the whole situation in Mexico, and, with the United States frowning on any nation that even hints at a loan, the case seems desperate. Any one, however, can afford a bull-fight ticket. If not for the more expensive seats en sombra (in the shade), the people get a boleto de sol, where they simmer blissfully in the sunny half of the Ring.
I inclose a newspaper cutting about Bonilla, who was in hiding here. He is celebrated for his blunders—bonilladas, they are called. As a delicate expression of his thanks, on his arrival at Washington, he sent N. an open telegram announcing his safe arrival and ending with messages of gratitude neatly calculated to make trouble for his benefactor in both capitals.
I am finding myself very well off here, in the center of daily occurrences of vital interest. A full plate of life! One of its sweetnesses, doubtless, is that I don’t know how long it will last. My tea-service is the only thing I really miss. A tent of a night I know—but the tea hour comes every day!