A Question of Likeness

I would be remiss if this blog did not include at least one post a month about the Habsburgs, everybody’s favorite line of deluded European monarchs. I’ve been reading Mexico: Biography of Power by Enrique Krauze, which, like every good historical overview, demonstrates how a tragic chain of events can be funny at the same time. In 1862, Mexico had just finished a civil war that ended in victory for the Liberals (capital "l," in fact), who then proceeded to reenact the French Revolution by smashing every religious object they could find. They also put a moratorium on foreign debts, prompting the actual French to continue the reenactment and invade the country on the orders of Napoleon III. The French were victorious, their May 5 setback notwithstanding, and they decided the Mexican government would be more to their liking if they installed an emperor. What the book does not explain is why they decided their perfect candidate was Archduke Ferdinand Maximilian von Habsburg, the younger brother of Austrian Emperor Franz Joseph (who reigned 1848-1916).

Maximilian’s story is a precious one that deserves to be taught in my country’s elementary schools. He moved into Chapultepec Castle not long after he turned 30, took to wearing a sombrero, and spent his days dreaming of all the good things he would do for his adopted country. (You must look at his picture.) He was optimistic that he would be able to carry out liberal social policies using the absolute power of a sovereign. These hopes were kept afloat for a few years until the opposition recovered its strength and the French lost interest in propping up an untenable colonial enterprise. Maximilian thought about going into hiding, but the book dryly informs us that his beard would have given him away. His wife, Carlota, went back to her native Belgium and locked herself up in a castle until her death in 1927, passing the time telling stories to her rag doll, whom she named Max. The emperor was executed by firing squad.

His only legacies appear to have been an important city boulevard, the Paseo de la Reforma; and a collection of letters that chronicled his love affair with Mexico. The book tells us that when he moved into his new castle, he could not resist likening it to his summer home in Vienna:

It is the Schönbrun of Mexico ... an enchanting pleasure palace built on basalt rock surrounded by the gigantic and famous trees of Moctezuma, which affords a view of such beauty that I can only compare it with that of Sorrento.

He took his wife on a holiday to the ancient Mayan city of Uxmal, describing it as surrounded by mountains,

some of them jagged and impenetrable, rising rock upon rock as on the coast of Sicily and others covered with forests like the green mountains of Switzerland ... add to that a climate as benign as Italy in May and beautiful inhabitants, of friendly and honorable character.

His brief reign not only teaches us a lesson about the inevitable hubris of any fortunate son trying to govern someone else’s country, but also raises a question that may be uninteresting to some but is perplexing to me: How does one describe unfamiliar landscapes? When any of us visit someplace we’ve never been, our easiest and fastest reaction is to compare it to what we know. (Maximilian also called the city of León "the Manchester of Mexico.") In my own case, I have probably done the same thing many times in this blog. I could, say, for instance:

Mexico City is like New York.

Or:

Chapultepec Park, home of the Anthropology Museum, is like the Smithsonian.

Or:

The Condesa neighborhood in Mexico City is like Kalorama in Washington, D.C.

None of these are even remotely alike, and I have not made up my mind about whether such comparisons aid or obstruct the reader’s understanding. Examples in travel guidebooks are endless. "This city feels so much like Europe, you’ll almost forget you’re in South America!" "When you arrive, you’ll find an atmosphere that’s every bit as decadent as Las Vegas." And so forth. There is no easy alternative other than taking the time to learn about what is in front of us, and this is easier said than done when we consider that out of necessity, most vacations are very short.

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