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BUENOS AIRES NEW AND OLD

By C. J. VIDELA-RIVERO

JINETEEN days after leaving New York on a comfortable steamer, passengers wake up to find themselves surrounded by a mud colored expanse of water-the River Plate. But suddenly, as they look ahead, a miracle happens: From the muddy waters the towers of a sunken city begin to emerge-Buenos Aires. Then the tugs come, the ship passes the breakwater, and presently they are landing at a covered concrete pier.

Conditions were far different on November 16, 1823, when the Hon. Cæsar Augustus Rodney, first United States Minister to Argentina, landed in Buenos Aires. His good old clipper had to lie at anchor several miles off the coast and her passengers and cargo go ashore in the lifeboats. The river was too shallow to allow a sea-going vessel to come close to its southern bank, and the man-made channels of today had not even been imagined. In fact, the river was too shallow even for lifeboats. That was the raison d'être of the strange carts built with enormous wheels and drawn by several horses, that came to meet the boats a few hundred yards off the beach. They were deepwater carts, those carretas; it was beneath their dignity to take their cargoes ashore. That task was left to the lighter carretillas, amphibian vehicles of smaller wheels and lesser horsepower.

Mr. Rodney, despite his jovial disposition, must have felt rather discouraged at the sight that greeted his eyes after his third transshipment that day. The Riverside Drive of present-day Buenos Aires (Avenida Costanera) was then non-existent. The gardens that now give a somewhat Champs-Elysées background to the dock warehouses were still a part of Utopia at that time. The town's refuse was dumped on the beach; here and there an overlarge catch of fish had been thrown away, possibly to accelerate the reincarnation of their souls; a few dead horses, laboriously tugged through the streets, had also been left there. Yet some progressive spirits had already given the matter careful thought. Señor Rivadavia, later President of the Republic, invited Mr. James Bevens, an American hydraulic engineer, to study and design pier facilities. Monsieur Cattelin, a French military engineer, received a similar invitation. (Incidentally, Mr. Bevens did not approve of M. Cattelin. The American and his wife were deeply religious Quakers, whose lives, dress, and habits bespoke the severity of God-fearing pioneers. M. Cattelin was perhaps a little too mundane for them. Dressed in his colorful uniform,

Upper: In the early nineteenth century lifeboats carried passengers and cargo from the vessels anchored some distance off the coast to shallow water, where they were met by large-wheeled horse-drawn carts. Lower: A small section of the waterfront of present day Buenos Aires, one of the great ports of the world.

he was wont to ride horseback late in the afternoon, accompanied by an attendant, also in uniform; his sophisticated manners, his polished savoir-faire, and his facile wit were, to his colleague, evidence of sinfulness.)

Not much more encouraging than the beach was the aspect of "downtown." Instead of the tall buildings of to-day, the wide treelined avenues with their busses, street-cars, automobiles, electric signs, and general air of hustle and bustle, then there were only squalid rows of 1-story houses, sometimes whitewashed, but more often not. The change wrought upon building construction in Buenos Aires. by the magic wand of a century is really breathtaking. It is indeed hard to believe that the Avenida de Mayo, the Diagonal Norte, the Calle Florida, teeming with metropolitan throngs and lined by smart shops of all descriptions, stand on the same land occupied a hundred years ago by houses that were little more than farms. The asphalt pavements of to-day were dust roads in the eighteen twenties. Needless to say, the rains played havoc with the streets. Large pools of stagnant water, which were slowly transformed into mud flats if given sufficient time, gave a Venetian touch to the landscape. Ox carts coming from the Provinces in long caravans escorted by numerous riders did not improve the condition of the flats. Some public-spirited citizens, however, magnanimously contributed to civic progress by having stepping-stones placed across the streets, or, occasionally, a wooden plank for the belles to walk on without fear of spattering their dainty gowns.

The spacious sidewalks of to-day, which harbor café tables under awnings, had poor antecedents in the distant eighteen twenties. They were sidewalks only by courtesy, unpaved and narrow; their width was still further diminished by protruding window gratings. Stealthy figures would often move noiselessly along those sidewalks, stop, give a quick glance of inspection through the bars, and then unobtrusively produce a fishing pole. Dexterous hands introduced the rod between two window bars, and soon withdrew it, with a watch, coat, or other valuable merrily dangling from the hook.

The bronze lighting standards with their artistic opaque glass lamps, the pride of present-day avenues, are lineal descendants of the humble and inadequate tallow candles of yore, protected against wind and rain by equally humble glass cases. As a matter of history, however, most of the street-lighting was done by the pedestrians themselves. A negro slave holding a storm-lamp at the end of a stick lighted the way for his masters. This prevented painful bumps against window gratings, unwelcome stumbles into pools, and disagreeable encounters with frogs.

The distant twenties could not boast of a de luxe police force, such as Buenos Aires now maintains. True, some faultfinders criticize the attire of present-day policemen, because, they claim, it resembles

the uniform of a private chauffeur; such critics would have found more than costume to decry a century ago. Night patrolling was then intrusted to serenos (watchmen). Few and far between, those ghostlike guards patrolled the streets after dark, garbed in ponchos and armed with short lances, at the end of which dangled lanterns. Theirs was a double duty: To enforce the law, and to keep the public informed as to the hour and the weather. Their chant could be heard all through the night: "Ten o'clock and it's raining!" "Midnight and it's fine!"

Nocturnal music, now and then, has also changed. Automobile horns, street-car bells, raucous loud-speakers, traffic policemen's whistles, newsboys' cries, compose to-day's symphony. The distant twenties were more melodious, for then serenading was at its zenith. Groups of young guitar players made the rounds at night. After a little preliminary strumming, a love song would break the silence of

the night. Then the lady to whom the song was dedicated would appear at the window; there would be thanks, glances, perhaps a flower, and the band would be off to other balconies.

What possibly amounts to a world record in the matter of serenades was attained in that period. Don Francisco Munilla, a café owner, was a music lover and very competent pianist who conceived the idea of serenading the town with a piano and a whole male chorus. Four husky porters carried the piano, and other servants took along the music-stands and necessary paraphernalia. The serenade lasted an entire night and was the talk of the town for many a year to come. This leads us to the all-important subject of opera. Facing the Plaza Lavalle in Buenos Aires stands an imposing building which occupies an entire block. Wide marble steps lead to a spacious foyer, where a grand staircase adds a note of splendor. Within are upholstered seats, red plush carpets, the "diamond horseshoe." Great

names find a familiar echo here: Caruso, Titto Ruffo, Journet, Schipa, Galli-Curci, Lauri-Volpi, Lily Pons, Tulio Serafín. The corps de ballet, the orchestra, and the chorus are permanent, supported by the city. Without stand Rolls-Royces, Renaults, HispanoSuizas, Packards, liveried chauffeurs, footmen. It is the Teatro Colón, the opera house of Buenos Aires, built on what was farm land in 1823, when the town had its opera première.

The first performances were held at the Teatro Argentino, a ramshackle stable lighted with candles. Many patrons protested, apparently in vain, against footlights that shone on both the stage and the orchestra for lack of a board or other contrivance to throw the light where it was needed. The prompter's shell was of such generous proportions that one of the first Italian tenors fell into the prompter's pit while singing a comic aria, an incident which elicited loud laughter because it was taken by the audience as part of the performance.

The mechanical equipment amounted to nothing, if one considers the fact that the curtain was raised in the following manner: Four heavy stage-hands, two at each side, climbed a ladder to the top of the curtain; then, at the proper time, they seized the ropes and jumped to the floor, thus lifting the curtain into position.

The boxes, of which there were about twenty-five "low" and as many "high" (on the second floor), did not have any seats. The boxholders had to provide their own chairs. For many years the boxes did not have any doors, with the result that many unprincipled intruders crowded around the doorways, to the great annoyance of the legitimate occupants.

The gallery was an exclusively feminine domain, considered informal. Young ladies could meet there to exchange confidences and secret slips of paper, while the mothers pretended not to see. Señorita A would promise, for example, that when young Señor B called at her