MADAME LEFAIVRE, WIFE OF THE FRENCH MINISTER TO MEXICO, 1911
I was made "perfectly" happy by the discovery of two tiny bronze braseros, somewhat in the form of Roman lamps—such as were filled with coals and placed on tables to light cigarettes from in the old days. I also got a large engraved pulque-glass, most lovely for flowers.
At one booth an experienced vendeuse pulled from her rebozoed bosom a small velvet case, containing a brooch of flat, uncut diamonds; but as, at the same time, I distinctly saw spring from that abode of treasure a very large specimen of the flea family, I came home without investigating further.
I have some beautiful books on Mexico which have been given me by various people—mostly large, heavy books,—Lumholz's Unknown Mexico, and Starr's Indian Mexico are the last,—or I would send them, that you might share more completely my Mexican étape. It has been a strange summer, taking it all in all.
Madero probably comes in on the 10th of November. It makes one's head swim to think of the mighty changes that are taking place all over the world. Haughty old China a republic!—and Mexico to be governed solely by brotherly love! And a free press and nobody to desire to continue in office! In other words, all to resign and many to die.
In church to-day the beautiful blue bag you gave me was stolen. I remember two women in deep mourning, black rebozos twisted about their heads, kneeling devoutly in the pew just behind me. The theft must have occurred at the moment of the "elevation," because when I rose from my knees both the bag and the black-robed devotees had disappeared. I had, fortunately, just left the Louis XV. watch at the jewelers', or that, too, would have gone.
Madame Lefaivre returned several days ago after a mouvementé trip, as the Espagne went on the rocks at Santander. Mr. Seeger gave a little déjeuner for her at the Auto Club. The day was heavenly, and the sky as clean as if it had been pounded between the stones the washerwomen use on my roof. Everything was at its greenest.
After the season of rains the flowers, the grass, the trees, emerge as if new-born. I felt, sitting on the terrace of the club, on the border of the little artificial lake, as if I were in a loge at the theater, as if the scene might at any moment be shifted, the black and white swans be removed, the water turned off, ourselves go off the stage, leaving only the changeless background of beautiful hills and diamond-powdered volcanoes.