One thing troubled him: that iron box of regimental papers and his portmanteau had gone to New Orleans; he carried only his knapsack and staff, like a pilgrim bound for a distant shrine. He could sacrifice his unused ticket, but how get these pieces of baggage forwarded to Mexico. We went after luncheon to talk to the railway agent about it, but the office was closed for the New Year holidays.
I then accompanied him to his hotel and saw the English-speaking German who kept it, "surprisingly civil," said Ewart; "trying to ingratiate himself with me," I thought. I went up to his room and admired the fine view of the mountains obtained from his window, but I did not care for the feeling of it—not a place to write in. I meditated getting him to change over to the Iturbide.
Next day, the thirty-first of December, we sat on a street car and went out together to San Angel. We had lunch in view of the great mountains Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl but their summits remained wreathed in cloud. A fine, warm air blew steadily thence, ruffling the blossoms of the garden, disturbing the eyes. Our luncheon was spread in an arbor. We were waited on by a French waiter. It was hardly a democratic resort. There were other arbors and tables set in a shady patio where rich Mexicans who had driven up in their cars dissected elegantly cooked sole and turkey, and ate strawberries and cream, washed down with imported wines. The straw-hatted, blanket-wrapped Mexicans, the descendants of the Aztecs, the women with gold ornaments on their necks and ears and flowing raven hair were hidden from view here. One might very well have been on the Riviera—except for those gigantic volcanoes and a certain dryness of the table-mountain air which spoke not of the sea.
Ewart had already been to the inn several times. He had been ill at ease in American civilization, and told us so. He thirsted for the elegance of Paris and the easy-going ways of London. "One thing the Americans have not yet learned to prize, and that is leisureliness," said he. His own marked, leisured utterance was strangely in contrast with the rapid speech and style of Americans.
Yet he was going back to America in the spring. He felt the fascination of modern America as much as any one. He was surprised that America had not yet annexed Mexico. Ideal considerations did not weigh in his mind. The only argument in favor of Mexico was that Mexico was unlike the United States and it might be worth while conserving her as something different.
Of them and of many things we discoursed during a long afternoon spent mostly on the roof of the San Angel Inn. And in the dusk of evening we took a returning tram to Mexico. As we passed the bull ring at Chapultepec the outcoming crowds swarmed on to the streets, and ere we reached the city the newsboys with the evening papers came clamorously on to the cars crying, "Glorious afternoon with the bulls! Great triumph of Rodolfo Gaon! Great triumph of Lalanda!" Gaon is an Indian bullfighter and the idol of Mexico for a time. Ewart had seen him kill four bulls in his garments of gold and silver, and was hideously impressed. But he was greatly tickled by the newscry "Glorious afternoon with the bulls!" and kept repeating it.
That evening we went together to the Teatro Lirico to see a revue called 1922. We sat in the midst of a wild crowd and looked on at something of which we did not understand very much, allusions of all kinds of happenings in the Republic of Mexico during 1922, danced out by girls and clowns in colored silks. There were acts representing the two years' peace of the Obregon régime, Liberty, the Graves of the Martyrs of the Revolution, and through it all there stalked a hooligan, drunk in every scene and creating a scandal in every part. In the graveyard of the heroes he makes love to the widow grieving over her dead husband and is only interrupted when the grave opens and the dead man inside roars a terrible reproval—the thrill of the evening. The whole ended on a sort of parade of the Republic and a rivalry of flags over which in a grand burst of the National Anthem triumphed the Red, White and Green of the Mexican nation.
By the time we came out of the theater it had become a wild night in Mexico City. Every one who had a car had brought it out. All the "camions" were filled with joy riders, every klaxon and horn was yelling, the sidewalks were packed with thronging crowds carrying colored paper flags and other baubles. Most of the men had pistols, some had guns. Promiscuous firing rattled and banged in side streets and about house tops. The cafés were full. Orchestras were playing. Men everywhere were under the influence of pulque and other cactus alcohols. I think we felt rather tired. Certainly we were ready for supper and we sought a table where we might sit down to eat and finish the night.
It was at the Cosmos that we sat down to supper—for the last time. There we lingered and would no doubt have seen the Old Year out, the New Year in, but an unkind Fate prompted otherwise. At half-past eleven or thereabout we sallied forth once more into the wild streets. I had a mind to go to the great central square, the Zocalo, where once stood the Great Pyramid, but we did not agree to go. Instead we gave one another last greetings and departed to our several hotels.
"A happy New Year!" Ewart cried, swaying his arm affectionately in a last handshake.