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Title: The real Argentine - Notes and Impressions of a Year in the Argentine and Uruguay
Author: Hammerton, John Alexander, Sir
Language: English
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THE REAL ARGENTINE
_WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
Stevensoniana.
In the Track of “R. L. S.” and elsewhere in Old France.
George Meredith in Anecdote and Criticism.
J. M. Barrie and his Books.
Our Highland Tour.
The Call of the Town.
The Actor’s Art.
Humorists of the Pencil.
English Humorists of To-day.
_Editor of_
Harmsworth History of the World.
The World’s Great Books.
The Charles Dickens Library.
The Fine Art Scott.
“Punch” Library of Humor.
etc., etc., etc.
[Illustration: A VANISHING FIGURE
A “Gaucho” in full costume, wearing the “chiripá,” or loose
over-trousers, and carrying the “bolas” around his waist.
_Frontispiece._]
THE REAL ARGENTINE
Notes and Impressions of a Year
in the Argentine and Uruguay
By
J. A. HAMMERTON
_With Numerous Illustrations_
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1915
COPYRIGHT, 1915
BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I
FROM LONDON TO LISBON 1
CHAPTER II
OUR VOYAGE TO THE RIVER PLATE 7
CHAPTER III
FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF BUENOS AYRES 28
CHAPTER IV
PICTURES OF STREET LIFE IN BUENOS AYRES 38
CHAPTER V
MORE SCENES FROM THE STREETS OF BUENOS AYRES 56
CHAPTER VI
WHAT WE THOUGHT OF THE WEATHER AND THE MOSQUITOES 73
CHAPTER VII
A SPLENDID CITY OF SHAM 83
CHAPTER VIII
SOME “PASEOS” IN BUENOS AYRES 102
CHAPTER IX
MORE “PASEOS” IN BUENOS AYRES 116
CHAPTER X
HOW THE MONEY GOES 129
CHAPTER XI
SOME PHASES OF SOCIAL LIFE 154
CHAPTER XII
BUSINESS LIFE IN BUENOS AYRES 195
CHAPTER XIII
THE ARGENTINE AT HOME 236
CHAPTER XIV
“THE BRITISH COLONY” AND ITS WAYS 260
CHAPTER XV
THE EMIGRANT IN LIGHT AND SHADE 289
CHAPTER XVI
LIFE IN THE “CAMP” AND THE PROVINCIAL TOWNS 315
CHAPTER XVII
THE SPIRIT OF THE COUNTRY 340
CHAPTER XVIII
A LAND OF PAIN 348
CHAPTER XIX
TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW IN THE ARGENTINE 361
CHAPTER XX
OUR SUMMER IN MONTEVIDEO 379
CHAPTER XXI
URUGUAY: NOTES AND IMPRESSIONS 411
CHAPTER XXII
FROM THE RIVER PLATE TO THE ANDES 438
ILLUSTRATIONS
A Vanishing Figure—“Gaucho” in full costume _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
One of the Crowded Docks in the Port of Buenos Ayres 4
Friends of Emigrants Awaiting Arrival of a Ship 4
Paseo Colón, with Government House on the Right 12
The Narrow Streets of Buenos Ayres—Florida and San Martín 22
The Changing Heart of Buenos Ayres—Plaza de Mayo 34
Exterior and Interior of the “Casa Rosada” 44
Statue of San Martín in Buenos Ayres 52
The Colón Theatre, Buenos Ayres 60
Exterior of the Jockey Club, Buenos Ayres 68
The New Courts of Justice 76
The Palatial Home of _La Prensa_, Buenos Ayres 88
A Princely Sanctum Room of the _Prensa’s_ Chief Editor 96
A Corner of the Medical Consulting Room of the _Prensa_ 96
Bedroom of Distinguished Visitors’ Suite in _Prensa_ Office 106
The Gorgeously Decorated Salon in the _Prensa_ Office 106
A Contrast in Public Buildings—Art Gallery and Waterworks Office 112
English “Pro-Cathedral” in Buenos Ayres 118
Roman Catholic Cathedral, Buenos Ayres 118
“La Merced,” a Typical Buenos Ayres Church 124
“Teatro de la Opera,” Exterior View 124
The Luxurious Domestic Architecture of Buenos Ayres 136
Terminus of the Southern Railway at Plaza Constitucion, Buenos
Ayres 148
Marble Fountain in the Gardens of the Paseo Colón, Buenos Ayres 158
Plaza Francia, in the Avenida Alvear, Buenos Ayres 158
Prize Bulls at Buenos Ayres Agricultural Show 166
Summer Scenes on the Tigre 174
Views of Mar del Plata 182
Suburban and Rural Roads in the Argentine 190
An Argentine “Gaucho” in his Hours of Ease 198
Italian “Colonos” and their “Rancho” in the Argentine 206
A Village Wheelwright in the Argentine “Camp” 206
Preparing the Picnic Meal—“Un Asada” in the Argentine 214
Fields of Maize 222
Bags of Wheat Awaiting Shipment 230
Three Huge Piles of “Jerked Beef” at a “Saladero” 230
A Scene in the “Camp”—Peones Outside a “Pulperia,” or Country
Grocery and Liquor Store 240
A “Ramada,” or Shaded Resting-Place for Men and Horses 254
An “Estancia” Homestead of the Old Clay-Built Type 266
A Modern “Estancia” Homestead Built of Concrete 282
A “Rodeo,” or Round-Up of Cattle in the Argentine Pampa 294
Familiar Scenes on an “Estancia” 310
Teams of Oxen Ploughing in the Argentine Pampa 318
Montevideo from the South, Showing the Cerro with Its Fort 332
Shipping in the Roadstead at Montevideo 332
General View of Montevideo and the River Plate 344
Plaza Independencia, Montevideo 350
Plaza Libertad, or Cagancha, Montevideo 350
Cathedral and Plaza Matriz, Montevideo 356
Plaza Independencia and Avenida 18 de Julio, Montevideo 356
The “Rambla” at Pocitos, Montevideo 364
Bathing Place at Ramírez, Montevideo 364
Main Buildings of Montevideo University 372
The Solis Theatre, Montevideo 372
Scene in the Parque Urbano of Montevideo 382
A Rural Glimpse in the Prado, Montevideo 382
Cattle Assembled on “La Tablada,” Near Montevideo 390
Types of the Fantastic Domestic Architecture of Montevideo 408
Typical Country Road in Uruguay 418
Hides Drying at a Curing Factory Near Montevideo 418
The Calle San Martín, Mendoza 432
A Glimpse of the River Mendoza 432
The Natural Bridge of Puente del Inca 440
The Inca’s Lake in the Andes 446
The Christ of the Andes 446
INTRODUCTION
So many books have been written on South American countries within recent
years that the addition of one more to the already formidable list calls
for a word of explanation, if not apology.
So far as American writers on the Latin-American Republics are concerned,
many of their works are based upon the statistical returns of the
respective Governments, or on topographical and historical data, easily
obtainable at the public libraries. Others, more popular, but perhaps
less valuable, are the hasty records of fleeting visits. These latter are
so apt to be informed by a spirit of indiscriminate admiration that they
present misleading and untrue notions of the countries described.
The present writer may be stating what is already known to the reader,
when he mentions that among both of these classes of books a considerable
percentage—perhaps the greater number of those published in the United
States and in England—have been subsidised by the governments of the
respective republics of which they treat. Many are but glorified
advertising pamphlets, put forth in the guise of serious books the
better to fulfil their office of propaganda. To look to them for any
dispassionate and well-studied view of the countries illustrated in their
pages, would be as natural as to expect the advertisement writer of
Somebody’s Soap to publish an entirely impartial opinion of the article
he had been employed to advertise.
Several French and German authors have written admirable works on the
Argentine, entirely free from bias, depicting the country as it is,
alive to its merits and its demerits alike; free both from the charge of
“log-rolling” and from that of hasty observation. But American or English
writers of similar works are not many. Nay, due to the difficulties
of ensuring the conditions essential to the impartial and open-minded
study of the country, even writers of such international distinction as
Viscount Bryce and Mr. Theodore Roosevelt, with the best will in the
world, are liable to give false impressions. Often have I seen the system
at work, whereby “distinguished visitors” to South American capitals
are so entirely taken in hand by Government, entertained royally, and
shown only such things as Government particularly wish them to see,
that it would be expecting too much of human nature to look to them
for an unbiased opinion of the country. I have not read Lord Bryce’s
book on South America, nor anything that Mr. Roosevelt may have written
concerning his tour there, but both these eminent men so suffer from
the disability of their eminence, and from the official hospitality
showered upon them during their brief sojourns in South America, that,
try they never so valiantly to speak nothing but the truth,—and I esteem
them, different as they are in many ways, two of the frankest and most
honourable of modern statesmen,—their impressions will be coloured by
the peculiar conditions under which they were obtained; conditions
of official tutelage; and tempered furthermore by reason of the warm
hospitality extended to them by the respective Governments. As for the
things they see in their rounds of inspection, it is notorious that they
are shown only what official discretion would have them see. All this,
mark you, in no depreciation of the brilliant work which these, and many
less distinguished visitors to South America, are capable of doing,
but merely to remind the reader that the conditions in which a work
descriptive of any particular country has been evolved ought to be borne
in mind in the reading of it.
The chief fault of most writers on the Argentine is the indiscriminate
praise they shower around; their fulsome flattery of the country. Only
two hours ago I received from Canada a newspaper with most of its front
page devoted to an illustrated article entitled “Buenos Ayres—the Paris
of the New World.” An estate agent, describing the attractions of some
property for sale, would have been beggared for superlatives compared
with the writer of this article who lets loose a veritable flood of
uncritical “gush” on Buenos Ayres. He may have spent a week in the town,
or he may never have seen it, but a more untruthful or misleading account
of the city could not have been penned, though it is typical of many that
have come to my notice. I feel that the influence of such writings is
to create in the minds of the public who do not know the scenes nor the
conditions described an impression entirely mischievous.
So thinking, I have set myself in the present work to make “a try at
truth.” I have lived long enough on the River Plate to revise and correct
my impressions. I mastered the language of the country, so that I came
to converse in it as readily as in English. And during the whole of
my stay I wrote not a single paragraph of this book, lest I should
record impressions and ideas which in the end might be misleading. I
deliberately refrained from note-taking, so that when, fully a year
later, I came to the writing, I should be able to secure a truer
perspective, only the things that mattered disengaging themselves from
the multitude of impressions that crowd in on one during a year of active
life in a strange land.
I have eschewed statistics, which bulk so largely in most other works on
the Argentine, and can be made to prove whatever a writer most wishes to
establish. What I have sought for rather, has been the human interest
of these great cities of the River Plate; to present an honest picture
of the life that is being lived in them to-day, and to convey, in as
interesting a manner as I know how, some general notion of the Republics
of Argentine and Uruguay as they really are. I carefully avoid the
official point of view, having studiously refrained from putting myself
at any time under any obligation that might tend to make me echo an
official opinion instead of stating that which I had honestly formed from
personal and independent study.
J. A. H.
THE REAL ARGENTINE
CHAPTER I
FROM LONDON TO LISBON
We set out from London on a raw and rainy day. It had been raining
off and on for many weeks, and as enthusiasts of the car we had been
grumbling, my wife and I, a good deal at the weather. But we were booked
for the land of sunshine! And when we bade good-bye to the chauffeur at
Charing Cross Station, rather nervously watched the old grey car roll
away among the traffic and the drizzling rain, we comforted each other
with simple words about the sunshine that awaited us far off by the River
Plate.
Even Paris was dirty. I am an inveterate lover of Paris, and must have
made some thirty different visits, but seldom out of season, so that I
have rarely seen her draggle-tailed. But in that rainy March she looked
as miserable as London, and next day only the luxurious accommodation
of the Sud Express made the journey through a sodden France agreeable.
Floods everywhere. In the neighbourhood of Orleans, the geography of the
country seemed to have changed, and this land of few lakes was studded
with sheets of water that more than rivalled those of Bouchet, or
Gerardmer.
Entering Spain we suffered a change in railway accommodation which was
to be typical of many things when changed into Spanish—a change for the
worse. The carriages were no longer so princely in their appointments,
they were smaller and not quite so clean; but we were still on the
Sud Express, the _train de luxe_, and were (but guessed it not) more
comfortable than we were to be again for many moons. So in the darkness
through Northern Spain, awakening in the morning as we were nearing the
borders of Portugal.
Thus far the journey had mostly covered ground long familiar to me, but
Portugal was a new land, and romantically beautiful it appeared, with
its stony uplands, its green mountains and leafy valleys, seen in the
clear rain-washed air of that golden day that followed the passing of
the floods. We were due in Lisbon at eleven o’clock at night; but, a
bridge on the route having been washed away, the train had to make a long
détour. We arrived at one o’clock in the morning; yet the town was as
wide awake as if it had been no later than ten. It evidently goes to bed
about three, as we soon found to our cost when we sought to sleep in one
of the luxurious chambers of the Avenida Palace Hotel. And here again we
were unconsciously bidding good-bye to genuine comfort, as we were never
to see in any hotel of South America a room worthy to be slept in by
comparison, though we were to pay three times the price charged at the
Avenida Palace, which, at the time, seemed sufficiently high!
An interesting little incident on arrival at Lisbon threw a gleam of
light on the manners of the degenerate Portuguese nobility, about which
we were to learn much from a friend who had resided there since the
flight of King Manuel. At the Gare d’Orsay in Paris, we noticed that the
next compartment to ours was occupied by a tall and handsome lady and
her little daughter. Elegantly dressed, her natural but waning beauty
aided artificially, her hair of false gold, this painted lady offered a
strong contrast to the group of relatives who had come to see her off.
At best, one might have judged these to be ugly people of the artisan
class; at worst, gentry who traded less honourably in the obscurer byways
of Saint Lazarre or Montmartre. The lady showed no physical resemblance
to any of them; she might have been a changeling daughter. Her own child
was a charming little creature, despite her plain features, and it was
clear the mother could command more cash than any of the shabby group of
relatives who had wished them _adieu_ and _bon voyage_.
All the way to Lisbon, the lady kept closely to her compartment, but the
trixy little daughter made free of the car. On arrival at the Portuguese
capital, one began to piece together the scraps of a typical modern
“romance,” as the pair were met by an undersized, flabby and slightly
deformed young gentleman, on whom the child gazed with all the interest
of a first encounter. A great motor car was in waiting and conveyed them
to our hotel, a distance of about two hundred yards! We were fated to see
much of the curious trio on the voyage to Rio de Janeiro. The gentleman,
a Portuguese nobleman, was evidently making for the safety of Brazil, and
had planned to keep bright his memories of Parisian Nights in company of
one of the pleasure-givers.
One meets queer ship-mates on the South American trip. It would be the
height of indiscretion to inquire too closely into the relationship of
many of the couples who sit with you at table. Somehow I always thought
of “the distinguished member of the Jockey Club, with his niece, h’m,
h’m!” in _Tartarin sur les Alpes_, when the Portuguese nobleman, with his
lady, h’m, h’m, sat down at table with the rest of our oddly assorted
company.
There is a brightness and a sense of gaiety about the picturesque and
beautiful capital of Portugal that are most engaging to the fleeting
visitor, but after a short time the foreign resident finds it one of the
dullest of towns, and has a lurking sympathy with the old and fallen
nobility who sought distraction in pursuits that drew only the poison
from the pleasures of London and Paris, and eventually made of them the
most corrupt aristocracy in Europe. From all one heard, the revolution
did not come a day too soon, and seldom have there been a king and
an aristocracy that more openly “asked for it” than Manuel and his
effeminate nobles.
The mingling of the negro blood with the European, which is so marked a
feature of the Portuguese, is doubtless responsible for the low ebb of
morality in Lisbon. The Jewish type is very noticeable among the people
one passes in the streets, and especially in the women. Altogether,
I felt that the breath of the place was somewhat unwholesome, and
Republicanism cannot possibly make matters worse, though national decay
may have gone too far for any sort of government to re-vitalise the
character of the people. Old Portugal’s adventurings abroad, which made
her powerful for a time, brought to her the canker of luxury and the
lowering of her virility, in the admixture of the blood of alien and
vicious peoples, so that to-day in her decadence she is really paying
her final debts of empire.
[Illustration: ONE OF THE CROWDED DOCKS IN THE PORT OF BUENOS AYRES.]
[Illustration: FRIENDS OF EMIGRANTS AWAITING THE ARRIVAL OF A SHIP.]
One sign there was of hope in what we saw—the admirably conducted
orphanage that occupies the splendid buildings of the old monastery
of Belem, hard by the memorial of Vasco da Gama, with its memories of
Portugal’s golden age. Nowhere have I seen a finer institution of its
kind, with better evidence of wise charity and tender care of the young.
It was a good act that cleared out the droning monks and confiscated
their building for its present humane and profitable use. The boys are
taught all kinds of trades, including agriculture, and some of them to
whom we spoke during their play-hour were much ahead of the scholars of
any English orphanage in their knowledge of foreign languages. French
was the favourite, although one of the lads, who had strong evidence of
negro origin, spoke both French and English admirably, and told us he was
studying German.
On the way to the monastery we spent some time examining the
extraordinary collection of old royal carriages and sedan chairs, housed
in a plain modern building. These relics of the gorgeous past are even
more remarkable in their prodigal ostentation than those of the famous
collection at Versailles, and will probably be guarded by the Republic
as evidence that the spendthrift kings who so long oppressed the country
went to sinful extremes in their love of ostentation and luxury, though
all the same I would not swap a sixteen horse power car for the whole
collection, if it were comfort I was after!
The driver of the motor car we had hired would have been kept in
solitary confinement in any peaceful country, for he was a public danger,
yet when we had loaded up with our luggage at the hotel we came near
to missing the ship, as “something went wrong with the works,” and the
reckless driver proved so incompetent a mechanic that we had eventually
to transfer ourselves and our light luggage (the heavy having been
shipped in England) to another taxi, and so reach the quay, where for a
mere trifle of 2,000 reis ($2) two brawny rascals put our bags on board
the tender, with more fuss than an English porter would have made over
shifting a car-load.
In a few minutes more we were aboard the liner that was to carry us
across the sunlit seas to that other America which is so different from
the Northern Continent and of which Americans really know so little.
CHAPTER II
OUR VOYAGE TO THE RIVER PLATE
We had laughed at the story of some Englishmen in Lisbon, told us by a
friend there. He overheard a group of typical John Bull tourists, who had
been “doing” a fortnight in Portugal, discussing their experiences on
their way to the boat. The weather had been superb all the time; they had
been steeped in sunshine; yet the reflection which seemed to find most
favour was the remark of a burly Yorkshireman: “Thank ’eaven, boys, no
more of this damned glare for a while!”
But we were seekers of sunshine, prepared to accept all that came our
way, so it was with light hearts we heard the engines throb and felt the
vessel resume her voyage. The Franco-Portuguese couple with the little
girl and ourselves were all who came aboard at Lisbon, which looked a
veritable city of dream as we steamed out through the wide waters of
the Tagus. Seen from the river, there are few finer prospects than the
long and diversified coast line of Lisbon, culminating in the castled
height of Cintra. A soft haze of heat blurred the outlines of the hills
and touched them much in the manner of those feathery old landscape
engravings that used to adorn the art books of fifty years ago.
There was a fairly large number of passengers aboard, but we soon
discovered that the majority were only bound for Las Palmas, excluding
the second class and some three hundred Spanish and Portuguese emigrants
herded like cattle in the steerage. The dinner bell rang soon after we
had settled in our new quarters, and for two weeks or so our days now
slipped away, punctuated by the ship’s bells. This orderly division of
time speedily produces a mental condition that makes for calm and good
health. With nothing to do but engage in an occasional game of deck golf,
or lounge in your canvas chair reading a novel, and be prompt to answer
the summons of the bells that ring you to your meals, the days fade into
each other, like the old-fashioned dissolving views, and with never a
suggestion of weariness. Indeed, I often wondered if it might not be that
a term of imprisonment would be almost as efficacious in bringing calm
to the troubled spirit and health to the wearied body. Certainly a spell
of monastic life would be as good a “rest cure.” But, on the whole, I
felt the steamer chair had its advantages and although I had taken with
me the notes for a book I had had in hand for years, intent on advancing
that in my days of idleness, it was with a great content that I found it
impossible to fix my mind on any thought of work in those serene days
of sailing over sunny seas. Nothing seemed to matter, even the frequent
ticking of the “wireless” was somewhat of an intrusion on our ocean peace.
In a voyage of so little incident, when the chief excitement is contrived
by arranging sweepstakes on the day’s mileage of the vessel, there
is plenty of time to study one’s fellow passengers, and for this a
small company, such as we were after leaving Las Palmas, is probably
more interesting than a large one. There were only some thirty saloon
passengers and naturally there was much interchange of gossip, the
ship’s officers proving especially companionable. A small company has
the disadvantage, however, that the chronicler cannot well describe
his companion voyagers with that easy frankness he may safely bestow
upon a crowd. The possibilities of mutual identification are enormously
increased.
Yet in the little handful of voyagers with whom we sailed there was a
remarkable mingling of character: potentialities of tragedy and comedy, a
microcosm of the social world. One could find much to say of them. I must
content myself, however, with a few vague touches.
I found that one of the passengers who had made himself most eminent
in the companionship of the saloon was an intimate of one of my oldest
friends in a far-distant city—so tiny is this great world of ours. He
was a gentleman in whom there survived something of the spirit of Mr.
Pleydell in his Saturday evening “high jinks,” and maintained that
character in the smoking room (where every night was Saturday) with a
small but admiring audience whom he addressed as “my loyal subjects.”
“Tell me,” he would say, “what thou would that we, of our royal will,
might do this evening for our own and thy diversion.” And with varying
qualities of the lamely jocular they would give their suggestions. It was
all very pathetic to an onlooker: the frank and insatiable egotism of
“Uncle” (as we dubbed this worthy of the ruddy visage), his determination
to hear the beloved sound of his own voice in hoary anecdote and
threadbare jest. I was very patient with him, as I shall ever be with
one who has passed many years of his life in South America—he should
be allowed a large charter of liberty for all that he has suffered of
social hunger and intellectual thirst. At first I resented somewhat the
obtrusive nature of this worthy Scot’s companionship, but, somehow,
before the journey’s end we were good friends. I think a voyage of this
kind teaches one tolerance, and it is surprising how the most apparently
incompatible units may draw together by the practice of even a little
toleration. As “Uncle” observed in his soft Scots voice: “Mun, I was
even beginning to like Brixton,” naming a young man who joined us at
Pernambuco, and who, by reason of a most pronounced tendency to “swank,”
made a bad first impression.
Mention of this passenger, by the way, reminds me that his unfortunate
habit of capping every story, going one better than everybody else, kept
most of us at arm’s length for a day or two. If one said he had yellow
fever, Brixton had had it twice; if another had made two voyages to
Africa, Brixton had made five or six; if a third had shot a hare, Brixton
had shot an elephant. Everywhere he had been he had met with hair-raising
adventures. In Pernambuco, he had to use his revolver every night to
scare away the burglars. How many had he killed? “I winged one of the
devils anyhow!” And in proof he passed round his revolver. Yellow Jack
was raging in the town when he left, he assured us; but somehow he had
been allowed to come on board quietly and make us shiver with recital
of the horrors he had escaped. Of course, we doubted every word that
Brixton said and yet on many points I have since had occasion to test his
statements and never once have I found that he lied. He told the truth as
he saw it, and he was an entertaining and good-hearted Englishman, who
had forgot in growing up to cast off certain habits of thought and talk
which are delightful in Tom Sawyers and Huck Finns, but are apt to convey
wrong impressions of handsome, well-groomed Mr. Brixtons!
Perhaps our quaintest voyager was an ugly Frenchman, who had been
christened “Dr. Crippen,” before the ship had reached Lisbon. He
certainly bore some resemblance to that misguided gentleman who stood so
eminently in the world’s eye for a time, and the humour of the situation
was that he had never heard of Crippen, and rather thought it was some
sort of dimly conceived English compliment to him. He spoke no word of
our barbaric tongue, and when “Uncle” presided at a mock trial of “Dr.
Crippen” the prisoner was vastly amused, until he found himself condemned
to an hour’s solitary confinement in a bathroom. He was much given to
patronising the bar and passed the most of his days in a state of happy
fuddle; yet I afterwards learned that his was one of the clearest brains
that control a great and world-famous organisation in France and when
he left us, it was a new and extremely sober “Dr. Crippen” who stepped
ashore to carry out a very delicate and difficult business mission.
There was no American or English lady among the saloon passengers, but
we had Scots, Irish, Danish, French, Spanish, and Peruvian. Of none that
were ladies shall I speak, but two who were something else deserve
a note. ’Tis ever thus; virtue is so lacking in the picturesque. As
a connoisseur of dancing, I was interested to discover that we had
aboard a famous _danseuse_, most charming of all the pupils of the
great Loïe Fuller, who was on her way to the Casino at Buenos Ayres—a
resort of dubious fame, according to current belief among our music-hall
performers. But as I had many a time been charmed by the exquisite art of
the said pupil of Loïe Fuller (whose name is as widely known as that of
her teacher) I had no difficulty in deciding that the plain and vulgar
Spanish contortionist who was going to stamp her heavy feet and twist her
decidedly shapely body before the _jovenes distinguidos_ of the Casino
was merely trading in the name of a celebrity. Her luggage bore the
famous name in huge letters, and I afterwards saw it “billed” widely in
Buenos Ayres.
On the whole, the conduct of this Spanish dancer during the voyage was
so openly without sense of shame that there was little one could object
to! Sometimes she appeared in gorgeous raiment and an enormous “picture
hat,” ready for the Bois or the Alameda; even, on one occasion, sporting
a huge muff in the tropics! Again she would pass the day in bedroom
slippers, her corsets put aside, her lithe body draped only in a dressing
gown, and her golden hair of yesterday, completely doffed, leaving only
a shabby little nob of faded brown. She entangled at least one of the
male passengers, a Chilian who later found another flame in an attractive
_demi-mondaine_ of the second class, and it afforded us some amusement to
watch the rivalry which now ensued, but there was little sympathy when
the gay Lothario came to the end of his cash and attempted to borrow.
[Illustration: THE FIRST FAMILIAR LANDMARK FOR THE VISITOR TO BUENOS
AYRES.
Part of the Paseo Colón, with the Government House on the right, and the
tallest of the new commercial buildings on the left.]
The other “interesting lady” of the saloon was of quite a different type.
A French _chanteuse_ of the smaller café concerts, she was extremely
plain by nature’s wish, but the art of make-up and some potent hair-dye
effected a magical change the day she left us. She behaved herself
modestly enough and passed most of her time with her crochet needle,
sitting side by side with the honest women aboard, yet I was told that
her songs would have brought a blush to the cheeks of a stevedore!
She sang to us several dainty and harmless little French and Spanish
verses in the familiar _café chantant_ manner, and altogether left
the impression of a poor woman laying out her small gifts to the best
advantage.
There was little or no intercourse between the saloon passengers and
those of the second class, although it seemed to me that among the
latter were many worthy people and a good-hearted companionship. They
certainly showed to advantage in the diverting ceremony observed when
Father Neptune held court on crossing the line. Included among them were
a number of minor “artistes” bound for the music-halls of Buenos Ayres,
not to mention several young women with a still less attractive journey’s
end in view.
We heard much from the old South Atlantic voyagers on board about the
doings on other and more popular lines than that to which our vessel
belonged. The “muck-raking” magazines might work up a spicy stew of
scandal about life on the South American liners if they gave themselves
to the task. Wealthy Argentines and Brazilians travelling with their
wives in the saloon and two or three concubines in the second class,
offer quite attractive material for the journalist in search of the
spicy, while the traffic in “white slaves” has long provided a certain
percentage of the passengers for these very profitable lines, in which,
perchance, some dear old christian ladies have their investments. How
difficult it is to keep one’s hands clean in this soiled world!
From all that I have been told, and also from personal observation,
the perils of the deep may have a curious resemblance to the perils of
“the Great White Way.” And even those who ought to be the protectors of
innocence may prove to be its assailants. A young married lady, lately
arrived from England, was under the pain of having to travel alone from
Buenos Ayres to a Brazilian port where her husband was lying in hospital
with typhoid, and her plain story of how the purser, under cloak of
sympathy for her in her distress, first ingratiated himself by talking
sentimental slop about his wife and bairns at home, getting her to go
into his cabin to look at the treasured photographs of his “dear ones,”
and there, without more ado, attempted to assail the honour of the young
wife, whose mental sufferings at the time were, to my knowledge, almost
beyond endurance, is one of the ugliest I have heard. This was an English
officer, note you: none of your sensual Italians.
It is to be feared that much co-mingling with pimps and procurers may
have tended somewhat to blunt the native honour of the Englishman in
these southern latitudes, for, up to a day so recent that it seems but
yesterday, nothing had been done to dam the foul stream that has flowed
so long from the human sewers of Europe into the still more noisome
_mares stagnantes_ of Buenos Ayres. Now, there is at least some pretence
of stemming it, and from time to time one reads in the Buenos Ayres
papers about the latest raid on the “apaches,” who are deported, with
much pomp and circumstance, or about the rejected of Paris, in the shape
of womankind, who are refused admission to the city of good airs.
But to return to a pleasanter, if less piquant subject, our voyage
deserves at least a few words of description. We seemed to be lying off
Las Palmas before the beautiful picture of Lisbon in sunshine had quite
faded from our vision, and at this distance of time I would not undertake
to say whether it was two or three days that had passed between the two
ports, so dreamy was our progress. The sight of Las Palmas, with its
grateful greenness of hill and valley, and far southward, cloud-high in
a gorgeous flood of sunshine, the mighty mass of Teneriffe, thrusting
itself boldly into the sky from the heaving wilderness of water, gave to
the beholder one of those rare moments of spiritual exaltation which a
first sight of such natural grandeur must always awaken in the thinking
mind.
St. Vincent was a different story. Fully two days more steaming brought
us thither to that vile haunt of malaria and all things unlovely. The
Cape Verde Islands, of which St. Vincent is the principal, dishonour the
name they bear, as there is scarce a speck of verdure to be seen upon
them. Presumably there must be some natural reason for the naming of the
Cape itself on the African coast, off which, nearly five hundred miles
northwestward, these scabby isles show their horrid heads above the blue
Atlantic. They are of a dirty red colour, and at a distance resemble
some humpy monsters of the deep wallowing in the sunshine. The port is
useful as a coaling and cable station. A town of shanties, it swarms
with negroes, and ships’ pedlars. Here a small colony of young Britons
are marooned in the cable service. At first the young cable operator is
no doubt delighted to find how much more picturesque he has become than
he was at home. To _have_ to wear white duck suits and a pith helmet,
and look like Stanley on his way to discover Livingstone, is extremely
attractive to the eye of youth! Even the gentleman who sells coals to the
liners comes on board looking for all the world like a colonial governor,
or the leader of a mission to Abyssinia. Then there is much card-playing
and a good deal of hard-drinking among “the boys,” who talk of “the
service and all that sort of thing, dontcher know,” to feed youth’s
fondness for swagger. But when the debilitating effects of the climate
and the life make themselves felt, when the novelty has gone, what a husk
remains! Lucky are the young men who escape from these rusty isles before
the rot of the place has eaten too deeply into their natures. The harbour
swarms with sharks, but the negro boys who dive for the amusement of the
passengers on the ships that put in there make light of the sharks for a
sixpence, or even for a humble penny thrown into the water.
St. Vincent gave us our last glimpse of the Old World. Its very ugliness
sent our thoughts zestfully forward to the undiscovered beauties of
the New, then so full of promise, now—but that’s a later story. It was
pleasant to hear again the long soft swish of the water running past the
vessel’s sides as she resumed her tranquil voyage into the sunset. Now
succeeded many days of idle lolling in the deck chair, watching through
the binoculars the swarms of flying fish skimming over the surface of the
ocean like tiniest aeroplanes.
Bird life in these ocean solitudes is rare, yet we not only saw several
journeying on confident wing several hundred miles from land, but for
two or three days we were forcibly reminded of “Nature red in tooth and
claw,” by witnessing a little drama in feathers. One day out from St.
Vincent a bird, about the size of a pigeon, gorgeously coloured and
sporting a plume of orange-red, alighted on the rigging of the ship,
pursued by a larger hawk-like bird. Evidently the pursuit had lasted for
a long time, as both were land birds and seemed very exhausted, for we
were now some hundreds of miles from the African coast, whence hunter and
hunted had no doubt flown. For two or three days a strange game of cross
purposes ensued, the hunted, with the skill of desperation, cleverly
selecting different positions in the rigging or on the smoke-stacks,
which offered no opportunity to the hunter to swoop down on him from
above. There were violent chasings at times around the ship, when the
essential cruelty of the Spanish emigrants was displayed in their efforts
to strike the pursued bird with all sorts of objects hurled at it as it
swept past the bows. Eventually the hawk gave up and disappeared and soon
afterward the bird of brilliant plumage took wing away.
Seldom did we sight another vessel; now and again we signalled a tramp or
a collier heading south with its cargo from Wales to be sold eventually
in Buenos Ayres at some $20 or $25 per ton—it was during the time of the
coal strike. One only of the old “wind-jammers” did we pass. In full
sail, she looked, in the blue immensity of the tranquil sea, no bigger
than a toy boat, and an object of such appropriate grace and beauty that
it was sad to think a day would come when no ship that goes by spread of
glistening sail would cross those far waters again.
Early on the sixth day out from St. Vincent, on going on deck before
breakfast we were not a little surprised to find that we were steaming
close to a long and narrow green island on which many signs of careful
cultivation were evident. In a cove the white houses of a township showed
clear and inviting in the morning air, the blue smoke curling from some
of the chimneys giving one an intense pang of home hunger. With the
binoculars it was easy to make out people going about their tasks in the
fields, others walking towards what seemed to be a signalling station.
The surprise at this sudden coming upon a bit of the habitated globe in
what, for all we had supposed the night before, was still mid-ocean, sent
us questioning to the officers of the ship. The island turned out to be
Fernando de Noroña, notable chiefly as a Brazilian penal settlement. A
Brazilian—the only one among our company—told me a story about Fernando
de Noroña which, speaking in Spanish, he considered _muy graciosa_. An
Englishman in Pernambuco killed a native in a quarrel and was sent to
the penal isle, but in the course of a year or less he was granted his
liberty, that being a matter of simple negotiation: a little influence
and a modicum of money can always save a criminal in that happy clime.
But, the Englishman, having long suffered a shrewish wife, found so much
peace in prison that he refused to quit the island and there remains.
Fernando de Noroña lies some two hundred miles off the north eastern
shoulder of Brazil, and by that token we were soon to be touching at
Pernambuco and hugging the Brazilian coast for the rest of our voyage.
One felt almost sorry that the sunny days of serene steaming over
shoreless seas were coming to an end and that presently we would be
picking up the coast of the new world. By now we had grown so used to the
companionship of the boat that we began to look forward to leaving it
with something of regret.
At Pernambuco we had our first sight of a South American town and I
should be departing widely from the truth were I to say that the “Venice
of Brazil” tugged at my heart-strings. It is a town of evil-smelling
waterways, half-finished streets, at their best no better than a London
byway, with cut-throat quarters that harbour all uncleanness. The task
of going ashore, first being lowered into a bobbing dingy by means of
a rope and basket, is attended with a sensation of nausea which the
merry assurance of the old skipper by your side as to the water being a
favourite haunt of sharks does little to counteract, especially when
his trained eye enables him, a moment or two later, to point out several
of these hunting for garbage around the ship. It is fair to say of
Pernambuco that it is undergoing transformation: the “avenida” craze has
taken root and at the time of our visit innumerable shanties were being
demolished to make way for wide avenues and new buildings.
The first sensation of crossing a great sea and making land on its
farther shore, once experienced—and it is a “thrill” that never comes
again—we sank back into the half-indifferent contemplation of the long,
indented coast line of this prodigious land of Brazil. For hundreds of
miles it is unchanging in its character of palm-fringed shores, with
great dim mountain masses inland, a soft blur of heat overhanging all.
There is plenty to suggest mystery and romance, and yet somehow beauty
is lacking. I mean the wild beauty of peak and crag which we find along
the coasts of Scotland, where the conformation is continually changing.
These mountains of Brazil have that volcanic sameness which only becomes
magnificent when you can ascend to some commanding pinnacle and look down
upon a veritable wilderness of mighty earth mounds, such as it was my
good fortune once to look upon from the tower of the ancient castle of
Polignac in the volcanic heart of France.
For many nights the tropical skies had been a revelation of stellar
glory, and often though I have gazed at the friendly skies of home on
“a beautiful clear night of stars” (to quote the haunting phrase of “R.
L. S.”), little had I imagined the glories that awaited the beholder of
the heavens in a clear tropical night. The stars appear much larger and
incomparably more brilliant than I have ever seen them in our northern
latitudes, nor do they “stud” the sky so much as hang dependent from the
dense dark blue. I had many starlight talks with the old skipper who was
travelling to a “shore job” (the dream of every sailor!) on the Pacific,
and who spoke of the stars which had guided him so long on his voyages
with that familiarity of the worthy old Scots minister “who, ye micht hae
thought, had been born and brocht up among them.” Yet I have failed on
many occasions since to rediscover the interesting relationships of the
constellations which he so clearly explained to me. I confess, however,
to a keen sense of disappointment in the much vaunted Southern Cross. It
is a lop-sided and unimpressive group of four stars.
The sight of Bahía, about one day’s steam from Pernambuco, was peculiarly
pleasing. It might have been a bit of the French or Italian Riviera, with
its rich verdure and bosky hills, while the residential suburbs looked
quite European as seen from the ship. We made no closer acquaintance than
a stay of some three hours in the beautiful bay, but I could well believe
that much that looked most alluring in the picturesque sea-front of the
town did not bear too close inspection.
Two more days brought us to Rio de Janeiro, full of expectation and
curiosity for the pearl of South America. The bay of Rio has been so
often photographed, so fully described, that any one who has read much
must have a good mental picture of the place, which fortunately squares
very neatly with the actuality. The fantastic islands of volcanic origin
which peep up through the broad waters of the bay, or impudently flaunt
their grassy cones high above sea level, in the most unexpected places,
give to Rio, as seen from the bay, an aspect that is unique. The town
spreads itself out with picturesque irregularity among the gentle valleys
that lie between the many hills, trending swiftly upward some little way
inland from the shore, the noble height of Corcovado crowning the whole
lively and diversified scene. These hills being mostly tropical in the
richness and character of their vegetation, the art of man had no great
task to transform the situation into one of the world’s most beautiful
cities.
On the whole, man has here done his work well, although it has to be
confessed that much of the architecture is paltry and all of the plaster
variety. The marine drive will match almost anything of the kind in
Europe, and the Avenida Central is admirably devised at once to beautify
the town and drain the pressing traffic of the narrower side streets. The
suburbs are also spacious and well planned, so that one could imagine
life being very pleasant here—when the weather is a little cooler than
the norm. Although the summer was supposed to be over at the time of our
visit, the atmosphere was enervating in the extreme, and even on the
breezy heights of Corcovado, to which we ascended by the funicular, and
whence one of the grandest prospects man may look upon rewarded us, we
perspired at every step. Everywhere there was the moist, oppressive smell
of the hot-house, so that one could guess what it meant to be afoot in
Rio in the summer time, if this were autumn.
[Illustration: THE NARROW STREETS OF BUENOS AYRES.
The left illustration shows Calle Florida, the busiest thoroughfare of
Buenos Ayres; the right is a bird’s-eye view of Calle San Martín, looking
towards the Plaza Hotel. These are typical main streets.]
As for living here: when we were charged twelve _milreis_ ($6.50) for
a dish of fruit that might have cost a dollar in New York, at a very
ordinary hotel, where all other charges were proportionately appalling,
we had our doubts, even granted a change of weather. One of our party
paid the equivalent of four dollars for a tooth-brush, a cake of soap, a
small tube of lanoline, and some shaving powder!
Paying an uniformed madman, who was plying for hire with a motor car, a
few thousand _reis_ (a _milreis_ or one thousand _reis_ go to 54 cents,
so that you part with them in tens of thousands in a forenoon), we drove
all around the city and the Marina at fully thirty miles an hour, turning
busy corners at that speed. I myself can claim some dexterity at the
wheel; but I confess that I sat in terror in that maniac’s car as we
sped wildly through the highways and byways of Rio. Yet he was perfectly
sane as motorists are accounted sane in that town; his performance
evoking no remark. The speed limit is, I believe, eight or ten miles an
hour, but, like all the laws of Latin America, that is laid down merely
to be ignored. The municipal authorities, however, use the bylaw as a
supplementary tax, and regularly fine all the motorists of the town, in
succession, for exceeding the limit. A well-known English resident who
owns a speedy car told me he had been fined a month before for exceeding
the limit on a certain date, when he had been on the high seas returning
from Europe. He protested, lodged his plea, and was fined all the same,
on the ground that if he did not exceed the limit that day, he had done
so in all certainty before or after.
Altogether our impressions of Rio were favourable. Every prospect pleased
us; only man was vile, and none viler than the scum that haunt the
sea-front to plunder visitors by getting them aboard their small boats
for conveyance to the liners in the bay, then, with sundry sinister
threats, endeavour (too often successfully) to make their victims
disgorge a payment large enough to purchase the boat. The gentry who ply
this trade at Naples are mild and benevolent by comparison.
About noon of the day following our stop at Rio, we were steaming up the
picturesque estuary of Santos. A Frenchman on board had promised me that
here I should see something _tout à fait original_, and much though I
had been charmed with the actual sight of Rio, so long familiar to me in
picture, the approach to Santos proved even more interesting, due perhaps
in some degree to the charm of the unknown and unexpected. There is also
a touch of romance in slowly approaching a town that lies up a river,
instead of coming upon it suddenly from the sea. A negro pilot took
command of the ship up to Santos, somewhat to the disgust of our captain,
who had never before stood by a “nigger” on the bridge and seemed none
too sure of his pilot, for he never let go the telegraph handle until his
vessel was berthed.
The country through which the river runs (it is more an arm of the sea
than a river) is undoubtedly “original,” abounding in low volcanic hills,
with abundance of verdure, broken now and then by palm groves, and swampy
flats. Here one is conscious of being in a strange land, and it is easy
to imagine with what tense interest and straining eyes the first bold
adventurers sailed up this narrow and beautiful water-way to found the
city that has become the second port of Brazil. The city itself stretches
by the riverside around the foot of a great green hill, disfigured by a
monstrous advertisement announcing to adventurers of a different kind and
a later day that somebody’s biscuits are the best! A considerable part of
the town lies on land that still looks suspiciously swampy and used to be
an ideal haunt of Yellow Jack, though I was told that to-day it would be
difficult to find a healthier spot. That may be so, but I think I could
succeed if I tried very hard. As for the town itself, a short ramble
revealed one of the deadest and most uninteresting cities it has been my
lot to see, and I gladly returned to the friendly shelter of the ship
and the livelier locality of the quayside, where were congregated many
vessels from British, American, and Continental ports.
Two days more and we found ourselves at anchor in the roads outside
Montevideo, which presents a most engaging picture from the sea, the town
covering a lumpy tongue of land that juts seaward with a rocky short,
rambling inland in many directions and along the bay, which culminates in
the conical mass known as the Cerro, crowned by an antique fortress and
a modern light-house. At night, when the myriad electric lamps are lit,
the light-house on the Cerro throwing its broad and regular beams athwart
the bay, innumerable red and green lights blinking on the buoys in the
harbour, much flitting of motor launches and brightly illuminated liners
lying at anchor, there is no scene I know that better suggests one’s
juvenile fancies of Fairyland.
The town itself delighted us, seen in generous sunshine, with refreshing
breezes blowing from the sea, which at first sight, as we pass along the
streets, seems completely to enclose it. But as I shall have something to
say of my later stay in the Uruguayan capital, I shall not occupy myself
with it further at the moment.
We bade good-bye to the ship that had been our most pleasant abode for
so many days and made our first acquaintance with things Argentine by
transferring ourselves to a musty, ill-managed river-steamer, on which
the crudest elements of courtesy had still to be acquired by officials
and stewards, who were all too conscious of being employed by a firm
which then monopolised the river trade.
Still, although we realised what a change for the worse we had made in
transhipping, we comforted ourselves with the knowledge that to-morrow
we should awaken in the port of Buenos Ayres; in that genial land of
sunshine to which we had so long looked forward with eager anticipation.
The passage up the river—which, seaward of Montevideo, is some 150
miles in width, narrowing suddenly to sixty opposite the city, and to
the eye has no farther shore, so that only the discolouration of the
water distinguishes river from sea—was made in the roughest weather we
had experienced, the steamer tossing like a cork and its paddle wheels
beating the waves with feeble irregularity.
It was an early autumn morning when we walked off the gangway at the
Dársena Sud to endure the pain of getting our belongings through the
customs, an operation apparently regulated by the shipping authorities
after studying all the worst methods in vogue, selecting the worst
features of each, and combining these into a system that is the acme of
inefficiency. Moreover, the wind bit as shrewdly this autumn morning as
on a midwinter’s day in New York, and, believing in this land of sunshine
with a simple faith that had yet to suffer rudest shocks, we stood there
an hour or more, clothed for summer, chattering with cold.
But we were actually in Buenos Ayres, and soon all the marvels of that
wonderful city, that “Paris of South America,” as Argentines who have
never been to Europe are fond of describing it, were to reveal themselves
to us starveling voyagers who knew nothing better than the Paris of
France.
_Vamos a ver_, as they say in Buenos Ayres.
CHAPTER III
FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF BUENOS AYRES
Our ship’s doctor, with whom I had passed many agreeable hours, and whose
efforts to practise the Spanish speech added not a little to the gaiety
of our voyage, was a plain-spoken young man, who assured me, when he
heard I was bound for Buenos Ayres, that I was going to “the rottenest
place in South America.” This was a blow that struck my puffed-up
admiration of the place under the belt. I had read in the papers before
leaving London that no fewer than fifteen stowaways from Glasgow had
reached the sunshine city of the River Plate on a merchant liner, and
of these thirteen were discovered on the same vessel when it was making
its homeward trip. Now, Glasgow is noted for its rain, but it had rained
in such an appalling manner all the time the vessel was discharging and
loading at Buenos Ayres that these sodden thirteen were homesick for the
milder rains that wash their native haunts! Doubtless, if the truth were
known, the other two had stowed away too much of the vile liquid sold
as “Eskotsh weeskee” in Buenos Ayres to be able to stow themselves away
a second time, and remained to swell the ranks of the Scotch and Irish
rascals who pester their fellow-countrymen for alms in Florida and San
Martín—the streets where most of the Britishers may be encountered.
But I had made light of both the doctor’s dictum and the experience of
the Glasgow stowaways. Nobody, nothing, was to rob me of my ideal city on
the Silver River!
The dirty porter who conveyed our hand-bags to a dirtier _coche_, with a
driver in the full regalia of “hobo” and two horses that ought to have
been taken straightway to the knacker’s yard, did his best to rob me of
five _pesos_ (value $2.10) for a task which would have been well paid at
a dime or a quarter and the money gratefully received. I had given him
one peso only (42 cts.) and so loudly and volubly did he denounce me for
a “mean, dirty German,” that I gave him one more for peace, and the sorry
nags were whipped up and we drove away on our great adventure.
The coach, typical of many I was to see and not greatly inferior to
scores it was to be my unhappy fate to ride in for many months, was
of the “Victoria” style, so pleasantly familiar to the frequenter of
Paris; but it was battered and tattered, the splash-boards broken, the
mud-encrusted wheels repaired with odd spokes, the upholstering faded
and torn, while the sight of the driver in his greasy rags and the poor
worn horses with projecting ribs, broken kneed, and raw flesh showing in
patches along their scraggy backs, mortified me that in such a manner
I should enter the city of my dreams. Yet the description may stand as
representative of a considerable percentage of the things then plying for
hire in Buenos Ayres. The tattered ruffian on the box-seat lashed the
moribund nags so unmercifully that I had to insist on his refraining, but
then, and often afterwards, it was clear to me that only by thrashing
could the hapless creatures be made to go.
And what a journey! The roadway reminded me of the Chinese saying, that
in China the roads are good for ten years and bad for ten thousand.
With a briefer history than China’s it may be said of Buenos Ayres that
its roads are good for ten days and bad for ten years. We had evidently
arrived on the eleventh day! Made of cobble stones, the road was as
choppy as the river on a windy day, the tram lines now projecting half
a foot above the level, now dipping into baked-mud hollows. Everywhere
the cracking of whips, the clanging of bells, the shouting of drivers,
the screeching of ungreased axles, and the slipping and straining of
sweating horses, harnessed in threes and fours to uncouth and overladen
wagons. A scene of brutal ugliness and sordid brute strife that filled
one’s mind with horror. We had plunged into the hell of the horse and
the mule. It was heart-rending to see the wretched creatures cut and
bruised, with open sores and swollen fetlocks, the cruel chain traces at
which they were straining often running in grooves which they had cut
in the creature’s flesh and ever the relentless whips descending on the
suffering backs with stings that would have touched the heart of any man
of feeling. But in all that strange, noisy medley of man and brute there
was no sign of feeling; nothing but a dull, blear-eyed urge forward.
Forward to what? Ah, he were a bold man who answered that. But what I
know and assert is that in a hundred thousand miles of world-travel, and
observation, I have never witnessed such a scene of brute suffering as
I did that autumn morning in our drive from the Dársena Sud, past the
Aduana, by the Paseo Colón and the Paseo de Julio to our hotel.
As for my first impressions of the city, I comforted myself with the
reflection that the neighbourhood of docks is in all great seaports the
least favourable point of view. Everything that met one’s eyes was mean,
or makeshift. The shops along the Paseo were of the lowest class; most
of the buildings were crumbling plaster shanties. The people trafficking
in them were the dredgings of a lower life than one sees in the region
of the Bowery—incomparably more villainous in mien. It is true that the
gardens, which adorn the Paseo Colón and the Paseo de Julio and make
these appear (in a photograph) one of the pleasantest thoroughfares in
all the world (the one is a continuation of the other), looked beautiful,
yet none but foul Italians and Semitic scum were to be seen walking there.
It would be all right when we got into the city itself, for had we not
feasted our eyes times out of number on alluring pictures of the imposing
buildings of this wonder city sent broadcast to the ends of earth by
official propagandists? A huge pink-painted plaster building, with the
“sham” flaking off in places, showed its spacious back to the green
palm-dotted gardens of the Paseo. Was it—could it be?—the famous Casa
Rosada, the official home of the president? It was. A little cold shiver
zig-zagged down my back, and I ticked off in my mind the Casa Rosada as
one of my dream pictures of Buenos Ayres that had not come true.
Presently, up a side-street, crowded with struggling wagons, coaches and
clamorous tram-cars, where small buildings were being torn down and
large steel-frame ones were being stuck up, we came to our hotel.
The roadway in front was so narrow, the traffic so insistent, and the
tramways so continuous, that the mere act of stopping our coach for
a minute blocked the whole ill-regulated, restless mass. Nor in the
hotel did we find peace. It was in the hands of repairers, who, as we
afterwards learned, had been repairing it for three years, and in all
that time did no more than could have been achieved in New York inside
of a month. As to the moderation of this statement, not only can I
vouch from a careful and intimate study of the work of those blundering
incompetents through eight long months of residence there, but I
could call a cloud of witnesses, whose fate it was to live through a
considerable part of the weary years of alteration, as the discomforts we
had to suffer were a frequent topic of the “stayers” in what, with all
its faults, was at that time the most comfortable and reasonable hotel
in Buenos Ayres. (I hear that it has since been much improved in its
appointments.)
In the small and crowded lounge, where we humbly waited for the privilege
of securing accommodation, there was a mingling of the coming and the
parting guests. The former one could recognise at a glance by their
creased clothing, the latter notably chiefly for their bucolic touches.
The room was uninviting, the shabby wallpaper in pendulous bulges,
mouldy with damp, every item worthy only of a small country hotel. The
gentleman in the temporary office, who carried out his duties amidst
plasterers’ ladders and plumbers’ tools, was willing to concede us a
small room with a bath for twenty-six pesos ($11) per day, including
“board” but excluding certain “extras.” The terms would be the same for
a stay of one night or for a stay of one year. I accepted with a feeling
of disappointment, after discovering that a bedroom and a sitting-room of
the most ordinary description were to cost me seventeen dollars per day.
And had I to stay again for eight whole months in Buenos Ayres I should
most willingly return to the same conditions which at first I regarded
with frank contempt. It is a sadder and a wiser man that writes these
lines than he who stepped hopefully into the best-recommended hotel in
Buenos Ayres that chill morning of autumn.
The window of our room looked upon a street so narrow that, when all
the high buildings in process of erection are completed, no faint ray
of sun will ever enter it. At the corner immediately opposite stood
one of the old single-story structures of the colonial type, which in
the centre of the city are giving way to the multi-storied edifices
of steel and concrete. This old shanty-like building was a centre of
swarming life—Turks, Greeks, Swedes, Syrians, Italians, in short, the
off-scourings of all nations, were to be our neighbours, and their babel
of tongues sounded from the little drinking den into which our window
looked as though the brawlers were in the hotel itself. A nice quiet
neighbourhood! Being so near the corner, we had the advantage of two
sets of tramways, and with the windows open it was almost necessary to
use a megaphone to make one’s voice heard in the bedroom. The narrow
streets intensified all noises to an extraordinary degree. Bedlam must be
peaceful compared to that corner—and that is but one of thousands similar.
“We _must_ clear out of here as soon as possible,” said my wife. But a
woman’s “must” dwindles into the meekest acquiescence when pitted against
the “must” of Buenos Ayres. “There _must_ be quieter places in the centre
of the town, away from these cramped and crowded back streets,” she
opined. Alas, there are no back streets in Buenos Ayres. Or rather, there
are few other.
As soon as possible I went forth to find the great open avenues where,
perchance, I could move at my ease and enjoy the spectacle of the myriad
life of the great metropolis. I half hoped that we had entered the
hotel by a back door and would find on turning the corner that it had a
noble frontage to some spacious street. Vain hope of a “Gringo”—as the
native dubs the foreigner in South America. I found myself in a buzzing
thoroughfare, where there were no tramways, but where coaches and motor
cars were dashing along in the most reckless manner and with quite
superfluous speed, as at nearly every corner they had to pull up suddenly
in muddled mobs to allow the streaming traffic of the cross-streets to
pass. The street was lined with splendid shops, many displaying the most
luxurious articles of furniture, jewellery, or wearing apparel, and
reminding one of London’s Bond Street. It was about the width of Wall
Street, New York City. It was the Calle Florida, the very core and pride
of Buenos Ayres!
[Illustration: THE CHANGING HEART OF BUENOS AYRES.
Plaza de Mayo, looking westward along the Avenida towards Congreso.
The appearance of this square has recently been modified, and two great
diagonal avenues are now in construction, the one starting from the
right-hand corner of the square and running northwest, the other from the
left-hand corner southwestward.]
As I went along, stepping off the narrow sidewalk every few yards
to pass any two people inconsiderate enough to walk side by side, I
recalled the one spark of wit I had heard from a youth of the “Rube”
variety who had been a shipmate of ours. We were having dinner on board
the river steamer and had reached the fifth or sixth course of the
weirdest mixtures, when he said, “I wonder when they are going to bring
us something to eat.” In all these thoroughfares, I wondered when I was
going to find a street. I had heard much of the famous Avenida. That at
least would not disappoint me.
The sun was now strong and the temperature must have risen fifteen or
twenty degrees since the bitterly cold morning. Horses were sweating and
giving off an offensive odour—the result, I fancy, of their “alfalfa”
feeding—and were covered with a thick white lather along the parts of
their bodies where the harness rubbed. I, too, was perspiring, though I
was conscious of a brisk buoyancy in the air, as I continued southwards
towards the Avenida.
Near the end of Florida, I noticed among the throng an acquaintance of
mine who lives a few streets from me and whom I had not seen at home
for more than two years. He was only on a short visit to the country,
but I was soon to find that New Yorkers and Londoners who have business
anywhere in Argentina and may never see each other for years at home are
certain to meet in Calle Florida, which is a sort of funnel through which
the whole stream of Argentine traffic must pass.
The Avenida at last! Except where the narrow cross-streets debouched
into it, every inch of the splendid roadway was boarded up and only the
sidewalks, crowded with jostling humanity, remained. They were then
making the underground railway from the Plaza Mayo to the Estacion Once.
In this state for many months it continued, an eyesore and a source of
illimitable dust and dirt to all the centre of the city. No more than
a scrap of the dome of Congress, away to the west, was visible above
the earthworks and barricades, while the Plaza Mayo, with the historic
Independence Monument, was a scene of shapeless confusion.
I ventured along Maipú, where the ceaseless rattle of traffic is surely
more disturbing than the battle whence it takes its name could have been.
Longing for a quiet corner to rest, I regained my hotel, where my wife
reminded me of a certain old Scotswoman who came to visit her daughter
in London and was taken to Westminster Abbey. She had got as far as the
choir and stood looking quietly at the massy columns and noble spring of
the arches, the iridescent beauty of the windows, before she spoke, and
then she said: “Weel, do ye ken, Jeenie, I’m awfu’ disappointed!”
The afternoon was unpleasantly hot and enervating, but the evening was
cool with a fresh and pleasant breeze. We were in a Latin city—the Paris
of South America, we had heard it called—we were both lovers of Paris,
my wife and I; so we sauntered out after dinner to take our ease at
“some café, somewhere, in one of the squares.” But all seemed dead. A
mere handful of stragglers in Florida; in the Avenida a few soft-hatted
loungers, who stared at my wife with rude animal interest; no café
anywhere in any square, where we were tempted to linger for a moment. So
a _coche_ rattled us back as quickly as possible to the already friendly
hotel, going by way of Esmeralda and Corrientes, where the bright
exteriors of some cinemas and other places of amusement punctuated the
dulness with points of brightness.
It was no later than half-past nine, and we thought once more of that old
Scotswoman in Westminster Abbey.
CHAPTER IV
PICTURES OF STREET LIFE IN BUENOS AYRES
It is a reasonable proposition that there are at least as many ways of
studying a strange town as Mr. Kipling allows in the writing of tribal
lays—“and every single one of them is right.” I claim no more than that
for my own particular way.
My first concern is to gain a general impression, by wandering the
streets and letting the spirit of the place “soak” into me, almost
unconsciously. Later, I assume an attitude of mind more critical and less
subjective, becoming an active observer, open-eyed for everything that is
strange or unusual; finally I compare all that has especially appealed
to my mind with impressions long since etched thereon by visits to other
cities.
In this way I should probably describe the same town somewhat differently
in the varying stages of my observation, and each would be a true
description so far as I was able to convey any notion at all. But after
passing from the impressionary stage to the critical and eventually to
that of the comparative observer, it is difficult to recover the first
impressions once these have been overlaid, like some palimpsest of the
memory, with later records. In the preceding chapter I have made some
slight attempt at this, simply because it seemed to me worth trying and
the progress of my narrative suggested it. A book of first impressions,
however, would be of small value, no matter how interesting it might
prove, and I deliberately refrained throughout my stay of twelve months
in the cities of the River Plate from keeping a diary, even from making
notes, except on two subjects, to wit: the price of commodities, and
cruelty to animals, which I shall discuss in special chapters. In what
I now proceed to describe, I shall be guided by my last and abiding
impressions of all that I saw or experienced, and for this purpose a
continuous narrative is no longer feasible.
My way, then, in studying a foreign city is first to observe the panorama
of its street-life so closely that I can ever after recall it in minute
detail; then to store away finished pictures of its characteristic
buildings in my memory; next to watch narrowly the ways of the people,
as expressed in all forms of their social life and business activities,
gleaning on every hand from others and exchanging opinions even with
persons with whom I should hate to agree. In such wise, or as nearly as
may be, I shall now continue.
Buenos Ayres in its planning is essentially North American. That is
simplicity itself, but out of simplicity has come confusion. The
buildings are in “blocks,” or _cuadras_ (squares), as they call them in
South America. These squares measure 150 yards each way. Thus a plan of
the city looks like a monstrous checker board, with here and there a
larger square, where two or more cuadras have been thrown into one to
admit a little more air into the congested mass. For the streets are
narrow beyond belief. The average width allows three coaches to stand
abreast, with a clearance of some twelve inches between them. A walking
stick and a half gives you the measure of the pavements. These are the
standards for nearly all the thoroughfares in the older part of the town,
and were the ample ideals of the Spanish colonisers, who required no more
than single-story houses and a track between for their horses or their
bullock wagons. Thus, in great measure, Buenos Ayres is an anachronism,
and such it will long remain, as the abnormal development of the country
and its capital city—the world’s most prodigious mushroom—has made this
central part a veritable Eldorado of the landowner.
What served a century ago is to-day a legacy of evil, and these narrow
colonial streets have made of central Buenos Ayres an inferno of human
strife such as I hope exists nowhere else on our globe. For within these
myriad squares of 150 yards there is no entrance or exit for wheeled
traffic, and it is a pathetic sight to witness the unloading of goods on
the narrow sidewalks in the early morning. Let the North American reader
conceive a great department store, situated in a street no wider than
Wall Street, utterly devoid of any back way for the entrance of a cart,
with a pavement in front that measures a walking-stick and a half; and
let him picture what it means to stock that great building with all sorts
of goods, from massive suites of furniture to tons of shoes and neckties!
If his imagination will stand the strain, let him further imagine what
would happen if a trolley line were laid within two feet of the sidewalk
in front of the door, and an endless stream of cars were passing, the
bodies of them flush with the curbstone! Yet the Wanamakers and the
Marshall Fields of Buenos Ayres have to stock their premises under these
conditions. In this city of miracles, there is none more extraordinary
than the task of moving goods from the street into the shop and it is
small wonder that a large part of what one pays for any article in Buenos
Ayres has been incurred in getting it into the place where it is bought.
It is infinitely easier and cheaper to carry a piano from London to the
port of Buenos Ayres than to take it from the ship a mile away to the
shop where it will be sold!
Often have I marvelled at the patience and energy of the Italian
_peones_, struggling with enormous cases of merchandise in the middle of
the street, dodging them across the trolley lines, while a dozen drivers
were clanging their bells for them to clear the way. And it is a daily
incident to see wardrobes, suites of furniture, desks, sofas, mingled in
the gutters with the fretting traffic, in front of the warehouse doors.
In almost every street there is a trolley line on one side, and all the
traffic has perforce to move in one direction,—down this street, up the
next,—for which purpose an arrow on the walls indicates the direction.
To walk at ease along any one of these streets in the business hours is
impossible, and progress afoot is only to the strong.
In such streets motor traffic is a folly, yet motor cars abound. It is
a safe assertion that nine out of ten of them are used for no purpose
other than ostentation. And your Argentine _nouveau riche_ will have none
of your modest 15-20 horse-power affairs. His mark is 40 horse-power,
and the biggest, bulkiest, most cumbersome body money can buy. Thus,
at certain hours of the day when the ladies go a-shopping, many of
the streets are stuffed with monstrous cars, which have brought their
owners a good mile or perhaps two, and while the ladies are about their
diversion in the shops, the chauffeurs sit making filthy remarks about
every woman who passes, and ogling the girls. These motor men, uniformed
expensively, are one of the most offensive elements in the life of the
city. Lazy, pampered loafers most of them; they deliberately place
themselves in the near front seat of the car while waiting for their
owners, the better to “amuse” themselves.
With a cautious municipal authority, the motor-car would be prohibited
in the centre of Buenos Ayres. It is a century or so ahead of the
town. In streets so narrow the horse carriage should suffice, and as
a matter of fact the horse-driven traffic can move as quickly as the
motor-driven, owing to the innumerable stops that have to be made in
even the shortest journey. In the whole vast country of the Argentine
there are not more than a hundred miles of really good motoring roads and
automobile owners in Buenos Ayres seldom venture farther afield than the
Tigre, an excursion of some sixteen miles. The road thither is the best
in the country. It would rank as “bad” in the guidebook of any American
or European touring club and it is the ruin of many a car. Yet vulgar
ostentation insists upon the automobile, and almost every notable firm of
motor-car makers in Europe or the United States is catering for the craze
with branch establishments in or around the Calle Florida.
The papers abound in accounts of motor accidents and one seldom passes
a car that does not bear some trace of a collision, many of the drivers
being as reckless as they are unskilled. The motor-car is indeed one of
the city’s problems and no effort is being made to solve it.
If the streets were only narrow, matters might not be so bad. But they
are also villainously paved and continually out of repair. The pavements
chiefly consist of slabs of rough-hewn stone, so badly laid that one is
constantly tripping over their inequalities. Moreover, holes are merely
covered by a piece of sheet iron laid loose over them, and in Florida
alone (it is the universal custom in South America merely to give the
name of a street, without adding the word _calle_) I have noted about a
dozen old gas pipes left protruding some six inches above the pavement,
a menace to all who do not walk with their eyes to the ground. As a New
York lady visitor said to me: “If you don’t watch where you’re putting
your feet, you’ll fall into a hole, or trip yourself, and if you do look
out for your feet, you’ll get run over!”
The streets are laid variously with asphalt, wood, and cobbles. But no
matter what material is used, the result is equally deplorable. Thanks
to the excessively heavy traffic, borne in wagons with immense narrow
wheels, an asphalted street is cut up into ruts in a few days after it
is laid, wooden blocks are destroyed with amazing rapidity, and cobbles
are daily dislodged in hundreds. Thus stones innumerable are lying in
the cobbled streets, to the danger of all sorts of traffic; in the
wood-paved thoroughfares there are ruts several inches deep alongside the
tram lines, and the asphalt roads are cracked and broken as though some
wandering earthquake had passed through them on its way from Chili. A
_paseo_ in a motor-car is an agony—there is no “rule of the road,” it is
merely “devil take the hindmost”—a drive in a coach is little better, as
the motor-cars make the progress of the horse vehicle a hazard of terrors.
In such narrow and congested thoroughfares, building operations are
carried on with great difficulty. To me it was a source of constant
interest and admiration to watch those in progress. And as there is no
street where the builders are not busy, I had ample opportunity. In
Florida, where a huge arcaded building was being constructed through to
the next street, San Martín, the work of digging out the foundations went
on all day, and all night long the dirt was removed when the street was
quiet. The scaffolding fashioned for the purpose was the most ingenious
and complicated I have ever seen. To the narrow street there was a
barricade of corrugated iron (wood is too expensive to use for that
purpose) and above towered a weird framework of timber, with “tips” or
“chutes” projecting into the street. Seen from behind the corrugated
iron, it was a magnificent spectacle of industry. Hundreds of labourers
were digging down into the loamy earth some thirty or forty feet, and the
material taken out was hoisted up by a lift and dumped near the tips, so
that through the night great-wheeled wagons came along in fashionable
Florida and were loaded up, leaving the street strewn with spilled
earth next morning. I recall the night when some of this scaffolding
collapsed and precipitated over thirty labourers into the excavations
fifty or sixty feet below. Such accidents are very common, there being no
intelligent supervision of building operations, and many labourers are
sacrificed every year to the carelessness of their employers and their
own ignorance.
[Illustration: EXTERIOR AND INTERIOR OF THE “CASA ROSADA.”
The upper illustration shows the façade of the Government House towards
the gardens of the Paseo Colón; the lower, the vestibule entering from
the main door in the Plaza de Mayo.]
But, on the whole, it would be impossible to find more inspiring examples
of human energy and ingenuity in the face of extraordinary difficulties
than in the erection of these great buildings. To watch the low colonial
house fall to the pick and shovel in a few days, the crazy scaffolding
quickly reared for mining out the earth, the mighty steel uprights and
girders arriving on huge wagons, each drawn by three or four sweating
horses, the labourers swinging them into position, the frame of the ten-
or twelve-story building presently disengaging itself where so recently
stood the shanty, the bricklayers clothing it with their handiwork, the
plasterers finishing its exterior with graceful decorative touches,—all
this was to me a source of endless interest.
There is no evidence of an elementary regard for human life in the
streaming streets of riotous traffic. Often have I seen buildings
in course of demolition with no better guard against falling bricks
and blocks of cement than some rough pack-sheet stretched in front.
Sometimes not even that dubious courtesy is shown to the passer-by, and
the demolishers stand aloft knocking down the walls inwards without the
slightest protection against the fragments that rebound and land in the
middle of the street. On several occasions I have escaped by half a yard
or so a falling brick that might well have closed my account. Even when
blasting with dynamite old foundation walls of brick and mortar, a few
yards from the pavement, nothing will be done for the safety of the
passer-by. The casualty columns of the daily papers are eloquent evidence
of the risks the ignorant labourers run who are employed in this work of
demolition.
In effecting repairs to the exteriors, painting, and the like, the
workers are confronted with many difficulties, for the simple expedient
of erecting ladders as in our cities is denied to them. A ladder would
block the whole pavement. So they have to reverse the old order, and
instead of placing the ladder firmly on the ground and leaning it against
the wall, they plant the foot of it in the angle of the pavement and
the wall and lean it away from the building, securing the upper and
projecting end by ropes to a window. The worker on the ladder is thus
between the ladder and the wall. And from this coign of vantage he
drops paint or wet plaster on the passers-by with a cheerfulness and
impartiality which must be seen to be duly appreciated.
Naturally the beautiful detail and the imposing appearance of many of
the finest buildings in the city are completely lost for lack of space
to see them. Hundreds of thousands of pounds may be said to be wasted in
this way; for there is widespread effort to render the façades of the
buildings artistic, the cement or plaster with which they are covered
lending itself to all sorts of decorative treatment. But anything over
two stories in height is above the line of sight in the narrow streets,
and there are prodigalities of decoration, in the third and fourth and
higher reaches of the new buildings which have never been noticed by
anybody since the day they were uncovered. A barn-like structure would
have served the purpose equally and given as good an effect—except
in a photograph, taken from one of the upper stories on the opposite
side of the street. Thus one has a curious feeling of disappointment on
beholding many of the more notable buildings which he has first seen
in photographs. The famous Jockey Club, for example. You are conscious
that if you could get a hundred yards away from the front of it, you
might find it a very handsome edifice. But the actual effect is that of
a full-length photograph out of focus, in which the boots and the lower
part of the legs dwarf all the rest.
I recall very vividly the impression of my first walks in those strange
streets. The scarcity of women was very noticeable in the earlier part
of the day. Such streets as Bartolomé Mitre, Cangallo, Sarmiento, Maipú,
and San Martín, where the tide of business flows strongest, were crowded
with men; the odd women who passed seemed out of place. But later in the
day women and children may be seen in considerable numbers in Florida
and the vicinity, though at no time are they ever relatively so numerous
as in the streets of New York. And what never ceased to irritate me was
the rudeness with which the passers-by stared at me and at each other.
I was prepared for them feasting their eyes on the odd women, but man
scrutinising man was new to me. They inspect your necktie, study the
style of your hat, stare at your boots! They gape at you, so that you
wonder if you have forgotten your collar or if your suspenders are
hanging down! You are reassured, however, by their gaping at each other
for no obvious reason. It is merely a vulgar habit, probably acquired by
the gapers when first they arrived from the hill villages of Italy or
the desert towns of Spain, when any person decently clothed was a novelty
to them.
Some of the half-breed policemen at the street corners, trying to
“control” the traffic, are a source of infinite joy. Armed with white
batons, they wave these about in a way so bewildering that it is a puzzle
to know whether they mean to hold up one of the streams of cross traffic
or invite the two opposing processions to mutual destruction. On the
whole, although some of these policemen, shamefully underpaid, indulge in
a little robbery to keep the pot boiling—one, whom I had rather grown to
like, mounted guard one Sunday while a gang of thieves, with carts and
motor cars, plundered the newly-opened branch of Harrods’ London Stores
in Florida!—I came to form a very favourable opinion of them, and many
showed real courtesy and good sense in controlling the traffic, under the
most trying circumstances, as every _cochero_ and chauffeur looks upon
them with contempt and pays a minimum of respect to their authority.
I have been told by old English residents of Buenos Ayres, who are
prepared to perjure their souls on behalf of the city that has given
them the opportunity to grow richer than they were ever likely to become
at home, that “there are no poor and there are no beggars in Buenos
Ayres.” Both statements are untrue. There are lots of poor, and there
are some beggars. (Time was when the beggars went about on horseback, to
the confusion of the old proverb.) It could not be otherwise in a vast
metropolis, abnormally larger than the country behind it will warrant
for many years to come, to which the poor of the poorest countries
in Europe, Spain and Italy, are flocking in daily ship-loads. No poor
in Buenos Ayres, forsooth! Thousands of poor are dumped down at the
docks every month, and poor many of them remain forever—poor _and_
criminal—though many more, with energy and application, escape from the
ranks of poverty, and not a few grow rich.
Poor there are in abundance, and very much in evidence. Take a walk
along the Paseo de Julio and you will see as many of the tattered army
of Poverty as you will encounter in London, and in London you should see
exactly five times as many, to maintain a proportion relative to the size
of the cities. Beggars are less noticeable, chiefly, I fancy, because
there is no room for them in the streets; yet I have often been asked
for alms in Florida, while looking at a shop window—the only chance the
beggar has of practising his (more often her) profession, as to stand in
the gutter for more than a minute would be to invite a violent death. To
Britishers, a saddening sight is presented by the gin-sodden Irishmen and
abandoned Englishmen who pester their fellow-countrymen in Florida and
San Martín, with the old familiar yarn about losing their job as ship’s
carpenter and the certainty of getting a new start if they can only raise
the money for a suit of clothes. Scores of times have I had to turn these
British rascals away, and some of them became as familiar in my daily
walks as old friends. If ever one saw a face that had been made repulsive
by drink, a nose that was reddening with malt, it was invariably the
guilty possession of a Britisher.
Mention of familiar faces reminds me of one of the most disagreeable
features of the Buenos Ayres streets. In this matter I am a thoroughly
prejudiced witness, so I must explain my attitude. To me, one of the
abiding charms of London is that I can walk its dear familiar streets
with their ever changing throngs, without having momently to raise my
hat, or to stop every few yards to endure the idle chatter of some
acquaintance. I love London for itself and I know where to find my
friends when I want them. To have them bumping up against me at every
corner would come between me and my London. It would destroy completely
that feeling of immensity, that sobering sense of the greatness of
humanity, which London imposes on the reflective mind. But in Buenos
Ayres, if you have noticed a man in a railway train, if you have spoken
to a passenger on the river boat, if you have been introduced to somebody
at a Belgrano dinner-party, you will surely see them all in Florida next
day. This parochial condition is the result of the central part of the
town being confined to a few narrow streets. In all Latin countries there
is also a sheep-like flocking to certain beaten tracks, as in Paris every
_boulevardier_ and almost any visitor is sure to be “spotted” if you but
sit long enough at the Café de la Paix. Although the admirably planned
and imposing Avenida de Mayo was opened some twenty years ago to give
Buenos Ayres a new heart, it is still comparatively unpopular, while the
congested Calle Florida is more congested than ever.
Other faces that grow familiar to one in the streets are those of the
porters or _changadores_. Brawny Italians or Gallegos usually, these
lazy and exigent vendors of unskilled labour stand in braces at the
corners of many of the central streets, a nuisance to passers-by. They
are armed with a rope or with a large piece of packing cloth folded
and laid across their left shoulder. This is at once their instrument
and their insignia. If you want anything removed, you send out for one
of these gentry, and if he is feeling strong enough he may condescend
to oblige you for a fee which would command a visit from a skilled
medical man in New York. They will fuss and blow over a little job which
should be no more than a mere incident in the day’s work. Once I was so
fortunate as to get one to carry a box of books for me up three flights
of stairs, for a trifle—five pesos, or two dollars—which he pocketed
without a word of thanks. They must be prosperous villains these street
porters and the malorganisation of labour gives them their opportunity,
as nobody sending you any moderately heavy article will undertake to do
more than leave it at the foot of the stairs. If you happen to require it
three stairs up that is entirely your affair.
Turning from the people in the streets to the shops, one is struck by the
extraordinary preponderance of chemists and druggists. Almost every other
cornershop is a _farmacia_. And it is pretty certain to be a _farmacia
inglésa_ or _francesa_, or _alemana_, or _italiana_—rarely _española_!
But all the same the “English chemist” may be an enterprising Argentine
who knows no more than “zank you ver’ mooch,” which he will utter with
a self-satisfied smile after you have conducted all your business in
his own language. And he ought to “zank you” in half a dozen languages
at once for what you have to give him in exchange for what you get. The
farmacia is to Buenos Ayres, and indeed to the whole of the Argentine and
Uruguay, what the public-house is to England—the “corner shop.” In the
country towns it actually takes the place of the village inn and is the
rendezvous of the local gossips. Magnificent establishments are these
farmacias. New York has nothing to show in the line of artistic shops
that will excel the best of them. Indeed, in no other great city have I
seen drug-stores to be compared with certain of these in respect to the
grandeur of their carved wood adornments and the completeness of their
equipment. Their numerous assistants usually wear long white linen coats,
after the style of hospital doctors, which give them a pleasant air of
cleanliness they might otherwise lack.
With a drugshop at every corner, buzzing with customers, the unconscious
liar who can speak no ill of Buenos Ayres will blandly tell you it is
“the healthiest city in the world.” As a matter of undiluted fact, it
is a paradise of the doctor and the patent-pill-man, largely due to its
curiously trying climate. One often comments on the abundant evidence
of the patent medicine seller in the United States—in the advertising
columns of the newspapers, on the hoardings in the streets—but nothing
we have amongst us in that respect equals the insistence with which you
are reminded of your aching stomach at every turn in Buenos Ayres—if, by
lucky chance, your stomach itself has forgotten for a moment to remind
you of its troubles.
[Illustration: STATUTE OF SAN MARTÍN IN THE PLAZA NAMED AFTER THAT HERO
OF THE REPUBLIC.
On the left, the domes of the Art Gallery are to be seen, and on the
right a portion of the Plaza Hotel.]
Next in proportion to those offering the _Argentino_ a myriad cures
for his _estómago_, come the shops that are dedicated to cleaning his
boots. Indeed, one might reasonably suppose this to be the national
industry. The abundant energy devoted to this lowly calling if turned to
other channels might go far to fortify the republic. Even in the Calle
Florida, where land values and shop-rents rival the highest known on
Fifth Avenue, one finds certain enviable positions occupied by nothing
better than _salones de lustrar_, and in all the central streets such
establishments—often employing upwards of a dozen men—abound. Nay, go
where you will, even to the outer suburbs, you will never fail to find a
druggist’s or a bootblack’s shop.
A real Argentine citizen must have his boots polished several times a
day, else these multitudinous slaves of the blacking brush could not be
kept so busy. The saloons are sometimes fitted up in quite a luxurious
manner, with long platforms on which are raised padded chairs with high
foot rests in front, and while you sit in this elevated position the
polisher performs the most elaborate operation on your shoes, using a
bewildering variety of pastes, brushes, and cloths. When you think he has
done, he begins all over again and not until he has completed what must
be the tenth or eleventh stage of the operation, which consists in taking
a piece of silk from his trouser pocket, where it has been lodged to
absorb the warmth of his body, and working it with furious friction over
your shoes, are you free to step down. Meanwhile you have been listening
to Caruso and Tetrazzini on the gramophone,—I have even heard a customer
insist on a tune being stopped and his favourite substituted!—so that
when you step out with shining feet you feel the threepence or fourpence
you have paid has been well-earned. But you won’t have gone twenty paces
along the street until a bawling door-man, shouting “_Se lustra! se
lustra!_” will point to your feet and invite you into his shop, with
“Shine, sir?”
Many of these boot-blacks run their prosperous business in conjunction
with an agency for lottery tickets and most of them sell cigars and
cigarettes as “sidelines.” The shops dedicated to the sale of lottery
tickets present at first a very unusual sight to the visitor. Their name
is legion. All the numerous money-changers deal in these tickets, which
are spread out in their windows so that the passer-by may scrutinise
the numbers and see if his lucky combination is among them. Many
tobacconists also sell them, and there are numerous street-hawkers to
offer you the chance of scores of thousands of dollars for fifty cents
or so—a thirty-thousand-to-one chance. It is a study in Hope to watch a
poor workman outside the window of one of these lottery-ticket vendor’s
pointing out the particular ticket which he trusts may bring him a sudden
fortune and take him home to Italy or Spain by the next steamer—the
ultimate hope that flickers in all their breasts.
There is much parade of luxury in the barbers’ shops, which form a good
third, in point of number, to the druggists and boot-blacks. Mirrors
gleam along the walls and the basins and pipes for performing the
mysteries of an Argentine’s “shave and haircut” are many and glittering.
The assistants seem almost as numerous as the customers at any hour of
the day and all wear the white jackets that cover a multitude of sins.
A simple haircut in an establishment of just middling style—_regular,
no mas_—costs you eighty _centavos_, leaving twenty out of the peso for
the artist who has treated you. Forty-two cents for a mere haircut is
moderately “stiff”; but have a shampoo, a singe and a shave at the same
time, and you will find that, like Sampson, your strength has oozed away
with your hair, when the barber names his price!
CHAPTER V
MORE SCENES FROM THE STREETS OF BUENOS AYRES
What fascinated me most in the streets of this motley town were the
bookshops. Who says there is no culture in Buenos Ayres has to reckon
with the evidence of these, for London itself has no more than you might
count on the fingers of one hand that excel the _librerías_ of the
Argentine capital. Many pleasant hours have I passed inspecting their
wonderfully varied stocks of books from all the countries of Europe where
the art of printing flourishes, as well as from North and South America.
In proportion to their populations, Buenos Ayres excels New York in the
number and character of its bookshops.
It was very encouraging to a literary worker to note how every country
has sent of its best (though Spain also of its worst) to keep alive the
taste for letters in those whom the eternal quest for the elusive dollar
has taken to far-away Argentina. There are many German bookshops, stocked
with wonderful collections of the classic literature of the Fatherland
and the latest works of its indefatigable authors of to-day in every
branch of thought and activity. Several admirable French shops there are
of which the same may be said; a few Italians—extremely few in proportion
to the vast Italian population—and several well-known British shops,
where cheap English and American fiction unfortunately outnumbers the
books of serious value, though practically no new book of real note that
saw the light in England or North America did not have at least a brief
showing on the shelves of the British bookshops during my stay. There is
even a bookshop where the strange literary products of the Turk and the
Syrian are sold to the oriental community.
But the native bookshops have nothing to learn from the foreigners,
unless it be a better taste in displaying their wares, which are usually
thrown into the window with all the _abandon_ of a country store. In
point of variety, they are as richly stocked as any of their colleagues
overseas, and it is clear from the most casual examination of their
shelves that all the principal French and German publishers are vieing
with each other in catering for this rich and ready market of golden
South America. I could fill pages with lists of “libraries” which are
being produced specially for Latin America (but chiefly for Buenos Ayres)
by famous Continental houses, who publish Spanish translations of all
their important new books, as well as of a bewildering number of old
books that first found popularity in French or German. Spanish publishers
lack enterprise, hence Buenos Ayres, where printing is excessively costly
and is used almost exclusively for business propaganda, has to get its
most worthy Spanish books by way of France or Germany.
I have said Spain also sends of its worst. Most of the trash comes
from Barcelona and Madrid houses. It consists chiefly of atrocious
translations of English and American detective tales of the crudest
“penny blood” variety, badly printed, and stitched within a gaudy and
often well-done coloured wrapper, with some preposterously sensational
picture thereon. These are sold, not at a penny, but at fourpence (twenty
centavos) and are read by young and old alike. There are many shops that
show nothing in their windows but this gutter literature, while the
kiosks on the Avenida—pale and shabby ghosts of the delightful Paris
kiosks these!—are stocked with them, and also with translations of the
pornographic French books which the shameless shopmen of the Palais Royal
display for the concupiscent foreigner.
Of old bookshops, alas, there are none. To the literary man, a city
without its dusty haunts of the bookworm lacks something that all the
loads of “latest books” cannot quite replace. Old books there are to be
found in the general bookshops, and they are usually offered at prices
so excessive that when I set about the formation of a library of South
American works, I was eventually forced to discontinue buying any but the
most essential, as they are to be picked up in Paris at a fifth the price
and with much less searching. I also found that I could secure in London
more and better photographs of Buenos Ayres than in the city itself, and
at less cost! One day, requiring urgently a photo of a certain aspect of
the statue of San Martín, I had all the likely shops and photographers
searched in vain, yet in London I could have got it immediately.
The English booksellers (who, of course, also cater for the small North
American “colony”) have the habit of hanging out a notice when the
English or North American mail has come to hand with its load of new
books and the latest periodicals. And once a week the exiles from Old
England or from the United States must feel a quickening of the pulse
when they see the announcement in good bold letters “MAIL DAY” or “MAIL
ARRIVED” at the doors of these thriving bookshops in the Calle Cangallo.
But perhaps a time may come to the exile when his pulse is so scant of
home-fed blood that he notes these signs with a dim unseeing eye and
feels no flush of the old love for his native land arise in him.
If horseshoes brought luck, every exile might be a millionaire, for
nowhere have I seen so many cast shoes in the streets. You could wager
on filling a cart with them in one day! The workmanship of the smiths is
evidently so crude or so little care is taken of the horses that their
shoes are allowed to loosen and fall off without any serious attempt to
preserve them. Whatever the reason, they are in all the streets like
“common objects of the seashore.” But the electric bulb is to Buenos
Ayres as the seaweed or the limpet to a rocky shore. Except along
Broadway, no New Yorker ever looks on such prodigality of electric lamps.
All the public buildings are permanently outlined with them, so often
have they to use them on anniversaries or centenaries; for the Argentine
dearly loves to celebrate the centenary of any old forgotten “battle”
in his glorious history and the anniversaries of all the “epoch-making”
events and great men’s birthdays, by illuminating his public buildings
and getting some great living Argentine to declaim a type-written speech
to an assembly of _distinguidos_. Even the Cathedral is garlanded with
rows of electric bulbs, so that it may take its part with the public
buildings and the retail shops in these extremely frequent electrical
celebrations. No wonder the electricians love Buenos Ayres! And very
beautiful is the city with its millions of little coloured lamps aglow.
I saw it many times thus in eight months; but could have wished for some
novelty after the fifth or sixth time.
While electricity is comparatively cheap, and the supply of glass lamps
evidently inexhaustible, the plate-glass used for lighting underground
warehouses from the sidewalk is evidently at a premium, as I noticed that
whenever one of these pavement lights was broken it was not replaced by a
piece of thick glass, but by wood covered with a layer of cement!
[Illustration: THE COLÓN THEATRE, BUENOS AYRES.
A general view of this fine cement-covered building, where a short season
of State-aided Opera is given each year.]
Having thus far dealt with the streets of Buenos Ayres in general
terms, let me now glance at certain of the more famous thoroughfares in
particular. Florida must naturally come first, for Florida is a microcosm
of Buenos Ayres. It is a tramless street, in so far as the _electricos_
only cross it at every 150 yards. It is, moreover, a “two ways” street,
traffic being allowed to pass along it in both directions. It is, as I
have already indicated, an extremely narrow street. But it is the great
highway of the city; its peculiar pride and joy. There throbs the great
heart of _el gran pueblo Argentino_. On a dry day the motors churn up
the dust and line the broken asphalt roadway with long tracks of oil, on
which the horses “slither” and fall. On a moist day the dust is converted
into a pasty coating, which makes progress on sidewalk or roadway a peril
to quadrupeds and bipeds alike. On a really wet day—and often it rains in
torrents for days on end—the windows of all the shops become obscured
with mud and pedestrians are bespattered from head to heels. The habit of
wearing waterproofs with hoods, which they flap over their hats, gives a
curious aspect to the men on wet days. I had been told in London that the
Anglo-Saxon was spotted in Buenos Ayres by his umbrella. My experience
was that the first things a newcomer bought in the month of May or June
were a waterproof and an umbrella, and it was comic to see the poor
Italian and Spanish immigrants disembarking, each clutching a real old
“gamp,” for which he was to find abundant use. The _coches_, being built
for fair weather, offer little protection when it rains, a crude apron
of leather being stretched in front of the “fare,” but leaving his head
and shoulders exposed to the deluge. Yet one is lucky indeed to secure
so much protection on a rainy night, and often have I had to walk to
my quarters in the drenching rain after shivering for half an hour in
a doorway in the vain hope of getting some condescending _cochero_ to
accept my patronage. At other times, when I have secured a coach, I have
regretted I have not boldly footed it in the rain, as there would be a
painful interlude on the journey while the driver struggled to raise
up his fallen steeds. They tumble about on the slippery streets like
beginners in a skating rink.
But let us look at Florida when the sun is shining. Its shops are full
of interest to the curious. The jewellers are especially numerous, and
vie with the best in London or Paris. And their contents are of the
most beautiful, for the Argentines have taste in jewellery, even though
they are inclined to display it with almost barbaric opulence. The
furniture shops are equally prodigal in beautiful and unique wares,
with perhaps too marked a tendency to the _art nouveau_, which has not
yet grown old in Buenos Ayres. Comfortable chairs, luxurious lounges,
no—their preference is for “style” rather than comfort. The milliners
and _modistas_ display the most tempting hats—I have seen one ticketed
at 500 pesos—and dresses which are the last word in Parisian ingenuity.
They have also a childish delight in grouping life-sized and very
lifelike female figures arranged in these vanities in their windows. A
waxen lady displaying her startling corsets and snowy underwear has a
peculiar fascination not only for the women, but even for the men. One
evening I overheard a little ragged urchin, who was standing before such
a revelation, pressing his hands across his heart, like Caruso in a love
scene, exclaiming to the wax idol of his adoration, “_Ah, mi querida
señorita!_” They begin young in Buenos Ayres!
Florida is so much a Vanity Fair that the shops devoted to the more
sober necessities of life seem out of place. Some of these still present
a “Wild West” aspect in the motley assortment of their wares, cooking
ranges, oil stoves, baths, cork-screws, infants’ foods, boots, bedsteads,
and travelling trunks being mingled together in pleasing disorder. But
such establishments are gradually being elbowed out by the pompous
jeweller, the pianoforte-seller, whose chief business is in pianolas and
musical boxes—crowds will stand around a shop door to listen to a musical
box at work or an automatic organ, in the evening when the street has
been closed to wheeled traffic—the furrier, the high-class stationer,
the modista, the chemist, _and_ the optician. Nowhere will you find such
opticians. It may be that the syphilitic condition of the South American
blood is responsible for the myopia of the Argentines, or it may be no
more than a fashion, like the monocle with a certain type of Englishman;
but the use of glasses is widespread. There is one establishment in
Florida which is a veritable palace of optical appliances, employing
many scores of assistants. A considerable part of this business is also
associated with land-surveying and the most expensive instruments of
that science may be seen for sale in many shop windows in Florida. A
peculiarity of Buenos Ayres (and Montevideo also) is the public display
of surgical appliances. Brilliantly lighted windows present you with
the latest things in operating tables, glass service stands for the
instruments, and all sorts of uncanny inventions for cutting you up.
The craftsmen of Florence send much of their marble handiwork to Florida,
and some of the art shops are stocked with beautiful statues and bronzes,
while every variety of gorgeous inkstands may be seen in them. The
inkstand is an important item of the _chic_ Argentine home. But the taste
for graphic art is still undeveloped, and the pictures offered for sale
compare very unfavourably with the sculptures. I recall in particular a
hideous daub, which was alleged to represent two or three members of a
certain _familia distinguida_ (any family that can pay its way and afford
a seat at the Opera is so described), being the centre of admiration
in a Florida shop window for some days, while the newspapers gave
reproductions of it. In London or Paris no art-dealer would have allowed
it to be seen on his premises.
As I have already indicated, Florida has every day a brief surcease
from the battle of motors and coaches. From four o’clock until seven
no vehicles are allowed to pass along it, and only at the crossings is
there any traffic. These are the hours of the evening _paseo_. Ladies
and children are now at liberty to saunter along the pavements or in
the roadway, while the gilded youth of the town struts by and gazes at
them, or more often stands in stolid rows and admires. The ladies are
perhaps a trifle too well dressed and the children mostly over-dressed.
But this is their “life.” This paseo is what they live for, so they
strive to appear at their best and to display their possessions of silks
and satins, while the _jovenes distinguidos_ have all had their boots
polished to the _n_th degree just before they came into the street. And
the scene is undeniably enchanting, when the electric lights blaze out.
There are hundreds of projecting shops-signs, in which changing electric
lights are now revealed and now occluded, and the great warehouses are
all illuminated as though it were another _centenario_, news vendors are
calling _La Razon_, _El Diario_, _Caras y Caretas_, or _Fray Mocho_, and
the whole has the atmosphere of some brilliant bazaar, rather than of the
highway of a great city. It is a feast of light, but not of gaiety, for
the Argentines are not given to joyousness and are strangely lacking in
humour; everybody is frightfully formal and all are obviously conscious
of being well dressed. It is Vanity Fair with the fun left out!
Towards the river, the street of San Martín (inescapable national hero
who pursues you everywhere in statue, in street and place-name, in
“cocktails,” in every conceivable connection) runs parallel to Florida
but bears no resemblance to it except in being equally narrow. It is
essentially an earnest business thoroughfare, lined with many fine
office buildings, and choking perpetually with traffic. But, by the
way, many of these business buildings that look so “up-to-date” from
the outside are antiquated within. It is a fact that up to so recently
as a year ago builders were in the habit of erecting large tenements
which they well knew would be utilised for nothing but offices, yet they
built them deliberately for “flats,” or _departamentos_, as these are
called, fitting each with its kitchen and bathroom and disposing the
apartments as for bedrooms and salons. Thus you will find to-day hundreds
of business firms using such modern flats as offices,—in some cases the
bathrooms remaining, in others converted into “enquiry office,” or the
like,—all extremely uncomfortable in conditions entirely foreign to
their requirements. But San Martín contains several imposing blocks of
real office buildings and will presently contain more, for the builders
are busy here, as everywhere else, with their work of transformation. A
friend of mine, when I called on him at the beginning of May, 1913, had
just received notice to quit, by the demolishers arriving and starting
to unroof his office! That was his first intimation that the landlord
purposed clearing away his old property and putting up a great new
business building. Argentine methods are not ours.
One “square” nearer the river runs Reconquista, dignified by the
presence of the principal bank buildings, many of which are real
ornaments of the town and all suggest a sense of opulence and financial
solidity it would be hard to match even in New York or London. Yet the
best of them, the richest and the most substantial, are no more than the
branches of the Tree of English Gold which has its roots deep-struck in
London City. It is a street of all nations this Reconquista. England,
France, Germany, Spain, Italy, and the rest have their banking houses
here, and there is no more encouraging sight in this remorseless city
than to witness the many ill-clad Spanish and Italian labourers going
through the long and intricate operation of sending drafts home to
those they have left in the old country. Many hundreds have I seen with
eager, straining faces, scanning the pink or green slips of paper that
would mean so much to some one far away in Lombardy or in Catalonia, and
represented so much of the sweat of his brow to the poor sender.
The practice of keeping a bank account is very general, even among the
labouring classes, as the poor _peon_ has nowhere to hide his little
hoard, living as he does in the most shameful conditions, where a
square yard of living-room is more costly than a cottage would be in
his native village, and among people who do not hesitate at murder to
gain a few pitiful pesos. Thus you will often see a lean and hungry
labourer, dressed no better than an English tramp, scrutinising his
bank book in the corridor of one of the great banking houses, and the
sight is a strange one to English eyes. Turks, Polish Jews, Norwegians,
Russians, Cingalese, Swedes, Armenians, all the nations of the world
are represented daily in the teeming throngs that flock to the banks
in Reconquista, where the innumerable clerks are puffing steadily at
cigarettes and attending to their clients with a charming ease that
has in it a pleasant suggestion of eternity. For the simplest banking
operation will eat away twenty minutes of your time, as your account is
balanced whenever you withdraw or lodge any sum, and to secure a draft on
London at ninety days, calls for the patience of Job and three-quarters
of an hour. Much of this formality is the result of the system of issuing
open checks, which makes swindling delightfully simple, and the bank
always stands to lose, as there is extreme difficulty in bringing a
swindler to book.
The last of the narrow streets riverward is Calle 25 de Mayo, so called
from the day in the year 1810 when the movement for Independence began,
although the actual date of the Declaration of Independence is 9th July,
1816. They have a curious habit of thinking in dates in Latin countries.
Both Paris and Rome give us examples of famous dates as street names, but
in South America dates are honoured to a degree that is comic. One of my
friends in Montevideo has an office in 25 de Mayo, a show-room in 18 de
Julio, and warehouses in 21 de Agosto and in 15 de Octubre! By some odd
chance he always found what he needed most in one of the streets named
after Uruguay’s historic dates. There was another such, 1 de Mayo, but
it offered him no accommodation else he should have taken premises there
also, just to complete the series. Calle 25 de Mayo in Buenos Ayres has
long been one of the degenerate parts of the town, entirely unworthy of
the historic event it commemorates. But it is being gradually reformed
and may yet take on an aspect of decency. Near the Plaza de Mayo it
contains some fine new buildings, but westward it is still the haunt of
undesirables, although the English pro-cathedral stands there, a plain
and not undignified structure with which I made no close acquaintance.
[Illustration: EXTERIOR OF THE JOCKEY CLUB, BUENOS AYRES.
A good photograph of this famous building cannot be made, the street
being too narrow to admit of focus, even from the upper storeys opposite.
In the right bottom corner part of a window-sill, or ledge of roof, on
the opposite side of the street, appears in this photograph.]
From 25 de Mayo the ground falls quickly, to the Paseo de Julio, the
former street occupying the level of what, no doubt, was long ago the
bank of the river. This is the only semblance of a hill in all the
district. Inland for leagues, the city lies flat as the proverbial
pancake, while below towards the river, the Paseo and the gardens beyond,
with the buildings of the port in the further distance, occupy a lower
level of land reclaimed from the river. If anybody wants an enemy “put
out of the way” for a matter of twenty dollars or so, he will have no
difficulty in finding a villain ready for the job somewhere along the
arcaded haunts of the Paseo. In one respect the Paseo de Julio resembles
Princess Street, Edinburgh, which, as the Irishman said, “is no more
than half a strate, as it has only one side to it.” The Paseo has only
one side to it, and it is a bad one. The second stories of the buildings
that stand between the Paseo and 25 de Mayo are on the road level of the
higher street. Thus it might be possible, for aught I know, to enter one
of the low dens on the Paseo and mounting two or three floors within
its evil and mysterious interior, emerge on the level of 25 de Mayo.
The lower stories of these buildings on the Paseo side are arcaded,
and these arcades are the haunt of “all things perverse, abominable.”
According to the local press, after nightfall no man dare appear there
wearing a collar, and any one who requires the aid of eye-glasses must
not venture thither. Often have I wandered among the stinking peones and
cosmopolitan criminals who throng the arcades by day, but I know not
the Paseo by night. The shops are kept by all sorts of cheap clothiers,
general dealers, and many cutlers, whose windows are exclusively given
over to the display of long knives or daggers. Probably sixty per cent.
of the frequenters of the arcades carry one of these dirks, like the
old Scottish Highlander, and the other forty per cent. are armed with
revolvers, of which hundreds are exposed for sale in the arcades. There
is no lack of “cheap Jacks” with “special lines” to clear at a sacrifice.
There are many filthy looking restaurants and provision shops; and more
_librerías_, which expose nothing but the filth of the Continental press
translated into Spanish and Italian. If you look at one of their windows
for a minute, out pops the greasy owner, spiderlike, to enquire if by any
chance you would like to inspect his more secret stock of _fotografías
muy curiosas_, while youths will thrust under your nose an envelope of
obscene photographs, with a particularly offensive one exposed. The whole
atmosphere is vile. The cinematographs and raree shows that also abound
in these arcades may be no more pernicious than many in the Bowery, but
that is a matter on which no decent visitor can speak, as none such could
risk the contamination of entering therein. It is a male crowd that is
always circulating in the Paseo. Never have I seen a decent woman there,
and indeed no more than a half-a-dozen hatless sluts are ever to be
noticed under its arcades.
This abomination must pass. It exists merely because landowners have
preferred to hold their old rotten properties, and allow them to be used
by the scum of the population, until such time as it would pay them to
sell out. The transformation has already begun; the pestiferous old
buildings are giving way to modern ones, devoted to cleaner purposes.
Some day the haunts of the criminals may be utterly wiped out and the
Paseo de Julio become, what it might well be, one of the pleasantest
thoroughfares of a great city.
Up the little hill from the Paseo, one gains the Plaza de Mayo, whence
stretches for a mile and a half in the most approved Haussmannesque
straightness the Avenida de Mayo, ending in the massive palace of
Congreso. Lined with many handsome buildings, of six, eight, or even a
dozen stories, whose shadows are falling athwart the broad and teeming
roadway, while the westering sun is making iridescent the white marbles
of the great domed Congreso in the far distance, here in the new land
of South America is at least one fine city highway that may hold up its
head among the world’s best. There is a suggestion of a Paris boulevard
in the Avenida; a suggestion of form, but assuredly not of life nor of
“atmosphere.” And there the rivalry between the two great Latin cities
begins and ends!
The great Avenida Callao runs at right angles with the Avenida de Mayo
from the Plaza Congreso. It is badly paved, but contains many attractive
buildings of cement. Some day perhaps it may become the central
thoroughfare of the city. There are those who believe it will, but in
my judgment it will call for a greater revolution than they have ever
known in Argentina to shift the centre of gravity from the Calles Maipú,
Florida, and San Martín to Callao. Between Florida and Callao there are
eleven parallel streets. All are incessantly busy from early morning
till nightfall, while Maipú, Esmeralda, and Suipacha, in the order given
parallel to Florida, are busy even through the night. All sorts of shops
abound in these thoroughfares and business offices innumerable, as well
as many places of entertainment, restaurants, and cafés. But, apart
from Florida, all these streets that lie to the north of the Avenida de
Mayo are so characterless that after many years of residence it would
puzzle even those with an abnormal “bump of locality” to say in which
street they found themselves if they stepped from a cab in any one of
them without having noted some landmark on the way. In the suburbs it
is even more difficult to realise at a glance where you may happen to
be, and the policeman often cannot tell you the name of the street he
is patrolling. I remember asking a policeman in a street near the Plaza
Libertad for Frank Brown’s Circus (Brown is an American or an Englishman
who has made and lost fortunes in circuses throughout South America).
“Oh,” said he, “you are going the wrong way. It is at the corner of
Florida and Córdoba.” Now, I knew that some eighteen months or two years
before it had stood there, but was deliberately burned to the ground by
the jingo youths of the city, who were offended by some quite innocent
action of the unfortunate Brown. This policeman, some eight or ten
squares away from the scene, had not yet heard the news, and meanwhile a
magnificent pile of ferro-concrete architecture, the Centro Naval, had
been reared on the spot! I found the new circus by describing to another
policeman, who at first denied all knowledge of it, a big building to
which thousands of people had been flocking for two or three nights past.
Then a light dawned on his Indo-Spanish soul. “_Entonces, señor_,” said
he, “_se encuentra sin duda, a la esquina de esta misma calle, porque se
ha concurrida mucha gente, por alla, estas ultimas noches_.” It was even
so, three squares away at the corner of the street in which I had speech
with the policeman, I found the circus.
There is no end to what I might write about the streets of Buenos
Ayres, but there must be speedily, if not already, to the interest of
the reader. I who have tramped them, in fair weather and in foul, on
busy week days and on the deadest of dull dead Sundays, mile upon mile,
seeking for interest and finding but little, now discover many forgotten
impressions coming up on the films of the mind, which, so to say, I have
been putting into the developer, and though these amuse me, I doubt if
they would equally entertain others.
CHAPTER VI
WHAT WE THOUGHT OF THE WEATHER AND THE MOSQUITOES
I cannot go further in the story of my stay in Buenos Ayres without
saying something very definite about the weather. Passing references have
already been made to that all-important topic; but it requires a chapter
to itself, and it insists on having it here and now.
As I have said, we were seekers of sunshine. Well, we found it—and also
some fine samples of most sorts of weather known between the Equator and
the Poles.
We arrived early in April, which is the beginning of autumn in the
Argentine. As the reader has heard, the morning of our arrival was a
“perisher.” Next day I found my hands, for the first time since boyhood,
sore and “chapped.” The cold wind was so keen that it had instantly
roughened all exposed parts of the skin, and I had recourse to lanoline
to soften my hands and to heal my cracked lips. But on the third day
the sun came forth again and for nearly a fortnight the heat was almost
as trying as in a New York summer. Everybody was mopping his forehead;
men who, a day or two before, had been going about in great-coats, were
walking the streets with handkerchiefs tucked inside their collars to
absorb the sweat. And suddenly it would change to a bitter night; or
perhaps one went forth in the sunny morning in summer clothes, and
by noon the temperature had precipitately dropped fifteen or twenty
degrees, so that one went shivering hotel-ward for lunch and a change of
clothes.
Yet a Scotsman, long resident in Chile, told me that I would find Buenos
Ayres had the finest climate in the world! I wonder where he will go to
when he dies.
For eight months I had occasion to comment on the weather and seldom in
terms of congratulation. The expatriated English and the few _porteños_
of British parentage with whom I came into frequent contact were
strangely prone to ask me what I thought of the weather, whenever it
happened to be a really fine day.
“Compare this,” they would say, “with the weeks of fog in London when the
gas has to be lighted all day long and one can’t breathe.”
“My dear sir,” (or “lady,” as the case more often was), I might
timorously make answer, “you speak of what is as much a tradition as the
red wig and beard for the part of Shylock, and moreover you speak to one
who has seen as great variety of weather in Buenos Ayres as in London.
Your memory is so short that you forget it rained monstrously for three
days last week, and for the other four days there was a white chilling
vapour over all the town, so that you could not see the length of two
squares in the forenoon, and when the vapour had cleared it was as though
you were walking on vaselined sidewalks.”
“Oh, but that was exceptional.”
“And so, it may be, are the fogs of London. But I’d much prefer a real
old London ‘particler’ to this marrow-searching, flesh-chilling, white
plague that comes up from the River Plate in your winter-time and gets
one by the throat.”
That fine line of Tennyson’s,
All in a death-dumb, autumn-dripping gloom,
comes to mind in Buenos Ayres on one of these days, but, alas, the autumn
dripping is not from branchy trees to fragrant, leaf-laden loam, nor is
it “death-dumb.” It drips from gaunt iron frames, from broken plastered
walls, from tram-cars, from horses’ harness. A billiard cue taken from
the rack will feel as though it had been lying in the bath, and the boots
which you have not been wearing for a few days will show patches of white
and green mould.
But it is true that between April and November there may be many days
of sunshine; nay, even weeks of it at a stretch. And these days are
delicious. There is a tang of freshness in the air such as comes to one
on a fine frosty autumn morning on the heights of uptown New York.
Then towards the end of November the sun begins his yearly revel and
till the end of March Buenos Ayres swelters in the most oppressive heat
imaginable. Not that the barometer ever attains a greater height than it
frequently registers in New York City, but New York rarely experiences
such long-sustained periods of heat, and the humidity—due to the mighty
volume of the River Plate—makes the life of man and beast a burden. The
nights bring no surcease. Horses die in the streets by the score every
day, and you will see their carcasses in all parts of the town, awaiting
removal. Lucky are the inhabitants who can escape to Mar del Plata, to
Montevideo or to the Hills of Córdoba, but they are few compared with the
myriads who must remain in the monstrous stew-pot. “Long drinks” and two
or three cold shower baths are now the order of the day. But even the
cold douche has its snares. I was once severely scalded by taking one, as
the cistern was exposed to the sun and the water had been brought near to
boiling point without the aid of a “geyser”! There is nobody in Buenos
Ayres during the summer who attaches much importance to the scientific
wiseacres who tell us the heat of the sun is diminishing.
There was no doubt about it—we had found the sunshine at last. And like
so many of the quests on which mankind sets out, our find was no better
than Dead Sea apples. What could we do with it? Why, we shut it out of
our rooms by every means in our power; we wore smoked glasses so that
we should not see it. We thought of the Kentucky nigger who was knocked
down by an autumnal blast and got up and shook his fist at the invisible
force, saying: “Wind, wheah wuz you dis time las’ July?”
[Illustration: THE NEW COURTS OF JUSTICE.
The “Tribunales” photographed just before the completion of the cement
work on the top storey. In the foreground, the fine monument to General
Lavalle, standing in the plaza named after him.]
It will be gathered from what I have said that the Argentine has no lack
of “weather,” wherein it resembles England, which Mark Twain alleged
had only “samples” of climate. It has all the essentials of the finest
climate in the world, but no wise Providence has blended these with any
discretion. In the course of one short day you will pass through all the
seasons of the year, and though it never snows, I have experienced cold
in Buenos Ayres equal to a sharp frost in New York. Nay, I will roundly
assert that no wind that sweeps across New York has a tooth so keen as
the _pampero_. One has to be out in Buenos Ayres when the wind from the
boundless pampas strikes the town to know how cold can rake through to
the marrow. Over the thousands of leagues of plains it blows, direct from
the snowy Andes, and stirring up the clammy effluvia of the River Plate
it breathes rheumatism, bronchitis, consumption over the city—the hateful
pampero!
Nor have the people learned how to combat their changeful weather. All
their houses are built for summer. They are excellent for four months
of the year, and uncomfortable for the best part of eight. The ceilings
of the rooms are usually five feet or more higher than the American
standard, which gives one a sporting chance of a breath of fresh air in
the torrid season, but when the wind blows and the rain pours, such lofty
rooms, tenanted by a myriad draughts, are veritable haunts of misery.
For they have neither fireplaces like English houses, nor stoves like
American, while steam heating is in its infancy. There are actually
modern houses in which “dummy” fireplaces have been built for show, but
a real genuine fireplace is a thing which most Argentines have only seen
on a visit to Europe. A well-known steam-heating expert from New York,
who was sent on a special mission of study to Buenos Ayres, told me that
in many of the new _departamento_ buildings which offer the attraction
of _calefacción central_ the steam heating installation is no more than
make-believe for selling or letting purposes, but never calculated to
supply the tenants with warmth. No, the Argentine either goes to bed
earlier or puts on extra clothing in the cold weather, lounges about
his house with an overcoat or a shawl above his winter suit, and tries
to warm his toes at an oil stove. The ironmongers make great display of
these stinking abominations at the first cold-snap, and the papers carry
many advertisements of their merits, their “odourless” quality being
insisted upon in every case. Electric stoves are largely and successfully
used, and as electric current is cheap they form the best substitute for
a coal fire—although the English believe there is no substitute in all
the world for a fine glowing fire of coal.
“Weather” is indeed a staple of talk in the Argentine, just as at home.
Indeed, to a greater degree does one hear people discussing the weather
in Buenos Ayres even than in London, and with very good reason. The
fortunes of all hinge on the state of the climate. Too much rain and the
harvests are spoiled; too much heat and horses, cattle and sheep perish
in their tens of thousands. And year after year the Argentine suffers
either way. Tell an _estanciero_ that you have seen two or three locusts
flying about in the street and his face will blanch, his lip quiver,
for already in imagination he sees the dreaded plague of these insects
devastating his crops. He is ever in a state of nervous fear as to
whether there is going to be too little rain or too much, and, poor man,
he will tell you with glee when he meets you on the beastliest of rainy
days that “it’s raining dollars.” If you meet him a fortnight later and
it is still raining, there will be no smile on his face, for he fears it
is to be the old, old story. “Last year and the year before the crops
were nearly in the bags for putting on the rail and yet we lost them
through the rain.” Raining dollars, forsooth! For a day or two that may
be so, for a week, perhaps; but later on it rains bankruptcy. _Que lindo
país_, as a dear old self-deluded lady used to say when telling me the
most atrocious untruths about her adopted country. What a lovely country!
The uncertainty of the Argentine weather is really incredible to any
one who has been fed on the pap of interested hack-writers. In the year
1911 the great national horse race at Palermo was three times postponed
on account of the course being dangerously heavy from excessive rain,
and in 1912 it was postponed once for the same reason, being run on
the succeeding Sunday on a course that was still sloppy. Was the Derby
ever postponed because of rain? I have no Derby lore, but I should be
surprised to learn that such a thing had ever happened in rainy England.
It had been represented to me before I went to Buenos Ayres that, so
reliable was the climate, one could make engagements for outdoor sports
months ahead, with the certainty of weather conditions being favourable.
During my stay there, numerous lawn tennis, golfing, boating and picnic
engagements were postponed from time to time because of the rain.
In short, Argentine weather is either too much of a good thing or too
much of a bad thing. The dear old lady already mentioned told me that
she had to live in Buenos Ayres during the winter because the roads to
her estancia were quite impassable whenever it rained, but it was lovely
there for a few weeks in the spring, though she had to clear out as soon
as summer came, as the place was so infested by flies and mosquitoes that
the family had to live in darkness, never daring to raise the blinds!
Buenos Ayres being equally obnoxious in summer, she went to the Hills
of Córdoba, and came back to town with the autumn. Thus she was able
to spend a few short weeks of each year at her home in the “Camp,” and
the rest of the year, from a chair in the hotel drawing-room she sang
the praises of the glorious Argentine weather and of the country that
blossoms as the rose.
The final touch of unloveliness is the loss of the ruddy glory of the
fall. In the province of Buenos Ayres especially, there is no gorgeous
funeral for King Summer; no shimmering gold of hedge and bough. The
leaves rot on the trees suddenly, wither into pale colourless things that
to-morrow’s wind sweeps away and, behold, so many gaunt and shivering
skeletons of trees. When man dies in Buenos Ayres, they coffin him and
consign him to his corner of Chacarita within twenty-four hours. Summer
dies and is buried with similar despatch, but Nature relatively provides
less pomp at the funeral of Summer than the experts in _pompas fúnebres_
supply for the average Argentine who yesterday was and to-day is not.
Insect life is, of course, conditioned by the weather. Yet the Argentine
mosquito has a wonderful power of surviving into the winter. It is a
worker. Its industry is unquestionable. I shall not readily forget how
I was plagued by this small product of a great country. On various
occasions I had to limp about my affairs with absurdly swollen feet,
thanks to the attentions of these tiny pests. An afternoon _siesta_ could
only safely be indulged in under a mosquito net. Even as I write I still
bear traces on my right foot of a particularly venomous bite that dates
back more than six months!
“Haw, yes, the mosquitoes always get the Gringos,” said a pimply faced
young Englishman to me, when I was mentioning my first experiences nearly
a year later in Montevideo.
“How long have you been out here?” I inquired.
“Oh, nearly three years now,” said he.
“So that you are a three years’ Gringo, I suppose.”
The English youth makes haste to range himself with the “old timers”
and will lie to you abominably to convey the impression that he is no
longer a tenderfoot (though a Gringo he must ever be), and tell you that
the mosquitoes never touch him, while you can see him scratching his
latest bite! The fact is that some people are more subject than others
to mosquito bite and there are many thousands of native-born who never
outgrow the susceptibility. I sincerely sympathise with all such, as
the mosquito has the power to make their lives a misery for at least
six months of the year. Fleas and bugs (the loathsome bed-hunter) also
abound in the City of Good Airs. A gentleman of my acquaintance who
took lodgings in a native doctor’s house was told by the housekeeper,
when he complained about the bugs in his bed, that she couldn’t help
them—“they were natural.” That was his complaint; he would rather they
had been artificial. The _bicho colorado_ is another busy little fellow,
the size of a pin-head. He haunts the grass and as you walk over that he
removes his _habitat_ to your foot, bores a hole in your skin, burrows
merrily into your flesh and produces a sore which you will have cause
to remember for many a day. The chemists do brisk business in selling
innumerable “preventatives” and “cures” for the bites of mosquitoes
and _bichos colorados_, but all that I tried were failures, until I
discovered in that familiar product, liquid ammonia, a really effective
banisher of the pain.
On the whole, I do not seem to have formed an extremely favourable
opinion of the weather in Buenos Ayres. Like that famous little girl,
“when it is good it is very, very good; but when it is bad it is
horrid.” And I have a notion that the little girl in question was none
too often “good.” As for the insects; well, Stalky’s pet aversions, the
“bug-hunters,” can always be sure of a busy time in and around Buenos
Ayres.
CHAPTER VII
A SPLENDID CITY OF SHAM
“Of course we all work in sham,” remarked a prominent Argentine architect
to me, one clear, still night, as we leant together over the rail of a
river steamer, discussing the pros and cons of Buenos Ayres—a subject as
infinitely interesting to River Platers as the weather to the Englishman.
The “of course” was a kindly concession to some criticism of mine and
showed an open and liberal mind. The architect was no self-deluding
_porteño_ to whom Buenos Ayres was everything good, true and beautiful.
He was prepared to admit the warts.
He were, indeed, the blindest and most incompetent of observers who
failed to notice at the end of his first hour in Buenos Ayres that it is
a city of “sham.”
Its buildings are of no distinctive value architecturally—nay, not
even the most notable. Without exception they follow European models
in exterior treatment, no matter how widely they may differ from them
interiorly. That many of the public buildings are imposing, and at first
glance look like “the real thing,” no one will deny. Besides, he who were
foolish enough to deny this could be confronted with the evidence of the
official photographs which have conveyed to an envious Europe the idea
that Buenos Ayres eclipses her worn-out old cities in its architectural
glories. A photograph makes lath and plaster to look like granite and
porphyry. Through the camera the graceful buildings of the St. Louis
“World’s Fair” appeared as permanent as the pyramids, though a few score
labourers with picks and shovels wiped them out in less time than it took
to put them up.
Buenos Ayres is truly a city of sham. Nor is this to its shame. For it
costs more to erect its steel-frame and cement structures than it does
in Washington or London to rear solid piles of masonry. The country is
destitute of workable stone, and the bricks made in the Argentine are so
unsightly and spongy that they can only serve as a base for plaster. Wood
also is scarce and the gorgeous doors, without which no fine building in
Buenos Ayres would be considered complete, have to be imported at great
cost from Europe. Many of these are beautiful and in this one respect
the city may be said to outvie Paris, whence comes this taste for the
grandeur in gates.
It may be a mere old-world prejudice on my part, but I have never been
able to look with real interest on a building that has not been made of
brick or stone. In Europe, in the United States, also, we are accustomed
to historic buildings that have been reared by competent workmen with
the idea that they were to last forever, which, as Ruskin reminds us, is
the only true way to build. To come to a new land and find that the most
pretentious efforts of the builder’s craft are chiefly stucco copies of
European stone-work, leaves the beholder cold.
The Congreso has been trying for some years to become the pride of the
town. It is the great marble-veneer palace where the legislators sit—in
a literal sense, for they deliver their speeches seated—and it is
effectively situated at the western end of the spacious Avenida de Mayo.
It has been many years in course of construction and I am afraid to say
how many millions of money have been spent upon it. At least, it has
cost more than three times the amount originally voted for it, and there
are few senators or deputies who have not had some pickings out of the
“job.” No man knows when it will be finished, for it is said that as much
material as would have built two such palaces has gone in at the front
door of the works and been mysteriously absorbed. The explanation is
that many a fine residence for a legislator with a “pull” has been built
of the said material, after it had gone out a backdoor! Meanwhile the
gorgeous Palacio del Congreso presents a noble marble front to the great
Plaza Congreso and stares eastward along the Avenida without a blush for
its ulterior nakedness. It is like the noble savage, “whose untutored
mind clothes him in front and leaves him bare behind”; for when you have
turned the corners from the plaza you discover that only the front part
has been covered with marble slabs; behind there is naught but dirty
naked bricks. So it has been for three or four years and so it is like to
remain for some years to come; but meanwhile a photograph of the front
does good service for sending abroad as an evidence of the architectural
grandeur of the capital city.
But all this notwithstanding, the Congreso, as seen from almost any
point of the Avenida, is an imposing building. Dignity and elegance are
combined in its graceful proportions, and its elongated dome soars above
the surrounding buildings with a fine sense of confidence. The Corinthian
column is used very effectively in the façade and there are many—rather
too many—statuary groups, in which winged figures and ramping horses are
prominent. Grand stairways sweep up to the central door and inclined
planes make possible the near approach of carriages. But immediately
one steps inside there is disappointment. The central hall is of mean
proportions, and in a few minutes all is confusion, as there is no real
dignity of treatment, and certain inner courtyards are actually built
with painted iron pillars hopelessly out of harmony with the prevailing
style of the building. The Chamber of Deputies, in the form of an
ellipse, is businesslike and handsome, but no more imposing than some of
the council chambers of the great provincial cities at home. The Senate
is a smaller and more elegant chamber, richly furnished with ample seats
of ease and commodious desks for each of its distinguished members.
There is another luxurious room, dedicated to special ceremonies, and
the deputies’ lounge is immense and well-appointed, much after the style
of some of the big New York clubs. It is, indeed, at once a club and an
exchange, for here many of the “deals” by which some men make money in
the Argentine, and others lose it, are consummated.
On the first floor are ranged all the different ministerial offices and
committee rooms, and I think there were only two of these to which I did
not gain admission. But there was little of interest to note in them.
The fact that the rooms devoted to the affairs of the Army and Navy
were about one-tenth the size of those required for the department of
Public Works was eloquent and reassuring. But although I explored the
whole building, high and low, I find I have retained only a very blurred
impression of the interior with its bewildering passages, through which
liveried servants bearing trays of tea dishes were constantly passing,
as the Argentine deputy is a firm believer in getting all he can out of
his country in addition to his annual salary of 12,000 pesos ($5,040),
feeding at public expense, not only himself, but as many relatives and
friends as have the good sense to find important business to transact in
the lobbies of Congress at meal times.
A very handsomely furnished library is a notable feature of the palace.
It is small, but admirably designed for the enshrinement of many books.
One of the proudest possessions of the library, pointed out to me with
much satisfaction, is a complete set of the Hansard Debates of the
British Parliament. There are standard works on all sorts of social
subjects and books of statistics enough to give a mere literary man a
headache. I noted most of the books had a suspicious air of newness.
There was a deputy busy consulting a volume of Hansard, but no other
thirster after knowledge in the library at the time of my visit.
“You may come here often,” said the official who was showing me over
the building, “and you will seldom see more than two people using the
library,—perhaps three.”
The restaurant is much more popular with the deputies, but there is no
doubt that if any of them ever by chance should wish to “verify his
references” he would find no difficulty in performing that most laudable
and improbable task with the aid of this well-stocked and well-managed
library.
On the whole, the impression of the Palacio de Congreso upon the
visitor is of a piece with the capital city. It is all so new, and all
so unfinished, and promises to be rather shoddy when eventually it is
finished. As a tall strapping doorkeeper, who showed me over the great
rooms in the basement of the building, where are stored in iron chambers
many official records, said, “when they’ve finished the building they
will have to start all over again repairing it.”
I went outside on a balcony at the back to examine the still uncovered
brick-work. It is of a quality which would not be used for workmen’s
cottages in England, but once it has been hidden under plaster, with
thin slabs of marble imposed thereon, it will doubtless present a brave
appearance for some years. But not for all time!
[Illustration: THE PALATIAL HOME OF “LA PRENSA.”
Façade of the great newspaper office on the north side of the Avenida de
Mayo. Different interior views of this building are given at pages 80 and
81.]
At the eastern end of the Avenida stands the more historic “Pink House”
(_Casa rosada_), or government building. It occupies the whole width
of the Plaza de Mayo and extends backwards to the Paseo Colón beyond—a
mighty pile of plastered brick. Lacking in distinction and of no
established style, it is chiefly notable for its abundance of windows. I
remember counting about one hundred and twenty in the east front alone,
so that the whole building probably contains upwards of six hundred, and,
with so many piercings in its walls, it will be understood that little
opportunity was left for architectural ingenuity. An immense group of
statuary surmounts the central part of the building, and this too is
most likely a stucco masterpiece, for if it were solid stone it would
surely bring down the roof. The whole exterior is painted pink and on
a bright day its appearance is undeniably pleasing, if you are content
to take it as a whole and some little distance off, for a too close
inspection will reveal many shabby patches and innumerable corners that
are calling aloud for plaster and paint. Indeed, so large is the Pink
House, it would only be possible to give it a coat of paint that would be
fresh all over by employing an army of workers, for, ordinarily treated,
the paint on one side has become old ere the painters have reached the
other.
The interior of the Government House, _Casa de gobierno_—which is the
official designation of the _Casa rosada_—contains many fine apartments,
richly furnished. The great ballroom where the President gives his grave
and stately entertainments from time to time is of elegant proportion and
beautifully decorated.
At the northwest corner of the Plaza de Mayo stands the Cathedral.
Although I passed it daily for some eight months, I never mustered up
sufficient interest to go inside—I who have spent so many months of
my life among the musty old cathedrals and churches of France. I felt
there was little historic about this common and defective imitation of
a Grecian façade, vulgarised by wreaths of electric bulbs around its
Corinthian columns. At first glance it suggests a stock exchange rather
than a place of Christian worship. There is a dome of glazed tiles,
so far away from the low and squat entrance colonnade—which faces due
south—that it seems to have no relation to it. I do not remember noting
the material of the building—so little did it attract me—but I fancy it
consists of the usual plastered brick. One day I did seek to enter, but
could find no door that was open and never do I remember to have seen
the main door open on a week day. This is characteristic of the churches
of South America, where one misses that generous invitation of the fine
old fanes of France. Mainly, the Cathedral of Buenos Ayres will stay in
my memory as a great stock exchange building gone wrong, or—illuminated
on any of the numerous national feast days—as a municipal theatre on a
_noche de gala_.
A stone-throw from the Cathedral stands the Municipal Building, or
_Intendencia_, at the corner of the Avenida and the Plaza de Mayo. It is
of no account, and does not compare in interest with the splendid palace
of _La Prensa_ adjoining it. I confess that as a journalist I had more
desire to inspect the famous building of the great Buenos Ayres daily
than any other sight in the city. During my stay I had frequent business
with the management of _La Prensa_ and was privileged to examine every
corner of its wonderful home, on one occasion spending some hours in the
building after midnight, when the sight of Buenos Ayres from the globe on
which stands the _Prensa’s_ Goddess of Light, who holds aloft her flaring
torch over the restless city, is surely one that can be rarely equalled
in the world. No doubt if one were to look at Paris by night from the
apex of the dome over the Sacré Coeur, or London, say from the Clock
Tower at Westminster, the sight would be more beautiful, but it could
scarcely be more impressive, as the extraordinary flatness of Buenos
Ayres permits the observer on the _Prensa_ tower to survey the whole vast
city to its utmost limits and even to distinguish the twinkling lights
of La Plata, the provincial capital, twenty-four miles away. I shall not
readily forget that starry night when, at two o’clock, I stood up there
in the lookout beneath the Goddess of Light and saw the great noisy,
cruel city as a prodigious map of stars. The prodigality of Buenos Ayres
in electric light was evident even at that hour, for mile upon mile the
eye could follow the main streets with their double lines of radiant
dots, thinning gradually as they flickered into the boundless plain
beyond, while on the fringes of the mighty metropolis appeared numerous
constellations betokening the suburbs which the Federal Capital threatens
to engulf.
The interior of the _Prensa_ building would require a chapter to itself
to describe it with any attempt at detail. That is not possible here
and a mere glimpse of it must suffice. It is almost everything that our
English ideas would expect a newspaper office not to be. If you enter
from the front, there is nothing in the business department to strike
your attention. There are many newspaper offices in the United States
quite as imposing. Nor is there anything particularly worthy of note in
the reportorial rooms, the library, or any of the workaday departments,
though the note of luxury is probably more pronounced in the apartments
of the editor and the editorial writers than in most American offices.
The machine room is splendidly equipped. The overseer, I was told, was an
Argentine, but I suspect he was of British or German parentage, for the
native has little aptitude for mechanics. His assistant was a Britisher.
There is a series of “show” rooms which made it hard for one, like
myself, whose life has been spent in newspaper offices at home amid the
well-loved odour of printer’s ink, to imagine himself within a building
devoted to the production of a daily newspaper. At two o’clock in the
morning what a scene of hustle is a daily newspaper office in New York!
Here everything was as quiet and orderly as in a museum when the visitors
have gone! And in truth it reminded me not a little of a museum. There
was a magnificent concert hall, superbly decorated, with painted panels
for the doing of which artists had come especially from France. Here many
of the most famous operatic stars who have visited Buenos Ayres have
appeared before select audiences invited by the _Prensa_; celebrated
actors have tried new plays and illustrious visitors from foreign lands
have addressed privileged audiences in many different tongues. The value
of such a hall to a newspaper is so obvious that it is surprising none
of the New York journals has yet attempted anything of the kind. I think
the _Prensa_ salon accommodates an audience of some five hundred, and it
is smaller than the very charming little theatre of _Femina_, the Paris
ladies’ journal, in the Champs Élysées.
Then there is a suite of living-rooms, fronting to the Avenida, worthy
of a prince. These have been placed at the disposition of distinguished
visitors to the Argentine with a liberality that has not always been
duly appreciated, for I was told that this very pleasant custom of
honouring the country’s guests has more than once been abused by a
visitor staying so long that he threatened to become a permanent boarder
of the _Prensa_. Hence, it may be, that the custom is no longer to be
maintained, and I can imagine the business side of the newspaper can
make even better use of the space. A sports-room for the staff includes
appliances for every variety of indoor sport and exercise, from billiards
to fencing, nor need one ever be at a loss for a cooling bath in the hot
summer days, as the bathrooms and lavatories are worthy of a first-class
New York hotel. But, most curious of all, perhaps, are the medical and
dental departments. The rooms for the physicians and surgeons on the
staff of the _Prensa_ are supplied with all the latest medical and
surgical appliances, and readers of the paper can come here free of
charge for advice and treatment. There is also a legal department, where
skilled lawyers look into the troubles of the newspaper’s subscribers!
In short, the _Prensa_ building is one of the most interesting sights
of Buenos Ayres and a notable ornament of the Avenida. It is an epitome
of Argentine progress, for less than fifty years ago the journal was a
humble little four-page sheet, issued from some scrubby little shanty,
while to-day it is one of the wealthiest, as it is one of the largest,
newspapers in the world, housed in a palace that cost $1,500,000 to
build. Its enterprising founder, the late Dr. José Paz, died at Nice a
week or two before I left England and I was later present at the ceremony
of receiving his remains in Buenos Ayres for interment at Recoleta, the
last resting place of the Argentine’s aristocrats. He had built another
palace for the whole Paz family in the Plaza San Martín, one of the most
magnificent buildings in the city and one of the most princely private
residences I have ever seen in any land, but he was not spared to see it
occupied.
If we cross the Avenida and go some four squares down the Calle Defensa
we shall come to one of the few historic buildings in the city—the church
of Our Lady of the Rosary—_Nuestra Señora del Rosario_.
There is nothing worthy of note in its architecture, but in the tower
which surmounts the front entrance—to the north—a number of cannon
balls are embedded in the mortar of which the church is built. These
are said to be relics of the British bombardment of 1806 and within are
the flags which the Spanish viceroy, Liniers (a Frenchman, by the way),
took from the British troops under General Carr Beresford when they
were compelled to surrender to superior forces after their brief and
ill-advised occupation of the citadel from June to August of that year.
Liniers promised the flags of the conquered British to _Nuestra Señora
del Rosario_ before he went forth to engage Beresford on the 12th of
August, and there they hang, objects of no small pride to the patriotic
Argentine. (This on the authority of the native historian, Señor José
Manuel Eizaguirre, though Mr. Cunninghame Graham states that the flags
were taken from the incompetent General Whitelock in his disastrous
attempt to retake the town in 1807, and that they hang in the Cathedral.)
There are indeed few churches in Buenos Ayres that will repay a visit.
All are edifices of little note and, almost without exception, stuck
rather shamefacedly among other buildings where you may pass a dozen
times and never notice them once. Buenos Ayres has other business in hand
than matters of the soul. No one could describe it as an aggressively
religious city. The Jockey Club is more to its taste. It stands rather
more than half-way along the Calle Florida, going from the Avenida
towards the Plaza San Martín. That admirable English word of recent
invention, “swank,” was surely coined by some one familiar with the
Jockey Club of Buenos Ayres. But for the moment I shall not seek to
illustrate this by attempting to describe the spirit that animates this
bizarre and curious institution. In this chapter I am concerned only with
its outward appearance. That is by no means unpleasing, though the façade
of the building is constricted and the narrowness of the street prevents
one from obtaining a satisfactory view of it. It is covered with an
infinity of electric bulbs and no occasion to light these is ever allowed
to pass unregarded. Often have I seen the building aglow like Aladdin’s
Palace in a Drury Lane pantomime and scarce a soul within sight to feast
his eyes on the outward magnificence of this great national institution
which exists for the maintenance of the best breeds of man’s devoted
servant, the horse (_no me parece_, as they say in Buenos Ayres, or “I
_don’t_ think,” as they say elsewhere).
Westward some six or seven squares from Florida one encounters in the
Plaza Lavalle several noteworthy buildings. On the west side of that fine
plaza the new _Tribunales_, or Law Courts, have just been completed,
and Buenos Ayres has nothing finer in the way of architecture to show.
Conceived on a massive scale and carried out with unusual thoroughness
of detail, this is a magnificent palace for the housing of Justice, and
as Justice is by no means blind in the Argentine she will find much in
her palace to occupy her attention, even to distract it from those duties
which in other lands she is supposed best to perform with shut eyes.
Why a style that is reminiscent of Assyria and Byzantium should have
been chosen, I know not, unless Argentine Justice is of Oriental origin;
but the effect is undoubtedly imposing. The six massy columns of the
central façade spring upwards to the height of five tall stories, with a
large sense of strength and permanence, though it is true they begin in
noble stone only to continue upward in concrete. The five entrances are
generously inviting, but every Argentine knows that when he enters there
to lodge a suit Heaven alone can guess how old he will be, how grey his
hairs, when he comes out again with a verdict. Three more stories tower
above the great plinth of the pillars, and over the entrance runs a fine,
spacious colonnade of Ionic columns.
The building of the Tribunales is, in truth, one of the finest palaces
of justice in any great city of the world, exceeded in sheer bulk, so
far as I can remember, only by the Palais de Justice of Brussels, which
is colossal beyond all reason. Even though a vast deal more cement than
enduring stone has gone to its making, it will long remain the most
noteworthy architectural effort in Buenos Ayres, and one cannot look
upon it without feeling a certain reverence for the intentions of its
builders. If Argentine Justice will only endeavour to “live up to” the
dignity of her new home, the citizens of the great young republic will
have reason to congratulate themselves.
[Illustration: A PRINCELY SANCTUM—ROOM OF THE “PRENSA’S” CHIEF EDITOR.]
[Illustration: A CORNER OF THE MEDICAL CONSULTING ROOM OF THE “PRENSA.”]
On the opposite side of the same ample plaza stands the _Teatro Colón_
(Columbus Theatre), the home of the state-aided opera. The citizens
are immensely proud of this fine building and with good reason. Always
allowing for the difference between stone and cement, neither Paris nor
London has anything finer than this palatial theatre. Admirably situated,
it is no less admirably designed. It seems large enough to contain half
a dozen opera houses, and indeed the theatre proper occupies less than
half of the great building. Near the Colón rears its more modest head the
_Colegio Sarmiento_. Sarmiento was one of the greatest men the Argentine
or any other country has produced in modern times. No one did more
than he for the advancement of his native land, and while I would have
preferred to see the _Colón_ dedicated to the memory and the educational
ideals of the famous president, it is perhaps only in accord with the
lessening ideals of our day that amusement and social pretentiousness
should outvie the merely intellectual and useful.
The old _Teatro de la Opera_ still stands and thrives under private
management. No doubt when it was first built it was thought to represent
the last word in architectural grandeur, but a glance at its rococo
façade, wedged between two other buildings in the Calle Corrientes, after
having looked at the _Colón_, will show how rapidly Argentine ideas have
expanded in recent years.
It is scarcely possible to continue an orderly commentary on the public
buildings of Buenos Ayres until one has passed them all in review. There
are too many for that, and many are too similar. Others that I call to
mind particularly at the moment, are the great offices of the Water Works
(_Aguas corrientes_) and the Board of Education (_Junta de education_),
both of which are fine examples of the stately manner in which the
Argentine houses its public departments. The same cannot be said for
the Art Gallery. I am willing to concede that in a young country the
essential things, such as good drinking water and elementary education,
should take precedence over the fine arts, but when so noble a building
as the Colón could have been erected merely to provide society with a
short season of social diversion each year (for we must frankly admit
that it is more a society haunt than a temple of the muse), surely it
might have been possible to do something worthier of the graphic arts!
The art gallery occupies a commanding site on the northeast side of the
Plaza San Martín, but the building is only a second-hand pavilion, bought
from some exhibition (that of St. Louis, I was told) and re-erected here.
It is a gimcrack affair of iron frame, wood and gaudy tiles. Although
it looks quite attractive in a photograph, the shoddy workmanship, the
great chunks of coloured glass, used as items of the decorative scheme,
and the general air of temporariness inseparable from the purpose for
which it was originally designed, leave one with the impression that
the Argentines set a very low value on their art treasures. Yet there
are several canvases in the collection that may be worth more than the
building that houses them. The sooner this trashy pavilion is thrown
on the scrap-heap and a worthy gallery erected, the better for the
reputation of the country in respect to the fine arts.
One other public building there is that calls for note. It is known as
the _Casa de expósitos_, and occupies an airy position on the great
thoroughfare that runs through the district of Barracas—Montes de Oca. It
is an immense building, larger than some of the great London workhouses,
and seems to have an infinity of rooms within. There is no fanciful
treatment of the exterior; all is plain, massive, substantial. The
purpose of this institution is to rear the undesired children of Buenos
Ayres. An _expósito_ is a foundling, and this is the Foundling Hospital
of Buenos Ayres. Unwilling mothers bring their offspring here, leave them
at the door, where they are willingly received “and no questions asked.”
The state does not despise this means of fostering the population, though
it leaves many thousands of infants to die annually for lack of popular
instruction on the rearing of the young and also by permitting the
continuance of social conditions which make the survival of most children
of the labouring class something of a miracle.
When the station of the Central Argentine Railway at Retiro has been
completed, Buenos Ayres will possess one of the finest railway buildings
in the world, but during my stay the termini of that railway and the
B. A. P. were no better than some of the shabbier country stations in
the United States, though the Southern, at Plaza Constitucion, has a
handsome edifice, and the Western, at Plaza Once, quite a presentable
railway station.
And talking of railway stations, I shall make this the end of my journey
round the public buildings of Buenos Ayres—at least for the present. I
have not sought to do more than to give the reader—as in the fleeting
glimpses of a strange land from the window of a speeding train—a rapid
outline of the material Buenos Ayres. This splendid city of sham! If I
may not appear to have been deeply impressed with its beauties which
have been so floridly pictured by more partial pens, that is probably
because I have sought to bear in mind there are other great cities
in the world. To the untravelled British provincial, who has shipped
straight from some English port to the River Plate, I can well imagine
the Argentine metropolis is the greatest wonder of the world. The most
devoted admirer of Buenos Ayres that I met during my stay there was a
gentleman from Kilmarnock, Scotland. He had never seen London; had never
previously been out of his native Scotland; but his ten years in the
Argentine capital had convinced him that it stood unique in the world
and in all time as the most glorious example of the power of man in the
making of cities. That renegade Scot, I quite believe, looks forward with
satisfaction to living out his life there and being hurried one day, some
twenty hours after he dies, to the sweet rest of Chacarita! But he is a
type one may easily allow for (I always show a marked approval of their
well-seasoned opinions) and pass on. The intelligent writer, however, who
so often, from hasty observation or from interested motives, conveys a
too flattering impression of a town does incomparably more harm than a
whole wilderness of inexperienced and unobservant enthusiasts. So many
such writers have already described the outward show of Buenos Ayres as a
sun without spots, that my observations may at least restore the spots.
They are set down in all honesty and with no desire to belittle the truly
commendable things of Buenos Ayres, in appraising which I trust I shall
not be held guilty of any niggard spirit. But, after all, the buildings
of any city are no more than the husk, and though we must break the
shell to come at the kernel, it is on the latter we have our mind in the
progress of the operation. Thus I am in these chapters on the outward
appearance of Buenos Ayres engaged in nothing more than the breaking of
the shell—and perhaps a few well-established illusions at the same time.
CHAPTER VIII
SOME “PASEOS” IN AND ABOUT BUENOS AYRES
A paseo signifies no more than a stroll, a walk, a promenade. But the
modern Argentine usually goes a-strolling in a coche or a motor-car. He
has an ingrain horror of exercising his legs. The British resident soon
falls into this modern manner, either out of a frank desire to ruffle
it with the best of them or merely because one must eventually follow
the line of least resistance. It demands a certain amount of will-power
to walk when all the world’s on wheels. Thus, as there is but a single
paseo where one can display one’s gorgeous motor-car, or hired carriage,
all the world makes for that and stares at everybody else. Palermo! Oh,
potent word to local minds! Palermo is the one paseo known to all. In
that one word is summed up most of what the citizens of Buenos Ayres
know of outdoor enjoyment. There are other paseos that do not call for a
coche; where you don’t go merely to look at the crowd and be looked at;
consequently these are left to the stray visitor or the Gringo, who knows
no better.
But first let us talk of Palermo. It is as Hyde Park to London, as the
Bois to Paris. And it is an infinitely greater source of pride to the
Buenos-Ayrian than Hyde Park to the Londoner or the Bois to the Parisian.
I met a young English lady who had been brought to the River Plate as
a child and after growing to womanhood had returned to England for a
year or two, but had now come back to Buenos Ayres again. “I just love
Palermo,” she said ecstatically. “It is unique; there is nothing like it
in all London.” I received the information with due humility.
Palermo consists of a mile or so of carriage driveway which is level
and tarred (differing in these respects from every other bit of road
in the Argentine), a pond or two, and some trees. Materially, that is
all. But it is in the spirit of Palermo that lies its fascination, and
it may truly be said of it that “for those who like this sort of thing
it is just the sort of thing they will like,” as will presently appear
when I endeavour to describe that spirit. No, outwardly there is nothing
quite like it in London, nor in New York: the driveways in Hyde Park or
in Central Park are immensely smoother, the lawns are incomparably more
velvety, the trees more umbrageous, while a dozen or more Palermos could
be cut out of a corner of the Fairmount Park, Philadelphia, without
noticing the loss! But all that is by the way. Palermo is not to be
sneered at as the lung of a stifling city. There are instances of people
going along quite well with but one lung. The man with one lung, however,
has scant reason for crowing over his normal fellow-creatures.
Palermo, taken at what it is and eschewing comparisons, is very fine and
reflects the highest credit on the municipal authorities of Buenos Ayres.
They have done wonders with the most unpromising material. Yet as it
stands to-day it is nothing, I believe, to what it is likely to become.
To reach this haunt of River Plate fashion you will hire a coche (taking
care to select one of the minority that are cleanly upholstered and
well-horsed) or you may engage a motor-car, for there is an abundance
of splendid automobiles to be hired by the hour, with nothing but the
tell-tale taximeter to show that it is not a luxurious private car. Or
you may take either train or trolley car. Nor is it any great distance
to walk thither from the centre of the town. I have gone every way, for
after a time it becomes “the only thing to do,” and when you have reached
that stage you almost invariably take a coche. The favourite route is by
way of the Plaza San Martín and the Avenida Alvear, the Fifth Avenue of
Buenos Ayres. The district lying between the Plaza and Recoleta is the
most fashionable residential quarter, and along the fine Avenida Alvear
stand many of the most beautiful private mansions in Buenos Ayres. Here
for the first time in wandering about the town one notes hardly any
intermingling of the ostentatious and the mean. Everywhere else that
strikes the observer most forcibly—the extraordinary way in which the
palace is placed alongside the hovel, so that, separated only by a matter
of two or three feet of distance and the thickness of a wall, may be a
group of thieves discussing their affairs over drinks in an evil-smelling
“dive” and a perfumed gathering of _distinguidos_. Time, of course, will
cure this in the older quarters of the town, but the indifference to the
nature of one’s neighbours is evidently deep-rooted, as in the Avenida
Alvear itself there is at least one very common drinking saloon in the
lower part of a handsome new building, and further out toward Palermo
a fine new block of flats is disfigured by a noisy bar on the street
level. On the whole, however, this district is so free from the lower
class of trades people and the meaner sort of building that in this
respect it reminds one of the aristocratic quarter of any great European
town.
The Plaza San Martín is a noble square, plentifully studded with trees,
flowering shrubs and flower beds. The grass is coarse and scraggy, the
close-cropped, velvety lawn being here impossible of attainment owing
to natural difficulties of soil and weather. In the centre of the plaza
stands a splendid monument to the national hero. It is of the familiar
equestrian type, showing San Martín, astride the usual prancing steed,
pointing with his right hand to the path that leads to glory or the
grave. The statue, a very spirited work, stands on a high pedestal of
granite, in front of which a fine figure of a Roman warrior is seated
holding aloft an oak branch, while four other bronze groups typifying
military prowess and victory, each in itself a considerable monument,
occupy granite pedestals at the extreme corners of the wide-spreading
sculptured base. Inset in the main pedestal are battle groups in high
relief and the lower parts of the stone-work are also enriched with many
similar panels of smaller size, in which the stirring events of South
America’s struggle for independence, so little known in North America or
in Europe, are vigorously depicted. Withal, a very handsome and worthy
memorial, of enduring stone and bronze. In art and craft it is French,
having been transported from France with much ceremony and at no small
cost. It is a noteworthy ornament of the city; a legitimate source of
pride to the patriotic.
The sculpture mania has Buenos Ayres in its grip. The Latin peoples
have ever been more partial to that art than the Anglo-Saxon, but the
Argentines are in danger of touching an extreme that borders on the
foolish. Here in the Plaza San Martín there are two more groups—in
marble these—one being a very striking work indeed, entitled _La Doute_.
It stands near the southeast corner of the plaza and is so shadowed by
trees that it baffled all my efforts to secure a really good photograph
of it. A little reminiscent of the Rodin manner—Rodin is one of the gods
of the Buenos Ayrians—this work represents a great muscular young man,
semi-nude, with perplexed brow, pondering a book, to which an old wizened
figure points with skinny finger while he peers into the face of the
young man. “Doubt” is writ large thereon; but whether the old man seeks
to dispel the doubt or is the cause thereof I am myself in doubt. His old
face always reminded me of the bust of Voltaire in the Louvre. Perhaps
there’s a clue in that. The other group is called _Los primeros fríos_
(The first cold winds) and represents a naked old man seated with a naked
child at his knee. It always impressed me as a peculiarly stupid work,
though technically good, and beyond reminding perspiring humanity in the
suffocating summer time that there are occasions when the cold winds
blow, I can imagine no good purpose that it serves.
Another feature of the plaza is an artificial rockery which, with another
of the same, though somewhat higher, in the Plaza Constitucion, is the
only thing in the shape of a mountain for scores of miles round about
Buenos Ayres!
[Illustration: BEDROOM OF DISTINGUISHED VISITORS’ SUITE IN “PRENSA”
OFFICE.]
[Illustration: THE GORGEOUSLY DECORATED SALON IN THE “PRENSA” OFFICE.]
Such is the Plaza San Martín—as handsome a public square as you will
find in any great city. The pity is that it is frequented chiefly by
riff-raff, and the footways being laid with tiny pebbles, one would
fain don his golf-shoes to walk thereon. It is surrounded by a series
of private palaces, notably those of Mihanovich, a millionaire whose
life-story is a romance, and that of the Paz family, already mentioned.
We continue towards Palermo by the Avenida Alvear, noting the many
mansions on the way in which good taste and vulgar ostentation often
stand side by side, though, on the whole, good taste prevails. These
gorgeous homes are frequently left to the care of a few servants for
twelve months on end, as the wealthy Argentine says to his native town,
“I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not Paris more!” And while
he does homage to his homeland by adorning the Avenida Alvear with a
palatial residence, he spends most of his time in Paris—and I don’t blame
him. The late Dr. Paz lived for twenty years on the Riviera and there he
died. Good Americans, ’tis said, go to Paris when they die. Wealthy South
Americans go to Paris when they live and are brought back to Buenos Ayres
when they die!
The Avenida Alvear is wide and well paved with wooden sets. In the
afternoons there is a continuous stream of vehicles, and on Sundays a
more animated thoroughfare could not be imagined. Motor-cars innumerable
go scudding along without a thought of speed limit, tinkling coches,
splendid carriages and pairs, and the scrubbiest Victorias and the
mangiest teams you ever set eyes on. Mounted police are stationed at
different points, not so much to “direct” the traffic as to act as living
landmarks for the drivers, all of whom seem bent on getting somewhere
first, though there is not the least occasion for hurry, unless they
are bound for the race-course, as in half an hour they will have gone
the whole distance that can be covered in comfort. We two Gringos used
to spend many pleasant hours sitting in the little green garden by the
Palais de Glace, near Recoleta station, watching the varied throng go by,
but that was not “the thing to do,” bless you, as our only companions
were nursemaids and rough labouring men. On the south side of the
Avenida, however, are other and much larger gardens, where those who are
not ambitious to _lucirse_ (or “show off”) at Palermo, are wont to sit
or promenade. And very attractive are these gardens, with their winding
walks, their lakelets, and shrubberies. Those at the Plaza Francia are
particularly favoured by the toilers on Sunday afternoon, though the
view across the Avenida to the waterworks is somewhat of an eyesore. In
the Plaza Francia the French “colony” have erected a fine monument to
the Argentine Republic, as a _recuerdo_ of the centenary in 1910. At
the back of the plaza is a long and substantial-looking balustrade. We
thought this must lead to “somewhere beyond”—full of groves and tinkling
fountains! We ascended one hot day, to find that it led nowhere, and was
made of bricks and stucco, and although still unfinished it had already
fallen into decay.
So we continue our paseo, be it in coche or afoot, along Alvear,
passing, as we near Palermo, many shanty-like structures which must
soon disappear and many unsightly remains of the Centennial Exhibition.
This last was opened and closed in the year 1910, but at the end of 1912
numerous ruined pavilions still cumbered the ground. One place near here
used to amuse me. It was a shabby pleasure resort named “Harmenonville.”
Memories of that delightful bower in the Bois de Bologne always came back
to me when I looked at this, “with laughter of gods in the background.”
And now, we find ourselves at a great dusty meeting of wide roads. On
the left is the entrance to the Zoological Gardens, to the right the
woods of Palermo, with their pines and eucalyptus trees, suggestive of
unfathomed forest within, while ahead the broad road continues, now noisy
with tram-cars coming and going from the race-course and by the Avenida
Sarmiento that runs southwest to the Plaza Italia.
The woods on the right invite us by their coolness and apparent depth.
They prove, however, a mere strip of trees, and we seldom encounter
decent-looking people among them. But there is no lack of promenade
ground in the direction of the lakes, whither every vehicle of every kind
is heading. And there, beyond the great tea-room, the _Pabellón de los
lagos_, the real paseo begins. Along the driveway by the margin of the
lakes there is, on Sunday afternoons especially, an extraordinary crowd
of vehicles. All have to move at a snail’s pace, directed by many mounted
police, who, posted in the middle of the roadway, keep the traffic into
two orderly streams, one going, the other returning, while alongside the
footpath stands a row of carriages, whose owners or hirers may either be
seated within, staring at every other carriage that passes, or, greatly
daring, may be venturing a few paces on foot beside the lakes, where
sundry low Italians are enjoying themselves rowdily in the gondolas, and
dreaming themselves back in Venice—if, perchance, they are strong in
dreams.
This is Palermo. For this all the monstrous noise of motor “cut-outs”
and every devilish variety of “hooter” along Alvear, all the brutal
lashing of perspiring horses. For this! The dresses of the ladies in
the carriages are _la ultima palabra_ and their wearers sit as stiff
and expressionless as the wax mannequins in the windows of the Florida
modistas. They recognise their friends with a slight inclination of
the neck, but show no sign of pleasure. The gilded youths in groups
of threes or fours, with their boots polished to solar brilliancy, go
by in hired motors or in coches (the latter have the merit of showing
off the boots to advantage) and stare at the _lindas muchachas_ whom
they do not know, and doff their hats with profoundest bows to those
they do know. And so it goes on for an hour or two, then towards five
or half-past five, the throng begins to lessen, the returning vehicles
continue townward at increased speed when they have come back for the
last time to the beginning of the carriage-drive, and by six o’clock the
fashionable throng has melted away, leaving Palermo to the prowlers and
the stragglers once again. What strikes the spectator is the appalling
respectability of it all, the gravity of the _paseantes_, the lack of
vulgarity and gladness. It is all a pose, for I have seen these same
charmingly dressed ladies who look so frightfully formal on Sunday
afternoons, all smiles and merriment on the evenings of the _Corso de
flores_, or the Battle of Flowers, which takes place at Palermo in aid
of public charities in the month of November. It is “the thing” to be
seen taking a paseo at Palermo and as there is nothing so serious in this
strange life of ours than our social obligations, we must needs discharge
them with due gravity. But what a comedy it all is for the spectator who
has no obligations to local Society!
The paseo by the ponds (it is gross flattery to call them _lagos_, but
_estanque_, which signifies “pond,” is not so pretty a word as _lago_)
is by no means the end of Palermo’s possibilities to the wanderer in
Buenos Ayres, though it is so to the residents. Near by is the Zoological
Garden, which extends from the Avenida Alvear to the Plaza Italia, on the
great highway of Santa Fé. But one does not visit this often. It contains
a large and interesting collection of wild animals and is well laid out,
but badly kept. In the summer months it is disagreeably dusty and on
Sundays it is so crowded by low class Italians and the unwashed of all
nations, that one feels all the wild animals are not in cages. I noticed
many of the lions, tigers and larger beasts had ugly sores, the result
of insect trouble, I was told, and one of the most abominable sights I
have ever seen was witnessed here. In a large pound was a troup of poor
worn old horses and ponies, wandering aimlessly about. A more ghastly
collection of living creatures could not be conceived. These were the
food for the lions and the tigers. Faugh!
Separated from the Zoological Garden by a spacious avenida—General Las
Heras, if I remember correctly—and occupying a small triangular plot of
ground extending townwards from the Plaza Italia is the Botanical Garden.
It contains many specimens of American flora and has a few hothouses full
of tropical plants; but it is of no real account botanically and is more
useful as a place of grateful greenness and shade, retired a little from
the dust and noise of the streets, where one may idle an hour away with
pipe and book.
[Illustration: A CONTRAST IN PUBLIC BUILDINGS.
The upper illustration depicts the tawdry old exhibition pavilion which
Buenos Ayres is content to use as an Art Gallery, and the lower the
splendid offices of the Public Waterworks.]
Then, of course, there is the great race-course or _Hipódromo Argentino_,
only a little way beyond the _Parque 3 de Febrero_, as the whole park,
of which Palermo proper is only a part, is named. The race-course is, I
opine, one of the largest in the world. It is very pleasantly situated
and maintained in admirable condition; but it has the defect of being
so large, or so designed, that the race as a whole cannot be followed
uninterruptedly from any of the “grandstands” or _tribunas_. These are
well built and extremely commodious. There is a particularly gorgeous
erection for the distinguished persons associated with the Jockey Club,
and this is naturally alongside of the paddock. Next to it is a larger
stand for the public who pay seven pesos a head, and beyond are the
_tribunas populares_ for the mob. As the _Paris mutuel_ system, or
“totalisator” is used for regulating the betting, the “bookie” is unknown
here. There are many ticket offices, each bearing a number, and you
merely go to the one that has the number of the horse you wish to “back,”
buy as many tickets “for a win and a place” as your fancy or your pocket
dictates, return to the stand, and await results! These offices are in
different series: one series only issues tickets of ten pesos, another
of five, and a third of two. After a race, if your horse has won or been
“placed,” you go to a paying-out office, present your tickets and there
receive your winnings at the rate which was announced on the large notice
board near the grand-stand after the money on that particular race had
been apportioned, which, being done by mechanical calculation, occupies
very little time. You will almost certainly have a few hot words with the
man at the box-office, as he will try to swindle you out of a portion
of your gains, trusting to the confusion of the moment to cover up his
fraud. On the whole, the system is about as good a way for losing one’s
money as our Stock Exchange, and it does possess an element of “sport”
which the latter seems to me to lack.
We knew as much about the horses running at Palermo as our maiden aunt,
but we stuck to our lucky number and always “got home.” A sporting
gentleman who was with us on one occasion and knew the history of every
horse for generations back, lost so heavily that on one race he joined
my wife and me on our lucky number! The horse arrived last; but—will you
believe me?—by some strange error of the judge, it was given a place and
we drew so substantial a dividend on it that the sporting gentleman—who
“plunged” all he had left on it—squared his losses! There was a great
how-d’ye-do in the papers about the mistake, but it shows you the value
of having a lucky number, rather than being versed in the “form” of the
horses! Talking of the matter with a member of the Jockey Club, he told
me that on one occasion he was present when the winning horse passed so
much ahead of the others and so close under the judge’s box that the
judge didn’t see it! The Jockey Club conducts the races and the betting,
paying a certain percentage of its enormous gains to charities. As for
the public, although present at the races in their thousands, they seemed
to have no healthy interest in the horses, but were there with solemn,
hard, joyless faces to make money. Yet we are told horse-racing is the
national “sport” of the Argentine. The liveliest scene is when the last
race is over and the multitude fight for seats on tram-cars, while the
lucky ones swagger back to town in their hired vehicles. Very few women
are to be seen; certainly not five per cent. of the crowd. A few of the
_mundo elegante_ may be noted in the Jockey Club enclosure, but the
_demi-mondaine_, so eminent and attractive at Longchamps, is rigorously
debarred. Indeed, you will search in vain at the Palermo races for any
real signs of gaiety or sport.
Beyond the Hipódromo lies the golf-course. The club has been specially
favoured by the generosity of Señor Tornquist, a great local landowner,
and is patronised by natives and foreigners alike, the Argentine being
very emulative of the English in all their national sports and at heart
he is “a good sport.” The course, though only containing nine holes, is
well laid out and is most interesting. I recall with pleasure the few
rounds I made there and also the ample hospitality of one of the finest
club-houses I have ever visited.
Between the race-course and the golf, there is a fine riding track, and
near the station named “Golf” are some spacious tennis courts, where
energetic natives, as well as Britishers and Americans, practise that
vigorous pastime. Football, too, and cricket are played near here and
at Belgrano, and it is a common sight at Palermo to witness some of the
military aviators practising; so that, on the whole, the sportively
inclined need not be unoccupied in Buenos Ayres, and if there is little
that invites the visitor to a paseo in the town, Palermo has always
something to offer on Sundays at least.
CHAPTER IX
MORE “PASEOS” IN BUENOS AYRES
Recoleta I have only mentioned in passing; but that offers a very
interesting paseo to the visitor. My wife specialised on Recoleta and
piloted many another lonely soul to that strange city of tombs! As they
say in Scottish villages, “Let’s take a bit daunder in the kirk yaird.”
Recoleta is certainly worthy of a “daunder.” This famous cemetery
combines some features of Pere Lachaise with certain of the Campo Santo
at Genoa. But it is really not like either. It is peculiarly Argentine.
You can trace in it the progress of the national prosperity. It is
essentially the creation of a people newly rich. Here and there we see
in its crowded lines of tombs some mouldering memorial of the last
generation, simple, unpretentious. But most of those that bear dates
within the last twenty years or so are the last word in necrological
“swank” or mortuary pomp. Not for nothing are funerals styled _pompas
fúnebres_ in the Argentine. They do well by their dead. Millions of
money have gone to the making of these splendid homes of the dead at
Recoleta. For they are not buried in our “earth to earth” fashion. The
bodies are merely encased in leaden shells, within gorgeous coffins of
carved wood, and are laid on shelves within the mausoleums, so that for
years to come the survivors may visit the tomb and mourn with no more
than the thickness of the coffin between them and the departed. It is a
horribly unsanitary system of burial and the smell in Recoleta on a hot
summer’s day is distinctly “high.” How could it be else, with all these
thousands of decaying corpses enclosed in boxes which, you may be sure,
are not all air-tight? So intolerable is the savour of the dead, that
the custodians—the cemetery pululates with uniformed custodians—have to
“air” the tombs by opening the doors for several hours daily. When I went
wandering in Recoleta, I used to think that Jacques’ words—
“And so, from hour to hour we ripe and ripe
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot”—
would make a good motto for the place. How Shakespeare has a tag for
everything, old and new!
But I must describe a typical tomb. It is built entirely of beautiful
Carrara marble, and better built than most houses in Buenos Ayres. No
“sham” here. It towers nearly twenty feet above the ground level, and its
lower floor is eight or ten feet underground. It is beautifully designed,
with delicately carved pilasters, and surmounted by a graceful cupola,
bearing a decorative cross. The spacious entrance is fitted with a noble
iron-work gate, lined on the inner side with plate glass, and bearing on
a gilded boss in the centre the Christ-mark ☧ so familiar in all Latin
cemeteries. In a word, save for the cross and the Christ-mark, it is
outwardly such a monument as the wealthy Roman reared by the Appian Way,
and surely there must be in Recoleta as many of these vanities as made
that highway one of the great sights of Imperial Rome.
Let us peep within. In the upper chamber stands an elaborate altar of
alabaster and brass, with an enamelled painting of the Virgin and Holy
Child, encased in a massive frame of brass, before which, on the lace
altar-cloth, spotlessly clean, are burning several candles. There are two
or three _prie-dieus_ of mahogany and various wreaths of real flowers
hung on the walls, as well as others of beads or immortelles. Below, down
a flight of marble stairs with brass balustrades, one can see on shelves
around the chamber, six, eight, perchance a dozen coffins, and several
marble busts, portraits of the more notable occupants of the coffins,
placed on pedestals, against which are heaped more wreaths. Every detail
of the tomb is perfect in its way and no expense has been spared in the
making of it. It is scrupulously clean, for here come dainty ladies to
kneel on the praying chairs for an hour at a time, and on All Souls’ Day
or the Day of the Dead (_El dia de los muertes_) the family interested in
the tomb will pass most of the day here. Fifteen thousand dollars would
probably be a fair estimate of the cost of this little palace of death—a
few square yards in one of the main avenues of Recoleta will outvalue the
same space in Florida!—but it remains a charnel house and it smelleth of
things unclean. I often thought that the mourning ladies seen in these
tombs were another of the many traces of the Moorish dominion in Spain
that still show in the customs of Spanish America.
[Illustration: THE ENGLISH “PRO-CATHEDRAL” IN CALLE 25 DE MAYO, BUENOS
AYRES.]
[Illustration: THE ROMAN CATHOLIC CATHEDRAL IN THE PLAZA MAYO, BUENOS
AYRES.
(Note the wreaths of electric bulbs which permanently entwine the columns
of the building.)]
When I tell you that in Recoleta there are some ten thousand tombs,
huddled together so closely that it is hardly possible to get an
unembarrassed view of a single one, and that many of them are quite
as splendid as the one I have described, you will understand what a
prodigious expenditure Recoleta represents. Millions of money, much good
taste and more bad, have gone to its making.
Every kind of stone seems to be used: alabaster, marbles, granites,
freestone; and all have been imported from Europe. Nearly everything
of artistic merit bears evidence of European craftsmanship. There is
abundance of beautiful iron-work and bronze plaques, medallions, statues.
The debased modern Italian work is very noticeable. Almost every atrocity
is of Italian origin. But there are several mausoleums of black granite,
in the style of Germany’s _art nouveau_, which show how beautifully
that may be treated. They are so individual and yet so restrained and
dignified that the good taste of the owners is as evident in them as the
skill and genius of the designers. Strange to say, few of these really
beautiful things bear the makers’ name, yet every ramshackle erection
of the jerry-builders in the streets of Buenos Ayres displays in large
concrete letters the name of the proud architects who committed it!
Naturally, in Recoleta repose many of the notable men in the recent
history of Argentina. The great heroes, such as Belgrano, San Martín,
Sarmiento, sleep elsewhere in lonely state; but here are many presidents,
generals, statesmen, mingled with the rabble of the merely rich. There
is also a quadrangle stuffed with hundreds of coffins let into niches in
the walls, tier above tier, up to some thirty feet in height, but that is
mossy and neglected, as it recalls the old days before the coming of the
“boom”; yet it is there that the real “forefathers of the city sleep”;
there you will find the true blue Argentine who in life to-day is _rara
avis_.
One could write a whole chapter on Recoleta, while its history and the
stories of its tombs are worthy of a book. But our purpose is a paseo,
and enough has been said, perhaps, to indicate that in its narrow and
crowded lanes of mausoleums a paseo no less interesting, but very
different in kind, from that of Palermo, may be made. Unlike the theme of
the popular song, however, it is not “all right in the summer time.” What
one misses most is “the storied urn.” The “animated bust” there is and to
spare; but the tombs are lacking in interesting inscriptions. Usually,
_Propiedad de la familia Fulano de Tal_ is all that gives the wanderer
a clue to the identity of the peaceful dwellers in these marble halls.
The graveyard poet is unhonoured in Recoleta. One feature I had almost
forgotten, and it is very much in tune with modern Buenos Ayres. Several
magnificent tombs were unoccupied and bore tickets announcing that they
were for sale. They had been erected by enterprising speculators. Thus
the Argentine who has suddenly become wealthy by selling his “camp,”
bought a fine mansion in Buenos Ayres, and joined the Jockey Club, may
acquire a ready-made mausoleum for his “family.” Ah, the magic peso!
Chacarita, a long way westward from Recoleta, is the great general place
of burial. It is many times larger than Recoleta and more varied in its
memorials, though it also contains great avenues of handsome mausoleums.
A portion of Chacarita is dedicated to the British and Americans, and
here one encounters the names of many of one’s fellow-countrymen who have
helped to build up the amazing prosperity of the Argentine and eventually
laid their bones in its friendly soil. One grave, most likely to be
passed unnoticed, bears a simple stone which records that he who sleeps
beneath was the last lineal descendant of the Earls of Douglas. It’s a
far cry from the historic haunts of the Black Douglas to Chacarita, but
so runs the world away.
Still farther westward, yet within the boundaries of this wide-spreading
city, is the _Parque del Oeste_, which covers even more ground than the
_Parque 3 de Febrero_ at Palermo. We never met any Gringos who were in
the habit of taking a paseo there; while in the pretty little park in
the Boca, to which we occasionally wandered, my wife and I, we never saw
anybody above the loafer class enjoying its leafy shade. In fact, this
applies to all the parks of Buenos Ayres, if we except Palermo and the
Botanical Gardens—they are the haunts of undesirables, and while they
certainly beautify the city and look extremely well as green spots on the
coloured plans, they might not exist so far as the decent population is
concerned.
On a very tiny scale the picturesque Plaza Constitucion reminds one of
the debaters’ ground at Hyde Park, for here come the socialist orators to
harangue little groups of artisans and labourers, and here the tireless
warriors of the _Ejercito de Salvacion_ raise the banner of “Blood and
Fire” and wage an unequal battle against the forces of Unbelief, Idolatry
and Indifference. To encounter these uniformed enthusiasts in the
remotest corners of earth wrings even from the antipathetic a tribute of
admiration for the genius of him who founded the strange movement and
gave his life to a great idea. I am not sure but that the Salvation Army
discharges a more urgent and useful social service in cities like Buenos
Ayres and Montevideo than it does in the land of its birth. But it may be
that the wanderer is apt to admire abroad qualities which at home would
leave him cold.
In the Plaza Constitucion there is an elaborate artificial hill, with the
artificial ruins of a castle! As the whole erection is now girt about
with barbed wire, I suspect its constructors builded better than they
knew and, in attempting to imitate ruins, succeeded so well that “the
ruins” speedily became “dangerous.” But the pathos of the sight will not
escape the reflective eye.
Of the Paseo de Julio I have already written. It is a great blot on the
municipality that this most beautifully laid-out promenade, with all
its pleasant greenery, its banks of flowers, its very remarkable marble
fountain of the seductive mermaids, should be a haunt of the vilest
classes of the community. Yet it was here, I confess, that when I went
a-wandering alone I most often strayed, and an elderly gentleman who
lived at our hotel told me that it used to be his practice of an evening
to smoke his after-dinner cigar in a stroll along the Paseo de Julio,
until he was warned that some night perhaps he would be added to the
long list of victims who had there received a knife in their vitals and
been robbed while they breathed their last. The shops along the Paseo
certainly contain enough daggers to kill off the whole community in a
comparatively short time, if used with system. There were several cases
of murder in the Paseo during my stay, a man being done to death, in one
instance, for the equivalent of nine shillings.
As I have already hinted pretty broadly, if there is but little that
the visitor can find to interest him in the way of paseos within the
wide boundaries of the city, there is even less beyond. When we have
enumerated the Tigre, Hurlingham, San Isidro and San Andrés, the list
of pleasure resorts in the near neighbourhood is exhausted, and I have
deliberately made the best of it by including San Isidro, which is merely
a residential suburb prettily set on rising ground. I tramped all round
San Isidro one lovely autumn day, hunting for a new golf course, which I
found to be so new that the greens had not yet been laid. At that time
the place, pretty as it was, could not be said to hold the slightest
interest for the visitor. Its church is pleasantly situated on the high
ground of the _barranca_, an elevated ridge which denotes the former
river course. There is a dainty public garden trending downward from
the church to the railway level, and one has a spacious view of the
country, now bosky and broken towards the River Tigre. The President
of the Republic had a house at San Isidro and there were some very
charming villas to be noted. But it could scarcely be considered a “show
place”—there are many New York suburbs far more beautiful—though the
patriotic Buenos Ayrian would probably complain if I failed to include
San Isidro among the charms of the countryside between the city and the
Tigre.
At San Andrés there is a fine golf-course, with a Scots professional, and
indeed a fine flavour of Scots even to the name, which is the Spanish
for Scotland’s patron saint. There is naught else at San Andrés, save
the usual vast acreage of flat uninteresting earth. Hurlingham is more
varied in its interests and more picturesque. These resorts are almost
exclusively British, with a very light sprinkling of Americans, who are
usually classed as _ingléses_ by the natives. I have sunny—and also
showery—recollections of both.
Remains the Tigre. And when all is said, the Tigre is the one playground
of the Buenos-Ayrians, after Palermo. Of it I have many mingled memories.
Some eighteen or twenty miles to the northwest of the city the River
Tigre joins its turbid waters with the tawny flood of the River Plate.
Near the junction, the Tigre is itself a river of considerable volume
and it is broken up by numerous small islands, which, thanks to the
frequent flooding in the rainy seasons, are rendered extremely fertile,
as the river deposits coatings of rich soil upon them. It is the delta
of the Nile on a miniature scale. Thus it is that these islands in
common with the banks of the river for many miles are always clothed
with verdure and all sorts of fruit trees flourish abundantly. The
natural growth is low and bushy; the few clumps of taller trees have all
been planted. But here at last we have something approaching “scenery.”
Picturesque “back-waters” allure the oarsmen in all directions. There is
no sensational beauty—not a vestige of anything unusual. Still the Tigre
does offer to the hungry eye of the disillusioned wanderer some natural
interest.
[Illustration: “LA MERCED,” A TYPICAL BUENOS AYRES CHURCH.]
[Illustration: “TEATRO DE LA OPERA,” OFFICIAL HOME OF OPERA BEFORE THE
BUILDING OF THE COLÓN.]
But let me tell you of the town that has sprung up here, before we
go a-boating on the river. The railway approach to it is as unlike a
pleasure resort as Newark, N. J., is unlike the Champs Élysées. In the
town itself the streets are still to be made, and after a day or two of
rain horses have to haul you through mud which reaches up to their knees,
so that it is an agony to ride in a coach, as the animals can only be
made to perform their terrible task by the most brutal thrashing. Once
only did I consent to endure the experience of seeing two poor creatures
flogged unmercifully to transport us a distance of about half a mile
across the wooden bridge and through the monstrous mire to the Tigre Boat
Club on the other side of the river.
Along the river banks there is foot-room enough, recalling the curate’s
egg, in being good in parts. On the left bank there are the beginnings
of what some day may be very pretty riverside gardens, but the roadway
for vehicles is merely mother earth in her changing varieties of mud and
dust. After rain it is impassable for motor cars and in dry weather it
is covered with train-loads of dust. In its former state I have seen a
large motor-car imbedded up to the level of the chassis and two other
cars on drier ground, with ropes attached, utterly powerless to move it
one foot, and I have seen it when the passage of an automobile meant “a
pillar of cloud by day” which the Buenos Ayres Israelites—whose name is
legion—might have descried in the wilderness of the city! Most of the
_quintas_ or country residences are situated on the left bank, in streets
that run at right angles to the river, and many of these country chalets
are very charming, both in architecture and rustic surroundings, but
assuredly an aeroplane would be the most practical way of reaching them
after a shower. I noticed a childish affection for plaster effigies of
dogs and other animals in the gardens, one quinta achieving the limit of
bad taste with a perfect stucco menagerie dotted about the garden. There
were dogs, cats, geese, foxes, storks, hens, and many other “strange
wild fowl,” to say nothing of the little gnomes, so popular as garden
ornaments in Switzerland. A more ludicrous exhibition could not be
imagined. The houses are built of many different materials, but stucco
prevails, and they are painted in all the colours of the spectroscope,
some of them rivalling the garish exterior effects of Italian ice cream
saloons; but others, not a few, charming in every detail.
The river banks are occupied chiefly by numerous boat clubs, some of
which possess very fine buildings, with every kind of modern luxury.
All the nations of Europe seem to be represented in this way and so far
as I could gather the Germans vie with the British in their devotion to
the river sport, though the native Argentines can pull an oar with the
best of them and have several handsome club houses. There is a large
and well-appointed hotel and a magnificent home for the Tigre Club was
nearing completion before I left Buenos Ayres. This is the fashionable
resort of the smart set, who are infinitely more interested in the
roulette table and baccarat than in anything so wholesome as the manly
sport which the other and less gorgeous club-houses represent. They motor
down the sixteen miles from Buenos Ayres on Sunday afternoon, after
the races at Palermo are over; get inside the Tigre Club as quickly as
possible, and so away from the mosquitoes; spend the evening in “play”;
stay the night and so to Buenos Ayres in the morning.
But the scene along the river on a Sunday afternoon is bright with
life. Crews practising in outriggers, lonely canoeists, loaded boats
of trippers beating the water with ill-timed blades, motor-launches
scurrying along well-laden with passengers and delightfully oblivious of
the “rules of the road,” the gilded youth showing the pace of his new
motor-boat and translating his Florida swagger into terms of the river.
An animated and pleasing scene.
There are leafy shades on many of the islands where teas may be
served or where you may picnic if you be so minded, just as at home.
To one of these we went occasionally on our boating excursions. It
is a little island orchard. The catering is excellent and among the
spring-blossoms,—“under boughs of breathing May” used to ring strange
in the memory when one knew it was October, though the conditions were
May—it was pleasant to sip the fragrant herb, which in the Argentine
they can brew as well as in England and better than I found elsewhere in
South America. This particular island is the property of a certain lady
who in the wicked past was a dancer at the Casino, when that was probably
the most notorious entertainment in any civilised city (“according to
information received”) but who is now a douce and not unattractive
widow “with a past,” and with a present which includes good teas and a
hearty welcome. Everything is so lacking in historic interest out in the
Argentine that I found myself not a little piqued by the story of the
ex-_bailarina_ and her island retreat, to which she had withdrawn with
a husband when her dancing days were done, and the husband dying soon
thereafter, she added the tea-garden to her well-stocked orchard and new
interests to her widowhood.
Such, then, is the Tigre, of which I had heard so much before I set sail
for the River Plate. “There’s such a charming place called the Tigre, to
which everybody goes boating and picnicking,” I used to be told. But I
was not told that in the summer its mosquitoes’ sting was sharper than
serpent’s tooth, or that in the winter you had to wade to the river
through mire and thank the gods for a fine dry day when it pleased their
extreme sulkinesses to vouchsafe so great a favour.
Still, given the right day, the exile may bless the Tigre and may there
dream dreams of home.
CHAPTER X
HOW THE MONEY GOES
Buenos Ayres has somehow achieved the reputation of being “the most
expensive city in the world.” But this is not, strictly, correct; for, in
my experience, Rio de Janeiro can give it some points and a beating in
this respect, and even its near neighbour, Montevideo, on the northern
shore of the River Plate, is, in a way presently to be explained, more
expensive. To the stranger, however, it is always difficult to understand
or account for the wide differences between the living expenses in the
principal South American cities, and Buenos Ayres and Montevideo offer a
good illustration of this. In the former, “old River Platers” and natives
alike will tell you that the cost of living is higher in Montevideo, and
this has been confirmed to me on many occasions by visitors to the latter
city. But when living for some five months in Montevideo, and finding
all the commodities of life more costly than in Buenos Ayres, it seemed
odd to be told by natives that so long as they could get profitable
occupation in the Uruguayan capital, they would not think of changing to
the Argentine metropolis where life was so much more expensive.
After comparing notes with many acquaintances in both towns, and
contrasting these with my own experiences, I came to the conclusion
that while the householder in Buenos Ayres is confronted with economic
conditions which make for excessively high cost of living, a person
in the same position in Montevideo lives relatively cheaper, as house
rents, criminally high in Buenos Ayres, are moderate in the other city,
and domestic labour is somewhat cheaper, while facilities for securing
food stuffs are greater and the market prices relatively less. But to
the stranger who does not take a house in either city, and prefers the
comfortless freedom of hotel life, the conditions are exactly reversed,
so that Montevideo would appear to a casual observer the more expensive
city in which to live.
The main reason for this is the short-sighted policy of the hotel-keepers
in the Uruguayan capital, which, during the summer months—December,
January, and February—is an increasingly popular place of resort for
wealthy Argentines and the no less wealthy _hacendados_ from the
Uruguayan “Camp.” The hotels, then crowded beyond all possibilities of
accommodation,—so that I have known an Argentine Minister of State glad
to occupy a bathroom, from which he noisily refused to be ejected in
the morning to permit of other guests turning the room to its proper
uses—raise their prices to absurd heights, and when the season suddenly
collapses, the managers still endeavour to screw from their lingering
guests as near an approach as possible to the season’s prices. Montevideo
hotels that three or four years ago were charging from $3.50 to $4.00
per day (the Uruguayan dollar is worth two cents more than the American)
now demand in the season from seven to nine dollars for accommodation
which consists of one small room, with full board, half a dollar extra
having to be paid for each bath taken on the premises! When I protested
against this extra charge for baths, the hotel-keeper said that under
no circumstances was he prepared to deduct it, as water in Montevideo
was “dearer than wine,” because a _maldita_ English company owned the
waterworks, and made the poor townspeople pay dearly for the privilege
of keeping themselves clean. Under the circumstances, my wife and I were
quite willing to substitute the cheaper wine for the water, but even this
condescension on our part did not meet with his approval.
Certain it is that, although Buenos Ayres cannot really maintain the
proud claim to be the most expensive city in the world—for I defy you to
beat the record of four dollars paid by an acquaintance of mine in Rio
de Janeiro for one cake of Pears’ soap, a small packet of tooth-powder,
and four ounces of tobacco, all bought in the same shop!—it is in all
conscience one of the most remarkably easy places in the world for
getting rid of money quickly. Mr. Punch’s immortal Scotsman who wasn’t
in London half an hour before “bang went saxpence” would assuredly
have had an apoplectic fit within a quarter of an hour of arriving in
Buenos Ayres. Fortunately, the preliminary shocks, which ought to be the
severest, are the least felt, for one takes some little time to become
familiarised with the relative values of the money, and not until one can
instantly figure the American or English values of the Argentine notes he
is paying away does he quite realise how rapidly his hard-earned cash is
slipping from him.
The real unit of value in most transactions is the paper _peso_,—these
notes are usually so dirty that they are in very truth “filthy lucre”—and
as the exchange stands about 11.4 to the English sovereign (the standard
throughout South America), it will be seen that a peso is value for about
42 cents. Many English residents, in endeavouring to regulate their
expenditure, follow the somewhat simple plan of reckoning a peso as a
shilling. This method certainly saves worry, though it is extremely bad
finance, and worse, when it is known that, even reckoned as a shilling,
the peso can purchase nothing that is the equivalent of a shilling’s
worth in England. Thus bad begins, but worse remains behind, for,—as we
shall all too surely find,—not only have we often to spend three times,
and sometimes four times the value of English money to secure what the
English unit would have obtained at home, but the article so bought will
often prove to be _falsificado_,—a shoddy imitation!
But what most strikes the observer at first is the seeming negligence
with which the Buenos Ayrian throws his money about, and the brazen
audacity of the shopkeeper, as illustrated by the price he places upon
his wares. The one is, of course, a resultant of the other, though,
obviously, there must be other forces at work to inflate prices. Mainly,
we have to bear in mind that in this great city, perhaps the most
cosmopolitan in the world, with a population of nearly a million and
a half gathered from the ends of Earth, a motley multitude of money
grubbers, money is the only standard of value. Thus, an art dealer
who placed a statue in his window and ticketed it at a reasonable
figure, leaving to himself a fair profit after importing it at a fair
price, would not long continue to thrive in Buenos Ayres. A very large
percentage of the spending class are people who have come by their
money easily, and, lacking all knowledge alike of commercial values and
intrinsic worth, can judge only that a thing is good or bad according as
the seller prices it. It is a happy state of affairs this, which cannot
last forever, and already there are signs that the Golden Age is passing.
In October of 1912, for instance, I witnessed a portentous demonstration,
in which a hundred thousand citizens took part, to petition the
Government and Municipality for some immediate legislative action to
lessen the cruel burden of the common people, to whom high wages and
brisk trade mean absolutely nothing, in view of the excessive prices for
the merest necessaries of life. To this I shall make further reference in
the present chapter.
I remember how impressed I was in one of my earliest walks, window gazing
in Calle Florida, by the curious care certain shopkeepers had taken to
display articles which in New York would have been heaped in tray-loads
and ticketed, “Anything in this basket 20 cts.” In fancy goods dealers’,
for example, insignificant little purses and common pencil-holders,
cheap fountain pens and little desk calendars, paper knives, and all
the familiar odds and ends which are classed under the generic head of
“fancy goods,” were not crowded into the window, as with us, suggesting
overflowing richness of stock, but were each disposed in solitary state
at respectful distance from one another, much as though they were
valuable jewels, and indeed when one noted the prices, they might have
been precious stones, for a leather purse which would sell in New York
for a dollar would there be ticketed relatively at $3. I paid exactly
$3.15 for a small loose-leaf pocket book, an exact copy of which I had
previously bought in London for $1.30.
The chief disparity between English and South American prices is found in
articles of clothing, which, fortunately for most temporary residents,
is a matter that does not greatly trouble them, as it is always possible
to take sufficient clothing to last one for a considerable period. But
certainly when you see an ordinary straw hat, that would sell in the
Strand, London, for $1.25 ticketed somewhere around $4 you are inclined
to catch your breath. The common “bowler,” that sells in London at $1.50
will cost you anything from four to five dollars; while the average price
for a suit of clothes made to measure in Buenos Ayres, equivalent in all
respects to a suit costing twenty dollars in London, is fifty dollars.
Consequently, many Argentines have their measure taken by a London
tailor, who, charging them thirty dollars for a suit (thus leaving an
unusual margin of profit to himself) enables the purchaser, after paying
$10 import duty, to wear an actual London made suit for 20 per cent. less
than he can get one of inferior quality made in Buenos Ayres.
To give anything like an exhaustive list of the excessive prices charged
for the simplest necessities in the way of personal clothing might be to
lay oneself open to the charge of exaggeration, except that, fortunately,
I have preserved several newspaper advertisements as evidence of the
_bona fides_ of any statements I have made, should these ever be called
in question. So far as clothing is concerned, I shall limit myself to
the further statement that on the day of my leaving Buenos Ayres for
travel further afield, I bought one dozen pairs of common socks, which in
London sell for 40 cts. a pair, and paid for these exactly forty pesos,
or $1.40 per pair. This was one of the few occasions, during my stay in
South America, when I found it necessary to purchase any articles of
personal wear, and afterwards on looking at the prices in New York and
London stores, I congratulated myself very heartily that I went forth
to my adventures in South America well stocked. I remember an English
traveller, whose business takes him to Buenos Ayres for three months of
every year, stating in the most emphatic manner that he would rather
walk down Florida in his shirt tail than commit the economic crime of
purchasing a stitch of clothing in the town,—and he was not a Scotsman!
It might be thought that the Gringo was a legitimate object of prey for
the harpy shopkeepers of Buenos Ayres, but it is not so. The present
writer, being not only competent to ask for anything in the native
language, but, when occasion serves, to engage in heated and lengthy
discussion in that delightful tongue, never found it possible to secure
better terms than were granted to any Gringo who could not utter a
sentence of Spanish. It is not a case of one tariff for the native
and, another for the foreigner, as we find in Paris and other European
resorts. The native pays as highly—and, from long practice, much more
cheerfully—for all that he buys, as the stranger.
In proof of this, I cannot quote a better example than that afforded
by an incident in which the silk hat of my native secretary figured
somewhat eminently. He had been wearing it one Sunday at some special
function—for the “stove pipe” is throughout Latin America the symbol of
importance and of special occasions, as it used to be in England—and,
happening to be caught in a heavy shower, he required to send it round to
the hatter’s for ironing next morning. His wife, also a native, speaking
only Spanish, called in and took the hat back home (errand boys are at a
premium). The charge made for merely ironing the hat was 4 pesos ($1.68).
The good lady had no idea whether this was much or little, but her
husband considered it a trifle excessive, as he, having lived some little
time in New York, and having found it possible to have a hat ironed
there for 10 cents went round to the Buenos Ayres hatter, and after much
argument succeeded in recovering two pesos, or 50 per cent. of the charge
from that gentleman, who was quite indifferent to the business, and told
him to keep his old hat at home, as he had no wish to iron anybody’s hats!
That is the spirit in which all repairing business is done. If you want
anything repaired, you have got to pay so much that it is about as cheap
to buy a new article. One day my watch stopped: the spring was not
broken, and evidently it was only some slight fault, requiring, probably,
a speck of oil. I left it with the watchmaker and asked him to regulate
it. Calling next day, the watch was ready and going perfectly well, but
to my surprise I was asked to pay eight pesos ($3.35) for the craftsman’s
skill and labour in putting it right.
[Illustration: THE LUXURIOUS DOMESTIC ARCHITECTURE OF BUENOS AYRES.
The immense building seen in the background of the upper illustration
is the home of the Paz family in the Plaza San Martín; the lower view
shows a typical “quinta,” or country house of an Argentine magnate in the
suburbs.]
“Oh, evidently the mainspring was broken when you charge so much,” I
remarked.
“No, sir, the mainspring was not broken,” he replied.
“Then surely one of the jewels must have fallen out, or there was
something to replace, to justify so heavy a charge.”
“No, none of the jewels was missing, but it was quite a difficult little
job, and, besides, we do not like to repair watches,”—which was all the
satisfaction I was able to secure for parting with eight pesos!
On mentioning my experience that afternoon to an Englishman of longer
residence in the city, he remarked that these were the sort of things
that never could happen to one after two or three years, because one
soon discovered it was cheaper to buy, as you can, a good useful 5 peso
American watch, and whenever it goes out of order, throw it away and buy
another.
There is a perfectly reasonable explanation of this. Workmanship, artisan
skill, labour of all sorts, are the commodities at highest premiums in
Buenos Ayres. People are making their money, reaping fortunes, not from
honest, productive workmanship and exercise of creative skill, as in
North American and in other settled industrial countries, but merely from
sale and exchange. The men who grow rich are the agents, the middle-men,
and it is the middle-men who are taking back as quickly as they can from
the wage-earners the high salaries which the latter can easily obtain
but not so easily retain. The stationer, for instance, who sold me for
ten pesos a mechanical pencil sharpener, which my office boy immediately
broke by carelessly inserting the point of the pencil, charged five
pesos to repair the little machine. His business was to sell at a profit
what he had imported from Europe, but not to supply skill and labour to
put anything right.
As rather an inveterate smoker, and one with a preference for cigars,
I recall how disappointed I was to be told by the captain of the ship
on which I sailed to the River Plate, that there was probably no place
in the world where cigars were so bad or so expensive as in Buenos
Ayres. I cherished for a time some faint hope that this was perhaps
a sweeping generalisation founded on unfortunate experience, but I
must bear witness to its general accuracy. The cigar shops are many of
them most beautifully appointed, fitted up with a luxury rare even in
London or New York. In not one of them is there a smokable cigar to be
had at less than 60 centavos (roughly 25 cts.) and in order to enjoy
something approximating to the pleasure of a fine Cuban cigar, which
would sell in New York for 40 cts., you will have to disburse at least
3 pesos, or $1.25. It is a custom among the Argentines, who are notably
abstemious, to invite a friend to smoke a cigar, under circumstances
where an American or Englishman would ask him to “have a drink.” Often
I have noticed at the tobacconist’s a gentleman taking in a friend to
“stand” him a cigar, and seldom, if he is a gentleman who values his
self-respect and reputation in the community, will he offer a friend
anything less than a cigar that cost three pesos. It is naturally a
biggish cigar, and it will certainly have a very wide band, with a good
splash of gilt on it, and it will probably smoke not quite so well as a
25-ct. cigar sold in Broadway. So far as I could discover, the moist
atmosphere deteriorates the imported Havannas. Locally made imitations
are concocted from Brazilian tobacco, packed up in disused Havanna
boxes and hawked among the offices by men who pretend to have smuggled
them into the country without paying duty. Admirably “faked” as to
outward appearance—for the art of falsification is one of the few local
industries that flourish in Buenos Ayres—these cigars can deceive no one
after the first puff, but thousands of boxes are annually sold to ready
buyers, who, unable to afford the shop prices, at least make a pretence
of smoking Havannas, though they know quite well they are being fobbed
off with cheap Brazilian tobacco. Cigars are sold at all sorts of prices,
from 20 centavos upwards, and occasionally it is possible to smoke one
sold at 50 centavos, as I had frequently to do at my hotel, where I
was charged one peso for a cigar, on the band of which 50 centavos was
printed. Representing to the manager that 42 cents seemed a good deal to
pay for a 21-cent cigar, the value of which in New York would not have
exceeded ten cents, he blandly assured me that they always charged a peso
for a 50 centavo cigar in the hotel!
Hotel prices are naturally in excess of all shop prices in Buenos Ayres,
as elsewhere, and of course there are degrees even among the hotels.
At one hotel where some of the modern comforts common to the better
class of hotels in London or New York may be obtained, the tariff is so
formidable that even an Argentine millionaire whose acquaintance I made,
and who had been making the hotel his headquarters for a year or two
instead of living in a town house, told me that he would have to quit,
as he felt it was little short of sinful to pay the weekly bill with
which he was presented. Another gentleman, the manager of a very large
industrial concern in England, whose market is mainly in the Argentine,
was spending several months in Buenos Ayres during my stay, and left
the palatial hotel in question to come to the more modest establishment
where we two Gringos put up. In talking over the relative charges with
me, he said that while we had to pay enough in all conscience for what we
received (and for which no praying could have made us “truly thankful”!),
there was at least the difference between paying excessively for very
common fare and having your money literally “taken away from you.”
Yet the hotel in question, thanks to the extraordinary difficulty of
obtaining competent assistants at reasonable wages, and to the famine
prices which must be paid for every domestic commodity, as well as the
immense capital that has to be invested in steel frames, reinforced
concrete, and furnishings, is no very profitable business for those who
conduct it. I doubt if they could charge less than they do! This was
often my experience when I came to inquire into what seemed altogether
unreasonable prices: to find that those who seemed to be imposing on one
were really asking no more than the circumstances warranted.
All the same, a knowledge of the economic conditions does not greatly
help you to look with approval upon a charge of $2.35 for placing a bunch
of about six roses and half-a-dozen other flowers in a bowl on your table
at dinner when you are entertaining a couple of guests, especially if,
as you happen to know for certain, the said flowers have been left over
from a wedding celebration in the hotel the evening before. On several
occasions this was the charge which appeared on our weekly bill for
decorating our little table in the gorgeous manner described. Myself,
having scant use for alcoholic beverages, my main expenses on liquids
touched “soft drinks.” Certainly the prices were hard enough. I have
retained some of our hotel bills as reminders. From these I extract the
following interesting items: One bottle of San Pellegrino Water, 55 cts.;
Salus Water, 70 cts.; Small Apollinaris, 35 cts.; Schweppe’s Soda, 58
cts.; Vichy, 55 cts.; Small Perrier, 35 cts. As most visitors make it a
point never to drink the water of the town, and can easily dispose of
several bottles of Perrier or Schweppe’s Soda per day during the hot
weather, the reader can figure what proportions the weekly bill for
mineral waters will reach, and it must be borne in mind that the figures
given are those charged at a hotel of an extremely modest character. Nor
would these prices appear so excessive if each bottle contained what was
indicated on the label. There is no security that such is the case, and
I know that many a time have I had to accept some local concoction put
forth in the guise of an imported European mineral water.
I also find some notes as to alcoholic drinks in our hotel bills, which
will give some notion of the casual expenses of entertaining friends.
For a bottle of Guinness’ Stout, 45 cts.; for a glass of Tonic Water and
Gin, 50 cts.; for a bottle of Chandon, $5.30; the same for a bottle of
Veuve Clicquot; Chateau Lafitte, $3; and so on. It will be noticed that
the disparity between American and Argentine prices in the matter of
alcoholic drinks is less glaring than in the case of mineral waters. But
I find an occasional item in these weekly bills which probably touches
the high water mark of imposition. Under the heading of “Alcohol,” we
were charged from time to time 75 cts. for a pint bottle of methylated
spirits for use in a small spirit lamp!
Apart altogether from the normal excessive charges in the ordinary
hotels, which one comes to accept without demur simply because they are
universal, a further stage of imposition is to be noted in the swindling
propensities of restaurant employees. Thus, I have a note that I was once
made to pay $1.05 for one glass of tonic water and gin which I “stood”
a friend, and on various occasions I was charged 63 cts. for a glass of
whisky and soda, while I had myself consumed frequent glasses of hot
water with half-a-lemon squeezed therein and a spoonful of sugar added,
at a charge of 27 cts., before I realised that a portion of these casual
expenses was finding its way into the pocket of the gentleman with the
shifty eyes who presided over a certain “bar” where the drinks were
obtained. But the hotel charge of 62 cts. for half an hour’s game of
billiards, which conformed in every particular to that imagined by W. S.
Gilbert as the punishment of the billiard sharper,—
“On a cloth untrue, with a twisted cue,
And elliptical billiard balls,”—
seemed to me at once an insult and an injury.
Mentioning petty swindling on the part of employees reminds me that the
favourite dodge is to return the change of a five peso bill when a ten
peso bill has been presented. My patience, though seared by many tiny
swindles mutely borne, was never equal to taking the five-pesos-for-ten
trick “lying down.” I first became acquainted with it, soon after my
arrival, at Retiro station, when taking out a ticket for Hurlingham,
the British suburban resort. Presenting a ten peso bill at the booking
office, the clerk hastily handed me my ticket and the change of a five
peso bill, which fact I discovered only on examining my change after
leaving the window. But even at that early period of my stay, my command
of the language was good enough to enable me to return to the window
and hold up the entire crowd of would-be ticket-buyers, by informing
the clerk that I intended to stay there until he handed me another five
pesos. He brazenly denied that I had presented a ten peso bill, but on my
stoutly asserting that I intended remaining in front of his window till
I received another five pesos, he forthwith met my demand, and thereby
advertised himself to the entire company the thief he undoubtedly was. I
do not exaggerate when I state that on dozens of occasions I had to draw
the attention of shop assistants and waiters (especially on dining cars)
to the fact that they had made this slight error in my change. When it
is remembered that five pesos is no less a sum than $2.10, it will be
understood that some slight knowledge of the language is desirable when
one goes a-shopping among the petty swindlers of Buenos Ayres.
Perhaps the very apex of audacity in the matter of excessive prices is
reached by the chemists, who ought surely to be the richest trades
people in all South America. It was our unfortunate experience, as
indeed it is the experience of most Northerners who have to live for
any length of time in these parts, to be fairly frequent patrons of the
drug shop. But no amount of experience reconciled us to the prices that
were exacted. Nor do I think the natives ever purchased anything without
an inward or outward protest, as I was frequently present at disputes
between customer and chemist. I recall particularly a youth who had been
sent by his employer to fetch some medicine that had been dispensed for
him, and on offering all the money his employer had given him to pay
for the medicine, he was found to have brought less than half the price
demanded by the chemist.
It was my wife’s unfortunate fate to have to consume a large number of
_cachets_, prescribed by a Porteño doctor, and these I had to purchase
weekly at a well-known drug store, paying $2.10 for thirty, the price of
which in London would have been 60 cents. Out of curiosity, after two
or three weeks, I took the prescription to another chemist—as there is
one at every other street corner, the choice is ample—and was supplied
with precisely the same articles at $1.05. But the following week,
when I returned for a new supply, I was charged $2.10, as at the other
chemist’s! On my protesting that I had only paid half that price the
previous week, I was informed that as they had a somewhat limited supply
of a certain drug used in the prescription, they were forced to charge
an increased price, and had therefore added 100 per cent. to the first
charge! These prices are typical of everything sold in the chemists’
shops; from soap to chest protectors, there is not a single item that
will not cost the purchaser from three to five times the price at which
it may be bought in the stores of New York or London.
It will thus be seen that it is a somewhat expensive business to be
ill in South America, and as most people, natives included, seem to
be in a continual state of recovering from illness (so much so that a
familiar greeting among the natives is “_Buenas días, y como le pasa su
estómago?_”—“Good morning, and how’s your stomach?”), the harvest of
the chemist fails less frequently than that of the agriculturist. The
commonest class of doctor charges a fee of $4.15 if you call upon him
for a few minutes’ consultation and are fortunate enough to be admitted
before his two hours of work are over, as you will usually find a roomful
of patients awaiting his attention. If you indulge in the luxury of
inviting a visit from him at your house, his charge will be $8.30, which
must be paid on the nail, while payment for a consultation at his rooms
is either made to an attendant before entering, or to the doctor himself
on leaving. A simple operation, such as that for appendicitis, will cost
you anything from $250 to $1000.
Returning again to the smaller items of daily expense which help to drain
your earnings away from you as quickly almost as you receive them, I
find I have a few further notes worthy of record. At the hotel where we
lived, two English servants suddenly appeared. They had been attracted to
Buenos Ayres as the new Eldorado, and wages of forty pesos a month had
seemed to them the beginning of fortune, especially when they estimated
the possibilities of “tips.” But one of them, requiring to buy a new hat
after her first fortnight in the city, and being charged twenty-three
pesos for the same (about $10), which in London she would have considered
fairly expensive at $1.70, she and her companion very speedily made up
their minds to return home, prepared to be a little more contented with
the conditions they had so lately despised. A peso and a half (63 cts.)
was a common charge for hair-cutting—a simple haircut, no shampoo or
singeing included, mark you.
As for theatre charges, the opera save in the gallery—where anybody
who has any reputation to maintain in the town can not afford to be
seen—is possible only to the wealthy, and consequently it is seldom
visited by English residents, except when honoured by an invitation
from some Argentine friend. A seat in the pit of the commonest theatre
costs about $1.30. There is a curious system of paying for your seat
and afterwards paying a peso for the privilege of entering the theatre!
The cinematographs, which are relatively as numerous as in New York or
Chicago, have a uniform charge of 85 cts. for an entertainment that
compares badly with those that charge a quarter in New York. Some of them
are run on a system of three sections per evening, the admission being 25
cts. to each section, but these are of the cheaper class.
In short, there is no necessity or luxury of life for which one has not
to pay many times more in Buenos Ayres or in Montevideo than in any North
American or European city. Every instance I have taken from my personal
experience, and beyond these there are doubtless hundreds of examples
quite as remarkable, or perhaps still more noteworthy, for various
newcomers with whom I came into touch, who were settling in the city
and under the necessity of furnishing flats or houses, were uniformly
aghast at the prices they were asked to pay for the most modest items of
furniture, while house rents would have turned a Fifth Avenue landlord
green with envy. I had personally to buy many items of office furniture,
the prices of which I do not recall, with the exception of a polished
oak table of North American manufacture, which in London would not have
fetched more than $15, but which cost me exactly $70. I also remember
that a none-too-ostentatious writing-desk of similar origin cost me
upwards of $125.
[Illustration: TERMINUS OF THE SOUTHERN RAILWAY AT PLAZA CONSTITUCION,
BUENOS AYRES.]
No wonder such conditions of life should be pressing heavily on the
resident population, with whom _la carestía de la vida_ has become an
all-absorbing topic of conversation. During my stay, as I have already
mentioned, a strong movement was initiated by the popular journal _La
Argentina_, in the hope of bringing about some easing of the terrible
burden, with what ultimate success I know not. But it is interesting
to quote here a few passages from the leading English daily (the
_Standard_), which, like all the Buenos Ayres journals, native and
foreign alike, is seldom severely critical of the economic conditions of
the country, being, I suppose, nervously afraid of saying anything that
might place the Argentine in an unfavourable light to foreign critics:
For some years past the Press has been urging upon the National
and Municipal authorities the necessity of adopting measures
for improving the condition of the working-classes by reducing
the cost of the necessaries of life and by providing convenient
and hygienic dwellings for workmen and their families, but
hitherto, the people having remained patiently submissive to
the economic state of things which counteracts the higher
remuneration obtainable for labour, the authorities have failed
in their duties to promote, to the utmost of their power, the
well-being of the mass of the population of this great city.
Congress has voted lavishly the resources for the embellishment
of the city, for the construction of monumental buildings
and monuments, for the acquisition of useless warships, for
the granting of hundreds of pensions to persons who have no
claim to public charity, for the sending of representatives
to congresses held in foreign countries upon subjects in
which this Republic is not interested, and special embassies
and commissions under different excuses, to enable favoured
individuals to make the tour of Europe with their families
at the expense of the public, but there is never any surplus
revenue to permit the diminution of the duties and taxes which
weigh most heavily upon the shoulders least able to bear the
burden....
The place of meeting was in the Congress plaza, to which, in
spite of the threatening state of the weather, the people
flowed from all parts of the city and suburbs, and at the
appointed time marched in orderly procession to the Plaza Mayo.
A deputation, headed by Mr. Adrian Patroni, a member of the
staff of _La Argentina_, was received in the Government House
by the Minister of Finance, Dr. Perez, who was accompanied by
his private secretary and by the Administrator of the Custom
House. Mr. Patroni presented to the Minister a petition,
together with numerous lists of thousands of signatures in
support of the petition, which asks, among other things, for
the reduction of the import duties on the necessaries of
life; for a diminution of the cost of transport of articles
of general consumption; for the erection of 10,000 houses for
workmen and their families; for the grant of sufficient funds
for paving all the streets of the suburbs in order to give work
to the unemployed as well as to improve the hygiene of the
city; for the prohibition of races on working days, and for the
closing of the hippodromes (race-courses) within five years....
Numbers of people in the procession carried placards upon
which were inscribed the requirements of the proletariat,
including, besides those mentioned in the petition, demands
for the concession of the public land, with facilities for the
payment of the same, to those who are willing to cultivate it;
for personal security for all the inhabitants of the provinces
and territories; for the improvement of the roads; for the
suppression of trusts and monopolies; for severe legislation
against usury; for regulations of the auctioneers’ profession;
for issuing bonds for 100,000,000 pesos for pavement in the
suburbs; for the reduction of license taxes on the vendors of
articles of consumption; for establishing free fairs in all
sections of the municipality; for permission to introduce the
carcasses of animals slaughtered outside the boundaries of the
Municipality.
Now what is the reason for this extraordinary expense of living? It is
not a matter that can be explained in a few sentences, so many factors
are at work to make the conditions what they are. I can at most throw
a beam of light on several of these factors. Visitors are astonished,
for instance, to be told that in a country popularly supposed to be one
of the most naturally fruitful in the world (though there is no greater
illusion), that the commonest fruits which in North America and Europe
are within the reach of the very poorest, are only to be enjoyed in
Buenos Ayres by the rich. The country is almost destitute of native
fruit-bearing trees; it is naturally a treeless, bushless, wilderness
of rich, loamy soil, capable of producing enormous crops of grain if
properly cultivated, or of maintaining almost fabulous herds of cattle.
The contents of the orchards and vineyards that do exist must be reckoned
as exotics. Few people, indeed, seem to trouble about the cultivation
of fruit or vegetables, though the vineyards round about Mendoza on the
Andine frontier, and Bahía Blanca in the south of the Province of Buenos
Ayres, show what unlimited possibilities the soil possesses for the vine.
Cattle and grain have occupied (and not unnaturally) the energies of
the agriculturists, but fruit-growing has been comparatively neglected.
Even so, it has fallen into the hands of a vicious “ring,” who, adopting
the worst of North American methods, have set themselves to exploit the
public. In the islands of the Tigre, at carting distance from Buenos
Ayres, where fruit and to spare could be grown to supply the needs of
the capital; and across the river, in Uruguay, where there are ideal
conditions for fruit culture, and where peaches, pears, apples, and other
fruits are almost as plentiful as blackberries; this ring has seized
control, and I have been told that thousands of tons of peaches and other
fruit have been thrown into the river in a single season rather than that
the harvest, by its natural abundance, should have been permitted to
lower the market prices.
A successful English fruit-grower, attracted by the possibilities of
Buenos Ayres and the crying need for supplies, came out to study the
situation, and found that although he could easily have secured ideal
orchard land, and could have raised enormous crops of apples, pears,
peaches, and all sorts of table fruits, he would have been powerless to
have brought his products to the market in face of this sinister ring.
He, therefore, abandoned the project and returned to England. Thus,
within walking distance of orchards laden with peaches, it would cost
you 6 cts. for one, and in Montevideo the conditions are more outrageous
still, as during our summer there we bought hundreds of Californian
apples at a cost of from 16 cts. to 25 cts. each, the local product,
at best inferior to the imported, and nearly as expensive, being then
inaccessible.
One effect of this scarcity of fruit—and the vegetables are only a little
less scarce, the country people seldom tasting them!—is the vogue of
English preserves, which are served as table delicacies. Jams, which the
London workman buys at 12 cts. a pot, are dealt out in the restaurants in
spoonfuls at more than 12 cts. a helping! _Dulce inglésa_ is the line on
the _menu_ and when you ask for it (which you do but once) you find it
means a tablespoonful of common strawberry jam, and you could have had
a _peche melba_ for the money at home! Common 12 ct. pots of marmalade
are sold in Buenos Ayres at 43 cts. In Montevideo we two Gringos were
responsible for the consumption of many a tin of American fruit, such
as sells in London at 20 cts. or 25 cts., the uniform price of which in
Montevideo was 80 cts.
In the matter of manufactured articles, one naturally expects to pay
extra, since everything has to be imported from Europe or the United
States. From the latter country comes most of the polished oak office
furniture, on which there is an infamous import duty, on top of which
again the selling agents exact large profits. In this way the price
swells to four or five times the home selling cost. Import duties on
ready-made clothes and every variety of household wares are so excessive
that the original cost is augmented by 25 per cent. to 50 per cent.
before the seller secures possession of the goods. The seller in turn
has such enormous expenses in the shape of high wages to assistants and
iniquitous rentals, that he must clap on another 25 per cent. or so for
handling expenses, and finally, as he himself has heavy outgoings for his
own living and will naturally endeavour to secure some little luxuries
from the limited possibilities open to him, on must go another 25 per
cent. or more for profit.
It is thus one vicious circle, which results in everybody earning far
more money than he can earn anywhere else, and spending four or five
times more to secure about one-half of the comfort or luxury he would
expect to enjoy in any part of Europe or North America. Net result: he
is, perhaps, “ahead of the game,” but I am far from being convinced that
the European or the North American could not equally keep “ahead of the
game” in his own country, earning less, spending less, enjoying more, and
saving equally. There is, however, to some temperaments a certain delight
in having money pass freely through one’s hands, and assuredly that is
what happens in the Argentine. If the money comes easily, it goes with
equal ease, and in the getting and the going there is a certain zest
which brings with it a feeling of unusual prosperity.
CHAPTER XI
SOME PHASES OF SOCIAL LIFE
Here is a subject which every writer on the general life of a town or
a country is expected to deal with, but in the case of Buenos Ayres
one is reminded of the famous, “Story? Lord bless you, there’s none to
tell, sir!” Save, that in being a civilised people, the inhabitants of
the Argentine must needs dwell in communities, “social life,” as we
understand it, is difficult to discover in these communities. Certainly,
a teeming city of nearly a million and a half population, with crowded
streets, palatial houses, theatres, lecture rooms, concert halls,
restaurants, would seem to suggest possibilities of “social life”; but
it happens to be a city mainly devoted to money-making, those who have
already made their money maintaining a centre of social life somewhat
remote from the Calle Florida; as far away, indeed, as the Bois de
Boulogne and the Champs Élysées, for is not Paris the social Mecca of the
successful Argentine?
Still they are few indeed thus privileged, in comparison with the
multitude who have to make the best of things as they are in Buenos
Ayres. Even during the terrible months of summer, those who can afford
to fly from its stifling atmosphere to the rustic surroundings of the
Hills of Córdoba, to the sea-washed shores of Mar del Plata, or to the
still more attractive riverside suburbs of Montevideo, constitute a small
section of the community.
There is, of course, an important section of the community who annually
quit the city to pass the spring and summer months in the “Camp.” These
are the _estancieros_, whose wealth comes entirely from their country
estates, where life in the winter months declines to the nadir of dismal
dulness and discomfort, so that they reside for some seven or eight
months of the year in the city, and remove to the country for the warmer
season, during which time the head of the family may inspect and revise
the work that has been going on in his absence under the direction of his
_mayordomo_, while the members of his family, (which may include what
we would consider half-a-dozen separate “families,” as the patriarchal
system of family life still obtains among the Argentines) will enjoy
themselves in a variety of simple and healthy country pursuits. When
residing in Buenos Ayres, the estancieros who have not placed their
affairs entirely in the hands of estate agents, as is the custom with
those who prefer to live in Paris, maintain offices and clerical staffs
like any other business men, for the work of an Argentine _estancia_
entails a vast amount of organisation.
With the family life of the Argentines, however, I do not for the moment
wish to concern myself, that being a subject of peculiar interest, which
I purpose treating at some length in a later chapter. For the moment, my
endeavour is only to register such evidences of the outward social life
of the people as came within my range of observation during my stay in
Buenos Ayres and my visits to different parts of the country. Conditions
in the capital city differ, of course, in various ways, from those in
the larger provincial towns, such as Rosario, Córdoba, and Mendoza,
and still more widely from the life of the smaller rural communities;
but we must always bear in mind in speaking of the Argentine that more
than a fifth—and the most important fifth—of the entire population is
concentrated in the capital, so that while London is not the embodiment
of England, nor New York of the United States, Buenos Ayres does stand
for Argentina.
In previous chapters I have expressed my feelings of surprise and
disappointment at the unlooked-for dulness of the so-called “Paris of
South America.” Never shall I forget the deadness of our first night in
Buenos Ayres—a deadness that struck us like a nipping wind, chilling
to the bone all hope of bright and entertaining evenings. It was an
impression which the succeeding months, when we maintained a hungry and
pathetic quest for social interest, did but little to remove. Perhaps it
was due in some degree to the grossly exaggerated and misleading pictures
of the city spread abroad by writers more intent on flattery and official
patronage than on the simple narration of the truth. Almost alone among
the many who have written on the life of Buenos Ayres, M. Jules Huret has
ventured to hint at the appalling dulness of the social life and the lack
of interest, especially for those of the younger generation.
The most vital factor in determining the social life of any community
is, perhaps, the position of the womenfolk. In this respect, there
is probably no city in the world on which so much has been written,
yet concerning which the untravelled reader entertains more erroneous
ideas. For this we have chiefly to thank the sensational journalism of
Europe and North America, which, on the flimsiest of bases, has built
up in the public mind the conception of Buenos Ayres as the metropolis
of Vice, the world’s mart of the White Slave Traffic. Bearing in mind
much of what has been written on this unsavoury topic, and more that is
circulated world-wide in irresponsible gossip, the visitor might expect
to find the outward conditions of New York, London and Paris reproduced
on a many-times magnified scale. Nothing could be further from the
truth. There are no large cities that I have visited in Europe or North
America,—and I have visited most of them—outwardly so free of social
offence as Buenos Ayres and the other great cities of South America.
By comparison, New York, Chicago, New Orleans, even Washington and
Philadelphia, would seem sinks of iniquity. Go to the races at Palermo,
visit any theatre in Buenos Ayres, with two or perhaps three exceptions,
dine at any of the few restaurants where a good meal is obtainable,
wander the streets at any hour of the day or night, and you will never
have a moment’s embarrassment from the social pest which obtrudes itself
so flauntingly in New York or London. This is one of the few things they
regulate better in Buenos Ayres. All places of public resort are barred
to the _demi-mondaine_, and as she is officially known, this makes for
a certain surface cleanliness of society, which is doubtless a delusion
so far as the essential morals of the people are concerned, and may be
written down an organised hypocrisy, but the outward evidences are as
stated and not otherwise.
Furthermore, I know of no cleaner journalism than that of South America.
Even the papers of the Anglo-Saxon world compare unfavourably in this
respect; yes, those we deem highly “respectable”! One might expect to
find among a Latin people something of the Continental levity in the
treatment of this subject, but for propriety and sobriety, I do not
believe it would be possible to better the journals, even of the lighter
class, which are published in Buenos Ayres. They are almost absurdly
respectable; the result, it may be, of a very obvious lack of humour
in the people. A further consideration is the intense devotion of the
Argentine to family life, and to family life of an almost Moorish
exclusiveness, so that, with very few exceptions, almost any publication
issuing in Buenos Ayres may safely pass from the hands of the parents
into those of the youngest children.
This will be something of a revelation to many of my readers, but when
I come to deal with “The Argentine at Home,” the factors which make for
this outward cleanliness of social life will become apparent.
On the other hand, the position of the Argentine woman, which so vitally
affects the social life of the country, corresponds in no way to
Anglo-Saxon notions, and explains much of the dulness, artificiality,
and insincerity it is my immediate business to describe. I remember very
well reading in the pages of M. Huret’s admirable work _Del Plata á la
Cordillera de los Andes_:
An Argentine assured me that, on meeting in the street a lady
whom he had known in his youth, and whom he is entitled to
address familiarly (_á la cual tutea_), he is careful not to
stop and speak to her, lest in doing so he might compromise the
lady.
Indeed, this Argentine informed the French writer that in such a case he
preferred not to notice the lady at all, but to look away from her! Here,
surely, is a suggestive fact. The statement seemed to me so remarkable
that I raised the point with various Argentines, and always had it
confirmed, one gentleman assuring me that he would not even go so far as
to pause for a moment to speak in the street with his sister-in-law if
she were unaccompanied. He thought it was an extremely foolish social
custom but considered it was one to which every gentleman was bound to
conform.
[Illustration: MARBLE FOUNTAIN IN THE GARDENS OF THE PASEO COLÓN.]
[Illustration: PLAZA FRANCIA IN THE AVENIDA ALVEAR.
The memorial is an offering of the French “Colony” to the Argentine on
its Centenary in 1910. Various monuments, the gifts of other “Colonies,”
ornament different parts of the capital city.]
It will thus be seen at a glance that one form of social intercourse so
familiar to us does not exist in the Argentine, which country is typical
in this of almost all the South American Republics. How far this must
condition the social life, any one can guess. The women are permitted
some measure of freedom until they become engaged, and may, under strict
chaperonage, attend formal receptions and balls, where the stiffest of
starchy manners are _de rigueur_. But after marriage, they withdraw to
the seclusion of their own homes and devote themselves to the care of
their families, seldom taking part in any social gaieties, even going
very little to the theatre.
One consequence of this is an extraordinary preponderance of men at all
places of amusement. I am probably under-estimating the proportion when
I say that in almost any audience, with the exception of that at the
Teatro Colón, seventy-five per cent. would be men. More, I have often
deemed it a pathetic commentary on the arid life of the place to enter
one of the many cinematograph theatres and note the rows upon rows of
men, with no more than a handful of women sprinkled among them. Often
in an audience numbering probably five hundred, there would not be more
than a dozen ladies and most of these foreigners. It is a condition of
things that tends to perpetuate itself, as my wife, even with me at her
side, always felt a little ill at ease where so few of her sex seemed
to be expected, although, without exception, the entertainments might
have been arranged for a party of Sunday-school children, especially if
it contained a number of “Budges” who revelled in “bluggy” subjects, as
hairbreadth escapes and the adventures of Nick Winter, Sherlock (often
rendered “Shylock”) Holmes, and other preposterous “detectives” were the
staple fare.
This tremendous overplus of men in the places of amusement admits of
two explanations. First, we have the unusual social custom which allows
of the husband acting as vicarious pleasure-seeker for wife and family,
so that no Argentine lady complains when her husband goes out alone to
the theatre and winds up the night at his club, returning long after
she has been asleep! Secondly, we have to remember that in all cities
populated chiefly by emigrants, large numbers of single men are to be
encountered. It is the experience of business people in Buenos Ayres who
employ considerable staffs, that a large proportion of their workers
are youngish men who seem to be absolutely without family ties or
attachments of any kind, lonely wanderers from the far lands of Europe.
A further influence militating against the womenkind enjoying such
entertainment as is to be found in Buenos Ayres is the widespread area of
the city. With a population not very much larger than half that of Paris,
Buenos Ayres occupies vastly more space, owing to the system of one-story
houses, which is still universal beyond the congested business area of
the town. The tram service, one of the best regulated in the world, as
it is also one of the cheapest, affords only a very inadequate means of
communication between the further suburbs and the theatre district, in
Maipú and Esmeralda, while the primitive state of the Suburban roadways
make travel by coach, or taxicab, a hazardous and painful experience.
So it happens that we find nowhere those bright and attractive supper
restaurants with merry groups of pleasure-seekers, men and women,
discussing the play they have just come from; but, in their place, many
cafés, exclusively occupied by soft-hatted men smoking and drinking. The
most pretentious restaurant in the city shuts its doors immediately after
dinner, and even during dinner the ladies are always in an insignificant
minority. Gaiety, forsooth! Who comes to look for that in Buenos Ayres
has undertaken one of the most barren of pursuits.
As for the character of the resorts, little that is favourable can
be said. I remember with what delight I used to scan the theatre
advertisements in the columns of _La Prensa_ before I sailed for the
River Plate, and what pleasures we promised ourselves, my wife and
I, when the day’s work would be done! Places of amusement there are
in abundance, and their advertisements make a brave showing in the
newspapers, but there are rarely more than two, or it may be three,
entertainments that are worthy of a visit. South America is the
happy hunting ground of all sorts of incompetent Spanish actors and
draggle-tailed Spanish dramatic companies. To see “The Merry Widow,”
“Casta Susana,” or “The Count of Luxembourg” performed by a company
destitute of vocal talent, with shabby, misfit scenery, and a wardrobe
so poverty stricken that not a single actor wears a suit of his size
(the whole company of them resembling, in evening dress, a scratch lot
of waiters from a Soho chop-house), the orchestra clad in the motliest
mixture of tweed suits, while the voice of the prompter, whose sweaty
shirt sleeves obtrude from his ugly box in the fore-front of the stage,
is heard above that of the actor—to witness this is by no means a
delectable experience; yet such is the manner of the fare most frequently
offered in the theatres of the city.
True, from time to time excellently organised Spanish and Italian
companies do occupy the principal theatres, and once a year there is
a visit from some eminent French actor, with a picked company, but on
the whole dramatic entertainment is pitifully poor, the pieces being
staged in a slovenly and inadequate style. The State-aided Opera, which
has its home in the great Columbus Theatre, is, of course, a national
institution, and as such plays a very important part in the social
life of the richer classes, though the bulk of the people have never
seen more than the outside of the building. Opera is here staged as
perfectly as in the finest opera-houses of Europe, and not a few “stars”
first twinkled in Buenos Ayres before their magnitude was recognised in
London or Paris. On the strength of the Opera, Buenos Ayres enjoys the
reputation of being a very musical city. In the _paraíso_, or gallery,
you might discover a considerable number of Italians who had been
attracted to the Colón out of a genuine delight in the performance, but
in most other parts of the house, and most of all in the highly-priced
boxes, the people are there to see each other: the ladies to study the
dresses of the other ladies, the gentlemen to display in the persons of
their wives and daughters the substantial condition of their banking
accounts—or of their credit. Nay, even during the most dramatic parts of
“Aïda,” “Manon Lescaut,” or “Otello,” I have seen quite as many ladies
in the audience with their backs to the stage, chattering to friends, as
there were others following the play. And in the _cazuela_ (a word which
in domestic use signifies a stew, and theatrically a gallery reserved
entirely for ladies—also something of a stew) the chattering between
the fan-flapping occupants is so continuous that on a sudden lowering
of the music one is sure to hear voices from the cazuela ringing out by
contrast. For the rest, the Opera is a function conducted with the most
tremendous gravity, and although the season is comparatively short (and
usually unprofitable to the impresarios), it is not without its uses in
enabling the native community to see a little more of each other than
the restrictions of their social life would otherwise allow. To the
stranger, however, it is socially useless, and to the mere lover of
music who could appreciate the excellence of its representations, it is
almost prohibitively expensive, unless he or she is brave enough to incur
the odium of being “spotted” in the five shilling gallery or paraíso,
where no English resident of any position in the town would condescend to
ascend. The consequence is, you will seldom meet an English resident who
has ever been to a performance in the Colón.
Of recent years, a movement in the direction of providing healthier
entertainment of a varied description for the family circle on certain
afternoons of the week, much after the style of the American vaudeville,
has been growing. Thus, on Saturday and Sunday afternoons during our
stay, one used to see many ladies and young children at the Casino,
but at night it was the rarest thing to discover in the whole crowded
theatre a respectable woman. Occasionally, an American or English lady
ventured with her husband to one of the boxes, where it was possible
to sit behind a screen and see the performance without being seen, but
every seat in the pit, the circle, and the galleries was occupied by a
man, and invariably there would be at least one turn that was highly
objectionable, and rendered the more so by the conduct of the audience,
who, slow to respond to anything which the Anglo-Saxon mind recognises
as humour, have an ever-ready nose for suggestiveness, and when that is
forthcoming, do not merely laugh at it, but render it the more offensive
by uttering all sorts of obscene noises.
The Casino, the Theatre Royal, the Scala, and the Parisiana, during my
stay, whatever may be the case now, were the evening haunts of the
younger men. The first named was the only one that attempted anything
like vaudeville entertainment, the majority of the _artistes_ being
usually American or English, and the difficulty of maintaining a
programme was so great that the management had to content themselves with
what they could get in the shape of second- and third-rate “turns” from
overseas, so that often the variety was not remarkable, two or three
groups of comic acrobats being included in one programme, and we all know
that there is no variety in comic acrobats. The other three resorts were
deplorable imitations of the Parisian houses that specialise in _revues_.
With the exception of the Casino, these theatres were all so small that
they would not have been considered suitable in America for more than
lecture rooms or “picture” halls. The revues were usually so stupid,
the scenery so contemptible, the performers so inferior, that I always
felt sorry the audience had nothing better to do than waste their time
in such inanity. French was the language of the revues, with occasional
Spanish songs and interludes, and there was only one joke which seemed to
have a universal appeal—some reference to “606.” Examples: A miserable
youth comes on to visit a burlesque doctor. He begins explaining how he
had met a young lady in a restaurant, using words of the most suggestive
character, each sentence containing a pun on a number. “Ah,” says the
doctor, “your case must be treated arithmetically.” As the patient
proceeds with his tale, the doctor seizes on every punning phrase
containing a number, jots these down on a slate, adds the lot up, result
909; but reversing the slate he exhibits to the audience “606.” Then
there is feeble laughter of fools! Or a young lady has a song of the
telephone, and the refrain is “Please give me number 606.” Faugh! But
the spectacle of an English acrobat on the Casino stage, dressed as a
Highlandman, who at certain times pulled a string that raised the back
part of his kilt and displayed “606” painted on the seat of his “shorts”
filled me with disgust. (Perhaps it should be explained that “606” is a
cure for syphilis.)
The music in these revues usually consisted of a _rechauffé_ of such
up-to-date tunes as “Ta, ra, ra, boom de ay!” “A Bicycle Built for Two,”
“There are nice girls everywhere,” and many others that have run their
little day in the “halls” of New York and London. In a word, anything
more despicable in the matter of entertainment could not be conceived,
yet in these poor, pitiful play-houses the young men and older bucks of
Buenos Ayres were supposed to be “seeing life.”
At one of the theatres mentioned, a group of fourteen English girls were
employed as dancers and singers practically all the time I stayed in
Buenos Ayres. They would certainly have found the greatest difficulty in
earning a livelihood in the same way in their own land, and it made me
sad to hear their poor thin voices uttering some drivel about “coons”
and “moons” which to me was only partially intelligible in my native
language, and must have been so much meaningless rubbish to the majority
of the audience. The few painted ladies who frequented those places in
the evenings were a sorrowful group of regular attenders, admitted, I
believe, at half price, and gave the final touch of squalid meanness to
the scene.
[Illustration: PRIZE BULLS AT THE AGRICULTURAL SHOW IN BUENOS AYRES.]
So much for the “gaiety” of Buenos Ayres! The reader will probably now
begin to realise what an attractive place it is for the young American
or Britisher. Poor young man, there is no one for whom I feel more pity.
He is at his wits’ end for wholesome amusement after business hours, and
his case is even worse than that of the young Frenchman or the Spaniard,
who can occasionally, at least, enjoy some reasonably good performance
in his native tongue, for English dramatic companies cannot possibly
find sufficient support to warrant the expense of the long voyage out
and back. When I come to deal with the life of the British community,
I shall describe the straits they are put to for social amusement and
distraction, and the ingenuity with which they contrive to render their
lives a little less unpleasant than circumstances conspire to make them.
But in the general social life of the town, the English take little or no
part, keeping to themselves with their usual exclusiveness, rendered the
greater here by the almost impenetrable barrier which the _criollos_, or
older native families present to all advances from without.
In this regard, the British are not singular, as the French, German,
Spanish, Italian, and other nationalities all maintain in a very marked
degree their racial sympathies, although assimilating more quickly
with the native element in the matter of language, which remains the
great stumbling block of the Anglo-Saxons. Each community maintains its
own clubs, with many sub-divisions among Italians and Spaniards, the
Neapolitans, for instance, having their meeting-places apart from other
Italians—indeed most decent Italians refuse to recognise the Neapolitans
as fellow-countrymen—and, among Spaniards, the Asturians especially
maintaining their local patriotism and racial interests in this way.
These clubs, almost innumerable, afford the men a common meeting place to
discuss their fortunes in the new land of promise and to recall their old
days at home, and as the social side of them includes frequent concerts,
banquets, and balls, the women of the company have also opportunities for
appearing in their best clothes and seeing photographs of themselves in
groups published in _Caras y Caretas_, the principal illustrated weekly,
whose every issue contains a large number of such items.
The social side of journalism is even more highly developed in Buenos
Ayres and in South America generally than in North America, so that one
judging only by the newspapers and the illustrated periodicals might
suppose there was nowhere in the world such sociability as in these Latin
Republics. In Buenos Ayres and in Montevideo elaborate _guías sociales_
are published annually, containing lists of “At-home Days” and other
information of a personal character, while _La Prensa_, _La Nacion_, _El
Diario_, and all the other newspapers devote whole columns daily to the
movements of the local nobodies. No possible occasion for a _banquete_ is
allowed to pass, and to the English reader _Caras y Caretas_ is a weekly
joy, with its dozens of photographs of these quaint little functions.
Señor Don Alonso Moreno Martínez (let us say) is going to Rio de Janeiro
on business for two or three weeks. The friends of Don Alonso thereupon
ask him to dine with them at the Sportsman Restaurant, where, in two
hours’ time, they will demolish a quite eatable dinner of five or six
courses. Meanwhile, one of the ten or fifteen hosts of Don Alonso has
taken care to warn the photographer of _Caras y Caretas_, of _Fray
Mocho_, and perhaps of _P. B. T._, and these three photographers turn up
in the course of the two hours, make flashlight photographs of the little
handful of diners, none of whom will be in evening dress, the group
presenting the oddest assortment of clothes, and, behold, in the next
issues of these widely circulated periodicals, excellent reproductions of
the said photographs, inscribed: “Banquet offered by his friends to Señor
Don Alonso Moreno Martínez, in view of his departure for Rio de Janeiro,
where he will absent himself for a few weeks on affairs of importance.”
It is no exaggeration to say that thousands of these photographs are
published yearly in the pictorial press, and when the honoured guest is
a little more important than my imaginary Don Alonso, then the big daily
newspapers are pleased to publish the photograph, while the provinces
send up to Buenos Ayres scores of them every week. It is all very
pathetic, but very eloquent of the low level of social interest.
Even the Races, so important an institution in Buenos Ayres, are
conducted in a way that almost entirely eliminates the social element.
Among the vast crowd that frequent the splendid course at Palermo on
Thursday and Sunday afternoons, except in the enclosure belonging to the
Jockey Club, very few women are to be seen. The men are there in mobs,
not to enjoy the races, in which they take no genuine sportive interest,
but in the hope of making a bit of money. An American lady said to me she
had never been at so quiet a demonstration before; she considered King
Edward’s funeral was altogether a livelier ceremony! The undemonstrative
character of the people is, to us supposedly phlegmatic Anglo-Saxons,
really extraordinary. I have an impression that it arises from an inborn
laziness of character which is not altogether foreign to their nature.
They are chary of giving applause in the theatre, and they sit dull and
motionless before the most exciting films in the picture palaces. At the
Races there is a feeling of sullen determination to get back twenty pesos
or more for the two they have speculated.
With all this lack of wholesome interest in life, outside the brute
struggle for the dollar, it is not surprising that there should be a
widespread devotion to gambling and the card table, most of the social
centres already mentioned being also resorts of gamblers. And with all
its veneer of socialness, there is no genuine public spirit throughout
the heterogeneous community. In a minor way this was illustrated in
February of 1913, when, owing to certain regulations which the Chancellor
of the Exchequer imposed upon the shops selling drugs and perfumes,
some 1,340 hairdressers and about 400 drugshops declared themselves
“on strike” by temporarily closing their premises, to the serious
inconvenience of the invalids and the dandies. The action drew forth the
strongest denunciation of the Press for its anti-humanitarian character,
but I noticed that quite as much sympathy was expressed with the male
population who would thus be placed under the painful necessity of
shaving themselves for a day or two, as with the suffering humanity
whose need for medicine makes the druggist’s one of the most successful
businesses in the city.
There is truly little humanitarian feeling evident in the social life
of Buenos Ayres, although the organisation of the _Asistencia pública_
is in every respect admirable and its first aid to the injured and the
sick leaves nothing to be desired. The Hospital organisation into whose
care the patient passes after leaving the hands of the Asistencia is by
no means so well conducted, so that while you may rely on being taken
to a hospital in the best possible way, Heaven help you after you have
been left there! While it is true that the Argentine is far in advance of
most of the other republics in its provisions for public vaccination, and
also in its sane policy of making vaccination compulsory, the official
treatment of disease always seemed to me to suggest a nervous dread of
the possibilities, a feverish readiness to test all the latest European
innovations for its suppression. The memory of past plagues is a potent
factor in this; recollections and traditions of the devastations wrought
in Buenos Ayres by Yellow Jack a generation ago do much to spread the
nervousness when there is any whisper of epidemics in other South
American ports.
January 29, 1913, was the second anniversary of the first great epidemic
of yellow fever that decimated the population of Buenos Ayres, and the
anniversary coincided with an outbreak of bubonic plague in the northern
city of Tucumán. The occasion was seized by the very competent and
vigorous writer of “Topics of the Day” in the Buenos Ayres _Standard_
to deliver an excellent homily on “Disease as a Hygienist.” From this I
quote a few passages which I think worthy of attention, coming as they do
from the pen of an outspoken local critic:
Unfortunately government as an art is not understood to
include or embrace hygiene. Politics concern themselves only
with the passions of the people, and the detriment thereof.
The oft-quoted tag: “the health (_sic_) of the people is the
supreme law,” is remembered only when an orator is anxious
to display his erudition, or when he feels in a particularly
cynical mood. The “supreme law,” as every one knows, is to get
what you can, when you can, how you can, but get it!
Not merely in the Provinces is hygiene neglected. The big
cities are great culprits in this matter. Some years ago the
city of Rosario was visited by bubonic plague. Instantly it
was placed in a state of siege. Trains from outside were
not allowed to enter, nor were passengers allowed to leave
without “a thorough disinfection.” They and their luggage were
submitted to the process, which gave them a disagreeable odour,
but, unfortunately, gave immunity to no one. The outbreak was,
as a matter of fact, too benevolent to cause wide alarm in
Rosario, but it had a wonderful influence in stimulating the
city authorities. As if by some enchantment, the old fœtid
system of cesspools in the centre of the city was done away
with and modern sanitation installed. Legions of homeless dogs
were summarily caught and mercifully asphyxiated. The vigorous
broom of reform was wielded unceasingly for a few months, and
Rosario smelled sweeter in consequence. But much still remains
to be done in Rosario. In Buenos Ayres the old problem of
sanitation is now in course of solution, a comprehensive and
stupendous scheme being in course of execution. Still there
are places in the outskirts that would serve as nurseries for
exotic disease-germs. Unfortunately, too, the _conventillos_
are full of children and adults predisposed by heredity, by
malnutrition and unwholesome surroundings, to fall victims to,
and propagate, any passing epidemic....
The fact is, it is difficult, if not impossible, to find a
city, town or village in Argentina that can boast of adequate
sanitary arrangements. The smaller the place the greater the
problem. But to listen to Argentine orators, in Congress or
out of Congress, it might be thought that this country had
absolutely nothing to worry about but the unsatisfactory
political conditions of the Provinces and the country. Whole
sessions are devoted to a sterile debate upon the alleged
covert intervention of the National authorities in the mean
and pettifogging “politics” of the Provinces. But never a
word about the squalor that is endemic in the cities and
towns of these politician-ridden, quasi-autonomous States.
Should Nemesis come along she will exact heavy retribution for
culpable loss of time and opportunity, sacrificed in order that
glib orators may air their ineffective gifts.
Clearly social hygiene is not yet a strong point in the Argentine,
where 62 per cent. of deaths among children born in the country are due
to malnutrition and errors of diet. Think of the folly of it! A land
clamouring for population, inviting immigrants of all races, yet allowing
a high percentage of its new-born citizens to perish owing to the lack
of humanitarianism in its social system. The life of the individual is
valued lightly in the Argentine and in any sort of society where the
welfare of the component atoms is deemed of no importance, the basis upon
which to rear the fabric of social well-being is insecure.
As an illustration of the poor stuff out of which the social life of
Buenos Ayres has to be constructed, note the following, which I reprint
from the Buenos Ayres _Standard_:
“Those who live in glass houses should pull the blinds down”
is an old axiom worth keeping in mind. Although not exactly a
glass house, there is a hotel in Calle Cangallo. A bedroom in
the ground floor has two large windows fronting the street.
Last night both these windows were surrounded by an admiring
crowd. An Englishman who happened to pass naturally stopped
to look at the attraction. This consisted of a young and
exceedingly pretty woman who had “divested” herself and got
into bed, quite oblivious of the fact that the _persianas_
(lattice shutters) were wide open. The evening was warm, and
as she slept the sleep of the just, she exhibited even more
of the human form divine than would be considered discreet by
a classical dancer. The admiring crowd freely criticised the
sleeping beauty and made no attempt whatever to arouse her to a
sense of her position. Our English friend promptly entered the
hotel, explained matters, and a maid promptly entering the room
switched off the light, to the accompaniment of a chorus of
groans from those who stood without.
[Illustration: SUMMER SCENES ON THE TIGRE, THE RIVER RESORT NEAR BUENOS
AYRES]
The lax organisation of the police is largely to blame for the lack of
social sweetness throughout the Argentine. The officials of the force
embrace every type of mankind from honest devoted servants of the public
to the lowest of “grafters” and murderers. They are constantly swaying
between excess of zeal and absolute indifference, or active participation
in criminality. Here is a typical case as reported in the daily press:
The Buenos Ayres 17th police have been accused of a serious
abuse of authority. According to the accusers, a young couple
engaged to be married were arrested in the Plaza Francia
because they were seated on a bench talking. Conveyed to the
_comisaría_, the two prisoners were confined in separate rooms,
and one of the two police officials, it is alleged, assaulted
the young woman in a most cowardly and repulsive manner. The
case has been referred to the Chief of Police.
That is all I ever heard of the matter. Almost daily all sorts of police
scandals come to light in the press, show their ugly heads for a moment,
as it were, then slip out of sight, “no more being heard of the matter.”
A similar case to that just quoted came to my knowledge, in which two
Gringos figured unhappily. A young lady arrived from England to marry
her sweetheart, who was employed in Buenos Ayres. On the second night of
her arrival, they strolled to the Plaza San Martín, and, forgetful of
the strange amenities of local society, behaved in the “spoony” fashion
of a loving couple in a London park. They were promptly arrested and
passed the rest of the night in prison. The creature who would arrest
them might be a half-breed Indian, himself capable of any crime, but not
understanding that Gringos are accustomed to do their love-making in the
open!
Quaintly enough, the police are often the ravishers of helpless women.
Once during our stay a young woman was forcibly taken by two men in a
taxicab to the woods at Palermo and there criminally assaulted by them,
while a _vigilante_ “kept the coast clear.” The men then decamped, and
the zealous agent of Argentine law himself committed a further criminal
assault on the unfortunate woman. The police have even been known—though
this predated our stay in the town—to seize a woman in the street,
conduct her to a house and assault her!
With the police as active agents in wrong-doing, the social life of
the country could not be other than it is. Nay, when one has listened
to many stories of official turpitude, the surprise is that so much
approximating to modern civilised conditions should be able to survive
in the Argentine. Although probably more in place in my chapter on the
Emigrants, I am tempted to relate here, for the lurid light it throws on
certain sections of Argentine society, one of several stories told to me
by an Italian doctor, who had practised for some twelve years, first in a
provincial town and afterwards in the Federal capital.
A countryman of his came to the Argentine, with his young wife and
infant daughter. In Italy he had been a small market-gardener, and in
the new Land of Promise he started in a humble way as a cultivator of
potatoes and vegetables near a country town some thirty-five miles from
Buenos Ayres. Modest prosperity attended his efforts, and in their
rudely built and sparely furnished little _rancho_, the couple lived
happily and contentedly with their little daughter. Some years of
increasing prosperity passed in this way, and the Italian was able to
acquire a little more land. Meanwhile, a slight friendship had sprung
up between him and the local _comisario_, who, in riding past, would
occasionally dismount and enter the rancho, or take a seat in the shade
of the rude verandah, to share a bottle of wine with the Italian and
his wife. Indeed, the story as told to me by the doctor, with the warm,
imaginative touch which the Italian imports from his native tongue into
the Spanish, was quite idyllic up to this point, but here enters the
element of tragedy.
It so happened that the young wife, her husband’s junior by some eight or
ten years, was even more beautiful than the average woman of her class,
admittedly the most beautiful of peasant women. At first the Italian was
flattered by the friendship of the police officer, whose good-will it was
desirable to retain, if all sorts of oppressive restrictions hampering
the development of the _ranchero’s_ work were to be avoided—but later, he
began to wonder whether this friendship sprang entirely from good feeling
towards himself, or whether the comisario was casting an envious eye
upon the young wife. Suddenly awakened to the possibilities of this, and
being, in common with most of his race, a man of passionate nature, the
Italian forthwith determined to remove from the district to some place
where he hoped his wife might be free from any possible persecution and
he from being tempted to the usual extreme of the Italian husband whose
honour has been assailed.
Selling his plots and belongings for much less than he might have secured
had he cared to wait a favourable offer, he removed some forty miles
away, leaving no clue as to his address. In this new locality he acquired
a similar piece of land, set about the erection of a new rancho and the
preparation of his soil. Here he opined his wife would at least be safe
from the attentions of the official, and he determined he would exercise
greater care in preventing the comisario of the new district from setting
eyes on her, for he had now realised, what all his countrymen in the
Argentine come speedily to understand, that a good-looking wife is one
of the most dangerous possessions an emigrant can take with him to the
new land. Quietly the couple went about their business for a time, the
wife actively assisting in the work of the little farm. The shadow of
the evil comisario seemed to have passed. But it was not so. Annoyed at
being baulked of his prey, that ruffian had carefully followed up the
disappearance of the Italian couple and traced them to their new place of
abode. This he managed by the simple process of sending out an official
description to all the surrounding _comisarías_, describing the couple
and asking for news of them to be forwarded to him, as though they were
fugitives from justice! And so it happened that, after a few more months
of peaceful industry, the Italian was horrified one day to see his wife’s
persecutor riding down the main street of the town, in company with the
local chief of police. Scenting evil afoot, he hastened home to warn his
wife, and make preparations for eventualities.
That very evening the comisario, accompanied by a local vigilante, called
at the house and demanded admission, declaring they held an order for the
arrest of the Italian. The latter’s response was to discharge a revolver
point blank at the police agent, whom he grievously wounded,—the officer
keeping out of range. The latter then withdrew, only to return with two
more agents, and several roughs from a neighbouring café. Acting on his
instructions, the gang attacked the house, the two vigilantes being
killed by the Italian before he was overpowered and bound to the rough
wooden posts of the inner wall. The comisario and the scoundrels who
accompanied him now criminally assaulted the young wife and daughter
before the eyes of the helpless man, and eventually left, carrying away
with them the mother and child, only when the outraged husband seemed to
have been rendered raving mad.
Later, several agents were sent from the local comisaría to remove the
now almost lifeless Italian, who had been seriously injured in the mêlée
and crippled for life owing to the wanton brutality of those who broke
into his rancho. He was lodged in jail, and after many months was tried
and sentenced to some five years’ imprisonment for the shooting of the
two agents sent to arrest him. Surviving the prison ordeal, he was
eventually released, though crippled, beggared, and hopeless. But the
Italian spirit of revenge burned fiercely within his shattered frame, and
obtaining one of the deadly stilettos with which his countrymen are all
too familiar, within a few months of regaining his freedom, he succeeded,
in the most dramatic manner, in killing not only the comisario who had
worked such havoc with his life, but also the brother officer who had so
callously aided and abetted him. The one he despatched in a café; the
other in his private room at the police station, allowing himself to be
arrested immediately thereafter. Of his ultimate fate the Italian doctor
could not speak, but he assured me the facts were as stated, and that
the man was personally known to him. Nor did he know what sinister fate
befell the wife and daughter. Such is one of the little tragedies of the
Argentine, and one that I have been assured by those who know is typical
of numberless unwritten chapters in its social life.
It may be objected that the killing of the officer in a restaurant
and being able to escape to a distant town and kill another, seems
improbable; but this you will understand when you know what happens in
the event of a public murder in the Argentine. I remember walking along
Calle Maipú, in Buenos Ayres, soon after my arrival, when suddenly seven
or eight people bolted out of a small café, the entrance to which was
down some steps, and whence came the screams of a woman. Presently two
policemen came hurrying along and disappeared within. Everybody near the
scene took care to avoid the immediate vicinity of the café, lest he
might be arrested as a witness! What had happened was this. A man had
been shot dead, and his body was lying in the café, where only an old
woman who attended the bar remained, every one who had been in the place
at the time of the murder incontinently bolted. And well for them that
they did so, as it is the custom of the police to make indiscriminate
arrests of witnesses in the neighbourhood of any crime that has been
committed, and these helpless witnesses are lodged in gaol and treated
with greater rigour than the perpetrator of the deed! So notorious is
this ludicrous procedure, that there is a saying in Buenos Ayres, “It is
better to be a murderer than a witness,” and consequently an enormous
number of crimes pass unpunished for the simple reason that no one who
values his personal safety cares to come forward as a witness.
The nature of the crimes perpetrated daily throughout Argentina is such
that the Anglo-Saxon mind revolts at the mere thought of human beings
existing who could be guilty of such enormities. But it is only fair to
say that in these crimes of passion and violence, the native Argentine is
seldom involved, the lower class Italian, and especially the Neapolitan,
being the worst offender. Indeed the Italian doctor who told me the story
related above was careful to explain that neither of the comisarios who
played such villainous parts were Argentines of pure descent, but were
Spanish-Italians. One has only to note the names of the persons concerned
in the cases reported in the Press to realise that Italy, and especially
that hotbed of vice and criminality of which Naples is the centre, is
responsible for the largest percentage of the inhuman outrages that stain
the records of the Argentine.
As I have hinted, the Gringo who gets himself involved in any sort of
dispute with the police is likely to regret it. The only safe course is
to avoid at all costs the intervention of the legal authorities. When
one must go to law, then care must be taken to ensure the proper course
of justice, either by judicious bribery or personal influence! I have
known of cases in the United States where it has been necessary “to
purchase justice,” particularly one important judgment which was only
placed beyond doubt by liberally feeing the judges. Similarly, the honest
man who meekly sits down, and out of his unworldliness allows “justice”
to take its course in the Argentine, without doing something to help it
along, may live to regret his scrupulousness.
An English acquaintance whose sense of justice is so abnormally developed
that he would go to law about the most trumpery matter rather than submit
to what he felt to be an injustice, one morning had to make some calls
in Buenos Ayres, and, hailing a coach from the rank in front of the
hotel, he drove to his first appointment, a matter of some ten minutes,
asking the driver—an Italian—to wait for him at a certain point a few
hundred yards distant, where coaches were permitted to stand. But after
discharging his business and going to the place in question, he could not
find the coach. The driver had evidently accepted another fare, hoping
to get back in time for my friend. But, behold him at the hotel in the
evening, demanding payment of fifteen or sixteen pesos, on the ground
that he had waited several hours for the return of the traveller, and
only gave up hope of his coming back when it was nearing dinner time!
The Englishman declined to disgorge six or seven dollars for his ten
minutes’ coach drive, and offered two pesos, exactly double the amount
he had legally incurred up to the time of leaving the coach, and thus
allowing for the time he had ordered the coachman to wait. This the
man indignantly refused, quitting the hotel with vows of vengeance on
the Englishman who, by the way, had only a smattering of the language,
or sufficient to indicate in a crude and gesticulative manner what he
required.
[Illustration: VIEWS OF MAR DEL PLATA.
In the second picture the large building of “El Club,” the gambling
centre during the short bathing season, is seen, and the bottom
illustration shows the new “Rambla” or promenade of cement structure
which has supplanted a rickety wooden one.]
Next morning, or it may have been the next again, when walking along the
Calle Florida, our Gringo was surprised to find himself stopped by a
policeman, with whom was the cochero, and requested to accompany them to
the comisaría. He gave the agente to understand, as well as he could by
gesture and some of his odd Spanish words, that he would go with him in
a coach, but would not be taken on foot through the streets. Eventually
this was agreed to, and thus they reached the police station, where some
hours passed before the magistrate could or would inquire into the case.
In vain did the prisoner claim permission to communicate with the
British Minister, and when at length he was brought before the judge,
it was clear that gentleman had made up his mind on the story already
told by the cabman, which was naturally a tissue of lies. A request for
an interpreter was at first refused, the magistrate saying he believed
the Gringo understood well enough what was being said to and about him,
but on continued protest, an interpreter was called, and he made it his
first business to interpret nothing said either by the magistrate or by
the accused, but advised the latter to pay up and get out of the court
at once. Mr. Gringo, being a particularly stiff-necked British type,
insisted that having incurred the trouble of being arrested, he would not
now pay one centavo more than he had offered the cochero at the hotel,
and demanded that his side of the case should be fully interpreted to the
magistrate. Even this seemed to make no impression on the enlightened
administrator of the law, who stated that the simple fact remained that
the coachman had been engaged and had not been discharged, and that
evidently the accused had not taken sufficient pains to make sure that
the coachman was not waiting for him at the appointed time and place,
the prosecutor producing a lying witness who swore to seeing him at the
appointed place and at the time stated.
At this juncture the Englishman again in the most emphatic way instructed
the interpreter to insist on having the case adjourned until he could
have time to communicate with the British Minister, as he was willing
even to run the risk of a night in jail rather than accede to any order
of Court that seemed to him unjust. His request was again dismissed as
irrelevant, the matter being one entirely for the consideration of the
police judge. Then, suddenly recollecting that at the moment of his
arrest he was on the way to visit a very influential Argentine with
whom he had business relations, and who took a prominent part in local
politics, he suggested that he be permitted to communicate with this
gentleman. When the judge heard the name of this gentleman pronounced,
and realised he might be a friend of the accused, the whole complexion
of the case instantly changed, and instead of passing judgment for the
payment of the coachman’s claim, as he had originally shown a readiness
to do, he calmly asked the accused why he had not mentioned before that
he was a friend of Señor Fulano de Tal, and the matter could have been
arranged immediately. Moreover, he would not even allow that the coachman
was entitled to more than one peso, his minimum fare for the ride from
the hotel to the place at which the Englishman left the coach!
So dumbfoundered was the plaintiff at this sudden change of front that
he burst into a volley of oaths against the Gringo and also insulted the
judge, who forthwith clapped him into jail to cool off for the next
three days!
Our friend, not a little satisfied with the turn of events, was thereupon
liberated, with no worse loss than that of some four or five hours’ time,
and the expenditure of a certain amount of nervous anxiety. But that was
not the end of the matter. The cochero, having spent a few pesos by way
of bribes anticipatory, had ample time in the next three days to nurse
his wrath to scalding point, and the Englishman was advised, in view of
this, to be very careful of his movements after these three days had
passed, as it was a matter that might be settled in the approved manner
of the Italian—at the point of the stiletto.
It so happened that five days after the court scene, the Englishman was
due to sail for England, and during the days following the prisoner’s
release he practically never left the hotel, even taking the precaution
of having his luggage conveyed to the boat by another traveller, to throw
the coachman off the scent, if perchance he was lurking about, seeking
vengeance. Then when ready to leave, a friend engaged a taxicab and drove
up in it to the kitchen entrance of the hotel, the Englishman jumping in
instantly. Thus he succeeded in eluding the ruffian, but he actually saw
him arrive at the quayside just when the visitors were being turned off
the vessel.
The simple narration of this episode can give but faint idea of the
anxiety and inconvenience it must have caused to the English traveller,
and it is to be doubted whether in the end he was the gainer. My own
policy was invariably to submit to any sort of injustice when I could
not see an immediate likelihood of successfully protesting against
it. The line of least resistance is certainly the only policy in the
Argentine that makes for comfort and peace of mind.
The practice of indiscriminately thrusting people into jail and leaving
them there for several days, in the vilest conditions and often in a
common room with the most desperate characters, before inquiring into
their cases, had one solitary merit, and, as the Irishman said, even that
was a bad one. In every motor accident that takes place—and there are
many daily—the first thing the policeman does is to march the chauffeur
off to jail, and have the car removed afterwards. It is a matter of
complete indifference to the police whether the accident is the fault of
the chauffeur or not—off he goes to jail and there he may lie for several
days before he is discharged. As it would be difficult to discover more
reckless drivers than those who make pandemonium of the streets of Buenos
Ayres, this struck me as not entirely a bad method. To assume the guilt
of the motor-driver until he had proved his innocence was, in nine cases
out of ten, to take the proper course. Some English acquaintances of
mine, however, who kept an automobile and employed a very considerate and
cool-headed Englishman as driver, were unable to agree with me, as their
man had just spent three days in jail for a slight accident, in which
a careless passenger had injured his foot by stepping off the pavement
against the wheel of the car, and owing to the verminous condition of
the jail, the poor chauffeur had to destroy all his clothes after he was
liberated! My friends also had to suffer inconvenience owing to their
car being abandoned in the street by the arrest of the driver, and being
held by the police for a day or two before it was delivered to them,
sustaining in the meantime some damage. The only moral of this story is
that Buenos Ayres is no place for an English chauffeur!
But of course it is easy to be critical of the social conditions of
a country which, after all, has no more than emerged from somewhat
primitive conditions into the larger life of a great modern nation. The
Spanish civilisation in America was not in every way superior to the
native civilisations it destroyed and supplanted, and for generations
it made but little progress of itself, if anything deteriorating as
the inevitable consequence of its low and brutalising aim—the securing
of treasure for the Spanish Crown. The Spanish communities established
throughout the continent were notoriously lacking in ideals. Until they
threw off the yoke of Spain and began to feel within themselves the
stirring of national aspirations, to cherish ambitions of elevating
themselves into individual nations, their history went some way to
justify the famous cynicism that the true dividing line between Africa
and Europe are not the Straits of Gibraltar, but the Pyrenees.
No longer, however, can it be said that any of these virile young
peoples are without their ideals. If the Argentine citizen had no other
figure than the splendid one of Sarmiento to point to, he would still
be justified in claiming for his country a place among the intellectual
nations of our time. And Sarmiento is but one of many great men whom the
Argentine has produced.
There is everywhere in South America to-day an unmistakable reaching
out for better things. Alongside the sheer brutality, unhappily still
existing, the tender plant of intellectual culture has been growing,
and with it true humanitarianism must make progress. It is, however,
the defect of virtue ever to be less interesting than vice; not only in
the Argentine, but also among ourselves, the baser elements of society
have a knack of thrusting themselves in front of the worthier, so that
the observer is liable to get his perspective askew. That is why it is
easy to overestimate the importance of these baser elements of Argentine
social life, though not to overdraw the picture of actual conditions. It
may fairly be said that the baser elements of social life touch a higher
percentage of the whole in the Latin-American civilisation of to-day than
in that of Europe or North America, but that the more elevating factors
are present and, if less in degree, are similar in kind to those of the
older nations, and will eventually produce a worthy social system, in
which intellectualism and humanitarianism will triumph over the brute
forces of self-seeking and indifferentism. But the time is not yet.
The Argentine is credited with expending more on the education of its
people than any other country in the world, with the exception of
Australia, and if the truth must be told, it is not getting the best
value for its expenditure. Since the days when Sarmiento,—who took part
in the insurrection against the notorious Rosas in 1829, and some twenty
years later had a hand in overthrowing that _gaucho_ tyrant,—established
in 1856, the first department of public education, the public schools
of the Argentine have been regarded as one of the first considerations
of every statesman. Sarmiento spent his life in the cause of education,
which he had studied in the United States and in Europe before rising to
power in his native land, and during his presidency he achieved great
things in the founding of schools and colleges throughout the country.
A visitor to Buenos Ayres, and especially if he be one of official
distinction in his own country, will be shown some most admirable
educational institutions in the federal capital, and among these the
splendid Colegio Sarmiento, which perpetuates the memory of the wisest
and most humane of Argentine presidents. So far good, but he will not
be told, especially if he be under official guidance, that probably
the school teachers throughout the country are four, five, or six
months in arrears with their salaries, the appropriation for public
education having somehow fallen short of the requirements. Just as an
immense amount of the corruption and criminality among the police is
due directly to the infamously low rate of remuneration, which in 1912
was practically the same as it had been some fifteen or twenty years
before, though the cost of living had meanwhile doubled, if not trebled,
so is school-teaching rendered one of the most despicable of callings
by reason of the shamefully low wages paid to those engaged in it. In a
country where the commonest forms of manual labour are highly rewarded,
the rank and file of teachers are not so well paid as they are in the
United States or in England, and thus, in financial standing, fall into
the meanest class of workers. Nay, it is by no means unusual for their
wretched salaries to be as much as six months in arrears, and in any case
the average teacher seldom has the satisfaction of handling his or her
income, owing to a check system worked under the immediate auspices of
the Educational Department itself.
The school teacher, being quite without resources and living from hand
to mouth, wishes to buy, let us say, a sewing machine for his wife, or
some household necessity. He obtains this on the instalment system, and
the Educational Department becomes his _fiador_, or guarantor, for the
transaction. It does more; it actually pays the instalments and marks
them off against his salary! In such wise many teachers do all their
shopping, even to the purchase of their eatables, and rarely have the
satisfaction of handling their actual salaries. No wonder that the
poor pedagogue, who ought to be the hope of his country, is more often
despised and contemned for his inability to acquire money in a country
where the possession of it is the sole measure of a man’s ability.
Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that there is a genuine desire for
knowledge among the Argentine people to-day, a willingness to be
instructed, only second to that of the North American, whose advanced
ideals of education first fired Sarmiento to emulation. The works of
an informative character sold in the bookshops would, I am confident,
greatly outnumber those of light reading, were statistics available.
There is throughout the Press the same evidence of a serious interest
in subjects which in England would be considered “heavy” or “dull.” In
a word, the good Argentine is a man very much in earnest, given to
pondering the problems of life in the light of the best criticism he can
find, and if he is still overshadowed by his worser compatriots, he is by
no means a negligible quantity, nor is he rarely to be met with.
[Illustration: SUBURBAN AND RURAL ROADS IN THE ARGENTINE.
The photograph on the left was taken in the suburb of Quilmes, and shows
a typical suburban road in dry weather; that on the right, the main road
through the town of Azul in the south of the Province of Buenos Ayres.]
In many ways the country seems to be passing through much the same
social development as the history of the United States presents, always
remembering, however, that it is based on a civilisation that differs
radically from the Anglo-Saxon. A further evidence of this is the
extraordinary popularity of the lecture as an instrument of education.
In the course of a single year, the procession of lecturers who invade
Buenos Ayres assumes proportions that are almost comic. Not a week
passes but the newspapers herald the coming of some European celebrity,
whose portrait is published broadcast, whose life is written up in every
journal, and whose lectures (for which a high fee is usually charged) are
pretty sure to be well attended. The subjects on which these lecturers
discourse are often of the most forbidding seriousness, and only people
famishing for knowledge, or utterly at a loss otherwise to dispose of
their time, could provide audiences for them. These _conferencistas_ come
indiscriminately from France, Spain, and Italy, the languages of these
countries being so widely represented in the Argentine that a gathering
capable of understanding any or all of them is not difficult to get
together. Some of the lecturers are officially invited by the Government,
who pay their fees and expenses, others—the majority—are quite as much
interested in filling their pockets as in furthering the intellectual
development of the Argentine, and very willingly invite themselves,
any lecturer of the Latin race being a gifted self-advertiser. A good
many ladies, chiefly Spanish novelists of reputation or political
agitators, also grace the lecture platform in Buenos Ayres and the large
provincial centres. A reception committee is usually formed to meet the
distinguished visitor at the boat, and there is the usual _banquete_,
with the equally inevitable _copa de champaña_, and the ubiquitous
photographers from _Caras y Caretas_ and the other pictorial papers.
This movement has assumed proportions which in 1912 led the caricaturists
to turn their attention to it, and cartoons of the different lecturers
hurrying off with bags of gold, indicated the local cynicism on the
subject; but apart from its amusing aspect it ought to be accepted as
an earnest of the desire that does exist for instruction in subjects
of public life. One popular lecture, for instance, was devoted to “The
Management of Public Museums,” but literary subjects, studies of the
lives of famous authors, and historical studies, as well as travel-talks,
seem to be most acceptable. One lady arrived from Spain with a lecture
in which she endeavoured to prove that Columbus was a Spaniard, based
upon the most slender evidence put forth by a Spanish antiquary, with
whom the wish was father to the thought; but she was listened to in a
good-humoured, sceptical manner, which spoke well for the common-sense of
the people, who wisely do not care a straw whether Columbus was a Gallego
or Genoese. Among the celebrities engaged under Government auspices to
lecture in recent years was a very famous French novelist, who is one
of the favourite authors throughout Latin America. In common with most
other authors, he not only lectured, but made use of his experience on
returning home to describe the countries he had visited. His description
of Uruguay is particularly remembered in Montevideo, as he is said to
have mentioned the fine coffee plantations of that country, and this was
the first that any Uruguayan had ever heard of them!
Although the final civilisation of the Argentine people will leave
between it and any Anglo-Saxon civilisation a marked cleavage, yet it
will approximate more closely to the British or North American than to
the French or Spanish. To say that the Argentines are Latins with certain
aspirations which are essentially characteristic of the Anglo-Saxons,
would be too broad a generalisation, but, closely analysed, we can
discover even more characteristics in the Argentine sympathetic to
British social notions,—imitative of them, perhaps,—than in the French or
Spanish, though at bottom, the Argentine remains Latin, and every nation,
like every individual, is doomed to carry, wherever it goes along the
road of progress or retrogression, “the baggage of its own psychology.”
Socially, the British have passed through some of the phases from which
the Argentine is only just emerging, and North Americans have passed
through others which at no time affected British social life.
In concluding this chapter, I have to admit that I have been somewhat
hampered in its construction by the fact that many illustrations which I
have stored in my mind affecting the social side of things, fall more
properly into other sections of my book, so that it is impossible to
avoid in some degree the overlapping of interests, especially when I deal
with subjects such as that in my succeeding chapter, which is really a
further consideration of the social life of the country. In the present
chapter, I have therefore sought to do no more than touch discursively
upon certain incidents and matters coming within my knowledge during my
stay on the River Plate, which may shed some light on an aspect of the
Argentine which few American or English writers mention in their usually
flattering and too often uncritical studies of the country and its
people.
CHAPTER XII
BUSINESS LIFE IN BUENOS AYRES
Although I will not admit that Buenos Ayres is the most desirable place
of residence, or that I should willingly pass any considerable portion of
my life there, I can appreciate its fascination for the man of business.
I was continually meeting Britishers who would, in the crudest fashion,
contrast the Argentine capital with the cities of their Homeland, to the
total eclipse of the latter, proclaiming that there was but one place on
earth for them, and that was Buenos Ayres. But I never met an American
there who preferred it to any of the great cities of his own country.
These British exiles who so rejoice in their expatriation are undoubtedly
maintaining in their adopted city an existence that in all points of
comfort cannot be compared with that within the reach of a person of
very moderate means at home. Yet they are by no means to be regarded as
asserting loudly what they only half-believe. It is more than probable
that they are honestly convinced of what they say, and that, so far as
they are concerned, they do but utter the simple truth.
The secret of the matter lies in the fact that in the Argentine, as,
indeed, in most alert young countries, there is a quick response to the
efforts of the business man, which is but rarely experienced in the
markets of the Old World. In this progressive Republic we have the
phenomenon of some seven million people, of whom more than twenty per
cent. are accessible in one city, crying out for commodities. It is a
country almost destitute of industrial resources, lacking coal, minerals,
wood, the essential elements of industrial life, for though minerals
and wood do exist within the political delimitations of the Republic,
they are geographically distant from the centres of population. Imported
coal is extremely costly, while water power, owing to the extraordinary
flatness of the land and the sluggishness of its rivers, is difficult, if
not impossible to utilise. So that, for all practical purposes,—unless
the discovery of oil deposits in the southwest may work a revolution in
industrial possibilities,—we may regard the Argentine as a country at
present limited to the pursuits of agriculture and cattle-rearing. These
are the true bases of its wealth; for the development of these have
English capitalists poured some £150,000,000 of money into the country,
to cover it with a system of admirably constructed and well-managed
railways. Mainly on the strength of these industries, have British,
French, and other foreign investors taken up the millions of Government
Stock for the national development of the Republic. In all some
£300,000,000 of British money have been invested in the country.
Thus we may view the people as divided into two great camps: those
who work the land and breed cattle, and those who make a living (and
something to spare) by supplying the requirements of the former class,
acting as middle-men between the European or North American exporter
and the Argentine consumer. Roughly into one or other of these very
disproportionate classes every worker in the Argentine must come,
although, of course, there are endless variations of relativeness, if
one cares to search for them. It is true that here and there some slight
industrial progress falls to be noted. There is a good deal of tobacco
making; there is more than one successful paper-making enterprise; in
a timid way there is even the founding of iron; but broadly speaking,
industries, apart from the land, do not exist. It is true you can get
a table made, but it will be a very insecure table, it will also be
very expensive, and you will be sorry you did not buy an imported one.
The same applies to many other simple kinds of manufactured articles,
which might, with a little patience and care, be successfully and
profitably produced in the Argentine; but it is a safe assumption that
for many years to come,—probably not within the lifetime of the present
generation—there is no likelihood of national industry developing to
such an extent that it would be able to replace in any great measure the
imported article.
Meanwhile, the commission agent is enjoying a golden age of gain. It
is a fairly easy matter to induce people to purchase who are in a
chronic state of needing all sorts of commodities, living, as they
do, in a country which is but poorly supplied even with the commonest
necessities of modern domestic life. The commission agent has merely
to announce the fact that he has made arrangements with Messrs. So &
So, the well-known manufacturers of this or that, and will be pleased
to supply it on certain terms, for his customers to find him out and
make him busy,—granted that the article in question is one for which
there is a real need. The crudest sort of advertising, the baldest form
of announcement, will prove almost as effective as the most skilful
propaganda would at home.
So it happens you will find many British residents of the meagrest
intellectual endowments who have acquired considerable fortunes by doing
nothing more brilliant than I have indicated, but who have been lucky
enough—or shrewd enough, if you will—to secure the representation of some
useful British or American-made device, such as a windmill water-pump,
of which many thousands are in use throughout the country; a mechanical
cash register, without which no Argentine business establishment is
complete; a patent grass cutter; or almost any conceivable article of
general utility. While the primal wealth of the country may come, as it
does the world over, from the land, the most substantial profits made are
those that go into the pockets of the agents, many of them unskilled, who
handle the imported manufactured goods which the people of the country
require in exchange for their grain, their cattle, their cow-hides, and
their wool. Economically, of course, this is an unfortunate state of
things, but I am concerned not with things as they ought to be, but as
they are, and this is the present condition of the Argentine.
[Illustration: AN ARGENTINE “GAUCHO” IN HIS HOURS OF EASE]
The net result of all this is a very pronounced feeling of briskness in
almost every branch of commerce. The country is steadily progressing in
its agricultural development, the Government is steadily borrowing to
advance public works, and, except for the temporary set-back in 1913,
it may be said that credit all round has continued extremely good for
many years. Consequently, men of business do not haggle and discuss the
fractional profits with which manufacturers and merchants have now-a-days
to be content in the older countries of the world, and especially when
there is a large amount of borrowed capital floating throughout a
country, there is sure to exist something of that spendthrift feeling
which we always associate with the individual borrower. This tends to
make commercial conditions extremely “easy.” Given that A possesses the
article which B wants, or thinks he wants, or which perhaps A has told
him he ought to have, there is every likelihood that B will purchase the
same at A’s price, or, if he insists on a reduction, that will probably
be the result of a personal knowledge of A, who is most likely in the
habit of placing a specially high profit on any article he offers to B,
intending to rebate the excess of profit. This used to be the sole method
of doing business throughout the Latin-American market, and here and
there lingering traces of the Moorish system of asking double or treble
what one expects to receive for an article, may be detected.
Until quite recently, much of the shopping in Buenos Ayres was conducted
on this ancient Oriental system of beating down the seller. No Argentine
lady would ever have dreamed of paying what the shopkeeper asked her,
and, equally, no shopkeeper would ever have dreamed of asking the
customer what he expected eventually to accept; but the Argentines, more
alert than most Latin-Americans, and more anxious to put themselves in
line with Anglo-Saxon business methods, have largely abandoned this
obsolete farce, and now in most business houses and in most of the shops,
_precio fijo_ is the order of the day. The thanks of the shopkeeping
community are particularly due to the pioneer house of Messrs. Gath
& Chaves, the largest department stores in the Southern continent,
who virtually broke down the old system when they opened their great
establishments some years ago and announced that all goods would be sold
at fixed prices. At first they had to turn away innumerable customers,
who simply refused to buy unless the prices were reduced, but eventually
the battle was won for honest trading, and the system has been largely
adopted throughout the country. It is true that small dealers of divers
sorts still endeavour to maintain the ancient bluff. One day, for
instance, in the window of a bric-à-brac seller, I was attracted by a
walking-stick of a peculiar Brazilian wood. I entered, and asked him how
much he wanted for it. He named a price, the equivalent of about $18.
“I’ll give you twelve pesos ($5),” I said.
“Muy bien”—(very well), said the dealer, wearily, as he handed me the
article and accepted the money; and there seemed to be no feeling of
shame on the part of the seller at endeavouring to secure so high a
price. Assuredly, what I paid him was all the article was worth, and
probably a little more than its real value, but, assuming that I wanted
the stick, he made a shot at a price which he fancied I might pay.
This irresponsibility is characteristic of much of the business dealings
not only in Buenos Ayres, but in all the South American centres where it
has been my lot to make purchases. There is an extraordinary ignorance
of intrinsic values. The restricting of imports, the delays of the
Customs authorities (who will often hold up a valuable shipment from
three to six weeks after its arrival), the lack of competition, all
tend to the imposition of the most absurd prices. Just imagine asking
three printers in New York to estimate for a certain piece of work,
and receiving from A a quotation for $1000, from B one for $457, and
from C another of $1825. Such disparities are absolutely unthinkable
in any country where labour has been properly organised, where prices
of materials have been more or less standardised, and where the only
difference must come from the ability of one firm to save a little more
than its competitors in its working methods. Not once, but on scores of
occasions, I experienced discrepancies in estimates of which the above
illustration is typical. Hence the man of business who merely employs one
printer, without putting others in competition, may be losing heavily,
as it is folly to place any sort of order without securing two or three
checking estimates. Moreover,—and here the foolishness of the methods
adopted becomes apparent,—I have on more than one occasion invited the
printer whose estimate was highest by upwards of $500, but whose work
seemed to me the best, to accept the order at the estimate of the lowest
printer, and he has willingly done so! I also recall another printer who,
on my protesting against an overcharge on an account for $750, made a
reduction of $425, in order that I should not bar him from future work!
This slight excess occurred on some work done without estimate. The
same printer informed me that the account in question was based on the
standard rate, which for many years his house had been charging one of
the principal banks for the printing of their stationery. The reader will
scarcely wonder, therefore, that we used to remark, in discussing these
discrepancies in estimates, that it was evidently no more than a toss-up
whether you were to be asked to pay $50 or $450, and in view of this it
will be seen how essential is some expert knowledge of the work in hand
to any person who ventures to engage in business in South America.
At the same time, the spacious feeling which comes from this disregard
of small profits has its effect on the individual man of business, and
the quick results which follow the friendly attitude of the public to
all sorts of new offers is highly inspiriting. I can therefore perfectly
understand the enthusiasm of an Englishman who, perhaps only moderately
successful, or making insufficient progress at home, has emigrated to
Buenos Ayres, and is enjoying the delights of handling a rapidly growing
and remunerative business, feeling that here indeed is the only land
worth living in. For after all, to most business men their business is
their life, and as there is so little to interest any man in Buenos Ayres
outside of his office, conditions are mutually reactive, the inspiration
of the business serving to increase one’s interest in one’s work, and
the increased interest tending to increased business. In this way the
business man becomes doubly a worker, and knows not even the Saturday
afternoon holiday, an English institution that is very slowly, if at all,
creeping into even the English offices in Buenos Ayres.
Most business men have admitted to me that, while they like the place,
it is only a place for working and sleeping in, and I suspect the
majority of cherishing in their heart of hearts the hope of returning
to their native land some day for good. I have known men who have lived
there over thirty years, and who have lost every relative and friend
they ever possessed at home, go back after all and close their account
with Buenos Ayres. On the other hand, not a few I have met who, having
retired to England, to France, or to Germany, as the case may have
been, have eventually returned to settle and die in Buenos Ayres. These
are the people who say there is “a something” that draws them back.
They would even have you believe there is about South America that
strange, intangible glamour of the East, which brings most who have
lived in the Orient under its spell. This I will not believe; there is
no glamour, there is no romantic beauty, there is no sensuous delight
in the atmosphere of all South America. What happens is a far other
thing. Men become so devoted to their business, under the conditions I
have outlined, so engrossed in the mere circumstance of their prosperous
affairs, that, neglecting all other interests in life, they have nothing
left to them but their business, and when they return to their native
lands, they have not brought that with them, and where their business is
their heart is also. Glamour, no, but business, yes,—as one would say in
the phraseology of the country.
Seldom missing an opportunity of making inquiries as to the business
success of all sorts of people with whom I came into contact, I might set
forth some quite remarkable examples of how the conditions in Buenos
Ayres compare very favourably, from certain points of view, with those
at home, were it not that I hesitate to use the experience of friends in
such wise that some readers might identify them.
M. Jules Huret, in his admirable work, to which reference has already
been made, offers many notable examples of prosperous careers in
different branches of trade and commerce, related to him in his various
travels throughout the Republic; but in every case these narratives were
given for publication. I cannot fairly do the same with much of the
information in my possession, but I purpose giving, as nearly as may be,
the particulars of three comparatively young men of my acquaintance, and
contrasting their present conditions with what, in all likelihood, would
have been their positions in England had they remained at home.
The first, whom I shall distinguish as Mr. X., is a young man of very
considerable natural talent. In personal characteristics he is the very
antithesis of the “pushing” young fellow, and, I rather suspect, had
permitted others to push ahead of him at home. At all events, essaying
a venture on his own account in London, it turned out badly, and he
found it necessary to take up his profession again as an employee in
a moderately responsible position, receiving not more than $1750 per
annum. His integrity being above suspicion, his ability unquestioned in
his particular profession, which calls for much precise knowledge and
long years of study, he happened fortunately, when he applied for the
post of Manager of a very large enterprise in the Argentine, favourably
to impress the selective committee, and was engaged. In this very
responsible position he has, to my knowledge, greatly improved the
conditions of his company, extended its work, increased its profits,
sent up its shares. His remuneration, instead of being $1750 per annum,
is about $10,000, and may increase, according to results, to double that
figure. The business in which he is engaged is of the same nature as he
has been employed in all his life, and to which he was trained in the
provinces of England.
Take Mr. Y., another young man, outwardly more suggestive of liveliness,
sparkle, capacity, than Mr. X., but probably no better endowed
intellectually. Mr. Y., who is not quite thirty, is at the present
time director of the South American interests of an important English
firm, handling contracts in the Argentine and in Uruguay for hundreds
of thousands of pounds, and himself earning a salary and commission
something in the neighbourhood of $10,000 per annum. This Mr. Y. would
have had reason to count himself singularly fortunate if, remaining in
England and engaged in the same class of work, he at the present time
had been enjoying a salary of say $2500 per annum. Moreover, in common
with Mr. X., he has that splendid influence in character building which
comes from the fine sense of self-reliance imposed upon one by having
to control the destinies of many employees and decide large and vital
questions on one’s own initiative. Such positions for men of thirty to
forty are extremely few in England, but are by no means uncommon in South
America.
As regards Mr. Z., I think I may state without fear of identifying him
that his profession is that of architect. The architects in Buenos Ayres
are among the busiest of professional men. One can scarcely walk for
five minutes in any direction without noting building operations, and
for scores of years to come the more central parts of the city will be
in a state of rebuilding, as all the smaller and old-fashioned houses
are bound to give way to modern steel and concrete structures. Hence the
skill of the architect is in high request, and likely so to continue,
although it must be admitted there is plenty of competition, as Italians,
French, German, and all nationalities are represented in the ranks of the
profession. The extraordinary cosmopolitan character of the city also
justifies the variety of races among its architects, every conceivable
European style, not to mention many inconceivable styles, being favoured
by the property owners. Mr. Z., however, is an Englishman, and as an
architect I confess he is no better than the ruck, but I believe he
has the recommendation of being honest, and for that reason, if for no
outstanding ability of any other kind, he has earned substantial success,
so that it is no unusual thing for him, in the course of the year, to
find himself in pocket to the tune of $15,000 to $20,000, which, I
imagine, is by no means an ordinary sum for even an architect of unusual
ability to earn in England.
[Illustration: ITALIAN “COLONOS” AND THEIR “RANCHO” IN THE ARGENTINE]
[Illustration: A VILLAGE WHEELWRIGHT IN THE ARGENTINE “CAMP”.]
It so happens that not a single one of these young men I have mentioned
really likes Buenos Ayres, but each is delighted with his particular
work, and I am strongly of opinion that in the fulness of time they will
all become submerged in the said work. That is to say, they will go the
way of those I have already described, who, yearning at heart to be home
again, become so engrossed in their business, trade, or profession, that
unconsciously with the lapse of years they grow into veritable slaves of
their business and cannot live without it. If a man can make his fortune
under four or five years in Buenos Ayres and then withdraw, all may be
well; but beyond that time, it seems to me, the genuine fascination which
the spirited commercial life of the place exercises on any keen man of
business will become too strong to permit of his cutting the traces, and
I am just as sure that a day will come when, in totting up his profits
and losses, he will feel he ought to put down on the debit side of his
ledger of life a very large figure to represent what he has lost in his
long years of exile from his home land.
In connection with Mr. Z., I mentioned the fact of his honesty, which,
it goes without saying, applies equally to Mr. X. and Mr. Y. Here we
touch one of the most important matters in the business life of South
America. Honesty is a quality that does not bulk unduly in South American
character. Having had peculiar opportunities of testing the honesty of
the general public throughout the Argentine, Uruguay, and Chili, and
having listened to all sorts of local and foreign stories about the
shameless disregard for the ordinary usages of decent straight-forward
business said to be characteristic of one country more than another,
I am persuaded that there is little to choose in this matter between
South Americans in general, if we exclude the Indians and _mestizos_, or
half-breeds. In Buenos Ayres it takes very little searching indeed to
discover Englishmen as dishonest and unworthy of trust as any scoundrelly
native. Nay, I am not at all sure that worthless English emigrants and
English-speaking _porteños_—children born of English parents in the
Argentine, who speak both languages equally well—cannot give most of the
tricky natives and unscrupulous foreigners a strong lead in the matter of
dishonesty.
Individually, I found among the native population a very high percentage
of men of the strictest commercial integrity, men who were _caballeros
correctísimos_, not merely in the formal sense of the phrase, but in
actuality. At the same time, I am forced to confess that there is
something in the atmosphere of Buenos Ayres which seems to depreciate
the importance of business rectitude. Ask me to describe this with
any definiteness, and I am afraid I should fail, but the fact remains
that one is conscious of the feeling every day and in every business
relationship. It may be the influence of old tradition, the result of
the Argentine capital having been for so long the resort of all sorts
of foreign criminals and justice-bilkers, as much as the experience of
business men in their dealings with Buenos Ayres houses to-day. But
whatever the extent or reality of this commercial dishonesty may be, it
is a factor to be reckoned with, and in all negotiations with commercial
houses it is no doubt well to look carefully at their references if their
credentials are unknown. A _procurador_, or attorney, for instance,
who was employed very successfully in connection with certain legal
matters that came under my notice, and who did his work so well and so
profitably to those who feed him that it was suggested to establish in
other parts of the country similar connections for the recovery of debts,
said to his clients, “Unfortunately, I know of no other honest procurador
in the Argentine with whom I could co-operate in carrying out your
suggestion”! The gentleman who reported the matter to me stated that he
entirely believed his attorney spoke the truth as to the lack of honest
lawyers, and he even had his doubts about him! But how can we expect the
legal fraternity to be shiningly honest when we know that justice is
poisoned at its source; that the Argentine Law Courts have nothing to
learn and can probably teach even Tammany something new in chicanery?
Let me give but one instance of how justice is administered. A young
Spaniard, one of many employed in a certain undertaking in which I was
interested, had to be discharged for dishonesty. He was an attractive,
gentlemanly young man, with tastes beyond his means,—which is all that
needs to be said of nine-tenths of the swindlers in Buenos Ayres.
Discharged for dishonesty, he was immediately admitted as a clerk in—of
all places in the world—a very prosperous bank! Within six weeks of his
admission to the bank, he contrived to steal some $3500, a portion of
which went to wipe out gambling debts, some $1500 he sent to Spain, and
the remainder, nearly $1000, he lodged in another bank. Arrested, he
was so conscious of the absolute proof of his guilt, that he signed a
statement written by his own lawyer admitting the whole matter, hoping
thus to be clemently dealt with. The case came before a young judge who
took a personal liking to the prisoner, and deliberately made up his mind
to discharge him. This seemed a difficult thing to do in face of the
signed confession.
Among the witnesses called was the gentleman who had discharged him for
dishonesty prior to his being admitted to the bank. This gentleman was
called because the prisoner had given his name as that of his previous
employer. The only question the judge would allow the witness to answer
was “When in your employment did the prisoner strike you as a person who
would be likely to have committed this forgery in the bank?” The witness,
having no wish to force the prisoner into jail, answered “No.” The judge
then asked the prisoner whether, in view of the fact that his alleged
confession was written by a third person and only signed by him, he had
been fully conscious of what that document contained, and whether he
realised precisely the gravity of the admissions therein. The prisoner
seemed somewhat bewildered as to how he should reply, and, not quite
realising that the judge had actually turned himself into advocate for
the defence, seemed on the point of committing himself by accepting full
responsibility, when the judge, silencing him and whispering with the
clerk for a few moments, asked the prisoner not to answer until he had
consulted with his lawyer. The clerk of the court withdrew, with a sign
to the prisoner’s lawyer, who, also leaving the court, returned presently
and whispered a few words to the prisoner.
The forger was then asked by the judge to state exactly how the
confession had been secured. Now, nothing loath, he brazenly asserted
that he had signed it most unwillingly, not realising how it
incriminated him, and so forth. Result: prisoner not only discharged,
who, according to the law of the land could have been put in jail for
three years, but by an order of court, the money which he had stolen from
one bank and lodged in another, and which had meanwhile been arrested by
the court, restored to him!
Is it surprising, in face of an experience such as this, that the
business world teems with minor employees who have been guilty of all
sorts of thefts and dishonest practices, but whom employers have not
prosecuted because conviction is so difficult to secure and legal
expenses are so heavy? A friend of mine who was robbed of $4000 by an
employee, who forged his signature and imperilled his credit in various
directions, spent so much time and money in endeavouring to secure the
conviction of the wrongdoer that he eventually gave up the struggle and
left him to be liberated from the jail where he had lain for some seven
or eight months without a trial.
Here, then, is probably the real reason of this feeling of low business
morality which undoubtedly does prevail in Buenos Ayres—the laxity of the
law and the difficulty of securing justice. A further example and one of
very recent date will serve to show to what extent audacity attains in
the commercial world of Buenos Ayres. A cinematograph company secured
at great cost from a European firm the exclusive right to reproduce an
important film throughout the Argentine, Uruguay and Chili. In due course
the film arrived, and was placed with a firm of photographic experts to
make a number of copies for despatching to the various centres where it
was to be exhibited, and where the exclusive nature of the exhibition was
already being loudly trumpeted in the press. Those entrusted with the
making of the copies did not hesitate to multiply the number by a dozen
or more, and to sell them at high prices to competitive theatres. In this
delightfully simple way, instead of one theatre in one town being able,
as it had announced, to give the exclusive exhibition of the film, some
eight or ten theatres were showing their unauthorised copies of it on the
same evening.
Confronted with such facts, it is hardly a matter for surprise that many
foreign merchants look upon Argentine transactions with suspicious eye,
exacting conditions of payment that are more rigorous than apply in
other quarters of the mercantile world. In the United States, I believe,
and in England certainly, this feeling of insecurity does exist, and
exporters are usually chary of entering into negotiations with unproved
houses in Buenos Ayres. Then, again, it is so difficult to find local
representatives of strict integrity that many large firms who have made
efforts to open up business out there have eventually given up the task,
one well-known maker of a very profitable line of stationery goods, for
which there is a large demand in Buenos Ayres, confessing to me that over
a period of years each arrangement he had made for local representation
had eventually fallen through, owing to the slackness or dishonesty of
his agents.
It is a lamentable fact that the general laxity of business morals has
the effect of developing in clever men their roguish propensities, with
the consequence that I have noticed all too often when the assistance
obtainable in Buenos Ayres has been undeniably competent as regards
intelligence and resource, it has failed in the matter of honesty, and,
inversely, where honesty has been beyond suspicion, these other desirable
qualities have been lacking. And thus we have employers deliberately,
with eyes open, utilising the services of persons whom they distrust and
whom they know to be capable of swindling whenever opportunity serves,
simply because their other abilities are essential to the creation or
extension of the business in hand. The atmosphere of suspicion thus
engendered, and the high standard of incompetency in almost every
branch of service, are two factors that must enter into the serious
consideration of all engaging in the business life of the country.
I could describe at least a dozen individuals with whom, during my eight
months in Buenos Ayres, I came into touch, all persons of the most
obvious capacity and worthy of employment, had that capacity been wisely
directed, but each, on close investigation, so tainted with suspicion
of trickery and trailing behind him an inglorious record, that it was
impossible to utilise his services. One person in particular, with whom
I almost entered into an important literary venture, whose scholarly
attainments were unquestionable, and who, at first, seemed a thorough
gentleman, had, as I subsequently discovered, served three terms in
provincial penitentiaries, and had even been guilty of attempted murder,
which crime he had planned purely and simply for business ends, with a
view to “putting away” a gentleman whom he and another had swindled to
the extent of nearly $5000, and who was proving inconsiderate enough to
invoke the law against the swindlers. This person, whose portrait and
finger marks are duly filed in the Criminal Bureau of Buenos Ayres—where,
by the way, the system of thumb prints originated—had, during his various
encounters with the law, become intimate with a comisario, who, prior to
entering the police service, had himself been a successful criminal, and
continued, not unsuccessfully, his criminal career in his new capacity.
With the aid of this official, the “liter’y gent” was able to defeat
the ends of justice, and for aught I know is still busy under police
protection fleecing new victims in or about Calle Florida.
[Illustration: PREPARING THE PICNIC MEAL—“UN ASADO” IN THE ARGENTINE.
The staple fare of the “Gaucho” is roasted beef, and at picnic parties a
whole animal is often roasted, in the manner above illustrated.]
The laxity of business morality is, of course, a concomitant of the
laxity of general morals, or an effect of the latter, most of the
commercial obliquity that exists having a first cause in the immoral
life of the offenders. Just as it is the fashion of many Argentines, in
addition to maintaining their legitimate wives and families, to possess
openly two or three _queridas_; so among those who are financially ill
equipped to play the pasha, the imitative spirit asserts itself, and even
down to the office boys, it will be found when things go wrong with them
there is “a woman in the case.” This, and gambling, account for probably
two-thirds of the commercial dishonesty, and the remaining third has
its most likely source in a pitiful effort to imitate their betters in
the matter of high living, where the plainest of fare and the humblest
accommodation cost more than genuine luxury does with us. Drinking enters
very slightly into the account, as it would be difficult to find a large
community where less tippling exists than in Buenos Ayres. Whatever there
is of that will be found chiefly among British and German residents, so
that any anti-temperance partisan desirous of proving that a temperate
public is not necessarily a moral one, will find abundant argument ready
to his hand in the life of the Argentine.
Turning from this unpleasant aspect of the business life, which is,
after all, only one phase of it, and must not be allowed to darken
completely our view of the commercial Argentine, there are several other
aspects that must engage our attention, and perhaps to more profit.
British readers especially will rejoice to know that their own country
and its manufacturers occupy a pre-eminent position in the affections
of the Argentine people. While on every hand there is evidence of great
activity on the part of the Germans, who have laid themselves out, and
with fair measure of success, to secure a large slice of the Argentine
import trade, there is not only in the Argentine but throughout all South
America a widespread distrust of the German. He is noted for commercial
methods that are no more praiseworthy than many that prevail locally.
His propensity for showing samples that are much superior to the goods
supplied is notorious, and such progress as he has made may be regarded
as largely the result of a readiness to flatter the native buyer by
speaking the language of the country and dealing with him in terms of
local usage. The Britisher, on the other hand, is guilty of the coldest
indifference to the convenience of the Argentine consumer.
I have, for instance, met more than one traveller for a British house who
has been visiting all the South American capitals and the great centres
of population with samples of goods, and has not been able even to ask
for a glass of beer in Spanish. I recall one gentleman in particular
who, by the sheer merit of the goods he was offering, had done a very
considerable business, and yet was so hopelessly ignorant of the native
tongue that he could not even pronounce the names of the firms who had
bought from him, or the streets in which their offices were situated!
This never happens with a German traveller. He may make the most
atrocious mistakes with the language, but he at least does attempt, and
usually succeeds, to explain himself without the aid of an interpreter,
and the Spanish American accepts any effort on the part of a foreigner to
speak his native tongue as a compliment to himself and strives valiantly
to understand what the foreigner is endeavouring to express.
Then again, British manufacturers show an unruffled disdain for local
conditions in many of the articles they supply. Take, for instance,
the sailors’ hats so much worn by children in England, and even more
in vogue with the _niños_ of the Argentine, where everything that
touches their naval aspirations is highly popular. Thousands of these
are imported from England, and it always struck me as ludicrous to
witness little Argentines going about with “H. M. S. Redoubtable,” “H.
M. S. Dreadnought,” “H. M. S. Benbow,” or some such peculiarly British
name, on their hats. Why on earth do not the British manufacturers
have the common-sense to ascertain the names of the principal vessels
in the Argentine Navy, and use these for the hats they export to the
republic? Evidently the Germans are doing so, as occasionally you will
see “Sarmiento,” “Belgrano,” “San Martín,” in place of the meaningless
British names, and I was told these did not come from England. The
patriotism of the Argentine and of every other South American is such
that he would undoubtedly buy an inferior hat for his boy if it bore the
name of a national warship, and even pay more for it than for a superior
British-made hat with the name of a British man-of-war thereon.
All sorts of sanitary appliances are also imported from Great Britain,
with the instructions for their use painted or engraved in the English
language. Take “geysers” as an example. It often occurred to me in
using bathrooms in various part of the country, where the geyser is an
inevitable fitting, that it was not only bad business, but very dangerous
for these appliances to be in use with English instructions engraved upon
them. The working of a geyser is at best none too simple, and when every
detail of its manipulation is explained on the machine in a language of
which nine-tenths of the users are totally ignorant, the possibility of
putting it out of order or of setting the place on fire, is considerable.
Lavatory basins with “Hot” and “Cold” mean nothing to a native, who can
only think of _caliente_ or of _fria_. The same applies to proprietary
medicines imported from Great Britain and the United States (though
American exporters are waking up to the need of printing instructions in
Spanish), whereas German, French and Italian medicines are invariably
supplied with Spanish directions.
In short, the pre-eminence of British goods, which I noted wherever I
went, not only in the Argentine but throughout all South America, is
in many respects undeserved. That pre-eminence is due to nothing but
honesty and commercial integrity. The British manufacturer is, with few
exceptions, an honest man, selling a good article at a reasonable price;
he keeps his bargains, and fortunately for him _palabra inglésa_ (the
word of an Englishman) is honoured throughout Latin America. But the
German, if he cares, can also make good articles, quite as good as the
English, and many German firms are honourable exceptions to the rule I
have mentioned above, so that once an importer has secured German goods
which are as sound as the English and have been made to suit local
requirements, the English manufacturer has met the most serious kind of
competition.
I attribute a great deal of the indifference shown by British exporters
to lack of proper representation on the spot. So long as the demand for
every class of imported article continues as lively as it is at present,
and the local agent can dispose of the stuff he receives without undue
trouble, he does not worry about making his service more valuable to
his clients by insisting on manufacturers doing their business in terms
of the country. Meanwhile, one finds everywhere the most remarkable
evidence of preference for British goods, British brands of tea,
British preserves, pickles, sauces, sweets, British machinery, clothes,
furniture, are everywhere in prominent use and demand. A good deal of
this preference is also the natural result of British capital having been
so largely used to develop the country,—they say locally “British money
and Italian labour have made the Argentine”—but let me warn the British
manufacturer that things cannot continue as they are indefinitely; this
happy condition of demand exceeding supply will change, and meanwhile
if he is making no serious effort to consider more carefully the needs
of his customers and to render them better service, his astute German
competitor will be “climbing upward in the night”!
While British and American exporters are not always represented as well
as they might be in the South American market, there is yet another point
for their consideration—are they properly staffed at home for dealing
with this particular field? I believe that not a few have clerks in their
foreign departments entirely ignorant of South American Geography, if the
“howlers” they commit are any criterion. The ignorance which prevails
in Great Britain in this connection is notorious, and from what I have
been able to discover, general knowledge in the United States is no more
advanced,—less if anything.
One example coming within my own experience will serve to illustrate what
I mean. Staying at our hotel in Buenos Ayres was one of the managers
of a very large British enterprise, with agents in different parts of
North and South America. One of these was stationed at Punta Arenas, a
considerable town in the far south of Chili, on the Straits of Magellan.
It is the port for a vast country in which sheep farming has of recent
years been making remarkable strides, and where wealth is growing
rapidly. This gentleman chanced to be on his way to England, and made
a break at Buenos Ayres to visit his superior at our hotel. Among the
subjects discussed by them was the curious fact that for three years in
succession the agent had received at Punta Arenas an account from the
head office for goods supplied during the year to a certain Señor P——,
whom he had failed entirely to trace. One evening, as the manager and
the agent were scanning the list of hotel guests, the latter exclaimed
“Why, there’s a Señor P——. I wonder if that might be the man I’m after?”
Further inquiry proved that the gentleman in question was a well-known
merchant from Asunción, the capital of Paraguay, whose business had
brought him on a visit to Buenos Ayres, and that he was none other than
the mysterious Mr. P—— whose accounts were regularly sent to Punta
Arenas for collection. The point of the story is that while Punta Arenas
is distant 1350 nautical miles, or a full four days’ steaming south of
Buenos Ayres, Asunción lies 825 to the north of Buenos Ayres—another
three to four days’ journey by rail and river,—but the export department
of the English firm was so little versed in these matters that it
selected its remotest agent to collect the debt! Punta Arenas and
Asunción were both in South America, and that was enough to establish a
connection! This is but one of many instances I could give to show the
lack of geographical knowledge even among British firms trading with the
country.
Manufacturers in the United States show a much more intelligent
appreciation of the possibilities of Argentine trade than those of Great
Britain, although the latter handle double the volume of business.[1]
Various trade journals published in the Spanish language emanate from
different parts of the United States and are circulated assiduously
among these Latin Republics, though, I fear, so far with inadequate
result. It is the misfortune of the United States that not a few of
its citizens who have gone south in search of “Spanish gold” have not
always been noted for their business rectitude. The result is that while
_palabra inglésa_ has become an accepted phrase in the language of the
country, so has _yanqui bluff_, which may be said to stand for any sort
of crookedness. There are, of course, as I shall have to point out
further on, other reasons of a political nature which tend to make the
South American at once jealous and suspicious of North Americans, and
against these influences it is the duty of all good business men in the
United States wishful to extend the market for their national products,
to fight incessantly, making special efforts to show to the business
man of the southern continent that they are actuated by nothing but the
strongest desire to cultivate a friendly commercial intercourse and an
increasing exchange of commodities between the North and the South. At
the present time, the United States is the chief source of supply for
office furniture, typewriters, cash registers, and also competes with
considerable success in the market for agricultural machinery. But in all
these directions, and especially the last-named, there is enormous room
for expansion.
Here is another aspect of business life that calls for the careful
consideration of all who are ambitious of securing a share of the
profits that await the seller in these lively markets of the south. The
natural prosperity of the country is considerably exaggerated owing
to the ease with which it has been able to borrow from Europe, and
these heavy borrowings have led to general extravagance, raising the
sense of prosperity beyond what is justified by intrinsic values. I
do not suggest for one moment that borrowing has vastly exceeded the
potentialities of the country, but I do assert that it has anticipated
these potentialities, and to that extent discounted future development.
The possibilities of the Argentine are colossal, and its power of
recuperation after the severest trials, such as ruined harvests or
destruction of cattle and sheep through drought, amazing. In this
connection, it is unnecessary to say more than that in one single summer
the country has suffered the loss of several million sheep owing to a
prolonged drought, without the community as a whole being conscious of
any financial strain from so great a destruction of capital. The British
makers of sheep-dip, however, would probably suffer a decrease of some
thousands of pounds in their exports to the Argentine that year, and
British wool-buyers who swarm over to the River Plate each year, would
have to pay a great deal more for their purchases, owing to the shortage
of supply.
[Illustration: FIELDS OF MAIZE.
It is said the profits of a single harvest have repaid the cost of the
land.]
Still, the fact remains that, due largely to the popular conception of
the Argentine as the new Eldorado for European manufacturers, enormous
sums of money are annually being wasted by ill-advised efforts to secure
business for which competition has suddenly become keen. Now, we have to
remember that with a borrowing people an element of thriftlessness is
inevitable, and that there is a necessarily high percentage of wastage
in the heavy loans which the country has secured from Europe. Hence that
general sense of prosperity and abundance which on closer examination is
often found to be more apparent than real. Right through the Argentine
this spirit of borrowing prevails. They are a nation of borrowers, and
in all ranks of society—by which is meant the various divisions graded
according to the supposed dimensions of their banking accounts or their
credit—the one notion of doing business is by drawing on the Bank of
the Future. The countless thousands of land-sales, which have brought
unequalled prosperity to one class of the community and riches to the
leading newspapers (daily crammed with advertisements of these auctions)
have been and still are conducted on the principle of _mensualidades_, or
monthly payments. The hire purchase system is universal. Mortgage banks
abound and flourish on interest rates that range anywhere from 8 per
cent. to 14 per cent., many such banks offering depositors 7 per cent.
per annum for their money, which they lend out at 10 per cent. or 12 per
cent. to help landowners in the development of their properties. You will
be told by local residents that this high rate of interest is perfectly
compatible with the capabilities of the country, and that the Englishman,
with his time-honoured notions of 4½ per cent. on land mortgage, is a
hopeless back number in the Argentine. There may be some truth in this,
but it is difficult to get away from the feeling that there is the
hectic flush of unhealthiness in any system that demands such high rates
for its financial accommodation.
As one could fill a whole book discussing nothing else than the aspects
of the various branches of commercial enterprise, all so different in
their essentials from most of our home conditions, I am making no attempt
to enter into detailed consideration of the subject, but to illustrate
broadly the danger I have hinted at, arising from the almost uncanny
feeling of prosperity which the peculiar conditions of the country have
induced.
I may touch briefly on the motor-car business. Although, as I have
already stated, there are few countries in the world less attractive from
the point of view of motoring than the Argentine, where roads such as
we know them in Europe, or even in North America, simply do not exist;
and no large city so ill-adapted for motoring as Buenos Ayres, where the
principal streets are extremely narrow and badly kept, while those of
the suburbs are almost entirely unpaved; the popularity of the motor-car
as an article of luxury and ostentation is supreme. The importation of
expensive cars was proceeding in the most reckless manner during my
stay there in 1912, with the result that I was informed by one of the
leading automobile dealers whom I met in Chili some six months after
leaving the River Plate, and who had come over to spy out the Transandine
possibilities, that it was estimated by the various houses dealing in
cars at the end of the 1913 season that there were no fewer than twelve
hundred unsold cars in the store-rooms of the numerous agencies in
Buenos Ayres. In the previous season, I think the highest number I saw on
a motor-car was in the 4000’s. No wonder there was general talk of “the
Motor Crisis” in 1913!
In my walks abroad during 1912, it was an endless source of wonder to
me to contemplate the folly of the European companies in their mad
scramble for this business. I saw dozens of establishments being opened
at enormous cost, stocked with expensive cars and served by retinues
of gorgeous youths who were to sell these to the fabulously wealthy
Argentines. In eight months’ time, I saw more than one of those splendid
establishments shut up, and doubtless since then many another has pulled
down its shutters (the use of metal shutters which pull down from above
is universal). Of one in particular I secured some inside information.
It was a German concern, and it took a magnificent _exposicíon_ in a
fashionable quarter, paying a rent of $4,000 per month. In the first
nine months, it had sold some thirty-five cars, the total value of which
did not greatly exceed the rent of the show-room. In addition to the
show-room, the concern in question required a large warehouse and repair
shop in another part of the city, so that the man of business will be
able to gather how such an enterprise was likely to end. Moreover, most
of those cars were sold at so much “down,” and the remainder in ten
monthly instalments. I suppose it is a safe assumption that more money
has been lost in the motor-car business in Buenos Ayres than is likely to
be made in it for some time to come.
One particularly astute foreigner with a large stock of unsold cars
devised a most admirable selling scheme. He made a bargain with a number
of willing scoundrels that each should go to a certain organisation which
provided any conceivable article to its customers on the instalment
system, exacting from the customer an increased price, and from the
seller of the article a substantial discount. These accomplices of the
motor agent, each through this medium of the purchasing agency, bought
one of his motor cars, tendering the initial payment, the money for which
had been supplied by him, and the buying agency in due course furnished
the car, paying the vender his trade price for it. Each car sold in this
manner immediately came back into the possession of the vender, and
naturally the accommodating financiers soon discovered no second payments
were forthcoming. I understand this enterprising motor-dealer had thus
netted quite a respectable sum on his surplus stock before his good work
was interrupted by an unwillingness on the part of the purchasing agency
to continue!
All this will serve to suggest the general looseness of business methods
and the accompanying wastage that is going on, which can be attributed
to no other cause than the ease with which the country has been able
to borrow, and the avidity with which foreign manufacturers have taken
the bait by rushing into the market without due consideration of its
risks and the characteristics of the people with whom business has to
be done. In no wise do I wish to belittle the commercial possibilities
of the country, for I am a firm and convinced believer that South
America generally is “the Coming Continent,” and that Buenos Ayres is
probably the most attractive of the newer business centres of the world
to-day, with limitless opportunities for sound commercial expansion
to European and North American manufacturers, but by reason of its
very attractiveness, the freedom with which money circulates, and the
readiness with which the people burden themselves with responsibilities,
the desideratum in all business enterprise is not boldness, but caution.
One of the most experienced native business men assured me that in land
speculation, which is even a more popular form of gambling than the
public lottery—servants and street porters actually owning “lots” they
have never seen, and never will see, and for which they are paying every
month,—the venders never hesitate to make the number of instalments run
into several years, in order to make the individual instalment as low
as possible, because the purchaser, incapable of a “long view,” in no
case realises the burden he is accepting, and merely looks at the amount
he has to pay monthly. The sum total of payments is seldom mentioned,
the accepted formula being a small initial payment and anything from
twenty-four to sixty mensualidades, also of comparatively small amounts.
The vast majority of the buyers never complete their purchases,
surrendering, after a year or two, what they have paid, together with the
land, to the seller, who will probably resell it to another purchaser,
who will also make default, and in this way the land speculator grows
rich.
Every day the newspapers contain particulars of some fresh scheme for
relieving the public of their money; sharks abound, and their variety
is endless. From the point of view of the foreign manufacturer, one
of the most pernicious forms of unfair trading is that practised in
connection with the registration of trade marks. The law grants the sole
title in a trade mark to the first person who registers it, and exacts
from him no evidence whatsoever that he is registering that which is his
own property. The outcome of this delightful state of affairs is that a
fraternity of longsighted speculators has grown up in Buenos Ayres, whose
business is to keep in close touch with the commercial worlds of Europe
and North America, and the moment a manufacturer places a new article on
these markets and registers his trade mark, one of these gentry hastens
to secure the proprietorship of that trade mark for the Argentine,
registering it as his own. His next movement—which may be delayed for
a year or so—is to write to the foreign manufacturer and to state that
he shall be very pleased to act as agent for the article in question,
which he thinks he can sell to advantage, and indeed so confident is he
of being able to handle it successfully that he has taken the trouble to
register the trade mark. The manufacturer, if he wishes to introduce the
article in South America, must then either appoint this nimble gentleman
his agent or pay him an extortionate price for the right to sell his own
article under its original name.
One example of how this works will suffice. The Oliver typewriter is sold
in the Argentine by its duly accredited agent as the “Revilo,” because
an enterprising citizen had forestalled the owners by registering the
name “Oliver” as applied to typewriters, and the company, neither caring
to appoint him its agent nor to pay for the privilege of selling their
typewriter there, adopted the plan of labelling their machines for sale
in the Argentine with the name spelt backward! Some famous brands of
Scotch whisky cannot be sold in the Argentine, as a Jewish gentleman is
in possession of their trade marks, which he registered in anticipation,
and thus the whisky drinker will discover all sorts of unfamiliar
brands specially prepared for export, while it is possible that the
purloiner of the familiar trade mark may arrange to bottle any sort of
vile rubbish under the well-known label. This is a state of things, of
course, that can easily be met by the foreign manufacturer, whenever he
is introducing any new article of consumption, taking care to have it
formally registered in the Argentine at the same time that it is placed
on the home market, so that if in the future he should wish to export it,
he will be able freely to do so.
Owing to the accessibility of legislators to influence and bribery,
all sorts of abuses arise. In Montevideo, for instance, a typical case
came under my personal knowledge. A large British manufacturing house,
which for many years had been supplying an article of wide consumption
throughout South America and in Uruguay particularly, suddenly
discovered that an excessive import tariff had been placed upon it. A
large consignment of the article in question arrived in the harbour of
Montevideo two or three days after the passing of the Act, and a battle
royal ensued between the representative of the British company and the
Customs officials, who endeavoured to exact the new tariff, but who were
eventually defeated on the ground that the tariff did not date from the
passing of the Act, but from the signing of the same by the President,
which, fortunately, had not taken place until two or three days after
the arrival of the cargo. This increased tariff had been imposed solely
on the initiative of an ambitious Uruguayan, who had determined to
manufacture a competitive article locally and got his friends in the
_cámara_ to assist him by choking off the foreign competitor. The result
was that the British firm had immediately to buy land and build a factory
in Montevideo in order to get “inside the tariff,” which they did before
the bungling native was able to work out his own plans, and so completely
outwitted him. The probability is that the tariff will again be taken
off, and the British company will be able to make the Uruguayan consumer
pay for the inconvenience and expense which the unsuccessful trickery of
their compatriot incurred.
[Illustration: BAGS OF WHEAT AWAITING SHIPMENT AT A RAILWAY STATION.]
[Illustration: THREE HUGE PILES OF “JERKED BEEF” OUTSIDE A “SALADERO,” OR
CURING FACTORY.]
Before turning from this subject, I must add a final word about the
extraordinary incompetency of native labour, already mentioned, which
conditions to so large an extent the business life, not only of the
Argentine, but of all South America. Inefficiency is the keynote of the
Spaniard as a worker. A complete indifference to the pressure of time is
another of his characteristics, and both of these we find more or less
eminent in the South American. The Argentine himself is steadily escaping
from the influence of his Spanish original, and will eventually become
a more wide-awake, competent, and altogether a more intelligent worker.
But even so, he has still to rid himself of innumerable faults in order
to come into line with what modern industrial conditions exact from
the worker in France, Germany, and Italy, in Great Britain and in North
America. The tradesman will dismiss you with the blandest assurances of
completing the work he has in hand for you “to-morrow,” and probably
you will discover a week later he has not yet begun it. He doesn’t care
a hang whether you are pleased or not. The professional man will make
no attempt whatever to keep an engagement within half an hour of the
appointed time, and the employee does not believe that the interests of
the employer and his own can ever possibly be identical.
There is but one way to deal with the Spanish-American worker, and that
is never to encourage him, never to express your approval of his work,
never for one moment to let him feel you value his services, and never
voluntarily to advance his wages! The master who finds his native helper
really useful and shows his appreciation by doing any of these things
will speedily have to meet a demand for an impossible increase of wages,
or to suffer the annoyance of seeing his employee “slacking” at every
opportunity and assuming an attitude of disregard for his interests.
The man reasons that if his master thinks so well of him as to advance
his wages without a request, or to express his satisfaction with his
services, he has become so invaluable to that master that he can presume
on him by taking liberties which a less useful worker would not expect to
be allowed. Presently, the only thing his master can do is to discharge
the man whom he has thoughtlessly encouraged, and it may be that the
latter will retaliate by waiting at the door and either shooting or
stabbing the misguided employer.
Especially in handling the _peones_ is it necessary to maintain the
severest, almost the most brutal conditions of discipline. Among my
acquaintances in the Argentine is a wiry little Englishman, whose
reputation as a disciplinarian is so widely known that his services are
much in request to “clean up” estancias where unsuccessful managers
have allowed slackness to prevail among the hands, or “arms,” rather:
agricultural labourers being collectively _brazos_ or _braceros_, though
the latter term is also used in the singular. He looks the last man in
the world for the job, having more the appearance of a natty, little
London lawyer. But he was wont to ride among the rough Italian and
Gallego labourers, always complaining about the inefficiency of their
work, and if one ever muttered a protest, he calmly smashed him to the
ground with a well-directed blow on the forehead from the butt of his
loaded riding whip. On various occasions he has even gone so far as
to have two peones seize one of their number who had retorted to some
complaint, carry him to a barn and strip off his shirt, and after having
him tied to a post, personally apply a substantial number of lashes to
his back. It might be thought that this was just the type of man to
receive a shot some night, or a stab in the back, but that is not the way
of things in South America. He has gone about his business for nearly
thirty years and has won the respect of the creatures he has knocked down
and flogged, as well as that of all the others who did not wish to feel
the weight of his strong hand. No, the type of employer more likely to
be assassinated is he who has treated his employees with ill-directed
kindness.
I met a gentleman, the manager of an estancia, at our hotel in the
middle of one week leaving for his home and heard the following Sunday
that he had been shot dead by a labourer on the Saturday, because he
would not re-employ the man whom the _mayordomo_ had discharged during
the manager’s absence. The fellow had no grudge against the man who
discharged him, who was probably in the habit of making his arm felt
among the workers, but the manager, who had shown a kindly interest in
the peones and braceros, and could, had he wished, re-engage this one,
was the natural object of his vengeance. Another gentleman with whom I
came into occasional relationship was shot dead one evening by one of his
workers because he would not advance him a day’s money, declaring that he
already had received sufficient for the week. Wages are paid nominally by
the month, but improvidence is so common among the workers that seldom
has a man, no matter his status, to draw his full pay at the end of the
month, continual advances having been asked for week by week.
Therefore any North American or European house that purposes branching
out in the Argentine is faced with difficulties that do not exist, at
least to the same extent, in almost any other great centre of trade, and
some allowance must be made to discount these in money values from the
cost of doing business there.
Blackmail and “graft” entering so largely into business and politics, it
would be surprising were it entirely absent from the Press. In proportion
to its population, Buenos Ayres probably supports more periodicals
than any other city in the world. There are about fifteen morning and
evening journals devoted to Argentine interests, “national” newspapers;
two dailies which cater for the Spanish community in distinction
from the native Argentine; three or four Italian morning and evening
papers; two English dailies (one of which has a wide circulation and is
extremely profitable to its proprietors); two French dailies; two or
three flourishing German dailies; one Turkish daily (containing four
pages about the size of a New York evening paper, printed in Arabic
characters), and weekly, semi-weekly, bi-weekly, and monthly publications
almost innumerable, catering for all manner of interests and representing
a veritable babel of tongues—Yiddish, Scandinavian, Syriac, Russian,
Greek, Catalan, Basque, to mention a few at random. A mere glance at
a list of these journals would be sufficient to indicate, even to the
uninitiated, that they cannot all be getting an honest living. Those
that are conducted on strict business principles are relatively few; the
blackmailer is busy on the others. His methods are simple, naïve to a
degree. The advertising manager calls upon you and states that he has
seen your advertisement in _La Prensa_, _La Nacion_, _La Razon_, _La
Argentina_, or _El Diario_, all of which are reputable and important
journals, and that he would like you to put it into his paper, and if you
do not think of doing that, his editor is contemplating publishing an
article attacking you, and it would be a pity to let that appear. They
are foolish indeed who allow such threats to induce them to use space in
any of the numberless rags that issue from obscure printing offices,
as the circulation of these sheets is so small, their influence so
contemptible, that it would scarcely matter whether they published a full
page denouncement of a Calle Florida tradesman as a thief and a swindler
and offered their paper for sale at his door, so little attention do the
general public pay to them.
On the other hand, there is an abundance of good journalism, and neither
New York nor London can produce more profitable mediums of commercial
publicity than several of the daily papers already named, or such
weeklies as _Caras y Caretas_, _Fray Mocho_, and _P. B. T._ Relatively,
the advertising rates in all these journals are higher than in American
or British publications of the same circulation, but the ready response
to the advertisements in them not only compensates for the difference
in cost, but makes them work out cheaper mediums of publicity than the
average in North America or Great Britain.
From every point of view, the Argentine offers to the man of business
almost unequalled opportunities, but, as I have endeavoured to illustrate
in this chapter, it has the defects of its merits, and he who imagines
it a veritable gold mine where there is no more to do than pick up the
nuggets and bring them home, is the most deluded of optimists. It will
give rich return for industry, for intelligence, and for honest merit,
but while the business man in search of new fields of enterprise may
reasonably expect to do relatively better in the wonderful Argentine than
in most other markets of the world, what I have written may show that
business life in Buenos Ayres is not entirely a bed of roses.
CHAPTER XIII
THE ARGENTINE AT HOME
As we make no distinction in English between the name of the country
and that of its native, referring to both as “the Argentine,” I am
continually finding little difficulties present themselves in the
progress of my writing, involving circumlocutions which are obviated
in the Spanish. The Spaniard can never doubt the intention of a writer
about the Argentine, _la Argentina_ being the name of the country, or
of a female native, while _el Argentino_ indicates the male native. In
the English, we have to depend entirely on the context of the sentence
to make clear whether the reference is to the country or to a native
thereof. In the present chapter, of course, the title sufficiently
indicates that we are to look at the Argentine native in his domestic
relationships, and I must confess the subject is one that does not admit
of very extensive treatment, for the reason set forth by M. Jules Huret
in one of his admirable studies. The French writer observes (I translate
from the Spanish translation):
Only strangers of high social or official standing are received
with any active sympathy. It is a matter of pride to be able
to make these visitors realise the great progress of the
metropolis and to introduce them to two or three _salons_,
which are all precisely alike. But if the stranger, although he
be of good family, arrive at Buenos Ayres provided with letters
of introduction to real _criollos_ (natives with generations of
Argentine pedigree) he will receive cards in reply, and not
always that courtesy; rarely a word of friendship or welcome.
He will hear repeated on all hands _mi casa es suya_ (“my house
is yours”); there will even be the usual courtesies with him
should they meet, and he may even be asked to go to the Jockey
Club, if his stay in Buenos Ayres is not to be a long one.
With few exceptions, he will not be able to penetrate into the
intimacy of the “home” or of a family of _criollos_. Argentine
family life, especially of the better class, retains many of
the habits of the Spaniards and something of the customs of the
Arabs.
This is correctly observed, and if an amiable Frenchman found such
difficulty as M. Huret evidently experienced in penetrating within the
outer walls of Argentine domesticity, how shall the Anglo-Saxon succeed
where a Latin had to confess failure? It is to be borne in mind, however,
that this refers chiefly to the old families, who affect to despise
the motley rabble of newcomers, and while profiting enormously by the
industry and enterprise of the Gringo,—who has developed and exploited
the riches of their country, making them rich in the process,—do not wish
to be vulgarised by intercourse with the merely money-making element of
the population. The exclusiveness of such families is notorious, and
maintaining as they do the ancient patriarchal relationships, they are
sufficient unto themselves, so that any foreigner who seeks to force
himself into their small and narrow-minded circle is an ill-advised
mortal who will surely be snubbed for his pains. They are as truly
republican, these criollos, as the families of the Doges of Venice, but
politically, and even socially they are being overwhelmed by the great
tide of commercial prosperity on which all sorts and conditions of people
and the motliest mixtures of nationalities have floated into wealth and
power. Yet there is something austerely attractive in their dignified
isolation, their cold contempt of the ruck of the community. Like the
creole families of Louisiana, they are landmarks of the past, mouldering
memorials of a social system that has served its day and is ceasing to be.
We have really to go further back than Spanish origins to trace the
influences that have moulded the Argentine criollo into what we find him.
Just as it is a recognised law of heredity that certain characteristics
are apt to skip one generation and reappear in the next, so do we find
among these peoples of South America features that are more Moorish than
Spanish. In modern times, while the Spaniards at home have been ridding
themselves of many traces of the old Moorish dominion, those who settled
in their American colonies retained customs and habits of thought which
were disappearing in the home country, and owing to the isolated and
circumscribed colonial life, tendencies toward exclusiveness have become
emphasised to the point of exaggeration. Thus, in certain directions, the
dusky hand of the Moor is even more noticeable in South America to-day
than in Spain itself. This is a point of view which few Argentine writers
would be willing to endorse, as it is the claim of the Argentine that his
civilisation is purely European, though distinctive in its individuality.
The fact remains, however, that the position of the womenkind, legally
and socially, though now showing signs of rapid change, conforms more
to Moorish notions than to European ideals; the very arrangement of the
house is Moorish, disguised, it is true, by progression through Spanish
and French styles; the tribal dignity of the head of the family is nearer
to Arabic life than to anything still surviving in European civilisation.
It will be at once obvious to the reader that in a country where we find
the very latest ideas of intellectual and industrial progress warring
with social conceptions which we have long come to esteem as essentially
oriental, we must have a very complex and unfamiliar system of family
life to consider. Indeed, while there is but little for the writer to
deal with, who confines himself to a record of familiar experiences,
the subject is extremely fascinating and capable of treatment at great
length. My present purpose, however, is to deal with the obvious, with
“things seen,” rather than to attempt in any detail the tracing of
origins of the Argentine social system. But the slight suggestion I have
thrown out will show the bent of my thought in this connection, and
perhaps help the reader to a better understanding of what is to follow.
It must be understood that the foreign resident actively engaged in
business affairs might not, in the whole course of a lifetime, come
in contact with any of the real criollos. Nor would it be matter for
surprise if he seldom or never encountered a real Argentine. Personally,
it was my good fortune to meet several gentlemen of eminent position and
influence in Buenos Ayres who were natives of the country, whose parents
in some instances had even been born there, and all were intensely proud
to be Argentines. It would be difficult, however, to determine to what
extent any one of them, had England been the scene of their lives, would
have been regarded as an Englishman. The extraordinary power of the
country to assimilate all races under the sun, the speed with which even
the most unpromising material of immigration seems to be transformed
into Argentine nationality, presents one of the greatest difficulties
to the foreigner in his search for national characteristics. I was told
by various English residents that they had only been able to make their
children grow up with the English tongue by thrashing them when they
spoke Spanish, and M. Huret mentions the typical case of a Frenchman
whose sons absolutely refused to learn their father’s language, and were
proud to speak only Spanish. He also tells how two sons of a wealthy
German resident in Rosario, who had been sent to a German University,
while staying at the Plaza Hotel in Buenos Ayres on their return, on
being mistaken for Germans, felt so mortified that they wept!
There are two immediate reasons for this fervid patriotism of the younger
generation: (1) the fact that all male children born in the Argentine are
regarded as Argentine citizens and must perform their military service;
and (2) the perfervid patriotism instilled into them at school, where the
national flag is exhibited in every room and receives the homage of a
sacred thing.
[Illustration: A SCENE IN THE “CAMP”—PEONES OUTSIDE A “PULPERIA,” OR
COUNTRY GROCERY AND LIQUOR STORE.]
It is perfectly understandable that a young man, feeling himself a
citizen of no mean country, in which his father is no more than a
foreigner—rarely does a Frenchman become officially an Argentine, as
that involves the renunciation of his own nationality; the Germans are
less squeamish in this respect; while the Italians and Spanish readily
nationalise themselves—will take a wholesome pride in his citizenship.
And as language is the greatest instrument for binding a people together,
and the predominance of Spanish in South America is unassailable, it is
not surprising that the native-born should even prefer the language of
his country to that of his father’s country. In the course of my stay
I met quite a number of persons bearing the most familiar English and
Scottish names, who could not even say “Good morning” in English. With
certain of these I had frequent transactions, and it was interesting
to study the racial characteristics of a gentleman named Campbell, a
fanatical Argentine, whose parents two generations back spoke nothing but
“braid Scots,” yet whose every action and trick of speech was peculiarly
Argentine. Another gentleman, one of the most able and businesslike men I
encountered, boasted the name of Harris (pronounced “Arrees”), which was
about the only English word he knew. Thus it happens there are unnumbered
thousands of Argentines without a single drop of Spanish blood, but with
all sorts of infusions of British, German, French, Italian, Belgian,
Russian, Scandinavian, etc. As regards the patriotic teaching, here is an
example of the catechism in daily use throughout the public schools:
_Question._ How do you esteem yourself in relation to your
compatriots?
_Answer._ I consider myself bound to them by a sentiment which
unites us.
_Q._ And what is that?
_A._ The sentiment that the Argentine Republic is the finest
country on earth.
_Q._ What are the duties of a good citizen?
_A._ First of all, to love his country.
_Q._ Even before his parents?
_A._ Before all.
Afterwards, the scholar responds in the following manner to another
question from the teacher:
In the veins of no human being ever flowed more generous blood
than ours; the origins of no people in the world ever shone
with a brighter aureole than that which illuminates the brow of
the Argentine Republic. I am proud of my origin, of my race,
and of my country.
Whenever the name of General San Martín is mentioned by the teacher in a
class, the scholars are expected to bob up and make the military salute,
at the same time saying _viva la pátria_! And very touching the extreme
gravity of all classes in uncovering and their prayerful homage when
the somewhat bizarre strains of the National Anthem, reminiscent of the
Marseillaise mixed with a Sankey hymn, are heard, while the national flag
borne through the streets or exhibited on an official occasion involves
the doffing of all hats.
All this, to Europeans, exaggerated patriotism, will appear far less so
to the citizen of any young country, and is not vastly more pronounced
than that of the United States, but it is probably necessary to the
fomenting of a proper sentiment of nationality. Time will adjust the
untrue perspective of the present day, which elevates the most trumpery
shooting affairs into heroic combats and successful soldiers of no
dazzling genius with Wellington and Napoleon, if not with Julius Cæsar
and Alexander the Great!
These, then, are two very potent factors in the making of the Argentine
patriot: the claiming of every male child born in the country as a
national unit and the determined inculcation of a vigorous patriotism.
We have to add to them the influence of the language and also that
natural love of country which makes the human being prefer even the most
forbidding and unattractive scenes, if they happen to be the first on
which his dawning mind has looked. So strong is this feeling, that I have
found it quite impossible to utter a single word in criticism of Buenos
Ayres in the presence of young people, the children of British subjects,
who had been born there and had never seen a European city. Nay, they
are to be met in England, full of contempt for poor old London and all
things English, and fired with the most unreasoning love of their native
Buenos Ayres. Thus in a country where “the melting pot” so quickly turns
all that is thrown therein into the same mould, it is almost futile to
go searching for “the real Argentine,” and we must be content to attempt
no delicate differentiations, but simply to accept in the broadest and
loosest way the Argentine residents as the Argentine people, excluding,
perhaps, the larger portion of the British community.
Early discovering the fact that there was no possibility of the average
stranger being admitted into the charmed circle of the private family,
I turned to other methods of discovering something of the family life,
and confess that I did not even despise the observations of English
governesses, whose services are in keen demand among the well-to-do.
Some of these ladies might do the necessary picture of the inner life of
the Argentine family which no ordinary visitor is ever likely to be able
to draw from personal observation.
Let me give one glimpse of an Argentine interior, as I had it from a
very able teacher of languages—an English lady who had spent a number of
years in the homes of different families. Unlike most Argentine families,
this was self-contained, the father and mother with their brood of young
children, and a considerable retinue of servants, occupying an immense
house in the fashionable district, with no other relatives sharing it.
The gentleman derived a large income from his estates and was above the
need to do more than draw his money periodically from the agents into
whose hands he had placed their management. The wife, still under thirty,
was the mother of some eight or nine children, and she had already
attained to that condition of adipose tissue which is the ambition of
every respectable Argentine lady. Her mornings were spent in aimless
lolling about the house in a state of undress, her toilet being a matter
for the afternoon, when she went for a short run in their big limousine,
or visited some lady friends to take afternoon tea. In the evenings, she
had her children with her until a comparatively late hour, her husband
spending almost every evening at his club, and he too would attend to
his toilet in the afternoon, thinking nothing of sitting down to lunch
in his shirt-sleeves with his suspenders hanging from the back of his
trousers, while his wife would be in her dressing gown. The children were
not admitted to meals, but took their food with the governess and one or
two nurses in a special dining-room, into which papa would occasionally
wander at meal time, still in his shirt sleeves, and help himself to
scraps from the dishes on the table or perhaps a spoonful of soup from
the tureen! This the governess found somewhat trying in her efforts to
instil manners into the children, whose conduct at table was deplorable.
Once when one of the elder girls was picking the bread on the governess’s
plate, that much-tried lady explained to her gently that such was not
considered good manners, to which the bright young girl replied: “In
England, yes; but here, no.”
To keep these lively youngsters from all sorts of monkeyisms, such as
licking the dividing spoon, putting their knives into their mouths, and
making as much noise over a plate of soup as one does in a bath, left the
governess scant time to enjoy her meals, and such manners among children
are not altogether exceptional in Argentine homes. Young people are
pampered to a dangerous degree, and while still mere children they have
more pocket money to dispose of on their own little selfish pleasures
than many a well-to-do Englishman spends on himself.
Although there is great and growing popularity for all forms of English
sport, and especially football, the boys of the moneyed classes are
usually somewhat effeminate in their manners. Those of the household
above mentioned who were old enough to go to school were taken there,
a distance of about a quarter of a mile, under care of a nurse or the
governess, in one of the various motor cars owned by the father, and
at the hour of dismissal each day they were brought home in the same
manner. I used to think it quite one of the characteristic sights of
Buenos Ayres to notice the groups of nurses and governesses at the doors
of the better-class schools, waiting to receive their little charges
and conduct them as far as two or three squares away by electric tram,
when the parents could not afford to send a motor or a horse-carriage
for that purpose. Many of these helpless boys would be twelve years old!
This is understandable in the case of the girls, nay imperative, but it
tends to make the boys timorous and unmanly, afraid even to cross the
street alone. In view of the universal pampering of the children, it
speaks highly for the essential virility of Argentine character that the
youth of the country cannot, as a whole, be said to lack in manliness;
they seem to throw off in adolescence the effeminacy which their boyhood
training is admirably adapted to foster in them.
Of familiar domestic intercourse, such as the social relationships of
British and North American home-life make possible, there is absolutely
none in the Argentine, or, indeed, throughout the whole of South
America—excepting always those families in which Anglo-Saxon influence
predominates. The drawing-room of most of the better-class houses is a
gorgeously furnished chamber, in which the furniture, on most days of
the year, is hidden under dust covers, and where the blinds are seldom
raised. It exists for state occasions only, when the starchiest formality
is observed, and these are by no means numerous and always duly announced
in the social column of the daily papers. The lady of the house passes
most of her time between her bedroom and her boudoir, and it is in the
latter, if she cultivate a circle of lady friends, that she will sip
afternoon tea with her callers, although you will occasionally come
across an announcement in the social news stating that some lady is going
to give a “five o’clock tea room” at four o’clock, and inviting her
acquaintances to be present. There is a great partiality for the use of
English phrases, and “five o’clock tea,” together with the addition of
“room,” is often used without any clear understanding of its meaning.
But the Argentine mother, although her ways are not our ways, might in
certain respects serve as an example to English and American mothers;
entering not in the slightest degree into any of her husband’s concerns
that lie outside of their home, her devotion is entirely to her children,
who will in large measure reflect her standard of culture, and when the
lady of the house has had a European training, there will be nothing
lacking in the behaviour of her children.
This bond between the mother and children is very strong, reaching out
through all the living generations, so that even a great-grandmother—and
there are many, as the women marry young, grandmothers of forty being
not uncommon—enters very intimately into the lives of all her progeny,
who vie with each other in their love for her. The community of feeling
between all members and branches of the family is most pronounced. The
importance of this in knitting together the fabric of Argentine society
cannot be overestimated.
Unlike the French housewife, the Argentine lady does not greatly concern
herself about the finances of the household, merely giving directions
for the expenditure, but usually leaving it to her husband to settle
the accounts. In this she shows something of the “grand lady” and also
something of the lady of the harem, acknowledging that it is no part of a
woman’s business to understand the value of money. Her conception of her
office is to be pleasing and attractive to her husband and devoted to her
children, in which duties she finds her full content. The very formality
of her name indicates how far the Argentine lady is removed from the
possibilities of Pankhurstism. She is proud to be known as Señora María
Martínez de Fuentes, thus indicating that she is María Martínez of
Fuentes, the latter being her husband’s name. It is an admission of
husband’s rights which could not exist in a country of self-assertive
womenkind.
By the way, it may be interesting here to explain the peculiar customs
that regulate family names in South America, and lead to continuous
mistakes on the part of Englishmen and Americans, who have not taken the
trouble to familiarise themselves with them. I have just explained that
when a lady marries she retains her maiden name and adds to it, with the
preposition de, the name of her husband. Almost certainly, however, her
husband would have two family names; the paternal and maternal. Let us
suppose his name was Fuentes Mattos, the first his father’s family name
and the second his mother’s family name. His wife, in adding his name to
hers, ignores his mother’s name, which is of secondary importance, and in
many cases is entirely dropped. On the other hand, the children of this
imaginary couple would be named Fuentes Martínez, thus indicating that
the father was a Fuentes and the mother a Martínez, so that we have the
following varieties of nomenclature in one family:
Father: José Fuentes Mattos.
Mother: María Martínez de Fuentes.
Son: Alfonso Fuentes Martínez.
When we remember that the names of the grandparents and the grandchildren
will all pass through similar changes, it will be seen how complicated
South American family names may become. Still, always bearing in
mind the simple rules I have illustrated, there is no difficulty in
identification, and relationships can be much more clearly established
than with our cruder system.
There is a tendency in the Argentine, due to admiration of British
brevity, to ignore the maternal name entirely, whereas on the Pacific
coast it is the universal practice to use only the initial, so that Señor
José Fuentes Mattos would there be expected to sign himself José Fuentes
M. As it is, in the Argentine a man will sometimes write his name in full
and at other times use only the initial for the maternal name, or drop
it entirely; but for Señor José Fuentes Mattos to receive a letter from
England addressed Señor J. F. Mattos is an insult he does not readily
forgive. Naturally, that is what happens daily in business correspondence
between North and South America, and I well remember a traveller for an
American firm coming to me to solve the difficulties of a long list of
names he had received from his head office, in every one of which the
surname was represented by an initial and the maternal name written in
full.
Returning to the Argentine at home, we have to consider for a moment that
patriarchal system of living, to which I have already made reference as
one of the legacies of the remote past. Formerly universal in Spain,
had it not existed in the mother country before the colonising days,
it would almost certainly have been forced upon the colonial pioneers.
For protection against the marauding Indians, the colonists, even for
many years after gaining their national independence in 1810, had to
maintain themselves in closely banded communities. Even so recently as
the year 1860, the now thriving city and port of Bahía Blanca, which
may yet rival Buenos Ayres as a great centre of shipping, was no more
than a military outpost to keep the Indians from penetrating too near
the townships in the province of Buenos Ayres. Thus we might have
attributed to the influence of environment the system of one family with
all its connections, interested in the work of a large estancia, as
extensive, perhaps, as an English county, living together under the one
paternal roof, did we not know that it has a remoter origin. Now that
the conditions which justified it have entirely passed away, its true
origin is not only forgotten, but would probably be denied by those who
observe the custom, which survives in the very heart of the metropolis,
and among the best families of the land. I remember well how impressed
we were with some of the private palaces in Buenos Ayres, many of which
rival in size and architectural ostentation the great public buildings.
It was a matter for wonder how any ordinary family could tenant a house
large enough to serve as the town hall of an important city. But all was
made clear when we knew that in many of these private palaces there was
not merely one solitary family nestling away in some corner of the huge
building, but probably anything from six to a dozen related families,
living under one roof, so that I used to think of the head of the family
in Gilbertian rhyme, abiding in peace, not only with wife and children,
but with
His sisters and his cousins,
Whom he reckons up by dozens,
And his aunts!
To Britishers especially, it is a surprising fact that there are brethren
in the world who can dwell together in harmony, to whom propinquity does
not lead to family bickerings. That would be notoriously impossible
in Great Britain, and I suspect equally so among the Anglo-Saxons of
America. Our nature prompts to the independent life and an early good-bye
to the parental roof. Surely, then, there must be something radically
different in the Argentine character which can enable half a dozen or
more interrelated families to live harmoniously in the same house. Of
course, each family unit has its own particular quarters, and in some
of the more stately residences each family is really self-contained
as to its house accommodation, but more usually they will have common
dining-rooms and sitting-rooms, the women folk passing practically all
their time in each other’s company. As a people they must either be
abnormally good-natured, family affection must be developed beyond
anything familiar among us, or their racial inclination to indolence
makes them so tolerant of one another that they do not have the spirit
to quarrel. I suspect that something of all three, interacting on their
lives, makes possible the existence of this unusual condition of happy
family life.
The system is one that has much to be said for it, and fostering, as
it does, an intense feeling of family pride, which is reflected in the
patriotism of the country, it must be regarded as a valuable asset of
national character. If it happens that any member of the composite
family meets with misfortune, he can be sure of the immediate sympathy
and practical help of his relatives within the domestic circle, for they
would deem it an indignity that one of their family should be known to
be in difficulties. If one of the married sons dies, leaving a widow
with several children, there will never be a moment’s doubt as to what
the widow will do. She will continue in precisely the same position
within the family, and even if her husband has left no money at all,
his brothers will consider it their bounden duty to maintain her and
her children in the same comfort as her husband would have done. Nor is
there any charity in this, as there would be with us. It is a natural
concomitant of the family system. What we should consider generosity, the
Argentine brother-in-law regards as a simple duty, and there is hardly
a limit to what he will do in the shape of service to the family of his
dead brother.
In this connection, I recall a very interesting illustration of the
racial differences between Argentine and English. An English settler in
Buenos Ayres had five daughters born there, four of whom married British
residents or the children of British residents. The one exception married
an Argentine gentleman, and so narrowly British were her relatives that
at first they looked with disfavour on the match. After some years, the
English husband of one of the daughters died, leaving her with four
children and an empty purse, having wasted all his wife’s patrimony in
foolish speculation—there is no Married Women’s Property Act, the husband
becoming sole arbiter of his wife’s fortune! Her English brothers-in-law
and her own sisters were more or less sympathetic, but the despised
Argentine brother-in-law immediately made a home for her and her children
with his own family, and, as one of her relatives told me, seemed to
think he was only doing his bare duty. This is a very pleasant trait
of character, and from all that I was able to gather it is entirely
characteristic of the better-class Argentine. Certainly, wherever I
found that British women had married natives, they had good reason for
happiness, and too often were able to commiserate with their own sisters
and women friends who had married Englishmen.
Another noteworthy resultant of the strength of the family bond is
its influence for good on the men. In a country where, thanks to the
cosmopolitan rabble of rogues and tricksters who swarm in every quarter,
dishonesty abounds in all its guises, the temptations to most men are
greater than in the older and more firmly established countries of the
world. Pride of family very often keeps a man in the straight path. It
is a little reminiscent of the ancient system of the Japanese, which
involved the entire family in the disgrace and punishment of any one
member who transgressed the laws of honour. The strongest deterrent to
one tempted towards a wrong course is not what the community at large
will think of him, but how his action will embarrass and humiliate his
whole family. And when a member of one of these composite family circles
is guilty of embezzlement or any misdeed which can be rectified by the
self-sacrifice of the others, the matter seldom reaches the public; his
father and his brothers and other relatives willingly make good his
defalcations. Quite a number of cases of this kind came to my personal
knowledge, and I believe it is a fact that the law has seldom to be
appealed to when any one has suffered a loss through an employee, or a
partner who is “well connected.” For this reason, astute business men are
always careful to inquire into the family connections of any person with
whom they purpose having transactions, these connections being their best
guarantee. It will usually be found that the most barefaced swindlers are
either foreigners, or of foreign parentage, and not seldom have they a
good deal of British blood in their veins.
[Illustration: A “RAMADA,” OR SHADED RESTING-PLACE FOR MEN AND HORSES IN
THE ARGENTINE “CAMP.”]
As to the “homes” of the Argentine, they approach more nearly Anglo-Saxon
ideas of “comfort” than the French, Spanish, or Italian notions of
“home.” French styles of furniture and interior decoration still
predominate. There is, however, a growing appreciation of the more solid
comfort of English styles, and popularity for these is assured. Our
capacious easy chairs are ousting the dainty, elegant and abominably
unrestful French affairs. Little progress, however, has been made in the
direction of heating the houses, and an Argentine interior in winter, as
I have said in an earlier chapter, is apt to be a picture of shivering
cheerlessness. But there are signs that even this will be remedied in the
increasing approval of what may be described as “English comfort.”
That the Argentine’s home is likely, however, to be thrown open to the
freedom of the North American home is inconceivable. His exclusiveness
is a heritage of the past. He could not rid himself of it, even though
he tried. Nor is he trying very hard. He may in time come to follow
European customs in the ordering of his meals, which still remain, in
real Argentine homes, a topsy-turvy wonder to the European, the soup
usually appearing about the end of the dinner, and the cheese being eaten
indiscriminately between the earlier courses. This is no more than a
fashion, but the other matter is “bred in the bone.”
Knowing this, it seems quaint to receive from a native a letter on some
ordinary affair of business, bearing his home address with the initials
“s.c.” or “s.c.u.” appended. Here we have an old Spanish formality,
and one of the emptiest of courtesies. The initials stand for _su casa
de usted_, meaning “Your house.” That is to say, he informs you his
house is your house! But he has no more intention of ever asking you to
enter his house than you have of going there to stay. It reminds one of
Mark Twain on his travels in Spain, when expressing admiration for a
Spaniard’s jacket, the owner retorted, “It is yours, sir,” and further
assured him when he also admired his beautiful waistcoat that it also was
at his disposal, so that Mark, out of consideration of the Spaniard’s
convenience, refrained from admiring anything else he wore. This is a
custom of very primitive peoples, and I am told that something similar
obtains among the Maoris of New Zealand, one of whose chiefs pressed
upon King George, when, as Prince of Wales, he visited the colony, the
acceptance of some venerated object, and was greatly chagrined by the
royal visitor, in all innocence and wishing not to offend the chief,
accepting the quite useless gift. We must never take Spanish courtesy
literally, and we must remember in South America that their courtesy is
one of the things they have imported from Spain.
Among the minor characteristics of the Argentine which frequently
interested me and for which I endeavoured to find a reason, was the habit
of repeating the most ordinary phrases in much the manner of a doddering
old person reiterating the same story. Let me try to express this in
English. A lady is telling how she narrowly escaped being run down by a
tram in the street:
It would be about four o’clock in the afternoon, when I was
going down Calle Sarmiento. There was a lot of traffic in
the street, and without looking backwards I stepped off the
pavement. Just as I stepped off the pavement, I heard the bell
of a tram, and looking back, it had nearly reached me, so I
gave a scream and stepped back on the pavement, just as the
tram passed me, in the Calle Sarmiento, at about four o’clock
in the afternoon, when it was very crowded and I had only just
stepped off the pavement, when I heard the bell, and had only
time to step back when the tram passed me. If I hadn’t heard
the bell, I might have been run over, and I gave a scream just
as I stepped back on the pavement.
That is no burlesque version of how this most thrilling story would
be told. Then, suppose you have to arrange with one of your native
employees to purchase a box of purple carbon paper and three shorthand
note-books on his way to the office to-morrow morning. You will tell
him so, and expect that to be an end of the matter—when you are fresh
to Buenos Ayres. But no, after listening attentively to your elaborate
instructions, he will then repeat:
So, when I am coming in to-morrow morning, I will go to the
stationer’s, and I will get a box of purple carbon paper and
three shorthand note-books—a box of carbon paper, purple, and
shorthand note-books, three, to-morrow morning on my way into
the office. Three note-books and a box of purple carbon paper.
Bueno!
This most tantalising habit of trivial repetition is universal, and so
endemic that English-born residents speaking both languages translate
this mode of thought into the English tongue, with the quaintest results.
There is surely no people in the world who can take a longer time to
explain a little matter than the South American, and I have often thought
that the volume of the Spanish language, which frequently calls for
three or four times the number of words that would be used in English
to express a simple idea, must have had some influence in producing
this strange habit of repetition, in order to fix in the mind precisely
what is wanted and the condition under which it is to be secured. The
only satisfactory method of conveying ideas from mind to mind was to
assume that the person you were addressing was still under fifteen
years of age. The swift exchange of thought flashes which is possible
between Anglo-Saxons is unknown to users of the Spanish tongue, but the
more go-ahead Argentine, who really represents to-day the brightest
intelligence that expresses itself in Spanish, is deliberately aiming
at the Anglo-Saxon ideal, and, disregarding the circumlocutions of his
native speech, is endeavouring to bend that to the brisker uses of modern
commercial life. This theory of mine may be entirely wrong, but the
facts, as I have endeavoured to illustrate them above, are substantially
correct.
If anything is likely to seduce the Argentine away from his oldest and
most honoured customs of life, it is the spirit of emulation which
pervades the whole social system, though it is present to a much greater
degree in those of mixed parentage than in the _criollos_. By no means
peculiar to the Argentine, it attains to almost equal strength in the
United States, nor is it at all uncommon in English society. Social
rivalry is really the motive force behind much of the commercial activity
of the country. The family of Sanchez have just built a swagger new
house and bought a 25 horse-power limousine. The Alonso family, having
quite as much money and perhaps a trifle more than the Sanchez, cannot
brook this ostentation to pass without reply, so up goes a still more
florid mansion, a 40 horse-power car is bought, and the chauffeur wears
a dozen more brass buttons. This game of “Beggar my Neighbour” in social
ostentation is being played merrily through every grade of Argentine
society. It is extremely good for business. Not only does it create
a brisk demand for luxuries, but it lays upon those who play it the
necessity of energising to secure the wherewithal, and is thus productive
of creative effort in the making of wealth where formerly the impetus
was lacking. So that perhaps it might not be wrong to suppose that what
the European observer would write down in the one case as the vulgar
striving of social “climbers,” and as rotten economics in the other,
is economically good in the development of a young country. But it is
imitative and nothing else, for there is as yet no evidence of the growth
of a distinctively national taste, and this imitative tendency of the
people is destined to bring them steadily nearer to European ideas, so
that they will probably emerge with a social system that will bear the
same relationship to that of all the European nations as a composite
photograph does to all the portraits that have been overlaid on the
negative.
CHAPTER XIV
“THE BRITISH COLONY” AND ITS WAYS
All the different nationalities represented in the population of the
Argentine are known as “colonies,” excepting the Spaniards and Italians,
who are at once so numerous and so involved in the life of the country
that it is scarcely possible to think of them merely as colonial groups.
The Republic, with a total population of seven and a half-millions,
contains vast numbers of Italians and Spaniards, but reliable returns as
to the various nationalities included in the population are difficult to
come by, if not impossible to secure. It is stated that there are upwards
of 800,000 Spaniards in the country, while the Basques, both French and
Spanish, are said to exceed a quarter of a million; the Germans number
nearly 50,000, the total of German speaking persons, which includes
Germans, Austrians, and Swiss, being upwards of 120,000. The British
residents throughout the Republic probably do not total 40,000, but
that is thought a fair estimate. As for Italians, their name is legion.
In Buenos Ayres alone there are some 350,000 of them. But all figures
must be regarded as approximate only, as the re-emigration movement is
considerable. For example: in the year 1911 the total immigration into
the Republic was 225,772, but the emigration from it amounted to 120,709,
leaving an immigration balance of 105,063. Race statistics are easily
obtained as to the incoming population, but of the settled residents and
those who leave the country, there is a good deal that is speculative in
all estimates, official and otherwise.
The Spaniards and Italians are split up into many subsections, such as
the Basques, Asturians, Andalusians, Neapolitans, Tuscans, Lombards,
Sicilians, and so forth. It would thus be correct to talk of “the
Asturian colony,” but scarcely so of “the Spanish colony”; of the
Neapolitan colony, but not of the Italian.
To a remarkable degree do these communities preserve their racial
distinctions, as I have already explained, this applying more
particularly to the cosmopolitan centres of population, such as Buenos
Ayres, Rosario, La Plata, and Mendoza. In the smaller country towns,
where the nationalities thin out, there are not the same inducements to
maintain distinctions of race; thus, paradoxical though it may seem, the
process of “Argentinising” the Gringo proceeds apace more rapidly in the
Camp than in the larger towns, or even in Buenos Ayres, which might be
thought the hottest part of the “melting pot.”
Naturally, the capital contains the major portion of the British colony,
yet, not even the ubiquitous Italian, though always overwhelming
the British in sheer numbers, finds his way to remoter parts, for
everywhere throughout the vast territory of the Republic the British have
penetrated, either as lonely overseers or “construction engineers,” in
little groups as prosperous estancieros, or managers of divers concerns.
In Rosario there is a very considerable colony of them, in Bahía Blanca,
in Junin, Mendoza, Tucumán—wherever there are banks to be managed,
railways to be maintained, machinery to be sold, there you will find the
enterprising sons of Albion busy, and usually prosperous; though it must
be confessed that the figure I have just used may not quite apply, as the
most familiar names borne by these self-exiles from Britain are Scots and
Irish.
In many respects, the Irish Argentine was one of my most interesting
studies. As a journalist, it was something of a revelation to find two
comparatively prosperous weekly newspapers, the _Southern Cross_ and the
_Hiberno-Argentine Review_, both printed in English and very much alive,
dedicated exclusively to the interests of the Irish Catholic families
of the country. The Irishman is well-known for the part he has played
in the development of South America. In that wonderful statesman and
governor, Ambrosio O’Higgins, and his no less brilliant son Bernardo,
the liberator and first President of Chili, did not Ould Ireland give to
South America two of the noblest men of action whose lives illumine its
history? In the Argentine also, the Hibernian has played no mean rôle in
the development of the young nation. His influence in her counsels to-day
is considerable. Prepared as one may be by previous reading to discover
him prominent in its life, it is none the less strange to meet eminent
men of business, in every fibre of their being fervid Argentines,—using
the Argentine tongue with all the nuances of the native,—who speak our
own language with the most pronounced Irish brogue.
Comparatively few of these Irish Argentines, moreover, have ever crossed
the seas to the green isle of their ancestors. Almost without exception
they are bitterly anti-English in sentiment. Originally sprung from the
lower class Irish peasantry, to whom the miserable conditions of emigrant
life in the Argentine, a generation or two back, were far less forbidding
than to the average British emigrant, the dress-suit and silk-stockinged
stage of luxury attained by the many who have gathered a bit of fortune
from the generous soil, is to them a satisfaction that might not appeal
so strongly to the classes which England and Scotland are pouring into
Canada at the present time. His religion also fitting in with that of the
country is another factor that has helped to make the Irishman at home in
the Argentine.
Under the British Treaty with the Argentine, the children born in the
country of British parents occupy a somewhat curious position as regards
nationality. While their parents remain British subjects, unless—and
this rarely indeed—they deliberately renounce their birthright to become
nationalised Argentines, children born in the country are reckoned as
Argentines and amenable to the laws of the Republic so long as they
continue to live therein, but they become British subjects on entering
British territory. Thus, the native son of British parents must conform
to the law of military service, while the native-born daughter ranks with
all other Argentine women in her disabilities as to the personal control
of her property in the event of her marrying in that country. Yet, on
going to London, that son and daughter cease, for the time being, to be
Argentine subjects, so far as British law is concerned, and are there
accepted as native-born Britishers.
Whether this curious international arrangement exists in connection
with any other European countries, I know not; but suspect it does not,
else the heroic efforts of many foreign women residents, and especially
the French, to maintain the nationality of their children, would not be
necessary. Seldom does a steamer leave Buenos Ayres for Europe without
carrying several lonely women who have left their husbands, perhaps in
some remote corner of the Pampa, in order that the child to be born may
see the light under the flag of its parents’ country. M. Huret mentions
the case of a French lady who, in addition to a long and toilsome
journey from the interior, undertook the trip to Europe and back on two
occasions within three years thus to preserve the French nationality of
her children. With English mothers the chief, indeed the only reason for
following this course is to save any son of theirs from the burden of
military service. And many a poor lady who has made the trip has been
disappointed to be told the child was a girl!
Argentine statesmen are most insistent on the maintenance of the
conditions that go with Argentine citizenship, and to such a point
that the famous Bartolomé Mitre, one of the greatest men the nation
has produced, declared that, rather than withdraw the condition, that
he who becomes a citizen of the Republic must renounce his allegiance
to his native land, he would “set fire to his country from all sides.”
Officialism is alert and open-eyed in its watch and ward over the
native-born sons of foreigners who seek to evade their military
obligations. So far as I could gather, there was but little disposition
to do so on the part of most of the young citizens sprung from Gringo
parents; rather are they apt to look down upon the country of their
fathers, and to swell with pride at being privileged to serve the
Argentine.
Exceptions to this rule will most usually be found among the sons of
resident Britishers, though many of them, and especially the Irish,
willingly do their duty by the Republic. I remember overhearing the
mother of one of these young Irish _porteños_ scolding him because he
insisted on speaking Spanish, even among his own people, where English
(with a thick brogue) was the language of the family circle. He had
served his term in the Republican army, and gloried in reciting its
illustrious achievements, before which the efforts of the poor blunderers
who muddled through with such footling officers as Napoleon and
Wellington paled into insignificance. What were the British Grenadiers
to the _Granaderos de San Martín_? What indeed! But the Englishmen and
Scotsmen who, by accident of birth, rank as Argentine citizens, and
have done their military service, are comparatively few in proportion
to the whole. I have met native-born Argentines not a few who were far
less enamoured of the country and its ways, and more sanely appreciative
of old England than many British residents who had better reason to
entertain these sentiments.
A certain lofty contempt for the Englishman at home is to be noted in
the attitude of the “British Colony” to things British. “I have no use
for the untravelled Englishman,” said an Argentine-born Englishman to
me. This gentleman’s parents had evidently been so essentially English
that their son, now a man of about fifty, had grown up and attained to
prosperity without being able to speak more than “Gringo Spanish.” He
had no use for the untravelled Englishman, and yet I shall venture to
say that many a Lancashire or Yorkshire man who has travelled no farther
than London will have as broad an outlook as the English porteño who has
never been outside of the Argentine. This very gentleman, one of the most
charming and agreeable of the British residents with whom I came into
touch, had himself visited England for the first time two years before I
met him, and confessed that the old land, with its unlimited facilities
for the larger enjoyment of social life, made a deep impression on him,
even to the point of awakening the desire to go “home” and avail himself
of his British birthright for the rest of his days.
[Illustration: AN “ESTANCIA” HOMESTEAD OF THE OLD CLAY-BUILT TYPE.]
Judge ye, therefore, to what extent he was entitled to sneer at the
untravelled Englishman! So far as enlarging one’s horizon or enriching
the mind is concerned, a month on the Continent of Europe, amid historic
scenes and in touch with the grand, great things of the past, will do
more than many years of Buenos Ayres. Thus I was at first inclined to
stiffen against my porteño friend and resent his suggestion, but I had
misunderstood him, and we were really in entire harmony, he and I. His
point was that the Englishman who arrives in Buenos Ayres direct from
England, and has never before travelled throughout his own country or
even troubled about that Continental tour is apt to prove a social bore
to his fellow-countrymen in Buenos Ayres. I concur most heartily, for
this is the very type of Englishman who discusses in the loudest voice
and with the most unreasoning bigotry the incomparable advantages of
the Argentine over the benighted little island he has left. Nor must it
be supposed that the seven thousand miles from the Thames to the River
Plate do anything appreciably to reduce the untravelled state of this
Englishman. There is not a great deal to see, and what there is slips
past the average voyager without notice, so that he reaches his journey’s
end in the same splendid state of untravelled ignorance that he left his
native town in England.
In any consideration of the British colony, we ought to have established
in our minds what exactly are its constituents. A very large number of
its members are associated with the management of the railways. Even
readers who are only indifferently informed on South American subjects
are probably aware that the British are the great railway makers of the
world, and that the thousands of miles of lines which interlace the
far-flung towns of the Argentine are monuments of British enterprise,
while some £150,000,000 of good English money has gone to their making.
In this alone the Britishers have proved themselves the greatest
benefactors of the country, although it has not been entirely a work of
philanthropy. The railways, then, being chiefly British concerns, show a
natural preference for British employees, and thousands of young Britons
are serving on them to-day in all sorts of capacities, but chiefly as
clerks, accountants, draughtsmen, engineers, and department managers.
Time was when the young railway employee in England who secured a post in
the Argentine went direct from a thistly pasturage to a field of clover;
was able to keep his horse and ruffle it with the best. That was before
the standardising of the currency, when a paper peso would occasionally
be as good as gold, and usually a great deal better than it has been
since the establishment of the _caja de conversión_. To-day they speak of
those times as of a Golden Age that has vanished, and now the lot of the
minor railway employee is by no means an enviable one. It is true that he
will probably receive a salary twice or two and a half times greater than
he got at home, but, as I have already made clear, the net result of such
a salary will be that financially his Argentine condition, if not worse
than his British, will be but little better. He will handle more money,
and he will get a great deal less for what he spends. Meanwhile, he has
signed his two or three years’ agreement, and must struggle on, however
inadequately he is financed for the fight. Falling readily into the ways
of his better situated countrymen, he endeavours to vie with them, and
in the process is lucky indeed if he avoids running into debt. From this
class, to which naturally there are many exceptions among the higher
placed officials—many of whom are men of outstanding ability, handsomely
paid and more liberally treated than they would be in similar positions
in Great Britain or North America—we have not the best of material for
the building of the British colony.
The British banks and financial agencies, so numerous throughout the
Republic, are very largely staffed from home, though there is also a
large native element in every office, as it is not to be supposed that
the operations of these banks are confined to a British clientéle. Far
from that; I should imagine that the large majority of depositors with
such as the London and River Plate Bank were foreigners. Certainly,
to judge by my occasional visits to that busiest of banks, there were
always fewer Britishers among those waiting on the outside of the
counters than there were English-speaking accountants and cashiers on
the inside. In addition to the heads of departments who were, I think,
without exception, Britishers, the staff contained many English-speaking
porteños, but working away at the books, and not in touch with the
public, one could note many essentially British faces. This is typical
of most of these banks operating in South America, some perhaps
employing more of their fellow countrymen than others. If anything, the
Anglo-South-American Bank seemed to me to find employment for even more
Englishmen than the average in its various branches in the Argentine and
along the Pacific Coast.
The young men drafted out from England for employment in these banks
are, I imagine, of a somewhat better social status and also better
paid than the ruck of the railways employees. In contrast with the
conditions of service and remuneration at home, the bank clerk in the
Argentine certainly does seem to better his position somewhat, or, more
correctly, he attains advancement earlier than he would at home. He is,
on the other hand, doomed to a long and probably permanent exile, as
there seems little disposition on the part of the home offices to find
openings in London for any of their employees once they have become
accustomed to the work and life of South America. This is probably one
of the reasons why the British banking community throughout the country
appears to be very settled in its character, the constant shifting, so
unsatisfactory a feature of the clerical staffs of the railways, not
being a characteristic of the financial fraternity. Then, the business
of the banker, bringing him into direct touch with the public, imposes
upon all those anxious to progress therein, the necessity of acquiring
the language of the country, whereas the railway clerk, beyond a string
of technical words used in his bookkeeping, may never find any need
for it, and rarely indeed does an Englishman (and here I must bracket
the American with him) make any attempt to learn the language unless
under pressure of circumstances. This is another of the reasons for the
superiority of the banking clerk over the railway clerk, as it will be
found that the intelligent Englishman who has acquired a good command
of the language, with whatever object in view, always holds a position
superior to his fellow countryman who has not done so, or he is at least
likely to outstrip him in the long run.
A third element in the making of the British colony are the “Cable
boys.” The various cable companies are all served by very young men, who
among Britishers abroad probably bear away the bell for their unlimited
power of “swanking.” It is altogether delightful to pass an hour or two
in the company of some of these breezy youths. They leave you with the
impression that the whole modern civilisation has been moulded by men
of their kidney. They talk about their work with a zest that no mere
banker, engineer, journalist, or architect could possibly impart to his
humbler calling. They call it “The Service,” and to hear a group of them
discussing the personalities of their great men in charge of branch
offices at fabulous salaries of £5 to £6 a week, is most refreshing to
the wearied man of affairs.
Often have I watched and frequently had intercourse with these glorious
youths, of whose romantic existence I had only the haziest notions until
I went a-travelling in South America, and they always contrived to make
me feel something of a worm for not having dedicated such abilities as I
possess to “The Service.” Yet there is a pathetic side to them and their
work. The Cable Service and Wireless Telegraphy are two potent snares
for the youth of our time. It really requires a very modest supply of
grey matter in the cranium to discharge the duties of either, and a young
man of twenty is as good a cable operator as he will be at forty, and
probably better than he will be at fifty. Few are they who can hope to
rise to the more responsible managerial positions. The bulk of them grow
up into disillusioned, underpaid, and aimless men. It is a service for
youths, in which they quickly attain proficiency, and what, for youth, is
a substantial wage; but “soon ripe, soon rot.” So that whenever I came
in touch with those swaggering “boys,” I used to see hovering behind
them shadowy figures with grey, sad faces, and did not grudge them their
swanking days.
Yet another of the constituents of the “colony” is furnished from the
ranks of the commission agents and local representatives of our exporting
firms. Many of the large manufacturing firms maintain their own offices
and staffs under the management of able assistants who have been trained
at home, while many more are content to be represented on a commission
basis by agents, who are their own masters and handle the business of
several firms whose interests do not clash. Among these will be found not
a few of the most prosperous members of the British community, men of
self-reliance, initiative, individuality. There are also to be considered
in this connection, though the bond that binds them to the British colony
is ever loosening, fellow countrymen who have permanently established
themselves as local tradesmen, conducting every variety of business,
such as chemist, draper, grocer, jeweller, bootseller, furniture dealer,
bookseller, and so forth. In all parts of Buenos Ayres, and in a lesser
degree in the larger towns of the country, the wanderer will note
familiar British names over shop windows, often with the Christian name
in Spanish, _Juan_ for John, _Diego_ for James, and so on. It is a fair
assumption that when the English tradesman has taken to use the Spanish
form, he intends to strike his roots deep into the new soil. His children
will become more Argentine than British, and theirs British not at all.
But perhaps the most important, and I suspect the most substantial of the
British community who have made their homes in this Land of Fortune are
those of the estanciero class. It is true that the wealthiest of them
cannot be compared on a mere money basis with the wealthier natives, who
have seen their landed properties increase some hundred times in value
in the last forty years, whereas most English estancieros had to buy
their holdings after the upward movement began. Many of them carry on
farming on what, compared with the average conditions in their native
land, is a baronial scale, and as a rule they seem to be pleased with
their lot and happy in the country of their adoption. They are frequent
visitors to Buenos Ayres, and flock there, particularly at the time of
the Agricultural Show, when their womenfolk vie with each other in the
display of their latest hats and dresses. Included among the agricultural
class are many highly paid managers, usually Englishmen of good education
and organising ability, who conduct the intricate affairs of large
estancias either for private owners or for public companies.
It is impossible, of course, to give in complete detail an analysis of
the British colony, and all that I have attempted has been to suggest
very roughly the classes that go to its composition. It will be seen
that it is first and last a purely commercial community. In no sense is
it a replica of society as one knows it in England. Every member of it
is there to make money, and by the extent to which he is succeeding does
he stand in the estimation of the community. It could not be otherwise.
It is true there are British schools with British instructors, British
churches—a pro-Cathedral among them—with clergymen, Nonconformist
pastors, and Irish priests, societies for literary discussion, British
clubs, charities, hospitals, missions to seamen, Salvation Army workers,
and amateur theatrical societies; but the fact remains that it is in the
very fibre of its being a business community, where commercial standing
takes precedence of most other considerations.
At the same time, I found ample evidence in the British colony of a
desire to approximate more nearly to the social observations of the
homeland, to look more closely at the credentials of newcomers before
taking them to its bosom. In the early days, Buenos Ayres was one of the
many dumping places for wastrels, and the colonial freedom which accepted
everybody at his face value produced an inevitable mixture of sorts, so
that not rarely did Britishers of dubious antecedents manage to secure
a wife among the daughters of some prosperous British resident. It is
well-known that the daughters of these families even still have great
difficulty in finding suitable husbands of their own class, and during
our stay I confess I saw sufficient of the British community to have
made me extremely careful, had I intended to settle in the town, in the
choice of my friends. There is in all this nothing that reflects upon
the worthier elements of the community; it is the inevitable outcome of
peculiar conditions, and rather than finding much to censure, one may
discover a great deal to commend in the life of these exiles. That it is
provincial to a degree is scarcely surprising, and that it is productive
of much genuine friendship, sympathy, mutual helpfulness, is due to the
generous British nature on which it is based.
Its class distinctions are being emphasised, and not before time. At
first blush one might be repelled by what seemed the pettiness of its
interests, the little corroding jealousies, its snobbishness, but the
last mentioned is at bottom a praiseworthy effort to raise the social
level beyond that obtaining with the indiscriminate mixing of good and
bad which characterised the earlier life of the community. The pettiness
is inescapable. A country town in England would probably provide no more
gossip and scandal than any British community several times its size in a
foreign land.
A nursery governess comes out to Buenos Ayres and stays at the
by-no-means-luxurious headquarters of the Y.W.C.A. until she finds a
job. She will probably be back there frequently in the periods between
her various posts, as she will have many changes before she is “suited.”
Eventually she will meet some decent, lonely Englishman, managing
an estancia a day or two’s journey away in the Camp. They will get
married, and make a brave show of it at the Y.W.C.A., and next day the
_Standard_ will publish a column describing the great event, with the
list of presents spaced out in single lines. Need one be surprised if
the nursery governess suddenly finds herself something of a snob? She
will immediately “put on airs,” and on her visits to the capital with
her husband she will ruffle it for a day or two in the smartest of new
dresses and the biggest of hats, just to advertise the agreeable fact
that they are “getting on.”
Marriage possibilities form the favourite gossip of the community, and
the _Standard_ even publishes copies of invitations that have been sent
out by the most ordinary members of the community, introducing them with
the words “The following wedding invitations are now in circulation.”
The most vital crisis in European affairs will receive less space than
the wedding of John Jones and Mary Smith. The favourite paper of the
community teems daily with the most trivial personalities, even the
social movements of a railway clerk not being deemed unworthy of record.
The lack of entertainment causes amateur theatricals to flourish, and
the English papers will “spread themselves” on a three or four column
criticism of the most ordinary amateurish production of, say, “The Count
of Luxembourg,” while there will not be lacking foolish people to assert
that the amateur production was in every respect finer than anything
that could be seen in the principal London theatres. There are two or
three of these dramatic societies with long rolls of membership, and the
performances are given in the regular theatres some half-a-dozen times
per annum, these functions being admirable occasions for the display of
new toilettes on the part of the ladies of the audience, and an airing
for the gentlemen’s swallow-tails.
I often thought it was evidence of the dearth of social entertainment
that British residents were always eager for an opportunity to dine at
any of the hotels, although they could have done as well, if not better,
in their own homes, so far as food was concerned. An invitation to
dinner at the hotel had evidently all the charm of an “event” for them.
Those who maintained a widish circle of friends would also occasionally
offer an “At Home” at the hotel most patronised by the English and the
Americans. In short, one felt from the straits to which they seemed to be
put for amusement and distraction, that there was a great social hunger
in the community; but on reflection I could see that even those evidences
of pettiness which somewhat grated on one fresh from the larger life of
London, were more apparent than real, and the British residents in Buenos
Ayres were solving fairly well the problem of existing as social beings
in an unfavourable environment. It was the little round of the most
ordinary social engagements, magnified into artificial importance, that
helped to make their exile pleasant. I can even imagine myself falling
into a condition out there that would make the report of the wedding of
two local nobodies quite interesting reading.
The various literary societies were also productive of some intellectual
intercourse, and although I attended none, thanks to the English dailies
I was able to read many papers delivered at their meetings, reprinted
at full length, which showed a fair average of literary attainment. On
the other hand, the most contemptible rubbish that I have seen in print
took the form of letters to the editor of the _Standard_ or the _Herald_,
which gave admittance to good and bad indiscriminately. Ignorant
diatribes against English politicians and home affairs from uneducated
residents, who rejoiced to sneer at their motherland, too often found
their way into type instead of into the waste basket, and could not but
exercise a bad influence on other ignorant members of the community.
Nay, it was among the British colony that I found more ignorance and
bigotry than I did amongst the natives, the Spaniards, the French, or the
Germans. Some of the sanest criticisms of the country to which I listened
were made by natives and Spaniards, and also by Italians. I found the
Britishers seldom had a well-balanced opinion to deliver: they were
either disgusted with everything and longing to be home, or delighted
with everything and never wishing to return. Out of many I can recall to
mind, I shall select two, both young men, and both typical asses, whom
I may describe as pro-Argentines, although neither was naturalised, and
both had only been about five years in the country.
The first I shall describe as Mr. Q——, a notorious bore, who must surely
have earned a wide reputation for his habit of monopolising the talk in
whatever company he finds himself. I first came into contact with him
after listening patiently to a long harangue, addressed chiefly to a
group of innocent ladies, on the amazing progress of the Argentine. Not
a single statement that he made had a remote connection with fact. I sat
by uncomplaining until he assured his admiring female group that Buenos
Ayres in the last thirty years had not only become the third largest
city in the world, but that in fifty years it would unquestionably
have exceeded London in the matter of population. This was too much. I
offered to bet the gentleman a thousand pesos to one that he was talking
nonsense, and that Buenos Ayres, apart from being already notoriously
disproportionate in population to the country as a whole, was not third,
but thirteenth of the world’s large cities, in proof of which I was
fortunately able to produce within ten minutes _Whitaker’s Almanac_
for 1912. I did not, however, receive my peso, as Mr. Q—— declined to
accept _Whitaker_ as an authority, stating his information was based on
statistics issued by the Argentine Government! Of course no such fool
statistics have ever been issued, the third city of the world (Paris)
containing twice the population of Buenos Ayres, though covering a much
smaller area.
I had many other encounters with the same gentleman, who, having acquired
some land which he was endeavouring to transfer to the public on the
most philanthropic basis (to himself), had turned himself into a walking
advertisement for the glorious Argentine, and never ceased to explain to
visitors how completely played out was Great Britain, how rapidly she
was sliding down the slippery slope to oblivion, while the Argentine was
forging ahead on the path to world-empire! Please do not imagine I am
exaggerating one tittle the declarations of this British driveller, who,
by the way, hadn’t acquired a single sentence of Spanish in five years!
He pictured Buenos Ayres as the future hub of the world’s civilisation,
this purely agricultural country of the Argentine (featureless and ill
adapted for any purpose other than the growing of luxurious crops and
the rearing of vast herds of cattle), as a teeming land of wondrous
industries, before which such things as England, America, France, and
Germany have achieved would have to pale their ineffectual fires. No
argument of sanity that could be advanced disturbed the calm serenity
with which this self-constituted trumpeter of the Argentine reiterated
stupidities that would have put the most perfervid patriot to the blush.
I have described Mr. Q—— at some little length, because, bore though he
is, he is typical of a certain class of Englishman whom one encounters
in the Argentine, and for whom Argentine and average Englishman alike
have a wholesome contempt. He is one of those aggressive, self-assertive
“Anglo-Argentines” who go home occasionally and blow about this new land
of promise, to the ultimate disillusionment of such as give ear.
The other Englishman I have in mind, who also typifies a certain class,
is less offensively anti-British than Mr. Q——, and his observations
being based upon a little knowledge and a large inexperience, he is
more amenable to reason than the Mr. Q’s, who are mere windbags, that
seek to cloak their lack of success at home by magnifying their changed
condition in the new land. Mr. F——, as I shall call the other, had a
little knack from time to time of dropping such sage remarks as, “Where
in the whole of London will you find such evidence of wealth as you do in
a walk along the Avenida Alvear?”—“Where in London will you see so many
beautiful dresses, such wealth in millinery, as at Palermo on a Sunday
afternoon?”—“Talk about the business of London, what is it in comparison
with the business of Buenos Ayres?”—“Were you not astounded at the
magnificent buildings when you came to Buenos Ayres, all so bright and
clean looking, after London?”—and so on _ad nauseam_.
We dubbed Mr. F—— “the silly ass observer.” For each of these examples of
his acumen in the art of comparative observation breathes of ignorance
and thoughtlessness. They are, indeed, almost too stupid to call for
notice, but as Mr. F—— was personally a pleasant and amiable young
Englishman, I was often at pains to explain matters to him, and always
found that at the root of his odious comparisons lay the simple fact
that he had lived in London with his eyes shut and his mind untouched
by the grandeur that surrounded him. How many hundreds of thousands of
young men are like Mr. F——! They look on the old familiar things of home
with unseeing eyes, and when, perchance, in some new land they begin to
take notice, they lack standards of comparison to guide them. When I
explained to poor Mr. F——, who was honestly overwhelmed by the glory that
is Buenos Ayres, that Threadneedle Street or Lombard Street in ye antique
city of London, though they look as nothing to the eye that cannot see
beyond their drab and smoky walls, might comfortably purchase the entire
Argentine and all that in it is, from the torrid north to the foggy
south, and have something over to be going on with; when I impressed him
with the undoubted fact that most of the wealth which he saw around him
had come into being thanks to British money, and that a very substantial
portion of the profits being derived from the exploitation of the country
went every year into London pockets, he began to see things in a new
light. To compare the Avenida Alvear with Park Lane, merely shows that
one has not observed Park Lane, or that he is not aware that the Avenida
Alvear and the few streets thereabout which represent the Mayfair,
Belgravia, and West End of London, are as an inch to an ell. Mr. F—— is
very representative of the “cable boy” standard of intelligence, but
in other respects a fine, clean English type, that one would value all
the more as an element in the British Colony were it given to a little
reflection before it aired its opinions on Argentine and the world in
general, of which its experience has been notably slight.
Hardly at all does the emigrant class enter into the British Colony.
British workpeople there are occasionally to be met throughout the
Argentine, but the country as a whole is ill adapted for them. Any person
who by word of mouth or writing spreads abroad the idea that artisans or
those of the labouring class of Great Britain will find the Argentine an
attractive field, may be doing a very mischievous thing. The conditions
of life in which the Italian emigrants, the Spaniards, Poles, Russians,
Syrians, and all the rest of them herd together in the cities or make
shift to exist in rough shanties in the Camp are impossible to even
the commonest class of English or Scots workpeople, if the language
difficulty did not exist to make matters still worse for them.
But many British workpeople are there under conditions very different
from those of the other emigrants. They are chiefly railway engineers,
employed as foremen or as expert workers in the great workshops of the
different railway companies, or as locomotive drivers. Their conditions
of life, although I fail to see wherein they are greatly superior to
those obtaining in their native land among their class, having regard to
the different purchasing value of the wages earned, are at least made
agreeable by association with fellow-workers of their own race, and the
possibility of saving more money than they would be likely to do at home.
For example, where a working man in England might be able to save £20
($100) per year, he can at least contrive to save the same relative
proportion from his wages in the Argentine, and as his wages will not
be less than double, and perhaps two and a half times what they would
have been in England, by the same ratio may his savings be increased.
These workmen have also security of employment, and, in fine, must not be
confounded with the emigrant class. They find grievances, none the less,
and even went on strike in the year 1911.
[Illustration: A MODERN “ESTANCIA” HOMESTEAD BUILT OF CONCRETE.]
Owing to the little communities in which they live being almost entirely
British, they do not assimilate with the natives, and few of them, even
after many years in the country, have picked up more than some odd words
of the language. A friend of mine, who was rather shaky in his Spanish,
was waylaid at a railway station in the interior and wished to have a
train stopped at a point along the line where there was no station, to
enable him to reach a certain _estancia_. He managed to explain this in
Spanish to the station-master, but the latter was unable to interpret it
to the engine-driver, who turned out to be English and did not know a
word of what he called “their blooming lingo!” These sturdy and skilled
artisans naturally do not count in the British Colony of Buenos Ayres,
and most of them live in the railway centres of the provinces, and come
only occasionally to the capital for a trip.
What must strike the British visitor in Buenos Ayres with a curious air
of home is the railway bookstall at Retiro, Once, or at Constitución.
The former looks as familiar as a London suburban bookstall, with all
sorts of English periodicals, from the _Strand Magazine_ to _Comic
Cuts_, bundles of “sixpenny” and “sevenpenny” novels, _The Times_, weekly
edition, _Lloyds’ News_, and many another familiar title, though the
prices charged are naturally two or three times those printed on the
periodicals. These are evidence of the large English community residing
in the various suburbs served from the stations named. The English
bookshops in the heart of the city are also well-known centres, being
entirely patronised by the “colony,” but the English grocers drive a
large business with the native population, and employ many assistants who
only speak Spanish. Still, British housewives have no need to acquire the
language, as they may transact all their business in their native tongue,
and it is no rare thing to meet a lady who in twenty years of Buenos
Ayres has not even got to know the Spanish names of the common objects of
the dinner table. In the provinces, however, most foreign lady residents
have to acquire at least a smattering of the native lingo.
A further element in the “colony” may be described as the floating
population of British visitors who make periodical journeys to the
Argentine in pursuit of business. The stay-at-home has no faint notion
of the extraordinary trafficking of his race in foreign parts. Veritable
battalions of commercial travellers representing British houses visit
the Argentine each year, staying from two to six months at a time, and
the hotels are always sheltering Englishmen who seem to have nothing to
do beyond taking their meals and playing billiards for weeks on end, but
who are really waiting the signing-up of contracts. One gentleman I knew
had put in nearly nine months of this strenuous work, and eventually
left in despair. The contract for which he had been waiting so long was
fixed up about three weeks afterwards, and went to a German firm whose
representative had perhaps been more patient in waiting, or more liberal
(or more discreet) in his bestowal of backsheesh.
Those visitors whose stays are short do not fare badly in the Argentine
capital, and as a rule retain rather pleasant memories of the place,
although not a few with whom I conversed really dreaded the necessity
of having to return, as they found time hang so heavily on their hands.
Then there comes occasionally one of the scribbling fraternity, who fixes
a little round of engagements, hurries to see the sights of the place,
and flits away again to entertain a public quite as well-informed as he
or she may be by the little that he or she has seen in the few days’
stay. I spent some time with an American correspondent, who did not
know a word either of French or Spanish, and yet had the fortitude to
contribute a series of articles to one of the local papers, giving his
valuable impressions of a country and a people into whose mind he was not
able even to peep. His articles, of course, were written in English and
translated into Spanish, and were published with great _fanfarronada_,
although his literary reputation was unknown even to me, whose business
it has been for many years to keep in touch with literary reputations on
both sides of the Atlantic.
The regulation course for the “globe-trotter” who flits through the
Argentine for a week or so, to write a book thereon, is to motor round
the various public buildings, interview a few of the official heads,
endeavouring, if possible, to have a talk with the President,—a
comparatively easy matter in all South American Republics, the President
being sort of _ex-officio_ Chief of Publicity,—engineer an invitation to
a model _estancia_ to stay overnight, and an interview with a reporter
from the _Standard_ to announce the gestation of the great work that will
later see the light in London or New York. The usual practice of the more
or less distinguished visitor is to deliver himself of the most fulsome
flattery of all that he has seen, and to lay on the butter with a trowel.
To this rule there are occasional exceptions, and I gather that the
Princess of Pless, who paid Buenos Ayres a visit in August of 1913, when
I was staying in Chili, was one of these exceptions. The Buenos Ayres
correspondent of _La Union_ of Santiago sent to his paper an amusing
little article on the Princess, which I think worthy of translating, as
it will make an acceptable tailpiece to this chapter. He wrote:
She has gone! A wandering star, seeking a constellation wherein
she may shine with due refulgence and without suffering eclipse
from other stars of greater brilliance. She had a glimpse of
the Argentine in her dreams as the ideal land of aristocracy by
having read in the “British Cyclopædia” (_sic_) that in this
country there are no titles of nobility other than those of the
wash-tub.
Yesterday she stated in one of her farewell confidences: “I go
away horribly disappointed! Not a sauvage (_sic_), not a tiger,
not a Paraguayan crocodile!”
What a useless voyage! To confront the dangers of three
thousand leagues of sea and twenty days of poor food and worse
sleep to come to see savages, when these can be found in
thousands within twenty-four hours of London! In this poor
America there remain no other savages than those Europeans
who exploit the miserable natives of Putumayo. The veritable
Indians of the tales of Fenimore Cooper and of Gustave Aimard,
the scalp hunters, the throat cutters, the mutilators of
children, are to be found in the very heart of Europe, in the
countries of “The Merry Widow.” There the Princess ought to
have gone a-hunting for those sanguinary curiosities and to
satisfy her appetite for exotics.
She came here nervously afraid of the prospect of being carried
off by Calufucurá, and even resisted the temptation to visit
the _estancia_ of Pereyra, fearing lest the Cacique Catriel
should force her to prepare the pipe of counsel surrounded by
his tribe, and she goes away disenchanted by not having seen
an Indian even in the distance, and disgusted at having had to
suffer the sugary gallantries of some of our dandies of the old
school, little fortunate in the conquest of princesses.
But, above all, what mortified her most and most precipitated
her departure, rendering her ill at ease during her stay in
Buenos Ayres, is the fact that she did not rank here in the
front file of beauty, nor shine above the rest in fashion,
nor find herself in any sort a protagonist. She was no more
than one among the mass of our women, and less than many of
our distinguished ladies. Thus she has gone as she came, after
having attempted to discover some labyrinthine forest never
visited by man, without encountering more than cultivated
soil and agricultural machines where she had hoped to see
Indians discharging their poisoned arrows and brandishing
their formidable tomahawks. And thus it is that she says in
her despite “America has lost all her virginities, even the
celebrated virginity of her forests!”
Yesterday the Princess embarked, and on seeing her aboard
the _Arayaguaya_, using her walking-stick like a crutch,
to disguise her mincing gait,—alone, with not even the
companionship of a “snob,” who might have attempted to win
her good-will, not even a lady of honour dazzled by her
noble title,—there came to our mind, though altered by the
circumstances, the lines of that farewell elegy on the remains
of Sir John Moore:
“Not a drum was heard, not a triumphal note—As she arrived
at the Dársena Norte—Not a soldier discharged his farwell
schot—When the steamer left the Argentine shore!”
The intrinsic merits of this little sketch and the charm of the
concluding effort in English, surely justify its reproduction! What on
earth the Princess of Pless may have said to lead to this display of
journalistic courtesy, I do not know, but I suspect that she must have
ventured some words of frank criticism, and that is precisely what the
common, untramelled Argentine does not want. He asks for butter, and he
wants it thick, and if you can add a layer of sugar,—for he has a sweet
tooth—so much the better. Most of the British Colony know this, and also
know on which side their bread is buttered. Thus the English visitor
who is indiscreet enough publicly to express a frank and honest opinion
of anything that does not meet with his approval in Buenos Ayres or the
Argentine, will scarcely expect to be grappled to its bosom by hooks of
steel. I am persuaded, however, that the better-class of native Argentine
opinion is quite capable of sustaining honest criticism and profiting
thereby.
CHAPTER XV
THE EMIGRANT IN LIGHT AND SHADE
There is a popular story in Buenos Ayres of a Spanish emigrant who had
just arrived with wife and children, and as the group was crossing the
Paseo de Julio, the wife espied a silver coin in the gutter. She called
to her husband to pick it up, but he disdainfully answered, “I have no
concern with mere silver money, when I have come here to gather gold!”
The story usually ends here, but I suspect the frugal wife of picking up
that coin herself and thereby making money more easily than her husband
would be like to do for some time to come. For certain it is that the
Argentine is no “land of gold,” such as our world has had to marvel at
in California, Australia, South Africa, and Alaska. No,—it is something
better than any merely auriferous land! So rich is its soil, it returns
to those who work it such wondrous increase of harvest that it is truly
an inexhaustible gold mine. But the first and final essential to the
winning of its gold is Labour. This, as we know, Italy has given to the
Argentine in abundant measure, and those who only know the Italian by
such specimens of his race as grind organs and sell ice-cream in England,
have no least, small notion of what a splendid fellow he is, his many
vices notwithstanding.
Before we take a look at the different classes of emigrants which the
Argentine attracts and their influence on the development of the
country, a word or two on the land system may be in place. The time will
come, I doubt not, when some revolutionary change will be forced upon the
country, as the land is too closely held by the landed aristocracy—the
multitudes of small lots sold by speculative dealers notwithstanding. In
this young country, with its Republican Government and its progressive
ideas, we encounter the anomaly of a mere handful of fabulously wealthy
proprietors owning the greatest part of a vast country—nearly eight
times larger than the British Isles. Meanwhile, these prodigious tracts
of territory being so tightly held by a few private owners, have the
effect of increasing the values of the negotiable land, of which there
is evidently still sufficient to meet the demands of the moment. Double
the population, however, and such a change will pass over the scene that
legislation to force the hands of private owners and loosen their grip on
the lion’s share of the Republic’s soil will be inevitable.
The system on which the land is worked is also charged with danger to
the social development of the community, and some day it, too, must give
place to a better adjustment as between the owner and the worker. I have
made frequent reference in previous chapters to the estancias, without
entering into any detail as to the working of these great agricultural
estates, which, curiously enough, are known by the Spanish word for a
dwelling-house or a sitting-room (_estancia_ in South America means
either a farm, a country house, or the whole area of landed property
under one ownership). Here, however, I must explain something of the
peculiar methods of working these estates.
The owner himself will cultivate at his own cost a certain portion with
alfalfa, wheat, maize, or linseed, as the case may be, and will maintain
immense herds of cattle, sheep, and horses, according as he specialises
in agriculture or in live-stock. But the estancias are usually much too
large for their owners to develop to their full extent, and thus have
grown up two methods of co-operation, neither of which has in it the
germ of permanency, both being based on one man’s need and another’s
opportunity. The one system is worked by the _medieros_, the other by
the _colonos_. The mediero is a man who has come out from Spain or
Italy with some tiny capital in his pocket that enables him to purchase
certain agricultural implements, seeds, and probably to knock up a
shanty of corrugated iron,—wood for building purposes being a highly
priced commodity. But he cannot afford to purchase agricultural land in
any locality where his crop would be of adequate value to him once he
had raised it, for wherever the land is within reachable distance of a
railway line, it is impossible to purchase it at anything like its actual
market value, the method of the Argentine land-seller being invariably to
demand the price which the land may be worth in ten or fifteen years. The
land-vender takes “long views,” he is big with the future, so confident
of it that he values his possessions of to-day at the dream prices of a
somewhat distant morrow. Now, the mediero cannot come to grips with such
as he, and cap in hand he approaches the estanciero, offering in return
for the right to work so many acres of his land, to “go halves” with him
in expenses and in profits—hence mediero, or “halver.”
The colono (colonist) is a genuine knight of the empty purse, with
nothing to offer save his labour and that of his wife and children; but
_that_ is a great thing, and he is received with open arms throughout the
length and breadth of the Argentine. The estanciero not only grants him
as many acres of land as he may be able to work with his wife and family,
but lends him cows for milk, horses for the plough, and through his
_almacén_ supplies to him on credit the necessary implements, seeds, and
food, as well as corrugated iron and planks of wood for the building of
his _rancho_. It should be explained that the almacén on every estancia
is an important institution, a sort of universal provider for the
hundreds of medieros and colonos who have taken up land on the estate,
selling to them all sorts of commodities at a substantial profit to the
estanciero. The “colonist” is now expected to labour incessantly on the
land allotted to him, so that he may repay to the almacén the pretty
heavy debt he has contracted there, while an agreed percentage of his
crops will go to the owner of the estate.
These medieros and colonos include all nationalities, but are chiefly
drawn from the Italian emigrants, the Spaniards being more commonly
tradesmen. Everything looks _couleur de rose_ to the poor toilers; they
set about their task with high hope, a new feeling of freedom, little
recking that they have tied themselves to a new serfdom by the bond
of that initial debt with which they start. The mediero has a better
chance than the colono of “turning the corner” soon, and it too often
happens that the latter, after two or three years of incessant labour,
has no more than cleared his feet, when comes a bad harvest, and he is
back where he was at the beginning. Withered are his roses, poor fellow.
Disgusted at the result, and hoping that a change to some other part of
the country may turn out for the better, he disposes of the few things he
owns, quits his “camp,” and shifts to some other quarter, perhaps only to
repeat this chapter of his history.
Meanwhile, it will be seen the estanciero has had another corner of
his estate brought into cultivation, its value considerably increased
thereby, and the poor Italians have spent their strength for a bare
subsistence. That many of them do succeed in earning some profit,
especially those of the mediero class, and starting in some other
business, is undeniable; but the roll of those who have turned over the
soil of the Argentine and brought it into bearing to the great benefit of
its owners, and their own non-success is, I am told, beyond reckoning.
This, then, I submit, is no system that can endure. It carries its own
seeds of decay. So long as the stream of immigration flows as steadily as
of recent years, the system will doubtless continue, but a time will come
when disappear it must, and some method of employment based on a fairer
distribution of profits, or on adequate wages, take its place.
Apart from the ethics of the Argentine land system, which are clearly
open to criticism, one can have nothing but praise for the manner in
which emigration is officially encouraged, and the way in which the
emigrants are handled on arrival at the River Plate. There is a fine
saying reported of President Sáenz Peña when he represented his country
at the Pan-American Congress in Washington on the occasion of the fourth
centenary of the discovery of America. In the course of a speech he was
making, some fervid Pan-American thought it a fit occasion to interject
the watchword, “America for the Americans”! Quick as a flash Dr. Sáenz
Peña retorted, “Yes, but Latin America for humanity!”
This certainly is the spirit that informs the policy of Argentine
immigration. A hearty welcome is given to people of all races, whose only
right of entry into this new land of promise is the possession of brawny
muscles and the will to work. Every week they are arriving in ship-loads,
and the manner in which these cargoes of humanity are received at the
docks in Buenos Ayres and speedily transhipped by rail to different parts
of the interior, according to the demand for _brazos_, is one of the most
businesslike things the visitor will have an opportunity of noting in the
public administration. Ship-load after ship-load of Italians, Spaniards,
Portuguese, and other nationalities arrives and melts away, absorbed into
the thirsty country like water into sandy soil.
[Illustration: A “RODEO,” OR ROUND-UP OF CATTLE IN THE ARGENTINE PAMPA.]
During our stay, a splendidly equipped hostel, or shelter, was opened
for the emigrants. Erected by the riverside close to the scene of their
disembarkation, this building is capable of sheltering a large number
of newcomers. Sleeping-rooms fitted with wire mattresses upon which
the emigrants may place their own bedding (always the most precious
of their personal possessions) are provided for the men, and similar
accommodation for the women and children. There is no excuse for any
of them to go unbathed, lavatories specially fitted with showers being
provided for those who care to use them (the superintendent told me it
was seldom that an emigrant ventured on such an experiment), while in the
great common dining-room they may take their meals in comparative comfort
and can secure eatables at a low rate. The accommodation, if I remember
correctly, is free, and the whole place is so admirably clean that it
must come with something like a shock to most of the emigrants who pass
through it, habituated as they have been, almost without exception, to
dirty ways of life in their native lands. Many of the emigrants never see
Buenos Ayres at all, as the trains that take them into the Camp pick them
up at a short distance from the vessels which have borne them oversea,
and at the very doors of the shelter where they may have passed the night
of arrival.
Laughter and tears mingle a good deal in the landing of these poor people
from the Old World. Huddled almost like cattle in the steerage of the
steamers, their condition at sea presents what seems an unbridgable
abyss between their lives and those of the saloon passengers. Day after
day I have watched them sitting aimlessly on deck in their dirty, faded
clothes, the effluvia from the mass of them, even tempered by the sea
breeze, suggesting conditions of horror when they “turned in” at night,
that might recall the Black Hole of Calcutta. The captain assured me it
was not so very bad, but I never had the stomach to prove it for myself.
Yet, on the morning of arrival at Buenos Ayres, what a transformation!
Girls who have seemed the dirtiest of sluts throughout the voyage step
down the gangway quite neatly attired. The married women, tricked out
with little bits of finery, the men mostly in suits of black, with sombre
soft hats, and every Spaniard armed with an ample umbrella, are difficult
to recognise as the slovenly creatures one has seen for weeks feeding out
of tins and using fingers, for lack of knives and forks. But even among
the emigrants there are many grades, and not all are able to make this
sudden transformation, many having no more than the soiled and shabby
garments in which they have made their voyage, a little handkerchief tied
at the corners being a pathetic index of their worldly gear. But even
from among these, there will be some that one day shall bridge that awful
gulf between the steerage and saloon, and make a voyage home as cabin
passengers to advertise the magic Argentine!
Hope is the prevailing note in the demeanour of every new batch of
fortune-seekers. It shines brightest, perhaps, in the eyes of the alert
and wiry little Italians; the Spaniards, also, step ashore with a firm
and confident tread, but mostly among the Poles, the Bulgars, and the
Russians do we see the dull look of something very like despair. In
discussing the character of the emigrants with M. Huret, Señor Alsina, a
former Director of the Emigration Service, remarked:
What surprises one most in the careful observation of these
people from the four extremes of Europe is the rapidity of
their transformation, Spaniards from Galicia, brutish and
wretched, sordid Jews from Russia, lift up their heads
(_levantan la cabeza_) at the end of a few months. I have seen
them arrive bent and downcast, with all the timidity of a dog
that has been badly treated, so dejected and timorous, indeed,
that I thought it necessary to engage some Russian students to
lecture them on the dignity of humanity in general, and the
conditions of liberty which they could enjoy in the Argentine.
A few months afterwards, seeing many of them again, I could
observe that they had so entirely changed that they had become
argumentative, noisy, and given to discussion.
The case of the Armenians is in this respect entirely typical.
Some eighteen years ago they arrived here for the first time.
Becoming pedlars, they travelled all over the Pampa, some with
“bundles” on their backs, others pushing before them their
wares. Little by little they made money, even growing rich.
Many of them went in for politics, and to-day occupy positions
of influence in the public life. Very active in business, they
are in a fair way to surpass the Italians in the retail trade.
Proud of their title as free citizens, they refuse to sell
their vote, which is the common practice among the populace,
and their prosperity is so real, so positive, that the Armenian
Colony is offering to the Argentine a monument which will cost
them 120,000 francs.
I am afraid that appearances are very much inclined to be deceptive in
studying the faces of emigrants. Surely there are none who can look more
dejected than the Armenians and the Poles, who closely resemble each
other in facial appearance, yet the money-making potentialities of these
sad-faced emigrants are relatively much higher than those of the merry,
little, guitar-strumming Italians and Spaniards.
On the arrival of every new contingent, there is always a considerable
group of friends awaiting the vessel, and fortunate are they who have
come out on the initiative of some relative that has gone before and
prepared the way. These emigrants of yesterday, who have already come to
grips with fortune and won the first bout, form one of the pleasantest
features of the disembarkations, as they stand on the quayside in
their “Sunday best,” with their watch chains, tie pins, finger rings,
and highly polished boots to announce to all the world that they are
“getting on.” This friendly co-operation is of immense service to the
Emigration Bureau, and is really a sounder sort of propaganda than the
familiar widecast publishing of alluring pictures of the riches of the
country and the ease with which fortunes may be made. The emigrant who
comes because a brother or a friend has already substantially changed
his condition, and will have the advice of that friend to help him in
securing employment, is at least on sure ground, and where labour is in
such demand he cannot well make a mistake, provided he is willing to work.
In this way have grown up the distinctive “colonies” throughout the
country, the majority of the Russians making direct for the neighbourhood
of Bahía Blanca, where their services as agricultural labourers and as
craftsmen are in high demand; the Turks and Syrians concentrating in a
district of Buenos Ayres, where they seem to engage in every variety
of occupation in which there is a minimum of creative work and the
possibility of profiting as middle-men by the labour of others. A great
many French find their way to Mendoza, the centre of the wine-growing,
in which business not a few have become masters of millions. The German
emigration is of more recent origin, and embraces, like the French, a
superior class of people, as well as supplying a modicum to the toiling
community. Although all the emigrants, save the Spanish, are at first
conditioned in their occupations and their localities by their ignorance
of the native language, so that they must needs go where they find their
fellow-countrymen and more or less follow the pursuits in which these are
engaged, they speedily pick up the language, and once acclimatised and
furnished with the means of universal intercourse, they begin to look
around, weigh up the possibilities of the country, and strike out their
independent courses. In this movement, the British have practically no
part whatever, and with the exceptions of the scanty Irish emigration of
past years and the Welsh colony settled, with very equivocal success, on
the River Chubut some twenty years ago, the annals of the British in the
Argentine present no parallel whatever to those of the other European
nations.
When we talk of Argentine emigration, we refer chiefly to the Italian
and the Spanish, though the Basque provinces of France and Spain have
probably supplied the very finest element of foreign blood in the
Argentine nation to-day. Italy is sending from eighty to a hundred
thousand of her sturdy sons to swell the Argentine population every
year. The newcomers from Italy each year number about 200,000, but in
these later years there has been a very considerable movement towards
repatriation among the Italians and also among the Spaniards, so that
there is an offset of at least 50 per cent. for re-emigration. The
Italian who does not determine to make his home in the Argentine is
quickly satisfied with a comparatively small amount of savings. Once he
has netted from $1000 to $2500, he considers himself a man of independent
means, and is apt to return to his native village with his tiny fortune,
which will enable him there to live far more comfortably than he has been
existing in the Argentine, and to enjoy a life of comparative leisure.
The call of the Homeland is always very strong to the Italian, and if
he acquires his little fortune quickly, before his family have become
thoroughly Argentine in character and sentiment, he will almost surely
go back. The hundreds of thousands of his race who are fixed and rooted
in the Republic are they who, either through superior fortune have come
to hold such a stake in the land, or from longer delay in “turning the
corner” and the influence of their children, have become habituated to
their new environment.
The quickest fortunes, the easiest gained wealth, assuredly do not come
to those who take up the life of the colono or the mediero, as above
described, for there are innumerable other ways in which money can be
made more readily, and those who engage in shopkeeping—always a superior
class to the tillers of the soil, as they require some little capital for
a start—as well as the many Spaniards who enter the already established
business houses, are in more immediate touch with money-making
possibilities than the _braceros_. It is always thus, that they who are
of least use in the economical development of the country should be most
speedily rewarded.
I heard of an Italian waiter, who arrived in Buenos Ayres some time
in November of 1911 and immediately went on to Mar del Plata, the
fashionable seaside resort, where he readily secured a situation in one
of the hotels. In one month he netted a thousand pesos in “tips,” and
with this vast sum ($420) he incontinently returned to his native country
in order to purchase a piece of land and set up as a small farmer! A
coachman, also an Italian, whose services I occasionally employed during
our stay in Buenos Ayres, informed me that he was making a clear profit
of 600 pesos (or $252) per month. The coach, a very handsome one, and the
horse, a splendid animal, were his own property, and so careful was he of
his coach that he did not care to bring it out on very sunny days, lest
the upholstery might fade, while he disliked driving on very wet days,
so that he suited his own convenience as to the hours and days of work!
Withal, he was speedily acquiring a competence. He assured me he drank
as good wine as he got at home, and if he did not eat so well, it was
because nobody did in the Argentine, owing to the difficulty of getting
good food at reasonable prices. He also had been a waiter, but evidently
had his eye on a higher mark than his compatriot who hastened back from
Mar del Plata with his first month’s gratuities.
I do not doubt that if one had gone about, notebook in hand, collecting
experiences from all sorts and conditions of people who had emigrated to
the country, no end of “human interest” stories could have been obtained.
Such as I came by, however, were the fruit of casual conversations, and
the absence of the British and North Americans from the emigration
movement was probably the reason why I did not study it in more than its
broadest aspects. To follow it here in detail would involve so much in
the way of comparative statistics, that I make no apology for touching
the subject in the most sketchy, but I hope not unsuggestive, manner.
I did receive, after leaving Buenos Ayres, some copies of the _Herald_
containing a long and interesting correspondence, originated by an
Englishman in Buenos Ayres, entitled “Is Argentina as Bright as it is
Painted?” Some excellent letters were written by Britishers while the
correspondence continued, and although the Mr. Q’s and Mr. F’s could not
allow the occasion to pass without casting a stone at the unworthy land
of their birth, the whole weight of opinion was in tune with what I have
written. If anything, most of the writers went further, and some even
piously called upon the Almighty to protect the wretched English workman
whose lot it was to live in such places as Bahía Blanca and Rosario.
Personally, I must confess that I have seen worse places to live in than
Rosario, and even considerably worse than Bahía Blanca. I have been in
Antofagasta!
But enough of the British in this connection, for they certainly do not
amount to anything of real consequence in the sum total of Argentine
immigration, the Americans to still less.[2] What is to be noticed,
however, is a very distinct forward movement among the Germans. The
German has come rather late in the day to discover the Britisher very
thoroughly established in all branches of commerce throughout the
Republic. But, undismayed, the German has set himself to the task of
undermining British supremacy, laying his plans to capture a large share
of future business. There is, of course, no comparison in sheer bulk
between the German and the Italian immigration, as the number of Germans
arriving in the Argentine in 1912 was only 4,337, (to which we might add
6,545 Austrians) against 165,662 Italians. But in the smaller Teutonic
group lay greater money-making possibilities than in the Latin horde.
These Germans represent all classes of the community; there are quite a
few titled Teutons engaged in business in Buenos Ayres to-day. They are
developing their banking connection throughout the Republic with great
energy; German manufacturers are establishing branches everywhere; German
clerks are flooding into all sorts of businesses, their superior working
qualities to the Spaniard, their readiness to accept the lowest wages
that will support an existence, and their ability to acquire speedily the
language of the country, being all sound reasons for the ready demand
for their services. The competition of these German clerks will soon
change the complexion of the office staffs of the railways, for they
are even supplanting the British employees, and, if the cold truth must
be told, they are really better employees. One seldom meets a German
who cannot at least contrive to make himself understood in English, and
who, although seldom speaking the Spanish language with grace or correct
pronunciation, will not in a few months be able to converse in it with a
fair degree of fluency.
In addition to those different classes of Teutonic invaders come the
hand-workers—engineers, carpenters, builders, agricultural labourers. In
considerable numbers these work people, who share the ability of their
compatriots in the acquiring of languages, are filtering all over the
Argentine and in certain districts of the southwest, especially around
the celebrated Lake Nahuel Huapi, some thirteen hundred miles distant
from the capital, there are entire settlements of German farmers, with
their native school-teachers and Protestant missionaries. In fine, the
Germanising of the Argentine has begun, and if it is still far from
attaining the dimensions it has already assumed in Chili, I do not doubt
that a day is coming when the German will have ousted the British, the
French, and the Italian from their present supremacy in their respective
fields, although never likely to compete with Britain or France in
the matter of invested capital. At the time of writing, it is evident
that there is a further movement to encourage German enterprise in the
Argentine. I read in the London _Times_ this morning that the Kaiser’s
brother, Prince Henry of Prussia, accompanied by his Princess and suite,
are sailing on an official visit to the Republic in one of the fine new
passenger steamers with which the Germans are successfully competing
against the British lines for South Atlantic trade.
It is not to be supposed, although I have emphasised the fact that the
Italian immigration is essentially a movement of unskilled labour,
that it is exclusively so. For the Argentine offers to the observer a
very remarkable lesson in the industrial progress of Italy, which may
entirely escape him in his travels in Italy itself. To encounter at every
step, as one does wherever one goes throughout the Argentine, the most
persistent evidences of Italian enterprise in every branch of commerce,
is to discover the Italian in an entirely new light. Most of us are
in the habit of going to Italy to look at old things, to revel in the
glories of her past, and are apt to come away from Rome, or Florence, or
Venice, and especially from Naples, with an impression of bygone grandeur
and lingering poverty. It is true that we must set against this the
evidence of her prosperity and modern activity, which we find in Milan
and in Turin; but, on the whole, our popular notion of Italy is that of a
country living mainly on its past.
The Italian in the Argentine will speedily dispel this. Not only does he
supply the strong arms that are tilling the soil of countless leagues,
but he maintains many of the great importing establishments in Buenos
Ayres and the principal towns. Italian engineering agencies and workshops
abound. A large proportion of the splendid motor cars that crowd the
streets of the capital hail from Italy. Some of the finest chemists’
establishments are Italian. Not only are Italian workmen vastly in the
majority on all building operations, but very often Italian brains are
directing the whole undertaking; Italian contractors are paving the
streets. In short, Italy stands forth in the life of the Argentine to-day
as a magnificent industrial and commercial force, supported by the
wide-spreading base of Italian emigrant labour.
There is also a very large traffic between the two countries in casual
labour, ship-loads of Italians coming out each year for the harvest
season—during which wages jump up from 40 to 50 pesos a month to 5 or 6
pesos a day—and return home immediately on its conclusion. The Italian
steamers (the fastest that ply between Europe and South America, some
of them doing the journey from Buenos Ayres to Genoa in twelve days,
whereas the average of the English mail steamer from the River Plate to
London or Liverpool takes nineteen to twenty-one days) provide special
facilities for the shipment of these labourers at a very low head rate.
To the remarkable return movement among Italian emigrants, on which I
have already touched, this large element of casual labour has contributed
not a little.
As regards the Spanish emigrant, I had many discussions with Spaniards
settled in the Argentine, from which I gained a good deal more
information than I had ever been able to acquire from any printed source.
One of these gentlemen in particular had studied the question in five
or six of the republics, and was engaged upon a book for circulation
among his countrymen at home, putting the matter in a new light. In his
estimation, the Argentine conditions represent an improvement for only
the lowest class of Spaniard. This class of Spaniard I remember being
very fully described in a leading article in _La Prensa_. His notions of
thrift were there illustrated by his habit, when in his native country,
of journeying about the countryside bare-footed, with his boots and
stockings hung around his neck. When he approaches a village, he pauses
by the roadside to put on his stockings and boots, and so shod traverses
the village; but as soon as he has emerged on the highway again, he
removes them and continues his journey with them around his neck once
more! Such a custom touches the zero of social comfort and those
habituated to it could scarcely fail to do better in almost any other
country in the world.
According to my Spanish friend, such of his countrymen immediately
become enthusiasts for the new land, and not only being able to go about
permanently with their boots and stockings, but perhaps to buy a white
collar for themselves and even a pair of silk stockings for their wives,
feel they have suddenly made a magical transition into the very lap of
luxury. But for the craftsmen, the village carpenter, the blacksmith, the
modest tradesmen, he assured me the change was not always for the better.
Spaniards of these classes can, thanks to the cheapness of commodities in
their native country, and despite the lowness of wages, secure infinitely
better household accommodation, and will eat better food, drink better
wine, and altogether live a less strenuous and more satisfactory
existence, than the majority, at least, will be doomed to maintain in the
Argentine. As to all this, I can speak with no exact knowledge, and I
do no more than report the opinion of a Spanish gentleman, confirmed to
me, I may add, by several others of his race who ought to have been in
positions to judge.
The gentleman in question was probably somewhat prejudiced, as he was
a patriotic Spaniard, fond of elaborating his theory that Spain to-day
had lost her head over the Argentine and was hastening her decay by
orienting her literature and her journalism towards the lucrative market
of South America instead of towards purely Spanish ideals. Looking to
South America as a land of employment for her children, as in the past
her kings had looked to it to fill their coffers, she was guilty of a
crowning folly. If the energy she is pouring into South America were
properly utilised at home, it would return far greater profit to the
nation and the individual. Such, at least, was his line of reasoning, and
I more than half suspect it was well based in fact.
And withal, from what I could gather, in the annals of Argentine
immigration, the most interesting chapter that might be written
would describe the activities and achievements of the Basques. This
splendid race of people who seem to unite the finest qualities of
the French and the Spanish, have distinguished themselves above all
others in the making of modern Argentine. The geographical position
of their homeland, enabling them to acquire, in addition to their own
most difficult language—which polyglot Borrow found his hardest nut
to crack—both French and Spanish, are peculiarly adapted for making
their way in Latin America. But apart from the language question, their
personal characteristics, in which industry joins with intelligence and
imagination, would inevitably carry them to success. They stand to South
American colonisation as the Scot to British Empire-making, and the
peculiar custom of their country, whereby the eldest son inherits all
the family goods and remains at home to maintain the family succession,
while the younger sons have to fare forth into the world to seek their
fortunes, marks them out for colonists.
[Illustration: FAMILIAR SCENES ON AN “ESTANCIA.”
In the upper picture, a “Bebedero,” or drinking-place for the cattle; in
the lower, a flock of sheep brought in for shearing. The windmill pumps
seen in both illustrations are the commonest objects of Argentine
landscape.]
My acquaintance with the Basques was limited to one family only—a
wonderful family; they are French Basques, and some fifteen or sixteen
brothers and cousins are united in a great business, which has important
warehouses and distributing centres in every large town along the
Atlantic and Pacific Coasts of South America, as well as in many of the
business centres of the interior. But for a typical story of the Basques,
I turn to the pages of M. Huret and translate what is one of the most
interesting little romances of Argentine emigration:
I wish to relate in some detail the story of one of these
French Basques (perhaps the most celebrated of them all), as I
heard it from one of his sons. I admire and sympathise with the
pride of this intelligent plebeian in a country where so many
people think of little more than how to make others believe
in the aristocracy of their blood, as if the most beautiful
and the noblest qualities of “aristocratic” blood did not
potentially exist in the blood of the people!
Pedro Luro was born in 1820 in the little town of Gamarthe, and
in 1837 he arrived at Buenos Ayres with a few francs in his
pocket. Entering as a labourer in a _saladero_ (beef salting
establishment), he contrived to save enough to contemplate
matrimony, but suffered the loss of his little savings by
robbery. He applied himself with new energy to work; purchasing
a horse and a tilt cart, he converted the latter into an
omnibus, and with himself as driver plied between the Plaza
Montserrat and the suburb of Barracas.
He then married a countrywoman, Señorita Pradere, a relative
of his own, and with one of her brothers founded an _almacén_
(general store) at Dolores, some three hundred kilometres
to the south. But soon this store did not suffice for his
activity, and leaving his wife and her brother in charge of
it, he scoured the Pampa for cattle, wool and hides. Later on,
he made a proposal to a neighbouring estanciero whom he saw
planting trees on his ground, and effected a contract with him,
the conditions of which are famous still in the Argentine.
Luro was to plant as many trees as he liked on two hundred
_hectáreas_ of land, which the estanciero was to place at his
disposal, and was to be paid for the work at the rate of four
centimes for each common tree and twenty-five for each fruit
tree of which the fruit contained stones.
Calling to his aid a number of his fellow Basques, at the end
of five years, Pedro Luro had planted so many trees on these
two hundred hectáreas that the proprietor owed him a sum not
only superior to the value of the ground planted, but of the
whole five thousand hectáreas composing his estancia (land was
sold at that time in this district at 5,000 francs per league).
The estanciero did not care to pay Luro, with the result that
the astute Basque started an action at law and converted
himself into the proprietor of the 5,000 hectáreas.
About the year 1840, the southern part of the province of
Buenos Ayres was still almost desert, the land of small value.
These were the times of the Rosas tyranny, and incessant
revolutions. All around the abandoned estancias dogs had
returned to a state of savagery, and cattle wandered free in
innumerable herds across these immense spaces. It happened that
Luro was assisting at a _batida_ (battue) of these animals,
rendered mad by being entangled in the lassos and pricked
with knives in the hocks. Pondering over the value of all
that flesh and fat wasted, for it was then the custom merely
to secure the skin of the animal and leave its body to decay,
the idea occurred to buy from the landowner all the animals of
the class that were thus to be hunted and killed, at the rate
of ten pesos of the old Argentine money, equivalent to little
more than one peso of the present currency. The proprietor
was highly amused at the suggestion. “I quite believe I will
accept,” he exclaimed, laughing, “but do you really think it
would be good business?”
It was with the only system of capture known to the _gauchos_,
that is to say the lasso and the _bolas_ (three balls attached
by long leather thongs, which, thrown with great dexterity
at the legs of an animal, entangle these and bring it to the
ground), necessitating months and an enormous number of men,
that he would be able to bring some thousands of cattle—and in
what sad state—to the salting factory.
All the same, Luro insisted with perfect coolness, and the
contract was signed.
Now the tactics conceived by the intelligent Basque were as
follow: He began by prohibiting the gauchos from scouring
the country in cavalcades. During three months, only two men
on horseback, going slowly, were allowed to wander about the
pasture ground of these wild cattle. Little by little the
animals became accustomed to the sight of them and did not fly
away when they approached. When some hundreds of cattle had
thus been domesticated, they were taken farther away, where
others were still in a wild state, and these in turn were
easily reduced to the tameness of the first.
In batches of five hundred to a thousand, Luro was soon able
to herd the cattle direct to the salting factories, where he
sold them at 15, 20, 25, even 30 francs each. At the end of a
year, he had thus secured no fewer than 35,000 head of cattle.
He had made himself rich, and the proprietor of the estancia
had received from him at one stroke 70,000 francs, which he had
never expected, remaining enchanted with his transaction.
In 1862, Pedro Luro went still further afield, beyond Bahía
Blanca, whose fort at that time constituted the frontier
against the Indians. He was delayed for some time on the banks
of the River Colorado, owing to the Indians having robbed him
of his horses. Meanwhile, exploring the valley of the river, he
quickly grasped the potentialities of the district. Returning
to Buenos Ayres, he secured an interview with General Mitre,
to whom he proposed to buy from the State 100 square leagues
of land (250,000 hectáreas) at the rate of 1,000 francs per
league, with a view to founding a colony of three hundred
Basques in that region.
His scheme apparently approved by the President, he then set
sail for Navarra Baja in Spain, where he recruited some fifty
families, with whom he returned to the Argentine. But the
Government, while agreeing to the sale of land, would not, for
some unknown reason, permit the founding of the colony, so the
Basques were spread over the land of their compatriot. Many of
them, or their descendants, are to-day millionaires, while the
land bought at the 1,000 francs the league is valued now at 200
francs the hectárea, or say 500,000 francs per league.
Meanwhile, Pedro Luro continued his active commerce in skins
and wool. Ere long he had constructed the largest curing
factory in all the basin of the River Plate, expending millions
of francs on it. Then he set himself to the exploitation of the
bathing station of Mar del Plata, which had been founded by
Señor Peralta Ramos, one of the most fortunate of speculations,
from which his heirs, continuing his work there, have benefited
immensely. At his death he left to his fourteen children
375,000 hectáreas of land, 300,000 sheep, and 150,000 cattle,
then valued at 40,000,000 francs.
Pedro Luro was a Frenchman who did honour to his country by
his exceptional qualities, his spirited initiative, valour,
endurance, and business intelligence. He took to the Argentine
more than 2,000 of his fellow Basques, whom he employed in his
many agricultural and industrial establishments, providing
them with cattle, letting land to them cheaply, lending them
money. Almost all of these have made their fortunes. With Luro
disappeared one of those types that are almost legendary, and
without doubt the most famous colonist of the epic period of
Argentine immigration.
Here, then, is as fascinating a story as we shall find in the annals
of colonisation, and so eminent in the life of the Argentine are the
descendants of Pedro Luro to-day that the story of their origin and
the achievements of their progenitor would form a splendid subject for
some native writer, were not the Argentine authors too busy imitating
European models to lend themselves to the simple narration of such
splendid life-histories as the making of the Argentine presents. For
the passage I have quoted from M. Huret is no more than the prelude to
a romance which is likely yet to see its final issue in the founding of
a great and prosperous town at the mouth of the River Colorado in the
Bay of San Blas, southward of Bahía Blanca. The Luros are the lords of
all the land in that region, and I recall the interest with which I read
a series of somewhat highly coloured articles by Mr. A. G. Hales, the
Anglo-Australian journalist, then attached to the staff of the Buenos
Ayres _Standard_, who, in the latter part of 1912, made a journey on
horseback through that district. He pictured the coming of a day when
ships would sail from the city of San Blas laden with wines for the
tables of European epicures, and no end of other wonders that would come
to pass in the valley of the River Colorado, which fifty years ago the
shrewd Pedro Luro had secured for his descendants at so small an outlay.
At the present moment, there is no railway within 150 miles of San Blas,
and I suppose there is no more than a paper plan of the future city,
lying somewhere in the estate office of the Luros, and no ships cast
anchor in its bay, but there was a time when Buenos Ayres itself, and not
so many years ago Bahía Blanca, meant no more to the world than a name on
a map, and who shall say what dreams may not come true?
CHAPTER XVI
LIFE IN THE “CAMP” AND THE PROVINCIAL TOWNS
To the European imagination, the Argentine _gaucho_ typifies the rural
life of the country. And a fine figure he cuts in his showy _poncho_ (a
shawl with a slit in the centre to thrust the head through), the graceful
folds of it, with fringed edges and embroidery, falling as low as his
top-boots with their jingling spurs. On his head he wears any variety of
soft felt hat, but never the “Panama hat” of popular imagination. He is
more inclined to cultivate a beard and fierce moustache than to shave,
and above his poncho, which covers a complete suit of “store” clothes,
he usually wears a black or white silk handkerchief tied loosely around
his neck. On horseback, an admirable figure, the poncho serves also as
partial covering for his steed, which he rides with unrivalled grace and
confidence.
He has a soul for music, too, this rough and somewhat villainous-looking
knight of the Pampa. The guitar is his favourite instrument, and he is
no gaucho who cannot strum a tune thereon, or improvise some lines of
verse, the old Spanish custom of singing a couplet to the accompaniment
of the guitar still retaining high favour in the Argentine Camp, to such
an extent, indeed, that a weekly paper, _La Pampa Argentina_, exists for
no other purpose than to collect and circulate the latest efforts of the
_coplistas_ and reprint famous couplets of the past. His sports, too, are
rendered picturesque by the part which his horse, almost inseparable
from himself, performs in them.
An agreeable sense of old-fashioned courtesy still clings to him, and
while I fear his morals will not bear too close an inspection, nor are
his habits of life quite as cleanly as domestic legislation has contrived
to make those of most European and North American people, the gaucho is
by no means unlikable, although I never felt quite so kindly towards
him in the flesh as I have done imaginatively through the pages of Mr.
Cunninghame-Graham and Mr. W. H. Hudson. For all his courtesies, his
nature retains much of the old Spanish cruelty. To see him bury his spurs
in the flanks of his horse with a vicious dig, and pull the animal up on
his haunches by throwing his whole weight backwards on the reins, that
are fixed to a long and brutal curb bit, is not a sight that makes you
long to go up and take him by the hand as a man and a brother.
His origin is the mixture of Spanish and Indian blood, in which it is
not improbable that some of the worser qualities of both races may have
been retained, along with a curious strain of sentimentality. That he
is a veritable devil of cruelty I cannot assert from anything I have
witnessed, but from much that I have read and heard from eye-witnesses,
he seems no person to quarrel with. “A merciful man is merciful to his
beast.” If this be any true test, then the gaucho is not a merciful
man. One of the most disgusting performances it has ever been my lot
to witness was one of a series widely advertised in Buenos Ayres, and
patronised by the Spaniards and natives with high approval. It took
place in the grounds of the Sports Club, near Palermo, and consisted
of exhibitions of gauchos breaking in supposedly wild and savage horses
(_potros_). As a matter of fact, the horses were poor, spiritless
creatures, that could be made to buck only by the riders gashing them
with their cruel spurs in the tenderest parts of their bodies. A more
degrading or beastly exhibition I have never seen, yet it amused the
Spanish-Argentine audience vastly. No, among the gauchos there is nothing
of the Arab’s traditional attachment to his horse. His horse is to him a
brute that has cost a few pesos and may be ridden to death with no great
loss. Here, however, it is not my intention to enlarge on this subject,
which I am reserving for more specific treatment in a later chapter, and
I shall merely record one instance of gaucho brutality, as described to
me by an Argentine lady.
It dates back some eight or ten years, when, together with her husband
and a party, she was on the way to a very remote settlement on the
Andine frontier, where her husband had taken over a large estancia. The
diligence was driven by a team of six or eight horses, and while going
along, a gaucho who accompanied the driver and assisted him in the “care”
of the animals, managed, by his skill in throwing the lasso, to capture a
wild mare, whom they surprised in the solitude of the pampa. More as an
exhibition of the driver’s power to control the animals than out of need,
this wild thing was harnessed up with the others and attached immediately
to the coach. It very soon became unmanageable, and presently in its
struggles fell down, the heavy coach rolling over it and breaking its
hind legs. Quick as a flash, the gaucho who had captured it, leapt to
the ground, and before any of the travellers realised what he was doing,
he was dangling in front of them the mare’s tongue, which he had cut out
by the roots with his long-bladed knife, the animal being still alive!
The husband of the lady who related to me this pleasant little episode of
native life, immediately shot the animal dead, and would willingly have
done the same to the man, but that his services were essential to their
journey. Mare’s tongue is considered among the gauchos a great delicacy,
and they are evidently not particular about waiting for the mare to be
done with it.
I have no wish whatever to blacken the character of the gaucho, nor yet
have I come to praise him, for I found myself but little in touch with
his class, and such as I met I shall hope were not the finest specimens.
Later, however, I did meet an old German who had lived among them for
some thirty years, and still had his home in a lonely corner of the
Andes. When I encountered him he was carrying what seemed an unusually
large revolver of an antique type, and I asked him if he could count up
how many people he had killed with it, living all those years where the
arm of the law can scarcely reach out. “Never once in my life have I had
to use it against a human being,” was his surprising reply, and with that
must disappear some of our boys’ book fictions of gaucho ferocity.
[Illustration: TEAMS OF OXEN PLOUGHING IN THE ARGENTINE PAMPA.]
The gaucho is to South America what the cowboy is to the North, and so
far as life in the larger towns is concerned, the one is as seldom seen
as the other, where streets are paved and electric trams are running.
If anything, I should suspect the gaucho of entertaining a greater
dislike for town life than does his counterpart of North America. He is
essentially a child of nature, delighting to be in the saddle, roaming
the plains, rounding up the cattle, living to the full his outdoor
life, eating enormous quantities of beef and mutton, sipping his _mate_
and strumming his guitar at eventide by the open door of his rudely
furnished rancho. It seems to me that his opportunities for scoundrelism
are somewhat limited by nature, and if there is no denying his cruelty,
that is no more than acknowledging his origin. He seldom owns property
of much importance, and there are not many families of gaucho origin
who have risen to wealth, although one full-blooded member of the race,
the ever notorious Rosas, who held the Argentine in an iron grip as
dictator from 1833 to 1852, has left his mark on its history. It is more
than likely that he is fated to disappear in the onward march of the
Republic. Nowhere has he the field to himself, as he had say thirty years
ago, for, as I have already pointed out, the Italian, the Russian, and
indeed the labourers of all nations, have spread throughout the country
to such extent that there is probably no estancia where the newcomers
do not outnumber the gauchos. Proud of his national origin, he does not
mix readily with them, and this self-isolation will surely have but one
result, although the time may still be distant for the passing of his
picturesque figure from the Argentine scene.
That there is a fascination about the life of the Camp, most of the
Britishers who engage in it are ever ready to bear witness. When you
meet a fellow-countryman who is sincerely in love with Argentine life,
he is almost invariably “from the Camp.” But this fascination is of
slow growth, and such occasional visits as the town dweller is able to
pay to the estancia of a friend in the interior go a very little way to
create in him a liking for the life. The estancias are very much alike
in construction, and vary only according to the resources of the owners.
They are usually plain structures of wood and iron, and only occasionally
do we find them built of bricks. Those that boast a second story are few,
though where the owner controls a large tract of territory and spends
much of his time in personal supervision, we occasionally find a more
ambitious effort in domestic architecture. There are no gentle valleys
surrounded by low hills, or shady woods, where attractive sites may be
secured. In this treeless land, the farmer has to make his own shade
by planting trees around his house, and usually his home is set within
a quadrangle of eucalyptus trees or California poplars. There are no
broad, white, firm highways reaching out into the country, along which
one may travel in comfort to distant estancias—nothing but mother earth
everywhere, and such rude and primitive tracks as the European mind would
more readily associate with neolithic man than with one of the richest
and most progressive agricultural countries of the modern world. The
European traveller who first sets eyes on a camp road in the rainy season
experiences a shock from which he does not readily recover.
Let me try to picture, not a mere byway to an estancia but a “main
travelled road” in the Camp, such as I have seen it after a few days of
rain. It may be twice as wide as the average American highway and is
far more like a muddy river-bed than a way for wheeled traffic. Here
and there, there may be as much as thirty or forty yards in which the
proportion of earth to water is greater, though it will be cut and scored
with wheeled tracks a foot or two in depth, the whole surface having the
consistency of a mud heap. Then will succeed another twenty or thirty
yards of yellow water, deep enough to drown a horse did it fall down, and
thus league upon league, alternating between patches of rutted mud and
rippling pools, the noble highway goes on its undeviating course through
the Camp.
Travel along one of these roads in any kind of wheeled vehicle is the
last word in discomfort. All the buggies used for passengers stand very
high on tall wheels, so that the axles may clear the inequalities of the
mud, and the wagons for conveying grain and goods to the railway stations
from forty to one hundred miles away, are fitted with great narrow
wheels, the better to cut through the doughy compound. The life of the
animals employed to pull these vehicles is one long agony of toil, horses
having to make their way at times through liquid earth half-way up their
girths. Teams of oxen I have witnessed so buried in the “road” that only
a small part of their backs was visible above the surface, while they
laboriously dragged their hoofs with a sucking noise from the thicker
compost in the unseen depths where they found a precarious foothold. The
reader can picture to himself the delights of winter travel along such
roads, and further he may imagine how nearly these highways approximate
to the conception of a road in our own land when they suddenly dry.
Their summer condition suggests a stream of lava that has cooled down,
except that the dust lies thick on it and rises in blinding clouds at
every puff of wind. Small wonder, then, that the estanciero who can
afford to live in town during the winter is never to be found at his
estancia, where, in truth, it would be difficult to find him were he
there, as most of these country houses during the winter months are
practically isolated, owing to the condition of the roads, and an
aeroplane suggests the only practical means of reaching them. None the
less, in the long rainless months it is easy enough, and certainly
invigorating, to move about the Camp on horseback, and even by motor-car,
as there are no tiresome restrictions about keeping to the road, and one
may ride or drive at will over long tracts of flat grassy land.
The smaller towns in these boundless prairies are all so much alike,
owing to the lack of individuality in the landscape, that any one is
representative of the whole country. Most of them are on the railway
lines, for the railways have made the towns spring into existence,
instead of the railways having been laid to serve the needs of townships.
The great majority of them have begun with nothing more than a railway
station and an almacén. The station master is thus a person of much
importance throughout the Argentine, the link that binds the estancias
within his district—and his district will probably stretch a matter of
fifty miles or so on both sides of the railway line—to civilisation, as
represented by Buenos Ayres and beyond. He receives letters, telegrams,
and goods for them, and their gauchos ride in to the station so many
times a week to take home the mail.
According as the settled population of the district offers to retail
tradesmen opportunities for trafficking to some profit, little one-story
buildings begin to spring up near the station, until in a year or two
some dozens of houses, with the most oddly assorted stores occupying
their front premises, will represent the thriving township, whose
possibilities are limited only by the imagination of the vender of
the real estate, and his powers of vision would put some of our most
imaginative novelists to shame. There will be a few rude cafés, a
butcher’s shop, which opens in early morning and again towards evening,
displaying a red flag to indicate that warm, freshly killed meat is on
sale, a baker’s that hangs out a white flag when there’s a supply of
bread for sale, a “general dealer” or two, sellers of “store clothes,”
and such craftsmen as joiners and boot repairers, leather workers and
the like—“the rude forefathers of the village.” The first _almacenero_
to establish himself will presently be ambitious of marking his progress
by converting his corrugated iron shanty into a brick building, and thus
the town progresses until ten or fifteen years later it has its municipal
authority and its _intendencia_ and begins to think of lighting its still
unpaved streets. Wherever one goes throughout the Argentine, there are
these germs of possible towns to be seen, all without the slightest touch
of beauty, but all speaking eloquently of the new life that is throbbing
in the veins of this vast country, to what great issues in the future we
can but guess.
In many of these towns where the population runs into a few thousands,
the cinematograph represents the sole centre of amusement, and it may
be taken as proof that public administration in the larger cities makes
for cleanliness of life when I mention that while the moving picture
exhibitions so numerous in all the larger towns are conducted in a way
that would have the warmest approval of Mrs. Grundy, in these smaller
country places it is the custom for the women and children to leave the
halls after the ordinary evening exhibition, while the men remain to
witness the most obscene films that can be secured from the filth-mongers
of Paris or Berlin.
There is probably in all such towns at least one church, but the
influence of the priest in the Argentine is slight, and the religious
life of the Camp communities exists at a low ebb. Still, I have noted
many evidences of a real co-operative spirit in the erection of churches,
the men lending a hand with their labour to rear a building likely
to serve the needs of the town for years to come, and often, indeed,
anticipating in its size and ambitious design a somewhat distant future.
Many churches will be seen, in a journey through the country, only
half-built, and constructed of rude clay bricks, which it is hoped some
day to cover over with cement, their window spaces filled with sheets of
tin, that some day may glow with coloured glass. In fine, it may be said
of the smaller towns of the Camp that none of them yet exists, but all
are in the making, and in judging them we must not be too critical, for
we are looking only on the first rough sketches, so to speak, and know
not what they may become.
When we come to the large provincial centres, such as Rosario, La Plata,
Mendoza, Córdoba, Tucumán, Santa Fé, and others of growing importance, we
find ourselves contemplating something that is not merely in the initial
stages of its existence, but has “arrived.” Between the forlorn little
_pueblecito_, or even towns of some note, such as Dolores in the province
of Buenos Ayres, or Mercedes in that of San Luís, and the important
cities I have just named, there is even a greater difference than between
the familiar commercial centres of the Northern continent and these
emporia of the South. Difficult though it is to be perfectly just in
comparing towns where one has been no more than a fleeting visitor, with
others in which, voluntarily or involuntarily, one may have had to live
for some time, I do venture to say that from what I saw of the provincial
cities, I can conceive myself at least as happy (if not more so) settled
in such a town as Rosario or La Plata, as in Buenos Ayres itself.
Although noted for their travelling propensities, which take so many
Argentines to Europe every year, the visitor will be surprised to find
how seldom he will meet a native who knows his own country at first
hand. It may be safely said that in Buenos Ayres one will meet as many
people of native birth who have visited Europe as have been to Rosario,
and most certainly far more who have made the overseas trip than have
faced the thousand miles railway journey to Tucumán. The Argentine does
not know his own country, and he is scarcely to be blamed. A certain
widely travelled native used to entertain me with descriptions of his
adventures in London and on the Continent, and would grow dithyrambic in
his praise of old England’s capital, where, in his opinion, the whole
municipal energy and the efforts of the electric railways, tramways,
omnibuses, and all branches of public catering, were devoted to making
the lot of the foreign visitor as easy and comfortable as possible.
Beyond being able to read our language in an elementary way, he had no
command of it, but, armed with one of the multitudinous maps of the
“Underground,” and following the arrows which so lavishly decorate the
station walls and the insides of the trains that burrow by devious paths
through London’s mighty molehill, he felt perfectly happy and never at a
loss how to make his way about. Patriot though he was, London and Paris
and the great cities of Europe had more to teach him than any of his own,
and knowing, as he did, each Argentine city is more or less a replica of
another, while the country possesses no scenes of natural beauty within
easy reach of the capital, he was content to take his educational trips
abroad and leave the seeing of his native land, if ever, to a later time,
when there might be better reward for the pains.
This is the attitude of the average Argentine, so that the Italian
labourer who has had to move about the country in quest of employment
comes to know the Republic better than its natural citizens, while the
European engineers, commercial travellers, and business men in general,
can tell the Argentine native a great deal more about his country
from personal observation than he himself is ever like to know. He
has heard so much about it, too, from foreign writers, and he is so
frequently treated to the dazzling products of the National Department
of Statistics, that he is given to take its wonders for granted and
leave it to others to perform the task of personal inspection. Myself,
I had planned to go as far afield as Tucumán, merely to have a glimpse
of the sugar cane and orange-growing district, so different in character
and climate from the agricultural regions of the Centre and the South,
but being assured by three different gentlemen who had their business
headquarters in that thriving city of the North that half a day would
be ample in which to exhaust its interests, while the journey thither
and back again would consume some four or five days, I decided to range
myself with the native, and take Tucumán for granted. But opportunity
serving, during my stay, to visit a number of provincial centres between
the River Plate and the Andes, I shall now set down a few recollections
of some of these visits.
A very acute American gentleman of my acquaintance, carrying on an
important export business with South America, disputed an assertion of
mine, based entirely on something that I had read years before, that the
city of La Plata in the province of Buenos Ayres was a more important
centre of population than Bahía Blanca, the rising southern port of the
province. He was perfectly satisfied that I was in error, and even went
so far as to doubt the very existence of such a city, suggesting that
I was confusing it with the fashionable holiday resort on the Atlantic
seaboard, Mar del Plata. That a town of fully 100,000 inhabitants could
exist anywhere near Buenos Ayres and on the very banks of the River
Plate seemed to him impossible, especially as he had just returned from
a business visit to the country. This I mention merely as a passing
illustration of the lack of knowledge among even the most intelligent
people as to the topography of the Argentine.
Not only was I confident of the existence of La Plata, concerning whose
famous museum I had frequently read, but it was one of the cities I
intended to give myself the pleasure of visiting. So, one fine day I hied
me hither, forty minutes from Plaza Constitucion. This is one of the
pleasantest little train journeys in the province, passing through some
of the oldest settled country, where woods and water combine to form many
a little landscape like the reproduction of some old-world scene.
La Plata is essentially a thing of the New World. It is not a town that
has grown. It has been made, or, more correctly, it has been nearly
made, and stopped short temporarily for lack of funds. It is the capital
city of the Province of Buenos Ayres, which in 1881, under the policy
of President Roca, became a distinct entity from the newly created
federal district of Buenos Ayres. The explanation of this in due detail
is matter for the historian, and involves the tracing of the growth of
the Republic, its evolution from the Confederation of the River Plate,
and the ultimate settling of political rivalry by the creation of Buenos
Ayres as the federal capital, in which struggle Córdoba had fought a
fierce fight against heavy geographical odds and against “the Fox” of
modern Argentine politics, General Roca. Córdoba still looks with
jealous eye on Buenos Ayres as a usurper city.
Before the 19th of November, 1882, the site of La Plata, twenty-four
miles southeast of Buenos Ayres, and inland some five miles from the
south shore of the River Plate, was a barren waste, but on that day
the corner stone of the new capital of the province was laid. The plan
adopted for the making of the city was sufficiently ambitious, following
that of Washington, with great diagonal avenues ninety-seven and a
half feet wide, streets of fifty-eight and a half feet in width, and
many spacious public squares. Ten million pounds went to the laying
out of this model provincial capital and the erection of its public
buildings. Its importance may be judged from the fact that the provincial
legislature having its seat here controls territory as large as the
British Isles, and a population to-day numbering upwards of two millions.
So quickly was the work of construction pushed forward, that in less
than three years from the date of its foundation, La Plata had already
a population of thirty thousand, and in addition to the splendid public
buildings which had sprung up on what so lately was a barren waste, there
were nearly 4,000 houses erected or in course of construction. For a time
the building went on merrily, and then the funds began to give out, so
that to-day we find the city at once an evidence of a great outburst of
energy and an earnest of what it may become when the provincial treasury
is again sufficiently well filled to permit of finishing much that has
lain for years incomplete.
The province having lost control of the port of Buenos Ayres by the
Federal Act, set about another great undertaking in which four million
pounds more were spent. This was the building of a port at Ensenada,
about five miles away on the River Plate, connecting that by means of a
canal and railroad with La Plata. Ensenada is now the port for several
lines of steamships engaged in the frozen meat traffic, and carrying many
thousands of passengers annually to and from the River Plate.
The railway station of La Plata is a very tasteful and commodious
building, which gives the visitor an agreeable first impression on
arrival, while the spacious streets, villainously paved though many
of them remain, offer a welcome sense of freedom and airiness to one
who has been cooped up for any length of time in the choking byways
of Buenos Ayres. There is none of that eddying and surging traffic of
the metropolis. The current of life flows with an old-world leisure;
everywhere there is a sense of “ampler air.” The public buildings are
numerous and imposing, the Government House, the Capitol, the Treasury,
the Law Courts, and all the other departments of the provincial
legislature being housed in handsome quarters, though naturally much that
looks as if it had been built forever is really found on inspection to be
in keeping with the universal “sham” of Argentine architecture. French
influence predominates, and while there is much in the city that recalls
a French provincial capital, there is nothing beyond its ground plan
and the width of its streets to liken it to the splendid capital of the
United States.
The houses in the residential part are chiefly of the familiar one-story
variety, with here and there a modification of a French Renaissance
building, austere, withdrawn, and always somewhat dusty. Grass sprouts
luxuriously between the cobbles in all the streets a little way from the
centre, and the great avenues that cut athwart the town in all directions
still lack many finishing touches in the way of pavement, while most
of the public squares speak of plans stopped short of completion. The
great public park, amply shaded with lofty eucalyptus trees and no
lack of shrubbery, though a worthy monument and an adornment to any
town, has still that unkempt appearance of a partly finished exhibition
ground. Some day, I do not doubt, it will receive its finishing touches,
and will probably be a nearer approach, as indeed it is at present,
to our notions of a public park than anything to be seen elsewhere in
the South American continent. The museum in the park presents a rather
scabby face of flaking cement, which goes ill with its severe Greek
modelling. Interiorly, it is admirably arranged, and noteworthy chiefly
for its wonderful collection of glyptodons, those giant armadillos of
the country’s prehistoric past. In no museum have I seen such splendid
specimens and so many have here found house room, that later on, when
the other provinces come to organise their local museums, it should be
possible to supply them all with specimens and still leave sufficient to
make a brave show at La Plata. Noteworthy also is the famous stucco cast
of the monstrous brontosaurus, taken from the original in New York Museum
of Natural History and presented by Mr. Andrew Carnegie.
La Plata is not ill supplied with hotels and restaurants, and contains
a number of well-designed churches, as well as two or three handsome
theatres, while its race-course is second in the Argentine only to that
of Buenos Ayres. Withal, a beautiful, and in many ways an attractive
city, where it would be no ill lot to pass one’s life, though I am
prepared to be told it is a hotbed of political bickerings; inevitable
that, in any centre of South American government. One drawback it has,
which would plague me sorely, I must confess. On the occasion of my first
visit, a beautiful calm day of winter sunshine changed in an instant,
on the rising of a sharp wind, to the greyness of a London fog, but ten
thousand times more abominable in character than any fog could ever
be, for the greyness came from dense clouds of finest dust, raised in
such abundance from the sand-laden streets that even the great public
buildings, one of which I was in the act of photographing, were suddenly
blotted from sight, and everybody out of doors was making a desperate
dash for shelter. I saw it again in rain, and once more in sunshine, and
I shall prefer to think of it in the last condition, and always to defend
it from those who will tell me it is not worth the forty minutes’ journey
from the capital.
[Illustration: MONTEVIDEO FROM THE SOUTH, SHOWING THE CERRO WITH ITS
FORT.]
[Illustration: SHIPPING IN THE ROADSTEAD AT MONTEVIDEO AND THE MACIEL
QUAY.]
Entirely different in character from La Plata is the busy, go-ahead,
self-reliant, commercial town of Rosario, on the right bank of the Paraná
River, some 160 miles northwest of Buenos Ayres. This splendid city is no
costly product of political ambitions, but the quick flowering of a great
trade centre, Rosario being the market-place of the vast and bountiful
provinces that lie between the Paraná and the Andes, and a river port of
great and growing activity. The province in which it is situated, that of
Santa Fé, still contains considerable less than a million inhabitants,
and of these about 150,000 live and work in Rosario, yet this great town,
the second in commercial importance in the entire Republic, is under the
political control of the city of Santa Fé, the capital of the province,
with a population of less than 40,000. These two cities, by the way, have
equal appropriations for public education! In a country where population
and commerce are the determining factors of importance, it can easily be
imagined how Rosarians chafe under the domination of the political groups
in sleepy Santa Fé. That is a state of things that cannot endure, and
some day the agitation, periodically renewed, for the shifting of the
seat of provincial government, will surely succeed, and give to Rosario
the political importance which the enterprise of its citizens and its
commercial prosperity demand.
It is one of the Argentine towns from which I have carried away the
pleasantest memories. I am not at all certain that its superior hotel
accommodation does not to some extent colour my recollections. Nor is
that a small matter, for had it been possible to secure in the capital
city so near an approach to European comfort as may be obtained in at
least two of the excellent and ably conducted hotels of Rosario, I fancy
I should have passed my long months in Buenos Ayres more agreeably.
As a provincial city, Rosario undoubtedly approximates more nearly
to our ideals than Buenos Ayres does as a capital. It is hardly less
cosmopolitan in character, and there is a large and agreeable sense of
commercial movement everywhere in its bright and ample thoroughfares.
Lacking in public buildings, for the reason stated, the city contains
many fine commercial edifices, while its shopping centres are wonderfully
well-furnished with world-wide products, one large establishment,
devoted to sanitary appliances, excelling anything I have ever seen in
the quantity and variety of its wares, having a huge show-room devoted
entirely to all sorts of porcelain and enamel baths.
All the principal banks have substantial-looking buildings, and the
residences of the merchants of the town are no unworthy competitors with
those of Buenos Ayres itself. There are several good theatres, where
the best foreign companies that come to Buenos Ayres invariably make an
appearance. The principal park, a favourite centre of social life, is
admirably laid out, and has its inevitable statue of Garibaldi, for the
Italians are here as plentiful as elsewhere, and wherever a colony of
Italians can get together sufficient money for a statue of their national
hero, there will he be seen in some heroic pose. M. Huret was reminded
of Bluebeard, in looking upon the Garibaldi of Rosario, and I confess
the somewhat ferocious aspect of the hero of Italian Independence as
portrayed in this particular statue, would fit not ill that ogre of our
childhood.
But what interested me most in my peregrinations around the city was the
wonderful dock accommodation. The building of its splendid port began in
1902, and I should judge that it is now complete, or as near completion
as will be necessary for some years to come, for the Rosarians, with a
fine sense of future development, determined, in providing a port for
the ever-growing traffic of the town, to base its accommodation upon the
estimated needs of the year 1932! By reason of this generous anticipation
of the future, the port, where at present a traffic valued at nearly
$120,000,000 per annum is handled, looks almost idle. The quays stretch
along the river front for some miles, dotted here and there with big
grain elevators, and railway trucks unloading their freight for shipment
into the steamers, which, though mustering a considerable fleet, seem
“few and far between,” the accommodation for them being so enormous.
The River Paraná is wide and easily navigable for sea-going vessels of
considerable tonnage at Rosario, and this, combined with the privileged
situation of the town in the centre of one of the richest agricultural
regions of the Republic, marks Rosario out for a future of the greatest
prosperity. Its history already is second to none as a modern romance
of commercial expansion, and the brisk business air that pervades the
community, exhaled by all its citizens, legitimately proud of its rapid
progress, render it a most attractive centre for the commercial man.
Here we find a considerable British Colony, for which in 1912 a local
English newspaper was started, and the town is also a favourite shipping
centre with the English estancieros of the closely settled agricultural
region to the north and west, to which five or six railway lines branch
out from the city.
The railway run between Rosario and Buenos Ayres is perhaps the most
comfortable of any in the Republic, and the Pullman service is
excellently maintained, the journey occupying from about eight or nine
o’clock in the morning until about half-past six in the evening. The
departure of the Rosario express from Retiro every day is usually a scene
of much male embracing and female kissing. Like most train journeys in
the Argentine, there is never a tunnel, scarcely a perceptible change in
the gradient, and only an occasional low bridge over some small stream to
be crossed. You skim along through endless fields of alfalfa, of maize,
of linseed, or through vast pasture lands dotted with innumerable herds
of cattle, which always reminded me of Meredith’s sonnet where he says
that Shakespeare’s laugh is
Broad as ten thousand beeves at pasture!
A trip to Córdoba, involving another day’s journey north and west
from Rosario, offers a more appreciable change of scene. Here we find
ourselves in a city that has caught but little of the new spirit of the
Argentine and rather prides itself on being the shrine of the ancient
spirit. For the first time, too, we can witness something resembling
scenery, as the country in the neighbourhood of Córdoba, tired of being
flat and uninteresting for so many hundred miles, begins to take on some
picturesque inequalities, and at no great distance beyond the antique
city, the Hills of Córdoba, wooded and picturesque, come gratefully to
the eye. The city itself is essentially Spanish, with its narrow streets
and old colonial houses, its numerous churches and black-gowned priests.
Less than any of the Argentine towns do we find here that cosmopolitan
mixture of humanity; here the old customs have fought a longer fight
against modern innovations. M. Huret mentions an amusing example of
this. He says: “No more than twelve years ago, it would not have been
decent for any Córdoba woman walking through the public streets to have
raised her skirt slightly; it was allowed to sweep the pavement with
its tail. Two fashionable young ladies who had returned from Paris were
the occasion of a scandal, by having ventured to show their ankles. But
they continued doing so, and ended by conquering public opinion, so that
to-day the ladies of the town are no longer afraid to raise their skirts
in the street, but even have come to the point of wearing short dresses!”
This is very characteristic of Córdoba, whose university (founded in 1605
by the Bishop of Tucumán, and sharing with that of Lima the distinction
of being the oldest in South America) has done so much to maintain
the spirit of times past, at the very threshold of the most insistent
modernity. Little though I admire the Roman Catholic Church as I find it
in South America, it seems to me that the Argentine is the better for
its Córdoba. It is good that in a young republic, where commerce and the
making of money have suddenly and inevitably become the great ambitions
of the populace, the spirit of veneration for the past, even to the point
of narrow-mindedness in social relationships, should somewhere survive as
a leaven to the lump. Intensely provincial, parochial indeed, the life
of Córdoba has still about it something of the aroma of a grey, old,
historic place, and may not that be as fine a possession as great docks
and grain elevators, and new-made banks stuffed with money?
Of Mendoza I shall have something to say in a later chapter, and of Bahía
Blanca I need only state that it is no more than a town in the making—the
raw materials of a great possibility, which in another decade may have
grown into something not unlike Rosario to-day. Its life is naturally
lacking in that rhythm I find in the great established emporium of the
Paraná, but on every hand the evidences of activity are so patent that
it requires no remarkable vision to see Bahía Blanca some day with a
population running into six figures, with finished streets and settled
conditions, where so much at present is in the travail of birth.
To sum up, the provincial life of the Republic reflects in high degree
the conditions of the capital from which all the commercial centres
take their cue. Buenos Ayres is the great exemplar, and it is only to
be expected that the newer towns springing into greatness should aim
at reproducing in themselves what they admire in the capital, avoiding
always the creation of such unduly narrow thoroughfares as Buenos Ayres
has inherited from the old colonial city. In the smaller towns, life is
attended with many hardships and calls for stern self-denial, for plain
living, if not for high thinking, and the impression of their inhabitants
which survives in my memories of those I visited is that of their sullen
determination to become rich, at no matter what inconvenience for the
present. So, everywhere one finds the people looking to the future rather
than endeavouring to “live along the way.” For hundreds of thousands,
the Future may have a full hand. For hundreds of thousands more, perhaps,
it is well the Future is veiled, that they may at least toil on in hope.
CHAPTER XVII
THE SPIRIT OF THE COUNTRY
There is a sense in which the spirit of a country must show itself in any
honest description of its life and character. The preceding chapters of
this book have dealt with so many and varied aspects of Argentine life
that the reader should have been able to take in from these something
at least of the spirit of the country: perhaps as much as can be made
manifest in any specialised treatment of the subject. Yet I feel the
attempt should be made to disengage from the tangle of ideas and
impressions created in the mind by close observation of the ways of a
people some orderly estimate of its “spirit.”
I remember very well on our taking the river steamer from Montevideo for
the night journey to Buenos Ayres, after transshipping from the ocean
liner, that an Anglo-South-American, who had been a fellow voyager, said
it would be amusing to watch the demeanour of the Argentines on board,
as we should be able to distinguish them from the general mass by their
swaggering walk, their bumptious manners, and sartorial affectations. And
that evening, while the passengers were thronging aboard, it did seem as
though he spoke truth, so many answered to his description; evidently
all of them Argentines returning to Buenos Ayres at the close of the
Montevidean season.
These fellows strutted about the saloon and paraded the deck of the
steamer with a splendid air of proprietorship, while the grossly
offensive manner of the stewards, who treated the passengers with a lofty
contempt, and a calm indifference to their wants, gave one an extremely
bad first impression of Argentine manners. Nevertheless this was no true
sample. The traveller who allows such evidences as these to prejudice
him against a whole people is hardly a trained observer. If a foreigner
were to judge the British people by many of the specimens I have myself
encountered abroad, he would draw an extremely unflattering picture of
them as a nation. Swagger there is and to spare, among the Argentines,
and boastfulness of their national progress is only to be expected in a
young people whose international experience is still far from complete,
but that these are essentials of the Argentine spirit, I would have no
one believe.
Truer would it be to say that the spirit of the Argentine—that intangible
something which permeates a whole people and marks them off from
others—can best be discovered in walking about the streets, mingling
with the throng, listening to the casual remarks of passers-by. You
will notice, not once or twice, but scores of times in any day—that
is, if you notice anything—the curious habit of men in conversation
rubbing together the forefinger and thumb of the right hand. This is
expressive of money. One of the curiosities of the Spanish language is
the extraordinary amount of gesture which usually goes with it; people
commonly, when referring to themselves, tap the breast to emphasise the
personal pronoun; when speaking of having seen something, they will
point to the eyes, or to the mouth, if they wish to convey some notion
either of speech or silence. In the same way, the Argentine seldom
mentions _plata_ (money) without this rubbing of the forefinger and
thumb, suggestive remotely; suppose, of the counting out of coins. He
who christened the Rio de la Plata made a happier hit than he could have
suspected, for plata lies close to the heart of every citizen of Buenos
Ayres, and you have never to listen many minutes to a casual conversation
in the street without hearing mention of it. “He has given so many pesos
per yard for the land.” “Fancy selling it for a thousand pesos and having
bought it only eighteen months ago at three hundred and fifty!” “He has
lots of money—_tiene mucha plata_.” “He is asking too much money.” “I
have offered so many pesos.” These, and such phrases, one overhears at
every turn, and might well suppose that the spirit of the country was
exclusively associated with the getting of money.
Still would that be a wrong conclusion, just as I believe it would be
unfair to the country as a whole to judge of it by the sham and shoddy
of Buenos Ayres and its great cities, or by the primitive and low social
conditions of the smaller towns. We must look elsewhere for that “spirit”
of which we are in search. The Jockey Club will not help us. No, it will
tend rather to confirm the impression of the peacocketing passengers on
board the river steamer. Congreso itself will help but little. There we
shall find the “grafter,” the place seeker, the dishonest politician,
just as eminently successful as in the United States, and who would
allow that the real spirit of the United States disengaged itself in
Congress or from the political groups at Washington?
Again, a friend of mine, having important business with the municipality
of a provincial town, had to call upon the _intendente_ with reference
to the signing of certain documents, which formality was only possible
after the mayor’s secretary had pocketed several hundred pounds of
backsheesh, and the mayor himself had named his price for his signature.
The intendente’s daughter, a young woman of seventeen years of age,
singularly handsome, happened to be in the room at the beginning of the
interview, and my friend may have looked upon her with some evidence of
admiration, for when she left her father remarked to him:
“Fine little girl, my Manuelita, eh? She’ll make good meat for the
beasts!”
On a later visit in connection with the same undertaking, the daughter
was not present, but the accommodating mayor blandly asked my friend if
he would care to see his little daughter, as he rather thought he admired
her,—a fatherly suggestion which was respectfully declined.
This is typical of many instances I can give (the drift of which needs
no indication), and still I do not wish to quote it or them as eminently
characteristic of the spirit of the country.
No more do I wish to maintain that the secretary of the said mayor, a
quite humble functionary with an official salary of $150 a month, who
lives at the rate of nearly $15,000 a year and is understood to be
growing wealthy (having a brother a judge, he can secure for any one a
favourable verdict for a definite fee, even to acquittal for murder!) is
a gentleman in whom the spirit of the country shines radiantly. Many such
as he there are growing rich by foulest methods of corruption, polluting
justice and public life by their every action, yet without losing the
esteem of their fellow citizens.
Rather would I instance the children’s fondness for balloons, which one
notices everywhere, as more in tune with the spirit of the country! Every
day at certain hours a man will be seen bustling down Calle Florida with
some hundreds of penny balloons inflated with gas, taking them to one
of the large drapery establishments, where each customer may receive
a balloon as a present. During the afternoon, mothers and nurses and
children innumerable will be seen about the streets with their balloons.
It is indeed _un país de niños_—a land of children! Yes, after reviewing
all the various manifestations of the national spirit, down to its love
of the morbid, its revelling in stories and scenes of crime, its lack of
humour, I am persuaded that most representative is this childishness.
Perhaps it is because the Argentines are children at heart that they are
so lacking in the sense of humour. Children are notoriously humourless,
though they may be the cause of infinite humour in others. The keen
relish of life’s lighter side comes with advancing years. So with young
nations. The Argentine is not old enough yet to have developed the sense
of humour; it is still seriously young. But with this youth it also has
that wonder sense which is the privilege of all youth, and just as the
sand-built castles of the children by the sea shore are to them more
wonderful than the Pyramids of Egypt, so are all things in his republic
to the Argentine.
[Illustration: GENERAL VIEW OF THE CITY OF MONTEVIDEO AND THE RIVER
PLATE.]
Most of the corruption which exists in public life is due to the
participation of foreigners therein; Italians chiefly. That will pass.
The nation is young and is gradually adjusting its perspective. The
boastfulness of the younger generation, so irritating to the visitor who
is prepared to admire all that is worthy of admiration in the Republic,
is another fault of youth. It too will pass. The young Argentine who
to-day talks of his country as a great empire of the future, dominating
not only the Western hemisphere, but influencing profoundly the whole
civilised world of the future, is still _bien jeune_. He will grow older,
and his vision of the wonders that may be shall grow dimmer.
Remains the fact that eminent among the public men of the Argentine are
many of supreme ability and integrity. Rather let us think of them than
of the baser sort. They are the true patriots, and they also once were
young. I have read many speeches and articles by such publicists as Dr.
Luís María Drago, Dr. E. S. Zeballos, Dr. Quesada, Dr. Ramos-Mexía,
and Dr. David Peña, (all doctors of law, the use of such degrees being
universal) to mention a few only of the scores of names that one might
muster, worthy to rank with the best expressions of modern statesmanship.
With these leaders, and such as these, the Argentine is not only assured
of material progress, but intellectually equipped for a future which
will see the abolition of innumerable abuses that darken its public life
to-day. The spirit of the country is the spirit of youth, and youth, as
we know, has its faults. But there is “no fool like an old fool,” and the
old nation that is wedded to its folly is of human institutions ever the
most hopeless.
Such follies as we can detect in abundance in the Argentine are either
the immediate follies of youth, or corrupting influences imported from
Europe. For my part, I am persuaded that the people as a whole constitute
a nation in earnest. With their heart set on progress, small wonder if
its material forms should first engage them, but there is no lack of
forces making for better things, and if at the moment too many of the
younger generation of Argentine writers seem to have fallen under the
spell of the French decadent school, that, too, will prove no more than
a passing phase. There is a far finer appreciation of literature, an
infinitely more important body of national literature, in the Argentine
than in Australia or in Canada. And there is a certain veneration for
old things and ancient culture, not usually consonant with the spirit
of youth. Even the United States have not yet entirely emerged from
that condition of youthful disrespect inseparable from great material
progress in a young country. In the Argentine one finds a very remarkable
degree of admiration for the fine old things of Spanish civilisation.
Spain was a harsh mother to her, yet she is remembered as the mother,
and her harshness as that of _la madre pátria_. Her glorious literature
has the profoundest admiration of the Argentine. Still, the Argentine is
never blind to the failings of Spain and the conditions of his national
life having tended to put a finer edge on his wits than those of the
Spaniard can boast, he is always ready to assert his independence. A good
instance of this is furnished by an anecdote of a well-known Buenos Ayres
_abogado_ who was present at a lecture by the eminent Spanish novelist,
Señor Blasco Ibáñez, when the latter declared, in alluding to the Spanish
colonisation of South America and the West Indies, that Spain, after
having given to the world sixteen children, was now exhausted. The acute
Argentine lawyer retorted:
“That may be so, but England has had more children than Spain; among them
the United States, India, and Australia; and after each new birth she has
gone forward acquiring new strength, and greater force.”
The Republic may thus be said to look towards the motherland for her
culture, but to the Anglo-Saxons for social ideals. She has probably
looked more than she has followed. She is essentially a child of Spain,
still young, but entirely independent of her mother, with much character
of her own and a willingness to emulate good examples. For “a land of
children,” these are surely conditions that will make for greatness when
it has grown up.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE LAND OF PAIN
Although by no means a nervous person or one so dotingly fond of animals
that he exaggerates every little evidence of ill treatment, I have ever
taken a keen interest in animal welfare, and what I have seen during
my stay of nearly two years in South America has led me to look upon
some of these Latin Republics as almost incredible hells of suffering
for the so-called “lower animals.” I am much tempted here to write a
general chapter on the subject, covering my observations not only in the
Argentine and in Uruguay, but in Chili, Bolivia, Peru, and elsewhere, for
it is remarkable to what an extraordinary extent the various republics
differ in the treatment of animals. The Chilians, for instance, are
moderately careful of their horses, incomparably the finest in South
America, while dogs are allowed to multiply like so much vermin, and
throughout the country hundreds may be seen short of a leg! The Indians,
on the other hand, and especially those of Bolivia, treat horses with
gentleness and seem on the friendliest of terms with their dogs, while
even the large troops of llamas, the burden bearers of the Bolivian
plateau, are handled with no evidence of brutality. In the Argentine,
however, horse and mule and dog are the subjects of such indiscriminate
cruelty that it will be sufficient if I confine myself to recording a few
of the instances seen by me and others that were matter of common report
during my stay. For of all the republics mentioned, the Argentine is most
deserving of the title wherewith I have headed this chapter, noticeable
improvement in the treatment of animals being evident in Uruguay.
It is difficult to explain why the mere crossing of a river should
produce a change in human character, yet I assert that the lot of man’s
friend, the horse, is far happier in Uruguay than in the Argentine. It
may be that the Uruguay horse is of better quality, better fed, and so
fitter for service, thus saving the driver from the need of thrashing it
soundly and incessantly every journey it makes. But I am not so sure of
this, for I have seen Argentine drivers maltreating fine, spirited horses
just as severely as the broken-kneed and spavined jades so commonly seen
between the shafts.
Or perhaps it is something of a local habit, originating, it may be, in
the inferior quality of the horseflesh. Conceivably, a driver who has
only found it possible to make his horse go by thrashing, becomes so
habituated to the act of thrashing, that every horse coming under his
hands will receive like treatment, merely from long practice and not from
necessity. Be the reasons what they may, the facts I deem it my duty to
set down are incontestable.
As a lover of dogs, I was particularly interested in watching their
treatment in Buenos Ayres, and I am not ashamed to confess that sights
which I saw there haunted me for days, and still remain indelibly
impressed on my memory. First, let me explain the admirable system of
the municipality for cleaning the city of all stray curs. A branch of
the sanitary department maintains several wagons which every day visit
different districts. Each wagon is attended by an employee in addition
to the driver,—an expert in the art of throwing the lasso, in which the
Argentine gaucho is unrivalled. So afraid are these brave fellows of
being bitten in the attempt to capture some poor diseased or dying dog
which ought to be destroyed, that they lasso them in the public streets,
and, thus secured, chuck them into the wagon. The dogs are then supposed
to be taken to a general depot to be put out of existence as painlessly,
we should hope, as possible.
Now this, on the face of it, is no bad scheme for ridding the city of
canine undesirables, and every humanitarian should applaud it, in so far
as it reduced the stray dogs, nearly all which are diseased, having for
that reason been turned adrift by heartless owners. But, unfortunately,
the able official with the lasso never thinks of capturing a stray dog,
or a dog it would be a kindness to kill. He has a far more profitable
game to play. His attention is devoted to lassoing the very best dogs he
can see, whose owners will then have to go to the depot and pay anything
from one to five dollars, according to the mood of the gentleman in
charge, to have their animals returned!
[Illustration: PLAZA INDEPENDENCIA, MONTEVIDEO.
The central building in the background is the Government House, or
official residence of the President.]
[Illustration: THE PLAZA LIBERTAD, OR CAGANCHA, MONTEVIDEO.]
The audacity of these official ruffians knows no limits. A lady of
our acquaintance was out driving with her little daughter in their
private carriage one afternoon and had allowed their pet Pomeranian to
take a little exercise by running on the sidewalk beside the carriage.
Suddenly the daughter heard the children in the street shouting that
the dog-catchers were coming—for it is to the credit of the youngsters
everywhere that they run ahead of the dog-catching van to warn people to
secure their dogs—and, stopping the carriage, she leapt to the pavement
to secure her pet, but in the very act of lifting it, the dog was lassoed
and torn from her grasp. No appeal to the policeman at the corner could
restore it to her, until that evening when her father could attend at the
depot and go through the usual formalities and part with the usual bribe.
This disgusting abuse of a most necessary sanitary measure leads Buenos
Ayres to be overrun with mangy curs, some of which, as I remember them,
were more like horrid creatures of a nightmare than “the companion
of man.” In particular I recall a large Borzoi, from which, owing to
starvation and disease, every single hair had departed. Its back was
arched like a bow pulled taut, and its legs, once so straight and
handsome, were bent and pithless. Yet this poor brute, an object of
pitiful horror, with its red-rimmed, mournful eyes, looking reproachfully
at the passers-by, was to be seen slinking about the crowded and
congested thoroughfares day after day. This creature, which was not an
old dog, and perhaps had been as handsome as those rendered popular in
England by Queen Alexandra’s affection for the breed, had probably been
lost to his original owners, and months of wandering and starving must
have elapsed to bring him into the appalling state in which I saw him.
Seldom was an eye of pity bent upon him; nay, I have seen boys kicking
him with the full approval of the policeman.
Another I recall, in much the same condition, had been at one time a
fashionable French poodle of the large black variety, but his skin, to
which only a few scraps of hair still adhered, was a mass of sores, his
ribs so prominent that they threatened to cut through, and the animal
altogether so exhausted that as he walked along the busy pavements of
Maipú, he had every now and again to sit down and lean against the wall.
Yet another, I noticed on a wet and bitter winter day. It was a little
silky spaniel, and my attention was attracted to him making efforts to
jump on the step at the door of a grocer’s shop. He fell back several
times in trying this, and then I noticed that one of his hind legs had
been cut off a little above the foot, and the same accident had evidently
sliced off a portion of his tail. He had thus a bad start for the jump,
but when I came nearer I found a bright little boy inside the shop door
who had evidently kicked the little dog each time it jumped up, and
presently it continued on its hopeless way along the Calle Viamonte.
The happiest dogs I saw in Buenos Ayres were those lying dead in the
gutter. Every day dogs are killed or maimed by the reckless motor cars,
as there is no room for them to run freely on the pavement, and still
less for them in the roadway. It is little short of a crime to allow a
dog to be at large in Buenos Ayres, yet so perverse is fate that such
creatures as I have just described, maimed and diseased, linger on
unkilled, while healthy animals, probably well cared for, meet swift fate
beneath some of the myriad motor wheels.
Withal I would not have you suppose the Argentine is essentially and
invariably cruel to his dog. It is the weakness of all Latin races
either to be too cruel or too kind. There are many dogs in Buenos
Ayres that suffer more from kindness than from cruelty, just as an
Argentine who takes a real interest in his horses will probably spoil
them by over-feeding and under-working. That well-balanced average
of good treatment which, on the whole, is more characteristic of the
Anglo-Saxons than of the Latins, is lacking. At bottom we find the old
innate carelessness and indifference of the race. On one occasion I went
to inspect a large number of dogs and puppies for sale in a well-known
mart in the Calle San Martín. Among a group of some ten or twelve
beautiful terrier puppies, was one in a very bad state of distemper.
The attendants of the place were either too ignorant of the fact, or so
utterly indifferent, that they were making not the slightest effort to
prevent the whole group from developing that highly contagious fever.
There must be, I think, a considerable amount of ignorance to add to the
carelessness, for I was informed by a native that his landlord had that
day sold for fifty pesos a valuable Great Dane because it was developing
rabies! The man was an Italian, and he scouted the suggestion that he had
done anything wrong in getting rid of the dog in that condition. That was
entirely a matter for the purchaser to find out.
In the matter of animal disease, it came with something of a shock to me
to see prize cattle at the Buenos Ayres Agricultural Show suffering from
foot and mouth disease, or _aftosa_, as it is known in the Argentine.
Shall I be believed when I state that prize bulls, so far gone with
the disease that they could scarcely crawl round the paddock, were sold
at auction for substantial sums? Yet when I got to know that it is the
custom in South America to nurse the animals affected by this fever back
to health, and that those sold in that condition were only disposed of
subject to their recovery, I began to wonder why in England they take
such stringent methods of elimination? It is a subject on which I possess
not a particle of expert knowledge, but surely it cannot be right in one
country ruthlessly to destroy every animal that shows signs of foot and
mouth disease, while in another it is possible to sell prize animals
while suffering from it. The explanation of this I must leave to my
bucolic friends.
Turning now to the question of the horse and his treatment, I have from
time to time in preceding chapters been forced to pass some strictures
on this subject, and to mention specific instances. Probably the most
remarkable and suggestive case reported in the press during my stay was
the following: A one-horse coach was passing along one of the narrow
streets to the south of the Avenida de Mayo—Peru, I think—when the
animal fell in the mud, and no efforts of the driver could get it to its
feet again. It was a bitter day of blinding rain, and while the poor
creature lay struggling in the slush, blocking the traffic of the narrow
thoroughfare, it gave birth to a foal. The newcomer was placed in the
coach, the mare eventually raised to her feet and harnessed once more
to the shafts, the driver taking his seat and thrashing her off to the
stables as though nothing unusual had happened! I wonder what the good
folk of the R.S.P.C.A. would have to say to that.
To describe one tithe of the cases of cruelty, either personally
witnessed or coming to my knowledge during my eight months in Buenos
Ayres, would occupy many pages of this book, and I shall limit myself
to one more in particular. It happened in the Calle Bartolomé Mitre,
one of the most congested thoroughfares in the city. It was again a
rainy day, when horses may be seen falling in every street, owing to the
absurd regulation which prohibits the use of heel pieces on their shoes
(perhaps—ye gods!—it is thought these might injure the roads). When I
came on the scene, this horse was lying in a helpless condition on the
asphalt with sand all around him. The sand had been brought so that he
might find a foothold in his struggles to rise, but the poor brute was
far beyond struggling. Everywhere that the harness had touched him he was
marked with raw flesh. Under his collar was a ring of raw flesh around
his neck; the saddle, which had fallen loose from him, disclosed great
patches of bleeding skin; the girths wherever they had touched him, left
bloody traces, and every movement the poor thing made peeled off the skin
where it touched the ground. A more loathsome spectacle of inhumanity I
have not seen. This horse should have been shot months before. His skin
was positively rotten, and in places green-moulded. Yet the little Indian
policeman from the corner was helping the driver to raise the animal to
its feet. This they were attempting by making a loop of the reins around
its neck, the policeman pulling on this with all his might, so that
by partially choking the horse it might be tempted to struggle to its
feet, while the driver stood and thrashed it with his whip in the most
unmerciful manner, every stroke breaking the skin. All to no purpose; it
was too lifeless to struggle, and lay with a mute appeal in its eyes to
be put out of its agony.
I personally protested to the policeman against his endeavouring to raise
the animal, which was clearly past all service, and he frankly told me
to mind my own business, as he was there to get the street cleared. A
young native, however, at this juncture, came along, and seeming the only
person other than myself who was in the least interested in the fate of
the horse, I explained to him what had taken place while I stood there,
and he, producing a card of membership of the Sarmiento Society, which is
endeavouring to sow humanitarianism in the stony soil of the Argentine
nature, insisted that no further effort should be made to raise the
horse by thrashing it or partially choking it, and that it ought to be
destroyed immediately. The policeman was disposed to listen to him, as,
thanks to this society, considerable sums of money have been distributed
among the police in accordance with the number of convictions they have
secured against persons ill-treating animals. When I passed the spot
some hours later, there was only the sand and some clots of blood to be
seen, and I know not what had become of the horse; but the picture of
it, bleeding and hopeless, haunted me for weeks, and remains vivid in my
mind’s eye still.
[Illustration: CATHEDRAL AND PLAZA MATRIZ, MONTEVIDEO.]
[Illustration: PLAZA INDEPENDENCIA AND AVENIDA 18 DE JULIO, MONTEVIDEO.]
I have no wish to harry the feelings of the reader, and I have
personally trained myself to a certain degree of fortitude in looking
upon suffering, for I am not at all sure that the Cæsars who invented and
maintained the Coliseum at Rome chiefly for the purpose of hardening the
populace by familiarising them with bloodshed, were not wise in their
generation. I have no patience with the maudlin sentimentalist or the
ultra-sympathetic person who melts into tears or prepares to faint at the
sight of blood. For such as they, a few months’ wanderings in the streets
of Buenos Ayres would be an admirable training; but for the ordinary man
of feeling, it is a purgatory of pain. Horses innumerable, with diseased,
swollen legs, broken skin, and bleeding fetlocks, are familiar objects of
the streets. To horses in good condition, life during the warmer months
in Buenos Ayres is bad enough, plagued as they are by the myriads of
flies and mosquitoes; but to the poor animals suffering from wounds, no
mind can imagine what their torture is, for these insect pests swarm ever
to the open wounds, and I have seen a horse almost mad with agony from
the clustering flies sucking the blood at an open sore on its body. Sleep
is impossible in the neighbourhood of a cab rank, as through the sultry
night the standing horses will be heard stamping their feet in the most
irritating manner on account of the plaguing insects.
Of course, much of this ill-treatment is due “to want of thought as well
as to want of heart,” and we must not be indiscriminate in denouncing the
Argentine. I have seen, for instance, two fine horses yoked together,
one of them in a state of semi-collapse from high fever, obvious even to
me that has no special knowledge of horseflesh, by its nostrils being
entirely stuffed with yellowish-green matter, while it tried to rest its
fevered head against its yoke-fellow. This, of course, was bad economy,
the one horse most certainly infecting the other, and almost certainly
both of them being doomed to early death. But at the back of it was crass
ignorance and carelessness, the two qualities so eminent in all service
throughout the Argentine.
I recall also a coachman thrashing two horses attached to a heavy wagon,
because they were going so slow. The man was losing his wits with rage
as he madly applied his whip to the poor brutes, who were struggling
and sweating to move the wagon, empty though it was, along the road. I
pointed out to him that he had omitted to undo the chains with which the
wheels were locked. He thereupon jumped down, still in a state of high
dudgeon, undid the chains, and got back again to his seat, and began the
lashing as freely as before, but certainly with better result.
“_La gente aqui ne se fija en nada_” (the people here don’t pay attention
to anything), a Spanish friend of mine was fond of saying. His experience
was precisely the same as my own. Instructions of the most explicit kind,
given for the discharge of some little task, were never by any possible
chance correctly carried out. The person addressed never seemed to take
any intelligent interest in what was being said to him. He nodded with a
confident _Si, señor_, to everything, and comprehended nothing. The sense
of care and attention had not been developed in him. This extraordinary
failing is not characteristic merely of the Argentine, but actually
exists in greater degree in other parts of South America. It explains
much of the apparent apathy to suffering, and the lack of care for the
domestic animals.
I remember we had been but a few days in our apartment at the hotel when,
looking out of a window one morning, I saw a woman in the side street
come to the door and throw a biggish black and white object into the
street. Presently a cart came along, and the horse knocked this object
on to the tram lines. Then came a tram and cut through it; then numerous
other horses and coaches passed over it. Taking my field glasses, I could
make out that it was a large cat, which had evidently died overnight and
was thus disposed of by its mistress. Within a few hours it had been so
pounded out of recognition that by the evening practically nothing of it
remained. This I afterwards found was quite a common method of disposing
of household pets when they had ceased to be, forced upon the people,
perhaps, by the simple fact that few of the dwelling houses have a back
yard, and none have an inch of front space.
Where such indifference to the welfare of men’s animal friends and
helpers exists, humanitarianism is necessarily a plant of slow growth.
That it has been planted, the Sarmiento Society serves to show, and
although nothing whatever can be hoped for from the Church, which is
supremely indifferent to the suffering of the animal world, there are
certain warmer human qualities in the Argentine people which in due
time will triumph over the present era of active brutality and apathy.
Horses are too cheap and food too dear for their lives to be a subject of
solicitude with the Argentines. If these economic conditions were to be
modified in some way, that might also help to a change of feeling.
Best of all would be the passing of some stringent laws, and their
enforcement. For when it has been possible to work such a revolution in
the treatment of animals as we have seen within the last ten years in
Naples, previously notorious for cruelty—a revolution due entirely to the
initiative of the Queen of Italy, who invited the English Society for
the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals to organise the movement there—as
much is possible of achievement in the Argentine. The English newspapers
of Buenos Ayres frequently stand forth as champions of animals’ rights,
and probably a sufficiently strong public opinion may yet be formed on
the subject to remove from the country the stigma which at present it
undoubtedly deserves in the title I have here applied to it.
CHAPTER XIX
TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW IN THE ARGENTINE
Although there is a great deal in South America to appeal to the sense of
the historic, to render the study of the past interesting and profitable,
in the Argentine the past does not greatly engage anybody. There is a
general concurrence with the Oscar Wilde dictum that the best thing about
the past is the fact that it is past. Here and there native scholars
devotedly tend the lamp of History, and from time to time remind the
populace of past events worthy of celebration, whereupon the populace,
nothing loath, celebrates, and every electric light in the country blazes
forth, though it might be difficult to obtain from the average citizen a
really intelligent appreciation of the event thus commemorated.
Speaking broadly, everybody in the Argentine is looking forward; few
indeed are they who pause to take a backward glance. To-day and to-morrow
are the things that matter; not yesterday, nor the day before. And to-day
matters less than to-morrow. I have already mentioned the propensity of
the landowners and venders of “lots” to discount the future in their
sales. This was confirmed to me by various gentlemen acting for large
English and French syndicates in land purchases in different parts of
the Republic. All were agreed that it was well-nigh impossible to find
a landowner prepared to talk business on the basis of current market
values. Yet I was told by those in whose judgment I have the fullest
confidence that agricultural land, enormously though it has increased
in value of late years, is not yet inflated beyond its intrinsic
possibilities. Certain lands examined with the greatest care by two
Australian experts were, they assured me, though offered much above their
present market value, obtainable at little more than half the price of
similar land in Australia. Hence they reasoned that, even allowing for
the likelihood of having to pay more than a legitimate price according
to actual conditions, the possibility of buying agricultural land in the
Argentine which would depreciate in value was very remote.
Mention of these Australian experts reminds me that a very interesting
movement was noticeable in 1912 and has probably increased in volume
since. Owing to the excessive and vindictive restrictions which the
Labour Government of Australia had imposed upon property holders, many
of the large Australian landowners and agriculturists were beginning in
1912 to look abroad for new fields where they might invest their capital.
The Argentine naturally attracted them, similar as it is in many ways to
Australia in soil and climate. The gentlemen above mentioned represented
between them a potentiality of some $20,000,000 of investment in
Argentine lands, and so favourably impressed were they with the splendid
possibilities of the soil that I do not doubt they will yet become—if
they have not already forwarded their negotiations—owners and developers
of large tracts of Argentine territory, the folly of the Australian
Labourists driving their millions of money forth from the land where
it was earned to fructify a foreign country, and incidentally to earn
greater increase for its owners.
It is not to be supposed, however, that everybody who engages in land
speculation in the Argentine makes money thereby. In all countries that
have passed through a period of “land boom” there will ever be a larger
proportion who lose than gain. Many English residents in Buenos Ayres
engage in a small way in land speculation as a “side line” or hobby, with
an eye to the possibility of adding to their incomes. But those with
whom I discussed this matter nearly always concluded by admitting that,
so far as they were concerned, the game was not worth the candle, as the
anxieties incident to the speculation, and the necessity of watching the
market day by day, constituted a serious interference with their ordinary
business, which in the end the profit hardly justified. At the same
time, one heard many stories of fortunes rapidly realised by successful
“deals,” that seemed to make all honest work for payment a futile farce.
Here is one of many instances.
A young English dentist—one of the most lucrative professions in the
Argentine, by the way—was doing very well in Buenos Ayres. He did not own
his premises, nor did he even rent them direct from the owner. He was no
more than a lodger, and possessed only the instruments and appliances of
his profession. But his services were in large request and well rewarded,
so he ventured upon matrimony, his sweetheart going out to be married to
him, as he was too busy to come home. The young wife took with her a
considerable quantity of furniture, including a fine dining-room suite,
the gift of her parents. A house was taken and furnished, and the dentist
still continued to carry on his work at the old address where he rented
rooms. Business continued excellent. Meanwhile, a friend had mentioned
to him that a certain plot of land was for sale in a part of the town
where values were bound to rise. The purchase of this required the total
savings of the dentist, but he bought it. Soon afterwards, an adjoining
plot came into the market, and this he wished also to acquire, but lacked
the capital. Here the young wife suggested that they should sell off
their furniture, for which they could secure a much higher price than it
had cost in England, give up their house, and go into lodgings. This was
done, a good profit being realised on the sale, and the new plot bought.
So, for a year or two the young man went on increasing his property as
he was able, from the profits of his profession. In the course of six
years, the land he had thus acquired had not only increased substantially
in value, but being let out for building purposes, provided him with an
income which enabled him to retire to a beautiful home and small estate
near London. This is no fairy tale of a land vender, but a brief record
of fact, the beginning of which does not date back more than fifteen
years.
[Illustration: THE “RAMBLA” OR PROMENADE AT POCITOS, MONTEVIDEO.]
[Illustration: BATHING-PLACE AT RAMÍREZ, MONTEVIDEO, SHOWING THE PARQUE
HOTEL IN BACKGROUND.]
The tales of fortunes made by the purchase of land in Buenos Ayres
during comparatively recent years, which one heard on all hands, were
bewildering in the dazzling possibilities they held out for “getting
rich quick.” I was shown properties that in ten or fifteen years had
not merely doubled in value, but had increased from five to tenfold. One
particular site I remember near Recoleta, which had been valued at about
$30,000, on the occasion of the owner’s death in 1907, was sold in 1912
for upwards of $200,000. The secretary of an important mortgage company,
that rigidly refrained from all speculation, mentioned to me several
instances in which his company had foreclosed and sold off properties to
recover its mortgages, where, had it bought the property at its auction
price, it would, in the course of a very few years, as events proved,
have earned upwards of 500 per cent. on the capital invested.
With all these alluring facts before me, and with every opportunity
to acquire Argentine land and wait for it to treble or quintuple its
value, I own not one square inch—not even an 8 per cent. or 10 per
cent. mortgage, which I was told was as easy to acquire as a 4½ per
cent. mortgage in England! But, acting on the most reliable “inside
information,” I did become the owner of a considerable number of
Argentine railway shares, and at the time of writing I have the pain of
seeing these being sold on the London Stock Exchange at 30 per cent. less
than I paid for them. This reminds me, by the way, that an old English
lady whom I met in Buenos Ayres, on a business visit to the city, had
brought with her some hundreds of pounds to invest in Argentine railways.
She was much surprised, and not a little disappointed, when I advised her
to take her money back to London, where the shares could be purchased to
better advantage. From bitter personal experience, I can state that on
all financial matters affecting English investments in South America, a
London stockbroker can give one better information than can be obtained
“on the spot.” The Stock Exchange of Buenos Ayres I found ridiculously
ignorant of possibilities in respect to shares of Argentine enterprises
whose registered offices are in London. Thus the investor in Argentine
public companies controlled from London can do a great deal better if he
lives in Hampstead than if he lived in Belgrano.
On the other hand, investment in mortgages and the purchase of land
can only be satisfactorily transacted by those who are resident in the
country or have secured a thoroughly reliable person to hold their power
of attorney. That fortunes are still to be made in land purchase, and
that splendid incomes are being derived from mortgages, are facts that
cannot be disputed, but the nonsense that gets into print in American and
English journals about lucrative investments to be secured by the simple
act of sending out your check and receiving in return fat half-yearly
dividends, is of the most reprehensible character. Some one sent to me
an English daily paper with an article entitled “A Safe Eight Per Cent.
Argentine Investment.” On the face of it, all looked in perfect order,
but on careful analysis, the 8 per cent. dwindled to 6 per cent., after
allowing for bank collection charges and the fluctuations of exchange,
and the investment was in nowise “gilt-edged.”
It may be possible to get from 8 per cent. to 10 per cent. on a mortgage
on agricultural land in the Argentine, but if the mortgagor is resident
in the United States or in England, by the time he has met a variety of
charges for the collection of said interest, the return beyond what would
have been obtainable from the same money invested in a home industrial
concern, is not likely to reach an extra 2 per cent. More, there are
all sorts of little difficulties and peculiar customs to be noted in
connection with Argentine mortgages. For instance, a mortgage that is
continued beyond eight years may become illegal, and repayment be a
matter for the discretion of the mortgagee! It is thus a common custom to
effect a mortgage for five years, with a clause providing that it may be
re-inscribed by the judge for a further period at the end of three years.
An important consideration is the provision that the mortgaged land shall
not be rented for a period longer than the duration of the mortgage.
And in every instance, no matter where the mortgagee may reside, or
even if his land be a thousand miles distant from the federal capital,
he should give an address in Buenos Ayres, as otherwise any question of
legal difficulty is intensified to the point of impossibility. I have
already hinted sufficiently at the difficulties of securing justice in
Argentine Courts, but the absentee mortgagor who becomes involved in any
legal question with a native, resident remote from the capital, and has
not provided for the right to sue that native in the federal capital,
may as well give up hope of securing satisfaction, no matter how patent
his rights may be. There are many other difficulties in the handling of
mortgages which arise to cloud over the bright prospect of investing
one’s capital in that way and so deriving a snug income to keep one in
comfort at home.
Nor is it all that fancy paints it to be owner of land in the Argentine.
Several persons of my acquaintance are in that supposedly enviable
position. In one case a lady is receiving upwards of $10,000 a year from
a piece of property, exactly the same as her sister ten or twelve years
ago sold for a sum that does not yield her $1000 per annum in a 5 per
cent. investment. This lady is one of the fortunate. A gentleman owning
a far larger property has had to spend as much as eighteen months of his
time at a stretch in the Argentine trying to let it to advantage, and
has suffered all sorts of losses from bad tenants. Yet the gentleman in
question is a well-known authority on Argentine land, and in his time
must have bought and sold property aggregating many millions of pesos.
He is now resident in England, and if anybody goes to him for advice
about investing money in Argentine land (except as a shareholder in a
land-investment company), he will pronounce an emphatic “Don’t.”
During my stay, there was every evidence of a coming “slump” and since I
left it has come with a vengeance. Old-established firms which hitherto
had enjoyed the highest reputation for stability have gone bankrupt in
dozens. This was entirely to be expected; was inevitable. I have already
given sufficient reasons to show why the country must from time to
time pass through financial crises; that of 1913-14 is no more than a
momentary pause in its onward progress. It has been largely influenced
by conditions of universal depression, for in the world of finance, even
more obviously than in that of humanity, “We are every one members one
of another,” in the Pauline phrase. The Argentine, whose development has
depended entirely upon European faith in its possibilities, whereby
colossal sums of European capital have been placed at its disposal, has
suffered from a sudden tightening of the European purse strings. It is
like a young, go-ahead business, which has gone ahead a trifle too fast
for its financial resources, and, unless it can raise some fresh capital,
is in imminent danger of bankruptcy. Thoroughly sound at bottom, nothing
can well stay the progress of the Argentine, and the millions of European
gold that have been poured into it have served to create new sources of
wealth, whose ultimate increase an hundredfold is as certain as most
things mundane.
Apart from natural risks, such as failure of crops from drought,
excessive rains, or locusts, destruction of cattle and sheep in millions
from protracted periods of heat, there is another danger to which the
Argentine is peculiarly exposed. That is the lack of a settled policy
in agriculture and cattle-raising. So many of the estancieros are still
experimentalists, that they are apt to show a certain affinity with their
sheep in following the mode of the moment rather than in maintaining an
individual and well-conceived working policy for their lands. From all
that I could gather, the country is essentially one for stock-raising.
In the early colonial days, so stupendous were the herds of wild cattle
roaming the plains, that settlers were permitted to possess themselves
of three thousand head—but not more! This will indicate how cattle may
multiply on these sunny plains.
It is doubtful if there is in all the world a similar territory so
admirably adapted for stock-raising, and on its live-stock its modern
prosperity has been based. But, not content with the profits derived from
this great business, estancieros during more recent years have turned
their attention to agriculture rather than to cattle-raising. The reason
for this entails but little searching. Provided huge crops of grain may
be secured from land which else were pasturage, the relative profits are
vastly greater. Hence it became the fashion to devote more attention to
agriculture and less to cattle. With what result? The most deplorable.
During 1912 and 1913, the public press was voicing the national alarm
at the tremendous decline in _ganadería_. In such wise was the supply
of cattle shrinking that large numbers of cows were being sent to the
meat chilling establishments (_frigoríficos_) to fulfil contracts. The
destined mothers of future herds were being slaughtered. The Argentine,
whose supplies of cattle ought to be without limit, was actually in 1913
importing live-stock from the neighbouring Republic of Chili, where the
cattle industry is comparatively in its infancy!
Here is a state of things that might well spell disaster. It is primarily
the result of the imitative habit in following a new craze, and the lack
of an established policy.
If alongside of this declining activity in stock-raising there were
an enormous countervailing increase in agriculture, there would be no
occasion for criticism. But owing to the uncertainty of the seasons,
agriculture must remain in the Argentine—at least until “dry farming” has
been perfected—a more speculative industry than cattle. Government has
recently taken measures to establish the North American dry farming,
and this may go some way to insure the agriculturist against seasonal
conditions which at present make him a highly nervous observer of the
barometer. Even so, and admitting that the agricultural possibilities of
the country to be enormous, its essential industry, that which nature
seems to have marked out for it, is cattle-raising. So, after some four
or five years of crop failures, and faced with a scarcity of animals,
estancieros are again feverishly turning their attention to live-stock.
The imminent danger is that in making haste to recover their pre-eminence
in cattle-raising, they may undo something of the progress they have
made in agriculture. And so they see-saw from policy to policy. This is
bad, and so long as it continues we shall see these periodic panics. A
more settled system is bound to emerge, more individualised, and based
upon a nicer appreciation of local conditions, for the climate differs
throughout the Argentine as widely as it does between the South of Spain
and Siberia.
The future prosperity of the country is not a matter of doubt to any
person who has travelled across its fertile plains, but all Argentine
prosperity, whether of to-day or to-morrow must rest upon agriculture
and cattle-raising, the latter, perhaps, bearing the greater proportion.
Here lies its limitation. He is no true friend of the Republic who paints
highly coloured pictures of a coming day when workshops in the great
cities will hum with myriad crafts, and industries flourish as we see
them now in the great industrial centres of the Old World and the United
States. The mechanical arts and sciences will be relegated to a very
humble position in the Argentine activities of the future, as they are
in its industrial life to-day. You cannot make bricks without straw, nor
can you work machinery without power. If the Andes were made of solid
coal, still would the progress of the Argentine be slow in the textile
and mechanical industries. It would cost more to carry the coal to the
Atlantic seaboard, where the industries must needs have their centres,
than it now does to bring coal thither from England to-day. But there is
no reason for supposing that the Andes contain coal in any considerable
quantities, while we do know that the only coal beds at present being
worked on the Chilian side with some degree of success produce coal of so
inferior a kind that it is only useful for mixing with imported coal.
Already I have had occasion to point out these limitations, and here I
do no more than reassert that in my opinion the future of the Argentine
is indissolubly bound up with the proper adjustment of its two great
national industries. Nature has intended it to rear cattle almost without
limit, and to produce grain for the teeming populations of Europe, and
it never pays to fight against nature. It may be that some day rich gold
deposits shall be discovered in still unexplored corners of the Andes,
where we know that copper, tin, and silver are to be found in abundance.
But in these things there is no permanence. For a generation or two, gold
discoveries might modify a country’s progress, and might eventually do a
great deal more harm than good, as it is to be feared the rich nitrate
fields, of Chili will yet do to the sister republic. The real gold is
the fruitful soil, and this is the Argentine’s ample dowry.
[Illustration: MAIN BUILDINGS OF MONTEVIDEO UNIVERSITY.]
[Illustration: THE SOLIS THEATRE, MONTEVIDEO.]
The future of a country, however, is not merely a question of commercial
possibilities. In treating of all new and essentially commercial
countries, the tendency is to forget that there are other factors to be
taken into consideration. The immediate past of the Argentine had very
little to do with commerce. Its history is little but a story of more or
less sanguinary squabbles between political parties, or the struggles of
individuals to secure a temporary ascendency over the mass. It is really
not an inspiring story, the political development of the Argentine, or
of any South American Republic. It has its great moments, but they are
few compared with the long unedifying periods of petty bickerings. All
that, the Argentine put behind it when it suddenly awakened to the fact
that if it behaved itself it could secure substantial loans of European
money wherewith to develop its resources and so enrich its citizens.
The revolutionary era is past, not entirely because the spirit that
informed it has disappeared, but because other considerations of personal
prosperity are now involved in any movement that would tend to discourage
the faith of foreign financiers in the country’s future. The energy which
found expression in the days of revolution has not ceased to exist, but
has suffered a change and, transformed, it is at work in the political
world of to-day, either for good or for evil. On the whole, I think for
good, if I have read the signs of the times correctly in my endeavour to
define “the spirit of the country.”
Only the youthful jingos foresee for the Argentine an imperial era, with
the country lording it over heaven knows what other countries of old
Earth. The sane and stable mind of the nation is set upon the development
of sound nationalism, the welding of the whole cosmopolitan population
into a composite people. Such dangers as beset it are very similar
in kind and degree to those that vex European politics—international
jealousies. Brazil and Argentina do not understand each other any
better than Britain and Germany; and probably less. When in April
1912, ex-President Roca went as Argentine Ambassador to Brazil, and
ex-President Campos Salles as Brazilian Ambassador to the Argentine,
there seemed to be a wiping out of old jealousies, but these will only
completely disappear with increase of intercourse between the two
republics, and conditions are not markedly favourable to that, as a
curious feature of the political life of these Latin-American peoples is
that all maintain a more direct intercourse with the Old World than with
one another.
Although the Argentines under San Martín helped the Chilians to throw off
the Spanish yoke, there lingers something of old rivalry and distrust
between the two nations, notwithstanding such diplomatic courtesies as
each government presenting the other with a fine house for its embassy in
their respective capitals. Peru and Chili, too, while making much parade
of cordial relationships, are still existing in a state of veiled enmity.
In fine, South American politics are just as full of international
jealousies and complications as those of Europe, and the Argentine, as
the most progressive of these powers, must depend upon her strength and
preparedness for the maintenance of her position among them. The Christ
of the Andes, that giant statue on the Cordillera frontier of the two
republics, is a pious expression of the hope that Chili and the Argentine
may never go to war again, but we know that these pious expressions
are no more binding than inconvenient treaties. Hence the question of
armaments is an important one with most of the republics—with Chili
probably most of all, but only in a lesser degree at present with the
Argentine.
There is another reason for this, and one which in Europe is little
understood. The North American menace. While the Monroe doctrine is
not entirely despised among the Latin Republics, the Drago doctrine,
formulated by the great jurisconsult of Buenos Ayres, which asserts
the independence of their nationalities and maintains the principle
that no power by force of arms may impose itself upon any of them,
is much more acceptable to Latin America. The Republic of the United
States, comparatively little known, and exercising very small influence
throughout South America, is looked upon with increasing suspicion. The
making of the Panama Canal, instead of appealing to South Americans as a
great new factor in their economic lives, is viewed in many quarters as
the first step towards attacking their existence as independent nations.
The United States are suspected of an aggressive policy towards the
South, and with such diplomatists as Mr. Theodore Roosevelt publicly
stating at Rio that the United States, in alliance with Brazil, could
dominate the whole western hemisphere, the road to a better understanding
is not made unnecessarily smooth.
The great protagonist of the “anti-Yankee” movement, which is steadily
gaining ground throughout all the republics, is a Buenos Ayres gentleman
of some local celebrity as a litterateur, Dr. Manuel Ugarte. He has
stumped the whole of South America, and everywhere he has been received
with open arms. As a prophet, he warns the nations of the danger that
threatens in the North; he sees in the Panama Canal an instrument
deliberately prepared by the United States, not so much for her own
commercial expansion, but the better to impose _yanqui_ authority on
the Southern Continent. He has no difficulty in making out an excellent
case, as he need do no more than quote from some of the ravings of those
American senators who publicly talk of “one flag from Pole to Pole and
from Ocean to Ocean.” A South American politician may be excused if he
does not readily discriminate between such insensate bombast and the
saner United States opinion which realises very well the impossibility
of bringing the mighty Southern Continent into the Union, and knows what
a handful the little Philippine Islands have proved. The excuse for
such agitators as Dr. Ugarte is the greater so long as Mr. Roosevelt is
allowed at large to make speeches wherein he can undo in five minutes the
work of years of diplomacy.
The distrust of North America is a very real thing throughout these
republics, and when in the autumn of 1913 Mr. Robert Bacon, formerly
American Ambassador to Paris, was engaged at considerable expense by Mr.
Andrew Carnegie and sent to deliver lectures in all the South American
capitals on behalf of “Universal Peace,” his mission was looked upon
in most quarters with suspicion. True, he was received with much pomp
and circumstance, and treated with great display of cordiality, but a
metaphorical finger was laid to the national nose at his departure, and
the national eye winked knowingly. As one gentleman rather cogently
observed to me, when the said Mr. Bacon was present as the evangel of
peace in Lima, “Why doesn’t he pack off with his lectures to Mexico
just now? That’s where he might be of some service, as we’re all quite
peaceful down here.” It is quite useless to endeavour to convince a South
American that the United States have not as deliberately engineered the
revolution in Mexico as they are supposed to have done that quaint little
affair in Panama.
This of the future is certain—that the surest way to produce an alliance
of all the South American powers, in which their national differences
would for the time vanish and the whole join together as one great
nation, would be for the United States to pursue a policy of aggression
in respect to any single one of them. To an extent little appreciated
either in North America or in Europe, these South American republics have
each their racial distinctions, and in all there is an intense feeling
of nationality, which, rather than diminishing, is steadily growing,
and is the object of the most assiduous cultivation on the part of the
leaders of the people. But the Drago doctrine is vital to their national
destinies and the very reasons that make them district entities would
unite them as a whole to confront a common enemy.
In the development of South America, the Argentine has an important rôle
to play, and as that country has been the pioneer in putting a stop
to the old foolish era of revolutions and internecine strife, turning
towards Europe not only for ideals of political advancement, but for
that material help which at once places the country under an obligation
and calls forth its own best energy, and is the best pledge of peaceful
intentions, it is safe to assume that, despite such temporary set-backs
as the commercial crisis through which it is passing as these lines are
being penned, the Argentine will maintain undismayed her political and
commercial expansion to splendid issue.
CHAPTER XX
OUR SUMMER IN MONTEVIDEO
No matter how little we may love a place, we shall surely feel some
sentiment of regret at leaving. If I had been told after my first few
weeks in Buenos Ayres that I might come to entertain a kindly feeling
towards that stony-hearted city, I doubt not that I should have scouted
the suggestion. And yet when it came to saying good-bye to the friends
we had made, taking a farewell look at the scenes amidst which for
eight months it had been our lot to live, and setting our faces towards
another town, a different country, and new conditions of life, Buenos
Ayres did appear almost friendly. The long, low line of flickering lights
stretching for many miles by the riverside, and inland a myriad others
picking out the topography of the great city, seemed more picturesque
than I had hitherto thought, as we looked upon them that sultry December
night when we steamed away from the Dársena Sud on our night journey to
Montevideo.
During our stay in the Argentine, I had had occasion to make various
journeys to and from Montevideo, nor was this to be our last sight of
Buenos Ayres; yet the occasion was different from all others in so far
as it betokened the completion of one stage of our life in South America
and the beginning of another, to which we had long looked forward with
the pleasantest anticipation, for Montevideo had left on us both a very
favourable first impression when we spent a day there on our outward
journey.
The dreaded summer heat, which makes life a burden in Buenos Ayres from
the Christmas season until the end of March, was just beginning, but good
fortune had decreed that we should spend our first South American summer
in the airier city of Montevideo. It is surprising how greatly the towns
with only some 125 miles of river between them may differ, not only in
climatic conditions, but in general character. The peculiar position of
Montevideo has given to the place its benigner climate, for it is in the
same zone as Buenos Ayres, and the visitor might expect little difference
in the climatic conditions of the two cities. Lying on the north bank of
the River Plate estuary, at a point where it is difficult to tell, except
by the tinge of the water, whether it is river or ocean that laves its
shores, the older part of the town is built upon a little tongue of land
that thrusts itself into the water, forming westward a very beautiful
bay, with a picturesque cone-shaped hill at the western extremity, while
seaward a smaller bay indents the rocky coast, and on another tongue of
land the more modern suburbs of Ramírez and Pocitos have been built. The
old town is thus a little peninsula, and in many of its streets one may
look east and west to water. Hence there is hardly a day of the year when
refreshing sea breezes do not send their draughts of ozone through the
streets. The modern city has far outgrown its original site and extends
now in many fine avenues of handsome suburbs for miles around the bay and
inland.
The first impression of the Uruguayan capital is that of an essentially
European city, clean and well built. Stone is employed to a greater
degree in its architecture than in that of Buenos Ayres, though most of
the modern structures are of the steel frame and cement variety. The
older part is still regarded as “the centre,” chiefly for its nearness
to the harbour, and because it contains most of the popular shopping
streets, but in reality it is now the fringe, and with the future
expansion of the city the centre of social gravity will surely shift a
mile or more inland. Here are congregated all the banking establishments,
the _Bolsa de comercio_, the shipping offices, and the warehouses of the
large importing firms. Here, too, in the Plaza Constitucion, we find
the handsome, if somewhat modest, Cathedral, and the historic House
of Representatives, an unimpressive, two-story building occupying the
opposite corner of the plaza, its lower story being utilised by the
police authorities as prison and court of justice. The Uruguay Club
has an attractive building—far finer in every respect than that of the
_Cámaras_—in this plaza, while the friendly English Club looks across at
it from its humbler but very cosy quarters on the opposite side of the
square, hard by the offices of _El Siglo_ and _La Razon_.
The streets in this neighbourhood are all of the narrow, colonial kind,
and being chiefly paved with stone, the noise of the traffic, together
with the continuous passing of electric trams, which run in almost every
street and maintain a nerve-racking ringing of bells, is out of all
proportion to the amount of business represented. “We are fast asleep
here,” is a frequent saying of the self-depreciative natives, and if it
be true, I can only suppose they are abnormally sound sleepers, as the
noise of the streets, chiefly due to the tramways, might at times waken a
cemetery.
When we two Gringos began our summer stay in the city, we chose what
seemed to be extremely comfortable quarters in the best-known hotel,
occupying an ideal position in the Plaza Constitucion, or Plaza Matriz
(after the Cathedral or “mother church”), as it is indifferently
called. There on the third story we had a spacious room with balconies
overlooking the animated square, and a little writing-room set in a
turret, whence the pleasantest glimpses could be obtained in many
directions. The food of the hotel (as we knew from previous experience)
was incomparably better than anything to be had in Buenos Ayres. Indeed,
it is renowned throughout the River Plate district for its excellent
_cuisine_, for which, by the way, its charges rival those of quite
expensive New York restaurants, and that is saying a good deal.
[Illustration: SCENE IN THE PARQUE URBANO OF MONTEVIDEO.]
[Illustration: A RURAL GLIMPSE IN THE PRADO, MONTEVIDEO.]
Thus it might have been supposed we were in for an agreeable change
from our experiences on the other side of the river. Resembling a quiet
backwater to the great turbulent main stream in comparison with its
mighty commercial neighbour, one might have expected here in Montevideo
to find quiet. Certainly, in some of its suburban districts, such a
search would not be fruitless, but the restfulness once secured would
only coexist with dulness, and after all it were thus a choice of
evils. In any case, it better suited my affairs that we should live in
the centre of the town, where, indeed, dwellings of all kinds mingle
familiarly with shops and warehouses. How we fared at our hotel may be
gathered from the following passages, with which I find I began an essay
on a literary subject while living in the town:
I have left my room with the turret window that overlooked
the pleasant Plaza Matriz. It was perfectly planned for the
meditative life, and but for the vileness of man and the
supineness of the municipal authorities one could have passed
some months tolerably there, looking out upon the panorama
of Montevidean life and setting one’s thoughts on paper when
the mood came. But the men who drive motor cars in this far
land are the vilest of the breed. The plaza is filled with
gorgeous cars that ply for hire, each handled by a rascal who
is no better than a highway-robber by day and a beast of prey
by night. The law of the town prohibits the use of the “cut
out,” or opening of the exhaust pipe of the motor, but no one
respects the law, and it is the custom for the demons who
drive these cars to keep one foot all the time on the pedal
which opens the exhaust! The consequent noise is so appalling
that the main streets of Montevideo have become a veritable
pandemonium.
Thus bad begins, but worse continues when the hour has passed
midnight. The endless stream of electric “trams” with hideous
clanging of superfluously clamorous bells goes on till two,
mingled with every variety of motor noises; then between two
and four the motorists delight to “test” their engines, running
round the plaza with open exhausts! Sleep is impossible,
especially when you add a temperature anywhere between 80 and
90, and mosquitoes buzzing through your room athirst for your
blood.
So we are no longer tenants of “the room with a view.” After
some weeks of suffering bravely borne, we have fled the hotel
and are now living seaward in the Calle Sarandí, where there is
no view by day and few motors by night, and where the noise of
the _electricos_ only keeps one awake until two in the morning.
How soon one becomes thankful for small mercies in lands of
little comfort!
But after all we were lucky in Montevideo, for by some providential
arrangement it was decided to remake the principal streets of the city,
relaying them with asphalt, and this involved the upsetting of the whole
elaborate tramway system, whereby certain streets were for several
months debarred the privilege of the electricos. Sarandí, where we had
settled ourselves very comfortably in the home of a foreign consul, was
thus, after our first few weeks, deprived of its tram-cars, and except
during the time of Carnival, our surroundings there were as quiet as in
a country village. Not until within a few days of the end of our stay of
nearly five months did the cars begin again.
Montevideo, like most of the South American cities in which it has been
my lot to linger for a time, seems to me to be greatly “over-trammed.”
There is hardly a street along which tram-cars do not rattle at all hours
of the day and night, and how they pay is to me something of a mystery,
for they may be seen in streams going their noisy rounds, empty or with
a mere handful of passengers. Many a time have I seen a half-dozen pass
along at intervals of fifty yards, and the total passengers carried would
be two or three negroes and a sleeping Italian. One street in particular,
the Calle Rincón, where we narrowly escaped the calamity of renting
rooms, is probably, for its length, without an equal in any city for the
quantity of cars that pass through it per hour. It is a short and narrow
street, and I doubt if at any moment of the day, from four or five
in the morning till two the next morning, while the electric cars are
running, Rincón can be seen without one. At times I have counted fifteen
or sixteen, with only a few yards between each, and yet foot passengers
in this street, as in most of the highways and byways of the city, are
few.
The tramway system is curiously arranged, and while grossly oversupplying
the business part of the town, undersupplies the farther suburbs. Imagine
the aforesaid peninsula on which the older part of the city stands,
as the handle of a fan, and all the outspread part of the fan as the
remainder of the city, every rib extending from the handle as a tramline,
and there you have very roughly a map of the Montevideo system. Picture,
then, how congested the handle becomes as the cars rattle inward from
all parts of the fan, turn round in the handle, and set forth once more
to the outer parts! All the same, I am far from complaining about the
service, for once the system is clearly understood, it is found to work
admirably, and enables one to reach all parts of the wide-spreading town
with comparative ease and at little expense, the regulation fare for a
journey of a few hundred yards or two miles being 4 cts.
As I have indicated, there is no lack of public motor cars for hire,
but the rate is so excessive that, except for those on holiday bent, it
is prohibitive. Personally, I made occasional use of them, though the
necessity of paying something like $4 or $5 for a journey of some three
or four miles from the Plaza Matriz and back, with a comparatively short
wait, added to the reckless manner in which the car would be driven,
did not commend them to me for frequent use, while the stony streets
made a journey in a coche extremely unpleasant. The native newspapers
were continually agitating against the iniquitous charges of the hired
motor cars, whose tariff was based upon the cupidity of the highwayman in
charge, and what he deemed the limit he might bleed from his victim, the
fare. I remember one evening being attracted to a large crowd assembled
around one of these cars, and found an Irish porteño from Buenos Ayres in
the hands of the police, while his wife and sister-in-law were in a state
of great excitement at the possibility of losing that night’s steamer.
It appeared that the driver of the car he had hired to take him and
the ladies to the landing stage had marked up on the taximeter certain
charges warranted by his tariff, but so grossly excessive even to Buenos
Ayres ideas, that the porteño immediately protested and would not proceed
in the car. He also refused to accept my advice to pay up and catch his
boat. I did not linger to see the final issue of the dispute, but the
cause of it was typical of many little differences one was to discover
which made life in Montevideo considerably more expensive than in Buenos
Ayres.
Mention of the police, by the way, reminds me that they are one of the
most engaging features of the town to the Gringo. If the authorities had
advertised for the most undersized, debilitated and ignorant members
of the community that could be found, they could not possibly have
excelled the extraordinary collection of miserable humanity, clothed in
ill-fitting uniforms, used as sentinels at every other street corner.
Many of these police are Indian half-castes or Negro-Indian _meztísos_.
They are wretchedly paid, and seem incapable of all responsibility, as
their efforts to direct the traffic are ignored, and were they followed
would lead to more confusion than order. Hardly any of them—with helmets
two or three sizes too large, their trousers so long that they bag
about their boots, over which, by the way, they wear white spats, their
ill-fitting coats of blue caught at the waist with a belt, from which
depends a sword—is sufficiently educated to write his name.
There are two classes in the service, however, the superior policeman,
with sufficient education to write a report of any occurrence and
exercise authority, being mounted, and when anything happens, the
mannikin at the corner blows his whistle (which he uses to the
disturbance of the town at frequent intervals through the day and night,
merely to advertise that he is still at his corner) and presently,
answering the call, along clatters on horseback one of the superior
class, presumably competent to deal with the case. On the whole, the
police service struck me as inferior to that of Buenos Ayres, and I
imagine that, shameful though the wages of the Buenos Ayres police may
be, those of the lower class in Montevideo must be still less. Yet these
policemen are regarded as so much fighting material for the Government,
and it used to be the practice, on the outbreak of a revolution, to send
forward the police as the first objects (objects, indeed, they are!) to
be fired at by the revolutionaries. The organisation is a quasi-military
one, and so fond do some of the agentes appear to be of saluting, that
every time I crossed the Plaza Zabala, I had to undergo the ordeal of
receiving a full military salute from the elderly policeman at the corner
of one of the streets converging on that square, so that to avoid this
attention I frequently chose another route.
The people that pass in the street present certain points of
contrast with the passers-by in Buenos Ayres. Clearly the writer in
a North-American encyclopædia who stated that Montevideo was “one of
the most cosmopolitan towns in South America” was scarcely entitled to
the editorial description of “authority on Latin America.” I remember
also that the same writer alleged there were no fewer than sixteen
public squares in the city, which assertion, together with that already
mentioned, leads me to suspect he never saw it with his own eyes.
Cosmopolitanism is precisely the last impression one is likely to carry
away from Montevideo. Italians are to be seen in considerable numbers,
but the appearance of the people as a whole is essentially Spanish.
The Iberian type has been better preserved here than on the other side
of the river; Spanish character informs the life of the people to a
larger extent. French and German residents there are, but in numbers
so inconsiderable that, even together with the English and American
population, they represent a very small percentage of the whole. After
the Italians and Spaniards, the largest foreign element is probably
Brazilian, which in the general population of the country exceeds the
French and all other nationalities combined, exclusive of the Argentines.
In fact, there is little similarity in the composition of the populations
that exist on the opposing banks of the River Plate.
Such foreign element as one sees in the streets is chiefly representative
of the casual visitors brought to the town for a few hours, a day or so,
by the numerous steamers that make it a port of call on their way to or
from Buenos Ayres or, by the Straits of Magellan, to or from the Pacific
Coast. Groups of fair-headed Germans and fresh-complexioned Britons are
thus frequently to be met wandering about from plaza to plaza during
the brief stay of their ships in the roadstead. Australian vessels also
touch at Montevideo, and then one will notice groups of twenty or thirty
odd-looking people straying somewhat timorously along the unfamiliar
streets, their garb leaving one in doubt as to whence they hail, though
the usually dowdy appearance of their womenkind permits no possible doubt
of their Anglo-Saxon origin.
The women of Montevideo are celebrated throughout South America for their
beauty and elegance of manners. In this regard, the town enjoys something
of the European fame of Buda-Pesth, and certainly no Oriental (the
Uruguayan, by the way, likes to be known as an Oriental, the proper style
of the republic being _República Oriental del Uruguay_) ever talks to a
Gringo about his capital city without mentioning that it is celebrated
for its _lindas mujeres_. True enough, it deserves its reputation as
a town of beautiful women, for most of the Montevidean ladies have
a beauty that is curiously in keeping with the official name of the
Republic,—oriental! They are of the languorous, dark-eyed type—beauty
that has a touch of the Jewish in it—and they are far more naturally
graceful than the ladies of Buenos Ayres, whom they make no effort to
imitate in the matter of elaborate dress, their tastes running on simpler
lines, with the exception, perhaps, of a notable fondness for elaborate
coiffures. I was told by my Spanish lady secretary, who had lived for
some years in Buenos Ayres before coming to Montevideo (and to whom I
owed a good deal of my information on the domestic habits of the people),
that those charming ladies of Montevideo completely outdid the Argentines
in the matter of _postizos_, as many as seven or eight different pieces
of made-up hair being added to their natural tresses. The sign POSTIZOS
(false hair) was one of the most familiar in the streets of Montevideo,
where _coiffeurs_ abound.
[Illustration: CATTLE ASSEMBLED ON “LA TABLADA,” NEAR MONTEVIDEO, FOR
CONVERSION INTO “EXTRACT OF BEEF.”]
Fresh from Buenos Ayres, it was particularly pleasing to us to observe
the marked respect which the women of Montevideo received from the male
population. Nothing that I observed during my wanderings about South
America seemed to me to present a greater contrast in manners than this.
Across the river, a few hours’ journey, it has been made possible for
women to walk about the streets in the daylight only by passing and
strictly enforcing an Act against _falto de respeto á la mujer_. Within
recent years this instrument has materially improved the liberty of women
in Buenos Ayres, as all that a lady has to do, who is molested in the
street by a man, is to call a policeman, give the man in charge, and
walk away. The molester is then marched to the police station, fined
substantially, and his name and address published in all the journals
next morning, the lady suffering no further inconvenience than the
momentary trouble of telling the policeman the man has annoyed her. No
such law has ever been necessary in Montevideo, where one was reminded
of home by noting how women unaccompanied, and young girls, could freely
go about the streets at all hours of the day, even until midnight, it
being not uncommon to see mothers with their children sitting in the
plazas enjoying the cool sea-borne breeze as late as eleven or twelve
o’clock at night. In this alone I think there is evidence of a subtle
difference of character between the peoples of the two cities.
We do not see the same bustling crowds, nothing remotely suggestive of
the great business interests at stake across the river. The atmosphere
of Montevideo is essentially that of leisure, of a people engaged in
affairs that do not imply any particular hurry. “Spanish to-morrows” are
familiar here—_mañana_ is a potent word! The total population being only
some four hundred thousand, signifies localism, especially as there is no
great influx of foreign immigration, and most people of any position in
the town know everybody “who is anybody.” I have read in “authoritative”
works that the population exists in a continual state of vendetta between
the two political parties, the Blancos and the Colorados. As I purpose
showing in my next chapter, politics are undoubtedly the great passion of
the Orientals, but nothing could be more misleading than this conception
of bitter enmity between ordinary citizens of different politics, for I
personally became acquainted with many natives of the opposing camps, and
among them found the most intimate friends who differed radically. Two
of the twelve or thirteen daily papers published in the city are printed
in the same offices and on the same presses, though they represent
antagonistic political parties.
The whole atmosphere of the town in its social life was to me infinitely
more pleasing than that of Buenos Ayres. It is a friendly town. It is
more—a town of homes. The ambition of the Montevidean is to secure a
comfortable berth in the Government as quickly as he can, and build for
his family a comfortable home in which he will take a genuine pride
and where a real home feeling will exist. There are, of course, many
natives engaged in flourishing commercial enterprises, and these are
probably among the wealthiest, but this ambition to get something out
of the Government is universal, and while it may lead to very pleasant
conditions of life for the successful ones, it is extremely bad from the
point of view of national progress. That, however, is a subject which
properly belongs to the following chapter. Remains the fact that there
is an air of comfort, of leisure, and of life being pleasantly lived in
Montevideo.
The city itself, far more than Buenos Ayres, is entitled to be described
as “the Paris of South America.” From the ample Plaza Independencia, the
Avenida 18 de Julio extends eastward for miles in a vista essentially
Parisian. Around the arcaded plaza are many cafés, with their chairs and
tables streaming over the wide pavements, while along the avenida, at the
beautiful Plaza Libertad (or Cagancha), and still farther east, following
the course of this splendid avenue, with its theatres and bright little
cafés, the scene is one entirely reminiscent of the Paris boulevards.
There is also an air of substantiality about the buildings, which seldom
rise higher than two or three stories, and more often are content with
one, due, I think, to a larger employment of stone, though the country
still lacks enterprise to make the fullest use of its natural riches in
building-stone. These are bound to be developed in due time, and will
greatly add to the endurance of its cities.
Some day, perhaps, the Plaza Independencia of Montevideo will be one of
the finest public squares in any great city. I have seen many projected
designs for its reformation, and there is no doubt that every building
at present surrounding it, including the Government House, is bound to
disappear. They are all unworthy of the plaza, and must some day make
way for structures of greater dignity and beauty. The design for the new
Government House is so ambitious in comparison with the common little
stucco erection which at present very inadequately serves that purpose,
that I doubt if it is ever destined to be realised in its entirety.
Builders are now busy, however, on the new Legislative Palace, which will
supersede the present little building in the Plaza Matriz. In accordance
with the modern development of the town already mentioned, the site of
the new Palacio Legislativo lies away to the northeast of the present
national building, a distance, I should judge, of nearly two miles. Work
on this magnificent new pile was progressing steadily, and before long I
expect to hear of its inauguration. With its completion, the political
centre will change entirely, and a new importance will be given to the
vicinity of the Legislative Palace, which is at the junction of the
great Avenidas Agraciada and Sierra, at present chiefly occupied by
private residences and small dwellings of the colonial type.
The Uruguayan methods of dealing with these great public works are not
precisely ours, for it was originally intended to erect the new home of
the Cámaras on the Avenida 18 de Julio, where that bifurcates with the
Avenida Constituyente, and the foundations of the great building, and
indeed a considerable portion of the first story, were erected. Then
there was a change of opinion—the imperious President Batlle was, I
think, responsible for that—and the whole work was stopped. There stand
to-day these temporary memorials of national extravagance, while the
new building is being erected a mile away to the north. Some day the
foundations of the unfinished masonry on the Avenida 18 de Julio are to
be taken away and the site laid out as another great square, to be known
as the Plaza de Armas—a warrior race must needs have its Plaza de Armas!
Everywhere one is impressed by the energy that is going to the
beautifying and enlarging of the city. The extensive Boulevard Artigas,
which on the eastern extremity runs north and south for several miles,
and to the north, forming a right angle with itself, runs westward nearly
to the bay, in its present half-finished state, is one of the finest
thoroughfares in the whole continent. But the city is so well supplied
with wide and far-reaching boulevards that its population is not dense
enough to give to these an appearance of animation, except for a mile or
so to the east of the Plaza Independencia, and seaward for some little
distance beyond the Plaza Constitucion.
The town boasts many theatres—more proportionately than any other South
American city—several of these, such as the Solis, the Politeama, and
the Urquiza being commodious and well built. The dramatic instinct is
pronounced in the natives, and there is quite a considerable band of
literary enthusiasts in Montevideo working to create a body of national
dramatic literature—surely a remarkable ambition for a nation, whose
total population is 1,100,000 people! The late Florencio Sanchez and
the late Samuel Blixen, both Montevidean dramatists of distinction
(the former died at an early age a few years ago after winning an
international reputation), were two of the chief forces in this modern
movement which has resulted in so keen an interest in the drama that
a local publisher has been able to issue quite a long series of plays
written by Uruguayan authors.
Noteworthy among the public edifices of the city are the handsome
buildings of the University, where the faculties of medicine,
mathematics, law, and commerce are all splendidly housed. During our
stay, a further extension of the university accommodation was made in
the shape of a plain, modest, two-story building,—_la Universidad de
Mujeres_, or Women’s University, which began its career under the most
promising auspices. Other branches of public education, such as the fine
School of Agriculture, splendidly equipped, and the great Veterinary
School, where the very latest appliances of veterinary surgery are at
the disposal of the students, would be worthy of detailed description,
did the limits of my space permit. The Uruguayans are enthusiasts for
public education, and relatively to the Argentines stand much as the
Scots to the English. One might write at great length of the excellent
educational facilities that exist in Montevideo, but perhaps the best
proof of their efficiency is the fact that we find so many Uruguayans
occupying positions of importance in the Argentine, especially among the
learned professions. Uruguayans swarm in Argentine journalism, just as
Scots in that of England. These beautiful buildings of the University,
and that devoted to the Faculty of Secondary Education (_Facultad de
Enseñanza Secundaria_) are no mere vanities, but centres of most active
educational life.
There is little to interest us in the churches of the town, though the
Cathedral, with its ever-open door, and the absence of that tawdriness
which one is apt to associate with the material evidences of religion in
South America, always seemed to me in harmony with the sane and orderly
character of the city. The English Church, which stands on a rocky
eminence at the south end of the Calle Treinta y Tres, with the waves
of the estuary splashing at its base, is probably as historical as any
other in the city. For more than half a century it has existed much as
it is to-day, a neat little building of the basilica type—which in Roman
Catholic countries usually distinguishes Protestant churches from Roman
Catholic. In the course of that time, however, the character of the
surrounding neighbourhood has greatly changed, and it is now the lowest
quarter of the town, chiefly occupied by licensed brothels and the low
resorts of the mariners whom the winds of chance blow into the port of
Montevideo. In the same locality I found the old British Hospital, an
establishment entirely inadequate for its purposes, but then in the last
days of its long existence, as a commodious new hospital was being built
on the Boulevard Artigas, and, if I am not mistaken, was inaugurated
before we left.
Near to the latter, another fine new hospital had just been erected
by the Italian community. This occupies a very extensive site, the
buildings exceeding those of the British Hospital by several times, to
meet the needs of the large Italian Colony. But in the care of the sick
the city as a whole is well provided, the great Hospital de Caridad,
which occupies an entire square in the Calle Maciel, in the very heart
of the poorer districts whence come most of the patients, being largely
supported from the proceeds of the frequent public lotteries held on its
behalf. There is also a service of Asistencia Pública, organised on the
same method as that which plays so notable a part in the life of Buenos
Ayres.
Scattered among the different public buildings, the city possesses a
few paintings of historic value, but, on the whole, it may be said to
be destitute of art treasures, while the little museum that occupies a
wing of the Solis Theatre is scarcely worthy of even a little nation.
The National Library and various other libraries associated with the
different faculties of the University, and that of the Cámaras, as well
as the excellent institution known as the Ateneo, which occupies an
attractive building in the Plaza Libertad, are all evidences of the
remarkable literary culture of the Republic, probably superior to that
of any other modern people so small in numbers; but of sculpture and
the graphic arts there is very little indeed to be discovered in the
city. Perhaps, after all, these are more often evidences of commercial
prosperity, for art flourishes best where there is ample money to
purchase its products. And for reasons which I shall endeavour to explain
in my next chapter, the time of commercial expansion and the enrichment
of the people in Uruguay is not yet.
This the observer will also note by contrasting the private residences of
the wealthier classes with those of the Argentine. Montevideo contains
many beautiful homes, but few of those grandiose palaces which are so
familiar a feature of Buenos Ayres. At the bathing suburb of Pocitos, and
on the road thither, especially along the Avenida Brasil, many charming
_quintas_ are to be seen, but most of them are of modest size and quite
unpretentious, although occasionally some successful Italian has had
his suburban villa decorated in the loud style of an ice-cream saloon
exterior with elaborate iron-work railings and balconies designed in
the most debased style of the _art nouveau_, and painted a vivid blue.
The house of the late President Williman at Pocitos is merely a pretty
little suburban villa, with no undue ostentation; in fine, one discovers
in the domestic architecture of Montevideo something of that essentially
democratic spirit which informs the character of the people.
In the older part of the town, the pleasant old custom, which used to be
universal throughout Europe, of the merchant or tradesman residing on
the premises where he plied his business, still lingers. The successful
lawyer lives right in the heart of the business district, and has his
office in his house. So, too, the doctor, while the printer, bookseller,
and the importer often have their private residences on the floors above
their business premises. One of the wealthiest families of bankers thus
live over their bank, not far from the docks, in a street so noisy that
the unceasing rattle of its traffic still sounds disturbing in my memory
of the busy days I spent there. But this old custom is rapidly giving way
before the attractions of the beautiful suburbs that have opened up along
the sandy shores of Pocitos and inland as far as the charming little town
of Villa Colón, with its great avenues of trees, its rippling streams,
and leafy, undulating landscapes.
There are strange tastes to be noted, for one of the most imposing
private residences in the city, indeed the most remarkable of all, worthy
to be used as the Government House, has been built within recent years
by a successful Italian in the Plaza Zabala, almost within hail of the
docks, and in the very centre of that fan handle which I have already
described as the turning point of the multitudinous trams. The frequent
visitors who leave their ships for a short ramble round the town are
always arrested by the imposing appearance of this building, and often
little groups of them are to be seen discussing what it may be. Never by
any chance did I notice visitors pausing before the plain little colonial
residence a few paces westward in the same street, where a tablet records
the interesting fact that it was the lodging of the great Garibaldi
when, during the final struggle between Rivera and Oribe (1843-1851), the
hero of Italy for a time commanded the Brazilian regiment, which, with
the Italian and French legions, defended Montevideo against the leader of
the Blancos.
So far as fresh air is concerned, there is certainly no reason for
preferring one part of Montevideo over another, as the whole town is so
accessible to the sea breezes that even in the height of summer, when the
population of Buenos Ayres is gasping for breath, there is always fresh
air in Montevideo—infinitely more than the Argentine capital is it the
city of _buenos aires_ (good airs). As for _paseos_, there is no lack.
Many a pleasant evening did we lonely Gringos pass at one or other of
the _playas_, as the waterside resorts are termed. Thanks to a public
commission, which takes in hand the organisation of the summer fêtes,
there is always something going on at one or other of these resorts,
and half an hour in the tramway suffices to transport one to Remírez,
Pocitos, or Capurro, as the occasion serves. Each has its respective
_noches de moda_, when the promenade pier is illuminated with the usual
prodigality of electricity, and a band plays for some hours, during which
the _paseantes_ wander up and down to the strains of the music, and after
the last number has been played, hasten to the homeward trams—the mildest
and most innocent form of pleasure imaginable, and entirely at variance
with European notions of South American life.
Of Pocitos, I retain the most agreeable memories, for many was the night
we lingered on its gaily lighted pier, listening to the band, watching
the throng of idlers, or “looking lazy at the sea,” where the light-house
on the Isla de Lobos (the island of sea-lions, where many thousands of
these animals are killed every year for the oil they yield, and for their
skins) was throwing its beams across the dark waters of the estuary—a
signal post to the broad Atlantic and to Home! The water front at Pocitos
has been turned into a splendid promenade, comparable almost with the
Marina at Rio de Janeiro, and among the little rocky prominences are many
charming glimpses to remind the exile of the shores of his homeland.
Often we rambled, too, on foot along the coast to Ramírez, over fields
and rocks and patches of sandy shore, catching sight at times of the big
ocean liners slowly creeping up the river on their way to the great city
of the southern shore.
Ramírez is not so fashionable as Pocitos, being rather the resort of the
multitude. At the latter playa during the season, when the fine hotel is
thronged with visitors, one may see the latest Parisian modes, exhibited
chiefly by Argentine lady visitors, who are nearly always distinguishable
from the quieter and slimmer belles of Montevideo, but at Ramírez we
have a miniature Blackpool, with open-air theatres, merry-go-rounds,
shooting galleries, and such-like diversions of the mob. Here, too, is
the fine Parque Urbano, beautifully laid out on bosky, undulating ground,
with devious little waterways, where pleasure boats, shaped like swans,
ply for hire. Hard by the pier, stands the great Parque Hotel where the
chief attractions are the gambling tables, mainly patronised by wealthy
Argentines.
At both places there is bathing throughout the summer, after the
water has been duly blessed by the Bishop, on (I think) the eighth of
December—for the native does not venture to dip himself until that
ceremony has been performed. Long rows of bathing boxes line the beach
at Pocitos, but the local authorities are curiously indifferent to the
interests of the bathers in choosing a little promontory about half a
mile from the pier for burning the refuse of the city and throwing it
into the water, so that the whole of the little cove shows along high
water mark a thick line of dirt washed up after the ill-advised sanitary
efforts at the point! It is thus customary for the bathers, on emerging
from the salty waves, to wash themselves from pails of clean water, in
order to remove the traces of burnt refuse from their bodies. This is a
little touch that is quaintly South American.
Capurro, the third of the suburban resorts, is prettily situated on the
bay, about midway between the city and the Cerro. It serves the western
part of the city, which stretches out along the bay, and did not seem
to be much frequented by the summer visitors, though on a noche de
moda we used to see its numerous electric lights blazing like a little
constellation as we looked westward from our windows in the plaza.
Finest of all the paseos is the Prado. This splendid public park lies in
the same direction as Capurro, and through its undulating grounds runs
the little river Miguelete. It is the pride of the Montevideans, and
fully merits the charming adjectives they apply to it, for it abounds
in fine avenues of century-old trees, and winding walks among rich and
varied vegetation, while its _rosarium_ is very extensive and contains an
infinite variety of roses. Well kept, provided with a good restaurant,
and seats for the weary, with boating on the Miguelete among the swans,
the Prado is certainly a great possession for any town, and will compare
with most North American or European resorts of the kind. It is favoured
by the residents more than by the visitors, and on Sundays is the scene
of innumerable picnic parties.
Nor must I forget, in recalling the scenes among which we spent our
summer at Montevideo, the curious little Zoo at Villa Dolores, some
little distance from Pocitos. Here again, we encounter one of the many
evidences of difference in the Uruguayan and Argentine characters.
This institution, originally a portion of a large private estate, and
established entirely as a private collection by the owner, has recently
been made over to the Government, who are continuing its maintenance in
a praiseworthy manner. It is the outcome, not merely of the educational
side of zoology, by which I mean the illustrating of animal life by
living specimens, but of a desire to promote a friendly interest in the
animals. Among the many curiosities it contains is a little cemetery,
with monuments to departed pets. Some of these are quite elaborate
affairs, with inscriptions full of naïve tenderness, though it is
difficult to suppress a smile at a memorial to a pet serpent! Dogs, cats,
monkeys, donkeys, parrots, and I think even a lion are among the departed
whose memories are here preserved.
The collection of wild animals is not so large as that at Buenos Ayres,
but their houses are of the cleanest and most varied character, imitating
in cement all sorts of quaint dwellings, such as caves, kraals, beehives,
and the most fanciful structures in which animals ever were housed. Great
artificial grottoes and craggy peaks of cement decorate the grounds,
while the water-fowls have all manner of queer little islands, with
strange figures of gnomes dotted about them, in the lakelets and canals.
The whole place is inspired with the feeling of kindness to animals, but
I was never quite able to understand why it contained such large numbers
of valuable dogs penned up in great airy cages, unless they were for
sale. One of the apes was so well trained, that he used to wander about
the grounds free from his keeper and make friends with visitors, often to
their discomfiture. On holidays he would go a-cycling, to the delight of
the children, and was an expert on roller skates, being in every sense
as clever and intelligent as the famous Max and Moritz. The admission
to this most interesting public exhibition is only a few pence, and its
refining influence on the public cannot be overestimated.
It will be seen from this rough and haphazard sketch of the attractions
of Montevideo that we two Gringos had good reason to congratulate
ourselves on being able to spend our summer there, rather than in Buenos
Ayres. I am free to confess, however, that during the period of Carnival,
which lasted for the greater part of February, there were times when we
were inclined to think that we had almost too much of a good thing. All
those pleasure resorts figure more or less prominently in the long list
of festivities arranged by the Carnival Committee, and the town itself
becomes one vast exhibition of illuminations. The three principal plazas
are decorated with the most elaborate designs in arches of electric
lamps. The avenida is festooned from side to side, and all the way from
the Plaza Libertad to the Plaza Independencia, with lamps innumerable,
while Venetian masts, carrying huge comic faces that are illumined by
night, line the pavements.
The Carnival proper, with its processions of decorated coaches and
symbolical cars, its battles of flowers, and its _comparsas_, or
companies of masqueraders, lasts only throughout the first week of
February, but for a fortnight or more in advance and for a good fortnight
afterwards, every boy in the town possesses himself of a tin can and a
stick, and as single spies or in battalions, they make night hideous. A
passion for causing a noise by any means seems to seize the lower orders,
and the whole month of February is practically wasted so far as business
and serious affairs are concerned. The newspapers teem with announcements
from the secretaries of the different clubs that have been organised to
take part in the competition of the comparsas, as prizes are offered for
the company making the bravest show as courtiers of Louis XIV, mounted
gauchos, warriors of the Cannibal islands, or whatever guise they may
determine upon. Albanians, Montenegrins, Rumanians, and other foreign
residents who boast a picturesque national costume, don it for the
Carnival; girls of the populace, dress up as boys, and boys as girls;
false faces of every conceivable kind are worn by merry-makers, who, so
disguised, may “chivy” the staider passers-by to their hearts’ content.
There are great masque balls in the Solis Theatre, balls for children,
and dances innumerable in private houses, into which masqueraders often
enter and take part in the fun uninvited and unknown.
The real old spirit of Carnival is abroad, and the whole thing is
conducted with so much good taste and with so little rowdyism that it is
easy to see why it attracts such large numbers from Buenos Ayres, where
the low class element so abused the liberties of Carnival in past years
that it was prohibited, and is observed only to a small extent in some of
the suburbs. The use of paper confetti and _serpentinas_, of which tons
must be sold during the festivities, litters the streets and festoons
lamp-posts, telephone wires, and window railings with streamers which,
in the less accessible places, hang for months afterwards as mournful
reminders of the merry time that was; but the municipal authorities show
a remarkable celerity in clearing away all their temporary provisions
for the festivities. By the beginning of March, Montevideo was its
own staid self again, and by the end of that month the short holiday
season had utterly passed, the bands at the playas had played their last
tunes, the Hotel Pocitos and the Parque Hotel had closed their doors, no
gaily-dressed throngs were to be seen on the promenades, and people were
beginning to think of their social engagements for the coming winter; for
it is in the autumn and winter season that the Montevideans themselves
enjoy most their social round, when their theatres are occupied by
numerous dramatic and operatic companies from Italy, Spain, and France,
when political enthusiasts harangue their audiences, and lecturers give
their _conferencias_ on literary and scientific subjects.
On the whole, you will see we had not so bad a time in the capital of
Uruguay. Memories of our pleasant days and nights there crowd so thickly
on me as I write that it is difficult to set them down, and I feel that
the most I can do is to touch in the briefest way upon those that come
uppermost, leaving it to the reader to imagine how our time was passed.
We never seemed to tire of wandering the streets, as the avenida and the
two central plazas retained an air of brightness and friendliness to a
late hour, and often a military band would be playing between nine and
eleven o’clock at night. Until a late hour, the town never assumed the
extraordinary nightly dulness of Buenos Ayres, and very pleasant it was,
night after night, to see the little family groups meet and gossip with
the familiarity of a village. The Bohemian element, represented here,
as elsewhere, by wide-awake hats and pendulous locks, had its habitat
at the Café Giralda, at the corner of the Plaza Independencia, where
most evenings the local poets—it rivals Paisley as a nest of singing
birds—journalists, and “coming men” in politics, looked in for a coffee
and a chat.
Surely there never was such a town for journalists. I believe you could
not throw a stone down any street without hitting a journalist. An
American city of the same size would probably possess not more than
five or six daily newspapers; Montevideo has a dozen or more! Many of
the journalists do not limit their activities to that profession, but
are also engaged as lawyers, accountants, and in other businesses, as
it is very common to combine several occupations; the warehouse clerk
may possibly play in an orchestra in the evenings, and make up some
tradesman’s accounts on the Sundays. Which reminds me that every place of
business is closed on Sunday, only the restaurants, cafés, and theatres
being open.
The shops, of course, do not compare favourably with those of the great
metropolis further up the river, for there is not the wealth in the
country to justify anything approaching the luxury and plenitude of the
Buenos Ayres shopping marts. The largest establishment of the drapery
kind is owned by an English firm, and there are several fine warehouses
run by French and Italian firms, as well as some of considerable size
under native proprietorship. But for the most part, the shops, among
which jewellers’ abound, have a provincial rather than a metropolitan
touch, though the newer establishments along the Avenida 18 de Julio are
coming into line with the most modern ideas of shopkeeping. The habit
of the tradesman living on his premises is probably one of the reasons
why the early closing, so remarkable in Buenos Ayres, is not observed in
Montevideo, to the consequent brightness of the streets. I remember how
we used to be misled in our window gazing by the prices of the wares,
soon after our arrival, as everything appeared so much cheaper than
in Buenos Ayres, until we had become accustomed to the fact that the
Uruguayan peso is worth exactly 62 cts. more than the Argentine, being
equal to $1.02 United States money. Then we discovered that most things
were somewhat more expensive!
[Illustration: TYPES OF THE FANTASTIC DOMESTIC ARCHITECTURE OF
MONTEVIDEO.]
While we suffered from no lack of noise, as the reader will have
discovered, during our stay, I do not remember ever to have heard the
whistle of a railway train. Trains come and go at the station of the
Central Railway, which is some considerable distance from the older part
of the city, but although our wanderings took us several times to that
model of a railway station, we never even heard the hiss of steam, nor
saw any sign of life therein. It possesses an excellent restaurant, and
its exterior is decorated with large stucco statues of George Stephenson
and James Watt and two foreign celebrities whose names have escaped my
memory, but as railways are still in their infancy in Uruguay, and trains
go only every second day to the principal provincial cities, and not
always so frequently as that, it will be understood why the Montevideo
station is more often as quiet as a museum than animated as a railway
terminus. It is quicker, for instance, to reach Paysandu, the important
commercial city of the northwestern Uruguayan province of that name, by
taking the boat to Buenos Ayres and thence by train and boat, than by
travelling all the way on Uruguayan railways.
This lack of speedy train service prevented me from becoming acquainted
with the provinces of Uruguay, as none of my plains could accommodate
themselves to the leisurely methods of travel, and so my excursions were
confined to the immediate surroundings of the city. My favourite outing
was a trip across the bay in a little steam launch, which in less than
twenty minutes landed me on the rickety old wooden pier near the Villa
de Cerro and thence a long exhilarating ramble uphill took me to the old
Spanish fortress on the top of the Cerro, still used as a fortification
by the Uruguayans. From the walls of this, splendid prospects seaward and
landward may be had, while the fortress itself—with its rather slatternly
garrison, the officer on duty looking heroically seaward while he sips
his _mate_, and the horses cropping the grass on the slopes below—is by
no means uninteresting. What pleased me most was to look landward over
the rolling plains, grassy and undulating, as far as eye could reach, and
at no great distance from the fort, alive with herds of cattle on the
part known as _la Tablada_, so important to the life and prosperity of
Montevideo. For in these herds, brought here chiefly to be converted into
extract of meat for a great English firm, is the principal wealth of the
country, and its history that is not concerned with wars and revolutions
is bound up with the herding of cattle. Such as we see the country from
the Cerro, it is, I am told, throughout its length and breadth—a land
of ideal pasturage, full of gentle valleys, and with no hill that rises
more than 2,000 feet above sea level. A pleasant land, with endless
possibilities for the agriculturist. Yes, all my memories of Montevideo
seem to be agreeable, for even its cemetery, beautifully situated on high
ground by the sea, was in keeping with the general impression and had an
air of peacefulness and rest which Recoleta so much lacked.
CHAPTER XXI
URUGUAY: SOME NOTES AND IMPRESSIONS
Little countries, like little people, have a knack of making themselves
interesting. The simile might be further pursued—especially among the
Republics of South America—in that the smaller they are, the more noisy
and obstreperous shall we find their histories have been. But there is a
certain dignity and much to admire in the little Republic of Uruguay, and
its country is one of the most attractive.
After the impression of vastness left on the wanderer in the Argentine,
Uruguay seemed a very small affair indeed; no more than an Argentine
province. It was a corrective to this impression of littleness and
consequent impotence to remember that even little Uruguay was larger
than England and Wales, and not so much smaller than the whole of Great
Britain. It covers 72,210 square miles, against the 88,729 of Great
Britain. We know, however, that mere area does not matter greatly in
national importance, compared with population, and the total population
of Uruguay is only two-thirds that of the city of Philadelphia.
It may be a small country and a smaller people, but the spirit of great
things flames in the breast of Uruguay. Here is how one of its authors,
Señor Ambrosio L. Ramasso, in his well-known work _El Estadista_, begins
his chapter on the warrior spirit of his race:
The production of the soil, exuberant; fresh food for
nourishment, in abundance; a frugal people, sustaining
themselves chiefly upon beef, flour, and _mate_; the land
undulating and extremely fertile, the climate without excessive
rigours, and the need for clothing moderate; the horse always
at hand; hospitality unlimited, and the host who gives it
generous; nature luxuriant, beautiful, full of tones and
superb changes, inviting to admiration, and the enjoyment
of that drowsiness and indolence which the benignity of the
climate carries with it; the lack of the habit of work, due
to the facility with which the physical necessities may be
satisfied; the war that continues with the animals; all these
factors had two decisive results in the making of the child of
this country. On the one hand, they made him full of passion,
with no manner of brake thereon; and on the other, they did
not suppress the fighting instincts of his ancestors, but
rather encouraged their growth. His chief tendency had to be
inevitably towards war, either as the outcome of his natural
heritage, or as an escape valve for activities not otherwise
employed, or yet again by giving expansion to that passionate
and vehement nature of the Latin race in a climate where
vitality is such that all things tend to expand and overflow.
A further condition which favoured the bellicose tendency in
the Uruguayan was his excessive power of imagination; a faculty
which then, as now, he had in richest measure....
And in this manner Señor Ramasso goes on for several pages, showing how
nature had marked out the Uruguayan for a warrior and fighting as the
master passion of his life. The history of the country is certainly
sufficient proof of this spirit, and it still exists in high degree,
though it would seem that the bad old days of the sword and the gun have
now given place to an era of political strife, in which the tongue and
the pen are the more favoured weapons.
Uruguay retains, in Europe, at least, an unenviable reputation as a
hotbed of revolutions, and I am far from supposing that we have seen
the last of these. But forces are at work which will make the upheavals
of the future more decorous than those of the past. During our summer
in Montevideo, all the elements of a first-class revolution were in
existence, but they spent themselves in a wordy warfare among the
newspapers, in public demonstrations and counter demonstrations; not
a shot was fired, though the President’s suburban retreat at Piedras
Blancas, a few miles from the city, was continually under strong military
guard.
“You will still hear much talk of revolution among our young men at the
cafés,” said Uruguay’s most famous philosopher and litterateur to me on
one of the many occasions when we discussed the entertaining politics of
his country. “That is one of their amusements, and will continue to be
so for some time yet, but every new batch of emigrants that lands in the
port of Montevideo helps to banish further the revolutionary era, and if
we could but divert some portion of the great stream of emigration that
rolls past our shores each year into the Argentine, nothing would be more
effective in producing a peaceful and prosperous Uruguay.”
These were the words of Señor José Enrique Rodó—_el gran Rodó_, as he is
affectionately termed throughout Latin-America—and therein we have the
explanation of the bellicose history of this charming little country.
Uruguay was left too much to itself, its people so long content to let
the natural fruitfulness of their land supply their simple needs, that
the only outlet for their energies was to quarrel among themselves, and
thus grew up the two political camps, the _Blancos_ and the _Colorados_,
concerning which I do not recall any approximately accurate description
in the writings of any foreign author on Uruguayan politics. Even so
skilled an observer, so admirable a student of political conditions, as
Viscount Bryce, late British Ambassador to the United States, fell into
absurd misstatements of facts in what he wrote of Uruguayan affairs in
his “South America: Observations and Impressions.” As I have not had an
opportunity of reading Lord Bryce’s well-known work, and personally know
it only through numerous extracts translated into the native journals
of the Argentine, Uruguay, and Chili, it would be ungracious of me to
say anything in criticism of it, beyond the passages thus coming to my
notice. Certainly his explanation of the two parties into which Uruguay
is divided is no better than the nonsense one hears talked among casual
visitors on whom some local resident has been performing the operation
known as “pulling his leg.” Translating from one of several articles
on the work in question, which appeared in _La Tribuna Popular_ of
Montevideo, Lord Bryce is made to write to this effect:
The children of Uruguay are born little Blancos or little
Colorados. It is the political heritage of the early days of
Independence. Scarcely any ever desert their colours. In a
White district it is dangerous to wear a red necktie, just as
it is in _Yolanda_ (? _Irlanda_—Ireland) to show an English
badge.
This is described by the editor as “a very pretty paragraph,” and here
is another which he quotes as “a curious paragraph that might be
regarded as an example of Mr. Bryce’s Yankee humour” (for he is under the
impression that the literary Viscount is a “Yankee Constitutionalist”):
General Oribe mounted on one occasion a spirited white horse.
On seeing this, all his sympathisers followed his example by
mounting themselves on beautiful white steeds. Hence came the
name of the White Party. General Rivera, the irreconcilable
enemy of Oribe, mounted himself in turn on a superb horse
of a reddish colour, in contrast to his terrible rival. The
Riveraists then sought for coloured steeds, and mounted on
these followed their chief. Henceforward the Red Party disputed
successfully for power with the White Party.
This, of course, is mere moonshine. It may possibly have originated in
one of these fertile Uruguayan imaginations of which we have heard,
but it lacks historical truth. I have already indicated that Blancos
and Colorados (the latter word, by the way, does not mean “coloured,”
but signifies “red,” or “ruddy”) may live together in perfect amity.
So incorrect is the statement that every child is born a Blanco or a
Colorado, that there are numerous families in the country divided in
politics, and in my own short experience I have met instances of brothers
who adhered to different parties. I recall in particular two brothers
who, in a perfectly friendly discussion, admitted that they took no real
interest in the politics of the country and were largely indifferent
to the course of affairs, so long as Uruguay continued to prosper, but
who, before the evening had gone, were disputing so hotly the respective
merits of the two parties that they almost came to blows, the one being
clearly a pronounced Blanco and the other an equally tenacious Colorado.
Another very curious misstatement of fact is cited from Lord Bryce’s book
by the _Tribuna_, which observes that the paragraph is a revelation of
“the rich imagination of its author.” Our eminent publicist is alleged to
have written to this effect with reference to revolutions in Uruguay:
When a revolutionary movement is about to break out in
Uruguay, the organisers make an appointment to meet, mounted,
at a certain place and on a day agreed upon beforehand. The
Government always knows well in advance of this, and is able
to possess itself of all the horses in the country, keeping
those in a safe place so that they may not fall into the power
of the revolutionaries. The latter, therefore, remain perforce
on foot. The horse is the soul of Uruguayan revolutionists. It
is the heroic tradition of the glorious epoch of the gauchos.
Without horses the rebels are lost.
The amusement of the Uruguayan editor over these paragraphs and many
others equally distant from the truth was entirely justified, and I
have quoted them here (roughly retranslating them) out of no desire to
belittle the work of one of our ablest writers, for whom I have the
greatest admiration, but merely to show how erroneous one’s impressions
may be as the result of a too brief visit, and lack of opportunity to
study at leisure the condition of a country, as well as its historical
past, as these have been expressed in the language of the country.
Such misconceptions are familiar to us, and to be expected in the
writings of irresponsible lady globe-trotters, but not in the sober
and authoritative pages of one who has given us such a classic as “The
American Commonwealth.”
It is no easy matter to furnish a satisfactory explanation of the two
political parties of Uruguay, and when I find so competent an authority
as Mr. C. E. Akers, in his “History of South America,” affirming that
there are really no distinctions between them, that each professes the
same ideals of government and seeks merely to wrest political power from
the other, I attempt an explanation only with trepidation. Not that I
purpose a detailed account of their origins and evolution, for that
would involve an extremely long disquisition, and would scarcely hold
the attention of an American reader, but that any attempt to distinguish
between them in a few words is attended with difficulty and apt to be
misleading.
The root difference of the two parties can best be described as
Nationalist versus Progressist. Broadly, the White Party is the
Nationalist Party, and the Colorado the Progressist. The colours
distinguish the Spanish Colonial origin of the one party from the
democratic origin of the other. That is to say, the Blancos have always
tended towards exclusiveness and the assertion of the superiority of the
white race, whereas the Colorados, originally sneered at by the Blancos
as savages (_salvages_), on account of their more liberal ideas, which
embraced the aborigine and the emigrant alike, have always stood for
the wider conception of democracy. At certain times in their history,
the Colorados have even accepted the title of “savages” as a compliment
to their liberalism; to their maintenance of the primal rights of man.
Thus, and not otherwise, have the colours of the two parties a real
significance, and the red of the Colorados is also a cry back to the
French Revolution, the influence of which on South American democracy
has been profound. I have already mentioned in my passing reference to
the home of Garibaldi in Montevideo, that that great champion of liberty
commanded a Brazilian regiment in support of General Rivera when General
Oribe was laying siege to Montevideo, and that the city was defended
principally by French, Italians, and Brazilians against the onsets of the
Blancos, until Oribe was eventually defeated completely by the Argentine
general, Urquiza. This historical fact is entirely in support of what
I have written, and will help to elucidate the party origins. In these
later years, although the politics of the country are still split up
between Reds and Whites, it has become more common to refer to the latter
as Nationalists, they themselves having adopted that title. Hence appears
a distinct and appreciable difference between the two political camps.
As might be supposed from what I have very roughly indicated as to the
respective origins of the two parties, the Blancos are strongest in the
provinces, and draw most of their support from the agricultural and
stock-raising classes, while the Colorados preponderate in the capital
and the larger towns, where modern ideas of democracy find a more
fertile soil. The policy of the Blancos is exclusiveness—“Uruguay for
the Uruguayans” might be its battle-cry, but, paradoxically, not for the
original Uruguayans—while the Colorados are for encouraging immigration
in every way, for the building up of a large and active population,
without the slightest regard to racial origins, believing that once
radicated in the country, the whole would weld itself into a complex
nationality, just as we see in the making in Argentina.
[Illustration: A TYPICAL COUNTRY ROAD IN URUGUAY.]
[Illustration: HIDES DRYING AT CURING FACTORY NEAR MONTEVIDEO.]
It may be fortunate for Uruguay that the Colorados have been in power for
many years, and are likely to dominate its politics for many years more.
Yet not altogether fortunate, as the supremacy of one party over another
is good for neither, and leads to all sorts of governmental abuses,
although it seems to me that Red supremacy is better for Uruguay than
White. The population is much too small for so fruitful a country, and to
discourage the foreigner from becoming a citizen of the Republic, as the
policy of the Blancos would tend in their devotion to narrow Nationalist
ideals, might retard the clock of progress for generations. The crying
need of Uruguay is population, and not even the Colorados as a party
display sufficient energy in encouraging immigration, though individual
leaders grow eloquent on the subject and talk at great length about what
might be done, without being able to move the mass swiftly enough along
the path of progress.
I would not have you think that the Red Party has a monopoly of the truer
patriots. There are too many of its leaders whose sole ambition is to
get their hands into the public treasury, and in this they succeed all
too well. Politics from the profession of most men with ability beyond
the common, and place-seeking is the order of the day. The Socialist
movement, which has recently gathered great strength in the Argentine,
is still in its infancy in Uruguay and was represented at the time of
my stay there, if I remember aright, by only one member of the House of
Deputies, Señor Frugoni, who fought incessantly against everything in the
shape of public expenditure which was not calculated directly to benefit
the workers, and who was one of the four deputies that opposed in July,
1913, the increase of the payment of the national representatives by
$12 per day. Jobbery and bribery are rampant in the administration; the
Government is regarded by the ruck of politicians as their milch cow,
and though all public offices are remunerated modestly enough, there are
numerous ways and means of greatly augmenting official salaries. The
smallness of the population and the intimacy which exists between all the
members of the better classes naturally lay the officials open to every
form of personal temptation, and I never heard that “Deliver us from
temptation” was a popular prayer among them.
It would be an easy matter to give numerous examples of the abuses
that exist, but one will suffice. A burning question for many years in
Montevideo had been the paving of the principal streets with asphalt
in place of the stone sets, or _adoquines_, with which they had been
laid for generations, and which, as I have already mentioned, made
traffic over them extremely noisy and unpleasant. The contract for this
work attracted much competition from abroad, and one European firm was
even encouraged to bring over workmen, material, and machinery for the
treatment of one short street as a sample of their work. The said work
appeared to me in every sense satisfactory, and as the firm is a large
international organisation, capable of handling a contract of any
dimension, having paved the streets of many a city, it was natural to
suppose that it would be chosen to carry out the street improvements
of the Uruguayan capital. But no, a local ex-hotel-keeper was favoured
with this important contract! The manner in which he organised it was a
splendid lesson in the art of how not to do it. The principal avenida was
torn up, traffic dislocated for weeks, yet no asphalt was laid, because
the enterprising contractor had omitted to secure the asphalt before
removing the cobbles. Certain streets were barred to traffic for months
on end, mountains of dug-out earth were beaten hard under the feet of
pedestrians, who had to climb over them on their way to and from their
houses, so that when eventually they were removed, they were so solid
that the workmen had to break them up with pick-axes. Everywhere one was
met with barricades of stones and earth; confusion reigned supreme.
The greatest scandal of all is that laid at the door of President Batlle
y Ordoñez, and may yet assume the importance of an international dispute.
During the presidency of his predecessor, an international syndicate,
in which I believe both French and English shareholders invested
several millions of money, was granted a concession to carry out a huge
enterprise, which would so vastly enhance the appearance of the town and
add to its wealth that, once effected, not even Rio de Janeiro could be
cited as a finer example of a modernised city. At the present time, the
poorest part of Montevideo is that lying along the southern margin of
the promontory, eastward towards the suburb of Ramírez. It has a rocky
fore-shore, and the water there is comparatively shallow, so that it
would be possible to reclaim a considerable amount of land along this
side of the town, and build a magnificent marine drive, extending all the
way from the oldest part of the city to the suburb mentioned, and thence
linking up with the fine promenade at Pocitos. Many maps of the city are
now in circulation with this improvement shown as though it actually
existed, the great highway by the waterside being marked as “Rambla Sud
América.”
All the preliminary work of surveying and getting ready for the actual
construction of the sea wall, and the reclamation from the water of an
immense new area for the extension of the city, was carried out by the
foreign company, under its duly authorised concession, its recompense
being determined by the lease for a certain number of years of the land
reclaimed. Then President Batlle came into power and calmly “squashed”
the whole affair. This high-handed action of his was based upon the
belief that it would be possible for the government to carry out the
improvement and enjoy to the full the increased revenue which would
immediately result from the new land made available for building, as
well as the enhanced value of all the property along the southern shore.
The undertaking is, of course, hopelessly beyond the compass of native
enterprise, and the action of the President may be ascribed to that vivid
imagination of which we have already heard as part of the mental make-up
of the Uruguayan. He by no means carried with him the sympathies of his
party in this matter, and many of the newspapers of Montevideo would grow
as indignant over the scandal of the Rambla Sud as the enterprising
European promoters of the scheme themselves.
Mention of this subject serves to raise the question of a very grave
defect in the constitution of the Republic. It is a strange anomaly
that in a country which prides itself upon its democratic spirit,
its President should be endowed with powers that are little short
of dictatorial. This is its legacy from the old days of military
predominance, when the Presidency went to the military officer who could
secure command of the army, just as surely as the Praetorian Guard used
to make and unmake the Cæsars of Rome. As a party, the Colorados are in
favour of reform, and would like to see a diminution of the power which
the constitution places in the hands of the President, but Señor Batlle y
Ordoñez, who not so many years ago was a struggling journalist, and still
as editor of _El Dia_ combines journalism with the business of President,
took the initiative in a new constitutional “reform” in 1912, which
speedily resulted in his becoming the most unpopular man in the country.
His earlier career had been that of a loud and strenuous Democrat and his
first presidency gave fairly general satisfaction, but when he returned
for a second time to the seat of power, his actions soon ceased to be
those of an essential Democrat.
Still he maintained a measure of public sympathy for the able manner
in which he handled national affairs—as the constitution, with all its
faults, works well, provided the President uses it only for the good of
the country—but the imperious spirit which he developed, and his harsh
treatment of political opponents, speedily changed the attitude of the
people, and when he launched his extraordinary scheme for reforming
the constitution, he found himself almost alone, with the overwhelming
majority of senators and deputies opposed to him. Being a man of
virility, he refused to trim his sails, and went straight ahead with the
reckless campaign, denouncing old colleagues who had fallen away from him
in terms of unmeasured abuse in his daily paper, and refusing to give any
of them the personal satisfaction of a duel, that being incompatible with
his office of President. A sort of comic opera situation thus developed,
the President as journalist lashing about him at his own sweet will in
his editorial columns, but refusing to meet the victims of his wrath at
the point of the sword or pistol in hand, as many of them invited him to
do!
The reading of some of Señor Batlle’s articles in favour of his proposed
reform might have left any one unfamiliar with the real import of the
movement with the impression that he was that rarest of mortals among
statesmen ancient or modern: the man who finds himself endowed with
powers so dangerous, if exercised without discretion, that he wishes to
curtail these for the protection of his fellow countrymen and to free
himself from the temptation of abusing them. Day after day he used to
hold forth in the editorial column of _El Dia_, on the dire possibilities
that might succeed to a country that placed itself under the almost
autocratic control of one man, on “the instability of unipersonal power,”
and “the anti-democratic character of absolutism.” To the onlooker all
this was vastly amusing, and to the intelligent mass of Uruguayans the
intention of the proposed reform was as transparent as glass. Señor
Batlle urged that an _ejecutivo colegiado_, to consist, I think, of seven
members, like the Swiss Federal Council, should be elected to co-operate
with the President in the government of the country, and that from this
executive body each new President might be chosen. In this way, he
contended, it would be possible to limit the authority of any President
by placing the executive power in the hands of a group. Of course, it
was obvious to all thinking people that what he was after was merely
to secure, before the end of his four years of office, the election of
seven of his personal friends to form this new executive, so that when
he had to withdraw from the Presidency he could still, from his home in
Piedras Blancas, work the puppets, and the chief of the puppets would
be his successor. He laid much stress in his newspaper advocacy of the
_ejecutive colegiado_ on example of Switzerland, which he was fond of
quoting as the ideal of a democratic state, but in no respect was there
the slightest resemblance between the Swiss method of government and that
proposed by him. The Swiss Federal Council is elected by the Federal
Assembly, and consists of citizens who hold no other public offices
and are engaged in no business or profession. But the seven (or it may
have been nine) who were to share the responsibility of the Uruguayan
President and thus intensify by seven or nine times the dangerous
character of the presidential power, were to be neither representative
of the people nor of the Colorado Party, but merely representative of
President Batlle.
A more preposterous suggestion could not have been made by the temporary
ruler of a sane people, and the surprise was that the President could
even muster his stage army of standard bearers and demonstrationists
who used to parade the town in favour of the “reform,” while he himself
was afraid to venture from his suburban retreat to the Government
House,—where he ought to have been in residence,—more than once every
two or three months and at unlikely hours. They used to have a healthy
habit in Montevideo of shooting a President who abused his power, and
Señor Batlle was so familiar with the past history of his interesting
little country that among the numerous articles published by him in _El
Dia_ to illustrate the instability of the present constitution was one
giving a list of all the Presidents from Rivera onward, with notes of the
disturbances which occurred during their terms of office, how so many of
them had to fly for their lives, how some were killed, and few indeed
completed their term without witnessing insurrection and sanguinary
disturbances. During his own previous term of office, the revolution of
1904 occurred, and he had a narrow escape from death by the explosion
of a mine. In the succeeding four years of Señor Claudio Williman’s
presidency, two revolutions occurred, one of these assuming serious
proportions. Hence President Batlle did not unduly flaunt his personality
in public places during our summer in Montevideo, in marked contrast, I
was told, to the manner of his previous presidency, when he went about
freely everywhere and was probably the most popular man in the Republic.
The most interesting episode in his strange campaign against popular
sentiment was the publication in his own journal of several paragraphs in
black type headed _Permanente_, which roused the ire of every person of
good taste throughout the Republic, and welded for once the whole press,
Blanco and Colorado, into one. As this incident throws a vivid little
sidelight on the politics of the country, I venture to translate the
paragraphs in question, which were reprinted daily in the Presidential
journal, and have probably only ceased to appear since the death of the
aged politician at whom they were aimed:
PERMANENT.
It is an undeniable fact, and well-known that Dr. José
Pedro Ramírez in 1873 purchased the vote of the Deputy
Isaac de Tezanos for the sum of 40,000 pesos, in favour of
the candidature for the Presidency of the Republic of his
father-in-law, Dr. Don José María Muñoz.
It seems very probable that the same occurred with regard to
the votes of the deputies Hermógenes Formoso and Vicente Garzón.
From publications in _El Siglo_ of that period, it would seem
that at the same time as he was thus purchasing these, Dr.
José Pedro Ramírez was accusing the Gomensor faction of having
offered nearly three times as much for the votes of the same
deputies—which he well knew to be a calumny, since he himself
had purchased them for much less.
The result of these infamies was the military mutiny of 1875,
and five lustres of misfortunes for the country.
All this notwithstanding, the Nationalist Party, the
Constitutionalists that still remain, and a few disaffected
Colorados are rendering homage to Dr. Ramírez, whom they
proclaim as the first, or one of the first citizens of the
Republic.
Those who so act are corrupting public morals and robbing
themselves of authority and prestige.
This extraordinary presidential-journalistic attack on an aged
politician, then so feeble and near his end that he died a few months
later, was occasioned chiefly because the journal _El Siglo_, one of the
most influential of the Colorado newspapers, with which Dr. Ramírez, as
a young man, was connected, and with which certain of his relatives are
now associated, had, in common with the entire press of the country,
strongly opposed the President’s suggested reform. For nearly forty years
the country had chosen to forget that Dr. Ramírez had so acted in 1873,
and he himself at that time publicly made confession of what he had done,
and withdrew from his journalistic post as an act of penance, although
assuredly he had in no wise sinned against the spirit of that time. The
spectacle of the President of the Republic using the columns of his own
private journal thus to attack the aged publicist who, in the forty
years following this admitted transgression, had done much to merit the
good opinion and win the homage of his fellow-countrymen, ranged every
journalist of any prestige against President Batlle and brought, as I
well remember, streams of telegrams from distant parts of South America,
from eminent statesmen and the leading newspapers, sympathising with the
victim of the President’s attack.
What may be the ultimate outcome of those strange events of the summer
of 1913, I do not know, but perhaps I have said sufficient about the
politics of the country to show that there is room for improvement. At
the same time, to do justice to Señor Batlle y Ordóñez, I recognise in
him a really strong man, and regret that his second term of office should
have been so marred by ill-considered and anti-democratic suggestions of
constitutional change. He had previously won a reputation for political
honesty which, even among his bitterest enemies, I never heard called
in question, and much that he did, even during his second stormy
administration, was entirely for the good of the country. I remember
that at the height of his battle with the Chambers and the public, he
promulgated a new law for the protection of animals, accompanied by a
presidential message worthy to be printed in letters of gold by the
R.S.P.C.A. and circulated throughout all Latin-America. He even went
so far as to prohibit boxing matches, as _el box_, a growing passion
in the Argentine, was beginning to acquire popularity in Uruguay. Had
his energies been more wisely directed and his undoubted strength of
character applied to the furtherance of certain much-needed public
improvements and to the real widening of the democratic basis of the
Constitution, he might have made his second administration a landmark in
Uruguayan progress.
Progress is inevitable, and if it has been retarded in Uruguay by the
frequent revolutionary disturbances, it has been none the less real. As
a matter of fact, we are apt to overestimate the importance of these
revolutions. Before the dawn of the modern commercial era, which has so
greatly developed the capital city, revolutions were doubtless vastly
disturbing and made the life of the community somewhat burdensome. But
it is surprising to note how large a proportion of the population have
survived these supposedly sanguinary affairs. You will see far more
elderly people in Montevideo than in Buenos Ayres, where men of over
fifty-five are rarities in the streets. The fact is that Uruguayan
revolutions have degenerated into something very much akin to the duel in
France, and they are usually fought where there is likely to be the least
danger to property, as Whites and Reds alike have come to appreciate the
advantages of modern domestic comfort, and the more beautiful villas
there are erected in the suburbs and surroundings of Montevideo, the less
likely are revolutions to occur. Most of those of recent date have been
really very little more serious than the old election rioting that used
to accompany political changes in our own country.
One effect of revolution, however, has been to produce a remarkable
shortage of horse flesh throughout the Republic. On the outbreak of an
insurrection, the Government used to “commandeer” horses everywhere, and
would clean an estancia of all its useful animals, handing over to the
owner so much worthless paper, which he was supposed to be able some day
to redeem for the loss of his horses. Not only so, but his _peones_ would
be pressed in like manner into the Government service, armed with rifles
and sent out to fight the revolutionaries. After periodic losses in this
manner, the estanciero adopted the policy of breeding and maintaining
just as few horses as he could possibly do with. Result: in Uruguay,
a country where horses should abound, the cavalry are insufficiently
mounted, a very considerable proportion of the Government troops being
without mounts. This fact, by the way, is the best comment that can be
passed upon Viscount Bryce’s paragraph quoted in the earlier part of this
chapter.
We have heard about the warrior spirit of the Uruguayan, but, strangely
enough, it does not manifest itself in a warrior nation. There is
no system of military service in the Republic, such as that of the
Argentine. Nay, until very recently the army was looked down upon by the
better-class families as a profession for their sons, and was no more
than the happy hunting-ground of all sorts of adventurers, the rank and
file being chiefly niggers, Indians, and half-breeds, while many of the
officers were themselves either of negro or Indian blood. Even to-day,
when men of good family are looking to the army for a career and military
training is being organised on European lines, the army is still composed
in large part of undesirables and is used entirely as a Government
machine. Both political parties have hesitated at compulsory service for
fear of each other. The Colorados have carefully nursed the army during
their long spell of power as so many paid fighting men to back up their
party at such times as the Blancos take arms against it. Here again, it
will be seen there is room for improvement in Uruguayan affairs.
I had not intended in these notes to be led into any lengthy discussion
of Uruguayan politics, as that is a subject which tempts one into such
labyrinthine byways that it is best left alone, and yet it is difficult
to say anything about the country in general into which political
considerations do not enter. I should have preferred to have enlarged
rather on the literary side of the people, which engaged me even more
than the politics and the warlike spirit—which, by the way, used to seem
to me curiously out of place when I passed the extremely modest little
building, about the size of a suburban police station, that does duty
for the Uruguayan War Office. But I find it difficult to touch with any
satisfaction on all the subjects that occur to me as worthy of note.
The literary activity is certainly remarkable when we bear in mind the
extremely limited public to which Uruguayan authors can appeal. Two
very stout volumes of a critical survey of Uruguayan literature were
published at the end of 1912, and these were but the advance guard
of others to follow, the work being designed to occupy several bulky
tomes. The roll of Uruguayan authors in poetry and prose is truly a
formidable one, though I doubt if more than two names would be known in
the United States, and these of living authors whose reputations, but
not their works, may be familiar to a small circle of American critics.
Juan Zorilla de San Martín is the great poet of the country, and José
Enrique Rodó its leading philosophic writer. Both are famous throughout
Latin-America and Spain, and both very remarkable men, who have had to
look to politics as well as to literature in their struggle for a living.
[Illustration: THE CALLE SAN MARTÍN, MENDOZA.]
[Illustration: A GLIMPSE OF THE RIVER MENDOZA.]
Señor Rodó, who is one of the deputies for Montevideo, is recognised as a
master of Spanish style, a great critic of literature, and a philosopher
in whom there are many points of contact with Lord Morley, as they belong
to the same liberal school of thought. Withal, he is one of the last of
the Bohemians, so far as that implies absolute disregard for sartorial
display and the unbusinesslike ordering of his daily life. You will meet
him at all strange hours of the night wandering about the streets, lonely
and contemplative, and if you glance at his shirt cuff when shaking hands
you will find it soiled and scribbled over with many pencilled notes. He
has all the old-world courtesy of the Spaniard, with the wider outlook
of the American mind, and, above all, a profound admiration for English
character and Anglo-Saxon civilisation. His opinion is sought on great
public questions and on matters of literature from all parts of South
America, and I have often thought it strange that this rather shabbily
dressed and retiring gentleman whom I used to meet wandering lonely in
the dusk up side streets, and with whom I would stop and gossip for five
or ten minutes on my way home, was the object of admiration of literary
circles wherever Spanish-American men of letters gathered together—_el
gran Rodó_!
Señor Zorilla de San Martín is of a different type, shorter in stature
and more pronouncedly Spanish in appearance, with the darting fire and
restlessness of the imaginative Oriental rather than the careless repose
of his philosophic contemporary. He is essentially a poet, though his
signature appears on all the bank notes of Uruguay, by virtue of some
official post he used to hold. He has also represented his country at
the Court of Spain, and been honoured in many ways by the nation which
is justly proud of his poetic achievement, for in _Tabaré_, his epic
of early Spanish life in Uruguay, he has produced one of the modern
Castillian classics. I found him a perfervid Shakespearean, also a keen
admirer of Carlyle, whose portrait holds the place of honour in his
study, although he confessed that it was a struggle to follow the sage
of Chelsea in the original, and he most frequently read him in French
translations. Neither of these eminent Uruguayans, by the way, though
owning indebtedness to our English literature, had acquired a speaking
knowledge of our language, French appealing to them, as it does to the
great majority of the educated Latin-Americans, more readily than English.
One thing that struck me not only in the literature of the country
and in the manifestations of its political thinkers, but in all the
evidences of its daily life, was how slightly indeed has the tremendous
modern development of the Argentine affected Uruguay. Just as the great
current of emigration passes its shores and does no more than dash a
little spray, in the form of a few stray emigrants, into Uruguay, so the
progress of the Argentine has affected hardly at all the life of Uruguay.
It is a distinct and highly individualised entity. Though essentially
Spanish in character, and originally part of the vice-royalty of Spain,
Uruguay had to secure its independence, not from the motherland, but
from Brazil, of which it was a province up to August 25, 1825. There
is much talk among Argentine statesmen of the chauvinist variety, of
annexing it to the greater republic, but geographically it is not meant
to be Argentine territory, the River Plate on the south and the Uruguay
on the west being natural boundaries, while the Brazilian frontier is
artificial. Less likely is it ever again to pass under the control of
Brazil, and it really serves a useful political purpose as something of a
buffer state between the two great republics of the Southern continent.
The most notable Argentine influence to be detected in Montevideo is the
passion for highly polished boots! I have often been amused to notice
workmen on their way from their tasks carefully dusting their boots
with their handkerchiefs to keep themselves “in the movement.” Like all
little countries, it is intensely proud of itself, tenacious of its
independence, and conscious of a certain superiority to both of its
great neighbours in the higher standard of intellectualism which it has
developed. Talk of Argentine annexation to an Uruguayan, and you will
speedily see that warrior spirit of which we have already heard a good
deal.
In the preceding chapter, certain distinctions between the social life
of the two republics have been mentioned, but not the prevalence of the
old Andalusian custom of love-making. This is one of the features of
Montevidean life that give a quaint touch to the street scenes, as every
evening the lovers may be observed standing on the pavement outside the
barred windows, talking to the girls within. This, I fancy, is similar
to the Mexican custom known as “playing bear,” and very strange it
looks to the wanderer from other shores. If a young man falls in love
with a Montevidean damsel, he must find some means of being introduced
to her father and gaining permission to pay court to his daughter, for
which purpose two nights of the week will be set apart, when he is at
liberty to visit her in the presence of her family, and this, mark
you, takes place before the lovers will have exchanged a spoken word.
The sweetheart is not supposed to meet the young lady at any other
time except on those appointed evenings, not even in the street is
he expected to stop and talk to her, and he can only take her to the
theatre duly chaperoned by a sister or other relative. The courtship,
too, is only permitted on the distinct understanding that the young man
intends to propose marriage to the young lady, anything approaching
the casual American courtships being rigorously ruled out. Then comes
the ceremony known as _el cambio de argollas_, or change of rings, to
which, much as we should invite a large wedding party, all the friends of
the sweethearts are bidden; presents are given, and the engaged couple
present each other with a ring. When the marriage time draws near, the
lover must himself make all arrangements for the house, endeavouring
to interpret as best he can the taste of his future wife, who takes no
part in these preliminaries, until another ceremonial occasion, known as
_la visita de vistas_, when, accompanied by some friends and her future
husband, she goes to see the home he has prepared for her. These customs,
chiefly of Spanish origin, are more observed in Uruguay than on the other
side of the River Plate, and help, among many others, to emphasise the
differences that exist between the two peoples.
It is well-known, of course, that Uruguayan credit in Europe has not
stood as high of recent years as the splendid possibilities of the
country ought to warrant, due to the fact that a great deal of the money
borrowed in the past for public improvements has found its way into the
wrong pockets, and also in some degree to the high-handed action of
President Batlle in regard to the affair of the Rambla Sud. In 1913, the
treasury had fallen so low that it was not able to pay all the Civil
Servants their salaries, but a new loan has just been floated at the
time these lines are being written, which will enable the Government to
pay its way for some time to come, and it is to be hoped that the spirit
of international friendship and co-operation which has worked to such
splendid issues in the Argentine, and is really part of the Colorado
policy in Uruguay, may so develop that this highly favoured little
country shall turn its attention in a more businesslike and earnest way
to the development of its great natural resources.
One of the curses of Uruguay is the prevalence of consumption, to combat
which an admirably managed association is in existence, and a great
annual collection is made on _el Dia de los Tuberculosos_, September
1st. The extraordinary energy with which this movement has been taken
up, the immense sums of money realised by the collections throughout the
Republic, and the admirable way in which the whole thing is organised by
the Uruguayan Anti-consumption League, were proofs to me of the genuine
spirit of public service that does exist in the country, and evidences of
what that spirit may yet achieve.
CHAPTER XXII
FROM THE RIVER PLATE TO THE ANDES
Early in April we made another journey to Buenos Ayres, and thence to
Ensenada, the port of La Plata, where, in the company of friends, I had
to bid good-bye to my wife, with whom the changeful climate had dealt
none too kindly. Just a year before, we had set out to revel in the
sunshine of the golden South, and now one of us, after a year of many
changing weathers, was gladly setting sail for the grey North, resolved
never again to say one word against its climate, while the other would no
less willingly have bid good-bye to the River Plate, but that matters of
importance held him to South America and the promise of many new scenes
and far journeyings for well-nigh another year.
It was with a curious sense of loneliness that I found myself back in
Montevideo, not at our old quarters in the Calle Sarandí, but comfortably
accommodated in the Hotel Oriental, for some three weeks more, ere I too
had to take leave of the River Plate. Those few weeks in that hotel,
which is situated hard by the quay and is the favourite house of call for
all English and American voyagers making a flying visit to the port, went
past much quicker than I had hoped. I found it greatly improved since my
earlier visits, so that it had assumed almost an English aspect in the
matter of appointments, while the _cuisine_ was excellent. The brother
and sister who conduct it showed a very gracious spirit of service to
their guests, and I noticed that in view of the increasing popularity
of their establishment with English-speaking visitors, the lady was
beginning to study their language, of which at that time she knew only
a few words, though she spoke French fluently in addition to her native
tongue.
Many nights of billiard matches at the English Club linger in my memory
of these concluding weeks, and particularly I recall the happy smiling
face of one of the members there, who went about radiating joy because
he had just managed to arrange for leave of absence in October. His
wife—like so many of the wives of the exiles—had been forced to return
home a year or so before that time, and the seven months that now
separated him from wife and home seemed so short by anticipation, in
comparison with the lonely months he had put behind him, that you might
have thought he was setting sail next day. I fear there are many sad
hearts among the British on the River Plate, and many lives being poorly
lived, for one encounters scores of husbands left lonely in these towns
because their wives have found the life so little to their taste, or the
climate, with its sudden changes from hot to cold, too much for their
physical resistance. Can anything be more unsatisfactory than thus to
wear away the best years of one’s life? Several Britishers with whom I
became acquainted, whose duties kept them on the River Plate, had lived
there alone, with only triennial visits to their wives and families in
England, for periods ranging from ten to fifteen years. Some of these
gentlemen had made, or were making, considerable fortunes, but I must
confess I envied none the wealth which they were securing at so great a
sacrifice of domestic happiness.
Still, I would not have you think that my thoughts were tinged with
melancholy when I stepped aboard the old river steamer _Eolo_, on which
so often I had journeyed between the two great cities of the Silver
River, after bidding good-bye to a group of friends, among whom was no
fellow-countryman, to look for the last time on the dancing lights of the
fairy scene which the Bay of Montevideo presents each night to those on
shipboard. In Montevideo our time had passed, on the whole, agreeably;
excepting one tremendous storm of rain and hail, when fiercest thunder
rolled and lightning swept the streets in blinding flashes, it had been
a time of sunshine and fair weather,—sunshine tempered with refreshing
breezes,—so that, after all, we had found something of which we went in
search.
[Illustration: THE NATURAL BRIDGE OF PUENTE DEL INCA, ON THE TRANSANDINE
ROUTE INTO CHILI.]
I remember well how changed was the scene on arriving in the early
morning at Buenos Ayres, where torrential rain was falling. Through the
mud and slush I drove once more to the old, familiar hotel, and nothing
but the most essential duties of the day took me out of doors, for it
rained “as if the heavens had opened and determined to empty themselves
forever,” and next morning I awakened to the rain thundering on the roof
with unabated vigour. So it continued all that day, while I made furtive
dashes here and there, saying a few hurried good-byes, visiting the bank,
arranging travelling accommodation for my journey across the continent
and over the Andes to the city of Santiago de Chili. The train was to
leave about eight o’clock on the Sunday morning, and so admirable is the
accommodation for passengers’ luggage, that if your heavier baggage is
not delivered the previous day, it runs great risk of being left behind
in the morning. This I discovered somewhat late in the evening, and a
hurried packing ensued.
Still in the streaming wet, I saw the last of the sodden city that Sunday
morning, and found myself in a particularly crowded train, with three
travelling companions. One of these was the most talkative and genial of
Argentines I have met, whose family history was speedily at my disposal,
and much of whose companionable character came, I doubt not, from the
French origin to which he confessed. Full of a delightful admiration for
all things English and American, except the language, which he had found
too hard a nut to crack, he proved the best of travelling companions,
having made the journey from Buenos Ayres to Valparaiso many times
before. He was the publicity manager of a very famous Anglo-American firm
of advertising chemists, and I can assure them they are admirably served,
as I found his knowledge of the journalistic conditions of the Argentine
thoroughly sound in every detail on which I was able to test it, and that
meant a very representative test, as it had been an important part of my
own occupation in the country to familiarise myself with journalistic
conditions.
The second of my travelling companions was a typical Argentine of the
town-hating variety. There was nothing of the gaucho in his blood, and
I judged him to be entirely Spanish in origin, of that fair type which
could pass for Anglo-Saxon, but he was a lover of the open spaces and
the wild life of the Camp. Wiry and slim, with blue, inquiring eyes, he
had travelled far, and was familiar with many parts of North America and
Europe, although he had just completed some five years in the wilds of
Paraguay and the Gran Chaco, where I believe the lovers of primitive life
can have more than their fill. He recounted many of his experiences among
the wild Indians of the Chaco, and showed me numerous photographs he had
taken there, with all the pride of a schoolboy. Here was none of your
desperadoes of the wild places, though he carried a big enough Browning
in his belt and the usual long knife of the gaucho in a sheath over his
hip. These accoutrements struck me as strangely unsuited to the man, who,
in general appearance and in the quietness of his demeanour, would have
seemed far more in place perched on a high stool in a counting house.
The third of my companions was a red-headed youth from Christiania, on
his way to Valparaiso, where a fellow Norwegian was managing a successful
business, and had offered him a post. He spoke English well, but Spanish
not at all, and made the most elephantine attempts to pronounce the
simplest words, much to the merriment of our other companions, who had at
first marked him down _un inglés_. It was something of a wonder to us how
he had come so far without mishap, as he showed so little ability to deal
with the ordinary difficulties of travel in foreign lands, and, as the
Franco-Argentine remarked to me, he had _poca cabeza_, or “little head.”
But I suppose there is a special providence that watches over such
travellers as he and brings them safely to their journey’s end.
The rain continued as we sped along through the flat and uninteresting
country. Every road was a running stream, and ditches were swollen into
rivers. Any prospect more dismal or less appealing to the affections
than the Argentine Camp in time of rain, I do not know. And at this time
the rain meant a great drop in the temperature that sent all Nature
a-shivering, so that the dripping herds and the sodden sheep on the
far-reaching pasture lands through which we passed were objects of pity,
while the mud-splashed horses and the dripping drivers were supreme
pictures of wretchedness. From shanties here and there by the railway
side, grey faces peeped out at the train, as one of the events in their
dreary day, and the little country towns were so many houses in seas of
mud. I remember we passed some ostrich farms, and these birds, at no time
suggestive of the life joyous, looked the saddest of bipeds. They are of
a different breed from those that are reared in South Africa to furnish
ladies with their “fine feathers,” and are used for supplying the feather
dusters, or _plumeros_, with which lazy servants throughout the Argentine
flick the dust from furniture to walls and back again from walls to
furniture—an operation of infinite amusement and no utility.
I remember little of our various stopping places, except Junin, the great
railway centre of the Buenos Ayres and Pacific Railway on which we were
travelling, and where are situated its engineering works. The station
was thronged with English people, many of whom had come down to see the
train go through, as that is one of the amusements all along the line,
the young people in the remoter country towns dressing up to promenade
the stations as though these might be pleasure piers. Junin is some four
hours’ run from the capital, and is typical of most Argentine towns, with
its earthen streets which are periodically ploughed and rolled, and so
remain quite passable for a few days after that operation, but for the
rest of the year alternate between the conditions of river-bed and dust
heap.
The little station of “Open Door” I remember. We could see in the
distance the buildings and fields of the great asylum, which I should
very much have liked to visit. This is one of the most remarkable
institutions in the Argentine, for here many hundreds of insane are
employed in all sorts of healthy labour, under the supervision of a
famous alienist, whose methods of treatment are entirely original and
have been the subject of much discussion. I remember reading in the pages
of M. Clemenceau, who wrote a most interesting chapter on his visit to
this great asylum, that the superintendent told him so wonderful were
the results of studying the tastes of the lunatics entrusted to his care
and placing them at congenial occupations, that he often thought he
was the only insane person among all the inhabitants of Open Door. Why
this English name should have been chosen for the place, I do not know,
for surely the association of lunacy and the open door does not seem
particularly desirable.
My Franco-Argentine companion was entirely pleased that the rain
continued, for that meant a more agreeable journey in passing through
the almost desert land across which the railway runs in the heart of the
continent, as in dry weather, and despite closed windows, travellers
become covered with the fine, black dust which blows through every chink
and cranny, making that part of the journey dreaded by all. Even in those
days of rain, there was a slight deposit of grey dust on everything
in our carriage, but I confess to no recollections of discomfort, not
even at meal-times, except that the food set before us was by no means
princely, and the fruit in particular would have been thrown in the
dustbin by an East Side dealer. Vaguely I remember lighted towns and the
darkening night, and then awakening, still in the dark, but with the most
delicious of sweet morning airs penetrating the carriage, as we stood
still in the station of Mendoza.
This would be nearly six of the morning. There was much hurrying of
porters and shifting of luggage from the express into the Transandine
train, waiting on the other side of the platform. In the dining car of
this, coffee was steaming and rolls and butter ready for the travellers.
We speedily secured our seats for the mountain journey on which the
Transandine train had to set out about seven o’clock. And now, in the
grey light, one could see in all directions the dim forms of rugged
hills, and presently the dawn came, swiftly and bright, lighting up
the nearer vine-clad hills, and showing us great dim mountain masses
westward, where the mighty Andes stood between us and the Pacific. It was
a beautiful scene, and thrilled me with that strange feeling which the
hills must ever bring to those who have been born and lived among them,
especially after a year in which I had not set eyes on any rising ground
save the little hummock of the Cerro in the Bay of Montevideo.
The time left to one for a glimpse of the town was of the briefest, and
it was a sleeping town I saw. I had intended to spend two days in Mendoza
on my way into Chili, and made all arrangements accordingly, with the
high approval of the authorities at the Buenos Ayres end. My luggage all
bore large labels for Mendoza, so that by no chance should it be taken
on to Chili while I remained in the Argentine town. In the summer time,
the international trains go three times a week, and in the winter time
but twice. I had positive assurance that the thrice-a-week service was
still running in this first week of May, so that I could spend two days
in Mendoza between trains. In the preceding year, the Transandine Railway
had been closed for four months, owing to the severity of the winter
weather in the mountain passes, and I was anxious that in the event of
the winter of 1913 rivalling that of 1912, I should not be among the
passengers “held up” in these snowy wilds. I felt I was running it quite
closely enough in determining upon a two days’ stay at Mendoza merely
to study the town, and when the guard of the train informed me in the
course of a casual conversation that only two trains a week were running
and I should have to stay four clear days before I picked up the next
connection over the Andes, I forthwith determined to continue my journey,
especially as I had found such agreeable companions.
[Illustration: THE INCA’S LAKE IN THE ANDES, AS I SAW IT.]
[Illustration: THE CHRIST OF THE ANDES.
The great statue erected on the Argentine-Chilian frontier to commemorate
the settlement of the boundary dispute between the two nations. The
Transandine tunnel penetrates the mountain some little distance below
this point.]
But now arose the question of my luggage, which I had so elaborately
marked that it might not by any chance be carried beyond Mendoza.
I sought out the representative of Villalonga, the Pickford of the
Argentine, and explained the situation to him. Looking at my voucher, he
remarked that there was no necessity to make any change, as the luggage,
according to the voucher, was all consigned through to Santiago! The
luggage inspector, with a gang of porters, was employed in shifting the
baggage from the transcontinental train to that which had to climb the
mountains, and he also assured me that it did not matter in the least
where the luggage was labelled for, as it would all go on to Santiago.
And I had been at such pains to provide for its unshipment at Mendoza!
I greatly regretted not being able to linger in this fresh and attractive
town, which, under the bright dawn of that autumn morning, seemed to be a
place where one might have sojourned very pleasantly for a few days. The
streets of the new town, built entirely since the disastrous earthquake
of 1861, are for the most part wide and in fairly good condition, many of
them lined with shady trees and a stream of fresh water running in the
gutters. But I was taking no risks in the upper Andes, as I remembered
the experiences related to me by certain travellers, a year before, who
had been snowbound at Puente del Inca, and reconciled myself to having no
more than a glimpse of Mendoza when it was just turning on its pillow and
thinking of getting up. (I lived to regret this, as several colleagues
joined me in Chili at intervals of months later, and all had good
journeys, the Andes remaining “open” all the winter.)
The sun was radiant when, a little after seven, we steamed out of
Mendoza station and crept in among the verdant foothills of the Andes,
where all around us were signs of vegetation and natural conditions
utterly distinct from those of the Atlantic side. There was a bracing
touch of cold in the morning air, and yet a feeling that here was the
most delightful of climates, with sunny slopes where the grapes ripened
in far-spreading vineyards, the sight of which transported one at once
to the pleasant land of France, and I can imagine that the many French
settlers who have come to Mendoza, attracted by the great and growing
wine trade of the town and district, will often have the illusion that
they are still at home.
The railway, all the way from Mendoza almost to the Pacific, follows
the course of rivers, which at first run eastward from the watershed
of the mountain frontier and then westward to the ocean. The scenery
is by no means sensational in its beauty, as the train threads its way
among the gentler valleys watered by the River Mendoza for some forty
or fifty kilometres westward of the city. But as the ascent becomes
more precipitous and the clatter of the rack and pinion slackens to the
slowest of tunes, while the engine crawls, with much puffing, laboriously
upwards, the panorama of the mountain heights grows very beautiful, and
unlike most mountain scenery of Europe.
Wild and barren are the hills, and lifeless and dead they seem, for
rarely does a bird flit across the scene, and few cattle or sheep find
pasturage after we have passed the junction of the Rivers Mendoza and
Uspallata, between forty and fifty miles westward of Mendoza. There is a
great stillness among these mountains, a feeling of cold and cheerless
solitude. Here we are among the waste places of the earth, and yet they
lack the Dantesque majesty of rugged grandeur and fantastic outline,
having instead a certain rhythmic monotony of form, varied only by their
extraordinary and sensational colouring. Great patches of heliotrope and
purple, long zigzag streaks of green, immense blotches of yellow—vivid
as mustard—bright spots here and there of red and gleaming blue, and
large tracts of oily black—such are the colours I recall among these
gigantic volcanic masses, where an almost endless variety of mineral
substances give these unfamiliar tints to the treeless and grassless
heights. Sometimes, indeed, I found that what looked like a great patch
of sulphur, on nearer approach proved to be a thin yellow grass, upon
which those strange animals, the llamas, are able to feed, and it was, I
think, at the station of Zanjon Amarillo, where we had reached a height
of some 7,350 feet, that I first saw two or three of these quaint beasts
of burden, who stopped cropping this scanty herbage to gaze at the train
with their questioning eyes, in which there is always a suggestion of
indignation.
These wayside stations, of which there are many on the route, are almost
the only signs of habitation, and it is difficult to imagine that
anywhere among those forbidding hills human beings are so luckless as
to have their homes. Everybody at the station seemed to be shivering
with cold, as the bright sunlit sky of the morning was now, in the early
afternoon, glooming over with grey, foreboding a snow-storm, and I
thought I had never seen anything more charged with melancholy than the
little plot of graves beside the station of Zanjon Amarillo. Some dozens
of tiny, wooden crosses and withered wreaths decorated this loneliest of
cemeteries. I suppose most of them who were sleeping their last sleep
alongside this lone little railway station had been employed in the
making of the line, for there is surely naught else but the making and
maintenance of the railway to inhabit these cheerless wastes.
From time to time, of course, little groups of prospectors are wandering
among the mountains, looking for favourable spots where mining may be
attempted, but so far that industry in this region is of the slightest.
We carried with us in our train a number of young Englishmen employed
as sectional superintendents of the line, who had been on a visit to
Buenos Ayres, and at various points they were dropped off, with much
hand-shaking and good wishes, to begin another spell of lonesome, but,
perhaps, not uninteresting work. Their conversation touched the varying
merits of certain distances which ought to be allowed between the
telegraph posts, and it was surprising to learn how greatly opinions
could differ on that subject.
As we approach Punta de las Vacas, a few miles beyond Zanjon Amarillo,
the ascent suddenly stiffens, and the railway now performs the
characteristic corkscrew journey of all Alpine lines. This station is
at the junction of the Cow River (_Rio de las Vacas_) with the Mendoza,
but whence the name of the former I cannot guess, for it seemed a region
where _vacas_ would fare badly. Southward we had now a view of the
volcano Tupungato, but when we had laboriously climbed another twelve
or thirteen miles to Puente del Inca, we were just in time to see, away
to the north, the summit of Aconcagua, the monarch of the Andes, being
blotted out in a snow-storm, which in a few minutes more was upon us,
quickly filling the empty barrows about the station with whitest flakes
and enticing most of the passengers to engage in the primitive pastime of
snow-balling. At this point, 9,000 feet above sea level, where there is
quite a good hotel, with thermal baths that attract many visitors in the
summer time, we find one of the few curiosities of the route, a natural
bridge of volcanic matter, over the stream, but I imagine he was a lonely
Inca who gave his name to it, as this is surely the farthest limit to
which Inca civilisation reached southward from Peru and Bolivia.
The train now continued its journey through a white world, the Andes had
disappeared as if by magic. Snow and white sky everywhere, so that it
strained the eyes to look out of the window, and the increasing cold made
us don our thickest wraps and muffle up, while the rarefied air began
to make breathing somewhat difficult. Along the route it was strange to
pass, every little way, an Indian railway labourer, standing at times on
the very edge of a precipice that swept downwards into the mysterious
white depths beneath, and holding in his hand the spade with which he had
been at work on the approach of the train, or perhaps a signal flag with
which he had indicated that all was clear at some dangerous corner, but
invariably looking entirely resigned to the fate that had cast him thus
to labour for the scantiest fare in these upland wastes, where, by the
railway side, we passed from time to time the rude huts in which the
Indian peones huddled like animals.
I remember that the station at Las Cuevas presented quite a lively scene,
a number of railway engineers and officials, wearing their thick ponchos,
having come out to the verandas of their wooden houses, which stand
back some short distance from the station and are connected therewith
by a wooden bridge. I felt that if one had any particular desire to pit
himself against the primal forces of nature and the rude red life of
savage things, here was the station to get off at, 10,500 feet above sea
level, but I was glad to stay in the train and to pull my travelling rugs
the closer around me as it panted still upward, and presently entered the
famous tunnel which penetrates the summit of the Cordillera Principal,
precisely where the frontier line runs between the Argentine and Chili.
When we emerged on the other side and immediately began to descend,
we had bid good-bye to Argentina, and one of the strangest and most
moving scenes I have ever witnessed presented itself. We came out upon a
colossal amphitheatre, from which, to the northwest, the mountain swept
down from the Inca’s Lake—seen dimly through the driving sleet and snow
on our right—into a white mysterious abyss some two thousand feet below,
where dark objects such as the rocky shoulders of lower hills, seemed to
be floating in an eerie sea of vapour. The snow storm had lessened and
was turning now to rain, but the scene was awesome in its effect upon the
observer descending these uncanny slopes into this vague new land.
And in such fashion, at the sleet-veiled threshold of Chili, I, who
little more than a year before had set out in search of sunshine, must
take leave of my reader.
THE END
FOOTNOTES
[1] British exports to the Argentine in 1912 amounted to $103,555,485,
while United States exports totalled $53,158,179.
[2] From the year 1857 to 1912 inclusive 4,248,355 persons of all
classes entered the Argentine. The nationalities represented were as
follows: Italians, 2,133,508; Spaniards, 1,298,122; French, 206,912;
Russians, 136,659; Syrians, 109,234; Austrians, 80,736; Germans, 55,068;
Britons, 51,660; Swiss, 31,624; Belgians, 22,186; Portuguese, 21,378;
Danes, 7,686; Dutch, 7,120; N. Americans, 5,509; Swedes, 1,702; Others,
79,251. During the year 1912 the total number of newcomers was 323,403,
comprising Italians, 165,662; Spaniards, 80,583; Russians, 20,832;
Syrians, 19,792; Austrians, 6,545; French, 5,180; Portuguese, 4,959;
Germans, 4,337; Britons, 3,134; Danes, 1,316; Swiss, 1,005; N. Americans,
499; Belgians, 405; Dutch, 274; Swedes, 94; Others, 8,786. While the
repatriation of hundreds of thousands would reduce these figures greatly,
the increase by births in the country, which cannot readily be traced,
is an important countervailing item. The Argentine authorities naturally
set great store on this, and even state at times the number of “women of
child-bearing age” entering the country.
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