Chapter Seventeen.
Por Las Zancas.
In all cities there is a street favoured by fashion. This in Mexico is the Callé de Plateros (street of the silversmiths), so called because there the workers in precious metals and dealers in bijouterie “most do congregate.”
In this street the jovenes dorados (gilded youth) of modern Tenochtitlan strolled in tight-fitting patent leather boots, canary-coloured kid gloves, cane in hand, and quizzing-glass to the eye. There, too, the señoras and señoritas go shopping bareheaded, with but the shawl thrown over the crown hood-fashion.
When out only for promenade, none of these linger long in the street of the silversmiths. They but pass through it on their way to the Alameda, a sort of half-park, half-garden, devoted to the public use, and tastefully laid out in walks, terraces, and parterres with flowers, and fountains; grand old evergreen trees overshadowing all. For in that summery clime shade, not sun, is the desideratum. Here the jovenes dorados spent part of the afternoons sauntering along the arcaded walks, or seated around the great fountain watching the play of its crystal waters. But with an eye to something besides—the señoritas, who are there, too, flirting the fans with a dexterity which speaks of much practice—speaks of something more. Not every movement made by these rustling segments of circles is intended to create currents of air and cool the heated skin. Many a twist and turn, watched with anxious eyes, conveys intelligence interesting as words never spoken. In Mexico many a love tale is told, passion declared, jealous pang caused or alleviated, by the mute languages of fans and fingers.
Though the Callé de Plateros terminates at the gate of the Alameda, the same line of street is continued half a mile further on, to the fashionable drive of the Pasco Nuevo, sometimes called Pasco de Buccareli, from the Viceroy who ruled New Spain when it was laid out. It is the Rotten Row of Mexico, for it is a ride as well as a drive; and at a certain hour of the afternoon a stream of carriages, with strings of horsemen, may be seen tending towards it, the carriages drawn, some of them by mules, others by the small native horses, and a distinguished few by large English or American animals, there known as frisones. It is the top thing to have a pair of “frisones.”
In the carriages, the señoras and señoritas are seen attired in their richest robes—full evening dress—bare-armed and bareheaded, their hair, usually black, ablaze with jewels or entwined with flowers fresh picked—the sweet-scented suchil, the white star-like jasmine, and crimson grenadine. Alongside ride the cavaliers, in high-peaked, stump-leather saddles, their steeds capering and prancing; each rider, to all appearance, requiring the full strength of his arms to control his mount, while insidiously using his spurs to render the animal uncontrollable. The more it pitches and plunges the better he is pleased, provided the occupants of the carriages have their eyes on him.
Every day in the year—except during the week of Guaresma (Lent), when capricious fashion takes him to the Paseo Viejo, or Lav Vigas, on the opposite side of the city—can this brilliant procession be seen moving along the Callé de Plateros, and its continuation, the Callé de San Francisco.
But in this same thoroughfare one may often witness a spectacle less resplendent, with groups aught but gay. Midway along the street runs a deep drain or sewer, not as in European cities permanently covered up, but loosely flagged over, the flags removable at will. This, the zanca, is more of a stagnant sink than a drainage sewer; since from the city to the outside country there is scarce an inch of fall to carry off the sewage. As a consequence it accumulates in the zancas till they are brimming full, and with a stuff indescribable. Every garbage goes there—all the refuse of household product is shot into them. At periodical intervals they are cleared out, else the city would soon be a-flood in its own filth. It is often very near it, the blue black liquid seen oozing up between the flagstones that bridge over the zancas, filling the air with a stench intolerable. Every recurring revolution make the municipal authorities of Mexico careless about their charge and neglectful of their duties. But when the scouring-out process is going on, the sights are still more offensive, and the smells too. Then the flags are lifted and laid on one side—exposing all the impurity—while the stuff is tossed to the other, there to lie festering for days, or until dry enough to be more easily removed. For all it does not stop the circulation of the carriages. The grand dames seated in them pass on, now and then showing a slight contortion in their pretty noses. But they would not miss their airing in the Paseo were it twenty times worse—that they wouldn’t. To them, as to many of their English sisterhood in Hyde Park, the afternoon drive is everything—to some, as report says, even more than meat or drink; since they deny themselves these for the keeping of the carriage.