At 9.10, I found Eustace sitting on a bench with a distinguished-looking middle-aged American who, I hoped, would gratify my ideas of romance by proving an absconded bank cashier. But he was introduced as a mining man by the name of Werner. He was eating oranges and tossing the peels into the shrubbery, meanwhile bowing to the celebrities who passed. “Here comes General Cómo-se-Llama, the worst cut-throat in Mexico. Hello, General, muy buenas días, how are you?”
At 9.11, a second general passed, in a uniform which he had designed himself—sky blue cap, bright red coat, and green trousers, all embellished with gold braid. He was five feet high, and four feet wide. “They use him for dress parade,” said Werner.
At 9.12, a third general passed, marching through the street, followed by eight soldiers.
At 9.49, the first pretty señoritas, on their way to mass with a forbidding-looking mother, stopped to rest on the bench opposite. The girls wore the latest Parisian modes, but mother still clung to the old-fashioned rebozo, or shawl. Each wore a little black lace mantilla pinned to the hair. One girl noted that we were looking at her, and her eyes twinkled appreciatively. She whispered to the other girl, and both smiled.
At 9.51, after an accusing glance from mother, we decided to stroll around the plaza. “They’ll consider it an insult,” said Werner. “They expect you to stay here and talk together about how lovely they are, just loud enough for them to hear it.”
At 10.26, the musicians gathered for their Sunday morning concert. Having tuned up, they continued to blow and toot, indulging the Mexicans’ love of noise. Half of them were unshod; all were brown; none looked like accomplished artists. I dreaded the racket they’d make when all tooted at once.
At 10.30, they played the most beautiful band music I had ever heard.
At 10.52, society emerged from the cathedral. Barefoot peons withdrew from the plaza to make room for the aristocrats.
At 11.00, the beggars became active. The blind men closed their eyes, and the cripples started to flop. They wriggled from bench to bench; they suffered themselves to be led by little children; they crawled in snake-like twists and propelled themselves in frog-like jumps; they hobbled upon crutches; they stumped upon legless knees; they turned over on their backs and squirmed upside down. At each bench, they would whine in plaintive voice, “A little penny, for the sake of God, señores!” The Mexicans liked this. They regarded beggars as an institution that enabled them to gratify personal vanity by giving alms. It did not cost much. And they regarded curse or blessing with superstitious respect. So the procession hopped and flopped and squirmed and for-god-saked unmolested all around the park.
At 11.10, the Promenade was in full swing. The elders kept a watchful eye on their daughters from the benches. The youths draped themselves gracefully on their canes along the outer walk. The girls, in merry groups of twos and threes and fours, arm in arm, swung past on exhibition—dainty little creatures, fairly radiating sweetness and modesty, yet keenly aware of the masculine admiration they aroused, quick to notice if a youth’s gaze lingered, ready to exchange opinions in whispered conference, ready even to respond with a brief flash of eyes, supremely self-assured, yet never bold. From childhood they had paraded this plaza, accustoming themselves to the sensation of being on exhibition. They liked to be looked at. It brought a flush to their cheeks, and a luster to their dark eyes. This was their only opportunity, in an existence of semi-seclusion, to see and to be seen. There were stolid-looking maids in the procession, carrying babies all done up in silks and laces. There were little girls of ten and twelve, already practicing coquetry. And there were innumerable maidens of fifteen and twenty, suitable for marriage, and watching the circle of young men for an indication that to-day’s parade had awakened the divine fire.