CHAPTER III.
"NO ES COSTUMBRE."[1]
The city of our adoption boasted an Alameda, where the air was redolent of the odor of the rose and violet, and made musical with the tinkling of fountains; and where could be seen the "beauty and chivalry" of a civilization three centuries old, taking the evening air.
Plazas beautified with flowers, shrubs, and trees, upon which neither money nor pains had been spared, lent a further charm. Stores were at hand wherein could be purchased fabrics of costly texture, as well as rare jewels—in fact, a fair share of the elegant superfluities of life; and yet in the midst of so much civilization, so much art, so much luxury of a certain kind, so much wealth, I found to my dismay, upon investigation, that I was at least fifty miles from an available broom!
Imagine the dilemma, you famously neat housekeepers of the United States! A house with floors of pounded dirt, tile, brick, and cement, and no broom to be had for money, though, I am pleased to add, one was finally obtained for love. My generous little Mexican neighbor and friend, Pomposita, taking pity on my despair, gave me one—which enabled me to return the half-worn borrowed broom of another friend.
Owing to the exorbitant demands of the custom-house, such humble though necessary articles were not then imported; and the untutored sons of La Republica manufactured them on haciendas, from materials crude beyond imagination.
Once or twice a year long strings of burros may be seen, wending their way solemnly through the streets; girt about with a burden of the most wonderful brooms.
These brooms were of two varieties; one had handles[2] as knotty and unwieldy as the thorny mesquite while the other was still more primitive in design, and looked like old field Virginia sedge grass tied up in bundles. They were retailed by men who carried them through the streets on their backs.
For the rude character of their brooms, however, the manufacturers are not to blame, but the sterility of the country, and the failure of nature to provide suitable vegetable growths.
Every housekeeper takes advantage of the advent of the escobero (broom-maker), to lay in a stock of brooms sufficient to last until his next visit. It was two months before an opportunity of buying a broom, even from a " wandering Bavarian," was afforded me, and during that time I came to regard Doña Pomposita's gift as the apple of my eye.
"Mer-ca-ran las es-co-bas!" One morning a new sound assailed my ears, as it came up the street, gathering force and volume the nearer it approached. I heard it over and over without divining its meaning. But at last a man entered entered our portal and in a tone that made my hair stand on end and with a vim that almost shook the house, he screamed—Es-co-bas, Señ-o-ra!"—drawling each word out as long as a broom-handle, then rolling it into a low hum, which finally died into a whispered—"Will you buy some brooms?" Had he known my disposition and special fondness for broom-handles—without reference to my household need—he would have brought them to me directly, dispensing with his ear-splitting medley—to a woman for three months without a broom!
On ascertaining that the escobero would not visit the city again for some time. I bought his entire stock, and laid them up with prudent foresight, against the possibility of another broom famine.
With a genuine American spirit, I concluded to have a general house-cleaning, and, equipped with these wonderful brooms, with Pancho's assistance the work began. The first place demanding attention was the immense parlor, with its floor of solid cement. Pancho began to sweep, but the more he swept, the worse it looked—ringed, streaked, and striped with dust. I thought he was not using his best efforts, so with a will, I took the broom and made several vigorous strokes, but to my amazement, it looked worse than ever. In my despair a friend came in, who comprehended the situation at a glance, and explained that floors of that kind could not be cleaned with a broom; that amoli—the root of the ixtli (easily)—soap-root—applied with a wet cloth, was the medium of renovation.
The amoli was first macerated and soaked for some time in water. A portion of the liquid was taken in one vessel and clear water in another. The cleansing was done in small squares, the rubbing all in one direction. The effect was magical—my dingy floor being restored to its original rich Indian red.
Now and then, while on his knees, rubbing away with might and main, Pancho would throw his eyes up at me with a peculiar expression of despair, while he muttered in undertone: "No es costumbre de los mozos lavar los suelos" ("It is not customary for mozos to wash floors"). Insatiable curiosity is the birthright of the poor of Mexico, and on this remarkable day they gathered about the windows until not another one could find room—talking to Pancho, who looked as if already under sentence for an infraction of the criminal code. They made strange motions with their fingers, exclaiming at the same time: "Es una verguenza del mozo hacer tales cosas!" ("It is a shame for a mozo to do such things!") Others replied by saying: "Es un insulto!" ("It is an insult!"), while others took up the argument of the case by saying: " Por supuesto que si" ("Why, of course it is"). But all this did not cause Pancho to give me a rude look or an impertinent word.
The floor now looked red and shiny, the windows were clear and glistening, and the six hair-cloth chairs stood grimly along the wall, in deference to the custom. My little friend took her departure, and Pancho moved lamely about, as if stiffened by his arduous labor.
In all my housekeeping experiences nothing ever occurred which for novelty was comparable to the events of that morning. I felt sure that when Mother Noah descended from Mount Ararat, and assumed the responsibilities of housekeeping—or more properly tent-keeping—on the damp plain, however embarrassing the limitation of her equipments may have been, she was at least spared the provocation of a scornful and wondering audience, greeting her efforts on every side with that now unendurable remark, "No es costumbre."
I afterward learned the cause of the commotion, when it transpired that such services as floor-cleaning are performed, not by the mozo, but by a servant hired for the occasion, outside the household.
In a few moments my lavandera —washerwoman—entered, accompanied by her two pretty, shy little girls. Having complimented the fresh appearance of the house,—Pancho now and then explaining what he had done,—she informed me that the following day would be the dia de santo—saint's day—of one of her bright-eyed chiquitas, and "hay costumbre" ("there is a custom") of receiving tokens on these days from interested friends. Acting upon this hint, I went to my bedroom, followed by Juana and the niñas, who displayed great surprise at every step. My red and yellow covered beds they tapped and talked to as if they had been animate things, calling them, "camas bonitas, coloradas y amarillas!" ("pretty beds, red and yellow!")
I turned the bright blankets over, that they might see the springs, and the sight utterly overcame them. Their astonishment at the revelation of such mysterious and luxurious appendages made them regard me with mingled awe, astonishment, and suspicion. The mother struck the springs with her fists, and as the sound rang out and vibrated, the children retreated hastily, shaking with alarm.
Wishing to conform to the customs, and remembering Juana's hint, I unlocked my "Saratoga." The chiquitas stood aside, fearing, I suppose, that from the trunk some frightful apparition might spring forth. When the lid went back they exclaimed: "Valgame Dios!" ("Help me, God"), and crossed themselves hastily, as if to be prepared for the worst. I invited them to come near, at the same time opening a compartment filled with bright flowers and ribbons.
This was a magnet they could not resist, and overcoming their fears, they came and stood close to the trunk, now and then touching the pretty things I exhibited to their wondering eyes. I gave each of them a gay ribbon, and while they were talking delightedly and caressing the pretty trifles, by some mischance the fastening of the upper tray lost its hold. Down it came with a crash—being still heavily packed—and away went the children, screaming and crying, one taking one direction, the other another.
We went in pursuit of them, and when found, one was crouching down in the court-yard under a rose-bush, while the other stood in terror behind the heavy parlor door. Both were shaking, their teeth chattering, while they muttered something about "el diablo! el diablo!"
By this time I understood the line which people of this class in Mexico unflinchingly draw between their own humble station and mine, yet I felt moved to treat the frightened children with the same hospitality which in my own land would have proved soothing under similar circumstances. Acting upon this inspiration, I went quickly and brought a basin of water to wash their tear-stained faces. To my utter surprise, they exclaimed in the same breath: "No lo permito!" ("We cannot permit it!") "No es costumbre."
The mother approached me with an expression of deep concern and seriousness in her eyes, and with her forefinger raised in gentle admonition. Looking me earnestly in the face, she began moving her finger slowly from side to side directly before my eyes, saying: "Oiga, Señorita, sepa V. que en esta tierra, cuando nosotros los Mexicanos "(referring of course to her own class)" tenemos el catarro" (emphasizing the last word on G sharp), "nunca nos lavamos las caras" ("Listen to me, my good lady, in this country, when we have the catarrh (meaning a bad cold), we never put water on our faces").
"Why not?" I asked.
"Porque no estamos acostumbradas, y por el clima, sale mas mala la enfermedad" ("Because we are not accustomed to it, and on account of the climate, the sickness is made worse ").
Thus ended the dialogue. But the children did not hold me responsible for their fright, and bade me a kindly adios, promising to return again, a promise fulfilled every week, but on no account would they ever venture near that trunk again.
Pancho was determined to give to us and our belongings, as far as possible, the exterior appearance of the "costumbres." On entering my room after a little absence, one day, I found him straining every nerve and panting for breath. He had made a low bench, and was trying to place my Saratoga on it, but his strength was not equal to the task. The explanation came voluntarily that, on account of the animalitos, it was customary for families to keep trunks on benches or tables. I soon found the animalitos had reference to the various bugs and scorpions which infest the houses, and all trunks were really kept as Pancho said.
As time passed, Pancho constituted himself our instructor and guide in every matter possible, including both diet and health. He warned us against the evil effects of walking out in the sun after ten o'clock in the morning, and especially enjoined upon us not to drink water or wash our faces on returning, as catarrh and headache would be sure to follow. Supposing this only the superstition of an ignorant servant, I took a special delight in taking just such walks, and violating these rules, but every time I paid the forfeit in a cold and headache, according to prediction. I was now satisfied that Pancho was not only wise as a serpent and harmless as a dove, blest with a keen eye of discrimination, but also a first-class health officer, and in the movement of his forefinger lay tomes of reason and good sense. But I had soon to discover that he would have no infringement of his privileges; and, come what would, he was determined to have his pilon in the market.
The servants who came and went often warned me that under no consideration must I go to market, but this was one of my home customs, and I could see no reason for its discontinuance. The system of giving the pilon (fee) to the servants, by merchants and market-people, as I already knew, would be a stumbling-block in my way. I had discussed in Pancho's presence my determination to go regularly, when I fancied I saw a strange light come into his eyes, which soon explained itself. He came humbly before me, in a short time, hat in hand, his face bearing the sorrowful, woe-begone look of one in the depths of an overwhelming calamity, saying, that a cart had run over his grandmother, and he would have to leave. He had been so kind and considerate in every way—never tiring of any task he had to perform—and so faithful, that I would prove my sympathy and good will to him by an extra sum—outside his wages—which might be a blessing, and aid in restoring his aged grandmother. He 
A TYPICAL MARKET SCENE.
They came, but it was unfortunate for Pancho. The woman was an inveterate talker, and soon informed me that she was not the comadrita of his children; nor had a cart run over his grandmother; in fact, he had none, as she had died before Pancho was born. This was a new phase of the subject, but I was not long in solving the enigma. He had been goaded long enough by my American methods; he had become the butt of ridicule from his friends, and now he would assert himself.
However well he was treated in our house, to be called upon to surrender the most precious boon of all his ''costumbres"—the market fees—never! But to wound my feelings in leaving was far from his wishes, so he shrewdly planned and carried out the tragic story of the mishap to his grandmother.
The comadrita introduced herself with chastened dignity as Jesusita Lopez; but with head loftily erect, and an air of much consequence, informed me that the name of her marido—(husband)—was Don Juan Bautista (John the Baptist), servidores de V. —("your obedient servants").
She smiled at every word, a way she had of assuring me of her delight in being allowed to serve me, but at the same time, glanced ominously at the cooking-stove. The smile lengthened into a broad grin when Don Juan Bautista came in sight; in her eyes he was "kingdoms, principalities, and powers." Together they examined the stove—talking in undertone—stooping low and scrutinizing every compartment. At last Don Juan Bautista arose, and turning to me said, "Jesusita cannot cook on this máquina Americana" (American machine).
"Why?" I asked. He straightened himself up to the highest point, half on tip toe, at the same time nodding his head, and pointing his forefinger at Jesusita, emphatically replied:
"Because it will give her disease of the liver—como siempre—as always, with the servants here." On going to the kitchen a little later, I was surprised to see the gentle Jesusita seated in the middle of the floor, by a charcoal fire, with all my pottery vessels in a heap beside her. Meats, vegetables, and water were all at hand, and she was busily engaged in preparations for dinner. I told her to come and see how well she could cook on that American machine, but she only answered, "No es costumbre;" besides, "Don Juan Bautista said it would give her the enfermedad, or sickness, before mentioned—and no man knew more than he"—which meant I should use my own machine.
I called upon Don Juan Bautista to go with me to market, when he at once entered into a lengthy discourse about ladies going to such places; that the jente decente (people of pedigree) never did such things; that "the people in the streets and markets would talk much and say many things." But of this I had already had a foretaste.
I was about to lead the way through the big door, when Jesusita came forward and laid her soft hand upon me, saying: "Señora, do not go; Juan knows better than you about such business. In this country ladies like you send the mozo." But I was proof against her persuasive eloquence. To surrender my entire nationality and individuality was not possible for a good American.
The pair talked aside in low undertone, which I watched with feigned indifference and half-closed eyes. Jesusita glanced commiseratively at me, as if she had used her best efforts to no purpose; but Don Juan Bautista threw his most determined and unrelenting expression upon me, as if to say: "Well, she has had enough warning; now the responsibility rests on her own shoulders!"
He looked back at Jesusita as he stepped from the door, nodding his head—"Well,—I will go; but she will wish she had not gone!"
In the market Juan Bautista never left me for a moment, inspecting closely everything I bought—now and then throwing in a word when he thought I was paying too much. He counted every cent as fast as I paid it out, and noted every article placed in the basket. I had nearly completed my purchases, and was talking to a woman about the prospect for butter—regretting the difficulty of getting it,— when she leaned across the table, waggling that tireless forefinger at me, saying, "En este tiempo ya no hay, no es costumbre" ("At this time of the year there is none"), Juan Bautista chiming in (with the interminable waggle of his forefinger also), "No! no hay!" ("No, indeed, there is none").
The last purchase was made, and I was about closing my purse, when glancing up, I saw Juan Bautista's great merciless eyes fixed upon me, while he said in a firm voice: "But, mi pilon, Señora!" This is the custom of the country. If you stay at home, I get my pilon from the merchants and market people; if you come—I must have it anyhow. A wrangle was impossible, and handing him dos reales (twenty-five cents), I went home a far wiser woman.
Jesusita looked proudly upon the towering form of Juan Bautista as he entered the portal—basket in one hand, dos reales in the other. Not a word was spoken between them, but looks told volumes. She knew what Juan could do, and he had proved to her his ability to cope with the stranger from any part of the world. To myself I confessed that in Don Juan Bautista I had found a foeman worthy of my steel.
I asked him to light the fire in the stove and I would make another effort to instruct Jesusita in its management. He went about it, while I withdrew for a few moments to my room. Very soon I noticed that the house was full of smoke. Supposing it to be on fire, I ran to the kitchen, which was in a dense fog, but no fire visible. Nor was Jesusita or Don Juan Bautista to be found. The cause of the smoke was soon discovered. He had built the fire in the oven, and closed the doors!
I clapped my hands for them, according to custom; but they came not. I then found them sitting in the shady court; Jesusita's right arm lay confidingly on Juan Bautista's big left shoulder, as she looked up entreatingly at the harsh countenance of the arbiter of her fate.
I gleaned from their conversation that she wished to remain, but her marido was evidently bent on going. On my approach they rose politely, and Juan Bautista delivered the valedictory, assuring me in pleasant terms of their good-will; and it was not the pilon business—that had been settled—but the certainty that Jesusita's health would be injured by using the cooking-stove decided him.
He said they would go to their "pobre casa"—I knew they had none; then gathering up their goods and chattels, with the unvarying politeness of the country, ''Hasta otro vista" ("Until I see you again"), Vaya V. con Dios!" ("May God be with you!"), they stepped lightly over the threshold—looked up and down the street, uncertain which way to go—then out they went into the great busy world. Thus disappeared forever from my sight Pancho's comadrita.
In every new servant we employed new characteristics were developed. All agreed in their leading costumbres, yet differed in the manner of carrying them into effect, while their quaintness and individuality afforded me constant entertainment. Some came humbly, giving only one name, while others used much formality, never failing to give the prefix Don or Doña.
Their names were as puzzling as their hereditary customs. I found 
PIO QUINTO (PIUS V.) AS A DOOR-KEEPER.
that while the Southern negro had been shrewd in appropriating the names of such great men as George Washington, Henry Clay, and Thomas Jefferson, the Mexican servants had likewise availed themselves of the names of their own great men. I hired Miguel Hidalgo twice, Porfirio Diaz once, Manuel Gonzales three times, as also numerous others. But when a little, old, weazened, solemn-looking man, with a face as sanctimonious as an Aztec deity, wanted employment, and gave his name as "Pio Quinto" (Pius v.), assuring me he would guard well my front door, he quite took my breath away.
Among the many who came immediately under my observation was a newly married pair who had walked a hundred miles, seeking employment. They had neither beds nor bedding; nor, in fact, anything save the soiled, tattered clothing they wore.
The wife's name was Juanita, and knowing that Juan meant John, I then supposed that the addition of the ita, signifying little, made it Little John; but a further knowledge of names and idioms revealed the fact that Juana was Jane, and Juanita little Jane. But I began by calling her Little John, and so continued as long as she was in my employ. The diminutive was peculiarly appropriate. I see her now —this patient, docile, helpful child-woman. Her wealth of shining black hair hung in a long plait; her eyes, soft, yet glowing with a strange, peculiar, half-human, half-animal fire.
When the rebozo fell from her shoulders, a dainty figure was revealed—the contour exquisitely rounded. Her hand and arm would have delighted an artist for a model. Her step on the stone floor was light and free—noiseless as that of a kitten. Her voice was plaintive, sweet, and low, accompanied by a manner so gentle, so humble expressing without saying, "May I do something for you?" If I were sick, Little John would take her place on the floor by the bedside, hold my hands, stroking them tenderly, bathe my brow and feet, murmuring in pathetic tones, "Mi pobre Señora!" ("My poor lady or madame"), which finally died away on half-parted lips, with "Pobrecita!" ("Poor little thing!")
I was curious about her family ties, and asked her of her people, a hundred miles away. "Have you a father and mother?" said I one day. The little form swayed back and forth. She made a low wail—the most pitiful heart-cry—a smothered pent-up sob, laden with
A STREET SCENE.
all the griefs of Little John's orphaned life. With tearful eyes and bowed head, clasping my hands, she wailed out again and again, "Muertos!" ("Dead!") "No tengo mas que mi marido!" ("I have only my husband"). The poor little creature's story was told.
In consideration of my many difficulties in this line, I was glad to give them employment, when, according to custom, they solicited a portion of their wages in advance. Having received it, the wife, ignoring her own great needs, bought material for clothing for her husband. She borrowed my scissors; and I, curious to see how she would manage the cutting, went to her room to note the process.
As thought Pancho about "fingers having been made before knives and forks," so thought this young pobre about seats, as she sat, tailor fashion, on the dirt floor.
Such measuring and calculating as she had, in order to get two shirts out of three yards and a half! I laughed until I cried over her dilemma, as well as over the solicitude of her spouse about the result. He was evidently deeply interested.
She was only fourteen years of age, which gave an additional interest and a touching pathos to her anxious devotion. I thought to myself: "Woman-like, you will give your last farthing, take sleep from your eyes, even die, for the man you love!"
She finally cut out the shirts, the material being heavy brown domestic, and with the same untiring earnestness drew threads, made tiny tucks in the bosom, and when they were completed, brought them to me for inspection. More exquisite stitching or more perfectly made garments I never saw; but, as might be imagined, they would have been a close fit on a mere boy. This, however, was no impediment to the enthusiastic zeal of this interesting pair, and the shirts were duly worn by his lordship.
All the money which they earned jointly, with commendable unselfishness on her part went for his adornment, she continuing, with the aid of a calico dress which I gave her, the possessor of one suit and a half. With the same ever predominating feminine instinct, shoes were purchased for the husband; and very soon he was strutting about the premises as if monarch of all he surveyed.
In every possible way he made pretexts for errands that he might show off his clothes. His peacock strut was inimitably funny, and caused me unending amusement, though the smile was often checked by the thought of the poor little wife's unselfishness. The heart of woman is, after all, everywhere the same, and too frequently her devotion must be its own and sole reward.
One of his edicts was, that his wife should not dress fowls. The custom of skinning instead of plucking fowls exists in Mexico. But I was leaving nothing untried to have everything done according to my notions. One day, when he was detained away for several hours, I ordered a pair of chickens for dinner, and directed poor Little Johnny how to prepare them. Without remonstrance she went willingly at the task; but before the chickens were ready for cooking, señor, the husband, returned.
I was watching with bated breath, feeling sure there would be a tempest. He did not intend I should witness the dénoûment, but I was determined to see the fun.
Without speaking audibly, he passed by where she was standing, wrenched from her hands the partly dressed fowls, and in a moment more disappeared in the corral.
I took another route to find my chickens, and instinct led me to the spot. On going to the carriage-house, I found them with strong cords tied around their necks, suspended from the old vehicle. By hanging the poor dead chickens, he retaliated for my presumption in directing his wife to prepare them without his consent and in his absence.
My curiosity next led me to see whether he had hanged his wife, or was erecting a gallows for me. Searching about the garden and out-houses, I found the couple in an unfrequented walk. She was wringing her hands and crying, while he stood bolt upright, bestowing upon her every severe expression and word of chastisement at his command. His jetty, straight hair stood up all over his head, his eyes glittered with rage, his brown lips were white, and his teeth champed viciously! All this was accompanied by the popping of his fists together, in the most effective manner. Every time this tragic part of the performance
The end of all this was that they took up their pallets of maguey and walked, leaving me to a pious meditation on the frailties and foibles of human nature in general, and on the peculiarities of Mexican servants in particular; and also to the disagreeable necessity of cutting the chickens down, and preparing my dinner single-handed.
The meek little wife, guarded by her grim liege, looked back at me askant, slyly kissed her hand, and smiled. This was the last I saw of Juanita.
The mozo, of all the various servants, was daily becoming more and more a vexatious problem. Indispensable, but to the last degree puzzling, I was anxious to know at what point in my experience the tolerated or " customary '" labors of this individual would be introduced.
The time had now come when, as I feared, his entire vocabulary would narrow down to this one familiar sentence, "No es costumbre," and he would assume the immovable and useless position of a mere figurehead. My imagination was wrought to an exalted state of anticipation, and I knew not what a day would bring forth. Every day carried me nearer to the time of Mother Noah, and to a world of chance. Wood, when not in small pieces and sold from the backs of burros, brought root, branch, and top, on ancient carts with wooden wheels, larger than the Aztec calendar; dogs called "Sal" regardless of sex; the yellow of the egg white; corn husks sold by the hundred; vinegar from France; and the tomato, our delicious vegetable, here assuming the masculine prefix he-tomato (spelled jitomati); all these things formed a grotesque panorama of curious contradictions all safely fortified behind the cast-iron "Costumbres."