THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 FROM THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 JIM TULLY 
 
 GIFT OF 
 MRS. JIM TULLY
 
 BEAjTCON 
 EDII \TION 
 
 Volume II
 
 j 
 
 BENT FORWARD AND GLl'ED HIS LIPS TO 
 THE PRIEST'S EAR.
 
 THE NOVELS, STORIES 
 AND SKETCHES OF 
 F. HOPKINSON SMITH 
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA 
 IN MEXICO * * * 
 AND OTHER LANDS ^ 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S 
 SONS J* NEW YORK jJ 908
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1889, BY F. HOPKINSON SMITH 
 
 A DAY AT LAGUERRB'S AND OTHER DAYS 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1892, BY F. HOPKINSON SMITH 
 
 WELL-WORN ROADS OF SPAIN, HOLLAND, AND ITALY 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1886, 1887, AND 1898, BY F. HOPKINSON SMITH 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 Published under special arrangement 
 with Hough ton, Mifflin &> Co.
 
 PS 
 
 Foa 
 
 V. 2, 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTION .... 3 
 I. A MORNING IN GUANAJUATO . 7 
 
 II. AFTER DARK IN SILAO . . .24 
 
 III. THE OPALS OF QUER^TARO . 37 
 
 IV. SOME PEONS AT AGUAS CAUENTES 49 
 V. THE OLD CHAIR IN THE SACRISTY 
 
 AT ZACATECAS .... 64 
 VI. IN THE CITY'S STREETS . . 81 
 
 VII. ON THE PASEO . . . .95 
 
 VIII. PALM SUNDAY IN PUEBLA DE LOS 
 
 ANGELES .... 102 
 
 IX. A DAY IN TOLUCA . . .121 
 
 X. TO MORELIA WITH MOON . .132 
 
 XI. PATZCUARO AND THE LAKE . .142 
 
 XII. TZINTZUNTZAN AND THE TITIAN . 157 
 
 ix 
 
 849356
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 IN OTHER LANDS 
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS . . . .185 
 A PERSONALLY CONDUCTED ARREST IN 
 
 CONSTANTINOPLE . . . .212 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM . . 237 
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 271
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 THE MAN . . . BENT FORWARD AND GLUED HIS 
 LIPS TO THE PRIEST'S EAR . . Frontispiece 
 FROM A DRAWING BY J. N. MARCHAND 
 
 FACING PAGE 
 
 ALONG THE GOLDEN HORN . . .192 
 
 FROM A DRAWING BY F. HOPKINSON SMITH 
 
 VARIED TYPES OF HUNGARIAN ARCHITECTURE 258 
 FROM A DRAWING BY F. HOPKINSON SMITH
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN 
 MEXICO
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 MY probe has not gone very far below the 
 surface. The task would have been 
 uncongenial and the result superfluous. The 
 record of the resources, religions, politics, gov- 
 ernments, social conditions, and misfortunes of 
 Mexico already enlarges many folios and lies 
 heavy on many shelves, and I hope on some 
 consciences. 
 
 I have preferred rather to present what would 
 appeal to the painter and idler. A land of white 
 sunshine redolent with flowers ; a land of gay 
 costumes, crumbling churches, and old con- 
 vents ; a land of kindly greetings, of extreme 
 courtesy, of open, broad hospitality. 
 
 I have delighted my soul with the swaying 
 of the lilies in the sunlight, the rush of the 
 roses crowding over mouldy walls, the broad- 
 leaved palms cooling the shadows, and have 
 wasted none of my precious time searching for 
 the lizard and the mole crawling at their roots. 
 
 Content with the novelty and charm of the 
 picturesque life about me, I have watched the 
 
 3
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 naked children at play and the patient peon at 
 work; and the haughty hidalgo, armed and 
 guarded, inspecting his plantation ; and the 
 dark-skinned sefiorita with her lips pressed 
 close to the gratings of the confessional ; and 
 even the stealthy, furtive glance of the outlaw, 
 without caring to analyze or solve any one of 
 the many social and religious problems which 
 make these conditions possible. 
 
 It was enough for me to find the wild life of 
 the Comanche, the grand estate of the Spanish 
 Don, and the fragments of the past splendor of 
 the ecclesiastical orders existing side by side 
 with the remnant of that Aztec civilization 
 which fired the Spanish heart in the old days 
 of the Conquest. Enough to discover that in 
 this remnant there still survived a race capable 
 of the highest culture and worthy of the deepest 
 study. A distinct and peculiar people. An un- 
 selfish, patient, tender-hearted people, of great 
 personal beauty, courage, and refinement. A 
 people maintaining in their every-day life an 
 etiquette phenomenal in a down-trodden race ; 
 offering instantly to the stranger and wayfarer 
 on the very threshold of their adobe huts a 
 hospitality so generous, accompanied by a cour- 
 tesy so exquisite, that one stops at the next 
 doorway to reenjoy the luxury. 
 
 4
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 It was more than enough to revel in an Italian 
 sun lighting up a semi-tropical land ; to look up 
 to white-capped peaks towering into the blue ; 
 to look down upon wind-swept plains encircled 
 by ragged chains of mountains; to catch the 
 sparkle of miniature cities jewelled here and 
 there in oases of olive and orange ; and to real- 
 ize that to-day, in its varied scenery, costumes, 
 architecture, street life, canals crowded with 
 flower -laden boats, market plazas thronged 
 with gayly dressed natives, faded church in- 
 teriors, and abandoned convents, Mexico is the 
 most marvellously picturesque country under 
 the sun. A tropical Venice ! a semi-barbarous 
 Spain ! a new Holy Land. 
 
 To study and enjoy this or any other people 
 thoroughly, one must live in the streets. A 
 chat with the old woman selling rosaries near 
 the door of the cathredral, half an hour spent 
 with the sacristan after morning mass, and a 
 word now and then with the donkey-boy, the 
 water-carrier, and the padre, will give you a 
 better idea of a town and a closer insight into 
 its inner life than days spent at the governor's 
 palace or the museum. 
 
 If your companion is a white umbrella, and 
 if beneath its shelter you sit for hours painting 
 the picturesque bits that charm your eye, you 
 
 5
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 will have hosts of lookers-on attracted by idle 
 curiosity. Many of these will prove good friends 
 during your stay, and will vie with each other 
 in doing you many little acts of kindness which 
 will linger lovingly in your memory long after 
 you have shaken the white dust of their vil- 
 lages from your feet. 
 
 It is in this spirit and with this intent that I 
 ask you to turn aside from the heat and bustle 
 of your daily life long enough to share with me 
 the cool and quiet of my white umbrella while 
 it is opened in Mexico. 
 
 F. H. S. 
 New York, December, 1888.
 
 1 
 
 A MORNING IN GUANAJUATO 
 
 THIS morning I am wandering about Gua- 
 najuato. It is a grotesque, quaint, old 
 mining town, near the line of the Mexican Cen- 
 tral Railroad, within a day's journey of the City 
 of Mexico. I had arrived the night before, tired 
 out, and awoke so early that the sun and I ap- 
 peared on the streets about the same hour. 
 
 The air was deliciously cool and fragrant, and 
 shouldering my sketch-trap and umbrella I bent 
 my steps towards the church of la parrbquia. 
 
 I had seen it the night previous as I passed by 
 in the starlight, and its stone pillars and twisted 
 iron railings so delighted me that I spent half the 
 night elaborating its details in my sleep. 
 
 The tide of worshippers filling the streets car- 
 ried prayer-books and rosaries. They were evi- 
 dently intent on early mass. As for myself, I 
 was simply drifting about, watching the people, 
 making notes in my sketch-book, and saturat- 
 ing myself with the charming novelty of my 
 surroundings.
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 When I reached the small square facing the 
 great green door of the beautiful old church, 
 the golden sunlight was just touching its quaint 
 towers, and the stone urns and crosses surmount- 
 ing the curious pillars below were still in shadow, 
 standing out in dark relief against the blue sky 
 beyond. 
 
 I mingled with the crowd, followed into the 
 church, listened a while to the service, and then 
 returned to the plaza and began a circuit of the 
 square that I might select some point of sight 
 from which I could seize the noble pile as a 
 whole, and thus express it within the square of 
 my canvas. 
 
 The oftener I walked around it, the more 
 difficult became the problem. A dozen times I 
 made the circuit, stopping, pondering, and step- 
 ping backwards and sideways after the manner 
 of painters similarly perplexed ; attracting a 
 curious throng, who kept their eyes upon me 
 very much as if they suspected I was either 
 slightly crazed or was about to indulge in some 
 kind of heathen rite entirely new to them. 
 
 Finally it became plainly evident that but 
 one point of sight could be relied upon. This 
 centred in the archway of a private house im- 
 mediately opposite the church. 1 determined to 
 move in and take possession.
 
 A MORNING IN GUANAJUATO 
 
 Some care, however, is necessary in the in- 
 roads one makes upon a private house in a Span- 
 ish city. A watchful porter half concealed in 
 the garden of the patio generally has his eye 
 on the gateway, and overhauls you before you 
 have taken a dozen steps with a " Hold, senor ! 
 d quidn busca usted?" You will also find the 
 lower windows protected by iron rejas, through 
 which, if you are on good terms with the black 
 eyes within, you may perhaps kiss the tips of 
 her tapering fingers. 
 
 There is a key to the heart of every Spaniard 
 which has seldom failed me the use of a lit- 
 tle politeness. This always engages his atten- 
 tion. Add to it a dash of ceremony, and he is 
 your friend at once. If you ask a Cuban for a 
 light, he will first remove his hat, then his 
 cigar, make you a low bow, and holding his 
 fragrant Havana between his thumb and fore- 
 finger, with the lighted end towards himself, 
 will present it to you with the air of a grandee 
 that is at once graceful and captivating. If .you 
 follow his example and remain bareheaded un- 
 til the courtesy is complete he will continue 
 bowing until you are out of sight. If you are 
 forgetful, and with thoughts intent upon your 
 own affairs merely thank him and pass on, he 
 will bless himself that he is not as other men
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 are, and dismiss you from his mind as one of 
 those outside barbarians whom it is his duty to 
 forget. 
 
 In Mexico the people are still more punctil- 
 ious. To pass an acquaintance on the street 
 without stopping, hat in hand, and inquiring 
 one by one for his wife, children, and the vari- 
 ous members of his household, and then wait- 
 ing patiently until he goes through the same 
 family list for you, is an unforgivable offence 
 among friends. Even the native Indians are dis- 
 tinguished by an elaboration of manner in the 
 courtesies they constantly extend to each other 
 noted in no other serving people. 
 
 An old woman, barefooted, ragged, and dust- 
 begrimed, leaning upon a staff, once preceded 
 me up a narrow, crooked street. She looked 
 like an animated fishnet hung on a fence to dry, 
 so ragged and emaciated was she. A young In- 
 dian one half her age crossed her steps as she 
 turned into a side street. Instantly he removed 
 his hat and saluted her as if she had been the 
 Queen of Sheba. ' ' A los pies de usted, senora ' ' 
 (at your feet, lady), I heard him say as I 
 passed. " Bese usted las tnanos " (my hands 
 for your kisses, sefior), replied she, with a bow 
 which would have become a duchess. 
 
 I have lived long enough in Spanish countries 
 10
 
 A MORNING IN GUANAJUATO 
 
 to adapt my own habits and regulate my own 
 conduct to the requirements of these customs ; 
 and so when this morning in Guanajuato, I dis- 
 covered that my only hope lay within the arch- 
 way of the patio of this noble house, at once 
 the residence of a man of wealth and of rank, I 
 forthwith succumbed to the law of the country, 
 with a result that doubly paid me for all the 
 precious time it took to accomplish it ; precious, 
 because the whole front of the beautiful old 
 church with its sloping flight of semicircular 
 stone steps was now bathed in sunlight, and a 
 few hours later the hot sun climbing to the ze- 
 nith would round the corner of the tower, leave 
 it in shadow, and so spoil its effect. 
 
 Within this door sat a fat, oily porter, rolling 
 cigarettes. I approached him, handed him my 
 card, and bade him convey it to his master to- 
 gether with my most distinguished considera- 
 tions, and inform him that I was a painter from 
 a distant city by the sea, and that I craved per- 
 mission to erect my easel within the gates of 
 his palace and from this coign of vantage paint 
 the most sacred church across the way. 
 
 Before I had half examined the square of the 
 
 patio, with its Moorish columns and arches and 
 
 tropical garden filled with flowers, I heard quick 
 
 footsteps above and caught sight of a group of 
 
 ii
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 gentlemen, preceded by an elderly man with 
 bristling white hair, walking rapidly along the 
 piazza, of the second or living floor of the house. 
 
 In a moment more the whole party descended 
 the marble staircase and approached me. The 
 elderly man with the white hair held in his 
 hand my card. 
 
 "With the greatest pleasure, sefior," he 
 said graciously. " You can use my doorway or 
 any portion of my house ; it is all yours ; the 
 view from the balcony above is much more ex- 
 tensive. Will you not ascend and see for your- 
 self ? But let me present you to my friends 
 and insist that you first come to breakfast." 
 
 But I did not need the balcony, and it was 
 impossible for me to share his coffee. The sun 
 was moving, the day half gone, my stay in 
 Guanajuato limited. If he would permit me to 
 sit within the shadow of his gate I would ever 
 bless his generosity, and, the sketch finished, 
 would do myself the honor of appearing before 
 him. 
 
 Half a dozen times during the progress of 
 this picture the whole party ran down the stair- 
 case, napkins in hand, broke out into rapturous 
 exclamations over its development, and insisted 
 that some sort of nourishment, either solid or 
 fluid, was absolutely necessary for the preserva- 
 
 12
 
 A MORNING IN GUANAJUATO 
 
 tion of my life. Soon the populace began to 
 take an interest, and so blocked up the gate- 
 way that I could no longer follow the outlines 
 of the church. I remonstrated, and appealed 
 to my host. He grasped the situation, gave a 
 rapid order to the porter, who disappeared, and 
 almost immediately reappeared with an officer, 
 who saluted my host with marked respect. Five 
 minutes later a squad of soldiers cleared out 
 the archway and the street in front, formed 
 two files, and mounted guard until my work 
 was over. I began to wonder what manner of 
 man was this who gave away palaces and com- 
 manded armies ! 
 
 At last the sketch was finished, and leaving 
 the porter in charge of my trap, I seized the 
 canvas, mounted the winding staircase, and 
 presented myself at the large door opening on 
 the balcony. At sight of me not only my host, 
 but all his guests, rose to their feet and wel- 
 comed me heartily, crowding about the chair 
 against which I propped the picture. 
 
 Then a door in the rear of the breakfast room 
 opened, and the sefiora and her two pretty 
 daughters glided in for a peep at the work of 
 the morning, declaring in one breath that it 
 was very wonderful that so many colors could 
 be put together in so short a time ; that I must 
 
 13
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 be muy fatigado, and that they would serve 
 coffee for my refreshment at once. 
 
 This to a tramp, remember, discovered on a 
 doorstep but a few hours before, with designs 
 on the hallway ! 
 
 This done 1 must see the garden and the par- 
 rots in the swinging cages and the miniature 
 Chihuahua dogs, and last I must ascend the 
 flight of brick steps leading to the roof and see 
 the view from the tip-top of the house. It was 
 when leaning over the projecting iron rail of 
 this lookout, with the city below me and the 
 range of hills above dotted with mining shafts, 
 that I made bold to ask my host a direct ques- 
 tion. 
 
 "Sefior, it is easy for you to see what my 
 life is and how I fill it. Tell me, what manner 
 of man are you ? " 
 
 " Con gusto, sehor. I am un minero. The 
 shaft you see to the right is the entrance to my 
 silver mine. I am un agricultor. Behind yon 
 mountain lies my hacienda, and 1 am un bien- 
 hechor (a benefactor) . The long white building 
 you see to the left is the hospital which I built 
 and gave to the poor of my town." 
 
 When I bade good-by to my miner, benefac- 
 tor, and friend, I called a sad-faced Indian boy
 
 A MORNING IN GUANAJUATO 
 
 who had watched me intently while at work, 
 and who waited patiently until I reappeared. 
 To him I consigned my "trap," with the ex- 
 ception of my umbrella staff, which serves me 
 as a cane, and together we lost ourselves in the 
 crowded thoroughfare. 
 
 " What is your name, muchacbo ? " I asked. 
 
 "Matias, sefior." 
 
 " And what do you do ? " 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "All day?" 
 
 " All day and all night, sefior." 
 
 Here at least was a fellow Bohemian with 
 whom I could loaf to my heart's content. I 
 looked him over carefully. He had large dark 
 eyes with drooping lids, which lent an air of 
 extreme sadness to his handsome face. His 
 curly black hair was crowded under his straw 
 sombrero, with a few stray locks pushed through 
 the crown. His shirt was open at the throat, 
 and his leathern breeches, reaching to his knee, 
 were held above his hips by a rag of a red sash 
 edged with frayed silk fringe. Upon his feet 
 were the sandals of the country. Whenever he 
 spoke he touched his hat. 
 
 " And do you know Guanajuato ? " I con- 
 tinued. 
 
 " Every stone, senor." 
 
 15
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 "Show it me." 
 
 In the old days this crooked old city of Gua- 
 najuato was known as Quanasbuato, which in 
 the Tarascan tongue means the "Hill of the 
 Frogs ; " not from the prevalence of that tooth- 
 some morsel, but because the Tarascan Indians, 
 according to Janvier, "found here a huge stone 
 in the shape of a frog, which they worshipped." 
 The city at an elevation of 6800 feet is 
 crowded into a narrow, deep ravine, terraced on 
 each side to give standing room for its houses. 
 The little Moorish-looking town of Marfil stands 
 guard at the entrance of the narrow gorge, its 
 heavy stone houses posted quite into the road, 
 and so blocking it up that the trains of mules 
 must needs dodge their way in and out to reach 
 the railroad below. 
 
 As you pass up the ravine you notice that 
 through its channel runs a sluggish, muddy 
 stream, into which is emptied all the filth of 
 the City of Frogs above, as well as all the 
 pumpings and waste washings of the silver 
 mines which line its sides below. 
 
 Into this mire droves of hogs wallow in the 
 hot sun, the mud caking to their sides and 
 backs. This, Matias tells me, their owners re- 
 ligiously wash off once a week to save the sil- 
 ver which it contains. As it is estimated that 
 16
 
 A MORNING IN GUANAJUATO 
 
 the summer freshets have scoured from the bed 
 of this brook millions of dollars of silver since 
 the discovery of these mines in 1 548, the own- 
 ers cannot be blamed for scraping these beasts 
 clean, now that their output is reduced to a 
 mere bagatelle of six million dollars annually. 
 
 On you climb, looking down upon the houses 
 just passed on the street below, until you round 
 the great building of the Alhondiga de Grana- 
 ditas, captured by the patriot priest Hidalgo in 
 1 8 10, and still holding the iron spike which 
 spitted his head the year following. Then on 
 to the Plaza de Mejia Mora, a charming garden 
 park in the centre of the city. 
 
 This was my route, and here I sat down on 
 a stone bench surrounded by flowers, waving 
 palms, green grass, and pretty senoritas, and 
 listened to the music of a very creditable band 
 perched in a sort of Chinese pagoda in the park's 
 centre. 
 
 Matias was equal to the occasion. At my 
 request he ran to the corner and brought me 
 some oranges, a pot of coffee, and a roll, which 
 I shared with him on the marble slab, much to 
 the amusement of the bystanders, who could 
 not understand why I preferred lunching with 
 a street gamin on a park bench to dining with 
 the elite of Guanajuato at the cafe opposite. 
 
 17
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 The solution was easy. We were two tramps 
 with nothing to do. 
 
 Next Matias pointed out all the celebrities as 
 they strolled through the plaza, the bishop 
 coming from mass, the governor and his secre- 
 tary, and the beautiful Sefiorita Dona Maria, 
 who had been married the month before with 
 great pomp at the cathedral. 
 
 " And what church is that over the way 
 where I see the people kneeling outside, 
 Matias?" 
 
 " The Iglesia de San Diego, senor. It is 
 Holy Thursday. To-day no one rides ; all the 
 horses are stabled. The sefioritas walk to church 
 and wear black veils, and that is why so many 
 are in the streets. To-day and to-morrow the 
 mines are closed and all the miners are out in 
 the sunlight." 
 
 While Matias rattled on there swept by me 
 a cloud of lace encircling a bewitching face, 
 from out which snapped two wicked black eyes. 
 The Mexican beauties have more vivacity than 
 their cousins the Spaniards. It may be that the 
 Indian blood which runs in their veins gives 
 them a piquancy which reminds you more of 
 the sparkle of the French grisette than of the 
 languid air common to almost all high-bred 
 Spanish women. 
 
 18
 
 A MORNING IN GUANAJUATO 
 
 She, too, twisted her pretty head, and a light 
 laugh bubbled out from between her red lips 
 and perfect teeth, as she caught sight of the 
 unusual spectacle of a foreigner in knickerbock- 
 ers breakfasting in the open air with a street 
 tramp in sandals. 
 
 Seeing me divide an orange with Matias, she 
 touched the arm of her companion, an elderly 
 woman carrying a great fan, pointed me out, 
 and then they both laughed immoderately. I 
 arose gravely, and, removing my hat, saluted 
 them with all the deference and respect I could 
 concentrate into one prolonged curve of my 
 spinal column. At this the duenna looked grave 
 and half frightened, but the sefiorita returned 
 to me only smiles, moved her fan gracefully, and 
 entered the door of the church across the way. 
 
 " The caballero will now see the church ?" 
 said the boy slowly, as if the incident ended 
 the breakfast. 
 
 Later I did, and from behind a pillar, where 
 I had hidden myself away from the sacristan, 
 who frowned at my sketch-book, and where I 
 could sketch and watch unobserved the peni- 
 tents on their knees before the altar, I caught 
 sight of my sefiorita snapping her eyes in the 
 same mischievous way, and talking with her 
 fan, as I have often seen the Spanish women do 
 19
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 at the Tacon in Havana. It was not to me this 
 time, but to a devout young fellow kneeling 
 across the aisle. And so she prayed with her 
 lips and talked with her heart and fan, and 
 when it was all thus silently arranged between 
 them, she bowed to the altar, and glided from 
 the church without one glance at poor me, 
 sketching behind the column. When 1 looked 
 up again her lover had vanished. 
 
 Oh ! the charm of this semi-tropical Spanish 
 life ! The balconies above the patios trellised 
 with flowers ; swinging hammocks ; the slow 
 plash of the fountains ; the odor of jasmine wet 
 with dew ; the low thrum of guitar and click of 
 Castanet ; the soft moonlight half revealing the 
 muffled figures in lace and cloak ! It is the same 
 old story, and yet it seems to me it is told in 
 Spanish lands more delightfully and with more 
 romance, color, and mystery than elsewhere on 
 the globe. 
 
 Matias woke me from my reverie. 
 
 " Sefior, vespers in the cathedral at four." 
 
 So we wandered out into the sunlight, and 
 joined the throng in holiday attire, drifting with 
 the current towards the church of San Francisco. 
 As we entered the side door to avoid the crowd, 
 I stopped to examine a table piled high with 
 rosaries and charms, presided over by a weather* 
 20
 
 A MORNING IN GUANAJUATO 
 
 beaten old woman, and covered with what was 
 once an altar cloth of great beauty, embroidered 
 in silver thread and silk. It was just faded and 
 dingy enough to be harmonious, and just ragged 
 enough to be interesting. In the bedecking of 
 the sacred edifice for the festival days then 
 approaching, the old wardrobes of the sacristy 
 had been ransacked, and this piece, coming to 
 light, had been thrown over the plain table as a 
 background to the religious knickknacks. 
 
 Instantly a dozen schemes to possess it ran 
 through my head. After all sorts of propositions, 
 embracing another cloth, the price of two new 
 ones, and a fresh table thrown in, I was con- 
 fronted with this proposition : 
 
 " You buy everything upon it, senor, and 
 you can take the table and covering with you." 
 
 The service had already commenced. I could 
 smell the burning incense, and hear the tinkling 
 of the altar bell and the burst from the organ. 
 The door by which we entered opened into a 
 long passage running parallel with the church, 
 and connecting with the sacristy, which ran im- 
 mediately behind the altar. The dividing wall 
 between this and the altar side of the church 
 was a thin partition of wood, with grotesque 
 openings near the ceiling. Through these the 
 sounds of the service were so distinct that 
 
 21
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 every word could be understood. These open- 
 ings proved to be between the backs of certain 
 saints and carvings, overlaid with gilt and form- 
 ing the reredos. 
 
 Within the sacristy, and within five feet of 
 the bishop who was conducting the service, and 
 entirely undisturbed by our presence, sat four 
 hungry padres at a comfortable luncheon. Each 
 holy father had a bottle of red wine at his plate. 
 Every few minutes a priest would come in from 
 the church side of the partition, the sacristan 
 would remove his vestments, lay them away in 
 the wardrobes, and either robe him anew or hand 
 him his shovel hat and cane. During the pro- 
 cess they all chatted together in the most uncon- 
 cerned way possible, only lowering their voices 
 when the pauses in the service required it. 
 
 It may have been that the spiritual tasks of 
 the day were so prolonged and continuous that 
 there was no time for the material, and that it 
 was either here in the sacristy or go hungry. 
 Or perhaps it lifted for me one corner of the 
 sheet which covers the dead body of the reli- 
 gion of Mexico. 
 
 These corners, however, I will not uncover. 
 
 The sun shines for us all ; the shadows are 
 
 cool and inviting ; the flower? are free and 
 
 fragrant; the people courteous and hospitable 
 
 22
 
 A MORNING IN GUANAJUATO 
 
 beyond belief ; the land the most picturesque 
 and enchanting. 
 
 When I look into Matias's sad eyes and think 
 to what a life of poverty and suffering he is 
 doomed, and what his people have endured 
 for ages, these ghosts of revolution, misrule, 
 cruelty, superstition, and want rise up and con- 
 front me, and although I know that beneath 
 this charm of atmosphere, color, and courtesy 
 there lurks, like the deadly miasma of the ra- 
 vine, lulled to sleep by the sunlight, much of 
 degradation, injustice, and crime, still I will 
 probe none of it. So I fill Matias's hand full of 
 silver and copper coins, and his sad eyes full of 
 joyful tears, and as I descend the rocky hill in 
 the evening glow, and look up to the great prison 
 of Guanajuato, with its roof fringed with rows 
 of prisoners manacled together, and given this 
 hour of fresh air because of the sacredness of 
 the day, I forget their chains and the intrigue 
 and treachery which forged many of them, and 
 see only the purple city swimming in the golden 
 light, and the deep shadows of the hills behind 
 it. 
 
 23
 
 II 
 
 AFTER DARK IN SILAO 
 
 ABALLERO ! A donde va usted ? " 
 
 "To Silao, to see the cathedral lighted." 
 Alone?" 
 
 "Cierto! unless you go." 
 
 I was halfway across the open space divid- 
 ing the railroad from the city of Silao when I 
 was brought to a standstill by this inquiry. 
 The questioner was my friend Morgan, an Eng- 
 lishman, who had lived ten years in the coun- 
 try and knew it thoroughly. 
 
 He was placed here in charge of the property 
 of the road the day the last spike was driven, 
 a short, thickset, clear blue-eyed, and brown- 
 bearded Briton, whose word was law, and 
 whose brawny arm enforced it. He had a nat- 
 ural taste for my work, and we soon drifted 
 together. 
 
 " Better take this," he continued, loosing his 
 belt and handing me its contents, a row of car- 
 tridges and a revolver. 
 24
 
 AFTER DARK IN SILAO 
 
 " Never carried one in my life." 
 
 " Well, you will now." 
 
 " Do you mean to say, Morgan, that I can- 
 not cross this flat plain, hardly a quarter of a 
 mile wide, and enter the city in safety without 
 being armed ?" 
 
 " I mean to say, mi amigo, that the moun- 
 tains around Silao are infested with bandits, 
 outlaws, and thieves ; that these fellows prowl 
 at night ; that you are a stranger and recog- 
 nized at sight as an American ; that twenty- 
 four hours after your arrival these facts were 
 quietly whispered among the fraternity ; that 
 every article of value you have on down to 
 your collar-button is already a subject of dis- 
 cussion and appraisement ; that there are nine 
 chances in ten that the blind cripple who sold 
 you dulces this morning at the train was quietly 
 making an inventory of your valuables, and 
 that, had he been recognized by the guard, his 
 legs would have untwisted themselves in a min- 
 ute ; that after dark in Silao is quite a different 
 thing from under the gaslight in Broadway ; 
 and that unless you go armed you cannot go 
 alone." 
 
 "But, Morgan, there is not a tree, stone, 
 stump, or building in sight big enough to screen 
 a rat behind. You can see even in the starlight 
 
 25
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 the entrance to the wide street leading to the 
 cathedral." 
 
 " Make no mistake, senor, these devils start 
 up out of the ground. Strap this around you 
 or stay here. Can you see my quarters the 
 small house near the Estacion ? Do you notice 
 the portico with the sloping roof? Well, my 
 friend, I have sat on that portico in the cool of 
 the evening and looked across this very plain 
 and heard cries for help, and the next morning 
 at dawn have seen the crowd gathered about a 
 poor devil with a gash in his back the length of 
 your hand." 
 
 As we walked through the dust towards the 
 city, Morgan continued : 
 
 " The government are not altogether to blame 
 for this state of things. They have done their 
 best to break it up, and they have succeeded 
 to a great extent. In Celaya alone the jefe po- 
 litico showed me the records where he had shot 
 one hundred and thirteen bandits in less than 
 two years. He does not waste his time over 
 judge or jury : strings them along in a row 
 within an hour after they are caught plunder- 
 ing, then leaves them two days above ground 
 as a warning to those who get away. Within a 
 year to cross from Silao to Leon without a guard 
 was as much as your life was worth. The dili- 
 26
 
 AFTER DARK IN SILAO 
 
 gence was robbed almost daily. This began to 
 be a matter of course, and passengers reduced 
 their luggage to the clothes they stood in. Fi- 
 nally the thieves confiscated these. Two years 
 ago, old Don Palacio del Monte, whose hacienda 
 is within five miles of here, started in a dili- 
 gence one morning at daylight with his wife 
 and two daughters and a young Mexican named 
 Marquando, to attend a wedding feast at a 
 neighboring plantation only a few miles distant. 
 They were the only occupants. An hour after 
 sunrise, while dragging up a steep hill, the 
 coach came to a halt, the driver was pulled 
 down and bound, old Palacio and Marquando 
 covered with carbines, and every rag of clothing 
 stripped from the entire party. Then they were 
 politely informed by the chief, who was after- 
 wards caught and shot, and who turned out to 
 be the renegade son of the owner of the very 
 hacienda where the wedding festivities were to 
 be celebrated, to go home and inform their 
 friends to bring more baggage in the future or 
 some of them might catch cold ! 
 
 "Marquando told me of it the week after it 
 occurred. He was still suffering from the mor- 
 tification. His description of the fat driver crawl- 
 ing up into his seat, and of the courteous old 
 Mexican standing in the sunlight looking like a 
 27
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 scourged mediaeval saint, and of the dignified 
 wave of his hand as he said to him, 'After 
 you, sefior,' before climbing up beside the 
 driver, was delightful. I laughed over it for a 
 week." 
 
 " What became of the senora and the girls ? " 
 I asked. 
 
 " Oh, they slid in through the opposite door 
 of the coach, and remained in seclusion until 
 the driver reached an adobe hut and demanded 
 of a peon family enough clothes to get the party 
 into one of the outbuildings of the hacienda. 
 There they were rescued by their friends." 
 
 "And Marquando ? " I asked, "did he 
 appear at the wedding ? " 
 
 " No. That was the hardest part of it. Af- 
 ter the ladies were smuggled into the house, 
 Don Palacio, by that time decorated with a 
 straw mat and a sombrero, called Marquando 
 aside. ' Senor,' he said with extreme gravity 
 and deep pathos, ' after the events of the morn- 
 ing it will be impossible for us to recognize each 
 other again. I entertain for you personally the 
 most profound respect. Will you do me the 
 great kindness of never speaking to me or any 
 member of my family after to-day ? ' Mar- 
 quando bowed and withdrew. A few months 
 later he was in Leon. The governor gave a 
 28
 
 AFTER DARK IN SILAO 
 
 ball. As he entered the room he caught sight of 
 Don Palacio surrounded by his wife and daugh- 
 ters. The old Mexican held up his hand, the 
 palm towards Marquando like a barrier. My 
 friend stopped, bowed to the floor, mounted his 
 horse, and left the city. It cut him deeply, too, 
 for he is a fine young fellow, and one of the 
 girls liked him." 
 
 We had crossed the open space and were en- 
 tering the city. Low buildings connected by 
 long white adobe walls, against which grew 
 prickly pears, straggled out into the dusty pla- 
 teau. Crooning over earthen pots balanced on 
 smouldering embers sat old hags, surrounded 
 by swarthy children watching the preparation 
 of their evening meal. Turning the sharp an- 
 gle of the street, we stumbled over a group of 
 peons squatting on the sidewalk, their backs to 
 the wall, muffled to their eyes in their zarapes, 
 some asleep, others motionless, following us 
 with their eyes. Soon the spire of la parrti- 
 qiria loomed up in the starlight, its outlines 
 brought out into uncertain relief by the flicker- 
 ing light of the torches blazing in the market- 
 place below. Here Morgan stopped, and, point- 
 ing to a slit of an alley running between two 
 buildings and widening out into a square court, 
 said, 
 
 29
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 " This is the entrance to an old patio long 
 since abandoned. Some years ago a gang of 
 cutthroats used it to hide their plunder. You 
 can see how easy it would be for one of these 
 devils to step behind you, put a stiletto be- 
 tween your shoulder blades, and, bundle you in 
 out of sight." 
 
 1 crossed over and took the middle of the 
 street. Morgan laughed. 
 
 " You are perfectly safe with me," he con- 
 tinued, "for I am known every where and would 
 be missed. You might not. Then I adopt the 
 custom of the country and carry an extra car- 
 tridge, and they know it. But you would be 
 safe here anyway. It is only the outskirts of 
 these Mexican towns that are dangerous to 
 stroll around in after dark." 
 
 There is a law in Mexico called the leydefuego 
 the law of fire. It is very easily understood. 
 If a convict breaks away from the chain gang 
 he takes his life in his hands. Instantly every 
 carbine in the mounted guard is levelled, and 
 a rattling fire is kept up until he either drops, 
 riddled by balls, or escapes unhurt in the crev- 
 ices of the foothills. Once away he is safe, 
 and cannot be rearrested for the same crime. 
 Silao has a number of these birds of freedom, 
 and to their credit be it said, they are eminently 
 30
 
 AFTER DARK IN SILAO 
 
 respectable citizens. If he is overhauled by a 
 ball, the pursuing squad detail a brace of con- 
 victs to dig a hole in the softest ground within 
 reach, and a rude wooden cross the next day 
 tells the whole story. 
 
 If a brigand has a misunderstanding with a 
 citizen regarding the ownership of certain per- 
 sonal effects, the exclusive property of the citi- 
 zen, and the brigand in the heat of the debate 
 becomes careless in the use of his firearms, the 
 same wooden cross announces the fact with an 
 emphasis that is startling. Occurrences like 
 these have been so frequent in the past that the 
 country around Silao reminds one of an aban- 
 doned telegraph system, with nothing standing 
 but the poles and cross-pieces. 
 
 Morgan imparted this last information from 
 one of the stone seats in the alameda adjoining 
 the church of Santiago, which we had reached 
 and where we sat quietly smoking, surrounded 
 by throngs of people pushing their way towards 
 the open door of the sacred edifice. We threw 
 away our cigarettes and followed the crowd. 
 
 It was the night of Good Friday, and the in- 
 terior was ablaze with the light of thousands of 
 wax candles suspended from the vaulted roof 
 by fine wires, which swayed with the air from 
 the great doors, while scattered through this
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 sprinkling of stars glistened sheets of gold-leaf 
 strung on threads of silk. Ranged along the 
 sides of the church upon a ledge just above the 
 heads of the people sparkled a curious collection 
 of cut-glass bottles, decanters, dishes, toilet- 
 boxes, and goblets in fact, every conceivable 
 variety of domestic glass. Behind these in small 
 oil-cups floated burned ends of candles and 
 tapers. In the sacristy, upon a rude bier cov- 
 ered by an embroidered sheet, lay the wooden 
 image of the dead Christ, surrounded by crowds 
 of peons and Mexicans passing up to kiss the 
 painted wounds and drop a few centavos for 
 their sins and shortcomings. 
 
 As we passed out into the fresh night air, the 
 glare of a torch fell upon an old man seated by 
 a table, selling rosaries. Morgan leaned against 
 one of the pillars of the railing surrounding the 
 court, watched the traffic go on for a few min- 
 utes, and then, pointing to the entrance of the 
 church, through which streamed the great flood 
 of light, said, 
 
 " Into that open door goes all the loose money 
 of Mexico." 
 
 When we reached the plaza the people still 
 thronged the streets. Venders sold dulces, 
 fruits, candles, and the thousand and one knick- 
 knacks bought in holiday times ; torches stuck 
 32
 
 AFTER DARK IN SILAO 
 
 in the ground on high poles flared over the ala- 
 meda ; groups of natives smoking cigarettes 
 chatted gayly near the fountain ; while lovers 
 in pairs disported themselves after the manner 
 of their kind under the trees. One young In- 
 dian girl and her dusky caballero greatly inter- 
 ested me. Nothing seemed to disturb them. 
 They cooed away in the full glare of a street 
 lantern as unconscious and unconcerned as if a 
 roof sheltered them. He had spread his blanket 
 so as to protect her from the cold stone bench. 
 It was not a very wide zarape, and yet there 
 was room enough for two. 
 
 The poverty of the pair was unmistakable. 
 A straw sombrero, cotton shirt, trousers, and 
 sandals completed his outfit ; a chemise, blue 
 skirt, scarlet sash, and rebozo twisted about 
 her throat, her own. This humble raiment was 
 clean and fresh, and the red rose tucked coquet- 
 tishly among the braids of her purple-black 
 hair was just what was wanted to make it pic- 
 turesque. 
 
 Both were smoking the same cigarette and 
 laughing between each puff, he protesting that 
 she should have two whiffs to his one, at v/hich 
 there would be a little kittenish spatting, end- 
 ing in his having his own way and kissing her 
 two cheeks for punishment. 
 
 33
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 With us, some love affairs end in smoke ; 
 here they seem to thrive upon it. 
 
 Morgan, however, did not seem to appreciate 
 the love-making. He was impatient to return 
 to the station, for it was nearly midnight. 
 
 " If you are going to supervise all the love 
 affairs in Silao you might as well make a night 
 of it," he laughed. So we turned from the 
 plaza, entered a broad street, and followed along 
 a high wall surrounding a large house, in reality 
 the palace of Manuel Gonzalez, formerly Presi- 
 dent of the Republic. Here the crowds in the 
 street began to thin out. By the time we 
 reached another turn the city was deserted. 
 Morgan struck a wax taper and consulted his 
 watch. 
 
 " In ten minutes, mi amigo, the train is due 
 from Chihuahua. 1 must be on hand to unlock 
 the freight-house. We will make a short cut 
 through here." 
 
 The moon had set, leaving to the flickering 
 lanterns at the street corners the task of light- 
 ing us home. I stumbled along, keeping close 
 to my friend, winding in and out of lonely, 
 crooked streets, under black archways, and 
 around the sharp projecting angles of low adobe 
 walls. The only sound besides our hurrying foot- 
 
 34
 
 AFTER DARK IN SILAO 
 
 steps was the loud crowing of a cock miscalcu- 
 lating the dawn. 
 
 Suddenly Morgan pushed aside a swinging 
 wooden door framed in an adobe wall, and I 
 followed him through what appeared to be an 
 abandoned convent garden. He halted on the 
 opposite side of the quadrangle, felt along the 
 whitewashed wall, shot back a bolt, and held 
 open a second door. As 1 closed it behind me a 
 man wrapped in a cloak stepped from a niche 
 in the wall and levelled his carbine. Morgan 
 sprang back and called out to me in a sharp, firm 
 voice, 
 
 "Standstill." 
 
 I glued myself to the spot. In fact, the only 
 part of me that was at all alive was my imagi- 
 nation. 
 
 I was instantly perforated, stripped, and 
 lugged off to the mountains on a burro's back, 
 where select portions of my ears were sliced off 
 and forwarded to my friends as sight-drafts on 
 my entire worldly estate. While I was calculat- 
 ing the chances of my plunging through the 
 door and escaping by the garden, this came 
 from the muffled figure : 
 
 " Quienvive?" 
 
 " La liber tad," replied Morgan quietly. 
 
 35
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 " Que nacion?" 
 
 " Un compatriot a," answered my companion. 
 
 The carbine was lowered slowly. Morgan 
 advanced, mumbled a few words, called to me 
 to follow, and struck out boldly across the plain 
 to the station. 
 
 " Who was your murderous friend ? a brig- 
 and ?" I asked when I had recovered my 
 breath. 
 
 "No; one of the Rurales, or civil guards. 
 They are the salvation of the country. They 
 challenge every man crossing their beat after 
 ten o'clock." 
 
 " And if you do not halt then what ?" 
 
 "Then say a short prayer. There will not 
 be time for a long one." 
 
 As we reached the tracks I heard the whistle 
 of the night express. Morgan seized a lantern 
 and swung it above his head. The train 
 stopped. I counted all my bones and turned in 
 for the night.
 
 Ill 
 
 THE OPALS OF QUERETARO 
 
 I ARRIVED with a cyclone. To be exact, 
 the cyclone was ahead. All I saw as I 
 stepped from the train was a whirling cloud of 
 dust, through which the roof of the station was 
 dimly outlined, a long plank walk, and a string 
 of cabs. 
 
 A boy emerged from the cloud and grabbed 
 my bag. 
 
 "Will it rain ?" I asked anxiously. 
 
 " No, senior. No rain, but much dust.'* 
 
 It was a dry storm, common in this season 
 and section. Compared with it the simoon on 
 the Sahara is a gentle zephyr. 
 
 When the boy had collected the balance of 
 my belongings, he promptly asked me two 
 questions. Would I visit the spot where Max- 
 imilian was shot, and would I buy some opals? 
 The first was to be accomplished by means of 
 a cab ; the second by diving into his trousers 
 pocket and hauling up a little wad. This he 
 
 37
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 unrolled, displaying half a teaspoonful of gems 
 of more or less value and brilliancy. 
 
 I had not the slightest desire to see the spot, 
 and my bank account was entirely too limited 
 for opalescent luxuries. I imparted this informa- 
 tion, rubbing both eyes and breathing through 
 my sleeve. He could get me a cab and a hotel 
 anywhere out of this simoon. 
 
 " But, senior, it will be over in a minute." 
 
 Even while he spoke the sun sifted through, 
 the blue sky appeared faintly overhead, and 
 little whirls of funnel-shaped dust went career- 
 ing down the track to plague the next town 
 below. 
 
 When I reached the plaza the air was deli- 
 cious and balmy, and the fountains under the 
 trees cool and refreshing. 
 
 If one has absolutely nothing to do, Quere- 
 taro is the place in which to do it. If he suffers 
 from the constitutional disease of being born 
 tired, here is the place for him to rest. The 
 grass grows in the middle of the streets ; at 
 every corner there is a small open square full 
 of trees ; under each tree a bench ; on every 
 bench a wayfarer : they are all resting. If you 
 interview one of them as to his special occupa- 
 tion, he will revive long enough to search among 
 the recesses of his wardrobe and fish out various 
 38
 
 THE OPALS OF QUERETARO 
 
 little wads. When he unwinds the skein of 
 dirty thread which binds one, he will spill out 
 upon his equally dirty palm a thimbleful of the 
 national gems, of more or less value. 
 
 You wonder where all these opalescent seed 
 pearls come from, and conclude that each one of 
 these weary dealers has an especial hole in the 
 ground somewhere which he visits at night. 
 Hence his wads, his weariness, and his daytime 
 loaf. 
 
 In reply to your inquiries he says, in a vague 
 sort of a way, " Oh ! from the mines ; " but 
 whether they are across the mountains or in 
 his back yard you never know. Of one thing 
 you are convinced : to be retailed by the wad, 
 these gems must be wholesaled by the bushel. 
 You can hardly jostle a man in Queretaro who 
 has not a collection somewhere about him. The 
 flower-woman at the corner, the water-carrier 
 with his red jars, the cabby, the express agent, 
 the policeman, and I doubt not the padre and 
 the sacristan, all have their little wads tucked 
 away somewhere in their little pockets. 
 
 And yet with all this no one ever saw, within 
 the memory of the oldest inhabitant, a single 
 stone in the ear or on the finger of any citi- 
 zen of Queretaro. They are hoarded for the 
 especial benefit of the stranger. If he is a poor 
 
 39
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 stranger and has but one peseta, it makes no 
 difference, he must have an opal, and the spoon- 
 ful is raked over until a little one for a peseta 
 is found. Quite an electric light of a gem can 
 be purchased for five dollars. 
 
 The spot and the opal are, however, the only 
 drawbacks to the stranger, and even then, if it 
 becomes known that upon no possible condition 
 could you be induced to climb that forlorn hill, 
 halfway up which the poor emperor was rid- 
 dled to death, and that you have been born not 
 only tired but with the superstition that opals 
 are unlucky, then by a kind of freemasonry the 
 word is passed around, and you are spared, and 
 welcomed. This was my experience. The well- 
 known poverty of the painter the world over 
 instantly recognized when I opened my um- 
 brella assisted me, no doubt, in establishing 
 this relation. 
 
 But the charm of Queretaro is not confined 
 to its grass-grown streets. The churches are 
 especially interesting. That of Santa Cruz is 
 entirely unique, particularly its interior adorn- 
 ment. Besides, there is a great aqueduct, five 
 miles long, built on stone arches, the most 
 important work of its kind in Mexico, sup- 
 plying fresh, cool water from the mountains, the 
 greatest of all blessings in a thirsty land. Then 
 40
 
 THE OPALS OF QUERETARO 
 
 there are scores of fountains scattered through 
 the city, semi-tropical plants in the plazas, 
 palms and bananas over the walks, and on the 
 edge of the city a delightful alameda, filled with 
 trees and embowered in roses. The flowers are 
 free to whoever will gather. Moreover, on the 
 corners of the streets, under the arching palms, 
 sit Indian women selling water from great red 
 earthen jars. 
 
 With that delicate, refined taste which char- 
 acterizes these people in everything they touch, 
 the rims of these jars are wreathed with pop- 
 pies, while over their sides hang festoons of 
 leaves. The whole has a refreshing look which 
 must be enjoyed to be appreciated. I put down 
 half a centavo, the smallest of copper coins, and 
 up came a glass of almost ice-cold water from 
 the jars of soft-baked porous clay. 
 
 Then there is the church of Santa Clara, a 
 smoky, dingy old church, with sunken floors 
 and a generally dilapidated appearance within 
 until you begin to analyze its details. Imagine 
 a door leading from the main body of the church 
 it is not large to the sacristy. The door 
 proper is the inside beading of an old picture 
 frame. Across the top is a heavy silk curtain 
 of faded pomegranate. Around the beading ex- 
 tend the several members of a larger and still
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 larger frame, in grooves, flutes, scrolls, and 
 rich elaborate carving clear to the ceiling, the 
 whole forming one enormous frame of solid gilt. 
 In and out of this yellow gold door little black 
 dots of priests and penitents sway the pome- 
 granate curtain, looped back to let them pass. 
 To the right rises a high choir loft overlaid 
 with gold-leaf. Scattered about on the walls, 
 unplaced, as it were, hang old pictures and 
 tattered banners. On the left stands the altar, 
 raised above the level of the church, surrounded 
 by threadbare velvet chairs, and high candela- 
 bra resting on the floor, holding giant candles. 
 Above these hang dingy old lamps of exquisite 
 design. The light struggles through the win- 
 dows, begrimed with dust. The uncertain 
 benches are polished smooth. At the far end a 
 sort of partition of open wooden slats shuts off 
 the altar rail. Behind this screen is stored a 
 lumber of old furniture, great chests, wooden 
 images, and the abandoned and worn-out para- 
 phernalia of religious festivals. 
 
 Yet with all this Santa Clara is the most de- 
 lightfully picturesque church interior one can 
 meet with, the world over. Some day they will 
 take up a collection, or an old Don will die and 
 leave a pot of money "to restore and beautify 
 the most holy and sacred church of Santa Clara," 
 42
 
 THE OPALS OF QUERETARO 
 
 and the fiends will enter in and close the church, 
 and pull down the old pictures and throw away 
 the lamps, chairs, and candlesticks, and white- 
 wash the walls, regild the huge frame of the 
 sacristy door, and make dust-rags of the pome- 
 granate silk. Then they will hang a green and 
 purple raw silk terror, bordered with silver 
 braid, in its place, panel the whitewashed 
 walls in red stripes, bracket pressed-glass kero- 
 sene lamps on the columns, open the edifice to 
 the public, and sing Te Deums for a month, in 
 honor of the donor. 
 
 This is not an exaggeration. Step into the 
 church of San Francisco, now the cathedral of 
 Queretaro, within half a dozen squares of this 
 lovely old church of Santa Clara, and see the 
 ruin that has been wrought. I forget the name 
 of the distinguished old devotee who contributed 
 his estate to destroy this once beautiful church, 
 but his soul ought to do penance in purgatory 
 until the fingers of time shall have regilded 
 its interior with the soft bloom of the dust and 
 mould of centuries, and the light of countless 
 summers shall have faded into pale harmonies 
 the impious contrasts he left behind him. 
 
 I often think what a shock it must be to the 
 good taste of nature when one whitewashes an 
 old fence. For years the sun bleached it, and 
 
 43
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 the winds polished it until each fibre shone like 
 soft threads of gray satin. Then the little li- 
 chens went to work and filled up all the cracks 
 and crannies, and wove gray and black films 
 of lace over the rails, and the dew came every 
 night and helped the green moss to bind the 
 edges with velvet, and the worms gnawed the 
 splinters into holes, and the weeds clustered 
 about it and threw their tall blossoms against 
 it, and where there was found the top of a par- 
 ticularly ugly old hewn post a little creeper of 
 a vine peeped over the stone wall and saw its 
 chance and called out, " Hold on ; I can hide 
 that," and so shot out a long, delicate spray of 
 green, which clung faithfully all summer and 
 left a crown of gold behind when it died in the 
 autumn. And yet here comes this vandal with 
 a scythe and a bucket, sweeps away all this 
 beauty in an hour, and leaves behind only its 
 grinning skeleton. 
 
 A man who could whitewash an old worm 
 fence would be guilty of any crime, even of 
 boiling a peach. 
 
 But with the exception of the cathedral, this 
 imp of a bucket has fastened very little of his 
 fatal work upon Queretaro. 
 
 When the sun goes down behind the trees 
 of the plaza the closely barred shutters, closed 
 
 44
 
 THE OPALS OF QUERETARO 
 
 all day, are bowed open, and between the slats 
 you can catch the flash of a pair of dark eyes. 
 Later, the fair owners come out on the balco- 
 nies one by one, their dark hair so elaborately 
 wrought that you know at a glance how the 
 greater part of the afternoon has been spent. 
 When the twilight steals on, the doors of these 
 lonely and apparently uninhabited houses are 
 thrown wide open, displaying the exquisite gar- 
 dens blooming in the patios, and through the 
 gratings of the always closed iron gates you get 
 glimpses of easy-chairs and hammocks with in- 
 dented pillows, telling the story of the day's 
 exertion. In the twilight you pass these same 
 pretty sefioritas, in groups of threes and fours, 
 strolling through the parks, dressed in pink and 
 white lawn, with Spanish veils and fans, their 
 dainty feet clad in white stockings and red- 
 heeled slippers. 
 
 One makes friends easily among a people so 
 isolated. When it is once understood that al- 
 though an American you are not connected with 
 the railway, their hospitality is most cordial. 
 
 "1 like you," said an old man seated next 
 me on a bench in the plaza one afternoon, " be- 
 cause you are an American and do not eat the 
 tobacco. Caramba ! that is horrible ! " 
 
 My trap, moreover, is a constant source of 
 
 45
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 astonishment and amusement. No sooner is the 
 umbrella raised and I get fairly to work than 1 
 am surrounded by a crowd so dense 1 cannot 
 see a rod ahead. It is so rare that a painter is 
 seen in the streets many people tell me that 
 they never saw one at work before that often 
 I rise from my stool in despair at the backs and 
 shoulders in front. I then pick out some one or 
 two having authority, and stand them guard 
 over each wing of the half circle, and so the 
 sketch is completed. 
 
 This old fellow who shared my bench in the 
 plaza had served me in this capacity in the 
 morning, and our acquaintance soon ripened 
 into an intimacy. He was a clean, cool, breezy- 
 looking old fellow, with a wide straw sombrero 
 shading a ruddy face framed in a bushy, snow- 
 white beard. His coat, trousers, shirt, and san- 
 dals were all apparently cut from the same piece 
 of white cotton cloth. The only bit of color 
 about him below his rosy face was a zarape. 
 This, from successive washings, an unusual 
 treatment, by the way, for zarapes, had faded 
 to a delicate pink. 
 
 " Not made now," said he, in answer to my 
 
 inquiring glance. " This zarape belonged to my 
 
 father, and was woven by my grandmother on 
 
 a hand loom. You can get plenty at the store. 
 
 46
 
 THE OPALS OF QUERETARO 
 
 They are made by steam, but I cannot part 
 with this. It is for my son." 
 
 I reluctantly gave it up. It was the best I 
 had seen. When he stood up and wrapped it 
 about him he was as delicious a bit of color as 
 one would find in a day's journey. Moreover, 
 the old fellow was a man of information. He 
 knew the history of the founding of the city 
 and the building of the great aqueduct by the 
 Marques de la Villa del Villar de la Aguila, who 
 defrayed most of the expenses, and whose effigy 
 decorates the principal fountain. He saw Max- 
 imilian and Generals Miramon and Mejia leave 
 the convent of Santa Cruz the morning of their 
 execution, June 19, 1867 ; and remembered 
 perfectly the war with the United States and 
 the day the treaty of peace was ratified with 
 Congress in 1848. Finally he tells me that 
 pulque was first discovered in Queretaro, and 
 insists that, as this is my last day in the city, 
 
 for on the morrow I go to Aguas Calientes, 
 
 I must go to the posada opposite and have a 
 mug with him ; that when I reach the great 
 city of Mexico I will think of this pulque, the 
 most delicious in the republic, and finding none 
 to compare, will come back to Queretaro for its 
 mate, and so he will see me again. 
 
 We have the pulque, the old man drinking 
 
 47
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 my share, and on our way to the station pass 
 through the market-place. My last view of this 
 delightful old city is across this market-place, 
 with the domed buildings in the background 
 silhouetted against the evening sky. All over 
 the open space where the rush and traffic of the 
 morning had held sway now lounged and slept 
 hundreds of tired people, some on the steps sur- 
 rounding the square stone column centring the 
 plaza, others flat on the pavement. Here they 
 will doze until the sun looks at them from over 
 the Cerro de las Campafias. Then they will 
 shake themselves together, and each one will 
 go in search of his daily avocation. It is safe to 
 say that not one in ten ever finds it. 
 
 48
 
 IV 
 SOME PEONS AT AGUAS CALIENTES 
 
 BLINDING sunlight; a broad road ankle 
 deep in dust ; a double row of great trees 
 with branches like twisted cobras ; inky blue- 
 black shadows stencilled on the gray dust, re- 
 peating the tree forms above ; a long, narrow 
 canal, but a few feet wide, half filled with wa- 
 ter, from which rise little whiffs of hot steam ; 
 beside it a straggling rude stone wall fringed 
 with bushes. In the middle distance, through 
 vistas of tree trunks, glimpses of brown fields 
 fading away into pale pink, violet, and green. 
 In the dim blue beyond, the dome and towers 
 of a church, surmounting little spots of yellow, 
 cream white, and red, broken with patches of 
 dark green, locating bits of the town, with 
 orange groves between. 
 
 Long strings of burros crawl into the city 
 along this highway, loaded down with great 
 bundles of green fodder ; undulating masses of 
 yellow dust drift over it, which harden into 
 droves of sheep as they pass. 
 
 49
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 Shuffling along its edges, hugging the inter- 
 mittent shadows, stroll groups of natives in 
 twos and threes ; the women in straw hats with 
 plaited hair, their little children slung to their 
 backs, the men in zarapes and sandals, carrying 
 crates on their shoulders packed with live poul- 
 try and cheap pottery. 
 
 Such was my first glance at Aguas Calientes. 
 But there is something more. To the left, along 
 the whole length of the canal or sluiceway, as 
 far as the eye can reach, are scattered hundreds of 
 natives of both sexes, and all ages, lining the 
 water's edge and disporting themselves in every 
 conceivable state of deshabille. In fact, it might 
 as well be stated that the assemblage is divided 
 into two classes, those who have something on 
 and those who have nothing. Five hundred of 
 the descendants of Montezuma quietly taking 
 their baths at high noon on a public highway, 
 with only such privacy as the Republic of Mex- 
 ico and the blue sky of heaven afford ! 
 
 Old men hobble along the roadside, turn off 
 to the left, select a convenient bush as a clothes- 
 rack, scale off what scanty raiment they carry 
 with them, and slide turtle-like into the warm 
 water. Young Indian girls in bunches of half a 
 dozen sit by the canal and comb out their wavy 
 black hair, glossy with wet, while they chat 
 
 50
 
 SOME PEONS AT AGUAS CALIENTES 
 
 merrily with their friends, whose heads bob up 
 over the brink, and whose bodies simmer at a 
 temperature of 90. Whole families soak in 
 groups, sousing their babies in the warm water 
 and draining them on the bank, where they 
 glisten in the dazzling sunlight like bronzed 
 Cupids. Now and then a tall, straight young 
 Indian turns aside from out the dust, winds his 
 zarape about him, and protected by its folds 
 unmakes his toilet, and disappears over the 
 edge. 
 
 Up and down this curious inland Long Branch 
 rows of heads bob up from the sluiceway and 
 smile good-naturedly as I draw near. They are 
 not abashed or disturbed in the slightest degree ; 
 they are only concerned lest I seek to crowd 
 them from their places, theirs by right of oc- 
 cupancy. 
 
 Even the young women lying on the bank in 
 the shade, with one end of a zarape tossed over 
 their backs, their only other garment washed 
 and drying in the sun, seem more interested 
 in the sketch trap than in him who carries it. 
 It is one of the customs of the country. 
 
 It is true that near the springs above, within 
 a mile of this spot, there is a small pond filled 
 from the overflow of the baths adjoining, which 
 they can use and sometimes do, but the privacy
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 is none the greater. It is equally true that down 
 the road nearer the city there are also the " Ba- 
 ftos Grandes," where for one peseta about 
 twenty -five cents they can obtain a bath with 
 all the encircling privacy of stone walls, and 
 with the additional comforts of a crash towel, 
 one foot square, and a cake of soap of the size 
 and density of a grapeshot. But then, the wages 
 of a native for a whole day's work is less than 
 one peseta, and when he is lucky enough to get 
 this, every centavo in it is needed for the in- 
 side of his dust-covered body. 
 
 Nor can he utilize his surplus clothing as a 
 shield and cover. He has but one suit, a white 
 shirt and a pair of cotton trousers. Naturally 
 he falls back upon his zarape, often handling it 
 as skilfully and effectively as the Indian women 
 on the steps leading to the sacred Ganges do 
 their gorgeous colored tunics, slipping the dry 
 one over the wet without much more than a 
 glimpse of finger and toe. 
 
 All these thoughts ran through my head as 
 I unlimbered my trap, opened my white um- 
 brella, and put up my easel to paint the curious 
 scene. 
 
 " Buenos dias, sehor" came a voice over my 
 shoulder. I looked up and into the dark eyes of 
 a swarthy Mexican, who was regarding me with 
 52
 
 SOME PEONS AT AGUAS CALIENTES 
 
 much the same air as one would a street ped- 
 dler preparing to exhibit his wares. 
 
 "Does everybody hereabout bathe in the 
 open air ? " I ventured to ask. 
 
 " Why not ? It is either here or not at all," 
 he replied. 
 
 I continued at work, ruminating over the 
 strange surroundings, the query unanswered. 
 
 Why not, in fact ? A tropical sun, clouds of 
 dust dry as powder and fine as smoke, air and 
 water free, nothing else in their life of sla- 
 very. 
 
 One has only to look into these sad faces to 
 read the history of this patient, uncomplaining 
 race, or to watch them as they sit for hours 
 in the shadow of some great building, motion- 
 less, muffled to the mouth in their zarapes and 
 rebozos, their eyes looking straight ahead as if 
 determined to read the future, to appreciate 
 their helplessness. 
 
 From the days of Cortez down to the time 
 of Diaz, they have been humiliated, degraded, 
 and enslaved ; all their patriotism, self-reliance, 
 and independence have long since been crushed 
 out. They are a serving people, set apart and 
 kept apart by a caste as defined and rigid as 
 divides society to-day in Hindoostan infi- 
 nitely more severe than ever existed in the 
 
 53
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 most benighted section of our own country in 
 the old plantation days. 
 
 They have inherited nothing in the past but 
 poverty and suffering, and expect nothing in 
 the future. To sleep, to awake, to be hungry, 
 to sleep again. Sheltered by adobe huts, sleep- 
 ing upon coarse straw mats, their only utensils 
 the rude earthen vessels they make themselves, 
 their daily food but bruised corn pounded in a 
 stone mortar, they pass their lives awaiting the 
 inevitable, without hope and without ambition. 
 
 " As a rule," says Consul-General Strother 
 (Porte Crayon), " none of the working classes 
 of Mexico have any idea of present economy or 
 of providing for the future. The lives of most 
 of them seem to be occupied in obtaining food 
 and amusement for the passing hour, without 
 either hope or desire for a better future." 
 
 David A. Wells, in his terse and pithy 
 " Study of Mexico," speaking of the haciendas, 
 and their peon labor, says : 
 
 " The owners of these large Mexican estates, 
 who are generally men of wealth and educa- 
 tion, rarely live upon them, but make their 
 homes in the city of Mexico or in Europe, and 
 intrust the management of their property to a 
 superintendent, who, like the owner, considers 
 himself a gentleman, and whose chief business 
 
 54
 
 SOME PEONS AT AGUAS CALIENTES 
 
 is to keep the peons in debt, or, what is the 
 same thing, in slavery. Whatever work is 
 done is performed by the peons, in whose 
 veins Indian blood predominates, in their 
 own way and in their own time. . . . Without 
 being bred to any mechanical profession, the 
 peons make and repair nearly every instrument 
 or tool that is used upon the estate, and this, 
 too, without the use of a forge, not even of 
 bolts and nails. The explanation of such an 
 apparently marvellous result is to be found in 
 a single word, or rather material, rawhide, 
 with which the peon feels himself qualified to 
 meet almost any constructive emergency, from 
 the framing of a house to the making of a loom, 
 the mending of a gun, or the repair of a broken 
 leg." 
 
 It is not, therefore, from lack of intelligence, 
 or ingenuity, or capacity, that the condition of 
 these descendants of the Aztec warriors is so 
 hopeless, but rather from the social isolation to 
 which they are subjected, and which cuts them 
 off from every influence that makes the white 
 man their superior. 
 
 So I worked on, pondering over this hopeless 
 race, outcasts and serfs in a land once their own, 
 and thinking of the long account of cruelty and 
 selfishness which stood against the Spanish 
 
 55
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 nation, when suddenly from beneath my white 
 umbrella I noticed three Indians rise from the 
 ground near the canal, stand apart from their 
 fellows, and walk towards me. As 1 lifted my 
 eyes they hesitated, then, as if gathering cour- 
 age, again advanced cautiously until they stood 
 within a dozen yards of my easel. Here they 
 squatted in the dust, the three in a row, their 
 zarapes half covering their faces. I laid down 
 my palette and beckoned them to me. They 
 advanced smiling, raised their sombreros with 
 an "A Dios, senor," crouched down on their 
 haunches, a favorite attitude, and watched 
 every movement of my brush with the deepest 
 interest, exchanging significant and appreciative 
 glances as I dotted in the figures. Not one 
 opened his lips. Silent and grave as the stone 
 gods of their ancestors sat they, wholly absorbed 
 in a revelation as astounding to them as a vi- 
 sion from an unknown world. 
 
 Presently a great flock of sheep wrinkled past 
 me, shutting out my view, and I reversed my 
 canvas to shield it, and waited for the dust to 
 settle. During the pause I slipped my hand into 
 the side pocket of my blouse, drew out my 
 cigarette case, and, touching the spring, handed 
 its open contents to the three Indians. 
 
 It was curious to see how they received the 
 56
 
 SOME PEONS AT AGUAS CALIENTES 
 
 slight courtesy, and with what surprise, hesi- 
 tancy, and genuine delight they looked at the 
 open case. It was as if you had stopped a crip- 
 pled beggar on the road, and, having relieved 
 his wants, had lifted him up beside you and 
 returned him to his hovel in your carriage. 
 
 Each man helped himself daintily to my cigar- 
 ettes, laying them on the palm of his hand, and 
 then watched me closely. I selected my own, 
 touched my match-safe, and passed the lighted 
 taper to the Indian nearest me. Instantly they 
 all uncovered, placing their sombreros in the 
 dust, and gravely accepted the light. When I 
 had exhausted its flickering flame upon my own 
 cigarette, and taken my first whiff, they re- 
 placed their hats with the same sort of respect- 
 ful silence one sometimes sees in a crowded 
 street when a priestly procession passes. It was 
 not a matter of form alone. It did not seem to 
 be simply the acknowledgment of perhaps the 
 most trivial courtesy one can offer another in a 
 Spanish country. There was something more 
 that lurked around the corners of their mouths 
 and kindled in their eyes, which said to me but 
 too plainly, 
 
 "This stranger is a white man, and yet he 
 does not despise us." 
 
 When the sketch was finished, the trap 
 
 57
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 packed, and I turned to retrace my steps to my 
 lodgings, all three arose to their feet, unwound 
 their zarapes, and trailed them in the dust. I 
 can see them now, standing uncovered in the 
 sunlight, and hear their low, soft voices calling 
 after me, 
 
 " Con Dios va listed, mi amigo." 
 
 I continued my rambles, following the high- 
 way into the city, idling about the streets, and 
 jotting down queer bits of architecture and odd 
 figures in my sketch-book. I stopped long 
 enough to examine the high saddles of a pair of 
 horses tethered outside a fonda, their owners 
 drinking pulque within, and then crossed over 
 to where some children were playing " bull- 
 fight." 
 
 When the sun went down I strolled into the 
 beautiful garden of San Marcos and sat me 
 down on one of the stone benches surrounding 
 the fountain. Here, after bathing my face and 
 hands in the cool water of the basin, I rested 
 and talked to the gardener. 
 
 He was an Indian, quite an old man, and had 
 spent most of his life here. The garden be- 
 longed to the city, and he was paid two pesetas 
 a day to take care of his part of it. If I would 
 come in the evening the benches would be full. 
 
 58
 
 SOME PEONS AT AGUAS CAL1ENTES 
 
 There were many beautiful senoritas in Aguas 
 Calientes, and on Sunday there would be mu- 
 sic. But I must wait until April if I wanted to 
 see the garden, and in fact the whole city in its 
 gala dress. Then would be celebrated the fiesta 
 of San Marcos, their patron saint, strings of 
 lanterns hung and lighted, the fountains play- 
 ing, music everywhere, and crowds of people 
 from all the country around, even from the 
 great city of Mexico, and as far north as Zacate- 
 cas. Then he tucked a cluster of azaleas into 
 the strap of my " trap " and insisted on going 
 with me to the corner of the cathedral, so that 
 I should not miss the turn in the next street 
 that led to the pottery market. 
 
 All the markets of Aguas Calientes are inter- 
 esting, for the country round about is singu- 
 larly rich and fertile, and fruits and vegetables 
 are raised in abundance. The pottery market is 
 especially so. It is held in a small open square 
 near the general market, surrounded by high 
 buildings. The pottery is piled in great heaps 
 on the ground, and the Indian women, shel- 
 tered by huge square and octagon umbrellas of 
 coarse matting, sit all day serving their cus- 
 tomers. At night they burn torches. All the 
 other markets are closed at noon. The pottery 
 is very cheap, a few centavos covering the cost 
 
 59
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 of almost any single piece of moderate size, and 
 one peseta making you master of the most im- 
 portant specimen in a collection. 
 
 Each province, in fact almost every village 
 in Mexico, produces a ware having more or less 
 distinctly marked characteristics. In Guadala- 
 jara the pottery is gray, soft-baked, and un- 
 glazed, but highly polished and often decorated 
 with stripings of silver and gold bronze. In 
 Zacatecas the glaze is as hard and brilliant as 
 a piano top, and the small pulque pots and 
 pitchers look like polished mahogany or highly 
 colored meerschaum pipe bowls. In Puebla a 
 finer ware is made, something between good 
 earthenware and coarse, soft porcelain. It has 
 a thick tin glaze, and the decoration in strong 
 color is an under-glaze. Here in Aguas Cali- 
 entes they make not only most of these coarser 
 varieties, but a better grade of gray stoneware, 
 covered with a yellow glaze, semi-transparent, 
 with splashings of red flowers and leaves scat- 
 tered over it. 
 
 The potters are these much despised, de- 
 graded peons, who not only work in clay, em- 
 broider in feathers with exquisite results (an 
 industry of their ancestors), but make the finer 
 saddles of stamped and incised leather, besides 
 producing an infinite variety of horse equip- 
 60
 
 SOME PEONS AT AGUAS CALIENTES 
 
 ment unknown outside of Mexico. Moreover, 
 in Uruapam they make Japanese lacquers, in 
 Santa Fe on Lake Patzcuaro, Moorish iridescent 
 ware, and near Puebla, Venetian glass. In a 
 small town in western Mexico I found a glass 
 pitcher, made by a Tarascan Indian, of such 
 exquisite mould and finish that one unfamiliar 
 with the handiwork of this down-trodden race, 
 seeing it in its place of honor in my stu- 
 dio, would say, " Ah, Venetian ! Salviati, of 
 course." 
 
 From the market I sought the church of San 
 Diego, with its inlaid wooden floor and quaint 
 doorway richly carved, and as the twilight set- 
 tled, entered the narrow street that led to my 
 lodgings. At the farther end, beneath an over- 
 hanging balcony, a group of children and na- 
 tives were gathered about a band of wandering 
 minstrels. As I drew near, the tinkle of a tri- 
 angle and the thrum of a harp accompanying a 
 weird chant rose on the air. The quartette in 
 appearance, costume, and bearing were quite 
 different from any of the Indians I had seen 
 about Aguas Calientes. They were much lighter 
 in color, and were distinguished by a certain air 
 of independence and dignity. 
 
 The tallest and oldest of the band held in 
 his left hand a short harp, quite Greek in its 
 61
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 design. The youngest shook a tambourine, with 
 rim and rattles complete, but without the drum- 
 head. The third tinkled a triangle, while the 
 fourth, a delicate-looking, large-eyed, straight 
 young fellow, handsome as a Greek god, with 
 teeth like rows of corn, joined in the rhythmic 
 chant. As they stood in the darkening shadows, 
 beating time with their sandalled feet, with 
 harp and triangle silhouetted against the even- 
 ing sky, and zarapes hanging in long straight 
 lines from their shoulders, the effect was so 
 thoroughly classic that I could not but recall 
 one of the great friezes of the Parthenon. I 
 lighted a cigarette, opened the window of my 
 balcony, and placing the bits of pottery 1 had 
 bought in the market in a row on my window- 
 sill, with the old gardener's azaleas in the largest 
 jar, listened to the music, my thoughts full of 
 the day's work and experience. My memory 
 went back to my three friends of the morning, 
 standing in the sunlight, their sombreros in the 
 dust ; to the garrulous old gardener bending 
 over his flowers ; to the girl selling pottery ; to 
 the almost tender courtesy and gentleness of 
 these people, their unchanging serenity of tem- 
 per, their marvellous patience, their innate taste 
 and skill, their hopeless poverty and daily pri- 
 
 62
 
 SOME PEONS AT AGUAS CALIENTES 
 
 vations and sufferings ; and finally to the in- 
 justice of it all. 
 
 Peons and serfs in their own land ! Despoiled 
 by Cortez, tricked by his successors, enslaved 
 by the viceroys, taxed, beaten, defrauded, and 
 despised by almost every ruler and usurper 
 since the days of Spanish rule, the whole his- 
 tory of the life of the Aztec and his descendants, 
 from the initial massacre at Cholula down to the 
 present day, has been one long list of cruelty 
 and deceit. 
 
 The music ceased. The old minstrel ap- 
 proached the balcony and held up his wide som- 
 brero. I poured into it all my stock of copper 
 coin. " Muchas gracias, senor," came back the 
 humble acknowledgment. Then they disap- 
 peared up -the narrow street and the crowd dis- 
 persed. I looked after them long and musingly, 
 and surprised myself repeating the benediction 
 of the morning : 
 
 " Con Dios vqyan mtedes, mis amigos."
 
 THE OLD CHAIR IN THE SACRISTY 
 AT ZACATECAS. 
 
 IT stood just inside the door as I entered from 
 the main body of the church. Richly carved, 
 with great arms broadened out where the el- 
 bows touched, it had the air of being especially 
 designed for some overfed, lazy prelate. The 
 hand-rests were rounded in wide flutes, conve- 
 nient spaces for his fat fingers. The legs bowed 
 out slightly from the seat, then curved sharply, 
 and finally terminated in four grotesque claws, 
 each clutching a great round ball, here his 
 toes rested. The back and seat were covered 
 with the rags and remnants of a once rich vel- 
 vet, fastened by an intermittent row of brass 
 nails, some headless, and others showing only 
 the indent of their former usefulness. On each 
 corner of the back flared two gilt flambeaux, 
 standing bolt upright like a pair of outspread 
 hands. Over the whole was sifted, and into 
 each crack, split, and carving was grimed and 
 64
 
 THE OLD CHAIR AT ZACATECAS 
 
 channelled, the white dust that envelops Zaca- 
 tecas like an atmosphere. 
 
 The old chair had evidently had its day, and 
 it had been a glorious one. What ceremonies, 
 what processions, masses, feasts, had it pre- 
 sided over ! What grave counsels had it lis- 
 tened to ! What dangers escaped, the last but 
 a score of years ago, when this same old cathe- 
 dral of Nuestra Senora de la Asuncion was bom- 
 barded by Juarez ! 
 
 Its curved and stately lines were too graceful 
 for Mexican handiwork. Perhaps some old Span- 
 ish grandee, with penitence in his soul, had sent 
 this noble seat across the sea to the new Spain, 
 in grateful remembrance of the most holy and 
 blessed Lady of Guadaloupe, the patron saint 
 of this once powerful church. 
 
 If, in the old days, it had belonged to a set 
 of twelve, or, by reason of its arms, had pre- 
 sided over a family less blessed, no fragment of 
 back, leg, or round was left to tell the tale. A 
 plain square table, covered with a cotton cloth 
 edged with cheap lace, upon which stood a 
 crucifix, a few worn-out, high-backed, hide- 
 bottomed chairs, and a chest of green painted 
 bureau drawers built into the wall and holding 
 the church vestments, were its only companions. 
 But all these were of a recent date and pattern. 
 
 65
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 I had been in Zacatecas but a few hours 
 when I discovered this precious relic of the last 
 century. I coveted it at sight, more, I admit, 
 than I dared tell the good-natured, patient sac- 
 ristan who stood by wondering and delighted, 
 watching me make a rapid sketch of its twisted 
 legs and capacious seat. To all my propositions 
 for its immediate possession, however, he only 
 shrugged his shoulders. I confess that many 
 of them savored of conspiracy, and all of them 
 of grand larceny, and that I was entitled to a 
 speedy trial and a place in the chain-gang for 
 suggesting any one of them. 
 
 " A ragged old chair that will hardly stand 
 upright ; the only one left. Who will miss it ?" 
 I argued. 
 
 "The padre, senor painter, who is very old. 
 He loves everything here. This wretched chair 
 has been his friend for many years." 
 
 "Tell him, mi amigo, that I, too, love chairs, 
 and old ones especially, and will give him the 
 price of two, four, six new ones for this old rat- 
 tletrap." 
 
 " Very well, senor ; at five o'clock to-day 
 vespers will be over. Then the padre will re- 
 turn here. Wait for me in the garden over the 
 way near the fountain." 
 
 The decision was a relief. In Mexico, as in 
 66
 
 THE OLD CHAIR AT ZACATECAS 
 
 Spain, it is generally to-morrow or the day 
 after. Manana por la manana is the motto of 
 the Spanish-speaking race. 
 
 It was now twelve o'clock. Only five hours 
 to wait. My hopes rose. I reentered the cathe- 
 dral. 
 
 It had been a sumptuous church in its day. 
 Begun in 1612, completed one hundred and 
 twenty-five years later, and dedicated with im- 
 posing ceremonies the year following, it had 
 contained within its walls all that florid magnifi- 
 cence which distinguishes the Mexican churches. 
 All the interior adornments had been of plated 
 gilt, the altars of fine marble and onyx, the 
 font of solid silver, alone valued at twenty 
 thousand pounds sterling. Four noble steps of 
 colored marble, still intact, led the way to the al- 
 tar. On each side ran a railing of wrought silver 
 of fabulous worth. Over this had hung a lamp 
 of splendid proportions, burning a single taper, 
 and shedding a ruby light. The main floor was 
 of marquetry of varied colored woods, and of 
 a simple Moorish pattern, marking the promi- 
 nence of that Spanish taste which at the period 
 characterized so many of the great colonial 
 structures. 
 
 But sad changes had taken place since that 
 date, most of them within the last quarter of 
 67
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 this century. Not only had the superb silver 
 altar-rail, hanging lamp, and costly font been 
 coined down into Mexican dollars, but tapestries 
 and velvets, chasubles and copes, heavy with 
 embroidery in gold and silver, had also found 
 their way to the crucible. Even the intricate 
 marquetry floor had been broken up, presum- 
 ably in the search for hidden vessels, and in its 
 place here and there were great squares of 
 heavy planking held down by rude iron spikes, 
 the heads thrust up and kept bright by the rest- 
 less feet of countless worshippers. 
 
 The leaders of an impecunious government 
 executing a forced loan do not stop at trifles like 
 these ! 
 
 As I wandered about, comparing its present 
 shabby surroundings with the record of its past 
 grandeur, groups of penitents would glide in, 
 throw their rebozos from their faces, and kneel 
 praying. Near me a single figure closely muf- 
 fled would press her face against the sliding panel 
 of the queer confessional box and pour into the 
 ear of the listless priest the story of her sin. 
 Over by the altar a solitary Indian, wrapped in 
 hiszarape, his wide straw sombrero by his side, 
 would bend forward until his forehead touched 
 the cold pavement and so remain motionless. 
 About in the aisles or prostrate before the rude 
 68
 
 THE OLD CHAIR AT ZACATECAS 
 
 wooden figures of the saints knelt other groups 
 of worshippers, often an entire family together, 
 telling their beads with their lips and watching 
 me with their eyes as I noted in my sketch- 
 book the picturesque bits about me. Finally I 
 completed the circuit of the interior, and a flood 
 of sunlight poured in through an open door. 
 This led me to the street and so on into the 
 market-place. 
 
 No such scene exists in any quarter of the 
 globe where I have wandered : a brilliant sky 
 blue as a china plate ; blinding sunlight ; throngs 
 of people in red, orange, or blue ; women in re- 
 bozos and scarlet sashes ; men wearing vermil- 
 ion zarapes about their shoulders, with wide 
 hats of felt trimmed with silver, and breeches 
 of pink buckskin held together down the sides 
 by silver buttons ; donkeys piled high with 
 great sacks of silver ore ; cavaliers on horse- 
 back with murderous rowels in the heels of 
 their riding-boots, their Mexican saddles fes- 
 tooned with lassos and lariats ; soldiers carry- 
 ing carbines and mounted on spirited horses 
 guarding gangs of convicts, each one of whom 
 staggers under a basket of sand held to his back 
 by a strap across his forehead ; great flocks of 
 sheep blocking up the narrow streets, driven by 
 shepherds on horseback, changing their pasture 
 
 69
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 from one hillside to another, the whole com- 
 pletes a picture as strange as it is unique. 
 
 In the centre of the plaza stands a curious 
 fountain, surrounded by a low wall breast-high. 
 Around this swarm hundreds of women. Hang- 
 ing over it are half a hundred more, reaching 
 as far across the circular wall as their arms will 
 permit, scooping up the thin sheet of water into 
 saucers with which they filled their jars. On 
 the pavement, protected by huge square um- 
 brellas of straw mats, with ribs like a boy's 
 kite, squatting Indian women sell oranges, 
 prickly pears, figs, lemons, cberimoyis, great 
 melons, and other tropical fruits. On the cor- 
 ners of the streets, under rags of awning, sit 
 cobblers ready to cut and fit a sandal while 
 you wait, their whole stock in trade but a pile 
 of scraps of sole leather, a trifle larger than the 
 human foot, some leather thongs, and a sharp 
 curved knife. Adjoining the market, facing an 
 open square, rises a great building supported by 
 immense square pillars forming an arcade. At 
 the foot of each pillar a garrulous Mexican shouts 
 out the wares of his impromptu shop at half- 
 minute intervals. Then comes the alameda, or 
 public garden, bright with flowers and semi- 
 tropical plants, with a summer-house of the time- 
 honored pattern, octagon, lined with benches. 
 70
 
 THE OLD CHAIR AT ZACATECAS 
 
 and in the centre a table containing, as usual, 
 the fragments of the last lounger's lunch. 
 
 Here I rested out of the glare and din. 
 
 Suddenly, while looking down upon the street 
 across the green, listening to the plash of the 
 fountain and watching the senoritas on their 
 way to mass, I saw a rush of people crowding 
 the streets below, and heard the clear musical 
 notes of a woman's voice rising above the street 
 cries. As the mob forced its way past the cor- 
 ner leading from the cathedral and up the main 
 street fronting me, I caught sight of a ceremony 
 not often seen in Zacatecas, and but rarely met 
 with elsewhere. 
 
 In the middle of the street, upon their knees on 
 the rough stones, walked or rather crawled two 
 native Indian girls dressed in white, their heads 
 bare, their black hair streaming down their 
 backs, their eyes aflame with excitement. Both 
 clasped to their breasts a small crucifix. Sur- 
 rounding them were a dozen half-crazed devo- 
 tees, whose frenzied cries swelled the chant of 
 the youngest penitent. Suddenly, from out a 
 pulque shop on the opposite corner, darted three 
 men, evidently peons. With a quick movement 
 they divided the pressing crowd, sprang ahead 
 of the girls, and tearing their own zarapes from 
 their shoulders, threw them in turn in front of
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 the penitents. As the girls crawled across them, 
 the first peon would again seize his zarape, run 
 ahead, and respread it. 
 
 "It is a penance, sefior," said a bystander, 
 evidently a Spaniard, " not often seen here. 
 The girls believe they have committed some 
 great sin. They are on their way to Los Reme- 
 dios, the chapel that you see on the hill yonder. 
 But for these drunken peons they would leave 
 a bloody track." 
 
 Whether drunk or sober, by bigot or scoffer, 
 it was a graceful act. Surely the gallant Sir 
 Walter paid no more courtly tribute to the 
 good Queen Bess when he threw his cloak be- 
 neath her dainty feet than did these poor peons 
 to their dusky sisters. 
 
 But it was still some hours before the padre 
 would be at leisure and I get definite news of 
 my coveted chair. 
 
 I would lunch at the Zacatecano, formerly the 
 old Augustinian convent, now the only inn this 
 quaint old town can boast of, take a run by the 
 tram to Guadaloupe, past the silver mines, and 
 be back in time for the sacristan. 
 
 As I entered, the landlord extended both 
 hands as if he had been my dearest friend. He 
 proved to be, later. 
 
 " Certainly, sefior. What shall it be ? We 
 72
 
 THE OLD CHAIR AT ZACATECAS 
 
 have a cutlet ; we also have a salad. Beer ? 
 Plenty. San Louis, Bass, Mexican. Which 
 shall I open for the illustrious painter ?" 
 
 The painter ordered a bottle of Bass, and be- 
 ing thirsty and a long way from home, and with 
 the remembrance of many a foaming tankard in 
 other benighted quarters of the earth, ordered 
 another. If the landlord was polite at the first 
 bottle, he became positively servile at the sec- 
 ond. A third would have finished him, and my 
 bank account. From the bill 1 learned that one 
 bottle of Bass is equal to the wages of one able- 
 bodied man working five days ; two bottles, 
 the price of a donkey ; three bottles, no man 
 can calculate. 
 
 Thus it is that a cruel government grinds the 
 masses ! 
 
 But the cutlet was tender and juicy, with 
 just a dash of garlic ; the salad of lettuce of a 
 wrinkled and many-seamed variety, with sprays 
 of red pepper cut exceedingly fine and scattered 
 through it, and, blessed be Bass ! the priceless 
 bottles were full of the same old amber-colored 
 nectar one always draws from under the same 
 old compact, tinfoil-covered corks. 
 
 But to Guadaloupe and back before mass 
 ended. 
 
 You reach this suburb of Zacatecas by a mod- 
 
 73
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 ern tramway which starts a car every hour ; a 
 sort of Mexican toboggan-slide, for the whole 
 six miles is down hill by gravity. At the other 
 end is the Iglesia y Capilla de Guadaloupe, 
 an exquisite modern chapel, besides an old 
 garden, a new market, a straggling suburb, and 
 various teams of mules to toboggan you back 
 again. 
 
 I stepped from the car and began sight-seeing. 
 The chapel, the gift of a pious lady, is semi- 
 oriental, with its creamy-white minarets shoot- 
 ing up from behind a mass of dark cedars re- 
 lieved against the intense blue sky ; the garden 
 is overrun with sweet peas, poppies, calla lilies, 
 and geraniums blooming amidst fleecy acacia- 
 trees waving in the dazzling sunlight ; the mar- 
 ket has the usual collection of coarse pottery 
 and green vegetables, with gay booths hung 
 with bright zarapes and rebozos, and the strag- 
 gling suburb is as picturesque and full of color as 
 any other Mexican suburban village. 1 noted 
 them all and each one, and they interested me 
 intensely. 
 
 One other thing interested me infinitely more. 
 It was an individual who came to my rescue in 
 the midst of a dislocated Spanish sentence. I 
 was at the moment in a curious old cloister ad- 
 joining the new chapel of Guadaloupe, examin- 
 
 74
 
 THE OLD CHAIR AT ZACATECAS 
 
 ing with the aid of a rotund attendant the dia- 
 bolical pictures that lined its walls, when a tall, 
 well-built young fellow wearing a slouch hat 
 stopped immediately in front of the most repul- 
 sive canvas of the collection, and, after listen- 
 ing to my halting inquiry, supplied the missing 
 word in excellent Spanish. Then, shifting his 
 hat to the opposite ear, he pointed to the sup- 
 posed portrait of an ancient martyr surrounded 
 by lurid flames behind iron bars, and remarked 
 quietly, 
 
 "Beastly ugly old saint, isn't he? Looks 
 like an underdone steak on a grill." 
 
 " You speak English, then ? " 
 
 " Why not ? You would n't want me to 
 cling to this jargon forever, would you ? " 
 
 From that instant the collection was forgot- 
 ten. 
 
 He was about thirty years of age, with a 
 bronzed face, curling mustachios, and arching 
 eyebrows that shaded a pair of twinkling brown 
 eyes. A sort of devil-may-care air seemed to 
 pervade him, coupled with a certain reckless- 
 ness discernible even in the way he neglected 
 his upper vest buttons, and tossed one end of 
 his cravat over his shoulder. He wore a large, 
 comfortable, easily adjusted slouch hat which 
 he kept constantly in motion, using it as some 
 
 75
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 men do their hands to emphasize their sen- 
 tences. If the announcement was somewhat 
 startling, the hat would be flattened out against 
 the back of his head, the broad brim standing 
 out in a circle, and framing the face, which 
 changed with every thought behind it. If of a 
 confidential nature, it was pulled down on the 
 side next to you like the pirate's in the play. 
 If his communication might offend ears polite, 
 he used one edge of it as a lady would a fan, 
 and, from behind it, gave you a morsel of scan- 
 dal with such point and pith that you forgave 
 its raciness because of the crisp and breezy way 
 with which it was imparted. 
 
 He hailed from New Orleans ; had lived in Za- 
 catecas two years ; in western Mexico ten more ; 
 was an engineer by profession ; had constructed 
 part of the International Road, and was now 
 looking after some of its interests in Zacatecas. 
 
 "My name? Moon. Fits exactly, my dear 
 fellow, for I 'm generally up all night. Been 
 here long?" He rattled on. "You ought to 
 stay a month. Richest town in all Mexico. 
 Just a solid silver mine under your feet all the 
 way from here to Zacatecas. Best people I 
 know anywhere, and more pretty girls to the 
 square mile than any spot on this terrestrial." 
 
 And then followed a running description of 
 76
 
 THE OLD CHAIR AT ZACATECAS 
 
 his life here and at home, interspersed with va- 
 rious accounts of his scrapes and escapades, 
 from which I gathered that he knew everybody 
 in Zacatecas, including the priest, the com- 
 mandant, and the pretty girl in the balcony. 
 This biographical sketch was further enriched 
 by such additional details as his once filling a 
 holy father full of cognac to induce him to grant 
 a right of way for a railroad through the convent 
 garden ; of his being helped out of prison by 
 the governor, who was his friend and who 
 locked up his accuser ; and of his making love 
 to a certain charming senorita whenever he got 
 a chance, which, he declared, was now precious 
 seldom, owing to a cross-eyed mother who saw 
 both ways at once, and a duenna who hated him. 
 
 Would I take the tram and go back to Zaca- 
 tecas with him ? 
 
 Yes, if he would stop at the cathedral at five 
 and wait until vespers were over. 
 
 " So you have caught on, have you ? " Then 
 in a confidential manner, " Come, now, give 
 me her name. Reckon I know her. Bet it 's 
 the black-eyed girl with the high comb. She 's 
 always cutting her eye at the last stranger." 
 
 It was difficult to make this dare-devil of a 
 Southerner understand that my engagement 
 was entirely with a simple-minded, mild-eyed 
 
 77
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 old sacristan, and not with one of Zacatecas's 
 bewitching sefioritas. 
 
 "What sacristan ? Old Miguel ? A greasy- 
 looking, bandy-legged old bald-head ? Wears 
 a green jacket ? " 
 
 I admitted that the description classified him 
 to some extent. 
 
 Moon broke out into a laugh that started the 
 six mules in a gallop up the tramway. 
 
 Did he know him ? Well, he should think 
 so. Best post-office in Zacatecas, especially at 
 very early mass. What was he doing for me ? 
 Smuggling letters ? 
 
 No, buying a chair. 
 
 Moon laid one hand tenderly on my shoulder, 
 shifted his slouch hat over his right ear, and in 
 his peculiar vernacular characterized my state- 
 ment as " diaphanous," and then in a coaxing 
 tone demanded the name of the girl. 
 
 " My friend, there is no girl. Wait until we 
 pass the cathedral. It is now five o'clock. The 
 sacristan is expecting me in the garden, and he 
 shall tell you the rest. There he is now, wait- 
 ing under the palms." 
 
 " See here, Miguel," broke in Moon as we 
 alighted, ignoring the sacristan's obsequious 
 salutations. "What about this girl's chair? 
 Come, out with it." 
 
 78
 
 THE OLD CHAIR AT ZACATECAS 
 
 Miguel looked at Moon and then turned to 
 me and smiled grimly. 
 
 " It is always the senoritas with Senor Moon, " 
 he said, and then he repeated our interview of 
 the morning, winding up with my incompre- 
 hensible infatuation for the four-legged relic, 
 and his unsuccessful efforts with the padre to 
 sell or exchange it for any number of new 
 chairs, great or small. 
 
 " It is really impossible, sefior painter. The 
 padre says it is an old one of many years," 
 continued the sacristan. 
 
 " If the painter wants the old ruin, he shall 
 have it, you bow-legged old mailbag." 
 
 " The padre will not, Senior Moon ; not for 
 ten new ones. I have exhausted everything." 
 
 " What padre ? " replied Moon. 
 
 " Padre Ignatius." 
 
 "Old Ig, is it ? No, he would n't part with 
 an adobe brick." Then turning to me, "What 
 did you tell him you wanted it for ? " 
 
 " For my studio." 
 
 "Studio be . Go, Miguel, and tell Pa- 
 dre Ignatius that my very old and very dear 
 friend, the painter, is a devout Catholic from the 
 holy city of New York ; that he has an uncle, a 
 holy father, in fact, a bishop, who is very poor, 
 and who charged him to bring from the ancient 
 
 79
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 city of Zacatecas a sacred relic from this very 
 church, and that this aged, low-backed old crip- 
 ple of a chair will exactly fill the bill. Go ! 
 vete ! But stop!" (In a lower tone.) "Did 
 you give it to her the little one ? When 
 after early mass ? Bueno ! " 
 
 A long wait at the door of the sacristy ; then 
 a footfall in the darkening twilight. 
 
 " Senor, the padre says he will consider. The 
 price is of course very small, and but that your 
 uncle the holy bishop is very poor it could not 
 be, but as a " 
 
 " Hold up, Miguel. All right. Send the chair 
 to the painter's lodgings." 
 
 When I reached the church door and the 
 street and looked back, I could see the red tow- 
 ers of the cathedral gleaming pink and yellow 
 in the fading light of the afterglow, and far up 
 the crooked street I could hear my voluble friend 
 of an afternoon whistling an air from " Norma." 
 
 At the door of my lodgings I found the chair. 
 
 80
 
 VI 
 IN THE CITY'S STREETS 
 
 NO one at all familiar with the history of 
 Mexico can wander about the streets and 
 suburbs of this its principal city without seeing 
 at every turn some evidence of the vast changes 
 which have marked its past, and which have 
 made its story so thrilling. 
 
 If Prescott's pleasing fiction of Teocallis tow- 
 ering to the stars, the smoke of whose sacrifices 
 curled upwards day and night ; of gorgeous 
 temples, of hanging and floating gardens, myri- 
 ads of feather-clad warriors armed with spear 
 and shield, swarms of canoes brilliant as tropi- 
 cal birds, and of a court surrounding Monte- 
 zuma and Guatemotzin, more lavish than the 
 wildest dream of the Orient, if all this is 
 true, and I prefer to believe it rather than 
 break the gods of my childhood, so also are 
 the great plaza of the cathedral, and the noble 
 edifice itself with splendid facade and majestic 
 twin towers, the hundreds of churches about 
 81
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 which cluster the remains of convent, monas- 
 tery, and hospital ; the wide paseos, the tropi- 
 cal gardens, the moss-bearded cypresses four 
 centuries old, under which the disheartened Az- 
 tec monarch mourned the loss of his kingdom, 
 the palaces of the viceroys, the alamedas and 
 their fountains. 
 
 If you push aside the broad-leaved plants in 
 the grand plaza, you will find heaped up and 
 half covered with tangled vines the broken 
 fragments of rudely carved stones, once the 
 glory of an Aztec temple. If you climb down 
 the steep hill under Chapultepec and break 
 away the matted underbrush, you will discover 
 the mutilated effigy of Ahuitzotl, the last of 
 Montezuma's predecessors, stretched out on the 
 natural rock, the same the ancient sculptor se- 
 lected for his chisel in the days when the groves 
 about him echoed with song, and when these 
 same gnarled cypresses gave grateful shadow to 
 priest, emperor, and slave. 
 
 Stroll out to Santa Anita ; examine the cbi- 
 nampas, the floating gardens of the old Mex- 
 ican race. They are still there, overgrown 
 with weeds and anchored by neglect. As in 
 the old times, so now on every feast day the 
 narrow canal of las l/igas, leading to the cbi- 
 nampas, is crowded with boats ; the maidens 
 82
 
 IN THE CITY'S STREETS 
 
 bind wreaths of poppies about their heads, and 
 the song and laughter of the light-hearted race 
 light-hearted when even for a day they lay 
 their burdens down still ring out in the twi- 
 light air. 
 
 The two civilizations, the pagan and the 
 Christian, are still distinct to those who look 
 below the surface. Time has not altered them 
 materially. Even to-day in the hollows of the 
 mountains and amid the dense groves on the 
 tropical slopes the natives steal away and pro- 
 strate themselves before the stone images of their 
 gods, and in the churches of the more remote 
 provinces the parish priest has found more than 
 once the rude sculptured idol concealed behind 
 the Christian altar. To the kneeling peon the 
 ugly stone is his sole hope of safety and for- 
 giveness. 
 
 Important changes are taking place, however, 
 which predict a happier future for Mexico. The 
 monastery of San Hip61ito, once the palace of 
 Bucareli, now contains a printing press. The 
 convent of Nuestra Sefiora de la Concepcion is 
 a public school ; the church of San Agustin, a 
 public library ; and through the silent arches of 
 many cloisters, and through many a secluded 
 convent garden, run broad avenues filled with 
 the gay life of the metropolis. Moreover to-day, 
 
 83
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 every man, be he pagan, Christian, or Jew, 
 may worship his particular god according to the 
 dictates of his own conscience, in any form that 
 pleases him. 
 
 Nothing so pointedly marks for me the 
 strange contrasts which these changes have 
 brought about, as my own quarters at the Ho- 
 tel Jardin. 
 
 I am living in two rooms at the end of a long 
 balcony overlooking a delicious garden, redo- 
 lent with azaleas, pomegranates, and jasmine, 
 in full bloom. I am at the extreme end of the 
 balcony, which is several hundred feet long, 
 and next to me is a stained and battered wall, 
 encrusted with moss and lichen, supported by 
 buttresses running sheer into the poppy beds. 
 This wall sustains one side of a building which 
 is surmounted by a quaint tile roof. 
 
 My rooms are high-ceiled and spacious, and 
 floored with red brick. The walls, judged from 
 the width of the door jambs, are of unusual 
 strength. 
 
 At the other end of the balcony, from out 
 the roof, rises a dome which glistens in the set- 
 ting sun. It is covered with exquisite Spanish 
 tiles of blue and yellow, each one of which 
 forms part of a picture telling the story of the 
 Cross. Beyond the garden, several squares 
 84
 
 IN THE CITY'S STREETS 
 
 away, cut sharp against the afternoon sky, 
 curves the beautiful dome of the cathedral of 
 San Francisco, beneath whose frescoed roof once 
 rested the bones of Cortez. 
 
 Scarce twenty -five years ago the square 
 bounded by this little dome with the Spanish 
 tiles, this great dome of the cathedral, and the 
 outside of the mould - stained convent wall, 
 formed the great religious foundation of San 
 Francisco, the richest and most powerful of the 
 ecclesiastical holdings in Mexico. From this 
 spot radiated the commanding influence of the 
 order. Here masses were heard by Cortez. 
 Here through three centuries the great festivals 
 of the church were taken part in by the vice- 
 roys. Here was sung the first Te Deum of Mex- 
 ican independence, and here seventeen years 
 later were held the magnificent funeral services 
 of the liberator Yturbide. 
 
 How great the changes ! To-day a Protest- 
 ant congregation worships in the grand old 
 cathedral, its interior a horror of whitewash 
 and emptiness ; a modern hotel supplants the 
 old infirmary and palace of the commissioners- 
 general of the order ; a public livery stables its 
 horses in the refectory, and four broad streets 
 traverse the length and breadth of the sacred 
 ground, irrespective of chancel, cloister, or gar- 
 
 85
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 den. Through the top of the exquisite cupola 
 surmounting the little glazed tile dome covering 
 the chapel of San Antonio is thrust a sheet-iron 
 stove-pipe. Within this once beautiful house 
 of prayer, the space covered by the altar is now 
 occupied by an enormous French range, upon 
 which is ruined all the food of the Hotel Jardin. 
 In the delightful arched windows, piles of dirty 
 dishes replace the swinging lamps ; near an 
 exit where once stood the font, a plate-warmer 
 of an Eastern pattern gives out an oily odor ; and 
 where the acolytes swung their censers, to-day 
 swarms a perspiring mob of waiters urgent to 
 be served by a chef who officiates in the exact 
 spot where the holy archbishop celebrated high 
 mass. 
 
 High on the cornice of the dome still clings 
 the figure of San Domingo. His wooden bones 
 and carved teeth should rattle and chatter them- 
 selves loose as he gazes down upon the awful 
 sacrilege, for above him, where once the wings 
 of the Dove of the Holy Spirit overspread the 
 awe-hushed penitents, now twists with a con- 
 venient iron elbow a rusty pipe, that carries 
 the foul breath of this impious range into the 
 pure air of the heaven above. 
 
 As I sit on my section of the balcony and 
 paint, I can see within a few yards of my easel 
 86
 
 IN THE CITY'S STREETS 
 
 an open window, framed in the mouldy convent 
 wall. The golden sunlight streams in, and falls 
 upon the weather-stained stones and massive 
 iron-bound shutter, touches a strip of dainty 
 white curtain, and rests lovingly upon the head of 
 a peon girl who sits all day sewing, and croon- 
 ing to herself a quaint song. She watches me 
 now and then with great wondering eyes. As 
 I work I hear the low hum of a sewing-machine 
 keeping time to her melody. Suddenly there 
 is a quick movement among the matted leaves 
 clinging to the festering wall, and from out a 
 dark crevice creeps a slimy, snake-like lizard. 
 He listens and raises his green head and glides 
 noiselessly into the warm sunlight. There he 
 stretches his lithe body and basks lazily. 
 
 I laid down my brushes, and fell into a rev- 
 erie. The sunlight, the dark-eyed Indian girl, 
 the cheery hum of her shuttle, and the loath- 
 some lizard crawling from out the ruins of a dead 
 convent wall told me the whole story of Mexico. 
 
 The old church of San Hip61ito stands within 
 a stone's throw of the spot where Alvarado, 
 Cortez's greatest captain, is said to have made 
 his famous leap on that eventful night of July I, 
 1520, the Noche Triste. Indeed, it was built 
 by one of the survivors of that massacre, Juan 
 Garido, in commemoration of its horrors. Not 
 
 87
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 the present structure, but a little chapel of 
 adobe, which eighty years later was pulled 
 down to make room for the edifice of to-day. 
 You can still see upon the outside wall sur- 
 rounding the atrium of the present building a 
 commemorative stone tablet, bearing the alto- 
 relievos of arms, trophies, and devices of the 
 ancient Mexicans, with this inscription : 
 
 " So great was the slaughter of the Spaniards 
 by the Aztecs in this place on the night of July 
 i, 1520, named for this reason the Dismal 
 Night, that after having in the following year 
 reentered the city triumphantly, the conquerors 
 resolved to build here a chapel, to be called the 
 Chapel of the Martyrs ; and which should be 
 dedicated to San Hipolito, because the capture 
 of the city occurred upon that saint's day." 
 
 Janvier says: " Until the year 1812, there 
 was celebrated annually on the I3th of August 
 at this church a solemn ceremony, both religious 
 and civil, known as the Procession of the Ban- 
 ner (Paseo del pendon), in which the viceroy 
 and the great officers of the State and the no- 
 bility, together with the archbishops and digni- 
 taries of the Church, took part. Its principal 
 feature was the carrying in state of the crimson 
 banner formerly borne by the conquerors, and 
 still preserved in the National Museum."
 
 IN THE CITY'S STREETS 
 
 There was nothing to indicate the existence 
 of any such ceremony the day I strolled into its 
 quiet courtyard. The wooden gates, sagging 
 and rotting on their hinges, were thrown back 
 invitingly, but the broad flags of the pavement, 
 overgrown with weeds and stubby grass thrust 
 up between the cracks, showed but too plainly 
 how few entered them. 
 
 Some penitents crossed the small inclosure in 
 front of me, and disappeared within the cool 
 doorway of the church. 1 turned to the left, 
 hugged the grateful shadow of the high walls, 
 reached the angle, opened my easel and began 
 to paint. 
 
 It has a very dignified portal, this old church 
 of San Hipolito, with half doors panelled and 
 painted green, and with great whitewashed 
 statues of broken-nosed saints flanking each 
 side; and I was soon lost in the study of its 
 ornament and color. 
 
 For a while nobody disturbed me or gave me 
 more than a passing glance. 
 
 Presently I was conscious that an old fellow 
 watering some plants across the court was 
 watching me anxiously. When I turned again 
 he stood beside me. 
 
 " Sefior, why do you sit and look at the 
 church ? " 
 
 89
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 "To take it home with me, mi amigo." 
 " That cannot be. J will tell the padre." 
 He was gone before I could explain. In five 
 minutes he returned, pale and trembling and 
 without his hat. Behind him came an old priest 
 with a presence like a benediction. Clinging to 
 his hands were two boys, one with eyes like 
 diamonds. 
 
 Before I could explain, the old man's face 
 lighted up with a kindly smile, and he extended 
 his hand. 
 
 " Nicolas is very foolish, sefior. Do not mind 
 him. Stay where you are. After service you 
 can sit within the church and paint the interior, 
 if you like. If the boys will not annoy you, 
 please let them watch you. It will teach them 
 something." 
 
 The little fellows did not wait for any further 
 discussion. They both kissed his hand, and 
 crept behind my easel. The youngest, with 
 the diamond eyes, Pacheco, told me without 
 drawing his breath his name, his age, where he 
 went to school, that the good padre was his 
 uncle, that his father had been dead forever 
 almost, and that they lived across the way with 
 their mother. The oldest stood by silently, 
 watching every movement of my brush as if 
 his life depended on it. 
 90
 
 IN THE CITY'S STREETS 
 
 "And do you love the padre?" I asked, 
 turning towards him. 
 
 " Yes." He replied in a quick, decided tone, 
 as if it was a sacrilege to question it. " And so 
 would you. Everybody, everybody, loves the 
 padre." 
 
 " Is it not true ?" This last to the sacristan, 
 who had come out to see the painter, the ser- 
 vice having begun. 
 
 The sacristan not only confirmed this, but 
 gave me a running account of the misfortunes 
 of the church even in his day, of its great pov- 
 erty, of the changes he had seen himself. No 
 more processions, no more grand masses ; on 
 Easter Sunday there was not even money enough 
 to buy candles. He remembered a lamp as high 
 as this wall that was stolen by the government, 
 this in a whisper behind his hand, all solid 
 silver, and a pair of candlesticks as big round as 
 the tree yonder, all melted down to pay for 
 soldiers. Caramba ! It was terrible. But for the 
 holy padre there would be no service at all. 
 When the padre was young he lived in the 
 priest's house and rode in his carriage. Now he 
 is an old man, and must live with his sister over 
 a posada. The world was certainly coming to 
 an end. 
 
 I let the old sacristan ramble along, wishing
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 the service over, that I might see again the good 
 padre whom everybody loved. 
 
 Soon the handful of people who, during the 
 previous hour, had stolen in, as it were, one by 
 one, crowded up the doorway and dispersed. It 
 was a meagre gathering at best. 
 
 Then the old priest came out into the sunlight, 
 and shaded his eyes with his hand, searching 
 for me in the shadowed angle of the wall. As 
 he walked across the court I had time to note 
 the charming dignity of his manner, and the 
 almost childlike smile that played across his 
 features. His hair was silver white, his black 
 frock faded and patched, though neatly kept, 
 and his broad hat of a pattern and date of long 
 ago. The boys sprang up, ran to him, caught 
 him about the knees, and kissed his hands. Not 
 as if it was a mark of devotion or respect, but 
 as if they could not help it. The sacristan un- 
 covered his head. For myself, I must confess 
 that I was bareheaded and on my feet before I 
 knew it. Would I come to his house and have 
 a cup of coffee with him ? It was but across the 
 street. The sacristan would see that my traps 
 were not disturbed. At this the boys danced 
 up and down, broke through the gate, and when 
 we reached the narrow door that led to the bal- 
 cony above, Pacheco had already dragged his 
 92
 
 IN THE CITY'S STREETS 
 
 mother to the railing, to see the painter the good 
 padre was bringing home. 
 
 It was a curious home for a priest. There 
 were but three rooms, all fronting on a balcony 
 of the second floor, overlooking a garden in 
 which clothes were drying among and above 
 the foliage. It was clean and cheery, however. 
 Some pots of flowers bloomed in the windows, 
 and there was a rocking-chair covered with a 
 cotton cloth, a lounge with cushions, a few 
 books and knickknacks, besides a square table 
 holding a brass crucifix and two candles. In the 
 corner of the adjoining room was an iron bed- 
 stead and a few articles of furniture. This was 
 where the padre slept. 
 
 "The times are changed, good father?" I 
 asked, when he had finished filling his cup. 
 
 "Yes, my son, and for the worse." And 
 then clearly but without bitterness, or any other 
 feeling apparently, except the deepest sorrow, 
 he told me the story of the downfall of his 
 church in Mexico. It is needless to repeat it 
 here. The old father thought only of the pomp, 
 and splendor, and power for good, of the reli- 
 gion he loved, and could not see the degradation 
 of the days he mourned. Within a stone's throw 
 of where we sat the flowers were blooming, 
 and the palms waving in the plaza of San Diego, 
 
 93
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 over the exact spot where, less than a century 
 ago, the smoke of the auto defe curled away 
 in the sunlight. I did not remind him of it. His 
 own life had been so full of every good deed, 
 and Christian charity, and all his own waking 
 hours had been so closely spent either at altar 
 or bedside, that he could not have understood 
 how terrible could be the power of the church 
 he revered, perverted and misused. 
 
 When he ceased he drew a deep sigh, rose 
 from his chair, and disappeared into the adjoin- 
 ing room. In a few moments he returned, bearing 
 in his arms a beautiful cope embroidered in sil- 
 ver on white satin. 
 
 " This, my son," said he, " is the last relic 
 of value in San Hip61ito. It is, as you see, very 
 precious and very old. A present from Pope In- 
 nocent XII., who sent it to the brotherhood, the 
 Hip61itos, in the year 1700. The pieces that 
 came with it, the chasubles, stole, and other 
 vestments, are gone. This I keep by my bed- 
 side." 
 
 He folded it carefully, returned it to its hid- 
 ing-place, and accompanied me to the outer 
 door. I can see him now, his white hair glis- 
 tening in the light, the boys clinging to his 
 hands. 
 
 94
 
 VII 
 ON THE PASEO 
 
 THE English dogcart and the French bon- 
 net have just broken out in the best so- 
 ciety of Mexico. The disease doubtless came in 
 with the railroads. 
 
 At present the cases are sporadic, and only 
 the young caballero who knows Piccadilly and 
 the gay senorita who has watched the brilliant 
 procession pass under the Arc de Triomphe are 
 affected. But it is nevertheless evident that in 
 the larger cities the contagion is spreading, and 
 that in a few years it will become epidemic. 
 
 Nowhere should the calamity of a change in 
 national habits and costumes be more regretted 
 than here. Stroll up the Paseo de la Reforma 
 at sundown, the Champs Elysees of Mexico, 
 and watch the endless procession of open 
 carriages filled with beautiful women with filmy 
 mantillas shading their dark eyes, the countless 
 riders mounted on spirited horses, with saddle 
 pommels hung with lasso and lariat ; run your 
 
 95
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 eye along the sidewalk thronged with people, 
 and over the mounted soldiers in intermittent 
 groups, policing the brilliant pageant, and tell 
 me if anywhere else in the world you have seen 
 so rich and novel a sight. 
 
 A carriage passes, and a velvet-eyed beauty 
 in saluting an admirer drops her handkerchief. 
 In an instant he wheels, dashes forward, and 
 before you can think, he has picked up the 
 dainty perfumed cambric from the dust without 
 leaving his saddle, and all with the ease and 
 grace of a Comanche. 
 
 Should a horse become unmanageable and 
 plunge down the overcrowded thoroughfare, 
 there are half a dozen riders within sight who 
 can overtake him before he has run a stone's 
 throw, loop a lasso over his head, and tumble 
 him into the road. Not ranchmen out for an 
 afternoon airing, but kid-gloved dandies in white 
 buckskin and silver, with waxed mustaches, 
 who learned this trick on the haciendas when 
 they were boys, and to whom it is as easy as 
 breathing. It is difficult to imagine any suc- 
 ceeding generation sitting back-a-back to a knee- 
 breeched flunkey, and driving a curtailed cob 
 before a pair of lumbering cart-wheels. 
 
 Analyze the features of a Spanish or Mexican 
 beauty, the purple-black hair, long drooping
 
 ON THE PASEO 
 
 lashes, ivory-white skin, the sinking, half- 
 swooning indolence of her manner. Note how 
 graceful and becoming are the clinging folds of 
 her mantilla, falling to the shoulders, and los- 
 ing itself in the undulating lines of her exqui- 
 site figure. Imagine a cockchafer of a bonnet, 
 an abomination of beads, bows, and bangles, 
 surmounting this ideal inamorata. The shock 
 is about as great as if some scoffer tied a sea- 
 side hat under the chin of the Venus de Milo. 
 
 Verilythe illustrated newspaperand the ready- 
 made clothing man have reduced the costume 
 of the civilized and semi-barbarous world to the 
 level of the commonplace ! I thank my lucky 
 stars that I still know a few out-of-the-way 
 corners where the castanet and high - heeled 
 shoe, the long, flowing, many-colored tunic, 
 the white sabot and snowy cap, and the sandal 
 and sombrero, are still left to delight me with 
 their picturesqueness, their harmony of color 
 and grace. 
 
 All these reflections came to me as I strolled 
 up the Reforma, elbowing my way along, avoid- 
 ing the current, or crossing it for the shelter of 
 one of the tree trunks lining the sidewalks, 
 behind which I made five-minute outlines of 
 the salient features of the moving panorama. 
 When I reached the statue of Columbus, the 
 
 97
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 crowd became uncomfortable, especially that 
 part which had formed a " cue," with the head 
 looking over my sketch-book, and so I hailed a 
 cab and drove away towards the castle of Cha- 
 pultepec. The Paseo ends at this famous spot. 
 
 The fortress is built upon a hill that rises 
 some two hundred feet above the valley, and is 
 environed by a noble park and garden, above 
 which tower the famous groves of hoary cy- 
 presses. On this commanding eminence once 
 stood the palace of Montezuma, if we may be- 
 lieve the traditions. Indeed, Prescott dilates 
 with enthusiasm upon the details of its splen- 
 dor, and of its luxuriant adornment, these same 
 cypresses playing an important part in the 
 charming extravaganza with which he delighted 
 our youth. The records say that when the 
 haughty Spaniard knocked at the city's gate 
 and demanded his person, his treasure, and his 
 arms, the vacillating monarch retired to the cool 
 shadows of these then ancient groves, collected 
 together a proper percentage of his wives, and 
 wept. This may be fiction, and that pious old 
 monk, Bernal Diaz, Cortez's scribe, inspired by 
 a lively sense of the value of his own head, and 
 with a loyal desire to save his master's, may 
 alone be responsible for it. 
 
 For this I care little. The trees are still here, 
 98
 
 ON THE PASEO 
 
 the very same old gnarled and twisted trunks. 
 The tawny Indian in feathers, the grim cavalier 
 in armor ; fine ladies in lace ; hidalgos in vel- 
 vet, all the gay throngs who have enlivened 
 these shady aisles, each bedecked after the man- 
 ner and custom of their times, are gone. But 
 the old trees still stand. 
 
 What the great kings of Tenochtitlan saw as 
 they looked up into their sheltering branches, I 
 see : the ribbed brown bark sparkling with gray 
 green lichen ; the sweep of the wrinkled trunk 
 rushing upward into outspreading arms; the 
 clear sky turquoised amid matted foliage ; the 
 gray moss waving in the soft air. With these 
 alive and above me, I can imagine the rest, and 
 so I pick out a particularly comfortable old root 
 that curves out from beneath one of the great 
 giants, and sit me down and persuade myself 
 that all the Aztec kings have been wont to rest 
 their bones thereon. From where I lounge, I 
 can see away up among the top branches the 
 castle and buildings of the military school, and 
 at intervals hear the bugle sounding the after- 
 noon's drill. Later I toil up the steep ascent, 
 and from the edge of the stone parapet skirting 
 the bluff, drink in the glory and beauty of per- 
 haps the finest landscape in the world. 
 
 There are two views which always rise up in 
 
 99
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 my memory when a grand panoramic vision 
 bursts upon me suddenly. One is from a spot 
 in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, in Granada, 
 called "La Ultima Suspira de Mores." It is 
 where Boabdil stood and wept when he looked 
 for the last time over the beautiful valley of 
 the Vega, the loveliest garden in Spain, the 
 red towers and terraces of the Alhambra bathed 
 in the setting sun. The other is this great 
 sweep of plain and distant mountain range, 
 with all its wealth of palm, orange, and olive ; 
 the snow-capped twin peaks dominating the 
 horizon; the silver line of the distant lakes; and 
 the fair city, the Tenochtitlan of the ancient, the 
 Eldorado of Cortez, sparkling like a jewel in 
 the midst of this vast stretch of green and gold. 
 
 Both monarchs wept over their dominions, 
 Boabdil, that the power of his race which for 
 six hundred years had ruled Spain was broken, 
 and that the light of the Crescent had paled 
 forever in the effulgence of the rising Cross ; 
 Montezuma, that the fires of his temples had 
 forever gone out, and that henceforward his 
 people were slaves. 
 
 Sitting here alone on this stone parapet, 
 
 watching the fading sunlight and the long 
 
 creeping shadows, and comparing Mexico and 
 
 Spain of to-day with what we know to be true 
 
 100
 
 ON THE PASEO 
 
 of the Moors, and what we hope was true of the 
 Aztecs, and being in a reflective frame of mind, 
 it becomes a question with me whether the 
 civilized world ought not to have mingled their 
 tears with both potentates. The delightful his- 
 torian sums it up in this way: 
 
 " Spain has the unenviable credit of having 
 destroyed two great civilizations." 
 
 Full of these reveries, and with the question 
 undecided, I retraced my steps past the boy 
 sentinels, down the long hill, through the gar- 
 dens and cypresses, and out into the broad road 
 skirting the great aqueduct of Bucareli. There 
 I hailed a cab, and whirled into the city brilliant 
 with lights, and so home to my lodgings over- 
 looking the old convent garden. 
 
 101
 
 VIII 
 
 PALM SUNDAY IN PUEBLA DE LOS 
 ANGELES 
 
 SOME one hundred miles from the city of 
 Mexico, and within twice that distance of 
 Vera Cruz and the sea, and some seven thou- 
 sand feet up into the clear, crisp air, lies the 
 city of Puebla. The streets are broad and clean, 
 the plazas filled with trees and rich in flowers, 
 the markets exceptionally interesting. Above 
 this charming city tower, like huge sentinels, 
 the two great volcanoes Popocatepetl and Iztac- 
 cihuatl. 
 
 The legend of its founding is quaint and 
 somewhat characteristic ; moreover, there is 
 no shadow of doubt as to its truth. 
 
 The good Fray Julian Garces, the first conse- 
 crated bishop of the Catholic Church in Mexico, 
 conceived the most praiseworthy plan of found- 
 ing, somewhere between the coast and the city 
 of Mexico, a haven of refuge and safe resting- 
 place for weary travellers. Upon pne eventful
 
 PALM SUNDAY IN PUEBLA DE LOS ANGELES 
 
 night, when his mind was filled with this no- 
 ble resolve, he beheld a lovely plain, bounded 
 by the great slope of the volcanoes, watered 
 by two rivers, and dotted by many ever-living 
 springs, making all things fresh and green. As 
 he gazed, his eyes beheld two angels, with line 
 and rod, measuring bounds and distances upon 
 the ground. After seeing the vision, the bishop 
 awoke, and that very hour set out to search for 
 the site the angels had shown him ; upon find- 
 ing which he joyously exclaimed, " This is the 
 site the Lord has chosen through his holy an- 
 gels, and here shall the city be ; " and even 
 now the most charming and delightful of all 
 the cities on the southern slope is this Puebla 
 de los Angeles. Nothing has occurred since to 
 shake confidence in the wisdom of the good 
 bishop, nor impair the value of his undertaking, 
 and to-day the idler, the antiquary, and the 
 artist rise up and call him blessed. 
 
 But the pious bishop did not stop here. As 
 early as 1536 he laid the corner-stone of the 
 present cathedral, completed one hundred and 
 fifty years later. This noble edifice, in its interior 
 adornments, lofty nave, broad aisles divided by 
 massive stone columns, inlaid floor of colored 
 marble, altars, chapels, and choirs, as well as 
 in its grand exterior, raised upon a terrace and 
 103
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 surmounted by majestic towers, is by far the 
 most stately and beautiful of all the great build- 
 ings of Mexico. 
 
 Before I reached the huge swinging doors, 
 carved and heavily ironed, I knew it was Palm 
 Sunday ; for the streets were filled with people, 
 each one carrying a long, thin leaf of the sago 
 palm, and the balconies crowded with children 
 twisting the sacred leaves over the iron railings, 
 to mark a blessing for the house until the next 
 festival. 
 
 I had crossed the plaza, where I had been 
 loitering under the trees, making memoranda 
 in my sketch-book of the groups of Indians 
 lounging on the benches in the shade, and 
 sketching the outlines of bunches of little don- 
 keys dozing in the sun ; and, mounting the 
 raised terrace upon which the noble pile is built, 
 found myself in the cool, incense-laden interior. 
 The aisles were a moving mass of people waving 
 palms over their heads, the vista looking like 
 great fields of ferns in the wind. The service was 
 still in progress, and the distant bursts of the 
 organ resounded at intervals through the arches. 
 
 I wedged my way between the throngs of 
 
 worshippers, some kneeling, some shuffling 
 
 along, keeping step with the crowd, past 
 
 the inlaid stalls, exquisite carvings, and gilded 
 
 104
 
 PALM SUNDAY IN PUEBLA DE LOS ANGELES 
 
 figures of saints, until I reached the door of the 
 sacristy. I always search out the sacristy. It 
 contains the movable property of the church, 
 and as I have a passion for moving it, when 
 the sacristan is of the same mind, I always 
 find it the most attractive corner of any sacred 
 interior. 
 
 The room was superb. The walls were cov- 
 ered with paintings set in gilded frames ; the 
 chests of drawers were crammed with costly 
 vestments ; two exquisite tables covered with 
 slabs of onyx stood on one side, while upon 
 a raised shelf above them were ranged eight 
 superb Japanese Imari jars, for water, I 
 presumed. 
 
 When I entered, a line of students near the 
 door were being robed in white starched gar- 
 ments by the sacristan ; groups of priests, in 
 twos and threes, some in vestments, others in 
 street robes, were chatting together on an old 
 settle ; and an aged, white-haired bishop was 
 listening intently to a young priest dressed in a 
 dark purple gown, both outlined against an 
 open window. The whole effect reminded me of 
 one of Vibert's pictures. I was so absorbed that I 
 remained motionless in the middle of the room, 
 gazing awkwardly about. The next moment 
 the light was shut out, and I half smothered in 
 105
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 the folds of a muslin skirt. I had been mistaken 
 for a student chorister, and the sacristan would 
 have slipped the garment over my head but for 
 my breathless protest. Had I known the ser- 
 vice, I think I should have risked the conse- 
 quences. 
 
 The sacristy opened into the chapter-room. 
 The wanderer who thinks he must go to Italy 
 to find grand interiors should stand at the 
 threshold of this room and look in ; or, still 
 better, rest his weary bones for half an hour 
 within the perfectly proportioned, vaulted, and 
 domed apartment, hung with Flemish tapestry 
 and covered with paintings, and examine it at 
 his leisure. He can select any one of the su- 
 perb old Spanish chairs presented by Charles 
 V., thirty-two of which line the walls ; then, 
 being rested, he can step into the middle of the 
 room, and feast his eyes upon a single slab of 
 Mexican onyx covering a table large enough for 
 a grand council of bishops. I confess I stood for 
 an instant amazed, wondering whether I was 
 really in Mexico, across its thousand miles of 
 dust, or had wandered into some old palace of 
 church in Verona or Padua. 
 
 At the far end of this chapter-room sat a 
 grave-looking priest, absorbed in his breviary. 
 I approached him, hat in hand. 
 106
 
 PALM SUNDAY IN PUEBLA DE LOS ANGELES 
 
 " Holy father, I am a stranger and a painter. 
 I know the service is in progress, and that I 
 should not now intrude ; but this room is so 
 beautiful, and my stay in Puebla so short, that 
 I must crave your permission to enter." 
 
 He laid down his book. " Miamigo, you are 
 welcome. Wander about where you will, here 
 and by the altar. You will disturb no one. You 
 painters always revere the church, for within 
 its walls your greatest works are held sacred." 
 
 I thought that very neat for a priest just 
 awakened from a reverie, and, thanking him, 
 examined greedily the superb old carved chair 
 he had just vacated. I did revere the church, 
 and told him so, but all the same I coveted the 
 chair, and but for his compliment and devout 
 air would have dared to open negotiations for 
 its possession. 1 reasoned, iconoclast that I am, 
 that it would hardly be missed among its fel- 
 lows, and that perhaps one of those frightful 
 renovations, constantly taking place in Mexican 
 churches, might overtake this beautiful room, 
 when new mahogany horrors might replace 
 these exquisite relics of the sixteenth century, 
 and the whole set be claimed by the second- 
 hand man or the wood-pile. 
 
 Then I strolled out into the church with that 
 vacant air which always marks one in a building 
 107
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 new to him, especially when it overwhelms 
 him, gazing up at the nave, reading the in- 
 scriptions under the pictures, and idling about 
 the aisles. Soon I came to a confessional box. 
 There I sat down behind a protecting column. 
 
 There is a fascination about the confessional 
 which I can never escape. Here sits the old 
 news-gatherer and safe-deposit vault of every- 
 body's valuable secrets, peaceful and calm 
 within the seclusion of his grated cabinet ; and 
 here come a troop of people, telling him all the 
 good and bad things of their lives, and leaving 
 with him for safe-keeping their most precious 
 property, their misdeeds. What a collection 
 of broken bonds, dishonored names, and debts 
 of ingratitude must he be custodian of ! 
 
 The good father before me was a kindly- 
 faced, plethoric old man ; a little deaf, I should 
 judge, from the fanning motion of his left hand, 
 forming a sounding-board for his ear. About 
 him were a group of penitents, patiently await- 
 ing their turns. When I halted and sought the 
 shelter of the pillar, the closely veiled and muf- 
 fled figure of a richly dressed senora was bowed 
 before him. She remained a few moments, and 
 then slipped away, and another figure took her 
 place at the grating. 
 
 I raised my eyes wistfully, wondering whether 
 108
 
 PALM SUNDAY IN PUEBLA DE LOS ANGELES 
 
 I could read the old fellow's face, which was in 
 strong light, sufficiently well to get some sort 
 of an inkling of her confidences ; but no cloud 
 of sorrow, or ruffle of anger, or gleam of curios- 
 ity passed over it. It was as expressionless as 
 a harvest moon, and placid as a mountain lake. 
 At times I even fancied he was asleep ; then 
 his little eyes would open slowly and peep out 
 keenly, and I knew he had only been assorting 
 and digesting his several informations. 
 
 One after another they dropped away si- 
 lently, the Indian in his zarape, the old man 
 in sandals, and the sad-faced woman with a 
 black rebozo twisted about her throat. Each 
 had prostrated himself, and poured through that 
 six inches of space the woes that weighed heavy 
 on his soul. The good father listened to them 
 all. His patience and equanimity seemed mar- 
 vellous. 
 
 I became so engrossed that I forgot I was an 
 eavesdropper, and could make no sort of ex- 
 cuse for my vulgar curiosity which would satisfy 
 any one upon whose privacy I intruded ; and, 
 coming to this conclusion, was about to shoul- 
 der my trap and move off, when I caught sight 
 of a short, thickset young Mexican, muffled to 
 his chin in a zarape. He was leaning against 
 the opposite column, watching earnestly the 
 109
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 same confessional box, his black, bead-like eyes 
 riveted upon the priest. In his hand he held a 
 small red cap, with which he partially concealed 
 his face. It was not prepossessing, the fore- 
 head being low and receding, and the mouth 
 firm and cruel. 
 
 As each penitent turned away, the man edged 
 nearer to the priest, with a movement that at- 
 tracted me. It was like that of an animal slowly 
 yielding to the power of a snake. He was now 
 so close that I could see great drops of sweat 
 running down his temples; his breath came 
 thick and short ; his whole form, sturdy fellow 
 as he was, trembled and shook. The cap was 
 now clenched in his fist and pressed to his breast, 
 the eyes still fastened on the priest, and the 
 feet moving a few inches at a time. When the 
 last penitent had laid her face against the grat- 
 ing, he fell upon his knees behind her and buried 
 his face in his hands. When she was gone he 
 threw himself forward in her place and clutched 
 the grating with a moan that startled me. 
 
 I arose from my seat, edged around the pillar, 
 and got the light more clearly on the priest's 
 face. It was as calm and serene as a wooden 
 saint's. 
 
 For a few moments the Mexican lay in a heap 
 at the grating ; then he raised his head, and 
 no
 
 PALM SUNDAY IN PUEBLA DE LOS ANGELES 
 
 looked cautiously about him. I shrank into the 
 shadow. The face was ghastly pale, the lips 
 trembled, the eyes started from his head. The 
 priest leaned forward wearily, his ear to the 
 iron lattice. The man's lips began to move ; the 
 confession had begun. Both figures remained 
 motionless, the man whispering eagerly, and 
 the priest listening patiently. Suddenly the good 
 father started forward, bent down, and scanned 
 the man's face searchingly through the grating. 
 In another instant he uttered a half-smothered 
 cry of horror, covered his face with the sleeve 
 of his robe, and fell back on his seat. 
 
 The man edged around on his knees from the 
 side grating to the front of the confessional, and 
 bowed his head to the lower step of the box. 
 For several minutes neither moved. I flattened 
 myself against the column, and became a part of 
 the architecture. Then the priest, with blanched 
 face, leaned forward over the half door, and laid 
 his hand on the penitent. The man raised his 
 head, clutched the top of the half door, bent 
 forward, and glued his lips to the priest's ear. 
 I reached down noiselessly for my sketch-trap, 
 peeled myself from the column as one would a 
 wet handbill, and, keeping the pillar between 
 me and the confessional, made a straight line 
 for the sacristy. 
 
 in
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 Before I reached the door the priest overtook 
 me, crossed the room, and disappeared through 
 a smaller door in the opposite wall. I turned to 
 avoid him, and caught sight of the red cap of 
 the Mexican pressing his way hurriedly to the 
 street. Waiting until he was lost in the throng, 
 1 drew a long breath, and dropped upon a bench. 
 
 The faces of both man and priest haunted me. 
 I had evidently been the unsuspected witness 
 of one of those strange confidences existing in 
 Catholic countries between the criminal and the 
 Church. I had also been in extreme personal 
 danger. A crime so terrible that the bare recital 
 of it shocked to demoralization so unimpression- 
 able a priest as the good father was safe in his 
 ear alone. Had there been a faint suspicion in 
 the man's mind that I had overheard any part 
 of his story, my position would have been dan- 
 gerous. 
 
 But what could have been the crime ? I re- 
 flected that even an inquiry looking towards its 
 solution would be equally hazardous, and so 
 tried to banish the incident from my mind. 
 
 A jar upon the other end of the bench awoke 
 me from my reverie. A pale, neatly dressed, 
 sad-looking young fellow had just sat down. 
 He apologized for disturbing me, and the courtesy 
 led to his moving up to my end. 
 112
 
 PALM SUNDAY IN PUEBLA DE LOS ANGELES 
 
 "English?" 
 
 " No, from New York." 
 
 " What do you sell ?" 
 
 " Nothing. I paint. This trap contains my 
 canvas and colors. What do you do ?" I asked. 
 
 " I am a clerk in the Department of Justice. 
 The office is closed to-day, and I have come into 
 the church out of the heat, because it is cool." 
 
 I sounded him carefully, was convinced of his 
 honesty, and related the incident of the confes- 
 sional. He was not surprised. On the contrary, 
 he recounted to me many similar instances in his 
 own experience, explaining that it is quite nat- 
 ural for a man haunted by a crime to seek the 
 quiet of a church, and that often the relief af- 
 forded by the confessional wrings from him his 
 secret. No doubt my case was one of these. 
 
 "And is the murderer safe ?" 
 
 "From the priest, yes. The police agents, 
 however, always watch the churches." 
 
 While we were speaking an officer passed, 
 bowed to my companion, retraced his steps, and 
 said, " There has been an important arrest. 
 You may perhaps be wanted." 
 
 I touched the speaker's arm. " Pardon me. 
 Was it made near the cathedral ?" 
 
 " Yes ; outside the great door." 
 
 " What was the color of his cap ?" 
 113
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 He turned sharply, looked at me searchingly, 
 and said, lowering his voice, 
 
 "Red." 
 
 A few days later I wandered into the market- 
 place, in search of a subject. My difficulty was 
 simply one of selection. I could have opened 
 my easel at random and made half a dozen 
 sketches without leaving my stool ; but where 
 there is so much wealth of material one is apt 
 to be overcritical, and, being anxious to pick 
 out the best, often loses the esprit of the first 
 impression, and so goes away without a line. 
 It was not the fault of the day or the market. 
 The sun was brilliant beyond belief, the sky 
 superb; the open square of the older section 
 was filled with tumble-down bungalow-like 
 sheds, hung with screens of patched matting ; 
 the sidewalks were fringed with giant thatched 
 umbrellas, picturesque in the extreme ; the cos- 
 tumes were rich and varied : all this and more, 
 and yet I was not satisfied. Outside the slant- 
 ing roofs, heaped up on the pavement, lay piles 
 of green vegetables, pottery, and fruit, glisten- 
 ing in the dazzling light. Inside the booths 
 hung festoons of bright stuffs, rebozos and pa- 
 nuelos, gray and cool by contrast. Thronging 
 crowds of natives streamed in and out of the 
 sheds, blocked up narrow passageways, grouped 
 114
 
 PALM SUNDAY IN PUEBLA DE LOS ANGELES 
 
 in the open, and disappeared into the black 
 shadows of an inviting archway, beyond which 
 an even crisper sunlight glowed in dabs, spots, 
 and splashes of luxuriant color. 
 
 There was everything, in fact, to intoxicate 
 a man in search of the picturesque, and yet I 
 idled along without opening my sketch-book, 
 and for more than an hour lugged my trap about: 
 deciding on a group under the edge of the arch- 
 way, with a glimpse of blue in the sky and the 
 towers of the church beyond ; abandoning that 
 instantly for a long stretch of street leading out 
 of a square dotted with donkeys waiting to be 
 unloaded ; and concluding, finally, to paint some 
 high-wheeled carts, only to relinquish them all 
 for something else. 
 
 I continued, I say, to waste thus foolishly my 
 precious time, until, dazed and worn out, I 
 turned on my heel, hailed a cab, and drove to 
 the old Paseo. There I entered the little pla- 
 %uela, embowered in trees, sat down opposite 
 the delightful old church of San Francisco, and 
 was at work in five minutes. When one is daz- 
 zled by a sunset, let him shut his eyes. After 
 the blaze of a Mexican market, try the quiet 
 grays of a seventeenth-century church, seen 
 through soft foliage and across cool, shady 
 walks.
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 This church of San Francisco is another of 
 the delightful old churches of Puebla. 1 re- 
 gret that the fiend with the bucket and the 
 flat brush has practically destroyed almost the 
 whole interior except the choir, which is still 
 exquisite with its finely carved wooden stalls 
 and rich organ ; but 1 rejoice that the outside, 
 with its quaint altar fronting on the pla^uela 
 facade of dark brick ornamented with panels of 
 Spanish tiles, stone carvings, statues, and lofty 
 towers, is still untouched, and hence beautiful. 
 
 Adjoining the church is a military hospital 
 and barracks, formerly an old convent. I was 
 so wholly wrapped up in my work that my 
 water-cup needed refilling before I looked up and 
 about me. To my surprise, I was nearly sur- 
 rounded by a squad of soldiers and half a dozen 
 officers. One fine-looking old fellow, with gray 
 mustache and pointed beard, stood so close that 
 my elbow struck his knee when I arose. 
 
 The first thought that ran through my head 
 was my experience of Sunday, and my unpar- 
 donable imprudence in imparting my discov- 
 eries of the confessional to the sad-faced young 
 man on the bench. Tracked, of course, I con- 
 cluded, arrested in the streets, and held as 
 a witness on bread and pulque for a week. No 
 passport, and an alibi out of the question ! A sec- 
 116
 
 PALM SUNDAY IN PUEBLA DE LOS ANGELES 
 
 ond glance reassured me. The possessor of the 
 pointed beard only smiled cordially, apologized, 
 and seated himself on the bench at my right. 
 His intentions were the most peaceful. It was 
 the growing picture that absorbed him and 
 his fellow officers and men. They had merely 
 deployed noiselessly in my rear, to find out 
 what the deuce the stranger was doing under 
 that white umbrella. Only this, and nothing 
 more. 
 
 I was not even permitted to fill my water- 
 bottle. A sign from my friend, and a soldier, 
 with his arm in a sling, ran to the fountain, re- 
 turned in a flash, and passed the bottle back to 
 me with so reverential an air that but for the 
 deep earnestness of his manner 1 should have 
 laughed aloud. He seemed to regard the water- 
 bottle as the home of the witch that worked the 
 spell. 
 
 After that the circle was narrowed, and my 
 open cigarette case added a touch of good fellow- 
 ship, everybody becoming quite cosey and socia- 
 ble. The officer was in command of the bar- 
 racks. His brother officers one after another 
 was introduced with much form and manner 
 were on duty at the hospital except one, who 
 was in command of the department of police of 
 the city. A slight chill ran down my spine, but 
 117
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 I returned the commandant's bow with a smile 
 that established at once the absolute purity of 
 my life. 
 
 For two hours, in the cool of the morning, 
 under the trees of the little pla^uela, this charm- 
 ing episode continued ; I painting, the others 
 around me deeply interested ; all smoking, and 
 chatting in the friendliest possible way. At the 
 sound of a bugle the men dropped away, and 
 soon after all the officers bowed and disappeared, 
 except my friend with the pointed beard and 
 the commandant of the police. These two 
 moved their bench nearer, and sat down, deter- 
 mined to watch the sketch to the end. 
 
 The conversation drifted into different chan- 
 nels. The system of policing the streets at 
 night was explained to me, the manner of ar- 
 rest, the absolute authority given to the jefe 
 politico in the rural districts, an execution 
 first, and an investigation afterwards, the 
 necessity for such prompt action in a country 
 abounding in bandits, the success of the gov- 
 ernment in suppressing the evil, etc. 
 
 " And are the crimes confined wholly to the 
 country districts ? " I asked. " Are your cities 
 safe ? " 
 
 "Generally, yes. Occasionally there is a 
 murder among the lower classes of the people. 
 118
 
 PALM SUNDAY IN PUEBLA DE LOS ANGELES 
 
 It is not always for booty ; revenge for some 
 real or fancied injury often prompts it." 
 
 " Has there been any particularly brutal crime 
 committed here lately ? " I asked carelessly, 
 skirting the edge of my precipice. 
 
 " Not exactly here. There was one at At- 
 lixco, a small town a few miles west of here, 
 but the man escaped." 
 
 " Have you captured him ? " 
 
 "Not yet. There was a man arrested here a 
 few days ago, who is now awaiting examina- 
 tion. It may be that we have the right one. 
 We shall know to-morrow." 
 
 I kept at work, dabbing away at the mass of 
 foliage, and putting in pats of shadow tones. 
 
 " Was it the man arrested near the cathe- 
 dral on Palm Sunday ? " 
 
 "There was a man arrested on Palm Sun- 
 day," he replied slowly. " How did you 
 know ? " 
 
 I looked up, and found his eyes riveted on 
 me in a peculiar, penetrating way. 
 
 " I heard it spoken of in the church," I re- 
 plied, catching my breath. My foot went over 
 the precipice. I could see into the pit below. 
 
 " If the American heard of it," said he in a 
 low voice, turning to my friend, " it was badly 
 done." 
 
 119
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 I filled a fresh brush with color, leaned over 
 my canvas, and before I looked up a second 
 time had regained my feet and crawled back to 
 a safe spot. I could hear the stones go rum- 
 bling down into the abyss beneath me. Then 
 I concentrated myself upon the details of the 
 facade, and the officer began explaining the 
 early history of the founding of the church, and 
 the many vicissitudes it had experienced in the 
 great battles which had raged around its towers. 
 By the time he had finished the cold look went 
 out of his eyes. 
 
 The sketch was completed, the trap bundled 
 up, three hats were raised, and we separated. 
 
 I thought of the horror-stricken face of the 
 priest and the crouching figure of the Mexican ; 
 then I thought of that penetrating, steel-like 
 glance of the commandant. 
 
 So far as 1 know, the priest alone shares the 
 secret. 
 
 1 20
 
 IX 
 A DAY IN TOLUCA 
 
 HITHERTO my travels, with the exception 
 of a divergence to Puebla, have been in 
 a straight line south, beginning at the frontier 
 town of El Paso, stopping at Zacatecas, Aguas 
 Calientes, Silao, Guanajuato, and Queretaro, 
 all important cities on the line of the Mexi- 
 can Central Railroad, and ending at the city 
 of Mexico, some twelve hundred miles nearer 
 the equator. 
 
 It is true that I have made a flying trip over 
 the Mexican Railway, passing under the shadow 
 of snow-capped Orizaba, have looked down into 
 the deep gorges of the Infiernillo, reeking with 
 the hot, humid air of the tropics, and have spent 
 one night in the fever-haunted city of Vera 
 Cruz ; but my experiences were confined to 
 such as could be enjoyed from the rear plat- 
 form of a car, to a six by nine room in a stuffy 
 hotel, and to a glimpse at night of the sea, 
 
 121
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 impelled by a norther, rolling in from the Gulf 
 and sousing the quay incumbered with surf 
 boats. Had I been a bird belated in the autumn, 
 I could have seen more. 
 
 This bright April morning I have shaken the 
 dust of the great city from my feet, and have 
 bent my steps westward towards the Pacific. 
 In common parlance, 1 have bought a first-class 
 ticket for as far as the national railroad will take 
 me, and shall come bump up against the pre- 
 sent terminus at Patzcuaro. 
 
 On my way west I shall stop at Toluca, an 
 important city some fifty miles down the road, 
 tarry a while at Morelia, the most delightful of 
 all the cities of western Mexico, and come to a 
 halt at Patzcuaro, in all some three hundred 
 miles from where I sit in the station and look 
 out my car window. I am particular about these 
 distances. 
 
 At Patzcuaro I shall find a lake bearing the 
 same name. Up this lake, nearly to the end, 
 an Indian adobe village ; at the end of the vil- 
 lage a tumbling-down church and convent, 
 within this convent a cloister, leading out of the 
 cloister a narrow passage ending in a low-ceiled 
 room with its one window protected by an iron 
 grating. Through this fretwork of rusty iron the 
 light streams in, falling, I am told, upon one of 
 
 122
 
 A DAY IN TOLUCA 
 
 the priceless treasures of the world an En- 
 tombment by Titian. 
 
 This, if you please, is why my course points 
 due west. 
 
 The scenery along the line of the road from 
 the city of Mexico to where the divide is 
 crossed at la Cima some ten thousand feet 
 above the level of the sea, and thence down 
 into the Toluca Valley was so inexpressibly 
 grand that I was half the time in imminent dan- 
 ger of decorating a telegraph pole with my head, 
 in my eagerness to enjoy it. 
 
 Great masonry dams hold back lakes of sil- 
 ver shimmering in the sunlight ; deep gorges lie 
 bottomless in purple shadows ; wide stretches 
 of tableland end in volcanoes, ragged, dead, and 
 creviced with snow ; and sharp craggy peaks, 
 tumbling waterfalls, and dense semi-tropical 
 jungles start up and out and from under me at 
 every curve. 
 
 On reaching the valley of Toluca, the road, 
 as it nears the red-tiled roofs of the city, follows 
 the windings of the river Lerma, its banks 
 fringed with natives bathing. On reaching the 
 city itself the clean, well-dressed throng at the 
 depot explains at a glance the value of this 
 stream apart from its irrigating properties. 
 123
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 And the city is clean, with a certain well- 
 planned, well-built, and orderly air about it, 
 and quite a modern air too. Remembering a 
 fine gray dust which seems to be a part of the 
 very air one breathes, and the great stretches of 
 gardens filled with trees, and the long drought 
 continuing for months, I should say that the 
 prevailing color of Toluca's vegetation is a light 
 mullein-stalk green. Then the houses are a 
 dusty pink, the roofs a dusty red, and the streets 
 and sidewalks a dusty yellow, and the sky al- 
 ways and ever, from morn till night, a dusty 
 blue. It is the kind of place Cazin, the great 
 French impressionist, would revel in. So sub- 
 tle and exquisite are the grays and their harmo- 
 nies that one false note from your palette sets 
 your teeth on edge. 
 
 But Toluca is not by any means a modern 
 city, despite its apparent newness, its air of 
 prosperity, and its generally brushed-up appear- 
 ance. It is one of the oldest of the Spanish set- 
 tlements. No less a personage than the great 
 Cortez himself received its site, and a comfort- 
 able slice of the surrounding country thrown in, 
 as a present from his king. In fact it is but a 
 few years, not twenty, since the government 
 pulled down the very house once occupied by 
 the conqueror's son, Don Martin Cortez, and 
 124
 
 A DAY IN TOLUCA 
 
 built upon its site the present imposing state 
 buildings fronting the plaza major. 
 
 This pulling down and rebuilding process is 
 quite fashionable in Toluca, and has extended 
 even to its churches. The primitive church of 
 San Francisco was replaced by a larger structure 
 of stone in 1585, and this in turn by an impor- 
 tant building erected in the seventeenth century; 
 and yet these restless people, as if cramped for 
 room, levelled this edifice to the ground in 1874 
 and started upon its ruins what purposes to be 
 a magnificent temple, judging from the acres it 
 covers. In fourteen years it has grown twelve 
 feet high. Some time during the latter part of 
 the next century they will be slating the roof. 
 
 Then there are delightful markets, and a fine 
 bull-ring, and in the suburbs a pretty alameda 
 full of matted vines and overgrown walks, be- 
 sides two gorgeous theatres. Altogether Toluca 
 is quite worth visiting, even if it does not look 
 as old as the Pyramids or as dilapidated as an 
 Arab town. 
 
 In all this newness there is one spot which 
 refreshes you like a breeze from afar. It is the 
 little chapel of Nuestra Sefiora del Carmen, 
 laden with the quaintness, the charm, and the 
 dust of the sixteenth century. It has appar- 
 ently never yet occurred to any Tolucan to 
 125
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 retouch it, and my only fear in calling attention 
 to it now is, that during the next annual spring 
 cleaning the man with the bucket will smother 
 its charm in whitewash. 
 
 It was high noon when I sallied out from my 
 lodgings to look for this forgotten relic of the 
 past. I had spent the morning with that ubi- 
 quitous scapegrace Moon, whom I had met in 
 Zacatecas some weeks before and who had run 
 up to Toluca on some business connected with 
 the road. He nearly shook my arm off when he 
 ran against me in the market, inquired after the 
 chair, vowed I should not wet a brush until I 
 broke bread with him, and would have carried 
 me off bodily to breakfast had I not convinced 
 him that no man could eat two meals half an 
 hour apart. He was delighted that I could find 
 nothing, as he expressed it, " rickety " enough 
 to paint in Toluca, and then relenting led me up 
 to a crack in a crooked street, pointed ahead to 
 the chapel, and deserted me with the remark, 
 
 " Try that. It is as musty as a cheese and 
 about a million years old." 
 
 I passed through a gate, entered the sacred 
 building, and wandered out into a patio, or sort 
 of cloister. Instantly the world and its hum were 
 gone. It was a small cloister, square, paved 
 with marble flags, and open to the blue sky 
 126
 
 A DAY IN TOLUCA 
 
 above. Beneath the arches, against the wall, 
 hung a few paintings, old and weather-stained. 
 Opposite from where I stood was an open door. 
 I crossed the quadrangle and entered a cosily 
 furnished apartment. The ceiling was low and 
 heavily beamed, the floor laid in brick tiles, and 
 the walls faced with shelves loaded with books 
 bound in vellum with titles labelled in ink. 
 
 Over the door was an unframed picture, evi- 
 dently a Murillo, and against the opposite wall 
 hung several large copies of Ribera. In one cor- 
 ner under a grated window rested an iron bed- 
 stead, but recently occupied, and near it 
 an armchair with faded velvet cushions. A 
 low table covered with books and manuscripts, 
 together with a skull, candle, and rosary, a 
 copper basin and pitcher, and a few chairs, 
 completed the interior comforts. Over the bed, 
 within arm's reach, hung a low shelf, upon 
 which stood a small glass cup holding a with- 
 ered rose. The cup was dry and the flower 
 faded and dust-covered. 
 
 A second and smaller room opened out to the 
 left. I pushed aside the curtains and looked in. 
 It was unoccupied, like the first. As I turned 
 hurriedly to leave the apartments my eye fell 
 upon a copy of A\edina's works bound in vel- 
 lum, yellow and crinkled, the .backs tied by a 
 127
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 leathern string. I leaned forward to note the 
 date. Suddenly the light was shut out, and 
 from the obstructed doorway came a voice quick 
 and sharp. 
 
 "What does the stranger want with the 
 padre's books ?" I looked up and saw a man 
 holding a bunch of keys. The situation was 
 unpleasant. Without changing my position, I 
 lifted the book from the shelf and carefully read 
 the title-page. 
 
 " Will he be gone long ? " I answered, slowly 
 replacing the volume. 
 
 " You are waiting, then, for Fray Geronimo ? 
 Many pardons, senor ; 1 am the sacristan. I 
 will find the padre and bring him to you." 
 
 I sank into the armchair. Retreat now was 
 impossible. This will do for the sacristan, I 
 thought, but how about the priest ? 
 
 In a moment more I caught the sound of 
 quickening footsteps crossing the patio. By the 
 side of the sacristan stood a bareheaded young 
 priest, dressed in a white robe which reached 
 to his feet. He had deep-set eyes, which were 
 intensely dark, and a skin of ivory whiteness. 
 With a kindly smile upon his handsome, intel- 
 lectual face, he came forward and said, 
 
 " Do you want me ? " 
 
 I laid my course in an instant. 
 128
 
 A DAY IN TOLUCA 
 
 "Yes, holy father," 1 replied, rising, "to 
 crave your forgiveness. I am an American and 
 a painter ; see, here is my sketch-book. I en- 
 tered your open door, believing it would lead 
 me to the street. The Murillo, the Riberas, the 
 wonderful collection of old books, more precious 
 than any I have ever seen in all Mexico, over- 
 came me. I love these things, and could not 
 resist the temptation of tarrying long enough 
 to feast my eyes." 
 
 " Mi amigo, do not be disturbed. It is all 
 right. You can go, Pedro, ' ' this to the sacris- 
 tan. " I love them too. Let us look them over 
 together." 
 
 For more than an hour we examined the 
 contents of the curious library. Almost with- 
 out an exception each book was a rare volume. 
 There were rows of ecclesiastical works in Latin 
 with red-lettered title-pages printed in Antwerp; 
 two editions of Don Quixote with copper plates, 
 published in Madrid in 1760, besides a varied 
 collection of the early Mexican writers, including 
 Alarcon, the dramatist, and Gongora, the poet- 
 philosopher. 
 
 Then in the same gracious manner he mounted 
 
 a chair and took from the wall the unframed 
 
 Murillo, " A Flight into Egypt," and placed it 
 
 in the light, saying that it had formerly belonged 
 
 129
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 to an ancestor and not to the church, and that 
 believing it to be the genuine work of the great 
 master, he had brought it with him when he 
 came to Toluca, the face of the Madonna being 
 especially dear to him. Next he unlocked a 
 closet and brought me an ivory crucifix of ex- 
 quisite workmanship, the modelling of the feet 
 and hands recalling the best work of the Italian 
 school. He did not return this to the closet, 
 but placed it upon the little shelf over his bed, 
 close to the dry cup which held the withered 
 rose. In the act the flower slipped from the 
 glass. Noticing how carefully he moved the cup 
 aside, and how tenderly he replaced the shriv- 
 elled bud, I said laughingly, 
 
 " You not only love old books, but old flow- 
 ers as well." 
 
 He looked at me thoughtfully, and replied 
 gravely, 
 
 " Some flowers are never old." 
 
 In the glare of the sunlight of the street I 
 met Moon. He had been searching for me for 
 an hour. 
 
 " Did you find that hole in the wall ? " he 
 called out. " Come over here where the wind 
 can blow through you. You must feel like a 
 grave-digger. Where is your sketch ? " 
 
 1 had no sketch and told him so. The inte- 
 130
 
 A DAY IN TOLUCA 
 
 rior was in truth delightfully picturesque, but 
 the young priest was so charming that I had 
 not even opened my trap. 
 
 " What sort of a looking priest ? " 
 
 I described him as closely as I could. 
 
 "It sounds like Geronimo. Yes same 
 priest." 
 
 "Well ?" 
 
 " Oh ! the old story, and a sad one. Gray 
 dawn muffled figures obliging duenna 
 diligence governor on horseback girl locked 
 up in a hacienda student forced into the 
 Church. Queer things happen in Mexico, my 
 boy, and cruel ones too." 
 
 131
 
 X 
 
 TO MORELIA WITH MOON 
 
 MOON insists on going to Morelia with 
 me. He has a number of reasons for 
 this sudden resolve : that the senoritas are es- 
 pecially charming and it is dangerous for me to 
 go alone ; that he knows the sacristan major 
 of the cathedral and can buy for me for a song 
 the entire movable property of the church ; that 
 there is a lovely alameda overgrown with wild 
 roses, and that it is so tangled up and crooked 
 I will lose the best part of it if he does not pilot 
 me about ; and finally, when I demur, that he 
 has received a despatch from his chief to meet 
 him in Morelia on the morrow, and he must go 
 anyhow. 
 
 He appears the next morning in a brown 
 linen suit, with the same old sombrero slanted 
 over one eye, and the loose end of his necktie 
 tossed over his shoulder. On the way to the 
 station he holds a dozen interviews with citi- 
 zens occupying balconies along the route. He 
 132
 
 TO MORELIA WITH MOON 
 
 generally conducts these from the middle of the 
 street, pitching his voice to suit the elevation. 
 Then he deflects to the sidewalk, runs his head 
 into the door of a posada, wakes up the inmates 
 with a volley of salutations, bobs out again, 
 hails by name the driver of a tram, and when 
 he comes to a standstill calls out that he has 
 changed his mind and will walk, and so arrives 
 at the station bubbling over with good humor, 
 and as restless as a schoolboy. 
 
 I cannot help liking this breezy fellow, despite 
 his piratical air, his avowed contempt for all the 
 laws that govern well-regulated society, and his 
 professed unbelief in the sincerity of everybody's 
 motives. 
 
 His acquaintance is marvellous. He knows 
 everybody, from the water-carrier to the arch- 
 bishop. He speaks not only Spanish, but half a 
 dozen native dialects picked up from the Indians 
 while he was constructing the railroad. He has 
 lived in every town and village on the line ; 
 knows Morelia, Patzcuaro, Tzintzuntzan, and 
 the lake as thoroughly as he does his own abid- 
 ing - place at Zacatecas ; is perfectly familiar 
 with all the mountain trails and short cuts across 
 plains and foothills ; is a born tramp, the best 
 of Bohemians, and the most entertaining trav- 
 elling companion possible. 
 133
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 His baggage is exceedingly limited. It con- 
 sists of a tooth-brush, two collars, and a bundle 
 of cigars. He replies to my remarks on its com- 
 pactness, that " anybody's shirts fit him, and 
 that he has plenty of friends up the road." 
 And yet with all this there is something about 
 the fearless way in which he looks you straight 
 in the eye, and something about the firm lines 
 around his mouth, that, in spite of his devil- 
 may-care recklessness, convinces you of his 
 courage and sincerity. 
 
 " Crawl over here," he breaks out from the 
 end of the car, " and see this hacienda. Every 
 square acre you see, including that range of 
 mountains, belongs to one Mexican. It covers 
 exactly one hundred and twenty square miles. 
 The famished pauper who owns it has taken 
 five millions of dollars from it during the last 
 fifteen years. For the next eighteen miles you 
 will ride through his land." 
 
 " Does he live here ? " I inquired. 
 
 " No, he knows better. He lives in Paris like 
 a lord, and spends every cent of it." 
 
 We were entering the lake country, and 
 caught glimpses of Cuitzo shimmering through 
 the hills. 
 
 " These shores are alive with wild fowl," 
 continued Moon ; " there goes a flight of stork, 
 
 134
 
 TO MORELIA WITH MOON 
 
 now. You can bag a pelican and half a dozen 
 flamingoes any morning along here before break- 
 fast. But you should see the Indians hunt. 
 They never use a gun when they go ducking. 
 They tie a sharp knife to a long pole and spear 
 the birds as they fly over. When they fish 
 they strew green boughs along the water's 
 edge, and when the fish seek the shade, scoop 
 them up with a dip-net made from the fibre of 
 the pulque plant. This country has changed 
 but little since that old pirate Cortez took pos- 
 session of it, as far as the Indians go. Many of 
 them cannot understand a word of Spanish now, 
 and I had to pick up their jargon myself, when 
 I was here." 
 
 " Hello, Goggles ! " he shouted out, suddenly 
 jumping from his seat as the train stopped. I 
 looked out and saw a poor blind beggar, guided 
 by a boy with a stick. 
 
 " I thought you were dead long ago." 
 In a moment more he was out of the train and 
 had the old man by the hand. When he turned 
 away, I could see by the way the blind face 
 lighted up that he had made him the richer in 
 some way. The boy too seemed overjoyed, and 
 would have left his helpless charge in the push- 
 ing crowd but for Moon, who snatched away the 
 leading stick, and placed it in the beggar's hand 
 
 135
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 again. Then he fell to berating the boy for his 
 carelessness, without, however, diminishing in 
 the least the latter's good humor, raising his 
 voice until the car windows were filled with 
 heads. 
 
 All this in a dialect that was wholly unintel- 
 ligible. 
 
 " You know the beggar," I remarked. 
 
 "Of course; old Tizapan. Lost his eyes 
 digging in a silver mine. That little devil is his 
 grandson. If I had my way I would dig a hole 
 and fill it up with these cripples." 
 
 When we reached Morelia it was quite dark, 
 and yet it was difficult to get Moon out of the 
 station, so many people had a word to say to 
 him. When we arrived at the hotel fronting the 
 plaza he was equally welcome, everybody greet- 
 ing him. 
 
 It was especially delightful to see the land- 
 lord. He first fell upon his neck and embraced 
 him, then stood off at a distance and admired 
 him, with his arms akimbo, drinking in every 
 word of Moon's raillery. At the bare mention 
 of dinner, he rushed off and brought in the cook, 
 whom Moon addressed instantly as Griddles, 
 running from Spanish into English and French, 
 and back again into Spanish, in the most sur- 
 prising way. 
 
 136
 
 TO MORELIA WITH MOON 
 
 "We will have a Mexican dinner for the 
 painter, Griddles ! No bon boucbe, but a square 
 meal, un buena comida! magnificat especially 
 some little fish baked in corn-husks, peppers 
 stuffed with tomatoes with plenty of chile, an 
 onion salad with garlic, stewed figs, and a cup 
 of Uruapam coffee, the finest in the world," 
 this last to me. 
 
 Later all these were' duly served and deli- 
 ciously cooked, and opened my eyes to the re- 
 sources of a Mexican kitchen when ordered by 
 an expert. 
 
 In the morning Moon started for his friend the 
 sacristan. He found him up a long flight of stone 
 steps in one end of the cathedral. But he was 
 helpless, even for Moon. We must find Padre 
 Bailo, who lived near the Zocolo. He had the 
 keys and charge of all the worn-out church pro- 
 perty. Another long search across plazas and in 
 and out of market stalls, and Padre Bailo was 
 encountered leaving his house on his way back 
 to the cathedral. But it was impossible. Manana 
 por la manana, or perhaps next week, but not 
 to-day. Moon took the dried-up old fossil aside, 
 and brought him back in five minutes smiling 
 all over, with a promise to unlock everything on 
 my return from Patzcuaro. 
 
 " Now for thealameda. It is the most delight- 
 
 137
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 ful old tangle in Mexico : rose-trees as high as 
 a house ; by-paths overgrown with vines and 
 lost in beds of violets ; stone benches galore ; 
 through the centre an aqueduct so light it 
 might be built of looped ribbons; and such 
 senoritas ! I met a girl under one of those arches 
 who would have taken your breath away. She 
 had a pair of eyes, and a foot, and " 
 
 " Never mind what the girl had, Moon. We 
 may find her yet on one of the benches and I 
 will judge for myself. Show me the alameda." 
 
 " Come on, then." 
 
 At the end of a beautiful street nearly half a 
 mile long, in reality a raised stone causeway 
 with stone parapets and stone benches on either 
 side, and shaded its entire length by a double 
 row of magnificent elms, I found the aban- 
 doned Paseo de las Lechugas (the street of the 
 Lettuces). 
 
 Moon had not exaggerated the charm of its 
 surroundings. Acacias and elms interlaced their 
 branches across the walks, roses ran riot over 
 the stone benches, twisted their stems in and 
 out of the railings, and tossed their blossoms 
 away up in the branches of the great trees. 
 High up against the blue, the graceful aque- 
 duct stepped along on its slender legs, tramp- 
 ling the high grass, and through and into and 
 138
 
 TO MORELIA WITH MOON 
 
 over all, the afternoon sun poured its flood of 
 gold. 
 
 The very unkempt, deserted air of the place 
 added to its beauty. It looked as if the forces 
 of nature, no longer checked, had held high 
 revel, and in their glee had well-nigh effaced 
 all trace of closely cropped hedge, rectangular 
 flower-bed, and fantastic shrub. The very pop- 
 pies had wandered from their beds and stared 
 at me from the roadside with brazen faces, and 
 the once dignified tiger lilies had turned tramps 
 and sat astride of the crumbling curbs, nodding 
 gayly at me as I passed. 
 
 "Did I not tell you ? " broke out Moon. 
 "How would you like to be lost in a tangle 
 like this for a month with a Fatinitza all eyes 
 and perfume, with little Hottentots to serve you 
 ices, and fan you with peacock tails ?" 
 
 I admitted my inability to offer any valid 
 objection to any such delicious experience, and 
 intimated that, but for one obstacle, he could 
 bring on his Hottentots and trimmings at once 
 I was en route for Patzcuaro, Tzintzuntzan, 
 and the Titian. 
 
 This was news to Moon. He had expected 
 Patzcuaro, that being the terminus of the great- 
 est railroad of the continent, P. Moon, civil 
 engineer, but why any sane man wanted to 
 139
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 wander around looking for a dirty adobe Indian 
 village like Tzintzuntzan, away up a lake, with 
 nothing but a dug-out to paddle there in, and 
 not a place to put your head in after you landed, 
 was a mystery to him. Besides, who said there 
 was any Titian ? At all events, I might stay in 
 Morelia until I could find my way around alone. 
 The Titian had already hung there three hun- 
 dred years ; he thought it would hold out for a 
 day or two longer. 
 
 So we continued rambling about this most 
 delightful of all the Mexican cities ; across the 
 plaza of La Paz at night ; sitting under the trees 
 listening to the music, and watching the love- 
 making on the benches ; in the cathedral at 
 early mass, stopping for fruit and a cup of coffee 
 at the market on the way ; through the college of 
 San Nicholas, where Fray Geronimo had studied ; 
 to the governor's house to listen to a concert 
 and to present ourselves to his excellency, who 
 had sent for us ; to the great pawn-shop, the 
 Monte de Piedad, on the regular day of sale, 
 and to the thousand and one delights of this 
 dolcefar niente city, returning always at sun- 
 down to the inn, to be welcomed by the land- 
 lord, who shouted for Griddles the moment he 
 laid eyes on Moon, and began spreading the cloth 
 on the little table under the fig-tree in the garden. 
 140
 
 TO MORELIA WITH MOON 
 
 After this Bohemian existence had lasted for 
 several days I suddenly remembered that Moon 
 had not been out of my sight five waking min- 
 utes, and being anxious for his welfare, I ven- 
 tured to jog his memory. 
 
 "Moon, did you not tell me that you came 
 here on orders from your chief, who wanted you 
 on urgent business and was waiting for you ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Have you seen him ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Heard from him ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " What are you going to do about it ? " 
 
 " Let him wait." 
 
 141
 
 XI 
 
 PATZCUARO AND THE LAKE 
 
 WHEN I rapped at Moon's door the next 
 morning he refused to open it. He 
 apologized for this refusal by roaring through the 
 transom that the thought of my leaving him 
 alone in Morelia had caused him a sleepless 
 night, and that he had determined never to 
 look upon my face again ; that he had " never 
 loved a dear gazelle," etc., this last sung in 
 a high key ; that he was not coming out ; and 
 that I might go to Pdtzcuaro and be hanged to 
 me. 
 
 So the landlord and Griddles escorted me to 
 the station, the chef carry ing my traps, and the 
 landlord a mysterious basket with a suggestive 
 bulge in one corner of the paper covering. As 
 the train moved slowly out, this basket was 
 passed through the window with a remark that 
 Mr. Moon had prepared it the night before, with 
 especial instructions not to deliver it until 1 was 
 under way. On removing the covering the bulge 
 142
 
 PATZCUARO AND THE LAKE 
 
 proved to be glass, with a tinfoil covering the 
 cork, on top of which was a card bearing the 
 superscription of my friend, with a line stating 
 that "charity of the commonest kind had in- 
 fluenced him in this attempt to keep me from 
 starving during my idiotic search for the Titian, 
 that the dulces beneath were the pride of More- 
 lia, the fruit quite fresh, and the substratum of 
 sandwiches the best Griddles could make." 
 
 I thanked the cheery fellow in my heart, 
 forgave him his eccentricities, and wondered 
 whether I should ever see his like again. 
 
 An hour later I had finished the customary 
 inventory of the car: the padre, very moist and 
 very dusty, as if he had reached the station from 
 afar, mule-back ; the young Hidalgo with buck- 
 skin jacket, red sash, open-slashed buckskin 
 breeches with silver buttons of bulls' heads 
 down the seam, wide sombrero, and the ivory 
 handle of a revolver protruding from his hip 
 pocket ; the two demure senoritas dressed in 
 black with veils covering their heads and shoul- 
 ders, attended by the stout duenna on the ad- 
 joining seat, with fat, pudgy hands, hoop ear- 
 rings, and restless eyes ; the old Mexican, thin, 
 yellow, and dried up, with a cigarette glued to 
 his lower lip. 
 
 1 had looked them all over carefully, specu-
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 lating as one does over their several occupations 
 and antecedents, and feeling the loss of my en- 
 cyclopaedic friend in unravelling their several 
 conditions, when the door of the car immedi- 
 ately in front of me opened, and that ubiqui- 
 tous individual himself slowly sauntered in, his 
 cravat flying, and his big sombrero flattened 
 against the back of his head. The only change 
 in his costume had been the replacing of his 
 brown linen suit with one of a fine blue check, 
 newly washed and ironed in streaks. From his 
 vest pocket protruded his customary baggage, 
 the ivory handle and the points of two cigars. 
 
 "Why, Moon ! " I blurted out, completely 
 surprised. " Where did you come from ? " 
 
 "Baggage car had a nap. Got the bas- 
 ket, I see." 
 
 " I left you in bed," I continued. 
 
 " You did n't. Was shivering on the outside, 
 waiting for the landlord's clothes. How do they 
 fit ? Left mine to be washed." 
 
 " Where are you going ? " I insisted, deter- 
 mined not to be side-tracked. 
 
 " To Patzcuaro." Then with a merry twinkle 
 in his eye he leaned forward, canted his som- 
 brero over his left eye, and shading his mouth 
 with its brim whispered confidentially, "You 
 see, I got a dispatch from my chief to meet him 
 144
 
 PATZCUARO AND THE LAKE 
 
 in Patzcuaro, and I managed by hurrying a lit- 
 tle to catch this train." 
 
 Patzcuaro lies on a high hill overlooking the 
 lake. The beautiful sheet of water at its foot, 
 some twenty miles long and ten wide, is sur- 
 rounded by forest-clad hills and studded with 
 islands, and peopled almost exclusively by In- 
 dians, who support themselves by fishing. 
 
 The town is built upon hilly broken ground, 
 the streets are narrow and crooked, and thor- 
 oughly Moorish in their character, and the gen- 
 eral effect picturesque in the extreme. 
 
 On alighting from the train it was evident 
 that the progressiveness of the nineteenth cen- 
 tury ended at the station. Drawn up in the 
 road stood a lumbering stage-coach and five 
 horses. It was as large as a country barn, and 
 had enormous wheels bound with iron and as 
 heavy as an artillery wagon's. In front there 
 hung a boot made of leather an inch thick, 
 with a multitude of straps and buckles. Behind, 
 a similar boot, with more straps and buckles. 
 On top was fastened an iron railing, protecting 
 an immense load of miscellaneous freight. There 
 was also a flight of steps that let down in sec- 
 tions, with a hand-rail to assist the passenger. 
 Within and without, on cushions, sides, cur- 
 tains, over top, baggage, wheels, driver, horses, 
 
 J45
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 and harness the gray dust lay in layers, not 
 sifted over it, but piled up in heaps. 
 
 The closest scrutiny on my companion's part 
 failed to reveal the existence of anything resem- 
 bling a spring, made either of leather, rawhide, 
 or steel. This last was a disappointment to 
 Moon, who said that occasionally some coaches 
 were built that way. 
 
 But two passengers entered it, Moon and I ; 
 the others, not being strangers, walked. The dis- 
 tance to the town from the station is some two 
 miles, up hill. It was not until my trap rose 
 from the floor, took a flying leap across the 
 middle of the seat, and landed edgewise below 
 Moon's breastbone, that I began fully to realize 
 how badly the authorities had neglected the 
 highway. Moon coincided, remarking that they 
 had evidently blasted it out in the rough, but 
 the pieces had not been gathered up. 
 
 We arrived first, entering the arcade of the 
 Fonda Concordia afoot, the coach lumbering 
 along later minus half its top freight. 
 
 A cup of coffee, none better than this na- 
 tive coffee, an omelet with peppers and some 
 fruit, and Moon started out to make arrange- 
 ments for my trip up the lake to Tzintzuntzan 
 and the Titian, and I with my sketch-book to 
 see the town. 
 
 146
 
 PATZCUARO AND THE LAKE 
 
 A closer view was not disappointing. 
 
 Patzcuaro is more Moorish than any city in 
 Mexico. The houses have overhanging eaves 
 supported by roof rafters similar to those seen 
 in southern Spain. The verandas are shaded by 
 awnings and choked up with flowers. The ar- 
 cades are flanked by slender Moorish columns, 
 the streets are crossed by swinging lanterns 
 stretched from house to house by iron chains, 
 the windows and doorways are surmounted 
 by the horseshoe arch of the Alhambra, and 
 the whole place inside and out reminds you of 
 Toledo transplanted. Although seven thousand 
 feet above the level of the sea, it is so near the 
 edge of the slope running down into the hot 
 country that its market is filled with tropical 
 fruits unknown on the plateau of Mexico farther 
 east, and the streets thronged with natives 
 dressed in costumes never met with in high 
 latitudes. 
 
 Tradition has it that in the days of the good 
 Bishop Quiroga, when the See of Michoacan 
 was removed hither from Tzintzuntzan, Patz- 
 cuaro gave promise of being an important city, 
 as is proved by the unfinished cathedral. When, 
 however, the See was again removed to Morelia 
 the town rapidly declined, until to-day it is the 
 least important of the old cities of Michoacan. 
 
 147
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 The plaza is trodden down and surrounded by 
 market stalls, the churches are either abandoned 
 or, what is worse, renovated, and there is no- 
 thing left of interest to the idler and antiquary, 
 outside of the charm of its picturesque streets 
 and location, except, it may be, the tomb of the 
 great bishop himself, who lies buried under the 
 altar of the Jesuit church, the Campania, 
 his bones wrapped in silk. 
 
 I made some memoranda in my sketch- 
 book, bought some coffee, lacquer ware, and 
 feather work, and returned to the inn to look for 
 Moon. He was sitting under the arcade, his feet 
 against the column and his chair tilted back, 
 smoking. He began as soon as I came within 
 range : 
 
 " Yes, know all about it. You can go there 
 three ways : over the back of a donkey, aboard 
 an Indian canoe, or swim." 
 
 "How far is it? " 
 
 " Fifteen miles." 
 
 The Titian looked smaller and less important 
 than at any time since my leaving the city of 
 Mexico. 
 
 " What do you suggest ? " 
 
 " 1 am not suggesting ; I'm a passenger." 
 
 " You going ? " 
 
 " Of course. Think I would leave you here 
 148
 
 PATZCUARO AND THE LAKE 
 
 to be murdered by these devils for your watch 
 key ? " 
 
 The picture loomed up once more. 
 
 " Then we will take the canoe." 
 
 " Next week you will, not now. Listen. 
 Yesterday was market day ; market day comes 
 but once a week. There are no canoes on the 
 beach below us from as far up the lake as Tzin- 
 tzuntzan, and the fishermen from Zanicho and 
 towns nearer by refuse to paddle so far." 
 
 He threw away his cigar, elongated himself 
 a foot or more, broke out into a laugh at my 
 discomfiture, slipped his arm through mine, and 
 remarked apologetically "that he had sent for 
 a man and had an idea." 
 
 In half an hour the man arrived, and with 
 him the information that some employees of the 
 road had recently constructed from two Indian 
 dug-out canoes a sort of catamaran ; that a deck 
 had been floored between, a mast stepped, and 
 a sail rigged thereon. The craft awaited our 
 pleasure. 
 
 Moon's idea ooze.d out in driblets. Fully de- 
 veloped, it recommended the immediate stock- 
 ing of the ship with provisions, the hiring of six 
 Indians with sweep oars, and a start bright and 
 early on the morrow for Tzintzuntzan ; Moon 
 to be commodore and hold the tiller ; I to have 
 149
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 the captain's stateroom, with free use of the 
 deck. 
 
 The morning dawned deliciously cool and 
 bright. Moon followed half an hour later, em- 
 bodying all the characteristics of the morning 
 and supplementing a few of his own, another 
 suit of clothes, a cloth cap, and an enormous 
 spyglass. 
 
 The clothes were the result of a further ex- 
 change of courtesies with a brother engineer, 
 the cap replaced his time-worn broad sombrero, 
 " out of courtesy to the sail," he said, and the 
 spyglass would be useful either as a club of 
 defence, or to pole over shoal places, or in ex- 
 amining the details of the Titian. " The thing 
 might be hung high, and he wanted to see it." 
 
 These explanations, however, were cut short 
 by the final preparations for the start, Moon 
 giving orders in true nautical style, making fast 
 the rudder, calling all hands aft to stow the va- 
 rious baskets and hampers, battening down the 
 trapdoor hatches, and getting everything snug 
 and trim for a voyage of discovery as absurd to 
 him as if entered upon for the finding of the Holy 
 Grail. 
 
 Finally all was ready, Moon seized the tiller, 
 and gave the order to cast off. A faint cheer 
 went up from the group of natives on the shore, 
 
 I5Q
 
 PATZCUARO AND THE LAKE 
 
 the wind gave a kindly puff, the six Indians, 
 stripped to their waists, bent to their oars, and 
 the catamaran drifted clear of the gravel beach, 
 and bore away up the lake to Tzintzuntzan. 
 
 She was certainly as queer a looking craft 
 as ever trailed a rudder. To be exact, she was 
 about thirty feet long, half as wide, and drew 
 a hand's-breadth of water. Her bow flooring 
 was slightly trimmed to a point ; her square 
 stern was protected by a bench a foot wide and 
 high, forming a sort of open locker under 
 which a man could crawl and escape the sun ; 
 her deck was flat, and broken only by the mast, 
 which was well forward, and the rests or giant 
 oarlocks which held the sweeps. The rudder 
 was a curiosity. It was half as long as the 
 boat, and hung over the stern like the pole of an 
 old-fashioned well-sweep. When fulfilling its 
 destiny it had as free charge of the deck as 
 the boom of a fishing smack in a gale of wind. 
 Another peculiarity of the rudder was its inde- 
 pendent action. It not only had ideas of its own 
 but followed them. The skipper followed too, 
 after a brief struggle, and walked miles across 
 the deck in humoring its whims. The sail was 
 unique. It was made of a tarpaulin which had 
 seen better days as the fly of a camping tent, 
 and was nailed flat to the short boom which
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 wandered up and down the mast at will, as- 
 sisted by half a dozen barrel hoops and the iron 
 tire of a wheelbarrow. Two trapdoors, cut mid- 
 way the deck, led into the bowels of the dug- 
 outs, and proved useful in bailing out leakage 
 and overwash. 
 
 As I was only cabin passenger, and so with- 
 out responsibility, I stretched my length along 
 the bench and watched Moon handle the ship. 
 At first all went smoothly, the commodore 
 grasped the tiller as cordially as if it had been 
 the hand of his dearest friend, and the wilful 
 rudder, lulled to sleep by the outburst, swayed 
 obediently back and forth. The tarpaulin, 
 meanwhile, bursting with the pride of its pro- 
 motion, bent to the breeze in an honest effort 
 to do its share. Suddenly the wind changed ; 
 the inflated sail lost its head and clung wildly 
 to the mast, the catamaran careened, Moon 
 gave a vicious jerk, and the rudder awoke. 
 Then followed a series of misunderstandings 
 between the commodore and the thoroughly 
 aroused well-sweep which enlivened all the 
 dull passages of the voyage, and introduced 
 into the general conversation every variety of 
 imprecation known to me in languages with 
 which I am familiar, assisted and enlarged by 
 several dialects understood and appreciated only 
 152
 
 PATZCUARO AND THE LAKE 
 
 by the six silent, patient men keeping up their 
 rhythmic movement at the sweeps. 
 
 When we reached the first headland on our 
 weather bow the wind freshened to a stiff breeze, 
 and after a brief struggle Moon decided to go 
 about. I saw at a glance that the catamaran 
 held different views, and that it was encour- 
 aged and " egged " on, so to speak, by its co- 
 conspirator the rudder. 
 
 " You men on the right, stop rowing." 
 
 This order was emphasized by an empty bot- 
 tle thrown from the locker. The three Indians 
 stood motionless. 
 
 " Haul that boom," this to me, sketching 
 with my feet over the stern. 
 
 I obeyed with the agility of a man-o'-war's 
 man. The sail flapped wildly, the rudder gave 
 a staggering lurch, and Moon measured his 
 length on the deck ! 
 
 By the time the commodore had regained his 
 feet he had exhausted his vocabulary. Then 
 with teeth hard set he lashed the rebellious 
 rudder fast to the locker, furled the crestfallen 
 sail, and resigned the boat to the native crew. 
 Five minutes later he was stretched flat on 
 the deck, bubbling over with good humor, and 
 gloating over the contents of the hampers piled 
 up around him. 
 
 153
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 " That town over your shoulder on the right 
 is Zanicho," he rattled on, pointing with his 
 fork to some adobe huts clustered around a 
 quaint church spire. 
 
 " If we had time and a fair wind, I should like 
 to show you the interior. It is exactly as the 
 Jesuits left it three hundred years ago. Away 
 over there on the right is Xaracuaro. You can 
 see from here the ruins of the convent and of half 
 a dozen brown hovels. Nobody there now but 
 fishermen. The only white man in the village 
 is the priest, and I would not wager to his 
 being so all the way through. A little farther 
 along, over that island, if you look close you 
 can see a small town ; it is Iguatzio. There are 
 important Aztec remains about it. A paved 
 roadway leads to the adjoining village, which 
 was built long before the coming of the Span- 
 iards. I do not believe all the marvellous stories 
 told of the Aztec sacrifices, but over the hill 
 yonder is the ruins of the only genuine teo- 
 calli, if there ever was such a thing, in Mexico. 
 I have made a study of these so-called Aztec 
 monuments, and have examined most of the 
 teocallis, or sacrificial mounds, of Montezuma's 
 people without weakening much my unbelief, 
 but I confess this one puzzles me. One day 
 last winter 1 heard the Indians talking about 
 
 154
 
 PATZCUARO AND THE LAKE 
 
 this mound, and two of us paddled over. It 
 lies in a hollow of the hills back of the town, 
 and is enclosed by a stone wall about one thou- 
 sand feet long, eight feet high, and four feet 
 wide. The teocalli itself stands in the middle of 
 this quadrangle. It is constructed in the form 
 of a truncated cone about one hundred feet 
 square at the base and nearly as high, built en- 
 tirely of stone, with an outside stairway wind- 
 ing around its four sides. On one corner of the 
 top are the remains of a small temple. I do not 
 think half a hundred people outside the natives 
 have ever seen it. If it is not a teocalli there 
 is not one in all Mexico. The fact is, no other 
 Aztec mound in Mexico is worthy of the name, 
 not even Cholula." 
 
 Suddenly a low point, until now hidden by 
 an intervening headland, pushed itself into the 
 lake. Moon reached for his spyglass and ad- 
 justed the sliding tube. 
 
 "Do you see those two white specks over 
 that flat shore ?" 
 
 "Perfectly." 
 
 "And the clump of dark trees surrounding 
 it?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Well, that is Tzintzuntzan. The big speck 
 is what is left of the old Franciscan convent, 
 
 155
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 the clump of trees is the olive orchard, the an- 
 cient burial-place of the Aztecs. The little speck 
 is the top of the dome of the convent chapel, 
 beneath which hangs your daub of a Titian." 
 
 156
 
 XII 
 TZINTZUNTZAN AND THE TITIAN 
 
 THE catamaran rounded the point, floated 
 slowly up to the beach, and anchored on 
 a shoal within a boat's-length of the shore. 
 Strung along the water's edge, with wonder- 
 stricken faces, were gathered half the entire 
 population of Tzintzuntzan. The other half 
 were coming at full speed over the crest of the 
 hill, which partly hid the village itself. 
 
 There being but two feet of water, and those 
 wet ones, Moon shot an order in an unknown 
 tongue into the group in front, starting two of 
 them forward, swung himself gracefully over 
 the shoulders of the first, I clinging to the 
 second, and we landed dry shod in the midst 
 of as curious a crowd of natives as ever greeted 
 the great Christopher himself. 
 
 The splendor which made Tzintzuntzan fa- 
 mous in the days of the good Bishop Quiroga, 
 when its population numbered forty thousand 
 souls, has long since departed. The streets run at 
 
 157
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 right angles, and are divided into squares of ap- 
 parently equal length, marking a city of some im- 
 portance in its day. High walls surround each 
 garden and cast grateful shadows. Many of 
 these are broken by great fissures through which 
 can be seen the ruins of abandoned tenements 
 overgrown with weeds and tangled vines. Along 
 the tops of these walls fat melons ripen in the 
 dazzling sun, their leaves and tendrils white 
 with dust, and from the many seams and cracks 
 the cacti flaunt their deep-red blossoms in your 
 face. 
 
 We took the path starting from the beach, 
 which widened into a broad road as it crossed 
 the hill, over which could be seen the white 
 spire of the church. This was beaten down by 
 many feet, and marked the daily life of the na- 
 tives, from the church to pray, to the shore 
 to fish. With the exception of shaping some 
 crude pottery, they literally do nothing else. 
 
 As we advanced along this highway, 
 Moon carrying his spyglass as an Irishman 
 would his hod over his shoulder, I my umbrella, 
 and the Indians my sketch trap and a basket 
 containing something for the padre, the wall 
 thickened and grew in height until it ended in 
 a cross wall, behind which stood the ruins of 
 a belfry, the broken bell still clinging to the 
 158
 
 TZINTZUNTZAN AND THE TITIAN 
 
 rotting roof timber. Adjoining this was a crum- 
 bling archway without door or hinge. 
 
 This forlorn entrance opened into the grounds 
 of the once powerful establishment of San Fran- 
 cisco, closed and in ruins since 1740. Beyond 
 this archway stood another, protected by a 
 heavy double iron grating, which once swung 
 wide to let pass the splendid pageants of the 
 time, now rust-incrusted, and half buried in the 
 ground. 
 
 Once inside, the transition was delightful. 
 There was a great garden or orchard planted 
 with olive-trees of enormous size, their tops 
 still alive, and their trunks seamed and gnarled 
 with the storms of three and a half centuries, 
 beneath which lie buried not only the great dig- 
 nitaries of the Church, but many of the allies 
 and chiefs of Cortez in the times of the Taras- 
 can chieftaincy. 
 
 On one side of this orchard is the chapel of 
 the Tercer Order and the Hospital and the con- 
 vent church, now the parrdquia. We crossed 
 between the trees and waited outside the con- 
 vent building at the foot of a flight of stone 
 steps, built along an angle of a projection and 
 leading to the second floor of the building. 
 These steps were crowded with Indians, as 
 was also the passageway within, waiting for 
 
 159
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 an audience with the parish priest, whose apart- 
 ments were above. 
 
 Nothing can adequately describe the dilapida- 
 tion of this entrance and its surroundings. The 
 steps themselves had been smeared over with 
 mortar to hold them together, the door jambs 
 were leaning and ready to fall, the passageway 
 itself ended in a window which might once have 
 held exquisite panels of stained glass, but which 
 was now open to the elements save where it 
 was choked up with adobe bricks laid loosely 
 in courses. The rooms opening into it were 
 tenantless, and infested with lizards and bats, 
 and the whole place, inside and out, was fast 
 succumbing to a decay which seemed to have 
 reached its limit, and which must soon end in 
 hopeless ruin. 
 
 We found the padre seated at a rude table in 
 the darkest corner of a low-ceiled room on the 
 left of the corridor, surrounded by half a dozen 
 Indian women. He was at dinner, and the 
 women were serving him from coarse earthen 
 dishes. When he turned at our intrusion, we 
 saw a short, thickset man, wearing a greasy 
 black frock, a beard a week old, and a smile so 
 treacherous that I involuntarily tapped my in- 
 side pocket to make sure of its contents. He 
 arose lazily, gathered upon his coat cuff the few 
 160
 
 TZINTZUNTZAN AND THE TITIAN 
 
 stray crumbs clinging to his lips, and with a 
 searching, cunning air, asked our business. 
 
 Moon shifted his spyglass until the large end 
 was well balanced in his hand, and replied ob- 
 sequiously, "To see the famous picture, holy 
 father. This, my companion, is a distinguished 
 painter from the far East. He has heard of the 
 glory of this great work of the master, of which 
 you are the sacred custodian, and has come 
 these many thousand miles to see it. I hope 
 your reverence will not turn us away." 
 
 I saw instantly from his face that he had an- 
 ticipated this, and that his temper was not im- 
 proved by Moon's request. I learned afterwards 
 that a canoe had left Patzcuaro ahead of the 
 catamaran, and that the object of our visit had 
 already been known in Tzintzuntzan some hours 
 before we arrived. 
 
 " It is a holy day," replied the padre curtly, 
 "and the sacristy is closed. The picture will 
 not be uncovered." 
 
 With this he turned his back upon us and 
 resumed his seat. 
 
 I looked at Moon. He was sliding his hand 
 nervously up and down the glass, and clutch- 
 ing its end very much as a man would an In- 
 dian club. 
 
 "Leave him to me," he whispered from 
 161
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 behind his hand, noticing my disappointment ; 
 " I Ml get into that sacristy, if 1 have to bat 
 him through the door with this." 
 
 In the hamper which Moon had instructed 
 Griddles, the chef, to pack for my comfort the 
 day before at Morelia, was a small glass vessel, 
 flat in shape, its contents repressed by a cork 
 covered with tinfoil. When Moon landed from 
 the catamaran this vessel was concealed among 
 some boxes of dulces and fruits from the south- 
 ern slope, inclosed in a wicker basket, and in- 
 trusted to an Indian who now stood within 
 three feet of the table. 
 
 "You are right, holy father," said Moon, 
 bowing low. "We must respect these holy 
 days. I have brought your reverence some deli- 
 cacies, and when the fast is over, you can en- 
 joy them." 
 
 Then he piled up in the midst of the rude 
 earthen platters and clay cups and bowls, 
 greasy with the remnants of the meal, some 
 bunches of grapes, squares of dulces, and a 
 small bag of coffee. The flat vessel came last ; 
 this Moon handled lovingly, and with the great- 
 est care, resting it finally against a pulque pot 
 which the padre had just emptied. 
 
 The priest leaned forward, held the flat ves- 
 sel between his nose and the window, ran his 
 162
 
 TZINTZUNTZAN AND THE TITIAN 
 
 eyes along the flow line, and glancing at the 
 women turned a dish over it bottom side up. 
 
 " When do you return ?" he asked. 
 
 "To-day, your reverence." 
 
 There was a pause, during which the padre 
 buried his face in his hands and Moon played 
 pantomime war dances over the shaved spot on 
 his skull. 
 
 " How much will the painter give to the poor 
 of the parish ?" said the padre, lifting his head. 
 
 After an exposition of the dismal poverty into 
 which the painter was plunged by reason of his 
 calling, it was agreed that upon the payment 
 to the padre of cinco pesos in silver about one 
 pound sterling the painter might see the pic- 
 ture, when mass was over, the padre adding, 
 
 " There is presently a service. In an hour it 
 will be over ; then the sacristan can open the 
 door." 
 
 Moon counted out the money on the table, 
 piece by piece. The padre weighed each coin 
 on his palm, bit one of them, and with a satis- 
 fied air swept the whole into his pocket. 
 
 The tolling of a bell hurried the women from 
 the room. The padre followed slowly, bowing 
 his head upon his breast. Moon and I brought 
 up the rear, passing down the crumbling corri- 
 dor over the uneven flooring and upturned and 
 163
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 broken tiles and through a low archway until 
 we reached a gallery overlooking a patio. Here 
 was a sight one must come to Mexico to see. 
 Flat on the stone pavements, seated upon mats 
 woven of green rushes, knelt a score or more 
 of Indian women, their cheeks hollow from fast- 
 ing, and their eyes glistening with that strange 
 glassy look peculiar to half-starved people. 
 Over their shoulders were twisted black rebo- 
 zos, and around each head was bound a verita- 
 ble crown of thorns. In their hands they held 
 scourges of platted nettles. They had sat here 
 day and night, without leaving these mats, for 
 nearly a week. 
 
 This terrible ceremony occurs but once a year, 
 during passion week. The penance lasts eight 
 days. Each penitent pays a sum of money for 
 the privilege, and her name and number are then 
 inscribed upon a sort of tally-board which is 
 hung on the cloister wall. Upon this are also 
 kept a record of the punishment. The penitents 
 provide their zarapes and pillows and the rush 
 mats upon which to rest their weary bones ; 
 the priest furnishes everything else, a little 
 greasy gruel and the stone pavement. 
 
 The padre threaded his way through the 
 kneeling groups without turning his head to the 
 right or left. When his footsteps were heard 
 164
 
 TZINTZUNTZAN AND THE TITIAN 
 
 they repeated their prayers the louder, and one 
 young girl, weak from long fasting, raised her 
 eyes to the priest's pleadingly. His stolid face 
 gave no sign. With downcast eyes she leaned 
 forward, bent low, and kissed the hem of his 
 frock. As she stooped Moon pointed to the 
 marks of the cruel thorns on her temples. 
 
 " Shall I maul him a little ?" he whispered, 
 twisting the glass uneasily. 
 
 " Wait until we see the Titian," I pleaded. 
 
 The cloister led into the chapel. It was bare 
 of even the semblance of a house of worship. 
 But for the altar at one end, and a few lighted 
 candles, it might have passed for the old re- 
 fectory of the convent. We edged our way 
 between the kneeling groups and passed out of 
 a side door into an open court. Moon touched 
 my arm. 
 
 " See ! that about measures the poverty of 
 the place," he said. " One coffin for the whole 
 village." 
 
 On a rude bier lay a wooden box, narrowed 
 at one end. It was made of white wood, deco- 
 rated on the outside with a rough design in blue 
 and yellow. The bottom was covered with 
 dried leaves, and the imprint of the head and 
 shoulders of the poor fellow who had occupied 
 it a few hours before was still distinct. 
 165
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 "Two underneath, one inside, a mumbled 
 prayer, then he helps to fill the hole and they 
 save the box for the next. A little too narrow 
 for the padre, I am afraid," soliloquized Moon, 
 measuring the width with his eye. 
 
 Another tap of the bell, and the Indians strag- 
 gled out of the church and dispersed, some 
 going to the village, others halting under the 
 great tree trunks, watching us curiously. In- 
 deed, I had before this become aware of an 
 especial espionage over us, which was never 
 relaxed for a single instant. A native would 
 start out from a doorway as soon as we touched 
 the threshold, another would be concealed be- 
 hind a tree or projecting wall until we passed. 
 Then he would walk away aimlessly, looking 
 back and signalling to another hidden some- 
 where else. This is not unusual with these 
 natives. They have always resented every 
 overture to part with their picture, and are par- 
 ticularly suspicious of strangers who come from 
 a distance to see it, they worshipping it with a 
 blind idolatry easily understood in their race. 
 
 This fear of invasion also extends to their vil- 
 lage and church. It has been known for several 
 years that an underground passageway led from 
 a point near the church to the old convent, and 
 in 1855 a party of savants, under the direction 
 166
 
 TZINTZUNTZAN AND THE TITIAN 
 
 of Father Aguirre, began to uncover its entrance. 
 No open resistance was made by the natives, 
 but in the silence of the night each stone and 
 shovelful of earth was noiselessly replaced. 
 
 A few years later the Bishop of Mexico of- 
 fered for this picture the sum of twenty thousand 
 pesetas, a sum of money fabulous in their eyes, 
 and which if honestly divided would have made 
 each native richer than an Aztec prince. I do 
 not know whether their religious prejudices 
 influenced them, or whether, remembering the 
 quality of the penance gruel, they dare not trust 
 the padre to divide it, but all the same it was 
 refused. Moon assured me that if the painting 
 ever left its resting place it must go without 
 warning, and be protected by an armed force. 
 It would be certain death to any one to attempt 
 its removal otherwise, and he firmly believed 
 that sooner than see it leave their village the 
 Indians would destroy it. 
 
 " Senior, the padre says come to him." 
 
 The messenger was a sun-dried, shrivelled 
 Mexican half-breed, with a wicked eye and a 
 beak-like nose. About his head was twisted 
 a red handkerchief, over which was flattened a 
 heavy felt sombrero. He was barefooted, and 
 his trousers were held up by a leather strap. 
 
 " Who are you ? " said Moon. 
 167
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 " I am the sacristan." 
 
 " I thought so. Lead on. A lovely pair of 
 cherubs, are they not ? " 
 
 The padre met us at the door. He had sad 
 news for us ; his mortification was extreme. 
 The man who cleaned the sacristy had locked 
 the door that morning and started for Quiroga 
 on a donkey. No one else had a key. 
 
 I suggested an immediate chartering of an- 
 other and somewhat livelier donkey, with in- 
 structions to overtake and bring back the man 
 with the key, dead or alive. The padre shrugged 
 his shoulders, and said there was but one don- 
 key in the village, he was underneath the 
 man with the key. Moon closed one eye and 
 turned the other incredulously on the priest. 
 
 " When will the man return ? " 
 
 " In three days." 
 
 "Your reverence," said the commodore 
 slowly, " do not send for him. It might annoy 
 him to be hurried. We will break in the door 
 and pay for a new lock." 
 
 Then followed a series of protests, beginning 
 with the sacrilege of mutilating so sacred a door, 
 and ending with a suggestion from the saffron- 
 colored sacristan that an additional cinco pesos 
 would about cover the mutilation, provided 
 every centavo of it was given to the poor of the 
 168
 
 TZINTZUNTZAN AND THE TITIAN 
 
 parish, and that the further insignificant sum 
 of five pesetas, if donated to the especial use 
 of his sun-dried excellency, might induce him 
 to revive one of his lost arts, and operate on 
 the lock with a rusty nail. 
 
 Moon counted out the money with a sup- 
 pressed sigh, remarking that he had " always 
 pitied the poor, but never so much as now." 
 Then we followed the padre and the sacristan 
 down the winding steps leading to the cloister, 
 through the dark corridor, past the entrance to 
 the chapel, and halted at an arch closed by two 
 swinging doors. His yellowness fumbled among 
 some refuse in one corner, picked up a bit of 
 debris, applied his eyes to an imaginary key- 
 hole, and pushed open a pair of wooden doors 
 entirely bare of lock, hasp, or latch. They had 
 doubtless swung loose for half a century ! I 
 had to slip my arm through Moon's and pin his 
 toes to the pavement to keep him still. 
 
 The padre and the half-breed uncovered and 
 dropped upon their knees. I looked over their 
 heads into a room about thirty feet long by 
 twenty w'de, with a high ceiling of straight, 
 square raiters. The floor was paved in great 
 squares of marble laid diagonally, the walls 
 were seamed, cracked, and weather-stained. 
 The only opening other than the door was a 
 169
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 large window, protected on the outside by three 
 sets of iron gratings, and on the inside by dou- 
 ble wooden shutters. The window was with- 
 out glass. The only articles of furniture visible 
 were a round table, with curved legs, occupying 
 the centre of the room, a towel-rack and towel 
 hung on the wall, and a row of wooden drawers 
 built like a bureau, completely filling the end 
 of the room opposite the door. Over this was 
 hung, or rather fitted, the three sides of a huge 
 carved frame, showing traces of having once 
 been gilded, the space was not high enough to 
 admit its top member. Inside this frame glowed 
 the noble picture. 1 forgot the padre, the oily- 
 tongued sacristan, and even my friend Moon, 
 in my wonder, loosened my trap, opened the 
 stool, and sat down with bated breath to enjoy 
 it. 
 
 My first thought was of its marvellous pre- 
 servation. More than three hundred years have 
 elapsed since the great master touched it, and 
 yet one is deluded into the belief that it was 
 painted but yesterday, so fresh, pure, and rich 
 is its color. This is no doubt due to the climate, 
 and to the clear air circulating through the open 
 window. 
 
 The picture is an Entombment, sixteen feet 
 long by seven feet high. Surrounding the dead 
 170
 
 TZINTZUNTZAN AND THE TITIAN 
 
 Christ wrapped in a winding sheet, one end of 
 which is held in the teeth of a disciple, stand 
 the Virgin, Magdalen, Saint John, and nine 
 other figures, all life-size. In the upper left- 
 hand corner is a bit of blue sky, against which 
 is relieved an Italian villa, the painter's own, 
 a caprice of Titian's often seen in his later 
 works. 
 
 The high lights fall upon the arm of the Sav- 
 iour drooping from the hammock-shaped sheet 
 in which he is carried, and upon the head-cov- 
 ering of the Virgin bending over him. A secon- 
 dary light is found in the patch of blue sky. 
 To the right and behind the group of disciples 
 the shadows are intensely dark, relieving the 
 rich tones of the browns and blues in the drap- 
 eries, and the flesh tones for which the painter 
 is famous. The exquisite drawing of each figure, 
 the gradation of light and shade, the marvellous 
 composition, the relief and modelling of the 
 Christ, the low but luminous tones in which it 
 is painted, the superb harmony of these tones, 
 all pronounce it the work of a master. 
 
 The questions naturally arise, Is it by Titian ? 
 and if so, How came it here in an Indian village 
 in the centre of Mexico, and why has it been 
 lost all these years to the art world ? To the 
 first I answer, If not by Titian, who then of his 
 171
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 time could paint it ? The second is easier : Un- 
 til the railroads of the last few years opened up 
 the country, Mexico's isolation was complete. 
 
 A slight resume of the history of its surround- 
 ings may shed some light on these questions. 
 After the ruin wrought in Michoacan in the early 
 part of the sixteenth century by the evil acts 
 of Nino de Guzman, the president of the first 
 Audencia, terminating in the burning of the 
 Tarascan chief Sinzicha, the people, maddened 
 with terror, fled to the mountains around Tzin- 
 tzuntzan and refused to return to their homes. 
 To remedy these evils, the Emperor Charles V. 
 selected the members of the second Audencia 
 from among the wisest and best men of Spain. 
 One of these was an intimate friend of the em- 
 peror, an eminent lawyer, the Licenciado Vasco 
 de Quiroga. Being come to Mexico, Don Vasco, 
 in the year 1533, visited the depopulated towns, 
 and with admirable patience, gentleness, and 
 love, prevailed on the terror-stricken Indians to 
 have faith in him and return to their homes. 1 
 
 The bishopric of Michoacan was then founded, 
 and this mitre was offered to Quiroga, though 
 he was then a layman. Thereupon Quiroga 
 took holy orders, and having been raised quickly 
 through the successive grades of the priesthood, 
 
 1 Janvier's Mexican Guide,
 
 TZINTZUNTZAN AND THE TITIAN 
 
 was consecrated a bishop and took possession 
 of his see in the church of San Francisco in Tzin- 
 tzuntzan August 22, 1538. He was then sixty- 
 eight years old. As bishop, he completed the 
 conquest through love that he had begun while 
 yet a layman. He established schools of let- 
 ters and the arts ; introduced manufactures of 
 copper and other metals ; imported from Spain 
 cattle and seeds for acclimatization ; founded 
 hospitals, and established the first university 
 of New Spain, that of San Nicholas, now in 
 Morelia. 
 
 When Philip II. ascended the throne the good 
 deeds of the holy bishop had reached his ears, 
 and the power and growth of his see had deeply 
 touched the heart of the devout monarch, 
 awakening in his mind a profound interest in 
 the welfare of the church at Tzintzuntzan and 
 Patzcuaro. During this period the royal palaces 
 at Madrid were filled with the finest pictures 
 of Titian, and the royal family of Spain formed 
 the subjects of his best portraits. The Emperor 
 Charles V. had been and was then one of the 
 master's most liberal patrons. He had made 
 him a count, heaped upon him distinguished 
 honors, and had been visited by him twice at 
 Augsburg and once at Bologna, where he painted 
 his portrait. It is even claimed by some bio- 
 
 173
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 graphers that by special invitation of his royal 
 patron Titian visited Spain about the year 1 5 50, 
 and was entertained with great splendor at the 
 court. Moreover, it is well known that he was 
 granted a pension, and that this was kept up by 
 Philip until the painter's death. 
 
 Remembering the dates at which these events 
 took place ; the fanatical zeal of Philip, and his 
 interest in the distant church, redeemed and 
 made glorious by Quiroga, the friend and pro- 
 tege of his royal predecessor ; the possible pre- 
 sence of Titian at the court at the time, certainly 
 the influence of his masterpieces, together with 
 the fact that the subject of this picture was a 
 favorite one with him, notably the Entombment 
 in Venice and the replica at the Louvre, it is 
 quite within the range of probability that Philip 
 either ordered this especial picture from the 
 master himself, or selected it from the royal 
 collection. 
 
 It is quite improbable, in view of the above 
 facts, that the royal donor would have sent the 
 work of an inferior painter, representing it to be 
 by Titian, or a copy by one of his pupils. 
 
 Another distinguishing feature, and by far 
 the most conclusive, is its handling. Without 
 strong contrasting tones of color, Titian worked 
 out a peculiar golden mellow tone, which of 
 
 174
 
 TZINTZUNTZAN AND THE TITIAN 
 
 itself exercises a magical charm, and divided 
 it into innumerable small but significant shades, 
 producing thereby a most complete illusion of 
 life. This Titianesque quality is particularly 
 marked in the nude body of the Christ, the flesh 
 appearing to glow with a hidden light. 
 
 Moon's criticisms were thoroughly character- 
 istic. He hoped I was satisfied. Did I want to 
 see both sides of it ? If I did, he would push out 
 the rear wall. Would the spyglass be of any 
 use, etc. I waved him away, opened my easel, 
 and began a hurried memorandum of the inte- 
 rior, and a rough outline of the position of the 
 figures on the canvas. When his retreating 
 footsteps echoed down the corridor, I closed the 
 doors gently behind him and resumed my work. 
 The picture absorbed me. I wanted to be shut 
 up alone with it. 
 
 A sense of a sort of temporary ownership 
 comes over one when left alone in a room con- 
 taining some priceless treasure or thing of beauty 
 not his own. It is a selfish pleasure which is un- 
 disturbed, and which you do not care to share 
 with another. For the time being you monopolize 
 it, and it is as really your own as if you had the 
 bill of sale in your pocket. I deluded myself with 
 this fancy, and began examining more closely 
 the iron gratings of the window and the manner 
 
 175
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 of fastening them to the masonry, wondering 
 whether they would always be secure. I in- 
 spected all the rude ornaments on the front of 
 the drawers of the wide, low bureau which stood 
 immediately beneath the picture ; opened one 
 of them a few inches and discovered a bundle 
 of vestments, dust-covered and spattered with 
 candle grease. Lifting myself up I noted the 
 carving of the huge frame, and followed the 
 lines of the old gilding into its dust-begrimed 
 channels ; and to make a closer study of the 
 texture of the canvas and the handling of the 
 pigments, I mounted the bureau itself and 
 walked the length of the painting, applying my 
 pocket magnifying glass to the varnished sur- 
 face. When I stood upright the drooping figure 
 of the Christ reached nearly to the level of my 
 eye. Looking closer, I found the over-glaze to 
 be rich and singularly transparent, and after a 
 careful scrutiny fancied I could separate into 
 distinct tones the peculiar mosaic of color in 
 which most of all lies the secret of Titian's 
 flesh. In the eagerness of my search I uncon- 
 sciously bent forward and laid my hand upon 
 the Christ. 
 
 "Cuidado! Estrangero, es miter te!" (Be- 
 ware! Stranger, it is death !) came a quick, 
 angry voice in my rear. 
 176
 
 TZINTZUNTZAN AND THE TITIAN 
 
 I started back with my heart in my mouth. 
 Behind me, inside the doors, stood two Indians. 
 One advanced threateningly, the other rushed 
 out shouting for the padre. In an instant the 
 room was crowded with natives clamoring 
 wildly, and pointing at me with angry looks 
 and gestures. The padre arrived breathless, 
 followed by Moon, who had forced his way 
 through the throng, his big frame towering 
 above the others. 
 
 During the hubbub I kept my place on the 
 bureau, undecided what to do. 
 
 " You have put your foot in it ! " said Moon 
 to me in English, in a tone of voice new to me 
 from him. " Do exactly what I. tell you, and 
 perhaps we may get away from here with a 
 whole skin. Turn your face to the picture." I 
 did so. " Now come down from that old clothes- 
 press backwards, get down on your knees, and 
 bow three times, you lunatic." 
 
 I had sense enough left to do this reverently, 
 and with some show of ceremony. 
 
 Then, without moving a muscle of his face, 
 and with the deepest earnestness, Moon turned 
 to the padre and said, 
 
 " The distinguished painter is a true believer, 
 holy father. His hand had lost its cunning and 
 he could no longer paint. He was fold in a 
 177
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 dream to journey to this place, where he would 
 find his sacred treasure, upon touching which 
 his hand would regain its power. See ! Here is 
 the proof." 
 
 The padre examined the sketch resting upon 
 my easel, and, without taking his eye from 
 Moon, repeated the miracle to the Indians in 
 their own tongue. The change in their de- 
 meanor was instantaneous. The noise ceased ; 
 a silence fell upon the group and they crowded 
 about the drawing, wonderstruck. Moon bowed 
 low to the padre, caught up the standing easel, 
 threw my trap over his shoulder, pushed me 
 ahead of him ; an opening was made, the 
 people standing back humbly, and we passed 
 through the crowd and out into the sunlight. 
 
 Once clear of the church he led the way 
 straight to the catamaran, hoisted the sail, 
 manned the sweeps, swung the rudder clear of 
 the shoal, and headed for Patzcuaro. When 
 everything was snug and trim for the voyage 
 home, and the catamaran had drifted slowly out 
 into the deep water of the lake, the commodore 
 lounged down the deck, laid his hand upon my 
 shoulder, and said, half reprovingly, 
 
 " Well, you beat the devil." 
 
 When we pushed off from Tzintzuntzan, the 
 afternoon sun was glorifying our end of the 
 178
 
 TZINTZUNTZAN AND THE TITIAN 
 
 universe, and in our delirium we fancied we had 
 but to spread our one wing to reach bed and 
 board, fifteen miles distant, before the rosy 
 twilight could fade into velvet blue. But the 
 wind was contrary. It was worse it was ma- 
 licious. It blew south, then north, and then 
 took a flying turn all around the four points 
 of the compass, and finally settled down to a 
 steady freshness dead ahead. For hours at a 
 time low points of land and high hills guarded 
 by sentinel trees anchored themselves off our 
 weather bow as if loath to part from us, and 
 remained immovable until an extra spurt at the 
 sweeps drove them into the darkness. To return 
 was hazardous, to drift ashore dangerous, to 
 advance almost impossible. As the night wore 
 on the wind grew tired of frolicking and went 
 careering over the mountains behind us. Then 
 the lake grew still, and the sweeps gained upon 
 the landscape and point after point floated off 
 mysteriously and disappeared in the gloom. 
 
 All night we lay on the deck, looking up at 
 the stars and listening to the steady plashing 
 of the sweeps, pitying the poor fellows at their 
 task and lending a hand now and then to give 
 them a breathing spell. The thin crescent of 
 the new moon, which had glowed into life as 
 the color left the evening sky, looked at us 
 179
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 wonderingly for a while, then concluding that 
 we intended making a night of it, dropped down 
 behind the hills of Zanicho and went to bed. 
 Her namesake wrapped his own coat about me, 
 protesting that the night air was bad for foreign- 
 ers, threw one end of the ragged tarpaulin over 
 his own shoulders, tucked a hamper under his 
 head, and spent the night moralizing over the 
 deliberate cruelty of my desertion in the morning. 
 
 It was a long and dreary voyage. The pro- 
 vender was exhausted. There was not on board 
 a crumb large enough to feed a fly. Between 
 the padre, the six Indians, and ourselves every 
 fig, dulce, bone, crust, and drop had disap- 
 peared. 
 
 When the first streak of light illumined the 
 sky we found ourselves near enough to Patz- 
 cuaro to follow the outline of the hills around 
 the town and locate the little huts close to the 
 shore. When the dawn broke clear we were 
 pushing aside the tall grass near the beach, and 
 the wild fowl, startled from their haunts, were 
 whirling around our heads. 
 
 The barking of a dog aroused the inmates of 
 a cabin near the water's edge, and half an hour 
 later Moon was pounding coffee in a bag and I 
 devilling the legs of a turkey over a charcoal 
 brazier, the inmates had devoured all but the 
 180
 
 TZINTZUNTZAN AND THE TITIAN 
 
 drumsticks the night before. We were grateful 
 that he was not a cripple. While the savory 
 smell of the toasted cacone, mingled with the 
 aroma of boiling coffee, filled the room, Moon 
 set two plates, cut some great slices of bread 
 from a loaf which he held between his knees, 
 and divided equally the remnants of the frugal 
 meal. Two anatomical specimens picked clean 
 and white and two empty plates told the story 
 of our appetites. 
 
 " At eight o'clock, caro mio, the train returns 
 to the East. Do you still insist on being barba- 
 rous enough to leave me ? What have I done 
 to you that you should treat me thus ?" 
 
 I pleaded my necessities. 1 had reached the 
 end of my journey. My task was completed ; 
 henceforth my face must be set towards the ris- 
 ing sun. Would he return as far with me as 
 Zacatecas, or even to the city of Mexico ? 
 
 No, he expected a despatch from his chief. 
 He would stay at Patzcuaro. 
 
 I expected this. It was always his chief. No 
 human being had ever seen him ; no messenger 
 had ever brought news of his arrival ; no em- 
 ployee had ever explained his delay. In none of 
 the cities through which we had travelled had 
 Moon ever spent five minutes in looking him up, 
 or ten seconds in regretting his absence. 
 181
 
 A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO 
 
 When my traps were aboard, and the breezy, 
 happy-hearted fellow had wrung my hand for 
 the twentieth time, I said to him, 
 
 " Moon, one thing before we part. Have you 
 ever seen your chief for a single instant since 
 we left Toluca ?" 
 
 He looked at me quizzically, closed his left 
 eye, a habit with him when anything pleased 
 him greatly, and replied, 
 
 " A dozen times." 
 
 "Where ?" I asked doubtingly. 
 
 "When I shave." 
 
 182
 
 IN OTHER LANDS
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 IT was a small, not over-clean, and much 
 crumpled card. 
 
 It was held very near my nose, and above 
 the heads of a struggling, snarling pack of Turks, 
 Armenians, Greeks, and Jews, all yelling at the 
 tops of their voices, and all held at bay by a 
 protecting rail in the station and two befezzed 
 officers attached to the custom-house of his Se- 
 rene Highness. It bore this inscription: 
 
 ISAAC ISAACS. 
 Dragoman and Interpreter, 
 
 Constantinople. 
 
 Beyond this seething mass of Orientals was 
 seen an open door, and through this only the 
 sunlight, a patch of gren grass, and the glimpse 
 of a minaret against the blue. 
 
 Yes; one thing more the card. 
 
 The owner carried it aloft, like a flag of truce. 
 He had escaped the tax-gathering section of the 
 185
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 Sublime Porte by dodging under the guarded 
 rail, and with fez to earth was now pressing its 
 oblong proportions within an inch of my eye- 
 glasses. 
 
 " Do you speak English ? " 
 
 " Ev'ting : Yerman, Franche, Grek, Teark- 
 ish all!" 
 
 " Take this sketch trap, and get me a car- 
 riage." 
 
 The fez righted itself, and I looked into the 
 face of a swarthy, dark-bearded mongrel, with 
 a tobacco-colored complexion and a watery eye. 
 He was gasping for breath and reeking with 
 perspiration, the back of his hand serving as 
 sponge. 
 
 I handed him my check, through bag- 
 gage Orient Express, two days from Vienna, 
 stepped into the half-parched garden, and drank 
 in my first full breath of Eastern air. 
 
 Within the garden an oasis, barely kept 
 alive by periodical sprinkling lounged a few 
 railroad officials hugging scant shadows, and 
 one lone Turk dispensing cooling drinks beneath 
 a huge umbrella. 
 
 Outside the garden's protecting fence wan- 
 dered half the lost tribes of the earth. Some 
 staggered under huge casks of wine swung on 
 poles ; some bent under cases as large as pianos ; 
 1 86
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 some were hawking bread, Turkish sweets, 
 grapes, and sugared figs ; some were peddling 
 clothes, some sandals, some water-jars : each 
 splitting the air with a combination of shouts 
 and cries that would have done justice to a 
 travelling menagerie two hours late for break- 
 fast. In and out this motley mob slouched the 
 dogs, in the middle of the street, under the 
 benches, in everybody's way and under every- 
 body's feet : everywhere dogs, dogs, dogs ! 
 
 Beyond this babel straggled a low building 
 attached to the station. Above rose a ragged 
 hill crowned by a shimmering wall of dazzling 
 white, topped with rounded dome and slender 
 minarets. Over all was the beautiful sky of 
 the East, the joy and despair of every brush 
 from the earliest times down to my own. 
 
 Ever since the days of the Arabian Nights 
 my days the days of Haroun al Raschid, 
 of the big jars with the forty scalded thieves and 
 the beautiful Fatima with the almond-shaped 
 eyes, I have dreamed of the Orient and its 
 palaces of marble. And so, when Baron de Hirsch 
 had brought the home of the Caliphs within 
 two days' journey of the domes of San Marco, 
 I threw some extra canvases into a trunk, tucked 
 a passport into my inside pocket, shouldered my 
 187
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 sketch trap, and bought a second-class ticket 
 for Constantinople. 
 
 I had only one object, to paint. 
 
 My comrades at Florian's that most de- 
 lightful of caffes on the Piazza when they 
 heard that 1 was about to exchange the cool 
 canals of my beloved Venice for the dusty high- 
 ways of the unspeakable Turk, condemned my 
 departure as quixotic. The fleas would devour 
 me ; the beggars (all bandits) steal my last 
 franc ; and the government lock me up the very 
 first moment 1 loosened my sketch trap. 
 
 But Isaac Isaacs, the dragoman, is standing 
 obsequiously with fez in hand, two little rivu- 
 lets of well-earned sweat coursing down each 
 cheek. 
 
 "Ze baggages ees complet, effendi." 
 
 Isaac crawled upon the box, the driver, a 
 bare-legged Turk with fez and stomach sash, 
 drove his heel into the haunches of the near 
 horse, once, no doubt, the pride of the desert, 
 and we whirled away in a cloud of dust. 
 
 " I don't see my trunk, Isaac." 
 
 " Not presently, effendi. It now arrives im- 
 mediatamente at the dogane. Trust me ! " 
 
 Five minutes more, and we alighted at the 
 custom-house. 
 
 "This way, effendi." 
 188
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 For the benefit of those unfamiliar with the 
 liquid language of the Orient, I will say that 
 effendi means master, and that it is never ap- 
 plied except to some distinguished person, 
 one who has, or is expected to have, the sum 
 of half a piastre about his person. 
 
 Isaac presented the check a scrap of paper 
 to another befezzed official, and the next 
 moment ushered me into a small room on the 
 ground floor, furnished with a divan, a tray with 
 coffee and cigarettes, and an overfed, cross- 
 legged Turk. There was also a secretary, curled 
 up somewhere in a corner, scratching away with 
 a pen. 
 
 I salaamed to the Turk, detailed into the sec- 
 retary's ear an account of my birth and ances- 
 try, my several occupations and ambitions, my 
 early life at home, my past life in Venice, and 
 my present intentions in Constantinople. I 
 then opened my passport, sketch-book, and 
 trap, and delivered up the key of my trunk. 
 
 The secretary undid his legs, stamped upon 
 my official passport a monogram of authority 
 looking more like the image of a fish-worm pet- 
 rified in the last agonies of death than any writ- 
 ten sign with which I was familiar, and clapped 
 his hands in a perfectly natural Aladdin sort 
 of way. A genie in the shape of a Nubian, 
 189
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 immeasurably black, moved from behind a cur- 
 tain, and in five minutes my trunk holding the 
 extra canvases, with a great white cross of 
 peace chalked upon its face, was strapped to 
 the carriage, and we on our way to the Royal. 
 As I said before, I had come to Constantino- 
 ple to paint. Not to study its exquisite palaces 
 and mosques ; its marvellous stuffs ; its roman- 
 tic history ; its religion, the most profound and 
 impressive ; its commerce, industries, and cus- 
 toms ; but simply to paint. To revel in color ; 
 to sit for hours following with reverent pencil 
 the details of an architecture unrivalled on the 
 globe ; to watch the sun scale the hills of Scu- 
 tari, and shatter its lances against the fairy 
 minarets of Stamboul ; to catch the swing and 
 plash of the rowers rounding their caiques by 
 the bridge of Galata ; to wander through ba- 
 zaar, plaza, and market, dotting down splashes 
 of robe, turban, and sash ; to rest for hours in 
 cool tiled mosques, with the silence of the infi- 
 nite about me ; to steep my soul in a splendor 
 which in its very decay is sublime ; and to 
 study a people whose rags are symphonies of 
 color, whose traditions and records the sweetest 
 poems of modern times. If you are content with 
 only this, then come with me to the patio of the 
 Mosque Bayazid the Pigeon Mosque. 
 190
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 Isaac Isaacs, dragoman, stands at its door, 
 with one hand over his heart, the other raised 
 aloft, invoking the condemnation of the gods if 
 he lies. In his earnestness he is pushing back 
 his fez, disclosing an ugly old scar in his wrin- 
 kled, leathery forehead, a sabre cut, he tells 
 me, in a burst of confidence, won in the last 
 row with Russia. His black beard is shaking 
 like a goat's, while his hands, with upturned 
 palms and thumbs, touch his shoulders with the 
 old wavy motion common to his race. Standing 
 now in the shadow of the archway, he insists 
 that no unbeliever is ever permitted to make 
 pictures in the patio, where flows the sacred 
 fountain, and where the priests and faithful 
 wash their feet before entering the holy temple. 
 
 I had heard something like this before. The 
 idlers at Florian's had all said so ; an intelli- 
 gent Greek merchant whom I met on the train 
 had been sure of it ; and even the clerk of the 
 Royal shrugged his shoulders and thought I had 
 better not. 
 
 All this time Isaac still invoking new gods 
 I was gazing into the most beautiful patio 
 along the Golden Horn, feasting my eyes on 
 columns of verd antique supporting arches light 
 as rainbows. 
 
 Crossing the threshold, I dropped my trap 
 191
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 behind a protecting column, and ran my eye 
 around the Moorish square. The sun blazed 
 down on glistening marbles; gnarled old ce- 
 dars twisted themselves upward against the 
 sky ; flocks of pigeons whirled and swooped and 
 fell in showers on cornice, roof, and dome ; and 
 tall minarets, like shafts of light, shot up into 
 the blue. Scattered over the uneven pavement, 
 patched with strips and squares of shadows, 
 lounged groups of priests in bewildering robes of 
 mauve, corn-yellow, white, and sea-green, while 
 back beneath the cool arches bunches of natives 
 listlessly pursued their several avocations. 
 
 It was a sight that brought the blood with a 
 rush to my cheek. Here at last was the East, 
 the land of my dreams ! That swarthy Mussul- 
 man at his little square table mending seals ; 
 that fellow next him selling herbs, sprawled 
 out on the marble floor, too lazy to crawl away 
 from the slant of the sunshine slipping through 
 the ragged awning ; and that young Turk in 
 frayed and soiled embroidered jacket, holding up 
 strings of beads to the priests passing in and out, 
 had 1 not seen them over and over again ? 
 
 And the old public scribe with the gray beard 
 and white turban, writing letters, the motion- 
 less veiled figures squatting around him, was 
 he not Baba Mustapha, and the soft-eyed girl 
 192
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 whispering into his ear, none other than Mor- 
 giana, " fair as the meridian sun " ? 
 
 Was I to devour all this with my eyes, and 
 fill my soul with its beauty, and take nothing 
 away ? My mind was made up the moment I 
 looked into the old scribe's face. Once get the 
 confidence of this secret repository of half the 
 love-making and intrigue in Stamboul, and I was 
 safe. 
 
 " Isaac ! " 
 
 "Yes, effendi." 
 
 " Do you know the scribe ? " 
 
 Isaac advanced a step, scrutinized the old 
 patriarch for a moment, and replied, 
 
 " Effendi, pardonnez, he the one only man 
 in Stamboul I not know." 
 
 This time, I noticed, he omitted the invoca- 
 tion to the gods. 
 
 "Then I Ml present you." 
 
 I waited until the scribe looked up and caught 
 my eye. Then I bowed my head reverently, 
 and gave him the Turkish salute. It is a most 
 respectful salutation. You stoop to the ground, 
 pick up an imaginary handful of dust, press it 
 to your heart, lips, and forehead, in token of 
 your sincerity and esteem, and then scatter it 
 to the four winds of heaven. Rapidly done, it 
 looks like brushing off a fly. 
 193
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 The old scribe arose with the dignity of King 
 Solomon 1 am quite sure he looked like him 
 and offered me his own straw-thatched stool. 
 I accepted it gravely, and opened my cigarette 
 case. 
 
 He unseated a client, dismissed his business 
 for the day, and sat down beside me. Then, 
 Isaac interpreting, I turned my sketch-book leaf 
 by leaf, showing bits of Venice, and in the back 
 of the book some tall minarets of an old mosque 
 caught on my way through Bulgaria. 
 
 It was curious to watch his face as the drago- 
 man located for him the several scraps and blots, 
 and explained their meaning. He evidently had 
 never seen their like before. When he came to 
 the minaret, his eye brightened, and pointing 
 upward to the one above our heads, he drew 
 an imaginary outline with his hand, and pointed 
 to me. I nodded my head. At this he looked 
 grave, and I forthwith sent Isaac for coffee, and 
 lighted another cigarette. Before the cups were 
 emptied I had formally and with great cere- 
 mony asked and received permission to paint 
 the most sacred patio, Isaac protesting all the 
 time in high dudgeon as he unbuckled my trap, 
 that the scribe was a common pauper, earning 
 but a spoonful of copper coin in a day, with no 
 more right to grant me a permit than the flea- 
 194
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 bitten beggar at the gate. It was evident that 
 Isaac had not come to Constantinople to paint. 
 
 Half an hour later the arches were sketched 
 in, the pillars and roof line complete, and I was 
 rapidly nearing that part of my work in which 
 the pencil is exchanged for the palette, when 
 the shrill voice of the muezzin calling the faith- 
 ful to prayer sounded above my head. I could 
 see his little white dot of a turban bobbing away 
 high above me on the minaret, his blue robe 
 waving in the soft air. 
 
 In an instant priests, seal-maker, herb doctor, 
 and pedler, crowded about the fountain, washed 
 their faces and feet, and moved silently and 
 reverently into the mosque. Soon the patio was 
 deserted by all except Isaac, the pigeons, and 
 the scribe, the kindly old scribe, who re- 
 mained glued to his seat, lost in wonder. 
 
 Another hour, and the worshippers came 
 straggling back, resuming their several avoca- 
 tions. Last of all came the priests, in groups of 
 eight or ten, flashing masses of color as they 
 stepped out of the cool arches into the blinding 
 sunlight. They approached my easel with that 
 easy rhythmic movement, so gracefully accentu- 
 ated by their flowing robes, stopped short, and 
 silently grouped themselves about me. I had 
 now the creamy white of the minaret sharp 
 
 195
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 against the blue, and the entrance of the mosque 
 in clear relief. 
 
 For an instant there was a hurried consulta- 
 tion. Then a beardless young priest courteously 
 but firmly expounded to Isaac some of the fun- 
 damental doctrines of the Mohammedan faith, 
 this one in particular: "Thou shalt not 
 paint." 
 
 Before I could call to Isaac, I felt a hand 
 caress my shoulder, and raised my head. The 
 scribe, with faded robe gathered about him, 
 stood gazing into the face of the speaker. 1 
 held my breath, wondering whether, after all, 
 I had left San Marco in vain. Isaac remained 
 mute, a half-triumphant " I told you so " ex- 
 pression lighting up his face. 
 
 Then the old scribe waved Isaac aside, and, 
 drawing himself to his full height, his long beard 
 blending with his white robe, answered in his 
 stead. " I have given my word to the Frank. 
 He is not a giaour, but a true Moslem, a holy 
 man, who loves our temple. I have broken 
 bread with him. He is my friend, bone of my 
 bone, blood of my blood. You cannot drive him 
 away." 
 
 After that, painting about Constantinople be- 
 came quite easy. Perhaps the priests told it to 
 their fellow priests, who spread it abroad among 
 196
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 the faithful in the mosques ; perhaps the gos- 
 sips around the patio took it up, or the good 
 scribe whispered it into the veiled ear of his next 
 fair client, and so gave it wings. How it hap- 
 pened, I know not ; but from that day my white 
 umbrella became a banner of peace, and my 
 open sketch-book a passport to everybody's 
 courtesy and everybody's good will. 
 
 Let me remind those who may have forgot- 
 ten it that there is really no such place as Con- 
 stantinople. There is, of course, the old Turk- 
 ish city of Stamboul, with all the great mosques : 
 the mosque of the Six Minarets, the Sultana 
 Valede, Soliman, and some hundred others, 
 and where, moreover, one finds the great ba- 
 zaar twelve miles of arcaded streets in a tan- 
 gle the cafes, drug-markets, fish-markets, 
 spice-markets, vile-smelling, dirt-choked alleys 
 and baths. 
 
 Then there is the European city of Pera, up 
 a hill, a long way up, with its modern 
 tramway below, and the ancient tower of the 
 Genoise crowning the top. Pera, rebuilt since 
 the fire, with its new hotels and foreign embas- 
 sies, its modern shops filled with machine-made 
 Oriental embroideries, and its more modern 
 streets flanked by the everlasting four-story 
 197
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 house with the flat roof and balcony, and the 
 same old cast-iron railings and half-dead potted 
 plants. Pera, the commonplace, except, per- 
 haps, for one delightfully picturesque old cem- 
 etery with its curious headstones and dismal 
 cypresses which could not be burned, and so 
 could not be rebuilt and ruined. 
 
 And last, across the Bosporus, is Scutari, 
 only ten minutes by ferry-boat. Scutari-in-Asia, 
 with mosques, archways, palaces, seraglios, 
 fruit-markets, Arab horses, priests, eunuchs 
 with bevies of houris out for an airing, gay awn- 
 ings, silks in festoons from shop doors, streets 
 crowded with carnival-like people wearing every 
 color under the sun, Bedouins on horseback rid- 
 ing rapidly through narrow streets, tons and tons 
 of grapes piled up in baskets, soldiers in fez and 
 brown linen suits, everything that is foreign 
 and un-European, and out of the common world. 
 A bewildering, overwhelming, intoxicating sight 
 to a man who has travelled one half the world 
 over to find the picturesque, and who suddenly 
 comes upon all there is in the other half, crammed 
 into one compact mass a mile square. 
 
 Isaac never quite understands why I go about 
 absorbed in these things, and why I ignore the 
 regulation sights, the mosque with the Per- 
 sian tiles, three miles away and a carriage; 
 198
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 the treasury at Seraglio Point, opened only by 
 permit from the Grand Vizier (price 2) ; the 
 dancing dervishes at Pera ; the howling der- 
 vishes at Scutari ; and the identical spot where 
 Leander plunged into the sea. 
 
 I finally compromised with Isaac on the der- 
 vishes. We had spent the morning at Scutari, 
 where I had been painting an old mosque. It 
 was howling-dervish day, it comes but once 
 a week, the howl beginning at three P. M. pre- 
 cisely, and to satisfy Isaac I had left the 
 sunshine for an hour to watch their curious 
 service. 
 
 I had, it is proper to state, wrung a confes- 
 sion that morning from Isaac which had so 
 humiliated him that he had suggested the der- 
 vishes to divert my attention. A dragoman of 
 the opposition, a veritable son of Abraham, had 
 betrayed him. He had bitten his thumb at him, 
 not literally but figuratively, and this in very de- 
 cent English no, the reverse. He had charged 
 him with fraud. He had said that his name was 
 not Isaac Isaacs, but Yapouly Dreco Yapouly ; 
 that he was not an honest Jew, but a dog of 
 a Turk, who had stolen honest Isaac's name 
 when he died. Yes, robbed him, ghoul, grave- 
 digger, beast ! He with a scar on his forehead, 
 where he had been branded for theft ! And here 
 199
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 the opposition dragoman snatched Isaac's fez 
 from his head, and ground it into the dirt with 
 his heel. 
 
 After a gendarme had taken this very dis- 
 agreeable opposition dragoman away, Isaac had 
 confessed. So many Englishmen, Frenchmen, 
 Americans, he said, had wanted Mr. Isaacs that 
 he had concluded that it was cruel not to ac- 
 commodate them. Of what use, estimable ef- 
 fendi, was a dead Jew ? How infinitely better 
 a live Turk ! So one day, when hanging over 
 the rail at the station, an Englishman had ar- 
 rived holding the deceased Isaac's card in his 
 hand, and since that time Yapouly had been 
 Isaac Isaacs to the stranger and the wayfaring 
 man. " See, effendi, here the Angleeshman 
 card." 
 
 It was the same the rascal had pressed into 
 my own face ! 
 
 Thus it was that Dreco Yapouly Isaacs I 
 will no longer lend myself to his villanous de- 
 ception preceded me this day up a steep hill 
 paved with boulders, entered the low door of 
 the tekke (house) of the dervishes, and mo- 
 tioned me to a seat in a small open court shel- 
 tered by an arbor covered with vines. 
 
 In the centre was a well, flagged by a great 
 stone, and on this rested a high, narrow-necked 
 200
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 silver pitcher of perfect Oriental shape used by 
 the priests in their ablutions. At the door of the 
 sacred room stood a stalwart Nubian dressed in 
 pure white ten times as black by contrast. 
 
 Five francs, and we passed the hanging cur- 
 tain covering the entrance, and stepped inside 
 a square, low-ceiled room hung with tambour- 
 ines, cymbals, arms, and banners, and sur- 
 rounded on three sides by an aisle. 
 
 The howlers there were at least a dozen 
 were standing in a straight row on the floor, 
 like a class at school, facing their master, an 
 old, long-bearded priest squatting on a mat be- 
 fore the altar. 
 
 As we entered, they were wagging their 
 heads in unison, keeping time to a chant mono- 
 toned by the old priest. They were of all ages ; 
 fat and lean, smooth-shaven and bearded ; some 
 in rich garments, others in more sombre and 
 cheaper stuffs. 
 
 One face cut itself into my memory, that 
 of a handsome, clear-skinned young man, with 
 deep, intense eyes and a sinewy, graceful body. 
 On one of his delicate, lady-white hands was a 
 large turquoise ring. Yapouly whispered to me 
 that he was the son of the high priest, and 
 would succeed his father when the old man 
 died. 
 
 2OI
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 The chant continued, rising in volume and 
 intensity, and a Nubian in white handed each 
 man a black skull-cap. These they drew tightly 
 over their perspiring heads. 
 
 The movement, which had begun with the 
 slow rolling of their heads, now extended to 
 their bodies. They writhed and twisted as if in 
 agony, a row of black-capped felons sus- 
 pended from unseen ropes. 
 
 Suddenly there darted out upon the mats a 
 boy scarce ten years of age, spinning like a top, 
 his skirts level with his hands. 
 
 The chant broke into a wail, the audience 
 joining in. The howls were deafening. The 
 priest rose from the mats by the altar, slowly 
 waved his hands, and began moving around the 
 room, the worshippers reaching forward and kiss- 
 ing the hem of his robe. As he passed, each 
 dervish stepped one pace forward, and handed 
 his outer robe to the Nubian, who piled them 
 on the floor in front of the altar. 
 
 The twelve were now rocking their heads in 
 a wild frenzy, groaning in long subdued moans, 
 ending in a peculiar " hough," like the sound of 
 a dozen distant locomotives tugging up a steep 
 grade. 
 
 " Allah, hou ! Allah, hou ! Allah, hou ! " 
 the last word expelled with a jerk. Their eyes 
 202
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 were starting from their heads, their parched 
 tongues hanging out, the sweat pouring from 
 their faces. The young priest was livid, with 
 eyes closed, his body swaying uneasily. 
 
 A dozen little children were here handed over 
 the rail to the Nubian, who took them in his 
 arms and laid them in a row with their faces 
 flattened to the mats. The old priest advanced 
 within a step of the first child, his lips moving 
 in prayer, and stretched his arms above the 
 motionless line of fat, chubby little bodies. 
 
 Yapouly Isaacs leaned over and whispered, 
 " See, now he bless them." 
 
 1 raised myself on my feet, to see the better. 
 The Nubian held out his hand to the old priest, 
 who balanced himself for a moment, stepped 
 firmly upon the first child, his bare feet sinking 
 into its soft, yielding flesh, and then walked 
 deliberately across the row of prostrate children. 
 As he passed, each little tot raised its head, 
 watched until the last child had been trampled 
 upon, then sprang up, kissed the old priest's 
 robe, and ran laughing from the room. 
 
 The sight now was sickening ; the dervishes 
 were in the last stages of exhausted frenzy. 
 The once handsome young priest was ghastly, 
 frothing at the mouth, only the whites of his 
 eyes visible, his voice was thick, his breath 
 203
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 almost gone. The others were drooping, with 
 knees bent, hardly able to stand. 
 
 Suddenly the priest turned his back, prostrated 
 himself before the altar, and prayed silently. 
 The whirling child sank to the ground. The 
 line of dervishes grew still, tottered along the 
 floor, clutched at the hanging curtain, and stag- 
 gered into the sunlight. 
 
 1 forced my way along the closely packed 
 aisle, and rushed into the open air. The sight 
 that met my eye stunned me ; my breath 
 stopped short. In the midst of the court stood 
 the Nubian serving coffee, the howlers crowding 
 about him, clamoring for cups, and panting for 
 breath like a team of athletes in from a foot- 
 race. I looked for my young priest with the 
 turquoise ring. He was sitting on a bench, roll- 
 ing a cigarette, his face wreathed with smiles ! 
 
 And yet the Mohammedan priest, despite his 
 fanaticism, is really a most delightful compan- 
 ion. His tastes are refined, his garments spot- 
 less, his manners easy and graceful, and his 
 whole bearing distinguished by a repose that is 
 superb, the repose of unlimited idleness dig- 
 nified by unquestioned religious authority. 
 
 I remember one in particular who spent a 
 morning with me, a noble old patriarch, 
 204
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 dressed in a delicate eggshell-colored robe that 
 floated about his feet as he walked, an under- 
 garment of mauve, with waist sash of pale blue, 
 and a snowdrift of silk on his head. For four 
 broiling hours, with only such shade as a half- 
 withered plane-tree could afford, did this majes- 
 tic old fellow, with slippers tucked under him, 
 sit and drink in every movement of my brush. 
 When I had finished, he arose, saluted me after 
 the manner of his race, and pointing first to 
 the sketch, and then to the glistening mosque, 
 said, in the softest of voices, 
 
 " Good dragoman, tell your master I have 
 for him a very great respect. He has opened 
 my eyes to many beautiful things. I am sure 
 he is a most learned man," and passed on with 
 the dignity and composure of a Doge. 
 
 Everywhere else did I find this same sponta- 
 neous, generous courtesy and kindly good-hu- 
 mor. Only once was I rebuffed. It was in the 
 open plaza of the Valede. I had been watching 
 the shifting scene, following eagerly the little 
 dabs of color hurrying over the heated pave- 
 ment, when my eye fell upon a cobbler but a 
 few yards off, pegging away at an upturned 
 shoe. When my restless pencil had fastened 
 his fez upon his head, and linked his body to 
 his three-legged stool, a laugh broke out among 
 205
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 the bystanders crowded about me, one jovial 
 old Turk calling out to the unconscious model. 
 In a moment he was on his feet, forcing his 
 way through the throng behind me. Then a 
 hand clutched my shoulder, and the next in- 
 stant a wet leather sole was thrust forward and 
 ground into my paper, spoiling the sketch. 
 
 It took five minutes of my most subtle Ori- 
 ental diplomacy, sweetened with several cups 
 of the choicest Turkish coffee, to convince this 
 indignant shoemaker that I meant no offence. 
 When I had succeeded, he was so profuse in his 
 apologies that I had to smoke a chibouque with 
 him, at his expense, to restore his equanimity. 
 
 And yet, under all the courtesy and good- 
 nature I found everywhere, 1 could not help 
 noticing that a certain disquiet and nervous 
 fear permeated all classes, priests and peo- 
 ple alike. The government's extreme poverty 
 and constant watchfulness are two things the 
 inhabitant never forgets, one concerns his 
 taxes, the other his liberty. This fear is so 
 great that many public topics worn threadbare 
 by most Europeans are never whispered by a 
 Turk to his most intimate friend. Even my 
 dear friend and confidential adviser, Mr. Ya- 
 pouly, finds now and then a subject upon which 
 he is silent. One day I asked him who had 
 206
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 been suspected of murdering the predecessor of 
 the present Sultan, and why it had been thought 
 necessary to remove that luxurious son of the 
 Prophet. It was an idle question on my part, 
 and one I supposed anybody in Constantinople 
 could answer, especially so learned and versa- 
 tile a dragoman as Mr. Yapouly. To my sur- 
 prise he made no reply ; we were in Pera at the 
 time, he preceding me with the trap. When 
 we reached the long cemetery, he stopped, 
 looked carefully over the low wall, as if fearing 
 the very graves, and then said, in his broken 
 conglomerate, too shattered to reproduce here : 
 
 " Effendi, you must not ask such questions. 
 Everybody is a spy, the man asleep on the 
 sofa in the hotel, the waiter behind your chair, 
 the barber who shaves you. Some night your 
 bed will be empty. Nobody ever asks such 
 questions in Constantinople." 
 
 Nor is this unrest confined to the people. I 
 noticed the same anxious look on the Sultan's 
 face the day of the salemlik, the day he drives 
 publicly to the little mosque to pray, the mosque 
 outside the palace gates. His face was like that 
 of the acrobat riding bareback at the circus hoop 
 glad to be through. 
 
 But I am in Constantinople to paint, not to 
 moralize, and these glimpses of the treacherous 
 207
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 deadly stream that flows beneath Turkish 
 life are not to my liking. I want only the gay 
 flowers above its banks and the soft summer 
 air on my cheek, the tall grasses waving in the 
 sunlight, and the glow and radiance of it all. 
 So, if you please, we will go back to my mosque, 
 and my delightful old priests, and the Greek 
 who sells me grapes and weighs them in a pair 
 of teetering scales, and my ca'ique with the pew 
 cushion over the bottom, and the big caikjis, 
 with the chest of a Hercules and the legs of 
 a satyr, who rows my Oriental gondola, and 
 all the beautiful patches of color, fretted arch, 
 and slender column that make life enchant- 
 ing in this lotus-eating land ; and even to 
 Mr. Yapouly, Mr. Dreco Yapouly, who tells 
 me he has reformed, and will never lie more, 
 "so help him," Mr. Dreco Isaacs Yapouly, 
 who has lately ceased his unanswered appeals 
 to the gods, and who has left off all his evil 
 ways. 
 
 But then I remember that I cannot go back 
 to my old life now, for the summer is ended. 
 Last night there was a great storm of wind and 
 a deluge of rain, the first for four months. All 
 the gold-dust has been washed from the trees 
 and the grasses. The plaza of the Valede is 
 scoured clean. The little waves around the 
 208
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 Galata no longer lap their tongues indolently 
 about the soggy, rotten floats, but snap angrily 
 in the bleak wind. The doors of the mosques 
 are closed, and outside, in the early morning, 
 groups of natives are huddled over charcoal 
 pans. The winter is creeping on apace, and I 
 must be gone. Besides, they are waiting for 
 me at Florian's on the Piazza in my beloved 
 Venice ; those scoffers with their cerise and 
 Chianti and grandi of Munich beer. Waiting, 
 not to mock, but to kotow, to bend the ear and 
 genuflect, now that my portfolio is bursting, 
 and to say, "Come, let us see your stuff! " 
 and " How the devil did you get away with so 
 much ? " 
 
 So one morning I tell Isaac to pack my trap, 
 and this time to slip it inside its leather travel- 
 ling-case, and to get me a " hamal," a human 
 burro an Armenian, perhaps who will toss 
 my trunk, with the extra canvases now all 
 filled, upon his back, and never break trot un- 
 til he dumps it at the station two miles away. 
 
 I instantly detect, in spite of our close inti- 
 macy, an expression of relief wrinkling Mr. Ya- 
 pouly's tobacco-colored countenance. He sighs 
 his regrets, but with a lightness that shows his 
 heart is not in them. He has been but a " ha- 
 mal " himself, he thinks, lugging the trap about 
 209
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 in the heat, and sitting for hours doing nothing 
 absolutely nothing. And I have bought so 
 little in the bazaars, and his commissions are so 
 small ! But then, as he reflects, is he not the 
 dragoman of dragomans, and might not future 
 wayfarers be my intimate friends and his special 
 prey ? So he becomes doubly solicitous as the 
 time draws near. Would effendi allow him to 
 place a few pounds of grapes in the compart- 
 ment, the road to Philippopolis is so dusty and 
 the water is so bad ? Had not the umbrella 
 better go above, and the rugs on the other 
 seat ? 
 
 Last of all, with a certain tenderness that he 
 knows will appeal to me, where will the most 
 gracious effendi permit him to place the dear old 
 trap, my companion over so many thousand 
 miles of travel ? At my feet ?. No ; on the cush- 
 ion beside me ! 
 
 The guard blows his whistle ; the carriage 
 doors are locked. Yapouly Dreco Yapouly, 
 the reformed leans outside. I move to the win- 
 dow for a parting word. After all, I may have 
 misjudged him. He starts forward, and presses 
 some cards into my hand. 
 
 " For your friends, effendi, when they want 
 good dragoman." 
 
 I turn up their white faces. 
 
 2IO
 
 UNDER THE MINARETS 
 
 They are clean and newly printed, and bear 
 this inscription : 
 
 ISAAC ISAACS, 
 Dragoman and Interpreter, 
 
 Constantinople. 
 
 211
 
 A PERSONALLY CONDUCTED ARREST 
 IN CONSTANTINOPLE 
 
 1 
 
 CAS1MIR, lifting his hat from his glistening 
 head, said, with a bow of apology, that 
 I could not paint in Constantinople, of course ; 
 that " one udder Engleesh wait one, two, four 
 week, and t'en go 'way wit'out permit. One 
 Russian have his machine take* away. No, 
 effendi," he added ; " I ver' sorry, but it eem- 
 possible to make t'e picture." 
 
 " How about an American ?" I asked. 
 
 " Ah ! you not Engleesh ? You American ? 
 T'at is anudder t'ing. I make pardon," with 
 another sweep of his hat. " I t'ink you Eng- 
 leesh." Then, behind his hand, in a whisper, 
 " Engleesh all time make trouble." 
 
 The lowered voice and furtive glance for pos- 
 sible Britishers in disguise revealed like a flash- 
 light all the devious ways and manifold crooked- 
 nesses of the tourist-dragoman of the East, 
 your servant to-day, serving you servilely and 
 
 212
 
 A PERSONALLY CONDUCTED ARREST 
 
 vilely ; somebody else's to-morrow, still servile 
 and vile. 
 
 The clerk of the hotel agreed with Casimir as 
 to my painting in the streets. So did the 
 banker who cashed my first draft. 
 
 The banker, however, was more lucid. In 
 the present condition of the Armenian question, 
 he said, an order had been issued from the pal- 
 ace forbidding any one to reproduce a likeness 
 of anything living or dead, from a camel to a 
 mosque. Special terms of imprisonment were 
 provided for those bold enough to outline such 
 persons as carried guns. Five years was the 
 penalty for sketching a fort ; and the bowstring 
 or a double-shotted bag and the Bosporus for 
 transferring to paper the image of a man-of-war 
 or a torpedo-boat. 
 
 1 had heard threats like these before, not 
 only here, but in other parts of the world. I had 
 been warned in Cuba, watched night and day in 
 Bulgaria, and locked up in Spain ; and yet, 
 somehow, I had always kept successfully at 
 work, buoyed by the hope that a quiet manner, 
 a firm persistence, and inherent invincible hon- 
 esty would carry me through. 
 
 I accordingly opened my white umbrella and 
 paint-box the following morning in front of the 
 Sultana Yalide Mosque. 
 213
 
 A PERSONALLY CONDUCTED ARREST 
 
 Casimir protested with hands aloft and with 
 streaming face, a red silk handkerchief dam- 
 ming the flow near the chin-line. He begged 
 me to go at once to the chief of police with him 
 for a permit, insisting that if I were caught we 
 should both be put under lock and key, and 
 disporting himself generally after the manner 
 of his guild, one moment with vehemence, 
 the next with dove-like gentleness. Moreover, 
 under all his boasts and predictions I detected 
 a genuine fear of the guardians of the peace, and 
 a fixed determination, so far as he himself was 
 concerned, to keep out of their clutches. This, 
 together with his desire at all hazards to earn 
 my five francs a day, made Casimir a very 
 nervous and for the time being a very uncom- 
 fortable personage. 
 
 I selected for my first sketch the open plaza 
 fronting the Sultana Valide, because it was a 
 blossoming field of giant umbrellas, green, brown, 
 and white, beneath which were sold stuffs and 
 fruits of every hue in the rainbow, and because 
 I thought that my own modest and diminutive 
 sunshade might be so lost in the general scheme 
 as to be undistinguishable. 
 
 The population of that part of Stamboul 
 thought otherwise. 
 
 Before I had half blocked in one corner of 
 214
 
 IN CONSTANTINOPLE 
 
 the mosque and indicated my high lights and 
 shadows, a surging throng of Turks, Greeks, 
 Jews, Gentiles, and Hottentots unquestion- 
 ably Hottentots, for some were as black as 
 coal had wedged themselves in a solid mass 
 about my easel. 
 
 Casimir shrugged his shoulders, throwing his 
 eyes skyward, his mouth open like that of a 
 choking chicken. He had consented, under pro- 
 test, to carry my sketching outfit across the 
 Galata Bridge, handling it as tenderly as if it 
 had been a bomb ; and now that it was about 
 to explode he wished it distinctly understood by 
 the bystanders that the affair was none of his 
 doing. I endured this for a while, catching now 
 and then his whispered word dropped in the ear 
 of an eager looker-on, and then called out, 
 
 " Here, Casimir ! Don't stand there para- 
 lyzed. Clear the crowd in front, so that I can 
 see the steps of the mosque, and then go over 
 to the fountain opposite and fill this water-bot- 
 tle." 
 
 He obeyed mechanically. There was an open- 
 ing of the crowd for a moment as he passed, a 
 tight closing up again, and the curious mob was 
 thicker than ever. 
 
 When he returned he brought with him 
 two full hands. One was his own, holding the 
 215
 
 A PERSONALLY CONDUCTED ARREST 
 
 bottle ; the other was that of a gendarme hold- 
 ing Casimir. 
 
 The crowd in front melted away, and the 
 pair stood before me. 
 
 He was a small gendarme, topped with a fez, 
 girded with a belt, armed with a sword, and 
 incrusted with buttons. He wore also a sinister 
 smile, like that of a terrier with his teeth in a rat. 
 I concentrated in my face all the honesty of my 
 race, reached out my hand for the water-bottle, 
 and waved the officer aside. He really was in 
 the way. 
 
 The gesture had its effect ; a shade of doubt 
 passed across his countenance. Could I be some 
 foreign potentate in disguise ? Casimir caught 
 the look, and poured out instantly a history of 
 my life at home and abroad, my distinguished 
 position as court painter to the universe, my 
 enormous wealth, my unlimited influence, etc. 
 The master-stroke of dragoman policy of course 
 would have been to pacify the officer and satisfy 
 me. 
 
 There was a hurried conference, and the two 
 disappeared. This time Casimir held the officer 
 by the arm, in a wheedling, confiding way. 
 
 The crowd crystallized again, closer now than 
 ever. I began on the umbrellas, and had dotted 
 in a few of the figures, with dabs of vermilion 
 216
 
 IN CONSTANTINOPLE 
 
 for the omnipresent fez, when an Arab who 
 was craning his head over my canvas was 
 unceremoniously brushed aside, and three pre- 
 servers of the peace stood before me the red- 
 fezzed rat-catcher and two others. Casimir's 
 face was permeated with an expression of su- 
 preme contentment. I saw at a glance that, 
 whatever had happened, his own innocence had 
 been established. I saw, too, that he had cut 
 away from under my feet every plank in my 
 moral platform. An honest expression of face, 
 dense ignorance of the customs of the country, 
 and righteous indignation would no longer do. 
 
 The speaker wore fewer buttons than the 
 terrier, and had a pleasanter smile. " Effendi," 
 he said, " your dragoman informs me that you 
 have already applied to the Minister of Police 
 for a permit, and that it will be ready to-mor- 
 row." This in Turkish, Casimir interpreting. 
 " I am sorry to interrupt your work to-day, 
 but my duty requires it. Bring your permit to 
 my station in the morning, and I will give my 
 men orders to protect you while you paint, and 
 to keep the people from disturbing you." 
 
 It was beautiful to see Casimir as he trans- 
 lated this fairy-tale, and to watch how with one 
 side of his face he tried to express his deep 
 interest in my behalf, and with the other his 
 217
 
 A PERSONALLY CONDUCTED ARREST 
 
 entire approval of the course the chief had 
 taken. 
 
 The decision of the officer finished operations 
 for the day in Stamboul and its vicinity, and 
 cut off further discussion. The situation com- 
 pelled absolute silence. Casimir's lie about his 
 application for a permit and the chief's courtesy 
 left me no other course. I bowed respectfully, 
 thanked the officer for his offer, as kind as it 
 was unexpected, lighted a cigarette, crossed the 
 street, and ordered a cup of coffee. Casimir 
 struck my colors my white umbrella and 
 got my baggage-train in motion. I went out 
 with my side-arms my brushes and my pri- 
 vate papers and my unfinished sketch intact. 
 The rout was complete. 
 
 "It was t'e only way, effendi," said Casi- 
 mir, laying my umbrella at my feet. "But 
 for Casimir it was great trouble for you. T'e 
 chief was furious. We go to-morrow. I ask for 
 permit. T'e dragoman of t'e minister is my 
 long-time friend. He do anyt'ing for me. The 
 permit come in one minute. Not to-day ; it is 
 too late." His recent diplomatic success had 
 evidently emboldened him. 
 
 " But there is still half a day left, Casimir. 
 What time does the boat leave the Galata Bridge 
 for Scutari ? " 
 
 218
 
 IN CONSTANTINOPLE 
 
 " Every hour. Does t'e effendi wish to see 
 t'e howling dervish ? " 
 
 " No ; the effendi wishes to see the foun- 
 tain at the mosque nearest the landing." 
 
 "To wash himse'f ? " with a puzzled 
 look. 
 
 " No ; to paint." 
 
 " But t'e police ? What will Casimir do ? " 
 
 " What you ought to do is to get me a per- 
 mit at once. What you will do will be to 
 concoct another yarn. Pick up that easel ; I 
 am not going to waste the afternoon, police or 
 no police. Quick, now ! " 
 
 So we went to Scutari. There certainly could 
 be no crime in painting so beautiful a thing as 
 the fountain of Scutari. If these fairy-like crea- 
 tions of the East were objects of worship I 
 could easily turn Mohammedan. 
 
 This time Casimir laid aside the skin of the 
 'possum and wriggled into the scales of the ser- 
 pent. Opposite the fountain was a low awning 
 shading a dozen or more little square stools, 
 occupied by as many natives drinking coffee 
 and smoking chibouks. On one of these stools 
 Casimir, gliding noiselessly, placed my paint- 
 box. The umbrella was not needed, as the 
 av/ning hid the sun. 
 
 This master-stroke, costing the price of a cup 
 219
 
 A PERSONALLY CONDUCTED ARREST 
 
 of coffee, half a piastre, or two cents, de- 
 ceived the crowd outside, as well as the police ; 
 and the sketch was finished in peace, while 
 Casimir drank his coffee and grew black in the 
 face from exhausting his lungs on a chibouk. 
 (Casimir is a Greek, not a Turk, and cigarettes, 
 not chibouks, are his weakness.) 
 
 But my relief was not of long standing. In 
 upper Stamboul, the next day, I was politely 
 but firmly commanded to "move on; " and 
 only the intervention of a grave and dignified 
 old priest a vision in soft, flowing silk robes, 
 turquoise-blue, pale green, and lemon-yellow 
 prevented my being marched off to the nearest 
 station for investigation. 
 
 I felt that the situation was beyond any 
 former experience. I must either present my- 
 self at the office of the Minister of Police and 
 plead for a permit, or close my outfit and give 
 up work. 
 
 II 
 
 At the end of a flight of wooden steps crowded 
 with soldiers, a long, wide hall, and a dingy 
 room, I found the chief dragoman of the Minis- 
 ter of Police not a dragoman after the order 
 of Casimir, but a dragoman who spoke seven 
 languages and had the manners of a diplomat. 
 220
 
 IN CONSTANTINOPLE 
 
 In Constantinople there are of course drago- 
 mans and dragomans. Each embassy has one 
 as an interpreter. Many of them are of high 
 rank, the German dragoman being a count. 
 These men, as translators, are intrusted, of 
 course, with secrets of great moment. Every 
 consulate has a dragoman, who translates the 
 jargon of the East Arabic, Turkish, modern 
 Greek, Bulgarian patois, and the like into 
 intelligent English, French, or German ; and so 
 has every high native official with much or little 
 to do with the various nationalities that make 
 up the Ottoman empire and its neighbors. 
 There are, too, the modern guides called drago- 
 mans, who interpret in many tongues, and who 
 lie in all. 
 
 When appealed to, this high-caste dragoman 
 of the minister said evasively that he believed 
 he remembered Casimir he was not sure. It 
 was necessary, however, for me, before ap- 
 proaching his Excellency, to be armed with a 
 passport and a letter from my consul vouching 
 for my standing and integrity. Something might 
 then be done, although the prospect was not 
 cheering ; still, with a wave of his hand and a 
 profound bow, he would do his utmost. 
 
 I instantly produced my passport, I al- 
 ways wore it in my inside pocket, over my 
 221
 
 A PERSONALLY CONDUCTED ARREST 
 
 heart, and at once called his attention to 
 the cabalistic signature of the Turkish official 
 who had vised it on the day of my arrival 
 three wiggles and a dot, a sign manual bear- 
 ing a strong resemblance to an inch- worm scal- 
 ing a tree. 
 
 The next day there is not the slightest 
 hurry in the East I handed in my second 
 document, emblazoned on the seal with the 
 arms of my country, and certifying to my 
 peaceful and non-revolutionary character, my 
 blameless life, and the harmless nature of my 
 calling. 
 
 The minister was in ; I was asked to take a 
 seat outside. 
 
 The outside was the same hall, bare of every- 
 thing but officers, soldiers, and hangers-on. At 
 one end stood two men with worn-out stubs of 
 feather dusters, who pounced upon every pair 
 of shoes that entered the sacred precinct, giving 
 each two quick polishing strokes one piaster 
 for Casimir's and mine. At the other end hung 
 a great red curtain, covering the door of the 
 minister's office, patched and bound with lea- 
 ther, as stiff as a theatre-drop, and guarded by 
 an officer in full uniform. My passport open, 
 my character indorsed, my shoes dusted and 
 the dusting paid for, I was ready for his august 
 222
 
 IN CONSTANTINOPLE 
 
 presence. The curtain was drawn aside, and I 
 stepped in. 
 
 Seated at a common folding-desk littered with 
 papers, surrounded by secretaries and officers, 
 sat a man perhaps fifty years of age, with calm, 
 resolute, clear-cut face, and an eye that could 
 have drawn the secrets from a sphinx. He was 
 neatly dressed in dark clothes, with plain black 
 necktie. The only spots of color about him 
 were a speck of red in his buttonhole and the 
 vermilion fez that crowned his well-modelled 
 head. In his hand he held the consul's letter 
 and my passport and visiting-card. For an in- 
 stant he bored me full of holes, and then with 
 a satisfied glance motioned me to a seat. Cas- 
 imir, who had preceded me, was bent double 
 in profound obeisance, his head almost on the 
 floor. I returned his Excellency's glance as fear- 
 lessly as I could, and sat down to look him over. 
 At this instant a clerk entered with some papers 
 and advanced rapidly toward his desk. The 
 interruption evidently was inopportune, for the 
 same eye that had comprehended my entirety 
 shot an angry look at the intruder, who stopped, 
 wavered, and then, shrivelling up like a scorched 
 leaf, glided back out of the room. Not a word 
 was spoken by either. The power of the eye 
 had been enough. It was only a flash glance 
 223
 
 A PERSONALLY CONDUCTED ARREST 
 
 that I got, but it revealed to me one of the 
 hidden springs of this man's dominating will. 
 Here, then, was the throttle-valve of the Otto- 
 man empire. When the Sultan moved the lever 
 this man set the wheels in motion. 
 
 He listened patiently, scanned the papers 
 keenly as I talked on, the sinuous, genuflecting 
 Casimir putting it into proper shape, and then 
 handed me a cigarette. I lighted it, and ram- 
 bled on, explaining how, four years before, 
 when my sketching outfit and baggage had 
 been overhauled by two officers at the station, 
 doubtless by his Excellency's orders (he bowed 
 slightly, but gave no other sign as to the truth 
 of my surmise), I had personally called the at- 
 tention of these officers to a sketch made above 
 the navy-yard, with all the men-of-war and tor- 
 pedo-boats left out, as I considered that I had 
 no right to transfer them to my canvas ; and 
 how both had then been satisfied, and left me 
 with apologies for the examination. He raised 
 his head at this, and covered me with one sweep 
 of his eye, from my dusted shoes to my bared 
 head. Then he played with his cigarette for a 
 moment and said slowly and thoughtfully, 
 " Come to-morrow at one o'clock." 
 I spent the remainder of that day sketching 
 about the old walls of Seraglio Point, making 
 224
 
 IN CONSTANTINOPLE 
 
 snap-shots with my sketch-book, dodging th& 
 police along the water-front of Stamboul, idling 
 about the cafes, and in and out of the narrow 
 streets packed so full of people that I could with 
 difficulty push myself through. I could easily 
 believe the statement that there are more peo- 
 ple to the square foot in Stamboul than any- 
 where else on the globe. 
 
 At noon the following day I again had my 
 shoes dusted, and again cooled their heels for 
 an hour outside the swinging mat. One o'clock 
 was my hour, not that of his Excellency. 
 
 When I was at last admitted the minister came 
 forward and extended his hand. Casimir braced 
 up and got his head high enough to see over the 
 desk. 
 
 " I cannot grant your consul's request to 
 give you a permit," he said in a calm voice. 
 " In the present disturbed condition of affairs it 
 would establish a precedent which would after- 
 ward cause us trouble." 
 
 Casimir's face, when he translated this, 
 looked as if it had been squeezed in a door. 
 The threatened collapse of all his rosy plans 
 seemed to take the stiffness out of his neck. 
 
 "I have decided, therefore, to detail an of- 
 ficer who will personally conduct you wherever 
 you wish to go. I shall rely upon your good 
 225
 
 A PERSONALLY CONDUCTED ARREST 
 
 judgment to paint only such things as your ex- 
 perience teaches you are proper." 
 
 Casimir's back now humped up like a camel's, 
 and his face beamed as he interpreted. He did 
 not, of course, put the minister's speech in these 
 words he mangled it with a dialect of his own ; 
 but I knew what the soft, musical cadence of 
 the minister's voice meant. Then his Excellency 
 went on, 
 
 " The officer selected is one of my personal 
 staff. He will be at your hotel in the morning 
 to receive your orders. Au revoir." 
 
 When I crossed the Galata Bridge the follow- 
 ing morning I was attended by two men, one 
 the ever-suppliant Casimir, carrying my outfit 
 as triumphantly as if it contained the freedom 
 of the city, and the other a thickset, broad- 
 shouldered man, with a firm, determined face 
 and quick, restless eyes, whom the gendarmes 
 saluted with marked respect as we passed. 
 This was Mahmoud, attached to the minister's 
 personal staff, and now detailed for special duty 
 in my service. He was responsible for my con- 
 duct, the character of my work, and my life, 
 with full power to strike down any one who 
 molested me, and with equal power to hurry 
 me to the nearest lock-up if 1 departed a hair 
 226
 
 IN CONSTANTINOPLE 
 
 line from the subjects which, by the gracious- 
 ness of his chief, I was permitted to paint. The 
 sketches I made would never have been possi- 
 ble except for his ceaseless care and constant 
 watchfulness of me. A Mohammedan crowd is 
 not always considerate of an infidel dog, espe- 
 cially when he is painting sacred mosques and 
 tombs. Moreover, stones are convenient mis- 
 siles when such giaours are about. 
 
 Ill 
 
 But there were days when Mahmoud was not 
 with me, days at Therapia, a little nestling 
 village strung around a curve in the shore line 
 of the Bosporus, with abrupt green hills rising 
 about it, with beautiful gardens, delightful 
 groves, and flower-bordered walks, its banks 
 lapped by water of marvellous clearness and 
 purity, fresh with every tide from the Black 
 Sea. 
 
 This Newport of the East was founded some 
 centuries ago by the Greeks because of its in- 
 vigorating climate, Therapia signifying health, 
 and to-day is still the refuge in the summer 
 heats not only of many of the pashas and other 
 high Turkish dignitaries whose palaces line the 
 water-front or crown the hills near by, but of 
 scores of European wayfarers and strangers who 
 227
 
 A PERSONALLY CONDUCTED ARREST 
 
 want more air and less dog than can be found 
 in Pera. 
 
 Here, too, are the houses of the several for- 
 eign embassies, English, German, French, 
 and the others, their yachts and dispatch- 
 boats lying at anchor almost in front of their 
 gardens, the brasses glistening in the sun. 
 
 And the charm of it all ! The boats' crews 
 of Jack Tars in their white suits rowing back 
 and forth, answering calls from the shore ; the 
 blue water as blue as indigo dotted with 
 cal'ques skimming about ; the dog-carts and 
 landaus crowding the shore road, with footmen 
 in gorgeous Albanian costumes of white and gold, 
 and with sash and scimitar, all make a scene 
 of surprising brilliancy and beauty. Diplomacy 
 is never so picturesque as at Therapia. 
 
 There is, too, a superb hotel, the Summer 
 Palace, aptly called, with shaded rooms, big 
 overarching pines, tennis-courts, ball-rooms, and 
 bath-houses, besides all the delights of yacht 
 and ca'ique life. 
 
 This Summer Palace, with its spacious draw- 
 ing-rooms and broad terraces, is thronged nightly 
 not only with members of the diplomatic corps, 
 with their secretaries and attaches, daily in 
 touch with questions of vital importance, yet 
 never unmindful of the seductions of gliding 
 228
 
 IN CONSTANTINOPLE 
 
 slippers and waving fans, but also with of- 
 ficers of the imperial army and navy, members 
 of the Sultan's cabinet, and other high officials 
 immediately connected with his Majesty's gov- 
 ernment. The perfect repose of manner and the 
 easy, unassumed dignity of these Turks, es- 
 pecially of the younger men, are to be expected, 
 for Orientals are never hurried or nervous ; but 
 their graciousness and gentleness, and, more 
 than all, their unconscious simplicity, a sim- 
 plicity that comes only to men trained to good 
 manners from their infancy, just as they are 
 trained to swim, to ride, and to shoot, were, 
 I confess, revelations to me. 
 
 At these gatherings in the Summer Palace 
 there were, of course, no Turkish women ; but 
 there were plenty of others Greeks, Arme- 
 nians, and Europeans crowding the rooms 
 all day and filling the cotillions at night. If his 
 Majesty passed sleepless nights at the palace 
 ten miles away, worrying over the latest de- 
 mands of the Powers, there was no sign of it 
 at Therapia. The merry hours went on. The 
 caiques were nightly filled with bevies of young 
 and old, singing in the moonlight. There were 
 tennis matches, afternoon teas, excursions by 
 land and water, and all that goes to the 
 making of the life of pretty women and gallant 
 229
 
 A PERSONALLY CONDUCTED ARREST 
 
 men having no stronger ties than those born of 
 mutual enjoyment, and apparently weighted 
 with no duties more arduous than the killing of 
 time. 
 
 And there were other days without Mahmoud 
 at Stenia, a few miles from Therapia, to which 
 place 1 once took ship the daintiest little ship, 
 all cushions and rugs, manned by two boatmen 
 in white balloon trousers, with yards and yards 
 of stuff to each leg, and Greek jackets embroi- 
 dered with gold . And from Stenia to the ' ' Sweet 
 Waters of Asia," an Arabian Nights sort of 
 place, with an exquisite Moorish fountain of 
 marble, and great trees shading flocks and 
 bunches of houris in white yashmaks and em- 
 broidered feredjes of mauve, yellow, and pink, 
 out for an airing from their harems ; all on mats 
 and rugs spread on the grass, attended by black 
 eunuchs, with hands as black as terrapins' 
 paws, and as wrinkled and leathery. 
 
 The almond-eyed beauties chattered and 
 laughed and munched bonbons and partook of 
 rose-leaf jelly, sitting with their tiny feet tucked 
 under them, Turkish fashion, their cigarettes 
 perfuming the still air, until their caiques gath- 
 ered them in again, and they all floated away 
 like so many colored swans. You must not 
 wander too near. Even a faithful Turk turns 
 
 23Q
 
 IN CONSTANTINOPLE 
 
 his head away when he passes a woman : a 
 Christian dog might miss his just above the 
 collar button for forgetting the courtesy. 
 
 Neither was Mahmoud with me when I went 
 to the Greek Fair, within a mile of the Sweet 
 Waters, and that beautiful fountain, around 
 which sit the more beautiful houris, whose eyes 
 shine large and luminous through thin veils. 
 
 This day the air was delicious, the sky like 
 a delft plate, with puffs of white clouds in high 
 relief. For hours I watched the merry-go-rounds, 
 and the jugglers on their mats, until I grew 
 hungry enough for even a Greek cafe, and it 
 is a brave and reckless appetite that dares an 
 Oriental kitchen. 
 
 This cafe was under a tree, with a few pine 
 boards for a table, the galley being within 
 handing distance, with a charcoal fire blazing. 
 The abominations of stew and fry and toastings 
 were intolerable ; but I succeeded in getting a 
 box of sardines and half a pint of native wine, 
 a loaf of bread and some raw tomatoes and salt, 
 with a bit of onion, which I gathered up and 
 spread out on the pine boards. When the com- 
 bination of chef, head waiter, and proprietor, 
 all covered by one fez, presented his bill, it 
 amounted to a sum that would have supported 
 an Oriental and his family for a month. 
 231
 
 A PERSONALLY CONDUCTED ARREST 
 
 There are occasions when your individual 
 pantomime is more effective than the closest 
 translation of your spoken words. Mine to mine 
 host ended in an abrupt turning on my heel, 
 with hands tightly clenched. When the crowd 
 began to take sides with the Greek and mat- 
 ters assumed an ugly look, I threw upon the 
 ground a silver coin equal to one fourth of the 
 charge. This turned the tide, the bystanders 
 considered the sum too appallingly large even 
 for a Greek fair ! 
 
 Here, too, I had my fortune told by a Tzi- 
 gane from the desert, a real gypsy in baggy 
 trousers of calico and little bare feet, with sil- 
 ver bangles around her ankles, and with a blue 
 silk handkerchief wound loosely about her 
 head. She had rings of turquoise in her ears 
 and rings of silver on her fingers, and, for aught 
 I know, tinkling bells on her stubby, dust-cov- 
 ered toes. She held my hand in a caressing way, 
 and passed her own over it softly, and looked 
 at me with her large, deep eyes, and told of the 
 fair-haired man and the letter that would come, 
 and the dark-eyed woman who loved me, pick- 
 ing out from a bag, as she talked, now a nut, 
 now a pebble or a bit of broken glass, and 
 spreading them on her lap. Her incantation 
 began with only one piastre as a talisman, 
 232
 
 IN CONSTANTINOPLE 
 
 mine, of course, but it required two francs in 
 addition before the fair man of whom she had 
 warned me was outwitted and the dark eyes 
 were made happy. Casimir interpreted all this 
 with an expression of contempt and disgust on 
 his face wholly out of proportion to the occa- 
 sion, and entirely unjust, I thought, to the dust- 
 soiled priestess who thus read my future. But 
 then the francs did not go Casimir's way. 
 
 Although Mahmoud did not follow me to 
 Therapia, where I spent the nights, he was 
 waiting every morning for me in Stamboul at 
 the Galata Bridge, the gangplank that unloads 
 Europe into Asia, and vice versa, every hour of 
 the day and night. When I landed in this dis- 
 trict I was his prisoner. One day he led me to 
 the Plaza of the Hippodrome, the Atmeidan, 
 with its twin needles of stone ; another day 
 to the west facade of the Mosque of Sultan 
 Ahmed ; again to the Court of the Pigeon 
 Mosque, and to the Mosque Bajazet, the Mosque 
 of Suleiman the Magnificent, and the others. 
 
 Casimir, of course, was always within hand 
 touch of Mahmoud when the morning boat from 
 Therapia was made fast. It was his craning 
 head which appeared first over the red sea of 
 fezzes climbing the wide landing-plank, one 
 hand on my luggage, the other shading his eyes. 
 235
 
 A PERSONALLY CONDUCTED ARREST 
 
 Next I would perceive Mahmoud, grave, digni- 
 fied, attentive. Then we would all three make 
 our way through the throng, take a tram in 
 Stamboul, and slowly mount the hill to St. 
 Sophia. Before the week was out the police had 
 come to know the posse of three. The priests, 
 too, who at first were dubious about the hon- 
 esty of my intentions, and who demurred at the 
 sacrilege of my painting their mosques, now sa- 
 luted me in passing. The people of the streets, 
 though, were still as curious as ever, crowding 
 about my easel with eyes staring in wonder. 
 But if they pressed too close, a word in an un- 
 dertone from Mahmoud melted the crowd away 
 or awed it into respectful silence. 
 
 When the muezzin called from the minaret, 
 and the faithful laid down their work and 
 moved into the mosque to pray, Mahmoud went 
 too. After the first day he discarded his uni- 
 form, all but his fez, for a suit of light gray, ex- 
 changing his short sword for a stout stick. This 
 stick Casimir held as his badge of office while 
 Mahmoud prayed. 
 
 1 followed him once into the Mosque of 
 Ahmed, and watched him as he knelt, barefoot, 
 his face to the stone wall, his lips moving in 
 prayer, his eyes on Mecca, his forehead touch- 
 ing the mats. This bloodthirsty savage ! This 
 234
 
 IN CONSTANTINOPLE 
 
 barbaric Turk whom we would teach morals and 
 manners ! I can imagine how hoarse a muezzin's 
 throat would become calling the Broadway 
 squad to prayers, if his duty compelled him to 
 continue calling until our police should fall upon 
 their knees in the nearest church. 
 
 Now and then Mahmoud would buy a loaf of 
 bread and feed the dogs not his dogs, not 
 anybody's dogs, only the dogs of the streets. 
 It is a mistake to call these dogs scavengers ; 
 but for the kindness of the people they would 
 starve. If some highly civilized Caucasian 
 should lose his temper when one of these hun- 
 gry, homeless curs looks up into his face, and 
 use his boot or his cane in reply, it would be 
 Mahmoud's duty promptly to convey the highly 
 civilized person to the nearest station, from 
 which the chief would instantly send him to 
 jail for a year. When a child stumbles and falls 
 in the street the nearest man springs forward 
 to save it. When a father enters a son's pre- 
 sence, though he be as ragged as Lazarus and as 
 dirty as a scavenger, the son remains standing 
 until he has permission to be seated. And yet 
 in my own land we build ten-story buildings 
 side by side one to prevent cruelty to animals, 
 another to children, and a third to provide 
 against the neglect of the aged ! 
 235
 
 A PERSONALLY CONDUCTED ARREST 
 
 Mahmoud's watchfulness of me was not over 
 until 1 packed my luggage for Venice and he 
 was called upon to give an account of his stew- 
 ardship to his chief, the Minister of Police. 
 
 I can see him now, standing that last day in 
 the doorway of the station, waving his hand. 
 His final courtesy was to return me my passport 
 unopened by the guard at the station. The air 
 with which he placed this much-be-inked docu- 
 ment in my hands conveyed to me even more 
 clearly than his translated words how fully he 
 had appreciated my docility while a prisoner in 
 his hands, how sorry he was to have me leave, 
 and how entirely unnecessary and useless such 
 vouchers were between men who knew each 
 other so well. Strange to say, the chief in- 
 spector at the frontier thought so too, returning 
 it with a bow and a look instantly intelligible 
 to me, knowing Mahmoud as I did. 
 
 And besides that of Mahmoud there was one 
 other face, or rather part of a face, his back 
 was toward me, of which I caught sight as I 
 whirled out of the station. 
 
 It was Casimir's. 
 
 He was biting one of the coins I had just 
 given him to see if it was good. 
 
 236
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 IF monsieur will walk upstairs, the most pri- 
 vate rooms are on the second floor ; " this 
 with a wave of a napkin hung over his wrist 
 and folded like a bath-towel. 
 
 I followed up a richly carpeted staircase, soft 
 and velvety to the tread, past mirrors concealing 
 muffled doors, down a long hall hung with pic- 
 tures and lighted by softened electric lights, 
 through an archway draped with silk curtains, 
 and into a cosey room filled with small tables 
 resplendent in white linen, spotless silver, and 
 polished glass. He drew out a chair, placed the 
 menu before me, and took that lop-sided, deaf- 
 in-one-ear attitude generally assumed by a tall 
 waiter listening breathlessly for your opening 
 order. 
 
 In the interval between soup and fish I be- 
 gan to look about me. The walls were panelled 
 with mirrors ; the ceilings were covered with 
 pink cupids diving into banks of white clouds. 
 237
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 There were chandeliers of crystal, sideboards 
 of ebony, and bunches of chrysanthemums ; 
 there were candlesticks of silver, with candles 
 topped by red silk shades ; there were relays 
 of finger-bowls and whole arsenals of forks and 
 spoons ready for instant service, besides all the 
 other appurtenances, appointments, and equip- 
 ments of a restaurant, so exclusive and costly 
 that one would have supposed that none but a 
 plutocrat or a stranger from out of town dare 
 enter it. 
 
 Opening from this inner room was a smaller 
 apartment I really had to pass through it to 
 reach my own seat where a table was spread 
 for ten or a dozen expected guests. Here were 
 more shaded candles and a great basket of roses, 
 while at every other plate was laid a bunch of 
 violets tied with a purple ribbon. 
 
 As my roast and one vegetable were laid be- 
 fore me it was a table d'hote at a fixed price, 
 wine extra an important-looking personage 
 entered the smaller apartment and glanced crit- 
 ically at the waiting table. He was an elderly 
 man, with a white mustache waxed into needle- 
 points, a very red face, and bald head. From 
 his chin to his waist-band and as far east and 
 west as his armpits, an unbroken snow of 
 waistcoat, shirt, tie, and collar stretched in one 
 238
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 trackless sheet of white. In the centre of the 
 drift was a single diamond glistening like an 
 icicle. 
 
 A moment afterward a stout lady entered, 
 evidently the wife of the important personage, 
 
 a stout lady in yellow satin, with black fea- 
 thers and pearls, who dropped little cards at the 
 several plates, and disappeared through the cur- 
 tained archway and into the velvety corridor. 
 All this time the personage was examining the 
 labels on a battery of bottles masked behind a 
 sideboard. 
 
 With my pease table d'h6te pease are al- 
 ways a separate dish in this part of the world 
 
 came the rustle of silk and the bubble of talk, 
 broken by little gurgles of laughter as the ex- 
 pected guests appeared. The important person- 
 age led the way, with a woman on his arm as 
 beautiful as any to be found in all Europe, and 
 followed by a procession of handsome and well- 
 dressed people, the rear being brought up by 
 the stout lady in yellow satin, escorted by one 
 of those square-shouldered, tight-laced, pipe- 
 stem-legged young officers so often seen in Vi- 
 enna, in the Volksgarten, or along the Ring- 
 strasse. 
 
 With the serving of my coffee and cheese, 
 the merriment of my neighbors was at its height. 
 239
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 Every one was laughing, talking, reaching un- 
 der the clusters of roses to touch one another's 
 glasses, keeping up a rattling fire of good- 
 natured badinage, all in an unknown tongue, 
 while each and every one seemed as uncon- 
 scious of my presence I sat within ten feet 
 of the personage's chair as if I had been a 
 painted cupid myself suspended in mid-air above 
 their heads. 
 
 With the bringing in by the waiter of the 
 paper containing the sum of my indebtedness, 
 and my payment of the fixed price, 1 laugh 
 now when I think how small it was, I arose 
 from my seat and passed the merry table on 
 my way out, with that abashed, noiseless, no- 
 business-to-be-there tread common to all men 
 in a like situation. To my astonishment, the 
 personage also rose, saluting me graciously, his 
 guests at the same time pausing in their talk, 
 each face reflecting the courtesy of the host, 
 while I, doubled up with badly executed bows, 
 passed into the velvet corridor, with its pictures 
 and rose-colored electric bulbs, and so down- 
 stairs, and out upon a wide boulevard lined by 
 palaces, thronged by gayly dressed people, and 
 brilliant with myriads of lights. 
 
 Out where ? On one of the great boule- 
 vards of Paris the Capucines, or perhaps 
 240
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 the Champs Elysees itself or possibly upon 
 the sidewalk of Unter den Linden in Berlin, or 
 the Ringstrasse of Vienna ? 
 
 Guess again, my friend. This boulevard has 
 twice as many people at this hour of the night 
 as the Champs Elysees ; is altogether more 
 beautiful than the Ringstrasse, and infinitely 
 gayer than the Unter den Linden. Besides all 
 that, underneath its surface runs the most per- 
 fect electric railway in the world, with stations 
 every few blocks, reached by flights of steps 
 descending from the sidewalk, stations lined 
 with pure white tiles and lighted by electric 
 lights, while at the far end stretches a park, in 
 which is placed the most satisfying and instruc- 
 tive exhibition of recent times, the Exposition 
 of the Millennium of Hungary. 
 
 For it is in neither Paris, Berlin, nor Vienna 
 that I have dined so delightfully and been so 
 overcome with the courtesies of strangers. On 
 the contrary, it is in that little split-in-two town 
 on the Danube, seven hours by rail east of Vi- 
 enna, the city of Buda-Pesth, its old Oriental 
 half clinging to the heights of Buda on the one 
 bank, and its more modern half, the city of 
 Pesth, spread out over the other. 
 
 You are surprised, doubtless, at the surround- 
 ings I have described, the cafe, the guests, 
 241
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 the wide, gayly thronged street. You had an 
 idea that Hungary was one of the out-of-the- 
 way places of the earth, inhabited by strolling 
 gypsy bands playing on queer instruments ; 
 that it was browsed over by herds of goats and 
 sheep attended by barelegged shepherd boys 
 blowing Pan-pipes. You fancied, perhaps, that 
 its only productions were certain brands of min- 
 eral waters of highly pronounced and widely 
 advertised medicinal properties, or odd varieties 
 of silver bangles and girdles worn by male and 
 female peasants shod in high boots, into which 
 are tucked trousers of unusual width and loose- 
 ness. 
 
 If you have thought none of these things, I 
 frankly confess that I have. 
 
 Before I had been in Buda-Pesth many hours, 
 however, I felt my preconceived notions van- 
 ish. With a bewilderment that never left me 
 while I was in Hungary, I walked out upon the 
 wide boulevard, the Andrassy-ut, and looked 
 back at the Cafe Drechsler, where I had just 
 dined, a really superb building of light stone 
 incrusted with carvings and decorated by life- 
 sized statues. Further progress up the Andras- 
 sy-ut increased my wondering admiration. In 
 almost every block I found other spacious cafes, 
 ablaze with lights and thronged with other gayly 
 242
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 dressed people, not in impossible baggy trou- 
 sers and boots, but in French bonnets and Worth 
 dresses, all sipping their coffee as they listened 
 to the weird strains of Tzigany music, with its 
 hesitating notes, intricate crescendoes, and ner- 
 vous soarings, a music so infectious and in- 
 spiring that hardly a slipper was still. Every 
 now and then I came upon an octagon, which 
 widened the broad thoroughfare into a " place " 
 with a Hungarian name all 's and c's, sur- 
 rounded by great apartment houses and hotels, 
 their broken roof-lines massed against the sky 
 in picturesque effects altogether different from 
 those produced by the endless mansards of 
 Paris in their never-varying height. Still fur- 
 ther up the street were the lights of spacious 
 city villas, with gardens and big trees, while at 
 the very end a sweep of a half-circle, its di- 
 ameter line marked by a series of towers hung 
 with banners and festooned with myriads of 
 colored lanterns was the main gate of the 
 Exposition. 
 
 Night is not the best time to judge of an ex- 
 hibition of this kind, I said to myself as I neared 
 the entrance. Night is too forgiving; its masses 
 of shadows conceal too tenderly. Night is never 
 really honest. Even its artificial high lights add 
 to the sins of its kindly deception. 
 243
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 The glimpses that I caught were, to be sure, 
 all inviting. There were vistas of winding grav- 
 elled walks, ablaze with electric lights, and 
 stencilled here and there with the black shadows 
 of overbending trees outlined against the sky ; 
 avenues of great marble palaces fretted over with 
 Oriental tracery, and ending in broad flights of 
 steps guarded by big bronze figures ; clusters 
 of magnificent domes, minarets, and towers. 
 
 But my better judgment and my former ex- 
 periences taught me to weigh these effects be- 
 fore giving free rein to my enthusiasm. I knew 
 something of the power of the gas-man and of 
 the scenic painter. The same tricks I had seen 
 played elsewhere were being used here, except 
 that this background was the deep blue of the 
 starlit night, instead of the canvas drop of the 
 stage. Many an architectural sham, all of 
 painted boards or deceptive plaster, could be 
 concealed, I knew, by a well-hung lantern or 
 the shadow of a well-draped flag, while minor 
 details could be none the less cleverly managed. 
 Only a year before, in Vienna, one night, I had 
 seen my own beloved Venice so charmingly re- 
 produced, with its canals, gondolas, old palaces, 
 and quaint streets, that 1 was fool enough to be- 
 lieve the very pigeons on the window-sills were 
 sound asleep, until I examined them the next 
 244
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 day in broad daylight, and found them but 
 lumps of painted clay. 
 
 Yet, for all my better judgment, I walked on 
 here at Buda-Pesth, looking about me in won- 
 der, gazing up at the myriads of lifeless flags 
 hanging limp in the soft night air, until I found 
 myself opposite the little ticket-kiosk, beyond 
 which no human soul could pass without paying 
 an admission fee none except beatified direct- 
 ors, royal families, and holders of official passes. 
 
 " How many tickets shall I take out of this 
 twenty-mark gold piece?" asked the young 
 lady, in very good French. 
 
 "One this time, if you please;" and I 
 passed in, with nineteen marks left in my 
 pocket. 
 
 But even though I thought myself deceived 
 by the illusions of the night, I found it impossi- 
 ble to resist the fascination of further discovery. 
 
 One building puzzled me, even in the glam- 
 our of the twinkling lights or, rather, one 
 group of buildings. They were built on the 
 margin of the lake, and were reached by a 
 sanded plank and painted portcullis. The first 
 story was genuine at least so I thought ; for 
 I am mechanic enough to know good masonry 
 when 1 see it, even in the dark, and the turn- 
 ing of the groined arches, all in honest red brick 
 245
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 stained by age, savored more of the trowel than 
 of the brush. But the top courses, I was sure, 
 were of canvas and cheap boards. (This build- 
 ing had its full revenge on me the next day, 
 when I caught the morning light glinting on its 
 shingles of real slate.) 
 
 I had caught, too, something of the conta- 
 gious humor of the crowd as it wandered and 
 loitered. I lingered with it for a moment by the 
 grand music-stand, where sixty musicians were 
 blowing and pounding away to their hearts' con- 
 tent and the listeners' delight ; I mingled, too, 
 with it as it passed the Hall of Liberal Arts 
 an immense building, its broad flights of steps 
 thronged with people and walked with it 
 around a huge fountain, with its water-jets 
 ablaze with color, and followed it when it pressed 
 a passage into another building, in which one 
 of the innumerable foreign congresses was hav- 
 ing a banquet. 
 
 I had seen some of the members of this con- 
 gress a few hours before at the Hotel Hungaria, 
 in the city proper : white-bearded fellows, most 
 of them, with bumps all over their foreheads, 
 deep-set eyes, and hair cut, or uncut, a la Wag- 
 ner; some wearing glasses, and hardly one with- 
 out a speck of red or green or blue in his but- 
 tonhole old fossils these who had spent their 
 246
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 lives in catching glimpses of stars that had been 
 dodging for ages behind planets or careering 
 through space. And younger ones, too, with 
 inflamed eyes and gaunt faces, who had choked 
 half the vitality out of their bodies by noxious 
 smells and compounds. 
 
 They were all here inside this building when 
 1 came upon them, but they were not peering 
 through telescopes nor bending over retorts. 
 On the contrary, they were listening to some 
 high dignitary of Buda-Pesth, who was telling 
 them how proud and happy it made the Buda- 
 Pesthers (that 's my coinage) to welcome them 
 to the heart of Hungary. He had told the same 
 thing, it is true, in slightly different phrases, 
 every week for months, to dozens of other con- 
 gresses, representing every known science and 
 craft, from biology to market-gardening ; but 
 to-night, as if the welcome were entirely new, 
 every member of the present body rose and 
 cried, "Hear! hear!" (each one in his own 
 tongue) , and drank bumpers of champagne, and 
 sat down again to listen, now to a Herr Pro- 
 fessor from Dresden, now to some Don from 
 Madrid, replying in French that language suit- 
 ing best the largest number of delegates ex- 
 pressing an undying sense, etc., etc., and the 
 never-to-be-forgottens, etc., etc., common to 
 247
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 such occasions. And the crowd with which I 
 had forced a way into the galleries cheered too, 
 in its gay, impulsive way, while I caught the 
 humor again and waved my own handkerchief 
 as I clung to a pillar and looked on. 
 
 Nobody below waved back to me in return, 
 moved up as if to make room, filled a flagon, 
 nor did anything else in my honor; and so, 
 feeling myself for the second time that night 
 but an observer of happy people's pleasure, I 
 wedged my way down again and out into the 
 fairy-like scene, and stopped at an open-air cafe 
 Gerbeaud's Royal Pavilion a cafe more 
 gorgeous than any I had seen ; all garden, with 
 palms and flowering plants, dotted here and 
 there with small tables sheltered by enormous 
 lace parasols, under which one could sit and sip 
 ices and coffee, besides no end of queer concoc- 
 tions known only to the Magyars. The pavilion 
 itself, with its fine portico and spacious wings, 
 its dining-rooms, great and small, and its veran- 
 das enclosed by glass, filled one end of the gar- 
 den. The waiter told me in whispers that the 
 Emperor comes here, and the Archduke and 
 Duchess, and pointed out the very chairs in 
 which his Majesty sits. When the bill for one 
 ice and one glass of plain water was presented, 
 I realized how good it must be to reign, a 
 248
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 potentate with unlimited power to levy taxes ; 
 for no ordinary exchequer could stand the strain 
 were a man really hungry. 
 
 All that had saved me from utter bankruptcy 
 this being a cafe in the exhibition, not in the 
 city had been my natural antipathy to eating 
 anything dropped alive and kicking over burn- 
 ing coals. For the head waiter, to tempt me as 
 I came in, had passed in front of me with a live 
 thing flopping on a plate, it was a fish this 
 time, just out of the water, and had stopped 
 just long enough to allow me a rapid glance at 
 its beauty. I at first supposed that some lucky 
 line had but a moment before drawn it strug- 
 gling from the lake, and that it was being taken 
 to die elsewhere. It was only when I overheard 
 the minute instructions for its immediate and 
 proper serving it was handed to an epicure at 
 the next table to mine that I was undeceived, 
 and it was not long before I discovered that 
 such fish formed one of the chief attractions of 
 the place. I then began to watch, from where 
 I sat, the small boy who, in the centre of the 
 cafe, presided over the fountain under the blaz- 
 ing gas-jets, dipping his net into the marble-lined 
 pool, chasing the dodging fish round and round, 
 until some unlucky victim of the right size 
 slipped into the mesh, and was flopped wriggling 
 249
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 on a plate. The sight had rather dulled my 
 appetite. It was as if some one had driven 
 in a spring lamb and had asked me to carve 
 out a brace of chops while the little fellow 
 waited. I had the curiosity, however, to in- 
 quire the price of this gastronomical luxury. It 
 equalled that of two bottles of Extra Dry 
 the price being the same to commoners and to 
 kings ! 
 
 The night sped on, the fascination of study- 
 ing a new life still holding me. The lake was 
 alive with boats, the bands were never out of one 
 another's hearing, and the crowds were surging 
 everywhere. 
 
 When the big bell sounded for closing, the 
 people instantly obeyed, and the stream of 
 sightseers turned and began to flow back to the 
 gate. 
 
 Then came the rush for the underground 
 electric railway, one of its stations being almost 
 opposite the main entrance of the exposition. 
 These stations are small houses, fifteen by 
 twenty feet square, and resting on the side- 
 walk. Once inside, you descend a flight of 
 stone steps leading to an underground room, 
 lined, as I have said before, with white tiles, 
 the frieze and dado of majolica in rich colors. 
 There are comfortable seats against the wall 
 250
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 for waiting passengers, and double gates, of 
 spirally turned iron with brass ornaments, pro- 
 tecting the farther end. Across the double- 
 tracked road is another tiled room protected by 
 similar gates. These two sets of double gates 
 make a kind of pound, in which thirty-two 
 passengers are corralled, as it were, or a less 
 number if some of the car seats are occupied. 
 When a train stops, the middle door of the car 
 slides back, and the contents of the pound walk 
 leisurely aboard. There is no crowding and no 
 jostling. There are no bent elbows aimed at 
 your waistband, no hanging to straps, no mak- 
 ing half a parenthesis of your body that a stout 
 woman with a basket may pass while you still 
 keep tight hold of your overhead brace. Every 
 passenger has a wide and comfortable seat, 
 cushioned with velvet. The cars themselves 
 are of mahogany or hard-wood ; the lights are 
 brilliant ; the road-bed as smooth as a floor. 
 Each car starts as gently as a yacht with loos- 
 ened sails, and slows down without a tremor. 
 The movement known as the "Third Avenue 
 Cable Jerk," with the passengers shot into one 
 end of the car like the contents of a steamer 
 trunk on a rough night at sea, is unknown. The 
 ventilation is perfect, for there is no smoke, and 
 consequently no smell. In fine, it is the poetry 
 251
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 of motion on wheels, smooth as a gondola, and 
 almost as noiseless. 
 
 My train stopped within a few blocks of the 
 " Hungaria " there are underground stations 
 all up and down the Andrassy-ut. The white- 
 bearded scientists with bumps on their fore- 
 heads, and the younger ones with inflamed 
 eyes, had already arrived, and were gathered 
 together in jovial groups in the hotel's spacious 
 corridor. They had evidently dined well, for 
 some were without any very definite or helpful 
 vertebras, and others had apparently lost the 
 use of the knee-joint. Many of the younger 
 ones, while they lacked a certain directness of 
 vision, had gained immeasurably in volume of 
 voice, and were, at the moment of my arrival, 
 engaged in rehearsing their several national airs. 
 Scattered about were the generous Buda-Pesth- 
 ers, every man as straight as a ramrod. 
 
 The hospitality of the Magyars is proverbial. 
 So are their staying powers. The only things 
 ever under their tables are the empty bottles, 
 and now and then a guest. 
 
 II 
 
 The purpose of the founders of this National 
 Millennium Exhibition is best expressed, per- 
 haps, in the words of Minister Lukacs, Minister 
 252
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 of Commerce (do not for one moment suppose 
 the translation is mine !) : 
 
 "The government (he says) will take care 
 that the national work be exhibited in a worthy 
 frame, so as to further the interest of the ex- 
 hibitors. May every one of you, its subjects, 
 therefore show what he is able to attain by his 
 diligence, his taste, and his inventive faculty. 
 Let us all, in fact, compete we who are work- 
 ing, some with our brains, others with our hands, 
 and others with our machines like one man 
 for the fatherland. 
 
 " This will be a rare family festival, the equal 
 of which has not been granted to many nations. 
 Let the people gather, then, round our august 
 ruler, who has guided our country with fatherly 
 care and wisdom in the benevolent ways of 
 peace to the heights which mark the progress 
 of to-day, and who a faithful keeper of the 
 glorious past of a thousand years has led the 
 Hungarian people to the threshold of a still more 
 splendid thousand years to come ! " 
 
 There was no question about the response of 
 the people. Simultaneously with the opening 
 ceremonies, thanksgiving services were held in 
 the different churches throughout the empire. 
 Gala performances were afterward given at the 
 theatres and opera-houses, the programmes of 
 253
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 which included dramas, plays, and operas, writ- 
 ten for the occasion by Hungarian dramatists 
 and composers, while regattas, races, and sports 
 of all kinds came in quick succession. In addi- 
 tion to these merrymakings a series of con- 
 gresses assembled, with representatives from 
 all parts of the world, many coming from the 
 United States. These special congresses suc- 
 ceeded one another in rapid succession, and were 
 attended by journalists, historians, actors, tour- 
 ists, athletes, as well as philanthropists, scien- 
 tists, and engineers. 
 
 The interest evinced in the exhibition itself, 
 as well as in each of its many features, extended 
 all over the empire. Not only from Buda-Pesth, 
 but from all the country districts the peasants, 
 as well as the nobility and gentry, gathered to 
 enjoy it. In its provision for these peasants, the 
 direction, backed by the government, showed 
 great liberality and forethought. It maintained 
 that as this exhibition was for the education of 
 the people, poverty must not prevent their en- 
 joyment of the privilege. Special accommoda- 
 tions were accordingly provided for the pea 
 sants; railroad fares were reduced or abolished 
 altogether, and arrangements were made by 
 which a peasant living within a hundred miles of 
 Buda-Pesth could visit the exhibition, be fed, 
 254
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 lodged, and conducted through the grounds and 
 buildings by competent guides, for the space of 
 two days and nights, at an expense of five flor- 
 ins all told, or about two dollars of our money. 
 Moreover, pupils of schools and teachers were 
 given free passes, with all living expenses paid, 
 it being considered important that no educator 
 in Hungary should miss the exhibition for want 
 of means to see it. These privileges existed dur- 
 ing the entire life of the exhibition, which lasted 
 for six months, and which was visited by nearly 
 four millions of people. 
 
 It is seldom one sees such patriotism allied 
 to such progress ; for although Hungary is cel- 
 ebrating its one-thousandth anniversary, Buda- 
 Pesth itself was not born until 1872. Ancient 
 Buda, on the right bank of the Danube, remem- 
 bers many centuries, it is true, and the modest 
 little town named Pesth, on the left bank, has 
 also seen many years. But the united, splen- 
 did, modern city of Buda-Pesth, with its pre- 
 sent population of over six hundred thousand 
 inhabitants, is really but twenty-five years old. 
 
 Neither can there be any question of the way 
 in which the lovers of Buda-Pesth regard their 
 city. Listen to Alexander Brody, a distinguished 
 Hungarian author (again some one else trans- 
 lates please remember this) : 
 
 255
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 " I liken Buda-Pesth to a beautiful woman, 
 fascinating and spirituelle, and it is to the beau- 
 tiful women of Buda-Pesth that I pay homage. 
 The capital abounds with them, of all sorts and 
 conditions. At times it seems to me that some 
 one must have collected and selected all the va- 
 rious types of beauty of the world and congre- 
 gated them here in our city streets and subur- 
 ban walks. ... I have occasionally gone in 
 search of their less favored sisters, the ugly 
 ones ; but they are conspicuous by their absence, 
 and so too are the thin and the pale. . . . 
 
 " We Hungarians are a new people. We are 
 moral, young, interesting, and peculiar. We 
 have much to show in the way of sights, and 
 we are rich in things the study of which would 
 amply repay the trouble bestowed. Our actors 
 are geniuses ; our press is versatile ; our public 
 statues are lamentably bad ; every second house 
 is a restaurant or cafe, which we are incessantly 
 abusing ; and yet, as far as eating and drinking 
 are concerned, there is no place to equal Buda- 
 Pesth in the excellence and cheapness of its cui- 
 sine. Such is the sober and industrious Hunga- 
 rian metropolis, immersed in popular song and 
 drowned in the clash of its gypsy music." 
 
 I admire the distinguished author's enthusi- 
 asm, but I cannot agree with his statement that 
 256
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 there are no "thin and pale " countenances to 
 be seen among these women. I must in all sin- 
 cerity draw another picture. I caught its out- 
 lines, not in one of the crowded cafes or along 
 the Boulevard or down by the side of the blue 
 Danube, but up a back street in one of the new 
 quarters of the rapidly growing city. I had seen 
 the same sight in Bucharest the day before, and 
 knew what it meant. Brick and mortar, and the 
 many ways of lifting them up and down, have 
 always interested me. I know the slow, mea- 
 sured tread of big, red-shirted Pat, as he clum- 
 sily climbs the vertical ladder, the hod on his 
 shoulder, and can still hear from the bricklayers 
 above the cry of " Mort " sifting down between 
 the unfloored beams of the several stories. I 
 know, too, the more modern hoist, where a turn 
 of the lever sends both brick and mortar flying 
 skyward to the scaffolding overhead. But a girl 
 of sixteen and a grayhaired woman of sixty 
 were new types of brick and mortar carriers to 
 me. And not in one place alone, but wherever 
 a building is in course of construction. 
 
 Narrow platforms instead of ladders are made 
 for them, running zigzag up the outside scaf- 
 folding. The mortar (all mixed by women) 
 is dumped into a tub, a pole is thrust through 
 the handles, swung over the shoulders of two 
 257
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 women, and the weary climbing to the top be- 
 gins. I saw one dark-eyed, barefooted girl, 
 she was pale and thin enough, clothed only 
 in a skirt and chemise, rest the tub for a mo- 
 ment at the first landing and press her hand to 
 her side as if in great pain, the older one wait- 
 ing for her patiently. 
 
 With all its beauty, dash, and enthusiasm, 
 it must be a curious civilization which tolerates 
 and makes possible a sight like this. It made 
 my blood run cold and hot. It was as if one had 
 ploughed with a fawn. 
 
 But this custom, hideous as it is, cannot, I 
 think, be counted for many more years against 
 these people. Their progress in social order is 
 too marked, let us hope, to permit of a long con- 
 tinuance of this degradation. 
 
 Ill 
 
 I have seen nearly all the great exhibitions 
 of the last twenty years, but never in any of 
 them such order and such cleanliness as pre- 
 vailed in this. I was prepared, after my hurried 
 night inspection, to be a little critical, my enthu- 
 siasm of the night before having led me so far 
 the other way. But there was nothing tawdry 
 to be seen : nothing that the impartial light of 
 the next day revealed to me as a disappointment, 
 258
 
 VARIED TYPES OF HUNGARIAN ARCHITECTURE.
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 or to which the night and its shadows had lent 
 a charm the sunshine stole. 
 
 Broad and shaded walks, perfectly swept and 
 watered, separated the several pavilions and 
 structures. Only in the historical group did one 
 see any massing of buildings. This group in- 
 cluded three wonderful palaces, connected to- 
 gether, and illustrating varied types of Hungarian 
 architecture the pointed arch, the Renais- 
 sance, and the rococo. It was reached by a 
 bridge on stone piers, thrown across an arm of 
 the lake, and connecting with the portcullis of 
 the nearest building. It had all the appearance 
 of having stood there for centuries, and of be- 
 ing able to stand for as many more. Not only 
 had a genuine antique finish been added, but all 
 those telltale chippings of mortar and "staff," 
 showing the grinning laths, had been here care- 
 fully avoided, which at the close of our own 
 World's Fair revealed only too clearly theephem- 
 eral nature of the construction of almost every 
 building. From bed-stone to weather-vane this 
 historical group had the air of hoary age, quite 
 as if lichens grew in the cracks, and lizards 
 darted in and out of the fissures. It is the work 
 of the Hungarian architect Ignacz Alpar, the 
 genius of the exhibition. 
 
 Externally it presented not the slightest evi- 
 
 259
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 dence of its hasty construction, nor did it sug- 
 gest a temporary use. The parts intended as 
 permanent could not be distinguished from the 
 painted shams, so skilfully had the architect 
 done his work. 
 
 No haste was apparent in the workmanship 
 of the other buildings ; every structure of impor- 
 tance looked as if it had taken years to build, 
 and had only been improved by careful delay. 
 
 As I idled on through shady walks, two other 
 pavilions came into view : the Hall of Industry 
 filled with exhibits of furniture, ceramics, and 
 glass, besides manufactures of leather, woven 
 fabrics, jewelry, domestic and decorative arts, 
 and the pavilion of Bosnia and Herzegovina, a 
 perfectly proportioned building, rich in color, 
 and of exquisite Oriental design, containing the 
 manufactures of those provinces. 
 
 And the other exhibits were no less interest- 
 ing than the structures which housed them. 
 They were of course wholly Hungarian, no for- 
 eign products or manufactures having been ad- 
 mitted. Even the special capacities of their 
 enormous rolling-mills could easily be judged by 
 a glance at an enormous steel rail, measuring in 
 length, I should think, some seventy-five feet, 
 and rolled at one heat ; a huge steam-plough, and 
 a monster locomotive designed for climbing steep 
 260
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 mountain grades. There were, also, every va- 
 riety of equipage, tons of beet sugar, coal, ore, 
 and soap, miles of cloth, yarn, and silk, hogs- 
 heads of wine, and bushels of every grain that 
 could grow on a stalk ; but the seventy-five 
 foot steel rail in one piece told a story of the 
 capacity and accompaniments of furnace, rolls, 
 and hammers that set at rest all preconceived 
 notions of the primitiveness of these people. 
 
 I came, too, upon the customary fountain, 
 common to all exhibitions of this class. Here it 
 was treated in a novel and somewhat interest- 
 ing way. 
 
 It was erected in the open space fronting the 
 Hall of Industry. From an enormous basin of 
 water rose a huge pile of rough rocks heaped 
 together in pieces varying in size from that of 
 a piano to that of a chair. Life-size figures of 
 nymphs, mermaids, water-sprites, and sea-gods, 
 cast in imitation of bronze, clambered in and out 
 among the rocks. Over these grotesque and 
 sometimes picturesque figures great jets of wa- 
 ter were constantly thrown. At night, when the 
 spray was tinted with many-colored electric 
 lights, these figures looked like elves and sprites 
 peering out of the red glare of a Christmas pan- 
 tomime. 
 
 The Museum of Fine Arts no exhibition 
 261
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 is complete without one stood outside the 
 main entrance. We on our side of the water 
 know of course the work of Munkacsy and his 
 pupils, but it would surprise and delight our 
 students and connoisseurs to wander through 
 these spacious galleries and see how many 
 other interesting painters are to be found in 
 Hungary. Their names, unfortunately, are al- 
 most all unpronounceable, and to me unspell- 
 able, but their paint-signatures are as plain as 
 print to any one who can recognize a new touch 
 and the beginning of a new school as distinct 
 and individual as the Russian or Swedish. 
 One of these painters Arpad Feszty had 
 painted a panorama representing the first inva- 
 sion of the earlier tribes, and produced a sky 
 so luminous and apparently so many miles in 
 depth that it is impossible for the observer who 
 stands on the circular platform and looks out, 
 to realize that a live swallow sailing into the 
 deep azure would necessarily dash his brains 
 out against the painted canvas in a flight of 
 less than twenty feet. 
 
 Altogether the Millennial Exhibition of the 
 Hungarians carried a lesson well worth the study- 
 ing. As a record of a people whose whole history 
 has been one long struggle for independence, 
 262
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 and who have so recently attained, if not com- 
 plete autonomy, certainly the right to manage 
 their internal affairs in their own way, without 
 paying too high for the privilege, it showed un- 
 paralleled native skill united to marvellous in- 
 telligence. 
 
 Everything had been done in a thoroughly 
 substantial way, without any straining after 
 cheap and bizarre effects. Whatever had been 
 attempted, whether in the reproduction of some 
 famous cloister loved by the nation, or the door- 
 way of a well-known castle revered in their tra- 
 ditions, had been made as genuine as the re- 
 strictions of expense would permit, the object 
 having been to create a reproduction which 
 would afford pleasure and profit to peasant and 
 savant alike. 
 
 The strongest impression produced upon me 
 was that of the earnest, honest effort shown by 
 the government and its agents to make the ex- 
 position helpful to the people themselves, not 
 only as an educational factor, but as proving to 
 them how important in all that pertains to the 
 liberal arts is their position among nations, and 
 how marvellous has been their progress since 
 their real freedom began. 
 
 The two strong notes I felt were the paternal 
 and the patriotic. 
 
 263
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 IV 
 
 Of course there was still another department 
 
 there always is at every well-regulated ex- 
 hibition, whether centennial or millennial. This 
 was the department of the nondescript, the un- 
 classified, and the heterogeneous. With us it 
 was known as the Midway Plaisance ; at Buda- 
 Pesth it had the suggestive name of Os-Buda- 
 var. 
 
 Here was a department of astounding wooden 
 houses, cardboard mosques, and unlimited cafes 
 
 the kind where the pine tables are constantly 
 wet with beer, and the same mugs do for all 
 day with but a single dip in water. The en- 
 trance was through a gate a conglomerate 
 mass of turrets, portcullis, bastions, massive 
 canvas masonry, and painted bricks. Once in- 
 side and the hurdy-gurdy began. 
 
 There were imitation Turks, with fez and 
 baggy trousers ; there were imitation Venetian 
 gondoliers, male and female this time, with 
 Neapolitan caps and Tyrolean skirts ; there 
 were Turkish smoking-rooms, with rugs and 
 nargiles on sale at moderate prices, attended 
 by houris speaking pure Hungarian ; there was 
 a mosque in imitation of nothing on earth in 
 which a Mussulman ever said his prayers a 
 264
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 bare interior with a wainscoting of stencilled 
 tiles and walls of canvas, with make-believe 
 Orientals squatting on mats. There were side- 
 shows concealed by a carpet curtain, outside of 
 which stood a Nubian or a New Zealander or 
 a Hindoo, just as the management determined, 
 one and the same swarthy Magyar doing ser- 
 vice for all during the season ; he brandished 
 a scimitar one day and beat a tomtom the next, 
 while every and all day he cried aloud the vir- 
 tues and attractions of the performance within. 
 There was Madame Aultightz, the marvellous 
 Polish beauty, whose sole costume was a suit 
 of stockinet without a wrinkle, buttoning under 
 her chin, around her wrists, and below her 
 ankles, and who did Venuses and nymphs, but 
 drew the line at draped Victories and Milos. 
 There was also Herr Dubblejawnts, the Aus- 
 trian contortionist, who twisted his legs and 
 arms around his neck until the whole looked 
 like a tinted diagram in a medical book. And 
 there were, besides, dozens of other marvellous 
 and wonderful sights, especially appealing to 
 the wide-eyed, open-mouthed peasants, who 
 wandered about hand in hand in groups of ten 
 or twelve, in their rough, homespun, home- 
 made clothes, escorted by an officer of the army 
 in faultless uniform and white gloves, who 
 265
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 explained to each one the several objects of in- 
 terest with as much patience and kindness as 
 if the court itself had been under his personal 
 protection. 
 
 Cheap shams and tawdry buildings were 
 everywhere, until I came to one place which 
 seemed dirty and sloppy enough to be genuine. 
 This was the Congo village with its villagers. 
 The settlement had been made in an enclosure 
 by itself, fenced off from the non-paying outside 
 world by a high Robinson Crusoe stockade. 
 Once inside, and the delusion was as complete 
 as if one had landed from Stanley's launch with 
 the laudable object of exchanging beads and 
 whiskey for elephants' tusks. 
 
 The village had been built in a grove cover- 
 ing an acre or more, and was enriched by a great 
 mud-puddle in the middle. About its shores and 
 against the Robinson Crusoe stockade was a 
 collection of huts, exactly like those we used to 
 see in old geographies. Outside their doorways 
 squatted the natives. There was no question 
 about their race or their nationality ; there was 
 no possible chance for concealment they wore 
 too few clothes, the children wearing none. 
 They were veritable Congo negroes big lips, 
 nose-rings, and all. 
 
 When I entered, a dozen or more were seated 
 266
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 in a row on rude benches. They were singing 
 a low chant, keeping time to the beats of half 
 a dozen tomtoms made of gourds and tight- 
 stretched skins. In front was a young negro, 
 naked except for a breech-clout a fellow beau- 
 tifully formed, colored like a brierwood pipe, 
 and straight as an arrow. He held in his hand 
 a few green leaves, something like leaves of 
 corn. These he waved over his head, his feet 
 moving in unison with the weird music, his 
 body swaying gracefully. He was singing a 
 song, of which my dear friend Glave would, 
 I know, have understood every word. Beside 
 him walked a stalwart negro, much older, and 
 of heavier build. About this man's body was 
 wrapped a square of calico as large as a bed- 
 spread ; this he kept winding and unwinding, 
 wearing it now like a toga, or now trailing it in 
 the dust. 
 
 All over the grounds were the other natives, 
 peacefully pursuing their several avocations. 
 One young mother had just girded her square 
 of calico about her waist, and, with her little 
 black baby black as India-rubber glued to 
 her shiny back, had seized a rude axe (the same 
 one sees in a museum), and bending over, had 
 begun chopping the wood for the evening fire. 
 The little tot, without other support, stuck to 
 267
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 its mother's skin, holding on to the crinkling 
 flesh, twisting its head to right and left to keep 
 its equilibrium, while the mother apparently 
 took as little notice of its efforts as if it had 
 been a securely strapped papoose. 
 
 While her arms swung the axe, I could see 
 that her feet kept time to the music of the tom- 
 tom. As she caught my eye she smiled, and 
 chopped away the harder, but she could not 
 avoid an occasional double-shuffle. 
 
 When I put a small coin into the baby's fist, 
 she threw down the axe and ran towards her 
 husband, who was crouched over a heap of coals, 
 the baby bouncing up and down like a loosened 
 knapsack on a flying soldier. The man raised 
 himself erect, and with one finger gouged the 
 coin from the child's hand as if he had been 
 opening an oyster, bit it, and bent over in thank- 
 ful obeisance until his forehead touched the 
 ground. Then he regained his seat among the 
 embers, the smokecurlingup between his knees. 
 When I drew closer I found that he had just fin- 
 ished anointing his mahogany legs with some 
 kind of hot oil, and was now hard at work put- 
 ting on a piano finish with the palms of his 
 hands. 
 
 Here at last was the savage untouched by 
 civilization, unspoiled by the isms and fallacies 
 268
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 of nineteenth -century progress ! Here were 
 simplicity and primeval human nature ! In the 
 midst of the shams of Os-Budavar the entire 
 genuineness of the whole place was refreshing. 
 
 My attendant joined me at this moment 
 my guide, in fact and shook hands with the 
 Congo man. Then, noticing the African shiv- 
 ering with cold, this conversation took place, in 
 plain, unvarnished English, 
 
 "Pretty cold, John, isn't it?" said my 
 guide. 
 
 " Cold ! I dinkey so damn cold ! " re- 
 plied the Congo man. 
 
 " You speak English ? " I asked, in astonish- 
 ment, of the Congo man. 
 
 "Yes, me speakee." 
 
 " Who taught you ? " 
 
 " De good missionary at home, he teachee 
 me." 
 
 I had been mistaken, the stamp of civilization 
 was on him too ! 
 
 On my way back to the Underground Elec- 
 tric Railway that afternoon I fell in with another 
 congress. One could hardly help falling in with 
 some of them, they were so scattered. The 
 dinner this time had been in the middle of the 
 day, and they were once more in search of the 
 269
 
 THE HUNGARIAN MILLENNIUM 
 
 Hungaria. Their Magyar hosts were doing the 
 piloting, straight as gendarmes and as sober. 
 
 Far into the night, from my room under the 
 roof, I could hear the voices of these congress- 
 men singing their national songs. 
 
 The Magyars alone were silent : they were 
 on duty. 
 
 Their singing days would begin when the 
 fair was over. 
 
 270
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 HE was a small waiter with a slightly bald 
 head, and of no very pronounced nation- 
 ality, and he spoke the fag-ends of five or six 
 languages, one of which, I was delighted to 
 find, was my own. 
 
 These fragments he hurled continuously at 
 other waiters of more pronounced nationalities 
 French, German, Hungarian, and the like 
 who were serving little groups of Turks, Rus- 
 sians, and Bulgarians scattered about the coffee- 
 room. 
 
 Directly opposite me hung a half-length por- 
 trait of a broad-shouldered young soldier bris- 
 tling with decorations, his firmly set features 
 surmounted by a military cap. 
 
 " Is that a portrait of the prince ? " I asked. 
 
 The man of many tongues stopped, looked at 
 the chromo for an instant, as though trying to 
 remember to which one of the late princes I had 
 referred, and then said blandly, 
 
 " Yes, monsieur ; the present king, Prince 
 Ferdinand." 
 
 271
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 "Is he now in Sofia ?" 
 
 The slightly bald attendant elevated his eye- 
 brows with a look of profound astonishment. 
 
 "Here? No, monsieur." 
 
 " He has really run away, then ?" 
 
 The eyebrows fell, and a short, pudgy finger 
 was laid warningly against his lips. 
 
 " Monsieur, nobody runs in Bulgaria. His 
 majesty is believed to be in the monastery at 
 Ryllo." 
 
 " Yes, so they tell me. But will he ever come 
 back here ? " 
 
 The man stopped, gazed about him furtively, 
 refilled my glass, bending so low that his lips 
 almost touched my ear, and then whispered, 
 with a half laugh, 
 
 "God knows." 
 
 I was not surprised. All Europe at that pre- 
 cise moment was straining its ears to catch a 
 more definite answer. The conundrum was 
 still going the rounds of the diplomats, and 
 the successful guesser was yet to be heard 
 from. 
 
 All that was positively known concerning his 
 imperial highness was that several weeks prior 
 to the time of this writing he had left his pal- 
 ace at Sofia, the capital of Bulgaria, within 
 musket-shot of where I sat, and, attended by 
 272
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 a few personal friends, had taken the midnight 
 express to Vienna. From Vienna he had gone 
 to Carlsbad, where for several consecutive weeks 
 he had subjected his royal person to as many 
 indoor baths and as much outdoor exercise as 
 would entirely eradicate the traces of gout and 
 other princely evils absorbed by his kingship 
 during his few years' stay in the capital of the 
 Bulgarians. 
 
 All this time the air had been full of the ru- 
 mor of his abdication. The Russian ambassador 
 at the court of Paris, Baron Mohrenheim, in an 
 interview granted to the Paris correspondent of 
 a St. Petersburg paper, insisted that there was 
 no doubt that Ferdinand had quitted Bulgaria 
 for good, " his life there being in constant 
 danger." While the Austrian ambassador at 
 Constantinople, Herr von Radowitz, was re- 
 ported to have advised the Porte to postpone 
 taking action on the Bulgarian Note for the 
 present, hinting at the imminent retirement of 
 the reigning prince, and a consequent solution 
 of impending difficulties more in harmony with 
 the purport of the Berlin Treaty. 
 
 These announcements continued, and with 
 such persistency that the Bulgarian prime min- 
 ister, M. Stamboloff, deemed it necessary to 
 telegraph to a newspaper correspondent, " The 
 273
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 rumors of the prince's intended abdication are 
 pure fabrications." 
 
 More emphatic still was Ferdinand's own 
 manifesto, issued through the columns of the 
 Carlsbad " Temps," to the effect that " while 
 there is a great national effervescence going on 
 at this moment in Bulgaria, the Bulgarians are, 
 nevertheless, free, and will welcome me back 
 with rejoicings." 
 
 It was while this political "effervescence," 
 as the prince was pleased to call it, was at boil- 
 ing point that the royal liver grew torpid enough 
 to demand a change of air. This torpidity lasted, 
 in fact, long after the Carlsbad doctors had pro- 
 nounced the diseased organ cured. You will 
 remember that Talleyrand tried the same ex- 
 periment with similar results nearly a century 
 before. 
 
 Then one day the prince turned up serenely 
 on the slopes of the mountains, dismounted 
 like a weary knight, and knocked for admission 
 at the monastery at Ryllo. 
 
 Being myself a wanderer in this part of the 
 world, with an eye for the unexpected and pic- 
 turesque, and anxious to learn the exact situa- 
 tion in Bulgaria, I had hurried on from Buda- 
 Pesth, and at high noon on a broiling August day 
 274
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 had arrived at a way station located in the midst 
 of a vast sandy plain. This station the con- 
 ductor informed me was Sofia. Following my 
 trap through a narrow door guarded by a couple 
 of soldiers, I delivered up my ticket and pass- 
 port, crept under a heap of dust propped up on 
 wheels and drawn by three horses abreast with 
 chair-backs over their hames, waited until a 
 Turk, two greasy Roumanians, overcoated 
 in sheepskins wrong side out, and a red- 
 necktied priest had squeezed in beside me ; and 
 then started off at a full gallop to a town two 
 miles away. Our sudden exodus obliterated the 
 station in a cloud of dust, through which the 
 Constantinople express could be seen slowly 
 feeling its way. 
 
 The interview with the waiter occurred within 
 an hour of my arrival. 
 
 The same afternoon I was abroad in the 
 streets of Sofia armed with such information as 
 I had gathered from my obsequious attendant. 
 
 In the king's absence I would call upon the 
 members of the cabinet. 
 
 It did not take me many hours to discover 
 that his Excellency M. Stamboloff, Minister 
 President, was away on a visit, presumably at 
 Philippopolis ; that the Minister of Justice, M. 
 Salabashoff , had resigned a short time before ; 
 275
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 that Doctor Stransky, Minister of Foreign Af- 
 fairs, had followed suit, the portfolios of both 
 being still unassigned ; that the Minister of Fi- 
 nance was in Varna, the Minister of War, Colo- 
 nel Moutkourov, in Vienna. In fact, that not 
 a single member of the Bulgarian government, 
 from the king down, was to be found at the cap- 
 ital. The Bulgarian government had apparently 
 absconded. Not a member, not a representative, 
 was to be found, unless a gimlet-eyed man of 
 about forty, with a forbidding countenance, a 
 flat military cap, and a tight-fitting white sur- 
 tout encrusted with gilt buttons, who answered 
 as prefect of police, might be so considered. 
 
 I ran up against this gentleman before I quitted 
 the palace grounds. He had already run up 
 against me at the station on my arrival, as I 
 afterward discovered, and had entered me as 
 a suspicious character at sight. 
 
 In five minutes he had bored me so full of 
 questions that I became as transparent as my 
 passport, which he held up to the light in order 
 to read its water-mark. Next he went through 
 my sketch-book page by page, and finally 
 through all my letters until he came to one bear- 
 ing at its top the image of the American eagle 
 and at its bottom the superscription of one of its 
 secretaries, answering for my sobriety, honesty, 
 276
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 and industry ; whereupon he waved me to the 
 door with full permission to roam and sketch at 
 my will. Then he put a special detective on my 
 track, who never took his eyes from me during 
 any one of my waking hours. 
 
 I did not ask this potentate whether the prince 
 was coming back. I did not consider it an op- 
 portune moment. 
 
 Neither did I discuss with him the present con- 
 dition of Bulgaria, there being nothing in the cut 
 of his coat nor of his eye, for that matter 
 to indicate his present political views. He might 
 have been an adherent of the prince, or a be- 
 liever in Panitza, or a minion of Stamboloff, or 
 he might have been so evenly balanced on the 
 edge of events as to be all three or none. 
 
 Nor did I explain to him how grieved I was 
 that his present lords and masters should have 
 seen fit to absent themselves just at the precise 
 moment when their combined presence would 
 have been so agreeable to me. I had really 
 crossed desert wastes to study their complicated 
 comedy, and now all the principal actors were 
 out of town. 
 
 A rehearsal of the preceding acts of this play 
 may possibly lead to a better understanding of 
 the drama as it was then being developed in 
 277
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 Bulgaria. It is not heroic ; it cannot even be 
 called romantic, this spectacle in which three 
 millions of souls are seen hunting about Europe 
 for a sovereign, a sort of still hunt resulting 
 in the capture of two kings in four years, with 
 hopes of bagging a protector or a president be- 
 fore the fifth is out. 
 
 But to the play itself. 
 
 At present in Bulgaria there are, first, the 
 Russophiles, who, as Petko Karaveloff says, 
 " pray for the time when Bulgaria shall march 
 into Salonica, while Russia marches into Con- 
 stantinople," and who believe the Czar to be 
 their natural friend and ally, with the only hope 
 of settled peace in his protectorate. Secondly, 
 the loyal oppositionists, headed by M. Radosla- 
 voff, who would support the prince with certain 
 concessions, but who detest his advisers. And 
 thirdly, the sympathizers of Major Panitza, the 
 murdered patriot, who was " shot " so ran a 
 proclamation a week old, patches of which were 
 still pointed out to me decorating the walls of 
 the king's palace "by the order of the blood- 
 thirsty Ferdinand, the scoundrel Stamboloff, and 
 the ' Vaurien ' Moutkourov." 
 
 This young officer, Panitza, a devoted ad- 
 herent of Prince Alexander, had served with 
 distinction in the Servian war, having led one 
 278
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 of the famous charges at Slivnitza. Believing 
 that the only salvation for his country lay in 
 Russian interference, he had joined hands with 
 a Russian spy, Kolobkoff, in fomenting discord 
 in the army. Unluckily, his own letters, carry- 
 ing unmistakable evidence of the plot, fell into 
 the hands of Stamboloff himself, resulting in 
 his immediate arrest, trial, and condemnation 
 by court-martial. 
 
 It is greatly to the credit of Prince Ferdinand 
 that he was strongly inclined to spare Panitza. 
 He in fact held out for more than a week against 
 the combined assaults of Stamboloff and his 
 brother-in-law, Moutkourov, then minister of 
 war, and it was not until his prime minister 
 threatened the resignation of the entire cabinet 
 that he finally yielded. There is even a story 
 current that when this threat failed, Stamboloff 
 followed the king to Lorn Palanka with the 
 death-warrant in his hand, and that when he 
 still hesitated that implacable dictator remarked 
 sententiously, 
 
 " Sire, Major Panitza dies on the morrow. If 
 you continue to object, there is one thing we 
 can always do for your majesty, we can al- 
 ways buy you a first-class ticket to Vienna." 
 
 Stamboloff 's plan for governing had been sim- 
 279
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 pie and to the point. It called for five millions 
 of roubles and a king. Who this king might be, 
 or where he should hail from, was a matter of 
 detail. Anybody but a Russian or a Turk would 
 do. And so offers were made in a confidential 
 way to various gentlemen who thought they 
 had an especial, divine gift for reigning, and 
 who lacked the opportunity only because of the 
 depleted condition of their bank accounts. At 
 last a fond and ambitious mother and an oblig- 
 ing son with an almost unlimited reserve fund 
 unlimited for the ordinary needs of life 
 took the bait. 
 
 It was not, however, a harmonious family 
 arrangement ; for it was well known that the 
 young prince's uncle, the Duke of Saxe-Co- 
 burg, did what he could to prevent the final 
 agreement, he being an older and wiser diplo- 
 mat, and having had a long and varied experi- 
 ence in the ups and downs of several see-saw 
 governments. Among other things, the duke 
 boldly stated that it was only a question of 
 money with the Bulgarian regents, and that 
 Ferdinand would leave the throne when his 
 guldens were gone, as had Alexander, to whom 
 the Bulgarian government then owed three mil- 
 lions of francs. 
 
 The duke was right. When the hour arrived, 
 280
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 there were, of course, cogent reasons for heavy 
 drafts on the king's exchequer, the army 
 was to be rearmed and clothed, an important 
 railroad built, and a thousand and one improve- 
 ments made. The money would be returned. 
 
 This schedule has been literally carried out, 
 except the return item, if not to the benefit 
 of Bulgaria herself, certainly to the depletion of 
 the prince's bank account. 
 
 Among the most seductive of these schemes 
 was the beautifying of the capital. Streets were 
 to be opened, and trees planted, and flowers 
 made to bloom. I recall now that vast band of 
 stagnant dust leading from the station to the 
 town, separated from its surrounding monotony 
 bysundry depressions and grades indicated along 
 the line by the excavated debris which fringed 
 its edges ; with a double row of infant trees 
 marking its curb-lines, each one of which was 
 shrivelled to a crisp by the blistering heat. 
 Added to this mockery, at regular intervals 
 stood flower-beds in ovals, and diamonds, and 
 circles, filled with plants burned to a cinder, 
 their very blossoms, which no man had dared 
 pluck, dead for months, and still standing brown 
 and dust- begrimed. 
 
 Such is the great boulevard leading from the 
 railway to the palace ! 
 
 281
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 The boulevard, however, is not the only part 
 of Sofia illustrating the prevailing taste to over- 
 turn and reconstruct. One sees it in the new 
 part of the town, where government buildings, 
 bare, white, and forbidding, are going up in all 
 directions. One sees it also in the old mosque 
 and garden landmarks left standing high above 
 new streets now being cut to their very edges ; 
 their preservation a tacit acknowledgment of 
 their right to exist, their isolation a forerunner 
 of their death, quite as the old traditions are 
 being undermined by the present government. 
 
 Many of these streets serve a double pur- 
 pose. They make a short route to the palace, 
 and they provide right of way for hasty ar- 
 tillery practice. One cannot always tell, in so 
 changeable a climate as that of Bulgaria, when 
 the prevailing political wind may shift. 
 
 The palace itself, a great hospital-looking 
 building surrounded by a garden, suggests only 
 stately discomfort and emptiness. In walking 
 through its great halls and scantily furnished 
 salons, I could not help pondering upon the pe- 
 culiarities of human nature, and wondering 
 what could have induced this fine young officer 
 and he is a fine fellow in every sense of the 
 word to give up his brilliant life in Vienna, 
 the most delightful capital in Europe, and to a 
 282
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 young man of fortune the most fascinating, in 
 order to bury himself in this ugly pile of ma- 
 sonry. But then the market is never overstocked 
 with empty thrones, while would-be kings are 
 a drug. 
 
 The old part of the town, however, is still 
 quaint and Oriental, and has thus far escaped 
 the restless shovel and saw. It lies in the dip 
 of a saucer-shaped valley, surrounded by bare 
 brown hills. Netted with crooked, dirty streets 
 and choked with low, shambling houses, with 
 here and there a ruined mosque, it remains a 
 picturesque reminder of the days of Turkish rule, 
 unchanged since the signing of the Berlin Treaty, 
 when in a single year five thousand of Moham- 
 med's chosen shook the dust of Sofia from their 
 feet and sought refuge under the Sultan. 
 
 The most interesting of these quaint remnants 
 of Oriental architecture found in the old part of 
 the city is the Mosque Bania-bashie, dating back 
 to the year 1279. This mosque is still the re- 
 sort of the devout Mohammedan, who prays 
 therein five times a day with his face towards 
 Mecca, and who, despite the restrictions that 
 vex his race, still prostrates himself on the floor 
 of the mosque below, in obedience to the call 
 of the muezzin from the slender minaret above. 
 
 Here I had my first glimpse of Mohammedan 
 283
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 worship, and to one unaccustomed to the forms 
 of the Mohammedan religion, and especially to 
 one who sees them for the first time, I know of 
 no religious spectacle more impressive. Before 
 you stands a barefooted Turk erect on his prayer- 
 rug, with his face toward Mecca and his eyes 
 looking straight into the eyes of his God. You 
 see at a glance that it is not a duty with him, 
 nor a formality, nor the maintenance of a time- 
 honored custom. It is his very life. Watch him 
 as he enters this wretched interior of Bania- 
 bashie, with its scaling and crumbling walls, and 
 its broken windows, through which the doves 
 fly in and out. Outside, at the trickling foun- 
 tain, he has washed his feet and face and hands, 
 bathing his throat and smoothing his beard with 
 his wet fingers. He is a rough, broad-shouldered, 
 poorly clad man in fez and skirt, his waist girt 
 with a wide sash, ragged and torn. He is per- 
 haps a "hamal," a man who carries great 
 weights on his back, a human beast of bur- 
 den. His load, whatever it may be, is outside 
 in the court. His hourly task is his daily bread ; 
 but he has heard the shrill cry from the mina- 
 ret up against the sky, and stops instantly to 
 obey. 
 
 He enters the sacred building with his shoes 
 in his hands. These he leaves at the edge of 
 284
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 the mat. Now he is on holy ground. Advan- 
 cing slowly, he halts halfway across the floor, 
 and stands erect. Before him is a blank wall ; 
 beyond it the tomb of the Prophet. For a mo- 
 ment he is perfectly still, his eyes closed, his 
 lips motionless. It is as if he stood in the ante- 
 chamber of Heaven, awaiting recognition. Then 
 his face lights up. He has been seen ! The 
 next instant he is on his knees, and, stretching 
 out his hands, prostrates himself, his forehead 
 pressed to the floor. This solitary service con- 
 tinues for an hour. The man stands erect one 
 moment, with a movement as if he said, " Com- 
 mand me; I am here; " the next he is pros- 
 trate in obedience. Then he backs slowly out, 
 and, noiseless, regains his shoes, bends his back 
 to his burden, and keeps on his way, his face 
 having lost all its tired, hunted look. 
 
 There is no mistaking the impression made 
 upon you. It is not a religious ceremony, nor a 
 form of devotion, nor a prayer. This man has 
 been in the very presence of his God. 
 
 Next to this crumbling mosque stands the 
 Turkish bath, with its round dome pierced with 
 bull's-eyes, through which the light falls in 
 slanting parallel bars upon clouds of boiling 
 steam. The water gushes from the ground at a 
 temperature of 1 10 Fahrenheit, the pool being 
 285
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 shoulder-deep and filling the whole interior ex- 
 cepting the narrow edge, around which cling the 
 half-boiled natives in every variety of undress 
 uniform from the pattern used in the Garden 
 of Eden down to the modern dressing-gown. 
 
 Outside of this circular room are cooling apart- 
 ments smelling of wet towels and furnished with 
 divans upon which men lounge, half-clad, smok- 
 ing cigarettes. Now and then from an inside 
 cubbyhole come the whiff of a narghile and 
 that unmistakable aroma, the steam of smoking 
 coffee. 
 
 What a luxury after a four months' drought 
 and its consequent accumulation of Bulgarian 
 dust ! How genuine and unique this volcanic- 
 heated symposium compared to all its base imita- 
 tions palmed off on a suffering public in the sev- 
 eral capitals of Europe and America ! For more 
 than six hundred years, and in fact before the 
 mosque was built, has this pool of Siloam com- 
 forted the sick and soothed the well and cleansed 
 the soiled. And hot, too, boiling hot out of 
 the ground, running free night and day, and al- 
 ways ready, with its accompaniments of Turkish 
 coffee, pipes, and divans. Go to, with your 
 marble slabs, and radiators, and high-pressure 
 boilers under the sidewalk ! 
 
 Beyond this section of narrow streets there 
 286
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 runs a broad highway lined with booths attended 
 by all sorts of people Gypsies, Turks, Jews, 
 Greeks, and Hungarians, selling every kind of 
 merchandise entirely worthless to anybody but 
 a native. Here are rings of bread, squares of 
 leather for sandals, messes in bowls with inde- 
 scribable things floating about in boiling grease, 
 heaps and lumps of other things served smoking 
 hot in wooden plates, and festoons of candied 
 fruit strung on straws and sugared with dust. 
 Here are piles of melons and baskets on baskets 
 of grapes, these last delicious, it being the sea- 
 son, and great strings of onions, pyramids of 
 tomatoes, and the like. Everywhere is a mob 
 in rags, apparently intent upon cutting one an- 
 other's throats to save half a piastre. 
 
 Farther on is the Jews' quarter, the street 
 Nischkolitza, with its low houses eked out by 
 awnings under which sit groups of people loung- 
 ing and talking, and behind these, in little square 
 boxes of rooms let into the wall, squat the 
 money-changers, their bank accounts exposed 
 in a small box with a glass top, through which 
 can be seen specimens of half the coinage and 
 printage of eastern Europe. 
 
 If the king's continued absence caused any 
 uneasiness among the people crowding these 
 streets and bazaars, there was nothing on the 
 287
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 surface to indicate it. Many of them looked as 
 if they had very little to lose, and those who 
 had a little more either carried it on their per- 
 sons in long chains of coins welded together, 
 a favorite form of safe-deposit with the Bulga- 
 rians, or, like the money-changers, hived it 
 in a portable box. 
 
 Nor could I discover that any one realized 
 that he was living over a powder magazine with 
 a match factory next door. On the contrary, 
 everybody was good-natured and happy, chaf- 
 fing one another across the booths of the ba- 
 zaars, and bursting into roars of laughter when 
 my brush brought out the features of some well- 
 known street vender. 
 
 The only native who rearly seemed to pos- 
 sess any positive ideas on the uncertain con- 
 dition of public affairs was a Polish Jew, the 
 keeper of the bath, whom I found berating two 
 soldiers for refusing to pay extra for their nar- 
 ghiles, and who expressed to me his contempt 
 for the ruling powers by sweeping in the air a 
 circle which embraced the palace and the offend- 
 ers, spitting on the floor, and grinding his heel 
 in the moistened spot. 
 
 Near the bath, and in fact almost connected 
 with it by a rambling row of houses, is one of 
 288
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 the few Oriental cafes left in Sofia, a one-story 
 building with curious sloping roof, its one door 
 opening upon the street corner. It is called the 
 " Maritza." On both sides of this entrance are 
 long, low windows shaped like those of an old 
 English inn, and beneath these outside on the 
 sidewalk is a row of benches, upon which 
 lounge idlers sipping coffee and smoking cigar- 
 ettes. Within are a motley crew of all nationali- 
 ties, liberally sprinkled with Bulgarian soldiers 
 out on a day's leave. 
 
 Coffee is almost the only beverage in these 
 Turkish cafes. It is always handed you scald- 
 ing hot in little saucerless cups holding hardly 
 a mouthful each. A glass of cold water invari- 
 ably accompanies each cup. This coffee is gen- 
 erally the finest old Mocha, with an aroma and 
 flavor unapproachable in any brand that I know, 
 except perhaps the Uruapam coffee of Mexico. 
 In preparing it the roasted bean is ground as fine 
 as flour in a hand-mill, a teaspoonful of the 
 powder, with half the amount of fine sugar, be- 
 ing put into a brass pot with a long handle. To 
 this is added a tablespoonful of boiling water. 
 The pot is then thrust into the coals of a char- 
 coal fire until the coffee reaches boiling point, 
 when it is caught up by the waiter, who runs 
 to your table and pours the whole into your cup. 
 289
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 Although it is dark and thick, it is never strong, 
 and there is not a wakeful hour in a dozen cups. 
 
 To me there is nothing so interesting as one 
 of these Oriental cafes, and so I turned in from 
 the street, drew a square straw-covered stool up 
 to a low table, and held up one finger. A fez- 
 covered attendant shuffled over and filled my 
 cup. As I raised it to my lips, my eyes caught 
 the riveted glance of a black-bearded man with a 
 beak-like nose and two ferret eyes watching me 
 intently. He was dressed in a half-cloak orna- 
 mented with a dark braid in twists and circles, 
 and wore a slouch hat. 
 
 Being stared at in a cafe for the first five 
 minutes is so usual an experience for me, in my 
 tramps abroad, that I accept it as part of the 
 conditions of travel. But there are, of course, 
 different kinds of stares, all induced and kept up 
 for the most part by idle curiosity, which gen- 
 erally ceases after my dress has been examined, 
 and especially my shoes, and when my voice 
 has been found to be like that of other men. 
 
 This man's stare, however, was devoid of 
 curiosity. His was the face of a ferret ; a sly, 
 creeping, half-shrinking face, with an eye that 
 pierced you one moment and slunk away the 
 next. The thought flashed through my mind 
 a Spanish Jew who hides his gold in a hole, 
 290
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 and who is here changing money while the 
 "effervescence" lasts. When I looked again, a 
 moment later, he had disappeared. 
 
 The face haunted me so much that I traced 
 its outlines in my sketch-book, trying to remem- 
 ber where I had seen it. I finally persuaded 
 myself that it only suggested some similar face 
 seen long ago. Finishing my coffee, I lighted 
 a cigarette, picked up a stool, and, planting it 
 across the street, began a sketch of the exterior 
 of the cafe. 
 
 The usual crowd gathered, many following 
 me from the room itself, and soon the throng 
 was so great that I could not see the lower lines 
 of the building. No language that I speak is 
 adapted to Bulgaria, and so, rising to my feet, 
 I called out in honest Anglo-Saxon, 
 
 "Get down in front!" This accompanied 
 by a gesture like a policeman's "Move on." 
 
 Nobody got down in front, or behind, for that 
 matter. On the contrary, everybody who was 
 down got up, and the sketch was fast becoming 
 hopeless, when four gendarmes arose out of the 
 ground as noiselessly and mysteriously as if 
 they had issued from between the cracks of the 
 paving-stones, formed a hollow square, with 
 the cafe at one end and me at the other, the 
 intervening space being as clear of bystanders as 
 291
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 the back of my hand, and stood like statues 
 until the sketch was finished. When I closed 
 my book half an hour later, a man on the outer 
 edge, wrapped in a cloak, raised his hand. The 
 crowd fell back, a gap was made, and the four 
 gendarmes passed out and were swallowed up. 
 
 I turned and caught a glimpse of a black hat 
 half concealing a dark, bearded face. It was my 
 friend of the cafe. Not a Spanish Jew at all, I 
 said to myself, but some prominent citizen re- 
 spected by the police and anxious to be cour- 
 teous to a stranger. And again I dismissed the 
 face and the incident from my mind. 
 
 Just here another face appeared and another 
 incident occurred, neither of which was so easily 
 forgotten. The face enlivened the well-knit, 
 graceful figure of a young man of thirty dressed 
 in a gray travelling-suit and wearing a derby 
 hat. Every line in his good-natured counte- 
 nance expressed that rarest and most delightful 
 of combinations, humor and grit. From this 
 face proceeded a voice which sent down my 
 spine that peculiar tingle which one feels when, 
 halfway across the globe, surrounded by jar- 
 gon and heathen, he hears suddenly his own 
 tongue, in his own accent, spoken by a fellow- 
 townsman. 
 
 " I heard your ' down in front ' and knew 
 29?
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 right away where you were from ; but these 
 Bashi-bazouks blocked the way. My name is 
 Burton, correspondent of the Herald.' Been 
 here two months watching this mouse-trap. 
 Come into the cafe, where we can talk. You 
 don't know what a godsend an American is in 
 a hole like this." 
 
 An interchange of cards settled all formali- 
 ties, and when, half an hour later, numbers of 
 mutual friends were discovered and inquired 
 after, we grew as confiding and comfortable as 
 if we had been the best of friends through life. 
 
 Burton was one of those men of whom every- 
 body hears, whom few people see, and not many 
 people know ; one of those men whose homes 
 are fixed by telegrams, whose wits, like their 
 pencils, are sharpened in emergencies, whose 
 energies are untiring and exhaustless, who ran- 
 sack, permeate, get at the bottom of things, and 
 endure, individual men, sagacious, many- 
 sided, and productive, whose whole identity is 
 mercilessly swallowed up and lost in that un- 
 noticed headline, " Our Correspondent." 
 
 I had heard of Burton in Paris a few weeks 
 before, where his endless resources in the field 
 and his Arctic coolness in tight places were 
 by-words among his fellow-craftsmen. At the 
 time his friends supposed him to be somewhere 
 293
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 between Vienna and Constantinople, although 
 none of them located him in Bulgaria, great 
 morning journals being somewhat reticent as to 
 the identity and whereabouts of their staff. 
 
 "Yes, "he continued, "life here would re- 
 concile a man to the bottomless pit. I was in 
 London doing some Irish business, rose in 
 your buttonhole at breakfast, Hyde Park in the 
 afternoon, and all that sort of thing, when a 
 telegram sent me flying to Paris. Two hours 
 after, I was aboard the Orient express, with 
 my shirts half dried in my bag, and an order in 
 my inside pocket to overhaul Stamboloff and 
 find out whether the prince had left for good, 
 or was waiting until the blow was over before 
 he came back. You see, the Panitza affair came 
 near upsetting things here, and at the time it 
 looked as if the European war circus was about 
 to begin." 
 
 " Did you find Stamboloff ? " I asked. 
 
 " Yes. Reached the frontier, learned he had 
 left Sofia, and, after travelling all night in a 
 cart, got him at Sistova, and caught our Sun- 
 day's edition three hours later. Here I have 
 been ever since, waiting for something to turn 
 up, and spending half my nights trying to get 
 what little does turn up across the frontier and 
 so on to Paris. And the worst of it is that for 
 
 294
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 four weeks I have n't had a line from head- 
 quarters." 
 
 " What ! Leave you here in the lurch ? " 
 
 " No ; certainly not. They write regularly ; 
 but these devils stop everything at the post- 
 office, open and re-seal all my private letters, 
 and only give me what they think good forme. 
 For two weeks past 1 have been sending my 
 stuff across the frontier and mailing it in Servia. 
 How the devil did you get permission to sketch 
 around here ?" 
 
 I produced the talismanic scroll with the 
 water-mark and the image and the superscrip- 
 tion, and related my experience with the pre- 
 fect. 
 
 " Gave you the freedom of the city, did he ? 
 I wager you he will go through your traps like 
 a custom-house officer when you leave, and 
 seize everything you have. They have been 
 doing their level best to drive me out of here 
 ever since we published that first interview with 
 Stamboloff , and they would if they dared. Only, 
 being a correspondent, you see, and this being 
 a liberal, free monarchy, it would n't sound well 
 the next day. 
 
 " Come, finish your coffee, and I '11 show you 
 something you can never see outside of Bulga- 
 ria." 
 
 295
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 We strolled up past the bazaars along the 
 boulevard, stopping for a moment to note the 
 cathedral, with one end perched up in the air, 
 
 Stamboloff ' s commissioners of highways hav- 
 ing lowered the street grade at that point some 
 twenty feet below the level of the porch floor. 
 
 Opposite this edifice was the skylight of the 
 local photographer. The old, familiar smell of 
 evaporating ether greeted us as we entered his 
 one-story shop, it would be a poetic license to 
 call it a gallery, and the usual wooden bal- 
 cony, with its painted vase and paper flowers, 
 grinned at us from its customary place behind 
 the iron head-rest. 
 
 Here were portraits of the prince and his mo- 
 ther, Princess Clementine, and of poor Panitza, 
 
 whom I really could not help liking, traitor 
 as he was to Stamboloff , and the rest of the 
 notables, not forgetting the dethroned prince, 
 Alexander of Battenberg, all of whom had occu- 
 pied the plush armchair, or had stood behind 
 the Venetian railing, with the Lake of Como 
 and Mont Blanc in the distance. 
 
 Burton hunted through the collection of por- 
 traits scattered about the table, and handed me 
 two photographs, one of a well-built, hand- 
 some man with pointed mustache, dressed in 
 the native costume and shackled with heavy 
 296
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 chains fastened to his ankles. He was standing 
 in a prison yard, guarded by a soldier holding a 
 carbine. 
 
 "Good-looking cutthroat, isn't he? Might 
 be a diplomat or a night editor ? Too honest, 
 you think ? Well, that 's Taco Voyvoda, the 
 famous bandit who was caught a few years ago 
 in the act of murdering a detachment, and who 
 was filled full of lead the next day at the gov- 
 ernment's expense. Now look at this," and he 
 handed me the other photograph. 
 
 I held it to the light, and a shiver ran through 
 me. On a box covered with a piece of canvas 
 rested the head of a man severed from the body. 
 One eye was closed. The other was lost in a 
 ghastly hole, the mark left by a rifle-ball. The 
 mustache was still stiff and pointed, one end 
 drooping a little, and the mouth set firm and 
 determined. The whole face carried an expres- 
 sion as if the death agony had been suddenly 
 frozen into it. About the horror were grouped 
 the bandit's carbine, holsters, and cartridge-belt 
 bristling with cartridges. The belt hung over 
 the matted hair framing the face. 
 
 Burton watched me curiously. 
 
 " Lovely souvenir, is n't it ? The day after 
 the shooting they cut off poor Taco's head, and 
 our friend here," pointing to the photographer, 
 297
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 "fixed him up in this fashion to meet the pop- 
 ular demand. The sale was enormous. Bah ! 
 let 's go to dinner." 
 
 My new-found friend had a better place than 
 the one presided over by my slightly bald waiter 
 with the Tower of Babel education. He would 
 take me to his home. He knew of a garden 
 where a few tables were set, girt about with 
 shrubs and sheltered by overhanging trees that 
 had escaped the drought. At one end was a 
 modest house with a few rooms to let. His grip- 
 sack was in one of these. That was why he 
 loved to call it his home. 
 
 Soon a white cloth covered a table for two, 
 and a very comfortable dinner was served in 
 the twilight. With the coffee the talk drifted 
 into the present political outlook, and I put the 
 universal conundrum, 
 
 " Will the prince return ?" 
 
 "You can't tell," said Burton. "Formyself, 
 I believe he will. He must do so if he wants to 
 see his money again, and he can do so in safety 
 if Stamboloff succeeds in carrying the elections 
 next month, which I believe he will. If he fails, 
 the nearer they all hug the frontier the better ; 
 for there are hundreds of men right here around 
 us who would serve every one of them as the 
 soldiers did Taco Voyvoda. They know it, too, 
 298
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 for they are all off electioneering except the 
 prince, who, I understand, has left Ryllo to-day 
 for Varna. He is hanging on the telegraph now. 
 Not the poles, but the dispatches. 
 
 " The worst feature of the situation is that 
 most of the factions are backed up by Russian 
 and other agents, each in their several interests 
 ready to lend a hand. To-day it is a game of 
 chess between Russia and Turkey ; to-morrow 
 it may involve all Europe. Through it all my 
 sympathies are with the prince. He has been 
 here now nearly three years trying to make 
 something of these barbarians, and so far not a 
 single European power has recognized him. He 
 will get nothing for his pains, poor fellow. When 
 his money is all gone they will bounce him as 
 they did Batten berg. 
 
 " Certain members of the cabinet are not safe 
 even now," continued Burton. "While I was 
 at Sistova, the other day, I had an opportunity 
 of seeing some of the risks that Stamboloff him- 
 self runs, and also how carefully he is guarded. 
 He was in a cafe taking his breakfast. As soon 
 as he entered, a tall sergeant of gendarmes with 
 his sabre half drawn and his red sash stuck full 
 of pistols and yataghans moved to his right side, 
 while another, equally ferocious and as heavily 
 armed, guarded his left. Then the doors were 
 299
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 blocked by half a dozen other gendarmes, who 
 watched everybody's movements. There is 
 really not so much solid fun being prime minis- 
 ter in Bulgaria as one would think." 
 
 While Burton was speaking three officers en- 
 tered the garden where we were dining and took 
 possession of an adjoining table. My friend 
 nodded to one of them and kept on talking, 
 lowering his voice a trifle and moving his chair 
 so that his face could not be seen. 
 
 The Bulgarians were in white uniforms and 
 carried their side-arms. 
 
 The next instant a young man entered hur- 
 riedly, looked about anxiously, and came 
 straight towards our table. When he caught 
 sight of me he drew back. Burton motioned 
 him to advance, and turned his right ear for a 
 long, whispered communication, interrupting him 
 occasionally by such telephone exclamations as 
 " Who told you so ? When ? How did he find 
 out ? To-morrow ? What infernal nonsense ! 
 I don't believe a word of it," etc. 
 
 The young man bent still lower looked 
 furtively at the officers and in an inaudible 
 whisper poured another message into Burton's 
 ear. 
 
 My host gave a little start and turned a trifle 
 pale. 
 
 300
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 "The devil you say! Better come to my 
 room, then, to-night at twelve." 
 
 " Anything'up ? " I asked after the man had 
 gone, noticing the change in Burton's manner. 
 
 " Well, yes. My assistant tells me that my 
 last letter has been overhauled this side of the 
 frontier, and that orders for my arrest will be 
 signed to-morrow. I don't believe it. But you 
 can't tell, these people are fools enough to 
 do anything. If I knew which of my letters 
 had reached our orifice I wouldn't care; but 
 I have n't seen our paper since my first dis- 
 patches appeared, more than a month ago." 
 
 " That need n't worry you. I have every one 
 of them in my bag at the hotel, and every is- 
 sue of your paper since you arrived here. I knew 
 I was coming, and I wanted to be posted." 
 
 Burton looked at me in open astonishment. 
 
 "You! " 
 
 " Certainly. Come to my room ; get them 
 in five minutes." 
 
 " Well, that paralyzes me ! Here I have been 
 stranded for news and blocked for weeks by 
 these brigands who rob my mail, and here you 
 pick me up in the streets and haul everything I 
 want out of your carpet-bag ! Don't ever put 
 that in a story, for nobody would ever believe 
 it. Give me a cigarette." 
 301
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 I opened my case, and as I handed him its 
 contents my eyes rested on a man watching us 
 intently. He was sitting at the officers' table. 
 With the flaring of Burton's match his face 
 came into full relief. 
 
 It was my friend of the morning. 
 
 " There he is again," I blurted out. 
 
 " Who ? " said Burton, without moving. 
 
 "The man in the Turkish cafe, the one 
 who ordered the soldiers around. Who is he ? " 
 
 Burton never moved a muscle of his face ex- 
 cept to blow rings over his coffee-cup. 
 
 " A mean-looking hound in a slouch hat, with 
 rat-terrier eyes, bushy beard, and a bad-fitting 
 cloak ? " 
 
 "Yes," said I, comparing the description 
 over his shoulder. 
 
 " Why ! that 's my shadow, a delicate at- 
 tention bestowed on me by the prefect. He 
 thinks I don't know him, but I fool him every 
 day. I got two columns out last night from 
 under his very nose, right at this table. The 
 waiter carried them off in a napkin, and my 
 man nabbed them outside." 
 
 "A spy? " 
 
 " No ; a shadow, a night-hawk. For nearly 
 two months this fellow has never taken his 
 eyes off me, and yet he has never seen me look 
 302
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 him in the face. Come, these people are get- 
 ting too sociable." 
 
 In an instant we were in the street, and in 
 three minutes had entered my hotel. Leaving 
 Burton in the hall, I mounted the broad stair- 
 case, went straight to my room, picked up my 
 pocket sketch-book, and thrust the " clippings " 
 into my inside pocket. 
 
 When I regained the corridor outside my 
 door the man in the slouch hat was just ahead 
 of me on his way downstairs ! 
 
 Smothering my astonishment, I had left 
 him sitting in the garden five minutes before, 
 I followed slowly, matching my steps to his, 
 and turning over in my mind whether it would 
 be best to swallow the clippings or drop them 
 over the balusters. 
 
 I could see Burton below, standing near the 
 door, absorbed in an Orient express time-table 
 tacked to the wall. (I was to leave for Con- 
 stantinople the next day.) He must have heard 
 our footsteps, but he never turned his head. 
 
 The man reached the hall floor, I was five 
 steps behind, stood within ten feet of Bur- 
 ton, and began striking matches for a cigar which 
 was still burning. 
 
 I decided instantly. 
 
 " Oh, Burton," I called out, " I found the 
 303
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 sketch-book. See what I did here yesterday ; " 
 and I ran rapidly over the leaves, noting as I 
 turned, "The Jews' Quarter," "Minaret of 
 Bania-bashie," " Ox-Team down by the Ba- 
 zaar," etc. 
 
 The man lingered, and I could feel him look- 
 ing over my shoulder. Then the glass door 
 clicked, and he disappeared. 
 
 Burton raised his hand warningly. 
 
 " Where did you pick him up ? " 
 
 " Outside my door." 
 
 " Keyhole business, eh ? Did you get 
 them ? " 
 
 I touched my inside pocket. 
 
 " Good," and he slipped the package of 
 clippings under his waistcoat. 
 
 The next morning I found this note tucked 
 under my door : 
 
 The game is up. Meet me at station at 
 twelve. BURTON. 
 
 Five minutes before the appointed hour my 
 traps were heaped up in one corner of the wait- 
 ing-room. 
 
 I confess to a certain degree of anxiety as I 
 waited in the station, both on my own account 
 and on his. I was unable to understand how 
 304
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 the night-hawk could have reached my cham- 
 ber door ahead of me unless he had sailed over 
 the roof and dropped down the chimney, and 
 I was equally willing to admit that something 
 besides a desire to see me safely in bed had 
 induced him to keyhole my movements. Per- 
 haps his sudden disappearance through the 
 glass door was, after all, only preparatory to his 
 including me in the attentions he was about to 
 pay to Burton. 
 
 When the exact hour arrived, and the Orient 
 express direct for Philippopolis and Constanti- 
 nople rolled into the depot, and still Burton did 
 not appear, I began to realize the absurdity of 
 waiting for a convict at the main entrance. Bur- 
 ton of course would be chained to two soldiers 
 and placed in a baggage- van, or perhaps be 
 shackled around the ankles like Voyvoda and 
 lifted out of a cart by his waistband. The yard 
 was the place to find him. 
 
 I made my way between the two door-guards, 
 who eyed me in a manner that convinced me 
 that I was under surveillance and would most 
 likely catch both balls in the vicinity of my 
 collar-button if I attempted to move out of 
 range. 
 
 But there was nothing in the yard except 
 empty cars and a squad of raw recruits sitting 
 305
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 on their bundles awaiting transportation, and 
 so I tried the boulevard side again. 
 
 No Burton. 
 
 Just as I was about to give him up for lost, 
 and had begun turning over in my mind what 
 my duty might be as a man and an American, 
 a fresh cloud of dust blew through the open 
 door, and a cab pulled up. From this emerged 
 a pair of leather gaiters followed by two legs in 
 check trousers, a hand with white wristbands 
 and English gloves, and last the cool, unruffled 
 face of Burton himself. 
 
 " Yes, I am late, but I have been up all night 
 dictating. You got my note, I see. I go as far 
 with you as Philippopolis, where 1 get out to 
 reach the Pomuk Highlands. You remember I 
 told you about that old brigand chief, Achmet 
 Aga, who rules a province of forty square miles 
 and pays tribute to no one, not even the Sul- 
 tan. You know he murders everybody who 
 crosses his line without his permission. Well, 1 
 am going to interview him." 
 
 This was said in one breath and with as much 
 ease of manner and indifference to surroundings 
 as if the man with a slouch hat had been an 
 idle dream instead of an active reality. 
 
 " But what about your arrest, Burton ? I ex- 
 pected"
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 " Expected what dungeons ? Nonsense. I 
 simply went out on my balcony last night be- 
 fore I crawled into bed, sneezed, and called out 
 in French to my man inside to pack my bag for 
 this train. That satisfied my shadow, for all he 
 wants is to get me out of the way. Don't worry; 
 the dog will be here to see us off." 
 
 Burton was right. That ugly face was the 
 last that peered at us as we rolled out of the 
 station. 
 
 Six hours later I left my new friend at Philip- 
 popolis with a regret I cannot explain, but with 
 an exacted promise to meet me in Constantino- 
 ple a week later, where we would enjoy the 
 Turks together. 
 
 The week passed, and another, and then a 
 third, and still no sign of Burton. I had begun 
 to wonder whether, after all, the brigand chief 
 had not served him as he had done his prede- 
 cessors, when this letter, dated Sofia, reached 
 me, 
 
 "Just returned from the mountains. Spent a 
 most delightful week with Achmet Aga, who 
 kissed me on both cheeks when I left, and gave 
 me a charm against fire and sword blessed by 
 all the wise women of the clan. Would have 
 joined you before, but had to hurry back here 
 for the opening of the Sobranje. 
 307
 
 A BULGARIAN OPERA BOUFFE 
 
 " Stamboloff s party carried the day by a 
 small majority, and the town is full of his men, 
 including the prince, who opened parliament 
 here yesterday." 
 
 THE END
 
 (Cfic 
 
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