But for us the men are more important. That short individual in spectacles, who looks erudite and speaks in a low tone with a gravity and reserve that emphasize his remarks, is Alamán, the most distinguished of the conservatives. The thin-featured, sharp-nosed person, so elegant and cynical, is Tornel, posing now in his favorite attitude as the patron of learning. Smooth-faced Bocanegra, an honorable if not very able statesman, is talking yonder to the British minister with the easy courtliness of a genuine hidalgo. Handsome and brave Almonte—“a good boy,” as Santa Anna calls him—is laying siege to the belle under the chandelier; and Peña y Peña, seemingly rather dry and uninspired, is debating somewhat laboriously with a brother judge.[8]
Let us join a group. How strong, genial, easy, ready and gay, yet dignified and reposeful, they all are! Few indeed of our own countrymen could be so charming. Some one approaches, and they grasp him warmly by the hand, throwing the left arm at the same time round his shoulder and softly patting his back. “Friend,” “Comrade,” are frequent salutations. We are presented to the group, and find ourselves at once among devoted intimates. “My house is yours,” exclaims one with a look that carries conviction. “Remember, I exist only to serve you,” says another. “Only command me and all that are mine,” exclaims a third.[8]
Mexico, however, reported a British minister, “judged merely by outward Appearances, is a perfectly different thing from Mexico seen in the Interior.” One might be presented with a dozen houses and all their contents, yet go to bed on the sidewalk hungry. These friends and comrades are daily intriguing and conspiring against one another. Talk with an eloquent declaimer, and you will find his beautiful ideas vague and impracticable. Discuss them with him, and you will either excite wrath by demolishing his opinions or earn contempt—since he suspects in his heart that he is an ignoramus—by letting him vanquish you. Notice how lightly they speak of religion. That is considered good form. The Church is to be regarded as an institution for the women. But at bottom almost every one is mortally afraid of the hereafter, as a child is afraid of the dark, and when seriously ill is ready to grovel before a priest. The apparent robustness of these men, largely due to their indolence, is too often undermined by Cyprian accidents, which are confessed without hesitation. Hardly one of the husbands is loyal to his vows, while the other sex care only to elude numberless watchful eyes, and observe a strict regard for appearances; and in the lower walks a mother will quite readily sell her daughter’s good name. However, courtesy is delightful whatever lies behind it, and if a person will try to eat a picture of grapes, he should blame himself for his disappointment. Temperament, environment and education make sangfroid and intellectual mastery impossible here; and in a world where passionate men and women grow up in traditions of idleness and self-indulgence they can hardly be expected, especially with the bad example of their priests before them, to be distinguished for self-restraint.[8]
Meanwhile, are the common people at home knitting? Let us walk back to the cathedral. The full moon is out. Almost above us rise the powerful towers against the clear firmament, and on our left is the palace, filling one whole side of the square with its numberless balconies and windows, while in front spreads the great plaza, glittering with innumerable lights against the shadowy arcades that fill the opposite side. The sky is a soft, pale blue; and the stars, fading near the brilliant moon, appear like dust raised by her chariot wheels. Under the trees on our right a huge serpent, the scales of which are human beings, turns, winds, bends, parts and rejoins in a circular promenade.[8]
Some occupy themselves with prosaic thoughts,—business, politics or social events—and a few talk of science and poetry. Yonder goes a millionaire, a real king of gold, at sight of whom all hats come off, while all eyes court his glance; but another, who passes with a triumphant step and bold gestures, appears to the crowd a greater man, for he is the king of the sword, the king of the bull-ring, the matador. But most, perhaps, are talking and thinking of love and of pleasure. Furtive but meaning glances are often exchanged; occasionally hand presses hand under the folds of the cloak; at times a few mysterious words pass quickly; now and then one sees a pretty woman on the arm of her bold lover, showing herself proudly to the world, while the husband follows on behind as best he can; and here and there a scowling, discarded friend looks out from behind a post with a knife clutched behind him.
Would you like to see a little more? Then visit the Barrio Santa Anna, and watch men with bloodshot eyes and women in red petticoats and loose, open chemisettes dancing a wild fandango, or plunge into a lépero’s dive and watch the pariahs gambling sedately with a bloody knife on the table before them, while down in one corner a crouching woman moans and mutters over a prostrate figure. But how lightly all is done, even the tragedies, compared with northern depth and seriousness. In a sense we feel we are observing children.[8]
Of course in so brief a space the subject of this chapter could not be thoroughly treated, but our inquiry seems to make certain facts plain. Little in the material, mental and moral spheres was really sound in the Mexico of 1845. Her population was insufficient, and was badly welded together, so far as it had been welded at all; and while the lower orders of the people lay deep in ignorance, laziness and vice, the upper class, if we ignore exceptions, were soft, superficial, indolent and lax, urbane, plausible and eloquent, apathetic but passionate, amiable and kind though cruel when excited, generous but untrustworthy, wasteful but athirst for gain, suspicious and subtle but not sagacious, personally inclined to be pompous and nationally afflicted with a provincial vanity, greatly enamoured of the formalities of life, greatly wanting in the cool, steady resolution for which occasional obstinacy is a poor substitute, and still more wanting in that simple, straightforward, sober and solid common sense which is the true foundation of personal and national strength. In particular, the Mexican was intensely personal. This made him and his politics very interesting yet was really unfortunate, for in such men principles and institutions could have but feeble roots. Finally, as one result of this awareness of self, every man of any strength had the instincts of a dictator. Authority he instinctively resented; but on the other hand, when some one appeared to be dominant, a consciousness of this inner recalcitrancy and a fear of its being detected, combining with a hope of favors, produced adulation and apparent slavishness.
Evidently, then, Mexico was not intrinsically a strong country. Evidently her people had few qualifications for self-government. Evidently, too, they were unlikely to handle in the best manner a grave and complicated question requiring all possible sanity of judgment and perfect self-control; and, in particular, misunderstandings between them and a nation like the United States were not only sure to arise but sure to prove troublesome.