The Mexican episode may be drawing to a close, but quién sabe? All life down here assumes a mysteriousness, even in its simplest manifestation. The natural phenomena, the things we consider quite impersonal in New York or Paris or Berlin, seem to perform their operations here in an astoundingly intimate way. A sunset is a more than daily occurrence, due to the cold fact that the earth revolves on its axis just so often; that moonlight experience of last autumn remains in memory, and a consciousness is always with one of an intimacy with natural decrees.
The faultfinding Americans who come here, and really love it, though they talk loudly about the national failings and sigh for "honest Americans," are under the spell of this intimacy with the natural world, though they don't often analyze it; this delicious, satisfying sensation of being included in the operations of destiny, not being hung solitarily between birth and death.
I never look up at the Southern Cross without my heart, too, leaping up—and thinking, with Humboldt, of the lines he quotes from Dante, "Io mi volsi a man destra e posi mente all' altro polo, e vidi quattro stelle."[49]
The rainy season is full upon us, for which all are thankful. There has been a great deal of illness in the town, the dust-storms were unusually severe, and the collection of microbes carried hither and thither would break a microscope. The mornings seem made in heaven, and, after weeks of being dust-veiled, the volcanoes are out again in all their splendor.
Tuesday, 22d.
Many people calling to-day; among others charming Manuelito del Campo, just married to the handsome niece of Madame Escandon, of the Puente de Alvarado. They are making bridal visits. She wore a regardless beige gown, with Paris written all over it, and beautifully put on over a lovely, small-hipped figure. I wish them well.
Mr. de S. stayed after all had gone. He is very sad at the disintegration of government, and in fact why should any Mexican be cheerful? The past is destroyed, the present tottering, and the future hidden. He is always most understanding and simpático.
A short, terrific thunder-storm came on as we sat talking and afterward everything was drenched and dripping in the corridor and patio. As I stood at the door with him we were led to talk of destinies. I said that, for my part, I had no hunger, all glories and all miseries were known to me, and I was learning to feed upon myself. But he remained silent, stroked Elim's hair, called him buen mozo, and went out. As always, it is each one to his own path, and one is lucky to meet, even for a second of time, some one going the same way.
To-day I closed forever the covers of Strindborg's hideous, haunting Froken Julie, that horrid conflict of souls in a kitchen. But once read, can I ever wipe it out of memory?
May 23d.