path: root/74308-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74308 ***


Transcriber’s Notes:

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MRS. NELSON O’SHAUGHNESSY]




A DIPLOMAT’S WIFE IN MEXICO


  BY
  EDITH O’SHAUGHNESSY
  [MRS. NELSON O’SHAUGHNESSY]

  _Letters from the American Embassy at Mexico
  City, covering the dramatic period between
  October 8th, 1913, and the breaking off of diplomatic
  relations on April 23rd, 1914, together
  with an account of the occupation of Vera Cruz_

  ILLUSTRATED

  [Illustration]

  HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
  NEW YORK AND LONDON

       *       *       *       *       *

  A DIPLOMAT’S WIFE IN MEXICO

  Copyright, 1916, by Harper & Brothers
  Printed in the United States of America
  Published June, 1916
  H-Q




CONTENTS


  FOREWORD ix

  I

  Arrival at Vera Cruz--Mr. Lind--Visits to the battle-ships--We
  reach Mexico City--Huerta’s second _coup d’état_--A six-hour
  Reception at the Chinese Legation. An all-afternoon hunt for
  the Dictator.                                             Page 1

  II

  Sanctuary to Bonilla--Sir Lionel and Lady
  Carden--Carranza--Mexican servants--First Reception at
  the American Embassy--Huerta receives the Diplomatic
  Corps--Election Day and a few surprises.                 Page 14

  III

  Federal and Rebel excesses in the north--Some aspects
  of social life--Mexico’s inner circle--Huerta’s growing
  difficulties--Rabago--The “Feast of the Dead.”--Indian booths
  at the Alameda--The Latin-American’s future.             Page 28

  IV

  The “Abrazo”--Arrival of Mr. Lind--Delicate negotiations in
  progress--Luncheon at the German Legation--Excitement about the
  bull-fight--Junk-hunting--Americans in prison--Another “big
  game” hunt.                                              Page 40

  V

  Uncertain days--The friendly offices of diplomats--A
  side-light on executions--Mexican street cries--Garza Aldape
  resigns--First official Reception at Chapultepec Castle--The
  jewels of Cortés.                                        Page 50

  VI

  “Decisive word” from Washington--A passing
  scare--Conscription’s terrors--Thanksgiving--The rebel
  advance--Sir Christopher Cradock--Huerta’s hospitable
  waste-paper basket.                                      Page 66

  VII

  Huerta visits the Jockey Club--Chihuahua falls--“The tragic ten
  days”--Exhibition of gunnery in the public streets--Mexico’s
  “potential Presidents”--“The Tiger of the North.”        Page 77

  VIII

  The sad exodus from Chihuahua--Archbishop Mendoza--Fiat
  money--Villa’s growing activities--Indian stoicism--Another
  Chapultepec Reception--A day of “Mexican Magic” in the country.
                                                           Page 92

  IX

  Christmas--The strangling of a country--de la Barra--The
  “_mañana_ game”--Spanish in five phrases--Señora Huerta’s great
  diamond--The peon’s desperate situation in a land torn by
  revolutions.                                            Page 110

  X

  New-Year’s receptions--Churubusco--Memories of Carlota--Rape
  of the Morelos women--Mexico’s excuse for the murder of
  an American citizen--A visit to the floating gardens of
  Xochimilco.                                             Page 120

  XI

  Dramatic values at Vera Cruz--Visits to the battle-ships--Our
  superb hospital-ship, the _Solace_--Admiral Cradock’s
  flag-ship--An American sailor’s menu--Three “square meals” a
  day--Travel in revolutionary Mexico.                    Page 132

  XII

  Ojinaga evacuated--Tepozotlan’s beautiful old church and
  convent--Azcapotzalco--A Mexican christening--The release of
  Vera Estañol--Necaxa--The friars--The wonderful Garcia Pimentel
  library.                                                Page 148

  XIII

  Gamboa--Fêtes for the Japanese officers--The Pius Fund--The
  Toluca road--Brown, of the National Railways--President
  Wilson raises the embargo on arms and ammunition--Hunting for
  Zapatistas.                                             Page 167

  XIV

  A “neat little haul” for brigands--Tea at San Angel--A
  picnic and a burning village--The lesson of “Two
  Fools”--Austria-Hungary’s new minister--Cigarettes in the
  making--Zapata’s message.                               Page 181

  XV

  Departure of the British minister--Guns and marines from
  Vera Cruz--Review at the Condesa--_Mister Lind_--The Benton
  case--Huerta predicts intervention--Villa at Chihuahua. Page 189

  XVI

  Huerta’s impressive review for the special correspondents--The
  _Grito de Dolores_--Tons of “stationery” for the Embassy--Villa
  and Carranza disagree--The Embassy guard finds itself occupied.
                                                          Page 203

  XVII

  The torture of Terrazas--Mexico’s banking
  eccentricities--Departure of the Lefaivres--Zapatista
  methods--Gustavo Madero’s death--First experience of
  Latin-American revolutions--Huerta’s witty speech.      Page 211

  XVIII

  Back to Vera Cruz--Luncheon on the _Chester_--San Juan’s prison
  horrors--Tea on the _Mayflower_--The ministry of war and the
  commissary methods--Torreon falls again?--Don Eduardo Iturbide.
                                                          Page 229

  XIX

  Congress meets without the United States representative--Huerta
  makes his “profession of faith”--Exit Mr. Lind--Ryan leaves for
  the front--French and German military _attachés_--The Jockey
  Club.                                                   Page 247

  XX

  Good Friday--Mexican toys with symbolic sounds--“The Tampico
  incident”--Sabado de Gloria and Easter--An international
  photograph--The last reception at Chapultepec.          Page 257

  XXI

  Mr. Bryan declines the kindly offices of The Hague--More
  Americans leave Mexico City--Lieutenant Rowan arrives--Guarding
  the Embassy--Elim keeps within call.                    Page 272

  XXII

  Vera Cruz taken--Anti-American demonstrations--Refugees at
  the Embassy--A long line of visitors--A dramatic incident in
  the cable-office--Huerta makes his first and last call at the
  Embassy.                                                Page 285

  XXIII

  The wedding of President Huerta’s son--Departure from the
  Embassy--Huerta’s royal accommodations--The journey down to
  Vera Cruz--The white flag of truce--We reach the American
  lines.                                                  Page 298

  XXIV

  Dinner on the _Essex_--The last fight of Mexico’s naval
  cadets--American heroes--End of the Tampico incident--Relief
  for the starving at San Juan Ulua--Admiral Fletcher’s greatest
  work.                                                   Page 318

  XXV

  Our recall from Mexican soil--A historic dinner with General
  Funston--The navy turns over the town of Vera Cruz to the
  army--The march of the six thousand blue-jackets--Evening on
  the _Minnesota_.                                        Page 338

  XXVI

  Homeward bound--Dead to the world in Sarah Bernhardt’s
  luxurious cabin--Admiral Badger’s farewell--“The Father
  of Waters”--Mr. Bryan’s earnest message--Arrival at
  Washington--_Adelante!_                                 Page 348




ILLUSTRATIONS


  MRS. NELSON O’SHAUGHNESSY                    _Frontispiece_

  A VIEW OF POPOCATEPETL AND IZTACCIHUATL      _Facing p._  6

  MRS. ELLIOTT COUES                               “       16

  ELIM                                             “       16

  V. HUERTA                                        “       60

  VILLA DE GUADALUPE                               “       86

  THE FLOATING GARDENS OF XOCHIMILCO               “      126

  ADMIRAL SIR CHRISTOPHER CRADOCK                  “      136

  ADMIRAL F. F. FLETCHER                           “      136

  HUERTA’S SOLDIERS WATCHING THE REBEL ADVANCE     “      150

  A GROUP OF OJINAGA REFUGEES                      “      150

  THE GUARD THAT STOPPED US                        “      172

  “THE WOMAN IN WHITE”--FROM SAN JUAN HILL         “      182

  THE “DIGGINGS” (AZCAPOTZALCO)                    “      206

  THE PYRAMID OF SAN JUAN TEOTIHUACAN              “      206

  THE SIESTA                                       “      258




FOREWORD


Though the events recorded in these letters are known to all the world,
they may, perhaps, take on another significance seen through the eyes
of one who has loved Mexico for her beauty and wept for the disasters
that have overtaken her.

The time has not yet come for a full history of the events leading to
the breaking off of diplomatic relations, but after much pondering I
have decided to publish these letters. They were written to my mother,
day by day, after a habit of long years, to console both her and me
for separation, and without any thought of publication. In spite of
necessary omissions they may throw some light on the difficulties of
the Mexican situation, which we have made our own, and which every
American wishes to see solved in a way that will testify to the
persistence of those qualities that made us great.

Victoriano Huerta, the central figure of these letters, is dead, and
many with him; but the tragedy of the nation still goes on. So above
all thought of party or personal expediency, and because of vital
issues yet to be decided, I offer this simple chronicle. The Mexican
book is still open, the pages just turned are crumpled and ensanguined.
New and momentous chapters for us and for Mexico are being written and
I should be forever regretful had courage failed me to write my little
share.

It is two years ago to-day that diplomatic relations were broken
off between the two republics. It is more than two years since the
Constitutionalists under Villa and Carranza have had our full moral
and material support. The results have been a punitive expedition sent
into Mexico to capture Villa, and very uncertain and unsatisfactory
relations with the hostile _de facto_ government under Carranza. As for
beautiful Mexico--her industries are dead, her lands laid waste, her
sons and daughters are in exile, or starving in the “treasure-house of
the world.” What I here give forth--and the giving is not easy--I offer
only with a trembling hope of service.

  EDITH COUES O’SHAUGHNESSY.

  THE PLAZA,
  NEW YORK, _April 23, 1916_.

       *       *       *       *       *

A DIPLOMAT’S WIFE IN MEXICO

       *       *       *       *       *

A DIPLOMAT’S WIFE IN MEXICO




I


  Arrival at Vera Cruz--Mr. Lind--Visits to the battle-ships--We reach
  Mexico City--Huerta’s second _coup d’état_--A six-hour Reception at
  the Chinese Legation. An all-afternoon hunt for the Dictator.


MEXICO CITY, _October 8, 1913_.

Precious Mother,--You will have seen by the cable flashes in your
Paris _Herald_ that Elim and I arrived at Vera Cruz yesterday, safe
and sound, and departed the same evening for the heights in the
presidential car, put at N.’s disposal the night before, for the trip
from Mexico City and back.

It was a long day. Everybody was up at dawn, walking about the deck or
hanging over the sides of the ship, all a bit restless at the thought
of the Mexican uncertainties which we were so soon to share. About six
o’clock we began to distinguish the spires of Vera Cruz--the peak of
Orizaba, rivaling the loveliest pictures of Fujiyama, showing its opal
head above a bank of dark, sultry clouds. A hot, gray sea was breaking
over the reefs at the mouth of the harbor, and the same lonely palms
stood on the Isla de los Sacrificios. As we passed between the two
gray battle-ships just outside the harbor, I could not help a little
shudder at the note of warning they struck. The dock was crowded with
the well-remembered, picturesque, white-clad Indians, with high-peaked
hats, who suggested immediately the changeless mystery of Mexico.

Fortunately, the weather being overcast, the intense heat was a little
modified, though it was no day to set off looks or clothes; every
one’s face and garments were gray and limp. N. arrived just as we were
getting up to the docks, his train having been late. His face was the
last we discovered among various officials coming and going during
the irksome pulling in of the _Espagne_. As you know, we had been
separated for eight months. I was the first passenger to leave the
ship, and as we had no customs formalities we passed quickly through
the damp, boiler-like shed where the little tricks of the _aduana_ (the
customs) were about to be performed on hot and excited voyagers. Then
we got into a rickety cab, its back flap flying to the breeze, and
drove across the sandy, scrubby stretch to the Hotel Terminus, where
the Linds are living. The fascinating little pink houses with their
coquettish green balconies were as of yore, but the tropical glint and
glitter seemed gone from everything under the hot, gray sky.

The Hotel Terminus is the same old horror of flies, fleas, and general
shiftlessness, though the broad, high corridor up-stairs, giving on
to the sleeping-rooms, was fairly clean. We were finally shown into a
large room, where Mrs. Lind was waiting. After our greetings I sank
into a rocking-chair, and a big electric fan, in conjunction with the
breeze from the window looking toward the sea, somewhat restored my
energy.

In a few minutes Mr. Lind appeared, in shirt-sleeves and a panama fan.
(I suppose he wore other articles, but these are what I remember.)
I was greatly struck by him. He is evidently a man of many natural
abilities and much magnetism--tall, gaunt, sandy-haired, unmistakably
Scandinavian, with the blue, blue eyes of the Norsemen set under level
brows. I imagine fire behind that northern façade. The conversation
opened with conciliatory and smiling remarks, after the manner of
experts in any situation, meeting for the first time. I found him
very agreeable. There was even something Lincolnesque in his look and
bearing, but his entry on the Mexican stage was certainly abrupt, and
the setting completely unfamiliar, so some very natural barking of the
shins has been the result. Looking at him, I couldn’t help thinking
of “the pouring of new wine into old bottles” and all the rest of the
scriptural text.

The Linds, who have a handsome house in Minneapolis and another “on the
lake,” are accepting things as they find them, with an air of “all for
the good of the United States and the chastising of Mexico.” But all
the same, it is a hardship to inhabit the Terminus and then to tramp
three times a day through the broiling streets to another hotel for
very questionable food.

The Hotel Diligencias, where we lunched, is deeper in the town, has
fewer flies, is a little cleaner, and is very much hotter. Once away
from the sea breeze you might as well be in Hades as in Vera Cruz on a
day like yesterday. The Diligencias is the hotel whereon De Chambrun
hangs the famous story of his wife’s maid going back for something
that had been forgotten, and finding that the servants had whisked the
sheets off the beds and were ironing them out on the floor for the next
comers--_sans autre forme de procès_! We had a pleasant lunch, with
the familiar menu of _Huachinango_, _pollo y arroz_, alligator pears
and tepid ice-cream, consumed to the accompaniment of suppositions
regarding Mexican politics. Then we plunged into the deserted, burning
street (all decent folk were at the business of the siesta) and back to
the Hotel Terminus, feeling much the worse for wear.

At four o’clock Lieutenant Courts came to conduct us to the flag-ship
_Louisiana_, and we asked Hohler, the British _chargé_ who was in Vera
Cruz awaiting the arrival of Sir Lionel and Lady Carden, to go with
us. Admiral Fletcher and his officers were waiting for Nelson at the
gangway and the band was playing _the_ beloved air as we went up. We
were there about an hour, which seemed all too short, sitting on the
spotless deck, where a delightful breeze was blowing. The time passed
in eager conversation about the situation with Admiral Fletcher,
a charming and clever man, with dark, earnest eyes and serious,
intent expression, all set off by the most immaculate white attire.
Champagne was poured, healths were drunk, and Elim was taken over
the ship, departing with one of the junior officers, after a glance
at me betokening the magnitude of the adventure. We left, after warm
handshakings and good wishes, N. receiving his eleven salutes as we
went away. The tears came to my eyes. “Oh, land of mine!” I thought.
“Oh, brotherhood!” But Elim asked, in a frightened tone, “Why are they
shooting at papa?”

We then went over to the _New Hampshire_ to call on Captain Oliver.
More health-drinking and stirring of friendly feelings. Pictures of the
Holy Father and prelates I have known gave a familiar note to Captain
Oliver’s quarters. Then, in the wondrous tropical dusk, the little
launch steamed quickly back to town, where we had just time to gather
up our belongings and maid at the Terminus and descend to the station
beneath. Mr. Lind stood waving farewell as we steamed out, and I must
say I am quite taken by him!

Our train, preceded by a military train, was most luxurious. None of
“the comforts of home” was lacking, from the full American bill of fare
to the white-coated colored porters--all at poor, bankrupt Huerta’s
expense. It made me eat abstemiously and sit lightly!

We had a quiet night, rising swiftly up those enchanting slopes, a
warm, perfumed, exotic air coming in at the window. At dawn, with a
catching of the breath, I looked out and saw once again those two
matchless, rose-colored peaks--Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl, looking
tranquilly down on the beauteous plateau, indifferent to man’s
disorders.

[Illustration: A VIEW OF POPOCATEPETL AND IZTACCIHUATL]

At Mexico City Captain Burnside and the Embassy staff were at the
station to meet us, and in a moment I found myself once again driving
through the familiar, vivid streets, the changeless, silent Indians
coming and going about their simple affairs. The Embassy is a huge
house--a gray-stone, battlemented, castle-on-the-Rhine effect--which,
fortunately, had been put on a possible living basis for the Linds by
a kindly administration. It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good. The
Linds were here only ten days, and I think it very improbable that
they will ever return. He is a man of good sense, and there is, as in
most establishments, room for many men but only for one _maîtresse de
maison_.

Now I must be up and doing. I want to pull the furniture about,
down-stairs, and make myself a setting of some sort. There are
several packing-boxes containing the accumulation of our first
Mexican bout--books, vases, cushions, and the like. Fortunately,
the comfortable green leather library set of Mr. Henry Lane Wilson,
together with handsome rugs and bookcases, were also bought for the
“confidential agent”; and I shall use them in my drawing-room, instead
of a rather uncomfortable French set upholstered in pink. The bedrooms
are already fully and handsomely furnished with the Wilsons’ things.

Dear Mme. Lefaivre came last night, and we had lunch at the Legation
to-day. Such an affectionate welcome from her warmest of hearts! Many
persons have called and cards and flowers were coming in all day.

_P. S._ Yesterday, Torreon fell into the hands of the rebels, and
many atrocities were committed against Spanish subjects. The Spanish
minister is in a great state of excitement. This is a severe blow to
Huerta. He is supposed to suppress the revolution. If he doesn’t, he
loses his _raison d’être_--perhaps, also, his head.

[Illustration: MRS. ELLIOTT COUES

(Mother of Mrs. O’Shaughnessy)]

[Illustration: ELIM]


_October 11th._

Last night Huerta accomplished his second _coup d’état_; he is getting
very skilful. He surrounded the Chamber of Deputies while the honorable
gentlemen were in session, conspiring against their constitution. He
had them arrested as they came out into the hall, and I understand
there was quite a stampede from the Chamber itself when they got wind
of the fact that something was wrong. He accuses them of obstructing
his policy of pacification by every low and unpatriotic means at their
command, and these are numerous.

Now one hundred and ten of them are lodged in the famous
_Penitenciaría_, whither Madero was going on his last journey. N.
was out until two o’clock in the morning, with the Spanish minister
(dean of the diplomatic corps), going first to the Foreign Office to
try to obtain guarantees for the lives of the imprisoned Deputies,
and afterward to the _Penitenciaría_, where they were shown a list of
_eighty-four_, and given assurances that they would not suffer. It
looked a bit black for the remaining twenty-six. The clerks spent
the rest of the night here, getting the despatches off to Washington.

Huerta appears to care very little whom he shoots. He has small
sentiment about human life (his own, or anybody’s else), but he is a
strong and astute man; and if he could get a few white blackbirds, in
the shape of patriots, to work with him, and if the United States were
not on his back, he might eventually bring peace to his country.

I am not yet reaccustomed to the extreme beauty of the Mexican morning;
a dazzling, many-colored light that would dim the spectrum is filtering
into my room, as I write, glorifying every object and corner. I have
had the covers taken off the pink furniture; a rose-colored coverlet
and cushions are on my _chaise-longue_, and the _glow_ is indescribable.

You will have seen that the Chambers are convened for the fifteenth
of November, but in spite of preparations for legislation, a warlike
something is in the air. Squads of soldiers are passing the Embassy,
with much playing of the beautiful national hymn. They handle their
brass very well, and their military music would be good anywhere.

In Washington they are taking the news of the _coup d’état_ with their
coffee....

I have not yet seen von Hintze,[1] though he came early yesterday,
bringing a gift of fortifying liqueur, “for the altitude,” and some
flowers; and I went with Elim to the Legation, later on. I understand
that he looks at the situation rather _en noir_. But he is somewhat of
a bear on Mexican matters, anyway, his first experience, on arriving
three years ago, being the horrid Covadonga murders.... A certain
natural exclusiveness and aloofness are among his special attributes,
and his psychology is somewhat mysterious, even to his friends;
but he is immensely clever and charming, of the world, and very
sympathetic--really a _cher_ colleague!

N. has just left the house in frock-coat and top-hat, the chiefs
of mission having been summoned to the Foreign Office, where they
will hear the official reason of the _coup d’état_. I shall be most
interested in the explanation, which will probably be some adroit
Latin-American arrangement of facts. One has a feeling of being at
school, here, and constantly learning something new to the Anglo-Saxon
mentality.

Now I must hie me down-stairs and tackle a few of _my_ “affairs of
the interior.” The house is so big that, even with the many servants
now in it, it doesn’t seem “manned,” and bells are answered very
intermittently. One or more of the servants can always be found at the
gates of the garden, greeting the passers-by--a little Indian habit,
and incurable. What I need is a European _maître d’hôtel_ to thunder
at them from his Aryan heights as the Wilsons had. There are some good
Aztec specimens left over from their administration, whom I shall keep
on--Aurora, a big, very handsome Indian maid, from the Apam valley;
Maria, the head washerwoman, with fine, delicate hands, like a queen;
and a few others. Neither cook nor butler. Berthe is busy unpacking and
pressing; everything was wrinkled by the damp, penetrating heat of the
sea-trip.

The Embassy has two _gendarmes_ to watch the gate, instead of the
usual one given to legations--nice, old Francisco, who has been in
the service of the United States for twelve years, and a handsome new
one--Manuel. The auto stands before the gate all day long. Jesus, the
chauffeur, seems very good--a fine-featured, lithe-bodied, quick-witted
young Indian. Though married, he is, I hear, much sought after by
the other sex. Elim always goes out with me, and loves sitting on
the front seat with his dog, a melancholy Irish terrier sent by Mr.
Armstead from Guanajuato.

Exchange is now very low. One hundred dollars equals two hundred and
eighty Mexican dollars. Very nice for those supplied from abroad, but
killing to these people, and with the sure prospect of getting worse.
The price of articles has gone up by leaps and bounds--not native foods
so much, but all articles of import. I hear the auto-horn and must
stop. Will be very much interested to hear the official wherefor of the
_coup d’état_.


_October 12th, Evening._

Well, the Diplomatic Corps, in uniform, was received at the Foreign
Office with much unction, by the large, stout Moheno, Minister of
Foreign Affairs, of whom more another time. He insisted principally
on the great efforts General Huerta was making to restore peace, and
the equally great obstructions placed in his way, saying that since
the opening of Congress these obstructions had been particularly in
evidence, handicapping him at every step. He added that, though the act
of dissolving Congress was unconstitutional, Mexico must be compared to
an ill man needing an immediate operation; and that the government was
confronted by the dilemma formulated by Gambetta (they do love to find
a European simile for their situation)--“Yield or resign!” which, in
this case, would have been tantamount to national dissolution. The crux
of the speech is, however, that the elections are to be held this month.

Sir Lionel presented his letters of credence yesterday, thus putting
the hall-mark of his government upon Huerta. It appears there was quite
a love-feast; Huerta, of course, was immensely pleased at the proof of
recognition at the delicate moment of his birth and first struggling
cry as a dictator.

Since the imprisonment of the Deputies there has been a constant
stream of their mothers and wives and daughters coming to the Embassy
for help, though, of course, we can do nothing; little, plain,
black-dressed, black-eyed women or high-chested, thick-lipped,
diamond-ear-ringed ones, inclining to magenta or old gold; mostly, as
far as I can see, Maderista in their tendencies. Two of the little,
plain, black type who were here late last night, said they went every
day to visit Madero’s grave! They fear the Deputies will be shot, but I
hardly think shrewd old Huerta will go to any unnecessary lengths with
the very cold eye of the world upon him. Keeping them locked up, where
they can’t vote, or disqualifying them, is all that he wants. It is
true that they have never missed an opportunity in the Chamber to put
a spoke in his wheel, and he got bored with the continual “block.” He
didn’t arrest members of the Catholic party who, for the most part, had
been trying to sustain order through him; they are, after all is said
and done, the conservative, peace-wishing element in Mexico.

The Senate he simply dissolved. They have not been giving him so
much trouble. One of the heads of the Catholic party came to see N.
yesterday, to talk over the opportuneness of their putting up any one
as candidate for President--a tentative conversation, on his part. Men
of his class, unfortunately for Mexico, rarely identify themselves with
political life, and were entirely invisible during the Madero régime.
The Clerical party has very little money, and feels the battle unequal
and the outcome most uncertain. N. was, of course, non-committal in
the matter, which he said was not in his province; but he added that
there was no reason for the party to neglect to make some kind of
representation, any more than for the others to do so. Huerta is, of
course, thoroughly anti-Clerical.

Yesterday was the first anniversary of the independence of China; it
may be because it is so far away, but they seem to have had _their_
revolution with very little sound of breakage. There was a reception
at the Chinese Legation during the generous hours of 4 to 10. I went
at about 5. I got up to go four times, and each time the _chargé
d’affaires_ caught me at the door and said, “You have been absent eight
years--no, I mean eight months--and I can’t let you go.” I finally
ran the blockade at 7.30, promising some insistent Oriental near the
outer door that I would return. All the diplomats were there. I found
von Hintze, like a visitant from another world, sitting, inscrutable,
by the handsome, buxom wife of the Guatemalan minister. She was in
black lace over orange silk, making my white tailor suit seem very
severe. Stalewski, the Russian minister, was standing near, waiting
for his tea. Sir L. and Lady C. came in at 6 o’clock only, then Madame
Lefaivre--the Occidental diplomats naturally gravitating toward one
another. Finally, at 7, when the rooms down-stairs were packed like
sardine-boxes, we were directed up-stairs, where a handsome “champagne
lunch” was served. It was after this that I made my escape. The wife
of the _chargé_, and some other Oriental ladies, in appalling Western
costumes, stood in close formation near the door from start to finish,
wearing an unfading Oriental smile.

N. spent the afternoon hunting for the Dictator, having been unable
to track him down since the famous _coup_. He hopes to induce him to
clemency regarding the Deputies. Huerta has a very effective way of
dropping out of a situation--just subtracting himself and reappearing
when events have moved on. He preserves, according to his edict of the
11th, the full powers vested in the executive, adding generously the
powers of Gobernación (Interior), Hacienda (Treasury), and War, though
only for the time absolutely necessary for the re-establishment of
the legislative power. By the powers of Gobernación he has declared
invalid the exemption of Deputies from arrest and makes them subject
to the jurisdiction of the tribunals if found guilty of any offense
or crime; most of the Deputies are only getting what they deserve.
There is certainly reason to complain of their lack of public spirit;
there seems little or no available material here from which to build
a self-governing state, and a dictator (or intervention) is what they
need. Juarez took the fear of hell away from them some fifty years ago;
Madero took the respect for the _supremo gobierno_ (supreme power) as
typified by the strong hand of Diaz. There seems nothing left to hold
them--those fifteen millions, with their sixty-three dialects and their
thousand idiosyncrasies of race and climate.

Huerta has a handsome, quiet-faced wife and eleven children. These and
a rented house (he has never lived at Chapultepec or at the Palace)
are, up to now, his only apparent worldly possessions. I doubt whether
he has the inclination or takes the time for an undue amount of
grafting. He is, from what I hear, very canny in the matter of human
equations and seems full of vitality and a sort of tireless, Indian
perseverance. They say that the more he drinks the clearer his brain
becomes.

Nine Spaniards that were killed in Torreon the other day, on refusing
to give up their goods and money, had their execution preceded by such
gentle rites as digging their own graves. Villa has declared no quarter
to Spaniards; they must get out of _his_ Mexico, bag and baggage, and
he intends to see that the Church leaves with them.

On all sides are praises of N.’s handling of the many complicated
questions coming up, and his being _persona grata_ with all parties.
It is known that though in the carrying out of difficult orders from
Washington there is an absolute point-blankness, in their own affairs
the Mexicans can count on tact, courtesy, and any service compatible
with his position.

I imagine that Mr. Lind will soon be realizing the futility of an
indefinite stay on Mexican soil. There are no results--and I rate him a
man used to results.


FOOTNOTE:

[1] The German minister.




II


  Sanctuary to Bonilla--Sir Lionel and Lady Carden--Carranza--Mexican
  servants--First reception at the American Embassy--Huerta receives
  the Diplomatic Corps--Election Day and a few surprises.


_October 13th._

Manuel Bonilla, a former Maderista, Minister of Ways and Communications
(known sometimes as “Highways and Buyways”), now Senator from Sinaloa,
has just come, begging asylum. They are out to kill him. He greatly
resembles the people who are after him. Of course we have had a room
made ready for him, and he can stay quietly in it until a chance offers
for getting out of the country. His room, by the way, contains the bed
that Mrs. ---- refused when she was shown over the Embassy, saying,
“What! Sleep in the bed of a murderess?” The murderess being dear,
gentle, pretty Mrs. Wilson, my late _chefesse_, and the murdered ones,
I _suppose_, being Madero and Pino Suarez!

President Wilson has now sent a message to the provisional government,
entirely disapproving of the act of dissolving Congress, saying that
any violence offered any Deputy will be looked on as an offense against
the United States, and that, furthermore, the United States will not
recognize any President elected after any such proceedings. N. has just
gone to the Foreign Office to deliver himself of the news. Moheno is a
large, stout, curly-haired Indian from Chiapas, with a bit of something
dark thrown in. He suggests a general effect of Italian tenor, but he
is clever--perhaps “cute” is a better word. These unfortunate people
are between the devil and the deep sea--_i. e._, between their own
lawlessness and us.

The Cardens had their first reception to-day. The Legation is a new,
artistic, most comfortable house just off the Paseo--the sort of
thing English diplomats find awaiting them everywhere. Sir L. was
here for sixteen years as consul. He was the British government’s
first representative after the Maximilian affair; so, though he has
been absent many years, he finds himself _en pays de connaissance_.
He is the handsome, perfectly groomed, tall, fresh-complexioned,
white-mustached, unmistakable Briton. She is an agreeable American
woman; but they both look pale and bloodless after many years of
Habana and Guatemala. We are none of us at our rosiest under the palm
and cactus. Sir L. has had thirty years of Latin-American diplomatic
experience.


_October 14th._

Proofs multiply of direct conspiracy of the Deputies against the
provisional government. If you scratch a Maderista Deputy you are
sure to find a revolutionary of some sort. The task of establishing
peace seems well-nigh hopeless. Everywhere are treachery and venality.
The note N. handed yesterday to the Foreign Office has not yet been
answered, though Moheno refers to it in a press interview, saying that
it had been presented to him by _Chargé d’affaires_ O’Shaughnessy, “A
gentleman of the most exquisite culture,” and that he must not be held
responsible for the “intemperate language of his government,”--rather
cocky! Though N. is handling the officials with all possible care,
everybody thinks they are preparing a fiery answer for to-morrow. They
are capable, at any moment, of sending an ultimatum to Washington
themselves, and then the fat would be in the fire!

A heavenly warm sun is streaming in. These October mornings, after
the rains have ceased, are the brightest jewels in Mexico’s crown of
loveliness.

N. is so sick of the murder and destruction he sees at first hand
that he refuses to read anything about Mexico. He is, in fact, living
a book of his own. But I take an interest in outside comment. I have
just read an article in the _North American Review_, by Sydney Brooks,
giving the English view of the situation, which seems to be that if
we had recognized Huerta he would, by now, have been far on the road
toward the establishment of peace. Also a quotation from _Le Temps_,
in to-day’s _Imparcial_, to the same effect. N., however, is beginning
to think that nothing but intervention can bring about order. The
elements of peace seem no longer in the republic itself. Intervention
_is_ a big word, but it needn’t mean the extermination of Americans or
their interests in Mexico. Many French people stayed on through the
French intervention and reached a green old age; Americans could do the
same. Any one who really knows how easily peace is frightened out of a
Latin-American republic, and how wary she is about coming back, would
think twice about alarming her.

Elim has just presented me with a large bunch of pink geraniums
from the vases at our front entrance. I wish he would choose a more
remote spot for depredations. He is drawn, as if by a magnet, to the
_gendarmes_ and the untasted joys of the pavement. The Mexicans are
always nice with children. There isn’t as much difference between the
little ones and the grown-ups as in more sophisticated countries.

Bonilla, our minister-in-hiding, keeps very quiet. From what I hear,
just to feel safe appears to be a great luxury. I have had no
intercourse with him, beyond an exchange of polite messages and putting
one of the men-servants at his disposition. They tell me he is very
particular about keeping his windows shut and his blinds well drawn at
night, and is a bit jumpy if any one knocks at the door.

Huerta has very little natural regard for human life. This isn’t a
specialty of successful dictators, anyway. Only by the hand of iron can
this passionate, tenacious, mysterious, gifted, undisciplined race,
composed of countless unlike elements, be held in order. In the States,
where, of course, as we all know, everybody and everything are just as
they ought to be, this isn’t quite understood.


_October 14th._

There is a very persistent rumor to-night that the answer to President
Wilson’s message delivered by N. yesterday will be met by Mexico with
the breaking off of diplomatic relations, in which case we will have
to clear out immediately for Vera Cruz. The private citizens in town
can take their time in leaving; _we_ must go quickly. I am not even
unpacked; the linen of the voyage still hangs on the roof. It all quite
takes my breath away; I scarcely feel as if I had returned, and can’t
take in the idea of leaving. The full cup from the lip. We shall be a
nine days’ wonder on reaching New York, and then what? The American
diplomatic service is the most uncertain quantity in the world.


_Later._

Much expectant coming and going in the house, as I write. N., who is
admirable at soothing these people, has seen Moheno, and, after long
argument, has persuaded the Foreign Office to modify the belligerent
tone of the answer to Washington. There were three Cabinet meetings
held since last night, to discuss the answer, with a majority in favor
of extreme measures. It is, however, only putting off the day of
rupture a few weeks or months, though N. feels each victory is so much
gained for the United States. But the day will come when we will find
ourselves trekking north.


_October 16th._

Yesterday, at dark, we got Bonilla off, grateful but nervous. The motor
took him to a station about twenty kilometers from the town, where he
boarded the train for Vera Cruz, to get the German boat of to-day.
Along a certain trend of legal reasoning he is some sixth in line for
President, after Madero, Pino Suarez, Lascurain, and others who have
been killed, or have disappeared from the uncertain glories of office.
He goes to Washington to join the Maderistas, I _suppose_, in spite of
the fact that he has given his word of honor not to ally himself with
the revolutionists. It was only on such a promise that we could give
asylum to an enemy of the government to which N. is accredited.

The legal (if not the moral) genealogical tree of Huerta’s Presidency
is the following: Madero, Constitutional President; Pino Suarez,
Constitutional Vice-President (their resignations were accepted
previous to their imprisonment, by Pedro Lascurain, Minister for
Foreign Affairs, and a God-fearing, honorable gentleman, by the way);
Lascurain became President by operation of law in regard to the vacant
executive power; he was President some twenty minutes it appears (a
bit short, even for Latin-America), giving him time to appoint Huerta
to the post of Minister of Gobernación (Interior). After Lascurain’s
resignation, given, I understand, with alacrity, automatically,
by operation of law, the executive power fell to Huerta with its
provisional character, and under the Constitutional promise to call
especial elections. This is the technical way by which Huerta became
President, and, according to the Mexican constitution, there are no
doubts about the complete legality of the operation.


_October 17th._

A quiet day; many rumors, but no events. All the time the Carranzistas
are gathering strength as a party; strength apparently coming to
them from “above”--a higher _latitude_, I mean. Seen at close range
they are, unfortunately, no better than “the others.” Carranza is
not a bloodthirsty villain, but the physically timid, greedy, quiet,
conscienceless, book-reading kind, and “constitucionalista” is a word
to conjure with. It can move a good Anglo-Saxon to tears, though I must
say that all revolutionary leaders in Mexico get hold of excellent
banner devices. Madero’s were above criticism--“_Sufragio efectivo y
no Re-elección_” (“Effective Suffrage and No Re-election”). This last
shows you that they can go much farther in the expression of pure,
distilled patriotism and democracy than we, as those of us called to
the dignity of office are not entirely able to rid ourselves of a wish
for a second term.

Also Carranza, who has none of the ability of Huerta and none of his
force, has had the luck to strike a convincing note with his long
whiskers and generally venerable aspect, imitated by all his followers
as far as nature allows. They tell me New York and Washington are full
of respectable, thin, long-whiskered, elderly Mexicans. Those who have
watched Carranza’s long career, however, say that a quiet, tireless,
sleepless greed has been his motive force through life, and his strange
lack of friendliness to Washington is accounted for by the fact that he
really hates foreigners, any and all, who prosper in Mexico. It seems
to me one can scent trouble here. Lack of any special political color
and principles, and general mediocrity, have kept him obscure, but he
now finds himself at last accidentally clothed and most acceptable to
the _Gran Nación del Norte_ in the fashionable and exclusive garb of
constitutionalism. I wonder if he doesn’t sometimes wonder why on earth
he is so popular in Washington.

I am told that Señora Madero, poor, pitiful, little, black-robed
figure, saw President Wilson soon after the murders, and her tragic
tale may perhaps have determined his policy.

The fact remains, however, that Huerta is in control of the army
and the visible machinery of government which represents to the
conservative elements (badly enough or well is a detail), their
constitution, the only form around which the affairs of the nation can
group themselves with any definiteness.

I had a long talk the other day with the ---- minister.

He seems to think (all, of course, politely veiled) that the policy of
the United States is to weaken these people by non-recognition, and,
when they are agonizing, to come in cheaply and easily, thus avoiding
armed intervention now, which would be much better for the Mexicans,
though more expensive for us. All the _chers collègues_ veil behind
unassailably discreet remarks their not very flattering idea of what
they doubtless call among themselves our “little game.”

I am enjoying the spaces in this huge house, free to the sun and air on
all sides. Its lack of furniture is amply compensated for by flooding
luxuries of light and air. I am going to receive on Tuesday, and I
suppose many people will come.


_October 22nd._

Yesterday I had my first reception. About fifty people came--the _chers
collègues_ and some of the colony, mostly only those whose orbit
sometimes crosses the diplomatic orbit. There were flowers in every
available receptacle. I made a delicious punch myself, if I do say it,
and Mrs. Burnside poured tea; but I miss so many of the familiar and
friendly faces of our first sojourn--Mr. James Brown Potter and the
Riedls, Mr. Butler, and many others.

Monday I am giving a “bridge” for Lady C. I cannot yet have any one for
lunch or dinner, but I want to give some little sign on her arrival.
The Cardens are a very great addition to an ever-narrowing circle.

Great Britain stands pat on its recognition of Huerta, which adds
greatly to his prestige in the eyes of his own people, and is most
welcome in view of the approaching elections. We understand the ticket
will be Huerta and Blanquet, in spite of Washington’s frowns.

I do not know the real qualities of Blanquet, up to now faithful
supporter of Huerta and his Minister of War. The dramatic fact that, in
the firing-squad at Querétaro, it was he who gave the _coup de grâce_
to Maximilian, has always overtopped everything else. The pictures of
Maximilian in the National Museum, poor, blond, blue-eyed gentleman,
show him utterly unfitted to grapple with the situation, though filled
with the best intentions. He was like some rabbit, or other helpless
animal, caught in a trap. When one has seen archdukes on their native
heaths, one realizes that they are not of the material to wrestle with
the descendants of Montezuma; though I don’t know that we, in spite of
all our “efficiency,” are being any more successful!

Great Britain will be very polite, but will not depart one
hair’s-breadth from what it has decided on as its Mexican policy,
involving big questions, not alone of prestige, but oil, railways,
mines, etc. In fact, the British reply to Mr. Bryan in to-day’s
newspaper quite clearly says that England will be delighted to follow
any policy from Washington as long as it does not interfere with
what the British Foreign Office has decided to do. They simply can’t
understand our not protecting American lives and interests. Their
policy here is purely commercial, while ours, alas! has come to be
political.

Great excitement is predicted for Sunday, the day of the election,
but all the timid have to do is to stay at home, _if_ their curiosity
permits.

The import duties are raised 50 per cent. from the twenty-eighth of
October. But it will, fortunately, bear less heavily on the
_frijoles_-and banana-eating part of the population than on those who
want breakfast-foods and _pâté de foie gras_.

A cook comes to-day, highly recommended, but I can see just the sort of
things she will turn out, if left to herself--fried bananas, goat stew,
etc. She comes accompanied by her little girl of three. One of the
washerwomen also has a child with her, and there are tentative remarks
from other quarters regarding offspring. But the house is so big that a
few indwellers, more or less, make no difference; and I am not sorry,
in these uncertain times, to harbor a few bright-eyed, soft-skinned,
silent brown babies under my roof. The handsome Indian maid who came to
the city from her _pueblo_, because her stepfather was too attentive,
has gone. She simply vanished; but as the other servants, on inquiry,
don’t seem worried, I suppose it is all right. They have a way of
leaving after they get their month’s wages, though their departure
is generally preceded by some such formality as declaring that their
grandmother is dead, or their aunt ill. Where they go is a mystery.

To-morrow we lunch at the Simon’s. He is the clever French _Inspecteur
des Finances_ of the Banco Nacional. They have a handsome house in the
Paseo, an excellent French _chef_, and are most hospitable. She is
witty and cultivated; we sometimes call her “_la belle cuisinière_.” In
the evening we dine with Rieloff, the musical German consul-general,
who will serve Beethoven and Bach very beautifully, after dinner. I am
very little disposed to go out in the evening here, and N. is nearly
always busy with despatches until a late hour. There is something
in the air, nearly 8,000 feet in the tropics, which discourages
night life, even in normal times, and _tertulias_[2] of any kind are
infrequent. At ten the streets are deserted and the Mexicans all
under some sort of cover. Even in the big houses they take the most
abstemious of evening meals, and go to bed early, to be ready for the
exceeding beauty of the early morning.

All the foreigners here have nerves. What would be peaceful, dove-like
households at sea-level, become scenes of breakage of all description
at this altitude, and all sorts of studies might be made on the subject
of “air pressure” on the life of man and woman. There is not the
accustomed amount of oxygen in the air and, with all the burning-up
processes of the body lessened, there is an appalling strain on the
nerves. Hence many tears!

I wonder if you ever got the book and letter I sent you from the boat
from Santander. I gave them, with ample postage and a fat tip, to an
attractive, barefooted, proud-looking Spaniard, who had brought a
letter on board for some one. I told him they were for _mi madre_. With
a most courtly bow, hat in one hand, the other on his heart, he assured
me that he would attend to the matter as if it were for his _own_
mother! _Pues quién sabe?_


_October 24th._

Yesterday at noon, Huerta, surrounded by his entire Cabinet, received
the Diplomatic Corps, and, though there was much excitement
beforehand, when his remarks were boiled down, nothing was changed.
The Mexican is a past master at presenting the same condition under
some other expedient and disarmingly transparent disguise. The way
out of what we all considered a great difficulty is amazingly simple.
There will be no President elected! Huerta declares he will not be a
candidate, and no one else will have the necessary majority.

The plain English of it all is--Huerta at the head of the government as
full-fledged military dictator. After the formal statement of affairs
he turned to N. and begged him to assure Washington of his good faith;
and he reiterated that his sole aim was the pacification of Mexico.
He then became overpoweringly, embarrassingly polite--even tender. He
took N.’s arm and led him out to have a _copita_[3] in the face of the
assembled corps, having previously embraced him, saying, with playful
reminiscence, “I arrest you.” Such are the vicissitudes of representing
the Stars and Stripes in Mexico! People tell me Huerta’s speeches are
generally masterpieces of brevity, with something magnetic and human
about them. The English support has strengthened him, within and
without.

Sir L. and N. were snap-shotted together by indiscreet newspaper men as
they were leaving the _Palacio_. A _pièce à conviction_, if ever there
was one. Sir L. was laughingly apologetic for N.’s being “found so near
the body.”

Mrs. Lind left yesterday for the United States, and I have written to
the Governor, who may be lonely, to tell him how welcome he would be
if he likes to return to Mexico City. I can make him comfortable--in
a bedroom and study adjoining--and we would really like to see him.
However, he may not care to come up for another _fausse couche_, as
one of the colleagues called his first visit.

Everybody is expecting disorders on Sunday--Election Day. There is
very little difference between lawmakers and lawbreakers in Mexico. We
foreign devils can scarcely keep our faces straight when we hear the
word “elections.” Sunday is sure to find Huerta still in the saddle.


_October 25th._

Yesterday L----, confidential agent of Felix Diaz, appeared at
luncheon-time. He is a clever and plausible individual, angling for the
United States recognition for Diaz’s candidacy. A special train has
been offered Felix Diaz, but he is afraid, and not without reason, to
venture up into the unknown, so he will wait presidential results at
Vera Cruz, with its attractive harbor full of fast ships.


_Tuesday, 28th._

The great day of the elections--the 26th--passed off, not only without
disturbance, but without voters or votes! The candidates so talked of
during these last days were conspicuous by their absence. Felix Diaz
was afraid to come to the capital, though all “assurances”--whatever
that may mean--had been given him. In Vera Cruz he stayed at a
second-rate hotel, next door to the American Consulate--the Stars
and Stripes, doubtless, looking very comfortable from an accessible
roof-to-roof vantage-ground. He has missed, fatalistically, it would
seem, the occasions whereby he might have become ruler of Mexico. He
is a gentleman, rather in our sense of the word, and the name he bears
is linked to the many glories of Mexico, but this is, probably, his
political burial. Already opportunity has called him thrice--Vera Cruz,
in 1912; then Mexico City, in February, 1913; now again at Vera Cruz,
in October, 1913; and still another wields the destinies of Mexico.

The _chers collègues_ prophesy that we shall be here until next May,
when probably new elections will be held. The consensus of opinion is
that I might as well get the much-discussed drawing-room curtains and
the rest, though I can’t feel enthusiastic about ordering a lot of
things that may come in only as I go out. The dining-room continues
to strike me as a terribly bleak place, like all north rooms in the
tropics.

I must say that one has very little hunger at this height, where the
processes of digestion are much slower than at ordinary altitudes. When
one has eaten a soup of some sort, a dish of rice garnished with eggs,
bacon, and bananas (which any Mexican can do beautifully), or one of
the delicious light omelettes--_tortilla de huevos_--topped off by some
of the little, wild, fragrant strawberries almost perennial here, and
over which wine is poured as a microbe-killer, one’s “engine is stoked”
for twenty-four hours.

There have just been the usual parleyings about the brandy for the
turkey--the _guajolote_, the Indians call him--the ancestral bird
of Mexico. The Aztecs ate, and continue to eat, him; and good cooks
have the habit of giving him the following happy death: on the
morning of the day on which you are to eat him, you generally hear
him gobbling about. Then there is the demand for whisky or brandy
“_por el guajolote, pobrecito_.” The unfortunate (or fortunate) bird
is then allowed to drink himself to death. This is the effective
way of rendering him chewable, it being impossible to hang meats at
this altitude. The flesh becomes soft and white and juicy. But try a
gravel-fed _guajolote_ that has not gone to damnation!

The food question is difficult here, anyway, and personally I am
unable to wrestle with it. The far-famed tropical fruits of this
part of the world are most disappointing, with the exception of the
mango, with its clear, clean, slightly turpentiny taste. There are
many varieties of bananas, but scarcely a decent one to be had, such
as any Italian push-cart is stocked with in New York. The _chirimoya_
has a custard-like taste--the _chico zapote_, looking like a potato,
has also, to our palate, a very unpleasant, mushy consistency, and
everything is possessed of abnormally large seeds at the center. The
beautiful-looking, but tough, peaches that adorn our tables come from
California; also the large, rather withered grapes.


FOOTNOTES:

[2] _Tertulia_--evening party.

[3] A little drink.




III


  Federal and Rebel excesses in the north--Some aspects
  of social life--Mexico’s inner circle--Huerta’s growing
  difficulties--Rabago--The “Feast of the Dead.”--Indian booths at the
  Alameda--The Latin-American’s future.


_October 29th._

The Minister for Foreign Affairs is now in the drawing-room, from which
I have fled, having asked to confer with N. He has been frightened at
the intervention outlook and probably has come to try to find out what
Washington really has in store for Mexico. He said the other day that
the suspense was paralyzing to the nation.

The British vice-consul at Palacio Gomez, Mr. Cunard Cummings, came for
lunch. He has had a thorough experience with both rebels and Federals
at Torreon, and has terrible stories to tell of both sides. You don’t
change Mexican methods by draping them in different banners. In fact,
it isn’t the banner, here, but the kind of hand carrying it, that
makes the difference. He told us how one night the rebels shot up the
hospital in his town, crowded with wounded whom he and the doctors
had left fairly comfortable. The next morning, when he went back, his
attention was first caught by something dark and sticky dripping from
the balcony, as he went into the _patio_. Up-stairs a dreadful sight
was presented by the overturned cots, the broken medicine-bottles, and
last, but not least, the _human_ horrors.

Another tale is that of an ex-Deputy, de la Cadena, who walked up the
aisle of a church with clanking sword and spurs, seized the priest
officiating at Mass, and threw him and the sacred vessels out into the
street, to the consternation and terror of the humble worshipers.

Two federal military trains have been blown up during the last week.
Ninety persons were killed at one station and, the day before, one
hundred and two killed in the same way at Lulu station. It is certainly
a dance of death.


_October 30th._

Last night there was a very pleasant dinner at the German Legation,
at which I presided. I wore my black satin Spitzer dress, with the
white-and-silver hanging sleeves, which was much admired. Everybody’s
clothes are known here and people are thankful to see something new.
The Belgian minister was on one side of me, and the Japanese on the
other. Von Hintze was opposite, with Lady C. on his right, and Señora
de Rul, wearing magnificent pearls and a high-necked dress, on his
left. Three of the officers of the _Hertha_ were there, giving rise to
uncomplicated jokes about “Hertha” and “Huerta.” Of course conversation
about _la situación_ twisted through the various courses. The opinion
is that there are enough warring elements in town to provide a sort of
spontaneous combustion, without the aid of any outside happenings.

Moheno had evidently got word of the Cabinet meeting in Washington,
when he came to see N., yesterday. He was most profuse in protestations
of friendship, personal and political. They are all a bit worried and
perhaps will be amenable to negotiations.


_October 31st._

Yesterday there was a luncheon at May’s in honor of the Belgians who
have come to get the much-talked-of railroad concession--a little
matter of five thousand kilometers. Everything is beautifully done at
his house, and he has many lovely works of art. The table was a mass
of small, yellow chrysanthemums in a beautiful, old English porcelain
_surtout de table_, having a yellow _fond_; the food was the triumph
of a French _chef_ over Mexican material. But, like all houses facing
north, the May’s house seemed desperately chilly when one came in out
of the bright, fresh autumn day. Simon, the clever French _Inspecteur
des Finances_, came in only when lunch was nearly over. His wife had
been in tears most of the time, and we were all a bit jumpy--as there
were rumors of a raid on the bank, and we feared that he and the other
directors might have been asked for their money or their lives. I
invited them all for tea on Monday. Graux, the chief engineer, has a
handsome English wife.

When I see the fully furnished _salons_ of others, I long for my Lares
and Penates, so safe in Vienna; though, I must say, the drawing-room
has begun to look very homelike and comfortable, with its deep chairs,
broad writing-desk, small tables, reading-lamps, palms, photographs,
books, and bibelots.

In the afternoon we went to a small tea in another world than the
political. It was given by Madame de Riba, nee Garcia Pimentel, of the
inner circle of the aristocrats, where _el gobierno_ is looked at from
more or less of a distance, and where foreigners seldom penetrate.
They are the delightful, charming people one sees in the same set
all over the world, and remind me of the “cousinage” of the “first
society” of Vienna. They constantly intermarry, and, though they
travel, they rarely make foreign alliances, and are apt to return to
their own country, which, despite its political uncertainties, is more
beautiful than any other. There are many works of art left in Mexico
from the old Spanish days, and in such houses one finds them. The
handsome, agreeable, amiable women, moreover, wear Paris clothes and
Cartier-set jewels; the men are dressed by London tailors. The scene
yesterday suggested any European capital, and that inner circle where
beauty, wealth, and distinction abide. The members of this inner circle
are all in favor of the paternal form of government. They themselves
exercise a more or less beneficent sway over the laborers on their big
estates; and they realize from experience the necessity of a highly
centralized government in this country, where, of the fifteen millions
of inhabitants, thirteen million are Indians, and the other two million
_gachupines_, _mestizos_, foreigners of various sorts. Huerta once told
N. that the _gachupines_ had spoiled a good race. He casts the stone
back as far as Cortés--rather a novel idea!

The bull-fight contingent from Spain arrives to-day. There is great
excitement, and with such a spur we all feel that business ought to
improve. Lack of money is the crux of the whole situation in Mexico,
and, with the United States frowning on any nation that even hints
at a loan, the case seems desperate. Any one, however, can afford a
bull-fight ticket. If not for the more expensive seats _en sombra_
(in the shade), the people get a _boleto de sol_, where they simmer
blissfully in the sunny half of the Ring.

I inclose a newspaper cutting about Bonilla, who was in hiding here.
He is celebrated for his blunders--_bonilladas_, they are called. As
a delicate expression of his thanks, on his arrival at Washington,
he sent N. an open telegram announcing his safe arrival and ending
with messages of gratitude neatly calculated to make trouble for his
benefactor in both capitals.

I am finding myself very well off here, in the center of daily
occurrences of vital interest. A full plate of life! One of its
sweetnesses, doubtless, is that I don’t know how long it will last.
My tea-service is the only thing I really miss. A tent of a night I
know--but the tea hour comes every day!


_November 2nd._

Last night came what is practically an ultimatum from Washington to
Huerta. He is to get out, he, and all his friends, or--intervention. N.
was at the palace until one o’clock in the morning. It is asking Huerta
to commit political suicide, and he, unfortunately, does not feel
so inclined. Also, he has a conviction that he is a sort of “Man of
Destiny” who can bring peace to Mexico. N. tried to convince him of the
complete impossibility of standing up against the United States, and
urged him again and again to give way. I was troubled during the night
by visions of intervention, further devastation of this beautiful land,
and the precious blood of my own people.

I am reading a Spanish book on the war of 1847, published in 1848. The
reasons why battles were lost sound immensely familiar--generals not
coming up with reinforcements, or the commissary not materializing, or
the troops deserting. It is all so like what we are reading now in the
newspapers! No _tempora mutantur_ here.


_November 3rd._

If Huerta feels himself in his last ditch, with this threat of
intervention, he may answer “_que vengan_.” The upper classes here seem
to feel that it is what we intend and feel that if “’twere done, ’twere
well ’twere done quickly,” before the country is ruined. The bitter
pill will be sugar-coated by thoughts of the prosperity to follow.
A---- came this morning, and, after a long conversation about Mexico’s
troubles, cried: “Come in immediately and clear up this impossible
situation, or leave us alone. Nothing is safe; nothing is sacred!” His
large sugar interests are in the Zapatista country, and he is pretty
well ruined by their destruction. If we come in, the military part is,
perhaps, the least of it; a huge administrative job would follow--Cuba
and the Philippines are mere child’s play to it.

A rather cryptic letter came from Mr. Lind this morning. We gather that
he is thinking of leaving, as he feels that he can’t do anything! He
has learned, as somebody said, enough Spanish to say nothing in it. I
think, however, it is as difficult for the United States to withdraw
him as it was embarrassing to send him. Also a letter came from
Burnside, from Vera Cruz, telling of the war-ships and their positions
in the harbor. He predicts a migration north for all of us, at an early
date--but who knows?


_November 4th._

More battle-ships are announced. We shall have, according to to-day’s
paper, about 6,000 men at Vera Cruz. Box-cars are being sent to the
frontier; it must all mean preparation for some definite stroke on the
part of the United States. I feel that I am seeing life from a very big
angle. In spite of the underlying excitement here, outwardly things
take their usual course. Now we motor out to Tlalpam with the Belgian
minister, to lunch at Percival’s. It is a wondrous, glistening day,
and the swift run over the smooth, straight road toward the enchanting
hills which form its near background will be pure joy. The mountains
have a way of changing their aspect as one motors along, even with
one’s eye on them. From being a breath, an emanation, they become blue,
purple realities of matchless beauty--dark shadows pinned to them with
spears of light.

The extremely delicate negotiations N. has been having with the
President’s private secretary, Rabago, concerning Huerta’s possible
resignation, have leaked out, not from Mexico, but from the United
States, and, we suspect, _via_ Vera Cruz. At the somewhat early hour
of two in the morning the press correspondents began to come to the
Embassy. It is now 11.30 and they have been coming ever since.

N., of course, denies categorically having negotiations on hand. Mr.
Bryan, we see by the morning newspaper, is reported as looking very
pleased at the aspect of the Mexican situation, on account of the
aforesaid negotiations. The correspondents here must be heaven-born.
Their scent is unerring. If there is anything even dreamed of they
appear in shoals; when things are in abeyance you wouldn’t know there
was one in town. They try, naturally, to read something political into
everything that happens. For instance, the officers of the German
training-ship invited several of the ministers to take a little
trip to Vera Cruz, and the German, Russian, and Norwegian ministers
accepted--which is why the newspapers had it that there was a meeting
of plenipotentiaries at Vera Cruz. They are on a hunting trip for two
days and will return to-morrow.

Felix Diaz has at last been landed at Havana (much to the relief, I
imagine, of the captain of the U. S. S. _Wheeling_, on which ship he
sought refuge) and his political curtain has been rung down on this
especial act.


_November 5th._

Rabago is a very clever man, endowed to a high degree with the
peculiarly caustic type of Latin-American wit, whose natural object
here seems always to be Mexico’s kaleidoscopic government. His paper
_El Mañana_ did more than anything else to kill Madero by perseveringly
reflecting his weaknesses in a mirror of ridicule. On account of his
opposition to the Maderos and his Porfirista sympathies he was taken up
by the aristocratic class and has been of immense service to Huerta, a
sort of bridge between him and them. But how far the advice to resign,
which he swears that he has urged on Huerta, will be followed remains
to be seen. Huerta has a deep, strange, Indian psychology entirely
unfamiliar to us, which is at work on the situation, and the results
cannot be predicted.

It was amusing to see the various ministers arrive at the Embassy,
one after the other, to assure N. that there had been no conference
of ministers at Vera Cruz with Mr. Lind. They intend to uphold the
protocol, and wouldn’t be caught flirting with an unknown official
quantity behind N.’s back for anything in the world.... Huerta easily
gets suspicious and I dare say the whole proceeding is spoiled. N. goes
to-day with the ultimatum to the President himself, and we shall see
what we shall see. It is all very uncertain, but intensely interesting,
in the magnetic, highly colored, Latin-American way. It makes London,
Paris, and New York seem very banal.

Just home, after leaving N. at the _Palacio_, where the answer to the
ultimatum is supposed to be forthcoming. All the clerks are here, in
readiness to get off despatches.

On my way back I stopped at the Alameda for a belated look at the
booths stocked with the articles appropriate, according to Aztec ideas,
for All Saints’ Day and the Feast of the Dead. Countless Indians,
picturesque and mysterious, flood into the city, build their booths,
stay a few days, and then silently ebb away, unseen until the next
occasion--Christmas. Great bunches of a yellow flower--_cinco llagas_,
“Flower of Death,” the Indians call it--are everywhere for sale, to be
placed afterward on the evanescent graves. Toy death’s-heads and small
toy coffins of all sorts abound. A favorite device is one whereby a
string is pulled, the dead man raises his head, and when one lets go
he falls back with a rattling sound. It is all a bit _macabre_, sold
by these imperturbable Indians of the plateau, who are far from being
a jovial race. Pulque and their other drinks often induce silence and
melancholy rather than hilarity. They never sing nor whistle in the
streets. They almost never dance. If they go through a few figures
it is mostly in a solemn manner and on the occasion of some church
festival, when they dance and gesticulate, strangely garlanded, in the
_patio_ of the church itself.

The Alameda is a handsome park in the very middle of the town, and
marks the site of the old Aztec _tianguiz_, or market-place. Fountains
and flowers abound, and it is lavishly planted with beautiful
eucalyptus and palms; an excellent band plays daily. The _pajarera_
(aviary) around which the children cluster is very poor, considering
the beauty and variety of the Mexican birds and the Aztec traditions in
this regard. The park has no railing around it--one can stroll in from
the broad Avenida Juarez. The drawback to the stone benches, placed at
intervals, is that the most prominent have graven upon them the words,
“_Eusebio Gayosso_”--the name of the _popular undertaker_. In the midst
of life you are in death there. However, the eternal Indians, sunning
themselves and their offspring on the benches, can’t read; they have
this advantage over any _ilustrado_ who might want to rest a bit.

N. has just returned with the anxiously awaited answer, which is quite
beside the point. Huerta is probably sparring for time. He proffers
vague, pleasant words in answer to the very definite message of the
President, to the effect that he has always been animated by the most
patriotic desires, that he will always limit his acts to the law, and
that after the elections he will scrupulously respect the public wish
and will recognize any person elected as President for the term to the
30th of November, 1916. N. recommends the withdrawal of the Embassy if,
after the 23d of this month, when a new congress is to be convened,
Huerta has not resigned. This might influence Huerta; and again, he may
consider it only another cry of wolf.

The fact is, nobody believes we really will intervene. The chances that
we shall depart on a war-ship instead of by the Ward Line are very
good, the “d” in this instance making all the difference. I shall hate
to leave this palpitating, prismatic sort of life; but it isn’t the
moment to have personal feelings of any sort.

Driving back this evening toward a beautiful, clear, red sunset, up the
Plateros between the rows of autos and carriages full of handsomely
dressed people, the men standing along the edge of the pavement as they
do in Rome on the Corso, it seemed impossible that I was looking at a
people over whom a great national humiliation was hanging. The crowds
become more and more Mexican every day, with fewer American faces.

We lunched to-day with the Iturbides. Everything was done in the best
of style--with beautiful old silver and porcelain. He is a descendant
of the Emperor Augustin Iturbide of tragic history, and a charming
and very clever young man who would adorn any society. Señor Bernal,
with his Christus head, its extreme regularity chiseled in pale, ivory
tones, sat on my other side. They all seemed to fear that in view of
the, to them, inexplicable attitude of the United States, the end in
Mexico would be the long-dreaded intervention in some form. Not a man
who was at the table, however, really occupies himself with politics.
They all have handsome houses in town, but they live for the most part
on their haciendas, which they work on the paternal plan, the only
plan as yet productive of results here and which we in the United
States don’t at all understand, not being able to put ourselves into
another nation’s shoes. The actual political business here is left to
the educated middle class, whose members, instead of being pillars of
society, form the stratum from which the professional politician and
embryo revolutionist always spring--the _licenciados_, sometimes called
the curse of Mexico, and other men of the civil professions, generally
venal to a degree. The peon is faithful when he has no power and the
aristocrat is noble; but no country is secure whose best elements are
the extremes.

I am not, however, pessimistic as to the future of the real
Latin-American typified by this middle stratum, generally _mestizo_.
He always forms the active part of the population, and in his hands
seems to lie the future of the country. The Spaniard as typified by
the aristocratic classes is apt to hold himself aloof and will always
do so. The Indian, except in the isolated case of some individual
possessing genius, sure to present himself from time to time, has not
the qualities to form the dominant element. It is, therefore, reserved
for this crossing of Spaniard and native to finally embody and present
the real national characteristics.

A rumor is out to-night that, as the present banking act relative to
certain reserves of gold and silver doesn’t suit Huerta, he has decided
to do away with it, and we are to stand firmly (?) on paper. Shades of
Limantour!

This afternoon I bought several beautiful old inlaid frames. These
last words tell of one of the greatest pleasures in Mexico--prowling
around for antiques. Almost every one coming down here gets the fever
and spends hours turning over junk, in an almost delirious way, in the
hope of unearthing treasure. In spite of the fact that for almost fifty
years Mexico has been drained by the traveler, and again and again
devastated by civil strife, there still remain endless lovely things,
testifying to the wealth and taste of the old Spanish days.


_November 6th._

The statement in the _Mexican Herald_ that Mr. Lind had confirmed the
report of an ultimatum and the probable failure of negotiations is
simply astounding. Turn the light of publicity on Huerta and he is
as wary as some wild animal who comes into contact with man for the
_second_ time. Whatever he may have been contemplating, these special
negotiations are now dead and buried.

There was a big dinner at the Belgian Legation to-night; everything
beautifully done, as usual. I sat opposite my host, between von H. and
Sir L. Wore the flowered black velvet chiffon, and that black aigrette
with the Pocahontas effect in my hair; von H. wanted to know why this
delicate Indian tribute. There was no political conversation, as,
with the exception of the C.’s, von H., and ourselves, only handsome,
well-dressed, and bejeweled members of the Mexican smart set were
present. May is nothing if not exclusive, with a perfect _flair_ for
the _chicheria_. His handsome wife is in Paris.

My drawing-room is filled with the beautiful pink geraniums that grow
thick on the walls of the Embassy gardens and balconies. Juan, the
gardener, who, like all Aztecs, understands flowers, brings them in
every other morning, cutting them most effectively with very long stems
and many leaves.

“Ship ahoy!” in the harbor of Vera Cruz no longer excites attention.
Counting the French and German ships, there are about a dozen in all.
Seven belong to us. There were only two--the _New Hampshire_ and the
_Louisiana_--guarding the entrance to the channel when we arrived a
month ago. Is the plot thickening?




IV


  The “Abrazo”--Arrival of Mr. Lind--Delicate negotiations in
  progress--Luncheon at the German Legation--Excitement about the
  bull-fight--Junk-hunting--Americans in prison--Another “big game”
  hunt.


_November 7th._

The newspaper with the announcement that Mr. Lind had left Vera Cruz
last night for Mexico City was brought up on my breakfast tray. I have
had two rooms made ready for him, moving rugs and desks and furniture
about, robbing Peter to pay Paul, as one does in an incompletely
furnished house. He will be welcome, and I hope comfortable, as long as
he sees fit to stay. I bear the memory of something magnetic, something
disarming of criticism, in his clear, straight gaze, blue viking eye,
his kindly smile, and his tall, spare figure, clothed, not dressed. He
won’t find it easy here and I don’t think any Mexican official sporting
the oak of the protocol will receive him unless he is accompanied by
N.--a sort of political, Siamese-twin effect, and of a superfluity.


_Later._

When I got down-stairs Mr. Lind was in N.’s study. To greet him I had
to get through a swarm of newspaper men clustering like bees around the
honey-pot of “copy.” I presented him, so to speak, with the keys of the
borough, and retreated to my own bailiwick to order luncheon for one
o’clock. The whole town is whispering and wondering what it all will
mean. Huerta remains silent. It appears that he and his generals are
now _willing_ to make headway against the rebels. Why not before? A
hundred years ago “dips” were sent to Constantinople to learn a thing
or two they hadn’t known before. Now, I think, Mexico is as good a
school for the study of other points of view.

Mr. Lind makes no secret of his conviction of the hostile intentions
of England in the Mexican situation; but I have difficulty in thinking
that to save her interests here, big though they be, England would ever
do anything to jeopardize our friendship. In last week’s _Multicolor_
there was a picture of the White House, with England, Germany, and
France in the act of painting it green. _Poner verde_ is to insult.

Huerta feels that he has the support of many foreign powers, especially
of England. Sir L., by presenting his credentials the morning after the
_coup d’état_, stiffened him up considerably.


_November 8th._

We have been busy these past two days. Mr. L. is a delightful guest,
easy and simple. He goes to-morrow, but I am pressing him to return
for Thanksgiving--_if_ we are here. People smile when I speak of a
Thanksgiving reception. Three weeks is a long cry in Mexico City, in
these days.

N. finally ran Huerta down yesterday in the _El Globo_ café. He
received the usual affectionate _abrazo_,[4] and they had a _copita_
together, but Huerta never mentioned Lind any more than if he were
non-existent, and shied off at the remotest hint of “business.”
Instead, he asked N., “How about the girls?” (“_Y las muchachas?_”)
a phrase often used for opening or closing a conversation, in these
climes, much as we would ask about the weather. It has no bearing on
whatever subject may be in hand.

The new elections are to be held on the 23d of this month. Huerta
plays with the government in Washington in a truly Machiavellian way.
They want his resignation, but for the moment there is no recognized
government in whose hands to place such a resignation. After the 23d,
if the elections bear fruit, he will find some other reasons for
remaining. If it were not for the fact that might is always right, the
Administration would be as the kindergarten class, in regard to this
clever, involved, astute old Indian. “They say” he is getting rich, but
there are no apparent signs. I don’t think his mentality is that of the
money-loving order, though possibly his principles would not prevent
his making himself comfortable if he put his mind to it. He is now,
however, so under the domination of his _idée fixe_--pacification--in
spite of the difficulties within and without, that I doubt if he is
taking an undue interest in personal enrichment.


_November 9th._

This morning I began the day by telephoning von Hintze to come for
lunch, as Mr. Lind wanted to see him informally. Then I went to the
house of the Chilian _chargé_, who died yesterday. He was laid out
in the center of the little dining-room, the electric bell from the
hanging lamp, which he must often have pressed while eating, dangling
over his poor, dead face. There is a quite particular sadness about the
passing away of diplomats in lands distant from their own, their little
span spun among the polite, but the unrelated and uncaring. I stayed
for a rosary and litany, the priest, his pretty, childless wife, and
myself, alone in the room. Great hangings of purple bougainvillæa, the
glory of Mexico, darkened the window. May he rest in peace.

There was interesting conversation at lunch, only we four being
present. Mr. Lind repeated to von Hintze what he has, curiously
enough, said to many people here--his opinion that the crux of the
matter was the Anglo-American relations, and that the United States
would never allow the dominance of British interests to the injury of
American or Mexican ones; von Hintze, though he listened attentively,
was non-committal and most diplomatic in his answers. It is always of
absorbing interest to Germans to hear of possible difficulties between
England and other nations, and _vice versa_, too, for that matter. A
light springs into the eye; and I dare say von Hintze made a report to
his home government on returning to the Legation. He told Mr. Lind he
thought we had not sufficiently respected the _amour propre_ of the
Mexicans; that we were wrong in trying threats when what they needed
was skilful coaxing. Mr. Lind volunteered the surprising statement
that it didn’t suit us to have the elections held, anyway, as there
would be concessions granted and laws passed that would render the
Mexican situation difficult for us for fifty years. I really felt quite
embarrassed.

The Vera Cruz elections amused Mr. Lind considerably, the “urn” being a
common pasteboard shoe-box with a slit in it. This _objet de vertu_ he
had actually seen with his own eyes.

The town is wild over the bull-fight this Sunday afternoon. Belmonte,
_el fenomeno_, just arrived from Spain, twenty-one years old, is the
object of all affections. Political matters are quite in abeyance.
There was a scarcely subdued excitement among the servants as the gay
throng passed the Embassy _en route_ for the Ring, and considerable
dejection this evening because all hadn’t been able to stampede
the house and hie them to the fray. They are like children; any
disappointment seems the end of everything. A continual cloud of
dust wrapped us about, stirred up by the thousands passing in motor,
carriage, or on foot. During my first Mexican sojourn I went to two
bull-fights, but didn’t acquire the taste. De Chambrun told me one had
to go six times running, after which one couldn’t be kept away!

I saw Belmonte driving yesterday, the crowds cheering wildly. His
expression of pride, yet condescension, distinguished him as much
as his clothes. He wore the usual flat black hat, showing his tiny
pigtail, a wide-frilled shirt under a tight jacket which didn’t
pretend to meet the still tighter trousers, and he was covered with
jewelry--doubtless votive offerings from adoring friends. And to-night
he may be dead!

Burnside and Ensign H., of the _Louisiana_, who accompanied Lind as
body-guard, return with him to Vera Cruz. The Embassy is to engage a
compartment for him in the evening, but he will go in the morning. Just
as well to be prepared against “accidents.”


_November 11th._

We lunch at the German Legation to-day, with Mr. Lind. He hasn’t any
clothes, but as he doesn’t work along those lines I suppose it doesn’t
matter. There is no question of the tailor making this man.

A heavenly, transforming sun, for which I am giving thanks, shines
in at my windows. I am going out to do some “junking” with Lady C.
With exchange three for one, every now and then some one does unearth
something for nothing. The Belgian minister, who has money and _flair_,
makes the most astounding finds. He got for a song what seems to be an
authentic enamel of Diane de Poitiers, in its original frame--a relic
of the glories of the viceroys.

Something that developed in a conversation with Mr. Lind has been
making me a bit thoughtful, and more than a little uneasy. He has the
idea, perhaps the plan, of facilitating the rebel advance by raising
the embargo, and I am afraid he will be recommending it to Washington.
We had been sitting, talking, after dinner, shivering in the big room
over a diminutive electric stove, when he first tentatively suggested
such action. I exclaimed: “Oh, Mr. Lind! You can’t mean that! It would
be opening a Pandora box of troubles here.” Seeing how aghast I was, he
changed the subject. But I cannot get it out of my head. The Mexican
book is rolled out like a scroll before him; can it be that he is
not going to read it? Any measures tending to undermine the central
authority here, imperfect though it be, can only bring calamity. I
witnessed that at first hand in the disastrous overturning of the
Diaz rule and the installation of the ineffective Madero régime. I
think Madero was more surprised than any one that, after having taken
so much trouble to help him in, we took so little to _keep_ him in.
The diplomats are forever insisting that Diaz’s situation in 1877
was analogous to Huerta’s now, and that after a decently permissible
delay of ten months, or whatever it was, we recognized him. So why not
Huerta? He, at least, is in possession of the very delicate machinery
of Mexican government, and has shown some understanding of how to keep
it going.


_Later._

The lunch at the German Legation was most interesting. Lind, Rabago,
the Belgian minister, and ourselves were the guests. Rabago doesn’t
speak a word of English, and Mr. Lind not a word of Spanish, so there
was a rather scattered conversation. Everybody smiled with exceeding
amiability--all to show how safe we felt on the thin ice. The
colleagues are always very polite, but none of them is really with us
as regards our policy. Standing with von Hintze by the window for a
few minutes after lunch, I used the word intervention, and von Hintze
said something about the unpreparedness of the United States for war.
This, though true, I could not accept unchallenged from a foreigner. I
answered that if war were declared, we would have a million men at the
recruiting offices between sunrise and sunset. It sounded patriotic
and terrifying, but it was rendered rather ineffective by his reply,
“Men, yes, but not soldiers. Soldiers are not made between sunrise and
sunset.” He added something about the apparent divergence in public
opinion in the States, and threw a bit of Milton at me in the shape of
“not everybody thinks they serve who only stand and wait.” Ignoring
this quotation from the blind bard, I said that whatever the divergence
of public opinion might be _before_ war, the nation would be as one
man with the President _after_ any declaration. I also told him we did
not regard the Mexican situation so much as a military situation as a
police and administrative job, which we were unwilling to undertake.
I then made my adieux, leaving the “junta” in full swing, the Belgian
minister’s agile tongue doing wonders of interpretation between Lind
and Rabago. The result of the palaver, however, as I heard afterward
from the various persons who took part, was _nil_.

Mr. Lind keeps me on the _qui vive_ by predictions of a rupture in the
next few days. He is naturally becoming impatient and would like things
to come to a head. I have not drawn a peaceful breath since landing.

Runs on the banks to draw out silver in exchange for paper have
complicated matters. When I went this morning to the Banco
Internacional I saw people standing at the paying-teller’s desk, with
big canvas bags in which to carry off silver. Since the law to coin
more silver has been passed, I should say that each patriot intends to
do his best to line his own cloud with that material.


_November 12th._

A telegram came from Washington last night. Rupture of diplomatic
relations unless Huerta accedes to our demands. N. has taken it to
the Foreign Office, to Rabago and to Garza Aldape, to prove to them
that, though they may not believe it, we are ready to take strenuous
measures. It is all more like being on a volcano than near one. Neither
the Mexican nation, nor any other, for that matter, believes we are
ready and able to go to war; which, of course, isn’t true, as we may be
called upon to show. War is not, to my mind, anyway, the greatest of
evils in the life of a nation. Too much prosperity is a thousand times
worse; and certainly anarchy, as exemplified here, is infinitely more
disastrous. We ourselves were “conceived in wars, born in battle, and
sustained in blood.”

We hope the _Louisiana_ went to Tuxpan last night, and that she will
shell out the rebels there who are in full enjoyment of destruction
of life and property. It would give them all a salutary scare. There
are huge English oil interests there. The owners are all worried about
their property and generally a bit fretful at the uncertainty. Will
we protect their interests or will we allow them to? _Our_ government
gave warning that it would not consider concessions granted during the
Huerta régime as binding on the _Mexicans_. It makes one rub one’s eyes.


_Later._

Things Mexican seem approaching their inevitable end. At three o’clock
to-day N. showed Rabago the telegram from Washington about the probable
breaking off of diplomatic relations. He turned pale and said he would
arrange an interview with the President for six o’clock. At six o’clock
N., accompanied by Mr. Lind, presented himself at the Palace. Neither
President nor secretary was there. Rabago finally telephoned from some
unknown place that he was looking for Huerta, but could not find him.
Some one suggested that he might at that time be closeted with the only
“foreigners” he considered really worth knowing--Hennessy and Martell.

Mr. Lind came for a moment to the drawing-room to tell me that he
leaves to-night at 8.15. He thinks we will be following him before
Saturday--this being Wednesday. The continual sparring for time on the
part of the government and a persistently invisible President have got
on his nerves. He hopes, by his sudden departure, to bring things to
a climax, but climaxes, as we of the north understand them, are hard
to bring about in Latin America. The one thing not wanted is definite
action. Mr. Lind said, in a convincing manner, as he departed, that he
would arrange for rooms for us in Vera Cruz. He knows it is N.’s right
to conduct any business connected with the breaking off of relations,
which he seems sure will be decided on at Washington, and he realizes
that N. has borne the heat and burden of the Mexican day. He seems more
understanding of us than of the situation, alas! I said Godspeed to him
with tears in my eyes. Vague fears of impending calamity press upon
me. How is this mysterious and extraordinary people fitted to meet the
impending catastrophe--this burning of the forest to get the tiger?

An American citizen, Krauss, has been put without trial in the Prison
of Santiago, where he has come down with pneumonia. N. has sent a
doctor to him with d’Antin, who has been for years legal adviser
and translator to the Embassy, and is almost, if not _quite_, a
Mexican. They found the American in a long, narrow corridor, with
eighty or ninety persons lying or sitting about; there was scarcely
stepping-room, and the air was horrible; there were few peons among the
prisoners, who were mostly men of education--political suspects. One
aspect of a dictatorship!

Garza de la Cadena, the man I wrote you about (who seized the priest
at the altar and threw him into the street in Gomez Palacio), was shot
yesterday, by his own rebels, for some treachery--a well-deserved fate.
He was taken out at dawn near Parral, placed against an adobe wall, and
riddled with bullets.

This morning I was reading of the breaking off of our relations with
Spain in 1898. Most interesting, and possibly to the point. History
has a way of repeating itself with changes of names only. I wonder
will the day come when N.’s name and Algara’s figure as did General
Woodford’s and Polo de Bernabé’s? Various horrors take place here, but
no one fact, it seems to me, can equal the dwindling of the population
of the “green isle of Cuba” (indescribably beautiful as one steams
along its shores), which dropped from 1,600,000 to 1,000,000 in ten
months--mostly through hunger. Mothers died with babes at their
breasts; weak, tottering children dug the graves of their parents. Good
God! How could it ever have happened so near to us? However, _they_ are
all safe--“_con Dios_.”

Now we take a hurried dinner, at which Mr. Lind, Captain B., and Ensign
H. had been expected, and then N. goes “big-game hunting” again. It
bids fair to be a busy night.


FOOTNOTE:

[4] The _abrazo_ has been described by some one as the “Oriental and
scriptural embrace, whereby men hold one another for a moment and,
bending, look over one another’s shoulder.” It is both dignified and
expressive.




V


  Uncertain days--The friendly offices of diplomats--A side-light
  on executions--Mexican street cries--Garza Aldape resigns--First
  official Reception at Chapultepec Castle--The jewels of Cortés.


_November 13th._

The President was not trackable last night, though N. kept up the
search until a late or, rather, an early hour. It certainly is an
efficient, if not satisfactory, way of giving answer--just to subtract
yourself from the situation.

N. will not present himself at the convening of Congress on Saturday,
the 15th. His absence will make a big hole in the _Corps Diplomatique_.

Several reporters were here early this morning to say they had positive
information that Huerta had fled the country. But Mexico City as a
rumor factory is unexcelled, and one no longer gets excited over the
_on dits_. Moreover, nothing, probably, is further from Huerta’s mind
than flight. From it all emerged one kernel of truth: Mr. Lind had left
for Vera Cruz without satisfaction of any kind.

The Belgian minister came in yesterday just as Mr. Lind was leaving. He
begged him not to go, to refrain from any brusque action calculated to
precipitate a rupture that might be avoided. But I can’t see that any
one’s coming or going makes any difference. The abyss is calling the
Mexicans and they will fall into it when and how they please.

I have gone so far as to tell Berthe to pack my clothes. The things in
the drawing-rooms I will leave--and lose if necessary. It would create
a panic if any one came in and saw the rooms dismantled. No one can
tell what is really impending. The American editor who remarked that
what we take for an Aztec Swan Song is generally only another yelp of
defiance is about right.

The five days’ siege of Chihuahua was ended yesterday by a Federal
victory. The rebels lost about nine hundred men. The corpses of the
latter were very well dressed, many wearing silk underclothing, the
result of the looting of Torreon, which the rebels took several weeks
ago. The Chihuahua victory will probably strengthen the provisional
government if anything can. The generals, including Orozco, who fought
against Madero, have been promoted.

Night before last the train on the Inter-oceanic between Mexico City
and Vera Cruz was held up by rebel bandits for two hours. Everybody
was robbed and terrorized. The rebels had in some way got news of the
large export of bullion on the train. There was so much that they could
not have carried it off, even if they hadn’t been frightened in the
midst of their raid by a hastily summoned detachment of Federals. If we
depart I don’t care to chaperon silver bars to the port. And N. says he
would like Huerta to sit on the seat with him all the way down.

I wonder if the government will be so huffed at the non-appearance of
the American representative on Saturday that the Sabbath will see us
on the way, with our passports? Probably men may come and men may go
(_vide_ Mr. Lind), coldness and threats may be tried on them, and they
will continue to let everything go till the United States is actually
debarking troops at the ports and pouring them over the frontier.
Masterly inaction with a vengeance.

I have an idea that Washington is not in accord with Mr. Lind’s
impatience to end the situation by a rupture of diplomatic
relationship. Once broken off, we would be faced by an urgent
situation, demanding immediate action. Perhaps it _is_ true that we are
not efficiently ready for intervention, besides not wanting it. As long
as N. stays the wheels will be oiled.


_November 14th._

Last night the atmosphere cleared--for a while, at least. Congress
will not be convened to-morrow, which puts quite a different aspect on
things. If it had been held, Mexico would have been the only country,
by the way, able to display a triplicate set of Congressmen, _i. e._,
those in jail, those elected since the _coup d’état_, and the last new
ones.

Sir L. called yesterday to offer his services. Great Britain knows
she must be in accord with us. Many other colleagues also called,
fearing some trouble when it was understood that N. was not to attend
the opening and that the United States proposed to declare null and
void any act of the Congress. Quite a flutter among the expectant
_concessionaires Belges_! It all had a very salutary effect. There is
no use in any of the Powers trying to “rush” the United States, no
matter what their interests on the Western Hemisphere.


_Later._

President Wilson has decided to delay the announcement of his new
Mexican policy. Incidentally, I told Berthe to unpack. Well, we will
all be quiet until something else turns up. Hundreds of dollars’ worth
of cables went out from the Embassy yesterday, N. dictating for hours
and the clerks coding. Several of them are sleeping at the Embassy,
anyway--so much night work that they are needed on the ground.

I am giving this letter to M. Bourgeois, the French consul-general,
leaving on the _Espagne_, next week. He is an agreeable man of the
world, who has just been assigned to Tientsin.


_Evening, 10 o’clock._

Matters very serious. N. is to deliver to-night what is practically an
ultimatum. He called up Manuel Garza Aldape, Minister of Gobernación
(Interior), and arranged for an interview with him at his house at
nine o’clock. Then he rang up the ministers he needs as witnesses, to
accompany him there.

Von Hintze arrived first. When he had read the paper here in the
drawing-room he said, after a silence, “This means war.” (Some one had
intimated such a possibility on Wednesday last, to Garza Aldape, and
he had answered, quietly, “It _is_ war.”) Von Hintze went on to say:
“Huerta’s personal position is desperate. Whether he fights the rebels
in the north or the United States, it is disaster for him. Only, I
fancy, he has less to lose in the way of prestige if he chooses the
United States. His nation will make some show of rallying around him in
this latter case.” Von Hintze is persuaded that we are not ready for
war, practically or psychologically. He kept repeating to N.: “But have
you represented to your government what all this will eventually lead
to?” N. answered “Washington is justly tired of the situation. For six
months our government has urged and threatened and coaxed. It doesn’t
want any more useless explanations. It is too late.”

However, until the note is in Huerta’s hands it is not official. So I
still hope. Garza Aldape is one of the best of the ministers.

I went with von Hintze and N. to the big front door and watched the
motor disappear in the darkness. Delicious odors from the geraniums and
heliotrope in the garden enveloped the house, but after a moment I
came back, feeling very still. The idea of American blood watering the
desert of Chihuahua grips my heart. I can see those dry, prickly cactus
stubs sticking up in the sand. No water anywhere! During the Madero
revolution a couple of hundred Mexicans died there of thirst, and they
knew their country. I kept looking about my comfortable drawing-room,
with its easy-chairs and photographs, books and bowls of flowers, and
saying to myself: “So that is the way wars are made.” This putting of
another’s house in order is getting on my nerves.

The telephone has been ringing constantly. The journalists have had
indications from Washington that something is impending.


_Saturday, November 15th._

N. came in last night at half past twelve, after a three hours’
conference with Aldape. He is to see him again at ten this morning.
They say that the presence of Mr. Lind gives publicity to every step,
that their national dignity is constantly imperiled, and that it is
impossible to negotiate under such conditions. Aldape also said that
Huerta flies into such a rage whenever Lind’s name is mentioned that
conversation becomes impossible.


_Later._

Things are very strenuous to-day. N. saw Garza Aldape at ten. He said
he had passed a sleepless night, after their conference, and had not
yet presented the ultimatum to Huerta. N. asked him if he were afraid
to do so, and he answered, quite simply, “Yes.” N. told him he would
return at three o’clock, and if by that time the note had not been
presented through the regular channels, he would do it himself.

The outlook is very gloomy. Carranza in the north has refused the
offices of W. B. Hale as mediator, saying, “No foreign nation can be
permitted to interfere in the interior matters of Mexico.” If Carranza
says that, certainly Huerta cannot say less. So there we are. Though
nothing was further from his purpose, Mr. Lind has absolutely knocked
any possible negotiations on the head by the noise and publicity of his
arrival in the city of Montezuma _and_ Huerta. The Latin-American may
know that you know his affairs, and know that you know he knows you
know; but he does not want and will not stand publicity.

This morning I went out “junking” at the Thieves’ Market with Lady C.
It seemed to us that all the rusty keys in the world, together with all
the locks, door-knobs, candlesticks, spurs, and family chromos were on
exhibition. We were just leaving when my eye fell on a beautiful old
blue-and-white Talavera jar, its metal top and old Spanish lock intact.
After considerable haggling I ended by giving the shifty-eyed Indian
more than he had ever dreamed of getting, and much less than the thing
was worth. Drugs, sweetmeats, and valuables of various kinds used to be
kept in these jars. Greatly encouraged, I dragged Lady C. to the Monte
de Piedad. All foreigners as well as natives frequent it, hoping, in
vain, to get a pearl necklace for what one would pay for a string of
beads elsewhere. One of the monthly _remates_, or auctions, was going
on, and the elbowing crowd of peons and well-dressed people, together
with the familiar Aztec smell, made us feel it was no place for us. The
diamonds and pearls here are mostly very poor, and the great chunks of
emeralds with their thousand imperfections are more decorative than
valuable. The fine jewels of the wealthy class have come mostly from
Europe, though shrewd buyers are on the lookout for possible finds
in the constant turnover of human possessions. There are beautiful
opals to be had in Mexico, but you know I wouldn’t touch one, and the
turquoise has been mined from time immemorial. The museums everywhere
are full of them as talismans and congratulatory gifts, to say nothing
of the curio-shops.

Cortés, it appears, was very fond of jewels, and was always smartly
dressed in fine linen and dark colors, with one handsome ornament.
When he went back to Spain he set all the women crazy by the jewels he
took with him. Emeralds, turquoises, gold ornaments, and _panaches_ of
plumes of the _quetzal_ (bird of paradise) cunningly sewn with pearls
and emeralds, after the Aztec fashion, were distributed with a lavish
hand. The presents for his second wife were so splendid that the queen
became quite jealous, though he had made her wonderful offerings. It is
hinted that this was the beginning of his disfavor at court.


_November 17th._

Yesterday, which began so threateningly, ended without catastrophe. On
opening the morning newspaper, I saw that Garza Aldape had resigned.
He finally presented the American note to Huerta, with the result that
he also presented his own demission and leaves almost immediately for
Vera Cruz, to sail on the _Espagne_ for Paris, where, it is rumored, he
will be minister in place of de la Barra. Anyway, it is his exit from
Huertista politics. He is a gentleman and a man of understanding. The
way Huerta has of dispersing his Cabinet is most unfortunate.

Yesterday there was another little luncheon at Tlalpam. We sat in the
beautiful, half-neglected garden till half past four among a riot
of flowers in full bloom, callas, violets, roses, geraniums, and
heliotrope on every side. The two white, distant volcanoes crowned as
ever the matchless beauty of the scene about us.

What the diplomats are fearing in the event of N.’s withdrawal is
the interregnum _after_ our departure and before the American troops
could get here. They foresee pillaging of the city and massacre of the
inhabitants; as their natural protectors, the Federal troops, would
be otherwise occupied, fighting “the enemy”--_i. e._, us! They always
say Washington would be held responsible in such an event, by the
whole world, but this thought does not seem to comfort them much. The
ineradicable idea among all foreigners is that we are playing a policy
of exhaustion and ruin in Mexico by non-recognition, so that we will
have little or no difficulty when we are ready to grab. One can talk
oneself hoarse, explain, embellish, uphold the President’s policy--it
makes no difference: “It is like that.”

We came home after I had shown myself with Elim at the Country Club on
our way in. People are in a panic here, but no one has heard anything
from _me_ except that I expect to receive on Thanksgiving Day from
four to eight. The telephones are being rung all day by distracted
fathers and husbands, not knowing what to do. They cannot leave their
daily bread. They are not men who have bank accounts in New York or in
any other town, and to them leaving means ruin. They come with white,
harassed faces. “Is it true that the Embassy is to be closed to-night?”
“What do you advise?” “It is ruin if I leave.” “Can’t we count on any
protection?” are a few of the questions asked.

Dr. Ryan, the young physician who did such good work during the
_Decena Tragica_ last February, is here again. He has been in the
north these last months, where he saw horrid things and witnessed many
executions. He says the victims don’t seem to care for their own lives
or for any one’s else. They will stand up and look at the guns of the
firing-squad, with big round eyes, like those of deer, and then fall
over.

As I write I hear the sad cry of the tamale-women, two high notes, and
a minor drop. All Mexican street cries are sad. The scissors-grinder’s
cry is beautiful--and melancholy to tears.

I was startled as I watched the faces of some conscripts marching to
the station to-day. On so many was impressed something desperate and
despairing. They have a fear of displacement, which generally means
catastrophe and eternal separation from their loved ones. They often
have to be tied in the transport wagons. There is no system about
conscription here--the press-gang takes any likely-looking person.
Fathers of families, only sons of widows, as well as the unattached,
are enrolled, besides women to cook and grind in the powder-mills.
Sometimes a few dozen school-children parade the streets with guns,
escorted by their teachers. Unripe food for cannon, these infants--but
looking so proud. These are all details, but indicative of the
situation.


_November 18th._

To-morrow Huerta and his señora are to receive at Chapultepec, the
first time they will have made use of the official presidential
dwelling. They are moving from the rented house in the Calle Liverpool
to one of their own, a simple enough affair in the Mexican style, one
story with a _patio_, in an unfashionable quarter.

As we are still “accredited,” I think we ought to go, there being no
reason why we should offer to Señora Huerta the disrespect of staying
away.

When we arrived in Mexico, beautiful Doña Carmen Diaz was presiding;
then came Señora de la Barra, newly married, sweet-faced, and smiling;
followed by Señora Madero, earnest, pious, passionate. Now Señora
Huerta is the “first lady”--all in two years and a half. The dynasties
have a way of telescoping in these climes.

The invitation to the opening of Congress to-morrow has just come
in--exactly as if the United States had not decided that no such
Congress should be convened and its acts be considered null and void.

Elim told me to-day that all the children he plays with have gone
away--“afraid of the revolution,” he added, in a matter-of-fact voice.
He expects to die with me if “war” does come, and is quite satisfied
with his fate.

The details of Garza Aldape’s demission have come in. His resignation
was accepted by Huerta in the friendliest manner. He concluded the
conversation, however, by telling Aldape the _Espagne_ was sailing on
Monday, and that he had better leave on Sunday morning, so as to be
sure not to miss it. This being late Saturday evening, Garza Aldape
demurred, saying his family had no trunks. The President assured him
that he himself would see that he got all he needed. Subsequently he
sent Aldape a number of large and handsome receptacles. Madame G. A.
received a hand-bag with luxurious fittings, and 20,000 francs _oro_ in
it! The “old man” has a royal manner of doing things on some occasions;
and then again he becomes the Indian, inscrutable, unfathomable to us,
and violent and high-handed to his own people--whom he knows so very
well.

The reception at Chapultepec, yesterday, was most interesting. As we
drove through the Avenida de los Insurgentes up the _Paseo_ toward the
“Hill of the Grasshopper” the windows of the castle were a blaze of
light high up against the darkening sky.

On our last visit to Chapultepec,[5] Madero and Pino Suarez were there,
and shades of the murdered ones began to accost me as I appeared on
the terrace. One of the glittering presidential aides, however, sprang
to give me his arm, and in a moment I was passing into the familiar
_Salon de Embajadores_, to find Señora Huerta installed on the equally
familiar gilt-and-pink brocaded sofa placed across the farther end.
She has been a very handsome woman, with fine eyes and brow, and has
now a quiet, dignified, and rather serious expression. She was dressed
in a tight-fitting princess gown of red velvet, with white satin
guimp and black _glacé_ kid gloves. She has had thirteen children,
most of whom seemed to be present on this, their first appearance in
an official setting. The daughters, married and unmarried, and their
friends receiving with them, made quite a gathering in themselves. As I
looked around, after saluting Señora Huerta, the big room seemed almost
entirely filled with small, thick-busted women, with black hair parted
on one side over low, heavy brows, and held down by passementerie
bandeaux; well-slippered, _very_ tiny feet, were much in evidence. None
of the “aristocrats” were there, but _el Cuerpo_, was out in full force.

The President came at about six o’clock, walking quickly into the room
as the national air was played, and we all arose. It was the first time
I had seen him. N. presented me, and we three stood talking, in the
middle of the room, while everybody watched “America and Mexico.”

Huerta is a short, broad-shouldered man of strong Indian type, with an
expression at once serious, amiable, and penetrating; he has restless,
vigilant eyes, screened behind large glasses, and shows no signs of the
much-talked-of alcoholism. Instead, he looked like a total abstainer. I
was much impressed by a certain underlying force whose momentum _may_
carry him to recognition--now the great end of all.

I felt myself a bit “quivery” at the thought of the war-cloud hanging
over these people, and of how the man dominating the assembly took his
life in his hands at his every appearance, and was apparently resolved
to die rather than cede one iota to _my_ country. After the usual
greetings, “_a los pies de Vd. señora_” (“at your feet, señora”), etc.,
he remarked, with a smile, that he was sorry I should find things still
a little strained on my return, but that he hoped for a way out of the
very natural difficulties. I answered rather ambiguously, so far as he
is concerned, that I loved Mexico and didn’t want to leave it. I felt
my eyes fill over the potentialities of the situation, whereupon he
answered, as any gentleman, anywhere in the world, might have done,
that now that _la señora_ had returned things _might_ be arranged!
After this he gave his arm to Madame Ortega, wife of the Guatemalan
minister, the ranking wife of the Spanish minister being ill, and
Madame Lefaivre not yet arrived. Señor Ortega gave me his arm, and we
all filed out into the long, narrow gallery, _la Vitrina_, overlooking
the city and the wondrous valley, where an elaborate tea was served.
The President reached across the narrow table to me to touch my glass
of champagne, as the usual _saludes_ were beginning, and I found he was
drinking to the health of the “_Gran Nación del Norte_.” Could I do
less than answer “_Viva_ Mexico”?

[Illustration]

After tea, music--the photograph fiends taking magnesium snap-shots of
Señora Huerta and the dark-browed beauties clustering around, with an
incidental head or arm of some near-by diplomat. Madame Ortega then got
up to say good-by, and after making our adieux we passed out on to the
beautiful flower- and palm-planted terrace. Again, in the dim light the
memory of Madero and Pino Suarez assailed me rather reproachfully. It
was a curious presentment of human destinies, played out on the stage
of the mysterious valley of Anahuac, which seems often a strange astral
emanation of a world, rather than actual hills and plains. A mysterious
correspondence between things seen and unseen is always making itself
felt, and now, in this space between two destinies, I felt more than
ever the fathomlessness of events. Other “kings” were dead, and this
one could not “long live.”

Afterward we played bridge at Madame Simon’s with the _chicheria_ there
assembled. It seemed very banal. All the guests, however, turned their
handsome faces and rustled their handsome clothes as I entered, and in
a detached sort of way asked how it had all gone off--this, the first
official reception of _their_ President.

To-day Congress opens, and N. does not attend. I am glad, in the
interests of the dove of peace, that we went to the reception
yesterday. The officials will realize there is nothing personal in
to-day’s absence.

Last night there was a pleasant dinner at the Cardens’, who are now
settled at the comfortable Legation. They are very nice to us, but
I feel that Sir L. is naturally much chagrined at the unmeritedly
adverse press comments he has had in the United States. We all shivered
in our evening dresses, in spite of the rare joy of an open fire in
the long drawing-room. There is a thin, penetrating, unsparing sort
of chill in these November evenings, in houses meant only for warm
weather. I should have enjoyed wearing my motor coat instead of the
gray-and-silver Worth dress.

The British cruiser squadron under Admiral Cradock sailed last night
for Vera Cruz, which is packed to overflowing with people from here.
The prices, “twelve hours east and a mile and a half down,” are
fabulous. One woman, so her husband told me, pays ten dollars a day
at the Diligencias for a room separated only by a curtain from an
electric pump, which goes day and night.

Villa has made a formal declaration that, owing to Carranza’s
inactivity, he assumes the leadership of the rebellion, which is the
first, but very significant, hint of two parties in the north: Huerta
is very pleased, it appears, and is looking forward to seeing them eat
each other up like the proverbial lions of the desert. A few “lost
illusions” will doubtless stalk the Washington streets and knock at a
door or two.

Well, another Sabbath has passed and we are still here. Burnside is up
from Vera Cruz. He says we can’t back down, and war seems inevitable.
It will take the United States one hundred years to make Mexico into
what we call a civilized country, during which process most of its
magnetic charm will go. The Spanish imprint left in the wonderful frame
of Mexico is among the beauties of the universe. Every pink belfry
against every blue hill reminds one of it; every fine old façade,
unexpectedly met as one turns a quiet street corner; in fact, all the
beauty in Mexico except that of the natural world--is the Spaniards’
and the Indians’. Poor Indians!

I have been reading accounts of the deportation of the Yaquis from
Sonora to Yucatan, the wordless horrors of the march, the separation
of families. I can’t go into it now; it is one of the long-existent
abuses that Madero, at first, was eager to abate. Volumes could
be written about it. Another crying shame is the condition of the
prisons. Belem, here in town, is an old building erected toward the
end of the seventeenth century, and used as an asylum of some kind
ever since. Much flotsam and jetsam has been washed up at its doors,
though I don’t know that the word “washed” is in any sense suitable.
When one thinks that a few hundred _pesos’_ of bichloride of lime and
some formaldehyde gas would clean up the vermin-infested corners and
check the typhus epidemics, one can scarcely refrain from taking the
stuff there oneself. It seems so simple, but it is all bound up so
inextricably with the general _laisser-aller_ of the nation. No one is
in Belem three days without contracting an itching skin disease, and a
large proportion of the prisoners there, as well as at Santiago, near
by, are political, journalists, lawyers, _et al._, who are used to
some measure of cleanliness. The _Penitenciaría_ is their show prison,
built on modern principles, and compares favorably with the best in the
United States.

Yesterday we lunched with the Ösi-Sanz. He is an agreeable, clever,
musical Hungarian, married to a handsome young Mexican, widow of an
Iturbide. In their charming rooms are many Maximilian souvenirs that he
has ferreted out here; big portraits of the emperor and Carlota look
down from the blue walls of the very artistic _salon_, and a large
copy of the picture of the deputation headed by Estrada, which went
to Miramar to offer Maximilian the imperial and fatal crown. Vitrines
are filled with Napoleon and Maximilian porcelain, and they have some
beautiful old Chinese vases. In the viceregal days these were much
prized, being brought up from the Pacific coast on the backs of Indian
runners. Afterward, we had bridge at the Corcuera-Pimentels--another
smart young Mexican _ménage_. Their house, too, is charming, full of
choice things, beautifully and sparingly placed; the rooms would be
lovely anywhere. Then home, where I looked over that depressing book,
_Barbarous Mexico_.

In Huerta’s speech before Congress on the 20th, he makes use of the
famous words of Napoleon--“The law is not violated if the country be
saved.” We all wondered how he fished it up!

There is a cartoon reproduced in _The Literary Digest_, which I am
sending you. In it Uncle Sam is saying to President Wilson, “It’s no
use, Woody; you can’t pet a porcupine,” the porcupine being Huerta,
in the background, sitting near a bit of cactus. Some London papers
call Huerta the “Mexican Cromwell.” His speech, putting patriotism and
morality above expediency, evidently made a hit.


FOOTNOTE:

[5] Chapultepec--from the Aztec words _chapulin_ (grasshopper) and
_tepetl_ (hill).




VI


  “Decisive word” from Washington--A passing scare--Conscription’s
  terrors--Thanksgiving--The rebel advance--Sir Christopher
  Cradock--Huerta’s hospitable waste-paper basket.


_November 28th._

An exciting day. The long-looked-for “decisive” word came from
Washington this morning, to be communicated this evening to every
embassy and legation in Europe. By to-night all the foreign
representatives here and the press will be informed. It states that
we will not recede one step from our position; that Huerta and all
his supporters must go; that we will isolate him, starve him out
financially, morally, and physically; that revolution and assassination
may come to an end in Latin America; that we will protect our interests
and the interests of all foreigners, and that peace must be made in
Mexico, or that we will make it ourselves! It is the _argumentum
ad hominem_ certainly, and we can only wait to see what acrobatic
feats to avoid the blow will be performed by Huerta. The language
is unmistakable and could only be used because the military force
necessary is behind it and ready.


_November 29th._

Well, the scare of yesterday has passed.... Now the Foreign Office here
can do more masterly ignoring!

Last month, on the 25th, Huerta signed a decree increasing the army to
150,000; the work of conscription has been going on at a great rate.
After the bull-fight on Sunday seven hundred unfortunates were seized,
doubtless never to see their families again. Once far from Mexico
City, they are not bright about getting back. At a big fire a few days
ago nearly a thousand were taken, many women among them, who are put
to work in the powder-mills. A friend told me this morning that the
father, mother, two brothers, and the sister of one of her servants
were taken last week. They scarcely dare, any of them, to go out after
dark. Posting a letter may mean, literally, going to the cannon’s mouth.

In “junking” the other day I found an interesting old print of the
taking of Chapultepec by the Americans, September, 1847, which I have
fitted into a nice old frame. I am keeping it up-stairs. I went to
the Red Cross this morning for the first time since my return. They
all greeted me most cordially and said N. was “_muy amigo de Mexico_”
(“very much a friend of Mexico”). I shall take Wednesdays and Saturdays
for my service.

To-morrow is Thanksgiving. I am receiving for the Colony and such of
the _chers collègues_ as care to help wave the Stars and Stripes. It
will be a sort of census of how many Americans are really left in town.
Their number is fast dwindling.

       *       *       *       *       *

Yesterday was a busy day. I went to mass at San Lorenzo, where the
nice American rector gave a very good Thanksgiving sermon. I rarely go
there, except on some such occasion. It is far from the Embassy, and,
though once in the best residential part of the city, it is now invaded
by a squalid Indian and _mestizo_ class. With the exception of San
Lorenzo, which is very clean (the American church, as it is called),
the churches in that quarter strike a most forlorn note, with their
silent belfries and dirt and general shabbiness.

About two hundred came to the reception yesterday, and I only wish
_all_ had come. I really enjoyed shaking those friendly hands. The
times are uncertain, and ruin for many is probable at any moment. The
rooms were filled with flowers; I had a nice buffet and a good, _heady_
punch. Elim was dressed in immaculate white. He made one shining
appearance, and then reappeared ten minutes later, his radiance dimmed,
having been sprinkled accidentally by the nice Indian gardener. He
was reclad, but some over-enthusiastic compatriot gave him a glass of
punch, and the rest of the afternoon I seemed to see little legs and
feet in the air. The _chefs de mission_ all came also, but of course
it was an American day, the beloved flag flying high and catching the
brilliant light in a most inspiring way.

Clarence Hay (John Hay’s son) is down here with Professor Tozzer and
his bride, for archæological work. They first appeared on the horizon
yesterday, the atmosphere of a less harassed world still hanging
around them, and were most welcome. Tozzer is professor of archæology
at Harvard and has mapped out work here until May, in connection with
the Museo Nacional. The Toltec and Aztec treasures still hidden in the
earth would repay any labor.

We fly up and down the _Paseo_ constantly. I think there is the
fastest and most reckless motor-driving in the world in Mexico, but
some divinity is sleepless and there are few accidents. Jesus, our
chauffeur, is a gem of good looks, neatness, willingness, competency,
and skill. When he is told to come back for us at half past eleven,
when we are dining out, and he has been on the go all day, he not only
says “good,” but “_very_ good,” with a flash of white teeth and dark
eyes. The rest of the servants are so-so. If I thought we were going
to stay I should change the first man. He ought to be the last, as he
is not only a fool, but an unwilling one. As it is he who is supposed
to stand between me and the world, I am often maddened by him. He is
Indian, with a dash of Japanese, not a successful mixture in his case,
though he is _supposed_ to be honest.


_November 29th._

I haven’t taken a census of the inhabitants of the house. Several of
the women, I know, have children living with them, but a little unknown
face appeared at a door yesterday, and was snatched back by some
unidentified hand. They don’t produce them all at once, but gradually.

We had a white bull-terrier given us seven weeks old, Juanita by name.
It has threatened to rain dogs here since it became known that we
wanted _one_, but I have avoided all but two since returning. Elim
looks sweet playing with her, two little milk-white young things.
But Juanita’s stock is low. She tries her teeth on anything that is
light-colored and soft, especially hats, and faces now stiffen at her
approach.

A bit of a domestic upheaval this morning. The Indian butler with the
dash of Japanese has been dismissed, or, rather, has dismissed himself.
His was a case of total inefficiency and bad temper. I gave him a
recommendation, for, poor fellow, he had seen his best days under the
Stars and Stripes. The press-gang will get him, and he will doubtless
soon be on the way to the north. I am to have a new butler on Monday.


_Later._

I have just been going over the map with Captain Burnside, and we have
been tracing the slow and sure advance of the rebels. They are down as
far as San Luis Potosí, not more than fourteen hours from here. They
manage to isolate the Federal detachments, one after the other, cutting
the railroad lines in front and in the rear. There is a good deal of
that northern march where one can go a hundred kilometers without
finding a drop of water.

I was reading Mme. Calderon de la Barca’s letters--1840-1842--last
night. She was the Scotch wife of the first Spanish minister after the
Mexican independence, and her descriptions of political conditions
would fit to-day exactly, even the names of some of the generals
repeating themselves. She speaks of “the plan of the Federals,” “the
political regeneration of the Republic,” “evils now arrived at such
a height that the endeavors of a few men no longer suffice,” “a long
discussion in Congress to-day on the granting of extraordinary powers
to the President,” “a possible sacking of the city.”... Our history
here. She goes on to say that they (the brigands) are the growth of
civil war. Sometimes in the guise of insurgents taking an active part
in the independence, they have independently laid waste the country.
As expellers of the Spaniards these armed bands infested the roads
between Vera Cruz and the capital, ruined all commerce, and without
any particular inquiry into political opinions robbed and murdered
in all directions. And she tells the _bon mot_ of a certain Mexican:
“Some years ago we gave forth cries--_gritos_ (referring to the Grito
de Dolores of Hidalgo). That was in the infancy of our independence.
Now we begin to pronounce, _pronunciamos_ (a _pronunciamiento_ is a
revolution). Heaven only knows when we shall be old enough to speak
plainly, so that people may know what we mean.”


_December 2d._

I go in the afternoon to a charity sale at Mrs. Adams’s, for the
“Lady Cowdray Nursery Home.” Mr. A. is the Cowdray representative
of the huge oil interests in Mexico. It sometimes looks as if this
whole situation could be summed up in the one word, “oil.” Mexico is
so endlessly, so tragically rich in the things that the world covets.
Certainly oil is the crux of the Anglo-American situation. All the
modern battle-ships will be burning oil instead of coal--clean,
smokeless, no more of the horrors of stoking--and for England to have
practically an unlimited oil-fount in Mexico means much to her.

We had a pleasant dinner last night here--Clarence Hay, Mr. and Mrs.
Tozzer, and Mr. Seeger; the dinner itself only so-so. Mr. Seeger’s
suggestion that the _guajolote_ had been plied with grape-juice
rather than with something more inspiring was borne out by the bird’s
toughness, and there were strange, unexplained intervals. However I
impressed upon C. H. that I was giving him this splendid _fiesta_
because his father had signed N.’s first commission (to Copenhagen),
and the time passed merrily. There are other things you can do at
dinner besides eating, if you are put to it.

I inclose a long clipping, most interesting, from Mr. Foster’s
_Diplomatic Memoirs_. He was minister here for some years--1873-1880,
I think. His relations, too, of conditions at that time seem a replica
of these in our time: “The railroad trains always contained one or more
cars loaded with armed soldiers. The Hacendados did not venture off
their estates without an armed guard and the richest of them lived in
the cities for safety. Everybody armed to the teeth when traveling and
the bullion-trains coming from the mines were always heavily protected
by guards.” Mr. Foster sets forth the actions of the United States
in delaying recognition of Diaz when he assumed the Presidency, and
tells of the various moments in which we were on the brink of war with
Mexico. In 1875, Congress conferred on Diaz “extraordinary faculties,”
the effect of which was to suspend the legislative power and make him a
dictator.

N. paid over the Pius Fund, yesterday--the indemnity of 45,000
pesos that Mexico is forced to pay yearly to the Catholic Church in
California for confiscation of its property about one hundred years
ago. It was the first decision of the Hague Tribunal. Archbishop
Riordan, when consulted about the manner of paying it, telegraphed
to Mr. Bryan that he left it in N.’s hands to be disposed of as if
it were his own. N.’s policy has been to get the various foreign
powers to appeal to us for protection of their citizens, thus tacitly
acknowledging our “Monroe” right to handle questions that came up. So
far France, Germany, Spain, and Japan have done so.


_December 3d._

Yesterday, at four o’clock, Sir Lionel and Sir Christopher Cradock
were announced. When I went down-stairs, a few minutes later, I found
my drawing-room a blaze of afternoon sun, setting off to perfection
twice six feet or more of Royal British navy--Sir Christopher and his
aide, Cavendish, resplendent in full uniform. They had just come from
calling on Huerta in state, at the Palace. I was really dazzled for the
first moment. Sir Christopher is a singularly handsome man, regular
of feature, and of distinguished bearing. His aide, equally tall and
slender, a younger silhouette of himself, was standing by his side.
Britannia _resplendens_! Sir Christopher was evidently very interested
in seeing, at first hand, the situation he is to “observe” from the
vantage of Vera Cruz. After a lively half-hour he was borne off by Sir
L. for visits at the legations, and comparative darkness fell upon the
room. As we are all dining at the German Legation, where there is a
gala dinner for him and the captain of the _Bremen_ and his staff, we
merely said _au revoir_.


_December 4th._

The dinner last night for twenty-four was most brilliant, and perfectly
appointed, from the lavish caviar on beds of ice to the last flaming
_omelette en surprise_. We sat at the small ends of the table, Madame
Lefaivre on von Hintze’s right, and I on his left; Sir Lionel by
me, and Sir Christopher by Madame Lefaivre; Lady Carden, handsomely
gowned and jeweled, at the other extreme end, with the next ranking
men on either side. Sir C., just opposite to me, was glistening with
decorations and shining with the special, well-groomed, English look.
I asked him if he hadn’t been afraid to come over the rebel-infested
mountains with so much temptation on his person. He answered, as a
forceful, sporting look came into his eyes, “They wouldn’t get the
chance to _keep_ anything of mine!”[6]

It is impossible to talk politics; things are too delicate and I
imagine we all have rather a shifty look in the eye at the remotest
mention of _la situación_. I can see, however, that Sir C. has been
impressed by Huerta, and would probably have liked to tell him to “keep
it up.”

I wore my filmy black and my pearls, which combination seemed to give
pleasure. After dinner, and some conversation with the captain of the
_Bremen_, who, however great his merit, didn’t have the clothes nor
the distinction of Sir C., we played bridge--Sir C., Lady Carden,
Hohler, and myself. Sir C. won every rubber in a nice, quiet way. He
lunches with us to-morrow at Chapultepec restaurant; von Hintze and his
officers, unfortunately, are already engaged for a Colony lunch.


_Evening._

A full day. Red Cross work from ten till twelve, then home to
change--not only my dress, but the scent that hung round me--to go to
Chapultepec. Sir C. and Cavendish, somewhat dimmed by being in plain
clothes, drove up to the restaurant just as I was getting out of the
motor, the Belgian minister, Mr. Percival, and the Cardens coming a few
minutes later. We had espied Huerta’s auto in the Park, and I had the
bold idea of getting the President for lunch, knowing it would render
things spicy for Sir C. Heaven was watching over me, however, for
instead of stopping at the restaurant for one of the famous _copitas_,
Huerta passed through the Park, disappearing in the direction of
Popotla.

It was ideal lunching on the veranda, bathed in the warm, scented air,
talking of many things, and climes, with the easy exchange of thoughts
that is the pleasure of people of the world. Sir C. said that he had
spent most of his time changing his clothes, since his arrival, having
come with nothing between full uniform and morning coat. He had been to
the Foreign Office that morning in uniform, into civilian for lunch,
was to dress at three for some sort of function at the Palace, and
then change to visit the castle of Chapultepec and the cadet school
attached. He had accomplished all these labors when at six we met again
at Madame Simon’s for bridge. His roving seaman’s eye lighted up and
seemed very appreciative of the bevy of handsome young women he found
there. Again, with “Cradock’s luck,” he raked the shekels in. He said
the visit to Chapultepec and the cadet school was a most thorough
proceeding, and that he was spared no crack or cranny of the school, of
which, however, the Mexicans are justly proud.

There is a reception at the Legation for the English colony to-night,
and to-morrow early he descends to the sea. Sir C. has distinguished
himself in many climes and will, I imagine, get a bit restless at
Vera Cruz, waiting for something to happen. He directed the British,
American, Japanese, and Italian forces for the relief of Tientsin.
He has yet to learn that no outside force can hurry events in Latin
America. They happen from their own momentum, in their own way. I have
an idea he is a full-fledged Huertista, but, oh! so nice about it all.
He is ranking officer to Admiral Fletcher, which might, at any moment,
make complications. How can Britannia rule the waves in the sacred
territorial waters of the Monroe doctrine? But it is always the same.
On all international occasions our admirals find themselves outranked,
even by navies of inferior powers. The highest rank our officers on
active duty can attain is rear-admiral. They bring up the rear in more
senses than one, while all other forces have vice-admirals and admirals
available for any little trips that seem expedient.


_December 5th._

I am sending this off by the German boat _Ypiranga_. We have given up
going to Vera Cruz on Saturday. People say that it is impossible for us
to do so without creating a panic. No one would really know that we had
left a hostage in the shape of the blue-eyed boy. I felt rather in the
mood to go, after the visit of Sir Christopher, who painted the harbor
of Vera Cruz in most attractive colors.

Huerta is gradually getting rid of his Cabinet. Garza Aldape,
Gobernación, went, as I wrote you, and now de Lama (Hacienda) is to
go to Paris by the _Ypiranga_. I don’t imagine Huerta has much to do
with his Cabinet. They fill up certain conventional spaces usual in
governments, and that is all--a sort of administrative furniture, along
with the tables and chairs. Burnside said to-day that when Huerta
really has a Cabinet meeting it consists of himself and advisers in
the shape of _copitas_. He has just got full powers from “Congress” to
put into effect any orders he may give in military and naval matters
for the next year. He pays no attention to Washington and it is
rather difficult to do anything with a person who acts as if you were
non-existent. The ultimata continue to go into the waste-paper basket,
and Vera Cruz is so full of war-ships that those yet to come will have
to stay outside the harbor. The _Rhode Island_, the _Suffolk_, and the
_Condé_ have the best places available for the big ships. The rest of
the harbor is taken up with gunboats.


FOOTNOTE:

[6] Admiral Sir Christopher Cradock went down with his flag-ship, the
_Good Hope_, when it was sunk in the naval engagement off Coronel, Nov.
1, 1914. In the gathering darkness of the tropical ocean, the moon just
rising over a heavy sea, a great explosion was observed, according to
Admiral Count Spee’s report, between the funnels of the _Good Hope_, on
which numerous fires had already broken out. Shortly afterward she went
down in a great blaze, with her colors flying. God alone knows the many
acts of heroism there were performed. But I know that Sir Christopher
Cradock, going to his death in flame and water, did so with a calm
spirit and a complete readiness to die--_pro patria_.--E. O’S.




VII


  Huerta visits the Jockey Club--Chihuahua falls--“The tragic ten
  days”--Exhibition of gunnery in the public streets--Mexico’s
  “potential Presidents”--“The Tiger of the North.”


_December 6th._

The position here gets more curious every day. Public opinion, as we
understand it, is non-existent in Mexico. It is always some despot who
brings some sort of order out of chaos by means unknown (though they
may be suspected) to the public, who judge his worth entirely by the
degree of peace and prosperity that follows.

N. was sitting with some of the males of the “First Families” of
Mexico, in the Jockey Club, this morning, when in sailed Huerta. He
knew none of the _jeunesse_ or _viellesse dorée_. He stood looking
around him for a moment, blinking as he suddenly came into the
light. N. espied him, went over to him, and then made the necessary
presentations, Huerta hanging on his arm. After the first shock of his
entrance there was a rallying around him. He doesn’t belong to the
club, but that, of course, doesn’t make any difference to him; he feels
himself President and superior in brain, will, and achievement. N.
ordered _copitas_, and the visit went off with the snap peculiar to all
of Huerta’s sorties. After all, he is their President.

I send you a copy of _Life_, with an editorial on Mexico. It remarks
that, asking the Mexicans (13,000,000 being Indians) to elect a
President by constitutional methods is “like asking the infant class
to select a teacher.” There is no doubt that our ways don’t yet fit
them. It’s like dressing sonny up in father’s clothes!

Another military train blown up. We were all hoping that the rumored
shortage in dynamite among the rebels would make railway travel more
attractive. Also stories of mutilations that cause one to shiver.

The reason some of the newspapers give for the almost groveling
attitude of the Powers, and their acquiescence in our exclusive
tutelage in Mexico, is that, according to international law, we will
be responsible for the millions they are losing, and that, at the
appointed hour, they intend to press Uncle Sam with the bill--the
French, the English, the Germans, and the Spaniards.

Lunch to-day at the French Legation. Very pleasant, as always. I sat
next to Corona, governor of the Federal District, a handsome, highly
colored, dark-eyed man in the prime of life. His wife and daughter are
in Paris. There is such a sense of the transitoriness of the officials
in Mexico, here to-day and gone to-morrow, that intercourse seems very
bootless; the sword of Damocles is not only hanging, but falling all
the time. May was also there, as pessimistic and politically wrought up
as usual.

My big _salon_ begins to look very home-like. I have some lovely
lamps made of single, big, brass-and-silver church candlesticks, many
exquisite Ravell photographs of this marvelous land finally fitted
into good old frames. I had the smart young Mexican set in for bridge
to-day. They were asked for five, which is a little early for them,
and they didn’t begin to arrive until six. Lovely young women with
beautiful jewels and dresses to set off their dark beauty; Señora
Bernal, Señora Amor, Señora Corcuera, Duquesa de Huette (her husband is
a handsome, polo-playing Spaniard), Señora Cervantes, Señora Riba--two
or three of them _enceinte_, as is usual. They made the rooms quite
radiant. The Mexican men are often put in the shade by their handsome
wives, who would be lovely anywhere. The difficulties of bringing up
young boys here are, for obvious reasons, so great that both Mexicans
and foreigners send their sons away at an early age. The men we know
have most of them been at school in England (Beaumont, or Stonyhurst);
and their English is as good as ours--sometimes better. There is a
sort of resigned irritation, veiled by perfect courtesy and unfailing
amiability, on the part of these people toward our policy, which seems
to them cruel, stupid, and unwarranted. I can only hope it will soon
bear testimony to itself, for this close watching of the means to an
end--if it be an end--is very wearing.


_December 8th._

A very nice letter came from Mr. Lind this morning. He says that Villa
boasts he will eat his dinner at the Jockey Club, and he thinks there
may be something in it, adding that if it had not been for the progress
of the rebels he would have gone home. Chihuahua is in their hands now,
and their military man is installed in the house formerly occupied by
the Federal governor of the state.

Last night I had a long talk with Burnside and Ryan after dinner. There
is a general expectancy of a _cuartelazo_ (revolution in the barracks)
on the 10th. The troops are paid every ten days, and this will be the
second pay-day to be passed over, unless Huerta can raise the necessary
millions before that time. Many influences besides the United States
are at work to make things uncertain; sedition is rife, and the work
of the press-gang is so constant that the _peons_ do not dare to leave
their homes or their holes to go to work.

Revolutions are not convenient, either for those who watch or for
those who participate. The hegira of natives and foreigners continues.
The Mexicans who can get away are, without doubt, thankful “there _is_
no place like home.”

I can’t agree that the foreign representatives could be, at any time,
in real peril. Huerta, Carranza, Zapata, Villa, _or_ the intervening
United States troops would see to it that not a diplomatic hair was
touched. I can imagine us all tightly housed in the _Palacio_, with our
infants and our jewels, the rest of our belongings gone forever. Dr. R.
is for having every woman and child leave Mexico City, things have come
to such a pass. I know _one_ who won’t go!

N. is thinking of telegraphing to Washington to ask to have a few
marines sent up from one of the war-ships, _en civil_, of course. We
could lodge them easily down-stairs. The losing of material things does
not disturb me. When the bad day comes we will be occupied with life
and honor. “_Todo por la patria_” (“all for one’s country”), which
reminds me of the story of Huerta’s parting with a one-time Minister
of War, and one of the various men supposed to have witnessed Madero’s
death. (Another distinction is, that in six weeks’ office he was able
to amass a fortune of some millions, quite a record.) The President
told him, at a dinner, casually, that it might be better for his health
to leave next day for Paris. He cried, “Impossible!” The upshot, of
course, was that Huerta saw him off at the station at the appointed
hour, saying, as he embraced him: “_Todo por la patria, mi General!_”
whereupon the victim, not to be outdone, repeated in his turn: “_Todo
por la patria, mi General!_”

People have curious stories to tell of the “tragic ten days,” among
them little ways of handling the machine-guns. Ryan came across a
group of men who were hovering about one of the _mitrailleuses_,
and the man in charge obligingly started it off, to show them how
it worked--shooting down the street in the direction in which it
_happened_ to be turned. Rather debonair! Mr. Seeger tells the tale
of asking a man at a gun who his _jefe_ was--Huertista, Maderista,
Felicista? He answered, “I don’t know.” He saw him, a moment afterward,
turn the gun around and shoot toward the opposite barricade. Enemy or
friend, it was all the same to _that_ “man behind the gun!”


_December 7th._

I was at Tacubaya this morning, to see the operation and cure for
tuberculosis of a strange Brazilian, a Dr. Botelho. Rows of emaciated
Indians, stripped to the waist, were lying or sitting in the sun.
The operation is a painless injection of hydrogen gas into the lung,
compressing it so that microbes, as my lay mind understands it, don’t
get the space they need to develop. As the patients lay about they
seemed to me like exotic vegetation, ready to drop to earth, rot, and
spring up again. Strange Indian seed!

After Mass I found Colonel and Mrs. Hayes (the former a son of
ex-President Hayes), waiting to see us. They are here for a few days
only. I have asked them to dine with us to-morrow evening.

The foreign Powers used to think that, though extremely annoying, our
Monroe doctrine was respectable. Now they seem inclined to think it
is an excuse for monopolizing the New World for our own benefit. We
may come into Mexico with glory. Can we get out with credit and not
too high a bill? A letter from General Wisser (you remember him, from
Berlin) came just now, written “In Camp, Texas City.” It had taken a
little matter of two months to get here. It is not impossible I may
welcome him to Mexico City.


_December 9th._

The aftermath of that reception at Chapultepec has begun to come in.
Among many letters, one from an ex-army officer says _he_ would have
“thrown the wine into Huerta’s face.” All the newspapers mention the
incident, but with the empire tottering we saw no reason to unduly
precipitate matters by boycotting Mme. Huerta’s reception, nor for
being morose and brutal when there. I wonder what would have happened
if any of the various fools, writing to protest, had been running
matters?

One of the New York newspapers prints a long editorial headed
“O’Shaughnessy,” saying President Wilson is fortunate in having had the
services of Mr. O’S. during the diplomatic negotiations with Mexico. It
presents the matter as I would like, and winds up by saying that the
history of Mexican-American diplomacy, to be complete, would need more
than one chapter headed “O’Shaughnessy.”

The dinner for Colonel and Mrs. Hayes was rather amusing, though the
food was horrid and everything was cold _except_ the champagne. After
dinner the visit of two potential Presidents of Mexico (they are always
being drawn to the Embassy like steel to the magnet of recognition)
gave a decided touch of local color to the scene. A large, handsome,
alert man, of the flashy type--Zerafino Dominguez--came first. His
battle-cry and banner is “Land for the landless, and men for the
men-less lands”--a good, sound, agricultural cry with everything in it,
if it could only come true. “_El apostol del maiz_,” as he sometimes is
called, is a wealthy landowner and scientific farmer, who contends that
Mexico needs more _corn_ rather than more _politics_--and never was a
truer word spoken. He has within the last few days, however, given up
his presidential pretensions to a friend who came in later, with the
same desire of the moth for the star.

The shape of the friend’s head, however--narrow across the forehead
and terminating in a high peak--would prevent his getting any votes
from _me_. The pale young son of the hearty Dominguez was also there. I
offered them cigarettes and _copitas_; the latter they did not accept.
Burnside said it was to prove they hadn’t the weaknesses of Huerta.
I thought they might be afraid to drink, remembering afterward that
none of us had offered to partake with them of the possibly poisoned
draught. They sang the praises of the great and beautiful _Estados
Unidos del Norte_ till we were quite embarrassed. Incidentally “ze
American womans” came in for a share of admiration. I wonder shall we
be giving Huerta asylum some day?


_December 11th._

Yesterday I was too busy to write; spent the morning at the Red Cross,
and then had luncheon at Coyoacan, at Mrs. Beck’s charming old house.
Coyoacan is the most interesting, as well as livable, of all the
suburbs, with its beautiful gardens and massive live-oaks shading the
streets. Cortés made Coyoacan his stamping-ground, and one lovely old
Spanish edifice after the other recalls his romantic history.

From here he launched his final assault against Mexico City; here
poor, noble Guauhtémoc (I have an old print representing him with his
feet in boiling water and an expression of complete detachment on his
face) was tortured, in vain, to make him reveal the hiding-place of
Montezuma’s treasure. After leaving Mrs. B.’s, Mrs. Kilvert and I went
for a stroll in the garden of the celebrated Casa de Alvarado, built by
him, of the famous leap. An old _servidor_ of Mrs. Nuttall’s, to whom
the house now belongs, opened the gate for us, with a welcoming smile.
We passed through the _patio_, in one corner of which is the old well
(with a dark history connected with the murder of the wife of one of
the Conquerors), out into the garden with its melancholy and mysterious
charm. The possession of the house is supposed to bring bad luck to
the possessors, and sudden and violent death has happened to a dweller
there even in my time. Roses and heliotrope and the brilliant _drapeaux
Espagnoles_, with their streaks of red and yellow, were running riot,
and a eucalyptus-tree drooped over all. In this magic land, even a
few months of neglect will transform the best-kept garden into some
enchanted close of story.

As I was getting out of the auto in front of the Embassy, I found
sitting on the curb a pitiful family of five--four children of from
seven years to eighteen months, and the mother, who was about to have
another child. The father had been taken by the press-gang in the
morning, and they were in the streets. I gave the woman some money, and
one of the maids brought out bread and cake, and a bundle of garments
for the children. Such bright-eyed little girls, real misery not having
pinched them yet. I speak of them because they typify thousands of
cases. A hand on his shoulder, and the father is gone forever! Such
acts, occurring daily, estrange possible sympathy for the government.
The woman will return to me when the money is spent.

There are Federal rumors of a split between Villa and Carranza, but,
though they will inevitably fight, I don’t think the time is ripe
for it, and they are some five hundred kilometers apart, which makes
for patience and charity. Villa, whose latest name is the “Tiger of
the North,” has made such daring and successful military moves that
Carranza must put up with him. He has just married again, during the
sacking of Torreon (a detail, of course, as was also his appearance
at a ball in _puris naturalibus_--a shock to the guests, even in
revolutionary Mexico!)

I only heard at luncheon at the Russian Legation that Count Peretti,
_conseiller_ of the French embassy in Washington, is leaving for Paris
to-night, by the _Navarre_. He married when _en poste_ here a handsome
Mexican wife. This letter goes with him. On Saturday we dine at Lady
Carden’s. The dinner is given for Colonel Gage, the handsome and
agreeable British military _attaché à cheval_ between Washington and
Mexico City.

The fight around Tampico continues, the town being indeed “between the
_devils_ and the deep sea.” No one yet knows the outcome, except that
the unoffending blood of the Mexican _peon_ is reddening the soil.
The _Kronprinzessin Cecilie_ is down there to take off refugees; also
the _Logican_, and we are sending the _Tacoma_ and the _Wheeling_. I
understand that, though some hundreds have been taken on board, about
five hundred unfortunates are still waiting on the pier in the neutral
zone.

I must begin to arrange my Christmas tree for the few friends remaining
in this restless, distant land, with some little gift for each.


_December 12th._

To-day is the Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe, the patroness of
Mexico and of all the _Lupes_. For the last few days the mysterious
Indian world has been hurrying to the shrine from far and near. I went
out there this morning with dear Madame Lefaivre and Mr. de Soto.
The crowd was immense, the same types, costumes, habits, language,
gestures, even, that Cortés found on his arrival, unmodified (and
unmodifiable, which Washington cannot understand) by four hundred years
of surrounding civilization. Our motor gliding along the straight road
was quite out of the note and picture. Many of the Indians were doing
the distance between the city and Guadalupe, several kilometers, _on
their knees_, with bowed heads and folded hands. Madame Lefaivre found
it _très-beau_, but was glad that no voice told her that to save her
soul, or, what is more important, her Paul’s soul, she would have to do
likewise.

The plaza before the church was thronged with a brightly clad, motley
crowd, venders of all sorts predominating, mostly selling candles and
votive offerings of strange kinds. Hundreds of _tortilleras_ were
sitting on their haunches before their primitive braziers, piles of
dough (_masa_, they call it) in their laps, molding the _tortillas_
with a slapping noise of the palms--an old, inherited gesture, and
pinching them into shape with their slender, graceful fingers. The
church itself, as we pressed in, was crowded to suffocation, almost
every one holding a candle of some length and thickness. The high altar
was a blaze of light, the celebrated image above visible to all. It is
the famous _Imagen de la Virgen_, stamped miraculously on the _tilma_
(coarse cloth mantle) of a lowly Indian, Juan Diego, as the Virgin
appeared to him passing the rock of Tepeyac on his way to Tlaltelolco,
to receive instructions in the mysteries of the Faith. The sacred
image is placed above the high altar in a gold frame, and there is a
gleaming, solid silver stair-railing leading up both sides.

In the middle aisle were double files of young Indian girls, with
bright-colored scarfs about their shoulders, and strange, high,
picturesque-looking head-dresses, of gaudy tissue-paper, with trimmings
of gold. They were chanting monotonous minor songs, accompanied by
a swaying, dance-like movement of the hips--all most reverent. They
had been there for hours and showed no sign of leaving. I hope I said
a reverent prayer, but I felt a bit cheap in contrast to the rapt
devotion on all sides. I was glad to get a breath of fresh air in the
plaza, or rather, “fresher,” as it was almost as crowded as the
church, and every dog in Mexico seemed to be there, scratching and
shaking itself.

[Illustration: VILLA DE GUADALUPE]

We made our way, Mr. de Soto clearing a path for us, to the Capilla
del Pocito. These waters are said to have gushed from under the feet
of the Virgin as she appeared to Juan Diego. _A la_ the fountain of
Trevi, whoever drinks of it returns to Mexico. We didn’t drink, for
various reasons unconnected with return. The Indians use it for healing
purposes and a lively trade in brightly painted, earthen-ware bottles,
in which to carry the water away, was going on about the chapel. The
Indians come, sometimes a many days’ journey, on foot, of course, and
when they arrive they bivouac all about the church as if they had
reached “home.” What with babies crying, beggars begging--“_por la
Virgen_,” “_por la Santa Madre de Dios_”--dogs yapping and venders
hawking, the whole dominated by the acrid smell of the various pungent
messes they roll up in their _tortillas_, it was, indeed, Indian life
at its flood. They must have presented much the same scene when they
gathered to receive instruction and baptism from the old friars.

The “Aztec wheels” (merry-go-rounds) and all kinds of games of chance,
to which they are addicted, help to get the centavos out of the Indian
pocket; but it is their greatest holiday, this journey to their “Virgen
India de Tepeyac,” and they count no cost of fatigue and savings. I
only hope the press-gang will abstain to-day from doing any of its
deadly work of separating families. You remember I once did a novena
out there with Señora Madero, praying for graces that Heaven did not
grant.

In the afternoon we went to the Reforma Club, the British country club,
where Sir Lionel and Lady Carden were to present the prizes for the
contests. Señora Huerta, always dignified and quiet, sat between Lady
C. and myself. She had a married daughter with her, high-chested and
thick-lipped, clad in a changeable green-and-red surah silk and a hat
with bedraggled pink feathers. Señora Huerta herself wore black velvet,
with touches of white in the wrong places. She has, I imagine, natural
taste in dress, but must first learn. She has seen much of life. So
many children and a soldier husband always starting for some seat of
war, and now at last President of “glorious, gory Mexico,” means that
few of the human experiences are foreign to her. I must say I have a
great esteem for her. The President was not well--_el estómago_. Of
course every one jumps to the conclusion that he had been consorting
too freely with his friends Martell and Hennessy. It isn’t given to
_him_ to have a simple indigestion! Afterward we left cards at the
houses of various _Lupes_.


_December 13th._

I feel ill at the news this morning. The Federals seem to have taken
many positions from the horrible rebels; and the fratricidal war will
take on a new strength without hope of issue on either side. I feel
the cruelty and the uselessness of our policy more and more every
day. The “fine idealism” does not prevent the inhabitants from being
exterminated. Why don’t we come in? Or--hands off, and give Huerta a
chance!

The Mexicans have never governed themselves, and there is no reason to
suppose they can till a part of the eighty-six per cent. that can’t
read have at least learned to spell out a few words. The much vaunted
and pledged rights of man, voting and abiding by the results, are
unknown and, as long as Mexico is Mexico, unknowable. So why lose time
in that search for the impossible? The rebels seem to be able to take
the towns, but not to _hold_ them. Once in the various strategical
positions they are in the same plight as the Federals; and so the
see-saw continues, with no results except horrors beyond words. I am
tempted to hope for intervention (unnecessary though it once was), no
matter what the cost.

There are so many plays and puns and doggerels on the inviting name of
O’Shaughnessy. One Shamus O’S. says he won’t admit the man in Mexico
who bears the Frenchy name of _chargé d’affaires_ to the family!
However, why worry? The last viceroy bore the noble name of Juan
O’Donoju! Another calls N. the man that put the “O” in Mexico. And they
do love a head-line: “Hugged by Huerta”; or “Is it not better to be
kissed than kicked when you deliver the periodical ultimatum?” Of such
slender things fame is made.


_December 14th._

My poor woman with the four children returned yesterday, having got to
the end of the money I gave her a few days ago. They didn’t look quite
as prosperous (?) as they did the first time I saw them. The mother
asked for five dollars for a fruit license and two dollars to get the
fruit. I gave it to her, whereupon she knelt down in the street, baby
in arms, the three other little girls following suit, and asked for my
blessing. When I put my hand on her head I felt the tears come to my
eyes. I suddenly saw in _one_ woman all the misfortunes of the women of
this land, separation, destitution, ravishments,--all the horrors flesh
is heir to.

In the evening we dined at the British Legation. Colonel Gage is
most agreeable and brought a lot of outside news. Like all military
visitors, I suppose he is hoping to happen on a “scrap.”

Am waiting for the auto. Elim and I go out to the del Rios’ garden at
Tlalpam for a picnic; the del Rios are in Europe. The day is heavenly
beyond compare and the Ajusco hills (in which the Zapatistas operate)
are soft and blue in the near distance. We all miss Mr. James Brown
Potter very much. He was the witty, unfailing life of all those picnics
of my first Mexican visit.

Villa has just set up a somewhat uncertain dictatorship in Chihuahua,
in which state he, so to speak, graduated in banditry. He began his
public killing career _not_ too badly, according to the story, by
shooting a man for seducing his sister. It was probably the best act of
his life. He is now in the prime of life and “ready for anything.” Even
in Diaz days, Villa was a proscribed bandit; but with a few followers,
well-mounted and knowing every trail and water-hole in the country, he
was uncatchable. He subsequently went over to Madero. The women flee
the towns that he and his men enter. I suppose there is no crime that
he has not committed, no brutality toward wounded, sick, and prisoners
and women. With it all, he may be the heaven-born general that some
assert, but God help Mexico if he is! In Chihuahua, Luis Terrazas, one
of the nephews of Enrique Creel (who was ambassador to Washington,
Minister for Foreign Affairs, etc.), is being held for five hundred
thousand dollars ransom. Mr. C. came to see N. the other day, looking
very much put out. N. thought he perhaps reflected that five hundred
thousand dollars was a large sum, and was wondering if it was worth it.

However, it is always convenient to suppose that people held for ransom
will get along all right, even if the money isn’t forthcoming. N.
promised Mr. C. that through the most _in_direct of channels he would
have it brought to Villa’s attention that he’d better be careful on
account of unfavorable impressions in the United States. One wonders
and wonders where Villa, Aguilar, Zapata, and all the brigands get
their endless guns and ammunition. Of course the foreign Powers think
we supply it or let it be supplied.

Intervention in Mexico is an accomplished fact, it would almost seem,
though not a shot has been fired by us. And what is done cannot be
undone.




VIII


  The sad exodus from Chihuahua--Archbishop Mendoza--Fiat
  money--Villa’s growing activities--Indian stoicism--Another
  Chapultepec reception--A day of “Mexican Magic” in the country.


_December 14th._

This evening, as I was coming through the _Zocalo_ motoring home from
the Country Club, I found the _Palacio_ decked out in the national
colors, to celebrate the _clausura_ of the _Camara_, which will not
open until April 1, 1914. Huerta has all extraordinary powers vested
in himself, and is going to run the whole “shooting-match.” Thick
_défilés_ of carriages and autos, full of richly dressed people, were
on both sides of San Francisco, the most brilliantly, extravagantly
lighted street I know. The Embassy motor was allowed to run quickly
between the two lines. The town seemed so animated and prosperous that
one can’t realize the horrors underneath.

The _cantinas_ have been closed on Sunday for several months--a wise
act of Urrutia, then Minister of Gobernación. The people thus buy food,
instead of _pulque_, on the Sabbath, and can work on Monday--_San
Lunes_, as the first, often idle, day of the week is called. The
_pulquerías_, with their sickening, sour smell, abound in all the
poorer quarters, and are distinguished, besides the smell, by fringes
of many-colored tissue-paper hanging from the tops of the doors. Their
names--_El amor divino_, _Hija del Mar_, _El Templo de Venus_, etc.,
seem to be enticing.

The Italian minister, Cambiaggio, is “biding a wee” in Havana, having
been stopped by his government.... It is the question, always
recurring, of not having a new minister arrive who, by presenting his
credentials, places another stone in the Huerta arch....

The confidential report of Admiral Cradock to _his_ government was
filched by the press. The typewriter who made the copy was paid $200
for it. In it, it appears, he quotes Nelson as saying that the “most
sacred international relationship in the world is that between England
and the United States.” Most annoying for Sir Christopher!


_December 15th._

Many of the American statesmen seem to be giving opinions on the
Mexican situation. Mr. Choate, at a dinner in New York, asks, “What
most agitates the hearts of Americans to-day? It is Mexico,” and
then goes on to say, “There is but one thing for us to do--trust the
President, and stand by him.” Andrew D. White doesn’t approve of the
Administration’s policy and thinks we are drifting into war, “Which,”
he continues, “is a better thing for the generals who bring it to a
successful finish than for those who bring it on--Lincoln being the
great exception.”

The Spaniards in Chihuahua (some four or five hundred) are having a
dreadful time. The Villista order gives them ten hours in which to get
out of the town; and now, as I write, that long caravan of weak and
strong, old and young, fit and unfit, is wending its way, on foot,
through the immense desert of Chihuahua toward Torreon--425 miles. The
nights are icy cold and there are stretches of 90 miles without water;
and hostile bands are ready to attack at any moment. The confiscated
property will amount to millions, as the Spaniards own nearly all the
mercantile establishments, as well as the upper-class homes. Villa is
quoted as saying that he would like to kill every _gachupin_ (Spaniard
born in Mexico) _and_ his offspring. No one knows when the march and
assault on Monterey, a rich old city on a hill and not easy to take,
will begin. I hear that the Spaniards there want to come _en masse_
to Mexico City, also leaving everything. They know they will have no
quarter at Villa’s hands.

The Spaniards are the traders of Mexico. They keep the countless
pawn-shops (_empeños_); they are the usurers and money-lenders of all
kinds; they are the overseers on the _haciendas_ and, incidentally,
they keep all the grocery-shops; in fact, they control the sale of
nearly everything in Mexico. The Spanish minister (with the Irish name
of Cologan), whose handsome wife was born in Vera Cruz, has just been
here. His life is one huge burden, and the collective troubles of
Mexico are laid at our broad doors.

D’Antin leaves to-night for Vera Cruz, to take with him Dr. Silva
(ex-governor of Michoacan), who, to tell the truth, has not voluntarily
resigned, which is the reason he needs safe-conduct. Silva was at one
time a faithful adherent of Huerta. He is to board a Spanish ship
sailing at twelve to-morrow.


_December 16th._

Last night, after dinner, Burnside and Dr. Ryan took the map to
see what route the unfortunate Spaniards of Chihuahua could have
followed. It seems scarcely credible, with the frontier and hospitality
nearly one-half nearer, that they should have chosen the terrible
march through the desert and over the mountains to Torreon, which,
at any time, may again fall into Villa’s hands. He _would_ be in a
rage to find he had to bother a second time with the _same_ set of
unfortunates! They say their route is strewn with valuables that they
started out with and little by little were obliged to abandon. Isn’t
the picture appalling?

Von Hintze has just spent an hour here; he is always, like the others,
advocating the mediation of The Hague, saying it would be a way out
of _our_ dilemma, and an issue out for Huerta. Is he on the track of
something that may be of service to both sides? In Washington a couple
of weeks ago it was suggested from some source (probably Brussels) that
the matter should be so submitted--_both_ sides, however, resenting
it. Von Hintze brought me a dainty, gold-headed cane to replace his
handsome Chinese stick that was supposed, unjustly, to have disappeared
under the protection of the Stars and Stripes, on Thanksgiving Day.
I made up my mind to get that cane, and I subsequently found it,
accidentally, standing near the unused umbrella-stand at the Norwegian
Legation, where he had left it himself that same day. The innocent
was, for once, rewarded. Von Hintze is always very fair-minded and
impersonal in political matters, and doesn’t lose his head when the
political compass veers as wildly as it does here. He is a good friend,
too, I think, and there may be something in the Hague suggestion. We
may, at any day, see another faction start up; the victor of Torreon,
Juarez, and Chihuahua will not care to lay his victories at Carranza’s
feet. One man after another outshines his chief, commits treason, comes
to power, and falls to make way for some one else, generally a one-time
friend. As the clever editor of the _Mexican Herald_ dryly remarked, “A
traitor in Mexico seems to be any one that doesn’t hold office.”

The Zapatistas are getting very active again, fighting hard at Milpa
Alta, in the Ajusco hills near here. Some were seen at Tlalpam and
Xochimilco (Tlalpam is where we often go on Sundays). Sometimes on the
road to the Country Club or Tlalpam one hears the shooting.

All is quiet again at Tampico, though the dead are yet lying about
unburied. The rebels got far into the town, but did very little
damage to property. They wanted, people think, to get hold of a lot
of the rolling stock of the railway. Tampico is a horrible, flat,
mosquito-infested, malarial place, but it can give to the navies of the
world the motive power that they want. It is the focus of the _guerre
des pétroles_. Is it really true that oil is at the back of all these
tragedies?

At the dinner at the British Legation on Saturday there was an
Englishman, a Mr. Graham, who has a place near Durango. He told, as an
eye-witness, the story I had heard before, of one of the rebel chiefs
seizing the aged and saintly archbishop Mendoza while at the altar,
forcing him to walk two miles over stubble fields, in the heat of the
day, then putting him in a damp and filthy cell, two feet by six. Mr.
Graham gave a bond for $15,000, and he was got out. This is but one of
a thousand stories to the shame of the rebels.


_December 17th._

Villa has finished the confiscation of the huge Terrazas estates in
Chihuahua. We hear that the wife of the American consul, Mrs. Letcher,
is among the refugees at El Paso. The Terrazas estates include
palatial residences in the city of Chihuahua, banks, mines, lands,
cattle, etc. Luis Terrazas is now a refugee in the United States. His
sister, known as the “Angel of Chihuahua,” by reason of her endless
charities, married Mr. Creel, former Ambassador to Washington. It is
Mr. Terrazas’s eldest son who is held against a 500,000 pesos’ ransom,
having been taken forcibly from the British Vice-Consulate.

Yesterday the run on the Banco Nacional and the Banco de Londres y
Mexico for the exchange of certain bank-notes, no longer good, was
enormous. Many shops are hanging out signs that notes of Chihuahua,
Coahuila, Querétaro, Guanajuato, etc., will not be accepted from
customers. The richer refugees coming in from Chihuahua had hundreds of
thousands of such. Oh, for a few wicked _cientificos_!

A lot of trouble about the Constitutionalist fiat money is beginning in
the north. Merchants who fight shy of it are put into jail, regardless
of nationality. Its appearance, to a careful, thrifty man, must be
appalling. Bills have only one signature, and any one holding them
forges the missing signatures, or the nearest and most interested _jefe
politico_ affixes the stamp of his _jefatura_. The drawback is that it
is difficult to get merchandise or food in exchange. When is money not
money? That way lies economic ruin.

Huerta talks a good deal about Napoleon these days--“_gran hombre,
gran hombre!_” (“a great man! a great man!”). In a recent speech he
said: “We have a right to our independence, and we will keep it. If any
attack is made against the country, all will witness something great
and extraordinary.” Villa, Carranza, Huerta (Zapata, too, the chance
offered), delight in ignoring the United States. On that point, _all_
are united. The recovery of Torreon has had immense, though, of course,
only temporary, economic importance. The huge cotton crop which Villa
picked when _he_ took the town, pressing into service every man, woman,
and child, and thinking to sell it to the United States, has been
shipped by the Federals to various cotton-mills, and means work for
thousands.

There are sometimes really bright things in the _Mexican Herald_.
To-day, about the United States protection of citizens, it says:
“Mr. Bryan’s idea of protection seems to be built on the _cafetería_
plan--come and get it. We don’t carry it to you.”

Cambiaggio, the new Italian minister, will be detained indefinitely
in Havana, Italian affairs in the mean while being in the hands of the
British. I wonder how long the foreign Powers will be willing to wait
and watch. What they say about our policy when N. and I are not present
is probably not according to the protocol!


_December 17th._

Another reception is to be held at Chapultepec this afternoon. I keep
thinking of the four incumbents who have lived and breathed and had
their being there since we arrived--Diaz, de la Barra, Madero, and
Huerta. With the exception of the first two, each lived in a separate
society. The members of one don’t spill over into the other. At
Señora Huerta’s reception there was not a face, except those of the
_chers collègues_, that I had ever seen there before--no homogeneity,
no _esprit de corps_. “_No me gusta_” (“I don’t like it”) seems a
sufficient reason for not standing by the administration, whatever it
may be.

It is strange how little trace is left of those who have lived there,
suffered, and grown great. There is scarcely a Maximilian souvenir or a
Diaz _recuerdo_, not a thing of de la Barra, nor any vestige of Madero,
except his _planchette_ and his library, consisting of vegetarian
and spiritualistic literature, which confronts Doña Carmen Diaz’s
collection of works of piety. Of course there is nothing of Huerta;
his shadow has scarcely even darkened it. It was planned in a most
extravagant way in 1783 by one of the viceroys, Galvez, who had the
beautiful, white-skinned, red-haired bride. It was unoccupied during
many revolutionary years, then refitted for Maximilian. Later Diaz
used it as his summer residence. Poor Madero lived there during the
sixteen months of his incumbency, and I remember him pacing up and down
the terrace in that robin-egg-blue vest of his, with a visionary but
indestructible smile on his honest face; really mentally, as well as
bodily, lifted above all the realities of life.

The “Hill of the Grasshopper” has always had a habitation on it.
Montezuma lived there, “king and gentleman,” and many of the old
ahuehuetes[7] are supposed to be contemporaneous with him. At any
rate, the view that entrances my eyes is the same that his looked on.
The whole valley stretches out before one, fringed by those lovely
mountains. Sunsets, sometimes in golden tones and sometimes in silver,
flood the valley, giving the white points of the volcanoes the most
dazzling effects of light imaginable; and then there are luminous
enchantments, dissolving distances, an intermingling crystalline
blue and rose. How can I express its beauty! People say the light is
more wonderful in Greece, but this is my “high light.” Even in the
afternoons of the rainy season, when the clouds are banked high, there
is always an iridescence to the grays--gray with red or blue or yellow
or violet in it--never the dull tones of our rain-clouds.


_December 18th._

Just back from a _gira_ in the city. Immense crowds around the Banco
Central. This is the clearing-house for all the state banks, and each
person waiting outside had state bank-notes to exchange against those
more attractive ones of the Banco Nacional.

I see Cardinal Rampolla is dead. I thought of his magnificent
appearances in St. Peter’s, that tall and slender form, that proud and
beautiful profile, the head held high--a fit frame on which to hang
the gorgeous vestments. I remember the disappointment of our various
friends when Austria vetoed his election at the last conclave. I wish
he might have had it; but now that he has passed through the door I
would not call him (nor any one) back. The old Roman days came so
vividly to my mind--and many besides Rampolla who are no more.

Elim is sitting by me, writing in two colors all the words he
knows--_Gott_, _kuss_, _bonnemaman_, _papa_, _mama_. He has just asked
“Who handed me down from the clouds when I was born?”

I am giving a luncheon at the Chapultepec restaurant on Friday for
Colonel Gage and the Cardens.

The Mexican papers take great pleasure in likening Woodrow Wilson to
Napoleon III., with comparisons of the Mexican policy and Sedan!

The reception yesterday did not have the snap and go of the first. We
got there about six, going in almost immediately to tea, spread, as
usual, in the long gallery. I stood at the table between von Hintze and
Hedry, the Austrian _chargé_.

It seemed to me, as I looked around the table, that each minister had
some strange, battered-looking female by him. They proved to be the
wives of Cabinet Ministers, who change so fast that it is impossible
to keep track of their better halves, produced only on this single
occasion. Moheno, however, was able to produce a very pretty wife,
smartly dressed, with magnificent pear-shaped emeralds dangling from
her white ears, and a most lovely young daughter.

The President was preoccupied and vague, drank no healths, and his
frock-coat seemed longer and looser than ever; indeed, the servants had
just begun to pour the champagne when, his wine untasted, Huerta gave
his arm to Mme. Lefaivre, with a gesture of putting the function behind
him, and, the banquet almost untouched, we all filed out behind him.
He was evidently terribly bored and thinking of other things. And,
anyway, he isn’t the man to conduct things twice in the same way. He
stopped as he was leaving the _salon_ and told me he had _muchas muy
buenas cosas_ (many good things) to say of N. “Only good things, _even_
in my absence.” With that, he left the festive scene and the affair
rather fell to pieces. N. had a dinner at the club for Colonel Gage,
who was at the reception in morning coat. He had purposely not brought
his uniform, being wary at touching the official note, which might
re-echo too loudly in Washington.

I went to the Simons’, who were having a dinner for the captain of
the _Condé_ and his staff lieutenant. They were big, good-looking
Frenchmen, who had been at the reception in all their glory of gold
braid and decorations. Through a motor trip and a punctured tire they
had missed the audience arranged for them by their minister with
Huerta, and to atone they had gone looking especially official.

Yesterday I went out to see Mother Semple at the American Convent of
the Visitation. Until two years ago she had had a large and flourishing
school at Tepexpam. There came a Zapatista scare, thirty or forty
bandits dancing around the convent one night, shooting off pistols and
screaming out ribaldries. Fortunately nothing precious was broken, but
the nuns were ruined, as the parents withdrew their little darlings.
Now they are trying to get the school together again in a house at
Tacubaya, which, though very picturesque, with an old garden and a
sunny _patio_, is not at all suited to the double purpose of community
life and school. They have dreams of selling the big property at
Tepexpam for a barracks. The government may get the barracks in these
days of taking what one sees, but I doubt if the nuns will ever get the
money.


_December 19th._

Mexican calls all the afternoon. Mme. Bernal has a really lovely
house, just done over, full of choice things. She herself is young
and beautiful, in a dark-eyed, white-teethed, pallid way. Then I went
to see Mercedes del Campo, whom I found, with her baby and an Indian
nurse, in the palm- and eucalyptus-planted garden. She, like all the
others, is young and handsome. Her husband was in the diplomatic
service under Diaz, but since then has fought shy of the administration
set. It’s a pity, as he would be an ornament to any service. Such
beautiful English--such perfect French!

They are living in the house of their aunt, Madame Escandon, in the
Puente de Alvarado, the street named after this most dashing of Cortés’
captains. It was near by that he made his famous leap in the retreat
of the Noche Triste; the “dismal night,” when the Indians, witnessing
his apparently miraculous escape, thought him a god. A little farther
up from the Escandon house is the celebrated Palacio Bazaine or Casa de
la Media Luna. It was presented, with all its luxurious furnishings,
by the Emperor to Marshal Bazaine, on the day of his splendid nuptials
with a beautiful Mexican. Here the Emperor and Carlota were often
received, and it became the center of the fashionable life of the time.
There are many stories of the extravagant and almost regal entertaining
that went on there. Now all these splendors are, indeed, gone up in
smoke; the stately mansion is a cigarette-factory. I never pass it
without a thought of Maximilian and the “_Ya es hora_” of the guard who
threw open the prison door of the Capuchin Convent in Querétaro on that
fatal morning, and of Bazaine’s saddest of all sad ends.

The luncheon for Colonel Gage, who returns to Washington next week,
went off very snappily. When I got to Chapultepec I found all my
guests assembled on the veranda. I excused my lateness by saying that I
had been waiting for N., who was with the President. “But the President
is here!” they all cried. I said, “I wonder if he would lunch with us.”
They all looked aghast, but delighted at my boldness.

I then saw Huerta approaching us through the large hall toward the
veranda, with the governor of the Federal district, Corona, and a pale,
dissipated, clever man--for the moment (which I imagine he is making
golden) Minister of Communicaciones. I went forward with some _élan_,
as to a charge, and invited the President to the _fiesta_. That small
Indian hand of his waved very cordially. It is literally the velvet
hand, whatever violent deeds it may have done. But he said that he had
a junta of much importance; he would be delighted to accept another
time, and so on. There was more shaking of velvet hands, and we went
back to our expectant guests, who were decidedly disappointed. It was
very pleasant, as always, on the broad veranda, looking toward the
Castle, visible above the great branches of the century-old ahuehuetes.

N. had been driving with the President for an hour before lunch, and
had asked him for the release of three Americans, long imprisoned
here. Huerta assured him that they should all be set free, whether
guilty or not, just to please him; and at six o’clock this evening the
first instalment arrived at the Embassy, delivered into N.’s hands
by two Federal officers. And so the work goes on. Huerta is very
_prime-sautier_. Once before when N. had asked for the punishment of
some soldiers, convicted of deeds of violence against some Americans,
he responded promptly: “Who are they? Where are they? They shall all
be killed!” N. protested, aghast at the possibly innocent untried
sheep suffering with the guilty goats. Anything, however, to please
N. in particular and the United States in general. There is really
nothing that the United States couldn’t do with Huerta if they would.
All concessions, all claims, pending through decades, could be
satisfactorily adjusted. As it is, Huerta keeps on at his own gait, not
allowing himself to be rushed or hustled by the more definite energy of
the _Republica del Norte_, playing the game of masterly inaction and
scoring, for the time being, on Washington. After all, you don’t get
any “forwarder” by waving copies of the constitution in a dictator’s
face. He ignores his relations with the United States, never mentioned
us in his speech to Congress, and probably put the ultimatum into
the waste-paper basket. I am beginning to think that, in the elegant
phrasing of my native land, he is “some” dictator! The New York _Sun_
speaks admiringly of the way in which he continues to treat Mr.
O’Shaughnessy with a friendly and delicate consideration.


_December 20th._

Red Cross all the morning. It is wonderful, the stoicism of the
Indian, where pain, hard pain, is concerned. A rather amusing incident
occurred to-day. I asked a man who had had his hand shot off if it were
a “Zapatista,” “Constitucionalista,” or “Huertista” deed. He raised
the other paw to his forehead, answering with great exactitude, “No,
señora, Vasquista.” I thought the Vasquista movement had long since
died the usual unnatural death.

I see that the new Austrian minister to Mexico has arrived in the
United States _en route_ for his post, and the new Italian minister
arrives at Vera Cruz to-morrow, after a wait of three weeks at Havana,
for “_our_ health,” not his. As is the custom, some one from the
protocol has gone to meet him and bring him up to the city. The
European Powers evidently mean to carry out their program independent
of “watchful waiting.” It will be rather hard on our government when
two more representatives of great nations present their credentials to
the “Dictator.”

People say it is a pity that Huerta did not, on assuming power, declare
formally that he would have a dictatorship for two years, until such
time as the country was pacified, leaving out entirely any question of
elections. However, that is “hindsight.” Apropos of Villa, I see one
of the United States papers chirps: “Is a new sun rising in Mexico?” I
have seen several rise and set on the reddest horizon imaginable, in my
short Mexican day. As a butcher Villa cannot possibly be surpassed. But
“who loves the sword shall perish by the sword,” is always true here.
I spent the morning at the Red Cross, washing and bandaging dirty,
forlorn Aztecs. This year they have the beds made according to our
ideas. Last year they used the blankets next the body and the sheet on
top--it “looked better.”

Calls and card-leaving all the afternoon, with Mme. Lefaivre,
fortunately. We generally do the “bores and chores” together, chatting
between addresses. Now it is half past nine. I am looking over one of
Gamboa’s books. He was Minister for Foreign Affairs last August when
Mr. Lind arrived, and drafted the famous and entirely creditable answer
to “Mr. Confidential Agent.” He is sometimes called the Zola of Mexico.


_December 21st._

Just home from Mass. I go to the Sagrado Corazon near by, built
mostly with money given by the _muy piadoso_ Lascurain, a man of the
highest integrity and large personal fortune. For a long time he was
Minister for Foreign Affairs, and for twenty minutes (as I wrote you),
President, between Madero and Huerta.

I am now writing, veiled and gloved, waiting for the picnickers to
assemble here. About ten or twelve of us are going to Mme. Bonilla’s
lovely garden in Tacubaya.


_Evening._

We had a peaceful _dia de campo_ in the old garden, the strange Mexican
magic making beautiful things more beautiful and transfiguring all that
is ordinary. Mme. B., an Englishwoman and, incidentally, a _cordon
bleu_, was sitting under a yellow rose-bush when we got there--looking
very attractive in white lace and beating up the sort of sauce you
make yourself, if you can, or go without, in Mexico. We partook of an
excellent combined luncheon--we all brought something--under an arbor
of honeysuckle and roses, with true Mexican lack of hurry. Afterward
we strolled over the near hillside in its garb of maguey and pepper
trees. The volcanoes looked inexpressibly white and beautiful in their
aloofness from our troubles, though the hills at their base are the
stamping-grounds of hordes of Zapatistas, and often the smoke of fires
indicates their exact whereabouts. With true Anglo-Saxon disregard of
native warnings, we sat for a long time under a large pepper-tree,
_arbol de Peru_, which, the Indians say, gives headache, unable to
take our eyes from the soft outline of the city, swimming in the warm
afternoon light. Countless domes and church spires were cut softly into
the haze, the lake of Texcoco was a plaque of silver far beyond, and
above all were the matchless volcanoes. To complete the first plan of
the picture, an old Indian, a _tlachiquero_, was quietly drawing the
juice from some near-by maguey plants, after the fashion of centuries,
with a sort of gourd-like instrument which he worked by sucking in
some primitive but practical fashion. It looks to the uninitiated as
if the Indian were drinking it, but its final destination is a pigskin
slung athwart his back. After tea in the garden, on which a mystical
blue light had fallen, we motored home in the quickly falling dusk, the
thin, chilly air penetrating us like a knife.

Advices have come that the rebels are again attacking Tampico. They
evidently got what they wanted at the last attack--four cartloads of
dynamite and lots of rolling stock, and are in a position to give
a tidy bit of testimony as to the value of the Constitutionalist
principles.

Zapata had a narrow escape the day before yesterday. He was surprised
by Federals at Nenapepa, as he and his followers were sitting around
their camp-fire. He barely escaped in the skirmish, leaving behind
him his precious hat, a big, black, Charro hat, wide-brimmed and
pointed crown, loaded with silver trimmings. It was brought to town by
Colonel Gutierrez, greatly chagrined because he could not also bring
what had been _under_ the hat. The image of Zapata on his charger,
dashing through fields of maguey, up and down _barrancas_, is very
characteristic of the brigand life so much the thing in Mexico just now.

The new loan of 20,000,000 pesos has been underwritten by a lot of
foreign bankers, principally French, I think, though some in New York
are supposed to be “involved.” It will keep things going for another
couple of months or so, and then the “sorrows of Huerta” will begin
again. As it is, he can continue for that length of time to play with
the kindergarten class at Washington. A nice cable came from Mr. Bryan
saying that the State Department was much gratified at N.’s being able
to procure the release of the American prisoners I mentioned.


_December 24th._

The banks here have been given legal holidays from the 22d of this
month to the 2d of January. That is _one_ way of solving the banking
problem. It is supposed to be for the safeguarding of the depositors,
who, however, are crowding the streets leading to the closed banks,
wild to get _out_ what they put _in_, to confide it to the more
trust-inspiring stocking.

To-day is Huerta’s saint’s day, _Sanctus Victorianus_. There was a
reception of the gentlemen of the Diplomatic Corps at the Palace. The
doyen made an address dealing in safe but pleasant generalities, and
Huerta replied, protesting that he had but one idea, the pacification
of Mexico. The German minister is away to investigate the murder of one
of his nationals.

I again visited the tuberculosis hospital this morning and was
interested to see patients risen from the dead, so to speak, and
walking once more with the living. The climate here is ideal for
cures. I took some Christmas packages to the Red Cross, then went to
the Alameda. On three sides of the Park the Christmas booths are set
out--_puestos_, they are called. The Indians bring their beautiful and
fragile potteries from long distances, and endless varieties of baskets
and toys, and last, but not least, their relatives, so that family life
in all its details can be studied. They are selling, cooking, dressing,
saying rosaries, examining little black heads for the ever-present
visitants--a familiar Mexican occupation at all seasons. The smell of
Christmas trees and greens, banked along the street, mingles with odors
of peanuts and peppers, _enchiladas_, and all sorts of pungent foods.

The _cohetes_ are going off as I write. They are noisy crackers, making
sounds like rifle-fire. Their use is an old custom that is observed for
the nine days before Christmas; but in these troublous days one is led
to think rather of pistols than of the advent of the “Son of Peace.”

A very nice letter came from Admiral Cradock, saying that he has just
got back to Vera Cruz from the Tampico fray, the sojourn enlivened by
some “good tarpon-fishing.” He will not be able to return here for
Christmas, as he intended, but hopes we will soon run down to Vera Cruz
and be dined and saluted by him on the _Suffolk_.

There are a thousand things to do about Christmas. We trimmed the tree
last night and it is locked away in the big _salon_, presumably safe
from infant eyes.


FOOTNOTE:

[7] Live-oak--Mexican cypress.




IX


  Christmas--The strangling of a country--de la Barra--The “_mañana_
  game”--Spanish in five phrases--Señora Huerta’s great diamond--The
  peon’s desperate situation in a land torn by revolutions.


LA NOCHE BUENA, _Christmas, 1913_.

These Christmas hours I have been dwelling on memories of my precious
brother on his bed of pain throughout these days last year, his _Tod
und Verklärung_.... But I would call no one back, once through “the
door.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The tree was a great success--though in the morning, when Feliz was
hanging the last festoons of green about the room, he crashed down,
step-ladder and all, on the side where the toys were piled. There had
to be swift runnings down-town to repair the damage. I was so annoyed
that I didn’t even ask if he were hurt, and he seemed too aghast at the
occurrence to feel any pain. It was very pleasant to have the small
remnant of the faithful under one roof. The children played with their
toys and we grown-ups exchanged our little offerings and greetings and
everything seemed very cozy and safe--just as if we weren’t “riding a
revolution.”

Clarence Hay brought N. a bottle of cognac, inscribed: “Nelson from
Victoriano,” and a like-sized bottle of grape-juice: “Nelson from W. J.
B.” I leave you to guess which we opened.

After the departure of the families, a few of the lone ones
stayed--Seeger, Clarence H., Ryan--and we talked until a late hour
of the strange adventures we are all living through in this land of
endless possibilities.

To-day, after Mass, we drove to the beautiful little Automobile Club,
where Seeger gave a luncheon for us, the Tozzers, Clarence Hay, and
the Evans. The club is built in the new part of the Park, on the edge
of one of the little artificial lakes made when Limantour laid out the
Park as it now is. We sat on the terrace toward the high hill of the
castle, which breaks the round horizon of the magic hills. The air was
soft, yet bright, the moss-hung old ahuehuetes, symbols of grief and
mourning, had joyous, burnished, filmy outlines, and the volcanoes were
flinging white clouds about their lovely heads. It was one of God’s own
days--as days here usually are.


_December 26th._

I am sending you a few _Heralds_, with their Christmas(?) head-lines:
“Vera Cruz Rebels Suffer Defeat in Fierce Fight”; “Rebels Ordered to
Execute All Prisoners”; “Town of Tapono Burnt to Ground by Federals”;
“Only Twelve Killed when Military Train Dynamited”; “Fierce Fighting
at Concepcion del Oro.” They make one feel that “watchful waiting” in
Washington bids fair to be _woeful_ waiting south of the Rio Grande.

Elim was worn out by the Christmas festivities and was dreadfully
naughty. The season of _piñatas_ is on, and he has a great number of
invitations--unfortunately. At the _piñatas_ a large, grotesque head
and figure, dressed in tissue-paper and tinsel, depending from the
ceiling, is the center of attention. The dress conceals a huge, but
fragile, earthern jar (_olla_) filled with nuts, fruits, candies, and
small toys. Each child is blindfolded and allowed to have a whack at
it with a big stick. When it is finally broken the contents spill
everywhere and are scrambled for. It seems a messy sort of game, but it
is time-hallowed here.

I sent Mr. Lind a telegram yesterday: “Affectionate greetings; best
wishes.” He might as well, or better, be in Minneapolis. Nobody ever
speaks of him and Vera Cruz is like the grave as far as the government
here is concerned. Mexico is going to her downfall, and it seems as if
she must be nearly there. It is very sad to us, who are on the ground.
I never witnessed, before, the strangling of a country, and it is a
horrible sight. The new Chilian _chargé_ came in a day or two ago: he
has been in Central America for twenty years, and says this is his
thirty-second revolution.

I caught sight of Mr. Creel-Terrazas in his carriage, yesterday. His
face was sunk and ashen, and he was huddled up in one corner of the
coupé, changed indeed from the hale, rosy, white-haired man of a few
weeks ago. He and his family have lost everything at the hands of the
rebels. The family owned nearly the whole of Chihuahua, and though
stories--probably true--are told of how, generations ago, they came
into possession of the vast property, driving the Indians from their
holdings into the desert, it does not change the present fact that they
are ruined, and the country with them; the “judgment” upon them, if
judgment it be, involving countless others.

The whole question up there seems to reduce itself very simply to
a matter of grabbing from those in possession by those desirous of
possession. We are all waiting for the inevitable falling out of
Carranza and Villa. The hero in any Mexican drama is never more than
a few months removed from being the villain. The actors alone change;
never the horrid plot of blood, treachery, and devastation.

You saw that de la Barra actually reached Tokio. I was sure he would,
having a way of finishing what he begins. Five sets of ambassadors have
been appointed to set out for Japan to return the nation’s thanks for
the special embassy sent to the splendid 1910 _Centenario_--that apogee
of Mexico’s national and international life. The last two were the
murdered Gustavo Madero, who couldn’t tear himself away because of the
golden harvests to be reaped at home; and Felix Diaz, because of his
political aspirations.

You remember de la Barra, from Paris, an agreeable, adroit man of the
world, who proved himself, during the five months that he was President
_ad interim_, a very good tight-rope walker on a decidedly slack rope.
The country was still enjoying the Diaz prestige, and he found himself
pretty generally acceptable to both the old and the new régime. He has
always been very catholic. He became, later, rather a source of anxiety
to Madero, who feared his popularity, though his success at the time
was largely a matter of allowing all really important questions to
stand over for his successor. Looking back on it all now, I see him in
a very favorable light: a careful, hard-working, skilful politician,
with a taste for peace and order which is not always inherent in the
Mexican breast, and a safe man to fall back on to conduct the affairs
of his country with dignity. When in doubt, “take” de la Barra.

The _mañana_ (to-morrow) game is the best played down here; it is
never actually subversive; and, as exemplified by Huerta’s attitude
_vis-à-vis_ the United States, it is very effective against a nation
that wants things done, and done at once. I find that the Mexicans are
constantly studying us, which is more than we do in regard to them.
They look upon us as something immensely powerful, that is able and,
perhaps, if displeased, willing, to crush them. They are infinitely
more subtle than we, and their efforts tend more to keeping out of
our clutches than to imitating us. Our institutions, all our ways of
procedure, are endlessly wearisome to them, and correspond to nothing
they consider profitable and agreeable. _Suum cuique_.

I have discovered that there are five Spanish phrases quite sufficient
for all uses, in the length and breadth of this fair land: “_Mañana_”
(“to-morrow”). “_Quién sabe?_” (“who knows?”). “_No hay_” (“there
isn’t any”). “_No le hace_” (“it doesn’t matter”). “_Ya se fué_” (“he
has gone”). This last I add as, whenever any one tries to get hold
of anybody, “_Ya se fué_” is the answer. I have given this small but
complete phrase-book to many, who find it meets almost any situation or
exigency.

No news from Mr. Lind for some time. Doubtless Christmas, as spent on
the Mexican coast, alternating damp heat and north winds, is a poor
affair compared with the _tannenbaums_ and skating and general cheer
of _both_ his Fatherlands. Some Western editor suggests that, on his
return, he will be in a position to publish a “comprehensive blank
book” on the Mexican situation. I have broken many a lance for him;
but when one of the foreign ministers said to me yesterday, “your
Scandinavian friend is anti-Latin, anti-British and anti-Catholic,” I
could but retire from the field of battle.

Elim is always followed by his two dogs--Micko, the melancholy Irish
terrier, and Juanita. The white bull pup becomes more destructive and
demonstrative every day. Yesterday when she seemed not quite her awful
self one of the servants suggested hanging a string of lemons around
her neck. I remember having seen disconsolate dogs wearing necklaces
of lemons, but thought children had placed them there. It appears,
however, that such a necklace is in high favor among the Indians as a
cure for distemper.

I hear that the government intends to lease the Tehuantepec Railroad
to Pearson’s Oil Company for twenty-five years, for 25,000,000 pesos.
Huerta is depicted in one of the papers as knocking at the European
pawnshop with the Isthmus under his arm.


_December 29th._

I inclose a delightful letter from Mrs. J. W. Foster, who always keeps
so apace with events. Of course the Fosters read the Mexican news with
interest and understanding, as they were here during the years Diaz was
trying to establish himself in spite of the Mexican people, and not in
spite of _us_ as well, fortunately for Diaz and them....

I send a cartoon from _Novedades_, representing Huerta paralyzed. One
nurse asks the other how he is, and she answers: “No change. He can’t
move yet.”

[Illustration: PARALYZED

“HOW IS HE?”

“NO CHANGE, HE CAN’T MOVE YET.”]

Well, some one has got to “move” if this country and all national
and foreign interests are to be saved. I cannot see that a new
revolutionary party in the north, whose sole virtue, up to now, is that
it is “agin” the government, can do it. Besides which it represents
only another pack of hungry wolves to be let loose upon the country. I
hear that Carranza has a brother, Jesus, who possesses the family vice
of greed to a great degree, and is about to “operate” on the Isthmus.
There are predictions that it will look as though the locusts had been
over it, if he really gets a “chance.”

Four clerks are sleeping in the house, and the work is going on apace.
Cambiaggo, the new Italian minister, was received yesterday with all
honors emphasized. Oh, that _Fata Morgana_ of recognition! The Belgian
minister has got his leave and has just been here to say good-by. He
has already the European eye so familiar to those left behind. He has
had a very cordial telegram from a big banker in New York, and wondered
if the banker expected to put him up. I said, “If you are met by an
automobile and servants in New York, you can be pretty sure you are to
stay with him; otherwise you’d better rough it at the Ritz.”

Various ideas are advanced by diplomats here as to the possibility of
some arrangement being made through a third party, some one of the
great Powers; ... some way by which the elections could really be
held, and Huerta, if really elected, allowed to remain. N. can’t do it,
nor Mr. Lind, nor any American. The national pride on both sides is
too compromised to admit of anything but a third power stepping in and
“doing the trick.”

There is talk of a big English loan, guaranteed by the customs, at the
same time allowing a certain amount of these to be freed--a couple
of millions of pesos a month for the expenses of the government.
There is a general twitching of international fingers, a longing
to remedy our bungling. May, with his face toward Europe, sees
everything rose-colored. He predicts that we shall be here until
the next elections, the first Sunday in July. There is a great deal
of speculation as to Huerta’s personal fortune, but no one knows
whether he is rich or poor. His new house in San Cosme is, I hear, a
cheap affair. Mme. Huerta wore, when she received, one large, very
magnificent diamond depending from her throat. But why shouldn’t she
have it?


_Evening._

No political excitements these last days; only a monotonous and horrid
record of grab by the temporarily strong from the always weak. A “good
deed” in Chihuahua is one that transfers any valuable property to a
rebel. Those palatial residences, the homes of prosperity and wealth
for generations, have all changed hands during the last three weeks,
which, however, does not mean that the much-talked-of _peon_ has
benefited in the slightest degree. It simply means that a few men,
some of whom can neither read nor write, now hold what used to be in
the possession of a few men who _could_ read and write. The land in
Mexico has always been in the hands of a few thousand individuals, and
the _peon_ is always exploited, no matter what the battle-cry. A kind
paternalism on the part of some of the upper class _hacendados_, who
leave him more or less to the mercies of the Spanish _administrador_,
has been his best fate.

His unfitness for government has never been questioned. When he is
weak, he promises all things; when he is strong, he is destructive.
Though there have been sentimental remarks about the peon’s
intelligence, and his wrongs, which _are_ appalling, no government
except ours ever dreamed of putting the destinies of the state into his
hands--into the hands of these eighty-six per cent. of human beings who
can neither read nor write.

Curiously enough, it is the custom to assert that the Church kept the
Indians in this state of ignorance; but education, after the Laws
of Reform in 1857, was taken out of the hands of the priests and
given into those of the lay authorities. That was nearly sixty years
ago--three Indian generations. Who runs may _read_, literally, in this
case.

Eduardo I. told me an amusing and enlightening story yesterday. An
Indian went to a priest to ask to be married. The priest, finding his
ideas of the Divinity were of the haziest in spite of much instruction,
said, “_Hijo_” (son), “I cannot do it until you have learned _el
rezo_” (a very elemental catechism), and proceeded to give him further
instruction. The Indian returned the next day and said that it was
all very difficult and that he still did not understand about God
being everywhere. “Is He in the church?” “Yes.” “Is He in the _milpa_”
(cornfield)? “Yes.” “Is He in my hut?” “Yes.” “Is He in the _corral de
la casa de mi comadre_” (yard of my godmother’s house)? “Of course;
He is always there,” said the priest. The Indian’s expression became
triumphant. “_Padrecito_,” he said, “I have caught you. My _comadre’s_
house has no yard!”


_Evening._

Mr. Lind is hurrying aboard the U. S. S. _Chester_ to meet the
President at Pass Christian. Strong Carranzista though Mr. Lind is
proving himself, I don’t think the President will be led into the risky
policy of recognizing this undeveloped but certainly not very promising
quantity. We can put in any sort of government in Mexico--but can we
_keep_ one in? We encouraged the powers of dissolution around Diaz,
recognizing and aiding Madero. The world knows the result. History
always repeats itself here, and the writing on the wall is always in
blood. After Mr. Lind’s months of inaction it must seem good to be
plowing the high seas _en route_ to the weighty conference. He said
he would have returned to the States some time ago but for the “very
satisfactory” progress of the rebels. He was especially “bucked up”
when Villa announced his intention of eating his New-Year’s dinner at
the Jockey Club.


_December 31, 1914._

Many people are still coming and going in the house, but I am alone,
thinking of New-Year’s eves of the past. Now I must let this year, with
its griefs, harassments, glories, and interests slip into the next with
this last word for you. May we all be folded in the Eternal Love. I
think of my precious brother and his rare gifts. I sometimes had the
feeling of receiving through his beautiful mind something direct from
the universal reservoir of thought.




X


  New-Year’s receptions--Churubusco--Memories of Carlota--Rape of
  the Morelos women--Mexico’s excuse for the murder of an American
  citizen--A visit to the floating gardens of Xochimilco.


_January 1, 1914._

My first word goes to you. You know my heart, and all my love and hopes.

A letter came from Mr. Lind, who is to-day at Pass Christian. It was
sent before he started. He wants N. to come down to confer when he
returns.


_Later._

The President received the ministers at the Palace this morning and in
the afternoon Señora Huerta receives at Chapultepec. I have people for
dinner also. The President’s answer to the Spanish minister’s speech
at the Palace was long and disconnected, with, however, the insistent
refrain that he had but one idea--the pacification of Mexico, which he
would and could accomplish if given time. The German minister wasn’t
there. He was off investigating the murder of a German subject in the
interior.

Huerta appeared at the New-Year’s eve ball at the Country Club--a most
unusual stage-setting for him. As soon as he saw N. he joined him
and gave him one of the _abrazos_ they so enjoy hearing about in the
States. His undaunted amiability may stand him and us and the Colony in
good stead on some day of reckoning. He himself will always find asylum
here. It is a pity that the Embassy did not hide Madero behind its
secure door.


_Later._

I went to Señora Huerta’s reception with the Cardens. N., having paid
his tithe in the morning, had fled to the country. There were few
present. She received on the lower floor of the Palace in the rooms
which were once the intimate apartments of Maximilian and Carlota. They
were handsome rooms so far as proportions go, but were done over in
doubtful taste in Diaz’s time. The dining-room, where tea was served,
looked as if paneled in plaster and painted a hideous brownish yellow;
but I am told it is really finished in carved Alsatian oak. On the
table was one large silver épergne bearing Maximilian’s arms; how it
has managed to remain where it is all these years I know not.

The room where Señora Huerta stood, which used to be Carlota’s boudoir,
is now hung with an ugly, brownish-pink brocade; a lovely Gobelin
border remains to frame the panels of the brocade, and two exquisite
lunettes of the same Gobelin are over the windows. The rooms are only
inconveniently reached one through the other. Visitors pass through
the _Salon Rojo_, with its big table and chairs, where the Cabinet
sits when meetings are held at Chapultepec, then through the _Recamara
Azul_, hung with blue brocade, in which is an elaborate Buhl bed and
dressing-table. Other traces of the ruler with the blond hair and blue
eyes are not in evidence.

The President made a speech at tea. I was standing, two removed, on his
side of the table, next to Mme. Lefaivre and Sir Lionel. Huerta began
by wishing the Diplomatic Corps a happy new year. He went on to say,
with his usual genial ignoring of the United States, that Mexico was
not the equal of great Powers like England, Spain, France, or Germany;
that she had not their many blessings of culture and enlightenment;
that she was an adolescent, a minor; but that, like any nation, she
possessed a right to her own development and evolution along her own
line, and he begged the mercy and patience of the Powers. He got
balled up in some astronomical metaphors. One heard vague references
to Jupiter and Mars; but he soon disentangled himself with his usual
_sang-froid_. I found his speech, under the circumstances, tragic and
touching. He is backed up determinedly against the whole world of
Powers and Dominations, but at times he must know that he is slipping,
slipping. Mexico can’t exist without the favor of the United States, or
at least without its indifference.

Eight years ago, in one of those interregna known to all Mexican
statesmen, Huerta was overseer of peons building houses in the new
quarter of Mexico City. But mostly his avocations have required courage
and knowledge. He was for years head of the Geodetic Survey, and
was at one time inspector of the “National Railways.” He was first
discovered in his native town by a passing general who needed some one
for secretarial work. Having taken the fullest advantage of the very
poor schooling of his native town, he was ready when opportunity came.
He was taken to Mexico City, where he was brought to the attention
of Diaz, through whose influence he entered the Military Academy.
After this his qualities were speedily acknowledged and he became an
important figure in the military history of Mexico.

He once told N. that when, during de la Barra’s incumbency in 1911,
he was sent in to Morelos to suppress the Zapatistas, the Cientifico
party offered him many inducements to aid in their reinstatement as
rulers of Mexico. He added that he had preferred to remain faithful to
his constitutional oath. The same thing occurred during the brilliant
campaign he carried out in the north for Madero against Orozco. He
said, “I could have done it easily then, because I had control of the
army and the arms, but I remained faithful to Madero, as representing
constitutional government.” Later on, he said, he became convinced that
Madero was not capable of the business of government and that disaster
was unavoidable.

How well I remember going once to Chapultepec to see Señora Madero.
She was in bed in the room next the _Salon de Embajadores_, consumed
with fever and anxieties, twisting a rosary in her hot hands. She told
me, with shining eyes, of the news received that very afternoon of the
success of Huerta’s northern campaign against Orozco, and added that he
was their strongest general and _muy leal_ (very loyal). How quickly
any situation here in Latin America becomes part of an irrevocable past!

N. sent a telegram to Mr. Lind in answer to his letter, begging him to
give the President his most respectful wishes for a happy new year.
This afternoon we received the new Italian minister.

The cook departed an hour ago, leaving word that her sister is dying
and that she will be back in eight days. They are apt to take time for
grief in this part of the world, and food for an Embassy is a mere
detail. The _galopina_ (kitchen-maid), seen for the first time--a pale,
high-cheeked Indian girl, with her hair hanging down her back--answered
my every question by a most discouraging, “_Quién sabe?_” The women
servants seem to be forever washing their hair, and though it would
doubtless be unreasonable and useless to forbid it, the sight has an
irritating effect. Everybody who has really lived in Mexico has at some
time or other had food brought in by females with long, damp, black
hair floating down their backs.

We motored out to the Country Club, where Elim and I followed some
golfers over the beautiful links. The short grass was dry and springy,
the air clear and cool, without a breath of wind. As we motored home we
found ourselves enveloped in an indescribable glory--a strange light
thrown over everything by a blue and copper sunset. The luster-tiled
roof of the little Chapel of Churubusco was like a diamond held in the
sun--the rest of the church gray and flat. All this is historic ground
for us as well as for the Mexicans. Over the golf-links and in the
fields between the Country Club and Churubusco, our men, on their way
up from Vera Cruz in 1847, fought a desperate fight before pressing
into Mexico City. It is said we lost more than a thousand men here,
and there are grass-grown mounds beneath which pale and bronze heroes
lie together in death. In the old Aztec days Churubusco had a temple
dedicated to the war-god Huitzilopochtli, and Churubusco is the word
the Spaniards produced from this rather discouraging collection of
letters.

Burnside has just come to say that a lot of “scrapping,” as he calls
it, is beginning again in the north. I don’t know why we say “beginning
again”--it never stops. He told me about the three hundred Morelos
peasant women taken from their families and sent to Quintana Roo, the
most unhealthful of the Mexican states, lying south of Yucatan, where
it is customary to send men only. The women had been convoyed there
with some idea of forming a colony with the unfortunate men deported
to that region for army service. On their arrival there was a mutiny
and a scramble for the women by the soldiers. Such disorder prevailed
that the officials shipped the women back to Vera Cruz and dumped them
on the beach. Almost every woman had a baby, but there was no food, no
clothing, no one responsible for them in any way. They were merely
thrown there, separated from their families by hundreds of miles. It
was one of those tragedies that countless Indian generations have
enacted.


_January 4th._

Last night N. went to a big dinner at the Jockey Club. It was given by
Corona, the _chic_ governor of the Federal District, for the President,
who made speeches at intervals. Several times Huerta seemed to be
on the verge of mentioning the United States, but N. said he kept a
restraining eye fastened on him. After dinner N. was called to the
telephone. When he came back there was a subtle something in the air
which made him feel that in his absence the President had drifted near
the Washington rocks, for Huerta took pains to go over and embrace
him. Later the President quoted the saying that “all thieves are not
_gachupines_,” but that “all _gachupines_ are thieves,” whereupon,
catching the Spanish minister’s eye, he felt obliged to go over
and embrace him, too! However, drifting a bit nearer to Scylla and
Charybdis matters little to him.

He was not responsible for the much-talked-of New-Year’s greeting to
President Wilson. It was sent out from the Foreign Office with the
other usual annual messages to the heads of Powers, and in the Foreign
Office they explained that they _did not like to pass over_ the United
States.

The admonition given out by the State Department yesterday, the third
to Americans, warning them not to return to Mexico, was printed in
small type in a corner of the _Mexican Herald_. Formerly it would
have occupied a whole page, but the people are getting _blasé_ about
warnings. Each man looks to himself for protection--on the even chance.
I don’t know whether this admonition was in any way an outcome of Mr.
Lind’s conference; it might easily be, as one of his strong beliefs is
that foreigners would better get out. This is also Carranza’s idea.


_January 5th._


Von Hintze has returned. The excuse given for the murder of a German
subject who was quietly asleep in the railroad station at Leon was
that the guards, who also robbed him, thought he was an American!
Well, there are some things one can’t talk about, but I seemed to be
conscious, hotly, of each individual hair on my head.

No news from the _Chester_ conference, but, of course, we are all on
the _qui vive_ for possible results. Things get more chaotic all the
time, and whatever is to be done should be done quickly. There is some
regard for life and property under the near gaze of the Dictator in the
provinces he controls, but in the north reigns complete lawlessness.
Everywhere brother is killing brother, and as for the _sisters_, they
are often lassoed and captured as if they were stampeding cattle.
Educated people, who have been prosperous all their lives, are now
without food or shelter, knowing that strangers eat at their tables,
sleep in their beds, and scatter their treasures. If only poor old
Huerta could have begun in some other way than by riding into the
capital in a path of blood spilled by himself and others, he would
probably have been able, with recognition, to do as well as any one,
and better than most. As it is, he is like a woman who has begun wrong.
The neighbors won’t let her start again, no matter how virtuously she
lives.

The “bull-fight charity,” organized to raise funds for the Red Cross,
is considered the hit of the season. It had been advertised as a
“humane” fight, as the bull’s horns were capped. However, the toreador
was killed--amid immense excitement, pleasurable rather than otherwise.
As I was coming home, about five this afternoon, from a peaceful day
at Xochimilco, I saw in every direction immense clouds of dust. For
a moment I thought that a storm was rising, but it was only the dust
raised by the vehicles bringing spectators back from the bull-ring,
half a kilometer beyond the Embassy. Having tried, on two awful and
useless occasions, to “get the spirit of the game,” I have put the
whole question of bull-fights out of my consciousness.

Several people have just been here on their way home. Mr. Lefaivre
thinks this unfortunate government might possibly get money from abroad
if it could be placed in the hands of a commission for spending and
accounting, and would be willing to urge it on his government under
such conditions. The idea of such a commission, for several reasons,
has not been popular here. It would, of course, be _mixte_ (foreigners
and Mexicans). It would reflect on their _cultura_ (a Spanish word
for personal dignity and urbanity), and on their _bizarría_, meaning
gallantry, mettle, valor, generosity. Last, but not least, what would
be the use of an arrangement where there would be no “pickings” for
anybody?

Well, the sun shines faithfully on what might be an earthly paradise,
and Xochimilco was beautiful beyond words. We motored out, skirting
a bit of the picturesque Viga Canal (fifty years ago the fashionable
drive of Mexico City), to the old water-gates, where we got into
a great flatboat and were poled by a big-hatted, white-trousered
Indian along the watery aisles in between the beautiful floating
islands--Chinampas, the Indians call them--so near that one could
almost reach the flowers and vegetables planted on them. Masses
of lilies, stocks, and pansies are now in bloom and are reflected
everywhere in the smooth water. Silent Indians, in narrow canoes
often simply hollowed out of trunks of trees, passed and repassed us.
Sometimes it was a couple of women in bright garments, poling quietly
along, with heaps of flowers and vegetables between them. Sometimes
there was a family, with a bright-eyed baby lying against the carrots
and cauliflowers, the eternal trio--when it isn’t the national sextette
or octette so familiar here. The picturesque life of a changeless
people little, if at all, modified since the coming of Cortés, unfolded
itself to our gaze. They offered us bouquets as they passed, and
bunches of carrots and radishes and aromatic herbs, until our boat was
a mass of flowers and scent, and a dreamy, hypnotic quiescence took the
place of our strenuousness. Some one said, in a far-away voice, “_La
vida es sueño_” (“Life is a dream”). But, fortunately or unfortunately,
a practical-minded picnicker was able to shake off his share of the
strange magic that was upon us, saying, with an attempt at briskness,
“This isn’t for us!”

[Illustration: THE FLOATING GARDENS OF XOCHIMILCO]

Beautiful willow- and flower-bordered vistas had a way of unexpectedly
leading to a sight of the volcanoes, sometimes Popocatepetl, sometimes
Iztaccihuatl, when one was sure they _must_ be somewhere else. The
brilliant atmosphere of the Mexican plateau lay over the entire
picture, seeming to hold the colors of the spectrum, and yet to remain
white. There, indeed, “life is a dream.”


_January 6th._ (In Memoriam.)

A year ago to-day we laid away our precious Elliott. I feel anew the
sword of grief that pierced me in that gray, foggy dawn at Zürich,
when I realized that I must get up and do something that was undoable.
Countless millions know the complete revolt of humanity against the
laying of one’s own in the earth. The beautiful Mass at the _Liebfrauen
Kirche_ was strength to my soul. Pater Braun’s handsome, earnest face,
as he spoke Elliott’s precious name in prayer and supplication, the
light playing around the pulpit, and the beatitudes in mosaic against
gold--all are graven on my heart. I could only read through tears the
words _Beati qui esuriunt_--Elliott’s life history. And that peaceful
hour with him afterward, in the flower-filled room, when we felt that
it was only his afternoon rest we were watching over! When they came to
cover his face forever I was so uplifted that I could turn those screws
myself, instead of leaving it to hirelings to shut the light away from
those noble features.

Oh, that loving heart, that crystal brain, with its power of original
thought, that gift of industry! How far Elliott might have gone on the
road of science! Others will discover and progress, but he, so fitted
to lift the veil, has slipped behind it. Oh, my brother!


_January 7th._

Sir Lionel is going, having been promoted to Brazil. It is an
indication to all not to “monkey with the buzz-saw”--_i. e._, relations
between the United States and Mexico. The English are always dignified
in the treatment of their representatives. Instead of recalling Sir
L., when faced with the advisability of a change, they send him to
Brazil, a higher-ranking post with a much larger salary. It is said
that the matter was crystallized by his strong and entirely justified
recommendation for the proceeding to his post of the Italian minister.
Italian affairs, since the departure of Aliotti, had been in the hands
of the British; but the Italian colony here began to get restive,
feeling the necessity, in these troublous times, of having their own
representative, who had been “waiting and watching” so long at Havana.
However, nothing can be successful down here that is against the United
States policy--right or wrong. The Carden incident will doubtless put
the other foreign representatives on their guard.

Von Hintze made a most enlightened speech at the German Club, not long
ago--in which he said that, by reason of our unalterable geographical
relations to Mexico, the United States would always have paramount
interests here. He recommended his colony not to make criticisms of our
policy--but to accept it as inevitable and natural.

I am wondering if I can go to Vera Cruz with N. to-night without
causing a panic here. He is going to confer with Mr. Lind, from whom we
had a wire this morning, saying that he hoped N. would find it possible
to come, and that President Wilson sent his best wishes. There is a
norther blowing at Vera Cruz, and we have the resultant penetrating
cold up here. When once the heat gets out of the body at this altitude
it is difficult to make it up. I am leaving Elim, as a sort of hostage
and an assurance to the Colony that I am not fleeing. Dr. Ryan is
living in the house, also the Parkers, and they will all watch over him.

As soon as Huerta heard that N. was going to Vera Cruz he sent one
of his colonels to ask if we wanted a special train, or a private
car attached to the night express. We take the private car, only, of
course; everybody in these days prefers traveling in numbers. The
President is always most courteous about everything. If he cannot
please Washington he does what seems to him the next best thing--he
shows courtesy to its representative. He said to d’Antin, who went to
thank him, in N.’s name, for the car: “_Mexico es como una serpiente;
toda la vida está en la cabeza_” (“Mexico is like a snake; all its
life is in its head.”) Then he banged his head with his small fist and
said, “_Yo soy la cabeza de Mexico!_” (“I am the head of Mexico!”)
“And until I am crushed,” he added, “she will survive!” D’Antin, who
is a Frenchman with a Latin-American past, probably gave him words
of consolation that would fit neither the letter nor the spirit of
watchful waiting. Huerta is magnetic. There is no disputing that fact.


VERA CRUZ, _January 8th_.

I am writing this hasty line in Mr. Lind’s dim room at the Consulate,
to let you know that we slipped quietly down those wondrous slopes last
night without hindrance.

I am decked out in a white skirt, purple hat and veil, and purple
jersey. We have struck the tail end of the norther and the temperature
is delightful. The moving-picture man, who followed us down last
night, is now trying to persuade Mr. Lind and N. to let him “get
them” in conversation, but Mr. Lind refuses on the plea that he is
not in politics. I asked him how about his noble Lincoln head, and
he answered, “Nothing doing; that unrepeatable head is long in its
grave.”... The admiral is announced.




XI


  Dramatic values at Vera Cruz--Visits to the battle-ships--Our superb
  hospital-ship, the _Solace_--Admiral Cradock’s flag-ship--An American
  sailor’s menu--Three “square meals” a day--Travel in revolutionary
  Mexico.


“LA SIEMPRE HEROICA,” VERA CRUZ, _January 9th_.

I am writing in my state-room before getting up. Yesterday I sent off
the merest scrap by the _Monterey_. We had a long and interesting day.
We went with Admiral Fletcher and Commander Stirling to the _Dolphin_
for lunch. Fortunately the admiral’s flag is flying from her instead of
from the _Rhode Island_, which is anchored, while waiting for a good
berth inside the breakwater, in the rough sea beyond the Isla de los
Sacrificios.

Captain Earl is in command of the _Dolphin_, the despatch-boat that
successive Secretaries of the Navy have used for their journeyings and
which has just come from “watching” the elections in Santo Domingo.
The admiral offered to put us up, but I thought it was unnecessary to
trouble him, as we were already unpacked on the car. Admiral Fletcher,
besides being an agreeable man of the world, is an open-minded, shrewd,
experienced seaman, versed in international usage, knowing just what
the law allows in difficult decisions, where to curtail his own
initiative and fall in with established codes, or where to go ahead.
The splendid order and efficiency of the men and matters under his
command are apparent even to my lay eyes.

We sat on deck for an hour or so after lunch. The harbor is like a busy
town--a sort of new Venice. Launches and barges are constantly going
from one war-ship to another. It is a very different scene from the
one my eyes first rested on nearly three years ago, when the Ward Line
boat bringing us, and the _Kronprinzessin Cecilie_ bringing von Hintze,
were the only boats in the harbor. I sent a wireless to Admiral Cradock
to let him know that we are in town, or rather in harbor, and he wired
back an invitation for lunch to-day.

On leaving the _Dolphin_ Nelson received his eleven salutes, standing
up with bared head in the admiral’s barge as they thundered across the
bay. We then went over to the _Monterey_ to say good-by to Armstead,
who made the journey down with us, and to see Captain Smith, who
brought us first to the land of the cactus. The various boats, Spanish,
French, and English, saluted as we passed in the _Dolphin’s_ launch.

In the evening Mr. Lind had a dinner for us under the _portales_ of the
Diligencias. Admiral Fletcher, Consul Canada, Commander Yates Stirling,
Captain Delaney of the commissary-ship, and Lieutenant Courts, one of
the admiral’s aides, were the guests. The Diligencias takes up two
sides of the old Plaza. The Municipal Palace, a good Spanish building,
is on the third side, and the picturesque cathedral with its many domes
and belfries embellishes the last. The band plays every night in the
Plaza and the whole scene is gay and animated. Women in their mantillas
and rebozos, dozens of tiny flower-girls, newspaper _babes_, and
bootblacks of very tender years cluster like flies around soft-hearted
diners.

The _Mexican Herald_ arrived while we were sitting there, and we were
most amused by the head-lines: “Five-Hour Conference This Morning
Between Lind and O’Shaughnessy Resumed in the Afternoon.” “Policy Not
Yet Known.”

At nine-thirty I broke up the festive gathering. The admiral, Mr.
Lind, and N. went off toward the pier, and Commander Stirling and
Lieutenant Courts brought me back to the car in a round-about way
through the quiet streets. As half after four is a favorite breakfast
hour here, they are all “early to bed.” Vera Cruz seems the most
peaceful city in the world at the present moment, though no port in
the world has seen more horrors and heroisms. Cortés landed there, la
Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz, as he called it, and for centuries the
seas around were pirate-infested. She has been sacked by buccaneers
times without number; bombarded by nearly every power that has had
interests here--the Spaniards, ourselves (in 1847), the French, etc.;
and now her port is again black with battle-ships ready to turn their
twentieth-century guns upon _La Siempre Heroica_ (the always heroic).
Two enemies she seems to have done with--yellow fever and cholera. The
_zopilotes_ (buzzards) that sail about in uncountable numbers find it
rather hard to get a living. I see that the cleaning up of Guayaquil
has been given to an English firm, who, however, will use our methods.
Very few Latin-American contracts will be given to Uncle Sam these days.

Admiral Fletcher would like to come up to Mexico City, which he has
never seen, but after all these months of _not_ coming he could only
do so _now_ officially with his staff--uniforms, visits to Huerta and
other authorities--and that is out of the question. I could put him
up at the Embassy, with his two aides, and am quite keen about it,
and so is he; but nothing can be done until what the newspapers call
_Watch_ington has been sounded. Mr. Lind thinks it impossible (he knows
_he_ can’t return), as it would be taken as a sign that the President
might be wishing to change his Mexican policy. On the other hand, if he
_should_ wish to change that policy, such a visit could be the entering
wedge, and lead to big things in the way of peace and prosperity.

Mr. Lind continues to think that the raising of the embargo on arms and
ammunition in the north is the easiest solution of the problem; but I
am terrified at such an issue. The last state of Mexico would be worse
than the first. It might settle the Huerta dictatorship, but, alas! not
the Mexican situation.

We had a most comfortable night. Practically no trains come and go in
the station at night and there is none of the usual dust and dirt of
travel, all the railroads burning oil instead of coal. I go at ten to
visit our hospital-ship, the _Solace_, and I must now arise and buckle
me up for a long day. I have a white silk tailor-made costume and
various fresh blouses to choose from. Nelson is busy with newspaper
men, who have discovered the car.


_January 10th, Morning._

Before I was dressed yesterday morning Mr. Lind appeared with a
steward from Captain Delaney, bringing me some delicious hams and
bacons and other good things from the supply-ship to take to Mexico
City. Then Captain Niblack appeared, looking very smart. He was our
naval _attaché_ in Berlin, relieved only last summer, I think, and
is a charming man of the world. I was out of my state-room by this
time and fresh myself, but the state-room looked like Messina after
the earthquake. General Maass, military governor or Commander of the
Port, and his aide, were next to appear. He shows his German blood
in various ways (_not_ in that of language, however). He has light,
upstanding hair, German eyes, and much manner. There were many bows
and palaverings, _a los pies de Vd._, etc. He put his automobile at
our disposition for the day, and it was _my_ car by the time he had
finished offering it after the courteous Spanish custom. The interview
finally ended by my arranging to call on his señora in the afternoon,
and by N. escorting him from the car and down the platform. Lieutenant
Courts then arrived to take me to the _Solace_. All the officers look
so smart in their fresh linens. The _Solace_ was lying quite inside
the breakwater, looking very cool and inviting. She was painted white,
with a broad, green stripe around her--her official colors. Dr. von
Wedekin was waiting on deck with his staff. I was most interested in
seeing the perfect arrangements for the care of all that is mortal of
man; even eyes, teeth, ears, are looked after in a most efficient and
up-to-date way. The wards are fine, large, and beautifully ventilated,
the air as sweet and as fresh as that on deck; twenty-eight cases of
malaria were being treated after the seven days’ bout at Tampico, and
half a dozen of appendicitis. The ship carries no cargo, having the
medical stores for the whole fleet. The captain told me he had not lost
a case of anything for fourteen months. His operating-room can compare
with that of any hospital I have ever seen and the ship also has a fine
laboratory. She is well-named the _Solace_.

She was leaving that afternoon for Tampico, which is one of the
dreariest spots on the earth, despite the mighty forces at work
there. Mexico’s oil is at once her riches and her ruin. The place
is malaria-ridden, infested with mosquitoes, and the inhabitants,
I am told, have the weary, melancholy expression peculiar to fever
districts. The ships that go there are as well screened as possible,
but men on duty can’t always be protected. I understand the mosquito
that does the damage is a gauzy, diaphanous, rather large kind, and
the “female of the species is deadlier than the male.”

On leaving, Lieutenant Courts took me for a little turn about the
harbor, as it was too early for the _Suffolk_ lunch. We went around
the ill-famed prison of San Juan Ulua. Its six desolate palms are
almost the first thing one sees on entering the harbor. I regret that
I did not get a pass from General Maass to visit it. I saw a few pale,
hopeless-looking prisoners in dull blue and white stripes, standing on
the parapets or working in the dry dock, the guns of soldiers always
poking in their faces. These are the “better class” of criminals; there
are those in dark, oozing, terrible holes who are never allowed outside
of them, and it is said that those who survive lose in a few years all
human semblance. The foundations of the fortress were laid in early
Cortés days and the fortunes and misfortunes of the town have always
centered round it. It was from its tower that the last Spanish flag was
lowered at the time of the Mexican independence, 1821. When first in
Mexico I used to hear that Madero was to close the prison; but, like
many of his intentions, this never became a fact. Peace to his soul!

We got back to the Sanidad landing at half past twelve. Admiral
Cradock’s flag-lieutenant was waiting with the barge and I was
delivered into his hands. N. came up at the same time and we put
out for the _Suffolk_, which has a berth inside the breakwater.
The admiral, very handsome and agreeable, not only immaculate, but
effulgent, received us on deck and we went down to his delightful
room. It contains really good things from all parts of the world--old
silver from Malta, a beautiful twelfth-century carving (suitable for
a museum) from Greece, fine enamels from Pekin, where Sir Christopher
distinguished himself during the siege, and many other lovely things,
besides books and easy-chairs. He is really a connoisseur, but he
said that the ladies, God bless them, had robbed him of most of his
possessions. After an excellent lunch Captain Niblack came in to say
good-by, the _Michigan_ having received sailing orders for New York.
We had such a friendly talk with Sir Christopher, who said--and we
quite concurred--that he didn’t see any cause for feeling about British
action in Mexico, adding that he had no politics, no idea in the world
except to save British lives and property, and that he and Admiral
Fletcher were working together, he hoped, in all sympathy and harmony.
He wants to come up to Mexico again and jokingly lays it at Nelson’s
door that he can’t. There is something so gallant about him, but with
a note of sadness; and I am always conscious of a certain detachment
in him from the personal aims of life. We left about three o’clock.
The English use black powder for their salutes and the thirteen guns
made a very imposing effect. The ship was enveloped in smoke, a sort of
Turneresque effect, making one think of “Trafalgar,” while the shots
reverberated through the harbor.

[Illustration: ADMIRAL SIR CHRISTOPHER CRADOCK]

[Illustration: ADMIRAL F. F. FLETCHER]

I went back to the Consulate to have a little talk with Mr. Lind, then
got into the Maass auto, which was waiting at the Consulate door, and
proceeded to pay my respects to Señora Maass. General Maass has a
breezy house at the barracks at the other end of the town, in front of
the rather dreary Alameda, with its dusty palms and dry fountain and
general wind-swept appearance. An endless time of parleying followed.
My Spanish, after a long day, gets tired like myself. However, I saw
them all--daughters, and nieces, and friends, and the parrot and the
dog; the beasts were most useful conversationally. Then the family sang
and played, and one of the daughters, pretty, with a clear soprano,
gave me a good deal of Tosti. Then more talk. I was getting desperate,
no move being made to a large, well-spread, absolutely unavoidable,
preordained table in the corner. I finally said that Captain Niblack,
who was leaving for the United States in the morning, was waiting for
me to go to the _Michigan_. That broke through the tea _impasse_, and,
after partaking of the collation, I finally got away, escorted on
General Maass’s arm to “my” automobile.

I arrived at the Consulate, hot and tired, and without the sustaining
feeling that “duty is a well-spring in the soul.” I was thankful to
find myself at last in the _Michigan’s_ boat with Captain Niblack and
Nelson, going out across a bay of wondrous sunset effects--“twilight
and evening hour and one last call for me.” It was a marvelous
“crossing the bar.” Looking back, the outline of the Pico de Orizaba
made a soft violet mass against the deepening sky, with a strange, red
lighting up of the top. The bay was filled with ships of destruction
from all over the world, but everything in nature for once was soft
and merciful and seemed to dissolve and harmonize discordant and
destructive meanings.

The _Michigan_ is a huge ship, one of the first dreadnaughts, and
Captain Niblack is both enthusiastic and earnest about his work. After
a glass of something--for a lady inclined to temperance I have drained
many pleasant cups to their cheerful lees these days--we all went over
to the _Chester_, a ship of the scout type, that had just returned
with Mr. Lind from the Pass Christian trip. There we picked up Captain
Moffett--who also insisted on decocting something sustaining--and
then turned shoreward, where Mr. Lind was giving another dinner for
us, under the _portales_ of the Diligencias. It was quite dark, but
a thousand lights from a hundred boats made the harbor one vast
jewel--not in the “Ethiop’s ear,” but in Mexico’s poor, battered, torn
ear. At half after nine, after another pleasant dinner, I began to
feel that my bed would be my best friend, and we went back to the car,
through the quiet, well-lighted streets. Women were leaning over the
little green balconies of the little pink houses in the classic Spanish
style, with here and there a note of guitar or mandolin. I thought of
the “Goyas” in the Louvre.


VERA CRUZ, _January 10th, 6.30_ P.M.

Home to rest a little before dressing for Admiral Fletcher’s dinner
to-night, for which we decided to stay over. We spent the morning on
the _Michigan_, Captain Niblack giving us an early luncheon, as he
expected till noon to start for New York at one o’clock. The officers
and crew were full of anticipations of home. Then the _Minnesota_,
which had arrived in the morning, expecting to replace the _Michigan_,
found orders awaiting her to coal immediately for a trip to Panama.
Captain Simpson, her commander, had rushed in for lunch with Captain
Niblack, and there got the wireless. Captain N. hated to tell the
officers and the crew that after all the months of waiting at Vera Cruz
they were not to leave, their hearts had been beating so high. The
crews are never allowed ashore for fear of complications, and it is no
light task to keep the thousands of sailors and marines in Vera Cruz
harbor well occupied and content within the compass of their ships.
They are, I can testify, magnificently fed. At lunch Captain Niblack
ordered for us some of the soup the men were having, a delicious bean
soup with pieces of sweet pork; also the meat served us was the same as
theirs--a juicy, tender steak such as I couldn’t get in Mexico City for
love or money. I also got the printed menu for the week, three full,
varied meals a day. Judging from that and the samples tasted they have
first-class fare, and all at an expense of thirty cents a day for each
man.

We had taken on board with us Wallace, the moving-picture man, who had
come with a letter to N. from John Bassett Moore. Captain Niblack had
the drill, salutes, etc., for N. on leaving the boat, so I suppose that
brief episode of our career will be duly chronicled in our native land.
After leaving the _Michigan_ we went again to the _Chester_, and sat on
deck for an hour or so with Captain Moffett, who had many interesting
things to tell about the Tampico fight. A heavenly breeze was blowing.
Salutes were fired as usual when we left. Some one made the little joke
that they could “hear us walking all over the harbor.” Going from one
ship to another, as we have been doing for three days, I have received
a tremendous impression of the might and glory of our navy, and of the
noble, clean, and wise lives which must be led by the men who command
the ships.


AT ORIZABA, _(the Next Morning), January 11th, 10.30_.

Well, traveling in Mexico in revolutionary times is _all_ that it is
supposed to be! The rebels have destroyed the track at Maltrata ahead
of us, sacked and burned fourteen provision-cars, damaged a bridge,
and, officials say, we are held up until to-morrow. It is the first
time anything has happened on this road, though all the other lines in
Mexico have been cut times without number. Maltrata, above which the
damage has been done, is the site of the most delicate and difficult
engineering-work on the line and a tempting spot for havoc.

I am staying in my state-room, worn out with the comings and goings of
the last three days. A drizzling rain is falling, the results of the
norther at Vera Cruz. Orizaba is known politely as the watering-pot of
Mexico. I say “politely,” as against a somewhat similar name which you
will remember is applied to Rouen. N. is disgusted at not getting back
to Mexico City, and I dare say the town is full of all sorts of rumors
about us. He has just been to see the train-master, who has simply had
orders to await instructions; no tickets are to be sold further than
Orizaba.

I am glad of these moments for a little word with my precious mother.
Last night the admiral’s dinner was most agreeable. The Military
Commander Maass and his wife were there, Admiral Cradock with two of
his officers, Mr. Lind, the Consul, Yates Stirling, and others of the
admiral’s staff. I sat on Admiral Fletcher’s left, with Maass next to
me. The conversation was in Spanish, and I worked hard; I told the
admiral that I deserved a trip to Panama as a recompense. The _norte_
which had been announced from Tampico began creakingly and ominously
to make itself felt and heard about half after nine. The admiral gave
us an amusing picture of the life at Tampico with a hundred refugees,
mostly women and children, on board. He said it was a sweet and
touching sight to see certain baby garments hung out to dry on the
cannon, and officers lulling the little innocents to sleep, or engaged
in other and often unsuccessful attempts to keep the refugees pleased
and happy.

At about ten o’clock, after sitting on deck awhile, the _norte_ began
to blow stronger. Señora Maass, stout, elderly, and placid, did not
seem to like her own _nortes_, so we proceeded to do what was about my
seventeenth gangway that day. The northers of Vera Cruz are a great
feature of the climate. They have all sorts and degrees--the _nortes
fuertes_ that nearly blow the town away; the _nortes chocolateros_ that
are milder, last a long time, and keep the place healthy and bearable,
and various others. I don’t know what kind was developing last night,
but after an uncertain trip we were dashed up against the Sanidad pier,
where the large Maass auto was waiting. We said good-by to Mr. Lind and
Mr. Canada at the Consulate door, and in an instant they were blotted
out in the thick darkness of the gathering _norte_. The Maasses took us
on to the station, where we parted with all expressions of regard and
compliments. I must say they have been more than polite.

I went to bed immediately. Jesus, who is a gem, had everything in
order. I don’t think I would have been able to don my filmy black gown
for the dinner had it not been for his deftness and general efficiency.
At six o’clock they hitched our car onto the morning train, with
indescribable groanings and joltings, and this is our history up to the
present moment.

Through the window I see only bits of a dreary station and crowds of
Indians huddled under their _serapes_ and _rebozos_. The poor wretches
do so hate to get wet. It means hours of chill until the garments dry
on them. Worried train employees are running about. I understand that
Orizaba, in spite of the “watering-pot” effect, is a delightful resort.
Many people from Yucatan come up to recuperate--rich _henequén_ and
sisal planters; there are all the beauties and marvels of the tropics
in the way of flowers and fruits, orchids, convolvuli, ahuacate pears,
pineapples, pomegranates, and a wonderfully tonic, even temperature.
If it weren’t for the downpour I would venture out for antiques. This
is an old Spanish city and there are lovely things to be picked up in
the way of ivory and wood inlaid-work if one is lucky. However, I don’t
feel like being watered. I haven’t had the desire, since hearing of the
hold-up, to tell you of the beauty of the scenery from Vera Cruz, but
look at those first enchanting pages of Prescott’s _Conquest_. He who
never saw it, describes its beauties as if they were spread before
him. Though, for really up-to-date reading on Mexico give me Humboldt,
1807. He still seems to have said the last and latest word about Mexico
and Mexicans as we know them to-day.

Two train-loads of Federal soldiers, well armed, have just pulled out
of the station, where women were weeping and holding up baskets of food
to them as they hung out of the windows. They were laughing and joking
as befits warriors. Poor wretches! I couldn’t help my eyes filling
with tears. They go to reconnoiter the track for us. I suppose it is
known everywhere by now that the American _chargé_ and his wife are
held up on that usually safe stretch between Orizaba and Mexico City. A
group of armed men are standing in front of my window. They have black
water-proof covers for their large hats, like chair covers; the hats
underneath are doubtless gray felt, heavily trimmed with silver. One
soldier, apparently as an incidental effect, has a poor, red-blanketed
Indian attached to him by a lasso tightened around the waist. Nobody
pays any attention to them; not even the women, with their babes
completely concealed and tightly bound to their backs or breasts by the
inevitable _rebozo_. One feels hopelessly sad at the thought of the
world of chaos those little heads will, in their time, peep out upon.

A thick and heartbreaking book could be written upon the
_soldadera_--the heroic woman who accompanies the army, carrying, in
addition to her baby, any other mortal possession, such as a kettle,
basket, goat, blanket, parrot, fruit, and the like. These women are
the only visible commissariat for the soldiers; they accompany them in
their marches; they forage for them and they cook for them; they nurse
them, bury them; they receive their money _when_ it is paid. All this
they do and keep up with the march of the army, besides rendering any
other service the male may happen to require. It is appalling what
self-abnegation is involved in this life. And they keep it up until,
like poor beasts, they uncomplainingly drop in their tracks--to arise,
I hope, in Heaven.


_3 o’clock._

There is some idea that we may start. Men with ropes and hatchets and
picks are getting on our train.


_Later._

We arrived at Maltrata to be met by dozens of wet Indian women selling
lemons, _tortillas_, and _enchiladas_. Each wore the eternal blue
_rebozo_ and a pre-Spanish cut of skirt--a straight piece of cloth
bound around the hips, held somewhat fuller in front. They are called
_enredadas_, from the fashion of folding the stuff about them. Each, of
course, had a baby on her back.

Long lines of rurales came into sight on horseback. With full black
capes or brilliant red blankets thrown about their shoulders, their
big-brimmed, high-peaked hats, with their black rain-proof covers,
these men made a startling and gaudy picture with the underthrill of
death and destruction. We have been moving along at a snail’s pace. In
a narrow defile we came on one of the train-loads of Federals we had
seen leave Orizaba, their guns pointed, ready to fire.

Well, so far, so good. We hear that it was a band of several hundred
revolutionaries who attacked the train. The train officials managed to
escape under cover of the darkness.


_5.30._

We have just passed the scene of pillage. Dozens of Indians--men,
women, and children--are digging out hot bottles of beer, boxes of
sardines and other conserves from the smoking wreck. Cars, engine, and
everything in them were destroyed after the brigands had selected what
they could carry away.

A white mist has settled over the mountain. Many of the Indians are
wearing a sort of circular cape made of a thatch of bamboo or grass
hanging from their shoulders--a kind of garment often seen in wet
weather in this altitude. It is marvelous that in so few hours a new
track could be laid by the old one. We are passing gingerly over it,
and if nothing else happens we shall be in Mexico City after midnight.
I am too tired to feel adventurous to-day and shall be glad to find
myself with my babe in the comfortable Embassy, instead of witnessing
Zapatista ravages at first hand in a cold, gray mist which tones down
not only the local color, but one’s enthusiasm.


MEXICO CITY, _January 12th_.

We finally arrived about one o’clock in the morning, to be met by
many newspaper men and the staff of the Embassy, who received us as
from the wars. About fifty soldiers got out of the train when we did;
and really, in the unsparing station light they had the appearance of
assailants rather than of protectors. In a fight it would have been
so easy to confuse the rôles. I thought they had long since given
up putting forces on passenger-trains; it usually invites attack on
account of the guns and ammunition.

However, all’s well that ends well, and I have just had my breakfast
in my comfortable bed with my precious boy. They tell me he has been
“good” while his mother was away. Mrs. Parker says he insisted on
having the lights put out before saying his prayers at night. He was
so dead with sleep when I got in that he didn’t open his eyes; only
cuddled up to me when he felt me near.

The newspaper gives details of the Maltrata wrecking. The attacking
band placed a huge pile of stones on the rails at the entrance to the
tunnel, fired on the train, robbed the employees, took what they could
of the provisions (they were all mounted and provided with ammunition),
and disappeared into the night. Hundreds of workmen have been sent to
repair the damage, and a thousand rurales to guard and pursue. The
“Mexican” is the big artery between this city and Vera Cruz, and if
that line is destroyed we would be entirely cut off. Nothing gets to
us from anywhere now except from Vera Cruz. The other line to Vera
Cruz--the Interoceanic--has often been held up and is not in favor with
levanting families. It is about time for one of the periodical scares,
when they leave their comfortable homes with their children and other
valuables, for the expensive discomforts of the “Villa Rica de la Vera
Cruz.”




XII


  Ojinaga evacuated--Tepozotlan’s beautiful old church and
  convent--Azcapotzalco--A Mexican christening--The release of Vera
  Estañol--Necaxa--The friars--The wonderful Garcia Pimentel library.


_January 14th._

Yesterday Huerta decided to suspend payment on the interest on the
national debt for six months, which will free about three million pesos
a month for pacification purposes. He denies anything approaching
repudiation, but says this step was forced on him by the attitude of
the United States. It will make the European investors rather restive
under “watchful waiting,” though they can employ the time by making
large and frequent additions to the bill they intend to present to
Uncle Sam, _pobrecito_.

Ojinaga has been evacuated by General Mercado, who would better look
out for his head. Huerta says he is going to have him shot. Villa will
use Ojinaga for strategic purposes, and the refugees, four thousand
officers and soldiers and about two thousand five hundred women and
children, are eventually to be interned at Fort Bliss. Uncle Sam will
present the bill to Mexico later on. They have been started on a four
days’ march to Marfa, where they will at last get a train. Mercado
says he only surrendered and passed on to American soil when his
ammunition gave out. The soldiers and generals--six of these last were
in Ojinaga--will not be permitted to return to Mexico until _peace_ is
effected. From the head-lines in some _Heralds_ I am sending you, you
can see that that won’t be immediately.

Of course our delay on the journey made a sensation. Dr. Ryan heard
that we were held up in a tunnel and was planning to get to our relief
by hook or crook. He is “without fear and without reproach.” I am very
glad to be safe again in this big, comfortable, sun-bathed house.

N. went to see Huerta a day or two ago. The President was most relieved
to have him safely back. He asked him the results of his visit to
Vera Cruz and N. told him there was no change in the attitude of
his government. Huerta remained impassive, and there was no further
political conversation. He promised, however, that he would attend
to several matters of the United States, in regard to claims, etc.,
affecting rather large interests. There are some advantages in living
under a dictator, if you enjoy his favor, and Huerta would barter his
soul to please the United States to the point of recognition.

While not convinced of the necessity, or even advisability, of formal
recognition, N. does realize that everything for Mexico and the United
States could have been accomplished by diplomacy in the early stages
of Huerta’s incumbency. Now the bullying and collusive and secret
arrangements with his enemies, the revolutionaries, to overthrow him,
must eventually succeed, and in his fall we fear Huerta will take down
with him the entire fabric of state. How often he has said, “I don’t
ask your help; but don’t help my enemies!”


_Sunday Evening, January 18th._

To-day we had a long motor trip to the old church and convent of
Tepozotlan, with Seeger, Hay, the Tozzers, and Elim. There were pistols
under the seats, of course, though the road (the old post-road to
the north) is not a haunt of the Zapatistas. We drove two hours or
more through the dazzling air, the road running for miles between
picturesque fields planted with maguey, the Indian’s all, including
his perdition. Here and there are collections of adobe huts, with
bright-eyed, naked children playing by fences of _nopal_, and
sometimes a lovely candelabra cactus standing guard. We passed through
Cuauhtitlan--a most interesting place, with its deserted, picturesque
hostelries that used to do a lively relay trade in the old coaching
days. Each carved door, with glimpses of the big courtyard within,
seems to tell the tale of past activities.

Tepozotlan is celebrated for its beautiful old church, with a fine
carved façade, built by the Jesuits at the end of the sixteenth
century. It was suppressed in 1857, under the Juarez laws of reform,
and is now neglected, solitary, and lovely. Cypresses guard the
entrance to its grass-grown _patio_, adorned by a few pepper-trees,
with here and there an occasional bit of maguey. It was all sun-baked
and radiant, receiving the many-colored light and seeming to give
it forth again in the magic way of the Mexican plateau. We wandered
through the church, which preserves its marvelous altarpieces in
the Churrigueresque style, and admired the gilded, high-relief wood
carvings, to which time has lent a marvelous red _patiné_. Some of the
old chapels are still most beautifully adorned with rich blue Puebla
tiles, now loosened and falling from neglected ceilings and walls. The
adjoining _seminario_, with its endless corridors and rooms, is dim and
deserted, except for spiders and millions of fleas; I thought at first,
in my innocence, that these were gnats, as they settled on my white
gloves. We lunched in the enchanting old _patio_ of the cloisters,
where orange-trees and a _Noche Buena_ tree, with its brilliant red
flowers, were growing around an old stone well in the middle. For those
hours, at least, we felt that all was well with the world. Afterward
we climbed the belfry and feasted our eyes on the beauty unfolded to
our sight. East, west, south, and north other pink belfries pressed
themselves against other blue hills, repeating the loveliness until one
could have wept for the beauty of it all. The almost deserted village,
straggling up to the _patio_ of the church, is where Madre Matiana was
born at the end of the seventeenth century. She made, on her death-bed,
the celebrated prophecies which have been so strangely confirmed by
subsequent events in Mexican history.

The Ojinaga refugees, garrison, and civilians are just arriving after
the four days’ march through the desert to Marfa and Fort Bliss.
This affair has cost $142,000 up to date, and $40,000 were spent for
new equipments for officers. I think every officer in Mexico will
contemplate, for a brief moment, the idea of crossing the frontier.
There will be a good deal of disillusionment and suffering in the
detention camp, however, if the soldiers are called on to comply with
the hygienic rules of the American army.

[Illustration:

Copyright by Underwood & Underwood

HUERTA’S SOLDIERS WATCHING THE REBEL ADVANCE]

[Illustration:

Copyright by Underwood & Underwood

A GROUP OF OJINAGA REFUGEES]

Jesus Flores Magon, whom we knew as Minister of Gobernación under
Madero, a strong and clever man of pronounced Zapoteca Indian type, is
going to Vera Cruz at N.’s suggestion, to see Mr. Lind. Flores Magon,
who knows his people, says there is no use in “trying out” another
government here. Though he was in Madero’s cabinet, he is now for the
sustaining of Huerta. He thinks another government would only mean
another set of traitors, who would, in turn, be betrayed. N. asked him
if he were convinced that Huerta had other aims in view than the graft
and personal aggrandizement his enemies credit him with. Though not
unreservedly enthusiastic, he answered that he thought he had within
him the elements necessary to control in Mexico, but that, like all
Indians, he was cruel. Lind is out-and-out for recognizing the northern
rebels, or, at least, raising the embargo on arms and ammunition. A
terrible policy, it seems to me. Taking from the possessors to give to
those desirous of possessing can hardly mend things--here or anywhere.
Nothing that Mr. Lind has seen or heard has modified in the slightest
the ideas with which he arrived.

_Delendus est Huerta_ is the _mot d’ordre_, and I find myself assisting
at the spectacle. I am dazed at this flying in the face of every
screaming fact in the situation. N. went to see Moheno yesterday, with
the usual bundle of claims against the government, and M. said, in a
wild, distraught way: “My God! When are you going to intervene? You are
strangling us by this policy.”

We hear from a railroad man (they are always informed) that there are
two thousand well-armed men in Oaxaca, doing nothing--simply awaiting
orders. They are Felicistas. Everybody is waiting to betray everybody
else.

I had to stop writing for a few minutes; one of those strange
accompaniments of life in Mexico has just manifested itself--a slight
earthquake. The doors that were ajar swung quietly open and as
quietly closed themselves. The chandeliers were thrown out of plumb
in a rhythmic way; there was a sliding sound of small objects from
their position and then back. I had an unpleasant sort of depolarized
sensation. It is all over now--the _temblor_, as they call it. But I
feel as if some ghost has passed through the room, leaving me not quite
the same.


_January 20th._

The papers have the report of the five hours’ conversation between
Flores Magon and Lind at Vera Cruz. Lind is reported as saying:
“Flores Magon is a splendid gentleman, with the welfare of Mexico at
heart.”

We continually ask ourselves what is going to happen. Mexico is not, by
any means, starved out; there is plenty of food, there is money for oil
stock and bull-fights, and other necessaries. We may have to see Pancho
Villa in a dress-suit. He has collected wives, as he would anything
else, in his _paso de vencedor_ through Mexico, and I understand that
some of them are curios. I suppose accident will decide which one he
will turn up with as “first lady in the land.” A recent portrait of
one of them drove a woman we knew nearly crazy. It showed the “bride”
decked out in an old family necklace forcibly taken from our friend,
with other valuables, before her flight from Torreon.

Yesterday I went to the christening of the Corcuera Pimentel baby. The
young mother, very pretty, was still in bed, enveloped in beautiful
and costly laces, and the house was full of handsome relatives. After
I had congratulated her, Don Luis, her father, took me out to tea. The
table was laden with all sorts of delicacies, foreign and domestic. I
partook of the delicious _tamales_, appetizingly done up and cooked in
corn-husks _à la Mexicaine_, and drank _atolli aurora_, a thick, pink
drink of corn-meal and milk, flavored with cinnamon and colored with a
dash of carmine--though less exotic dainties were pressed on me.


_January 21st._

Yesterday was a busy day. To show you how difficult it often is to get
hold of Huerta,--N. was up and out at seven-thirty, looking for him.
He went to his house--gone. He went to Popotla, a place Huerta has in
the suburbs near the _Noche Triste_[8] tree. Not there. N. came home.
I was just starting down-town, so I drove him to the Palace, where one
of the aides said the President might be found at Chapultepec--the
restaurant, not the castle, which he does not affect. We again went
the length of the city, from the Zocalo, through Plateros, up the
beautiful, broad _Paseo_. Huerta was just passing through the entrance
to the Park in a big limousine, followed by two other automobiles
containing secretaries and aides. N. got out of our auto and went into
that of the President, the others keeping their distance. There is
always more or less “waiting around” on royalty. They sat there for
an hour, I remaining in our auto, during which time N. procured the
release of Vera Estañol, one of the most brilliant of the Deputies,
imprisoned since the _coup d’état_ of October 10th. Huerta also
sent one of his aides with a note to the Supreme Court, written and
signed by him, telling the judges to render a just decision in a case
affecting American interests, which is now before the court. This
case has been in the Embassy nearly twenty years, and four of our
administrations have tried, without result, to get justice done through
the Embassy, using every form of diplomatic representation. Though N.
saw him write the order, and the auto which took the note started off
in the direction of the Supreme Court, and returned, having delivered
it, no one can tell what wink may later be given the judges.

I came home and ordered a room to be prepared for Vera Estañol, as, of
course, he must remain with us until he can be shipped to the States
or to Europe. I imagine that the clean bed and the hot water and the
reading-lamp and desk will look very pleasant, after three months in
jail. N. wrote and signed a letter to Huerta, in which he guarantees
that Vera Estañol will not mix in politics and will immediately leave
the country with his family. He is one of the most prominent and
gifted lawyers in the republic, liberal and enlightened, and head of
the Evolucionista party. N. was out until midnight trying to find the
President, to get the final order for his release, but was, in the end,
obliged to give it up. The old man has ways of disappearing when no one
can track him to ground. This morning, N. is after him again, and, I
suppose, will bring Vera Estañol to the house, whence he will take the
well-worn route of hastily departing patriots to Vera Cruz.

Yesterday afternoon Mrs. Tozzer, Mr. Seeger, and I motored out beyond
Azcapotzalco, where Tozzer and Hay are excavating. Anywhere one digs
in these suburbs may be found countless relics of Aztec civilization.
Azcapotzalco was once a teeming center, a great capital, and there were
then, as now, many cypress groves. One of them is still supposed to be
haunted by Marina, Cortés’ Indian love.

Built on the site of the temple, _teocalli_, is an interesting old
Dominican church of the sixteenth century; its great _patio_, planted
with olive and cypress trees is inclosed by a pink scalloped wall,
marvelously _patiné_. Here the Indians came in masses, were baptized,
had their wounds bound up, their ailments treated, their strifes
allayed, by the patient friars. As we went slowly over the broken,
neglected road little boys offered us beads and idols and bits of
pottery, which are so abundant in the fields that it is scarcely
necessary to dig for them. T. and C. H., for their work, simply chose
a likely-looking sun-baked mound, planted with maguey, like dozens of
others, and with twenty-five or thirty picturesque and untrustworthy
descendants of Montezuma (one skips back six or seven hundred years
with the greatest ease when one looks at them) they dug out an old
palace. When we demanded _regalitos_ (presents), our friends drew,
unwillingly, from their dusty pockets some hideous heads and grotesque
forms, caressed them lovingly, and then put them back, unable, when it
came to the scratch, to part with them.

[Illustration: THE “DIGGINGS” (AZCAPOTZALCO)]

[Illustration: THE PYRAMID OF SAN JUAN TEOTIHUACAN]

It is a heavenly spot. Here and there a pink belfry showed itself, its
outline broken by a dead black cypress; the marvelous, indescribable
hills, both near and far, swam in a strange transparency.

We sat long among the grubby, mixed Toltec and Aztec ruins, and made
tea, and, in what may have been some patrician’s parlor, watched the
sun go down in a blaze of colors, reappearing, as it were, to fling
a last, unexpected glory over the snow-covered volcanoes and the
violet hills. Every shaft of maguey was outlined with light, the whole
universe a soft spectrum. A mysterious, blue-lined darkness fell upon
us as we drove toward the city.


_January 23d._

N. was only able to get Vera Estañol out of the _Penitenciaría_ on
Wednesday afternoon. He didn’t come here, but was taken immediately to
the station, caught the night train to Vera Cruz, and sailed yesterday,
Thursday, by the Ward Line steamer. When N. went to the prison with
the President’s aide, carrying the order for his release and the duly
signed safe-conduct, Estañol came into the waiting-room with a volume
of Taine’s _Histoire Contemporaine_ in his hand, and the detached air
acquired by persons who have long been in jail. There was scarcely any
conversation, his one idea being to leave the building and get to the
train under American cover.

Huerta told N. yesterday that General Mercado had been bribed by
wealthy persons in Chihuahua to go to Ojinaga on the frontier, instead
of going to Jimenez, where he had been ordered. He feels very bitter
toward Mercado, who cost him 4,000 good soldiers. Mercado makes all
sorts of counter-charges against the other generals, especially
against Orozco--of cowardice, of placing drunken officers in important
positions, and of robbing their own Federal trains of provisions.
General Inez Salazar’s fate is tragi-comic. He was arrested for playing
“a little game of cards” on the Texas train, never suspecting that in a
free country you could not do such a thing. After escaping the rebels
and the American authorities he was most chagrined to be jailed and
consequently identified just as he was about to recross the border into
Mexico.

Wednesday we had a pleasant lunch at the Norwegian Legation. The
Norwegian minister is the son of Jonas Lie. He and his wife are
cultivated people of the world, and kind friends. Madame Lie always
has delicious things to eat, very handsomely served. One knows that
when things are well done here it means that the lady of the house
has given them her personal care. In the evening there was bridge at
Mme. Bonilla’s. The lights suddenly went out, as we were playing, and
remained out. As is usual in such occurrences, the cry was, “At last
the Zapatistas are cutting the wires!” Madame B. got out some beautiful
old silver candlesticks and we played on recklessly, with our fate,
perhaps, upon us. The street lamps were also dark.

Mexico City is lighted from Necaxa, nearly a hundred miles away, and
one of the loveliest spots in the world. In a day one drops down from
the plateau into the hot country; the train seems to follow the river,
which flows through a wild and beautiful _barranca_, and at Necaxa
are the great falls supplying the power for this wonderful feat of
engineering. In my mind it is a memory of blue skies, enchanting vistas
of blue mountains, myriads of blue butterflies against falling water,
bright singing birds, and the most gorgeous and richest of tropical
vegetation, vine-twisted trees, orchids, morning-glories of all kinds,
and countless other magnificences. I sometimes think that it is because
Mother Earth is so lavish here, asking only to give, demanding nothing
of her children, that they have become rather like spoiled children.
Every mountain oozes with precious ores. On the coast, any accidental
hole in the earth may reveal the oil for which the world is so greedy;
and each green thing left to itself will come up a thousandfold.
Marvelous, magical Mexico! A white moon is shining in through the
windows of the front _salon_, making my electric lamp seem a dull
thing. At this altitude the moonlight cuts out objects as if with a
steel point.

Yesterday, Mr. Prince, Aunt Laura’s friend, and brother-in-law of Mr.
C., came to lunch. Mr. C. died during the bombardment, and in his
last illness was moved from house to hospital, and from the hospital,
when that was shelled, to another house, opposite the Embassy. During
the armistice Mr. P. was able to go out for a coffin, and to take it
himself on a cab to the cemetery. This was the only way to dispose
of it, the town being under fire at the time. That same week one of
the little boys had his foot crushed by the tramway, and it had to be
amputated while shot and shell were falling and his father was lying
dead. Emma, the child who fell through my glass roof, two years ago,
has never since walked. A chapter of tragedies! Mrs. C. is now in the
States, trying to recuperate.

Hanihara, the bright secretary from the Japanese Foreign Office, who is
here to look into the conditions and, doubtless, the possibilities of
the Japanese situation in Mexico, turned up yesterday; we used to know
him in Washington. He speaks English perfectly, and is Europeanized,
externally, to an unusual extent, but, of course, he remains completely
Japanese at bottom. I shall give a luncheon for him at Chapultepec,
with his minister, the retiring Austrian _chargé_, and the new Italian
minister, who fell at my door, the day before yesterday, and was laid
up with a bad knee. I had him bound up by Dr. Ryan.

I saw a man yesterday who had known Villa in his purely peon days; he
said some mental, if not moral, evolution had been going on; among
other things, he generally keeps to the regulation amount of clothing,
but a collar gets on his nerves almost as much as the mention of
Porfirio Diaz--his pet abomination. He keeps himself fairly clean, and
has shown himself clever about finding capable agents to whom he is
willing to leave the gentler mysteries of the three R’s. We wonder who
is getting out certain polished political statements appearing under
his name. What he once did to an official document, on an official
occasion, instead of signing his name, pen cannot relate. He evidently
has military gifts, but remains, unfortunately, one of the most
ignorant, sanguinary, and ruthless men in Mexico’s history, knowing
nothing of the amenities of life, nothing of statesmanship, nor of
government in any form except force. And he may inhabit Chapultepec.

D’Antin brought home a beautiful _saltillo_, a hand-woven, woolen sort
of _serape_, about a hundred years old, that he got from an Indian at
a price so small I hate to think of it. He saw it on the Indian on the
street, one cold night, and his clever eye realized what it was. I am
not quite happy about it; but I have had it disinfected and cleaned. I
can only bring myself to use it because some one said the Indian had
probably stolen it.

Elim is singing at the top of his voice the popular air, “_Marieta, no
seas coqueta porque los hombres son muy malos_” (“Marieta, don’t be a
coquette, because men are very wicked”).


_January 23d, Evening._

I spent a quiet evening reading the fascinating book Don L. Garcia
Pimentel sent me yesterday, _Bibliografia Mexicana de lo Siglo XVI_.
I am impressed anew with the wonderful work done by that handful
of friars, Franciscans and Dominicans, who came over immediately
after Cortés and began with the Conquistadores the work of Spanish
civilization in the new world. Their first acts, as they made their way
through the country, were to do away with the bloody sacrificial rites
which disgraced and discredited the Aztec civilization. They built
everywhere churches, hospitals, and schools, teaching gentler truths to
the Indians, who gathered by thousands for instruction in the beautiful
old _patios_ to be found in front of all the colonial churches.

One might almost say that Mexico was civilized by that handful of
friars, sixteen or seventeen in all, who came over during the first
eight or ten years following the Conquest. Their burning zeal to give
the true faith to the Indians dotted this beautiful land with countless
churches, and an energy of which we can have no conception changed
the gorgeous wilderness into a great kingdom. Padre Gante, one of the
greatest of them, who arrived in 1522, was related to the Emperor
Charles V. He had been a man of the world, and was a musician and an
artist. He had his celebrated school at Tlaltelolco, now the Plaza de
Santiago, which, shabby and shorn of all its ancient beauty, is used
as the city customs headquarters. He wrote his _Doctrina Christiana_
and baptized hundreds of thousands of Indians during his fifty years’
work. He not only taught them to read and write, but started schools
of drawing and painting, at which he found them very apt. They already
possessed formulas for all sorts of beautiful colors, and had their
own arts, such as the glazing and painting of potteries, the making
of marvelous garments of bright birds’ feathers, and of objects in
gold and silver, of the finest workmanship. In the museum one can see
beautiful old maps of Mexico City when she was Anahuac, the glory of
the Aztecs, painted on cloth made from the maguey.

Fray Bartolomé de las Casas worked with Fray Gante, and they were
greatly aided by the first viceroys. Fray Motolinía came later, and
his _Historia de los Indios_ is the reference book of all succeeding
works on _Nueva Espagna_. The friars tried by every means to alleviate
the miseries of the Indians, and hospitals, homes for the aged and
decrepit, orphanages and asylums of all kinds were established. The
generation which immediately succeeded the Conquest must have been a
tragic spectacle, exhausted by resistance and later on by the pitiless
work of rebuilding cities, especially Mexico City, which was done in
four years--to the sound of the whip. The viceroys were responsible
only to the _Consejo de las Indias_, in far-away Spain, and their
success came naturally to be judged by the riches they secured from
this treasure-house of the world, at the expense, of course, of the
Indians, though many of the viceroys tried honestly, in conjunction
with the friars, to alleviate the Indian lot. Seven or eight volumes
of hitherto unpublished works are waiting for me from Don Luis Garcia
Pimentel, to one of whose ancestors, Conde de Benavente, Motolinía
dedicated his _Historia de los Indios_. I have simply steeped myself in
_Mexicana_--from the letters of Cortés, the recitals of Bernal Diaz,
who came over with him, down to Aleman and Madame Calderon de la Barca.

Well, it is getting late and I must stop, but the history of Mexico is
without exception the most fascinating, the most romantic, and the most
improbable in the world; and the seed of Spanish civilization implanted
in this marvelous land has produced a florescence so magnetic, so
magical, that the dullest feel its charm. All that has been done for
Mexico the Spaniards did, despite their cruelties, their greeds, and
their passions. We, of the north, have used it only as a quarry,
leaving no monuments to God nor testaments to man in place of the
treasure that we have piled on departing ship or train. Now we seem to
be handing back to Indians very like those the Spaniards found, the
fruits of a great civilization, for them to trample in the dust. Let us
_not_ call it human service.


_January 24th._

Von Hintze came in for a while this morning. Like all the foreign
representatives, he is weary of his work here; so many _ennuis_,
so much waiting for what they all believe alone can be the outcome
now--American supremacy in some form.

Shots were heard in town last night. Dr. Ryan, who is making his
home with us, thought it might be the long-threatened _cuartelazo_
(barracks’ revolution), and went out to see, but it turned out to be
only a little private shooting. The Burnsides have gone to live at Vera
Cruz.


_January 26th._

Only a word before beginning a busy day. I must go out to Chapultepec
to see that the luncheon of twelve, for Hanihara and Cambiaggio, is all
right. The town is filling with Japanese officers from the _Idzuma_,
lying at Manzanillo. There will be a veritable demonstration for them,
indicating very completely the anti-American feeling. There is an
enormous official program for every hour until Friday night, when they
return to their ship.


_Evening._

My luncheon for Hanihara went off very pleasantly, at Chapultepec.
That restaurant is the knife with which I have cut the gordion knot
of entertaining. The new Italian minister was there, the Norwegians,
Mr. E. N. Brown, president of the National Railways, Parra, from the
Foreign Office, and others. We reached home at four o’clock, and I
drove immediately to the Garcia Pimentels, where Don Luis was waiting
to show me some of the special treasures in his library. Up-stairs,
the handsome daughters and their equally handsome friends, married and
single, were sewing for the Red Cross. We meet there every Tuesday.
Each daughter had a beautifully embroidered _rebozo_ thrown over her
smart Paris gown _à la Mexicana_--heirlooms of the family.

The house is one of the noble, old-style Mexican edifices, with a large
_patio_, and a fine stairway leading up to the corridor that winds
around its four palm- and flower-banked sides. Large, handsome rooms,
with pictures, rare engravings, priceless porcelains, and old brocades,
open from the corridor. I merely put my head in at the door of the big
drawing-room where they were working, as Don Luis was waiting for me in
his library down-stairs. I spent a couple of delightful hours with him,
among his treasures, so lovingly guarded through generations. Oh, those
fascinating title-pages in reds and blacks, that thick, rich-feeling
hand-woven paper, that changeless ink, fit to perpetuate those romantic
histories and the superhuman achievement of the men of God! I could
scarcely put down the beautifully written letter of Cortés to Charles
V., wherein he tells of the Indians as he found them. They so closely
resemble the Indians as _I_ have found them.

Many of Don Luis’s most valuable books and manuscripts were found in
Spain, and his library of _Mexicana_ embraces everything obtainable
down to our own time.[9] His wife is a charming woman, very _grande
dame_, cultivated, and handsome. She and her daughters are always busy
with countless works of charity. Just now they are busy making up
little bundles of layettes for the maternity home. It does make one’s
fingers nimble to see Indian women obliged to wrap their babies in
newspapers!

I had just time to get home and dress for dinner at the British
Legation, but we came away at half past nine, leaving the rest of the
party playing bridge. I had on again the gray-and-silver Worth dress,
but I feel sad without my black things.


_Evening, January 27th._

This afternoon I went with de Soto to see Mme. Lefaivre at the Museo
Nacional, where she is copying an old Spanish screen. It is always a
pleasure to go through the lovely, sun-baked _patio_, filled with gods
and altars of a lost race. Many of them, found in the _Zocalo_, have
made but a short journey to their resting-place. De Soto is always an
agreeable companion for any little excursion into the past--though it
isn’t the _past_ we are dreaming about, these days. And as for his
looks, put a lace ruff and a velvet doublet on him and he would be a
“Velasquez” of the best epoch.

Mme. Lefaivre, enveloped in an apron, was sitting on a little
step-ladder before the largest screen I have ever seen, its eight
mammoth leaves representing various amorous scenes, lovers, balconies,
guitars, etc.--all most decorative and truly ambassadorial. I told her
that nothing but the Farnese Palace would be big enough for it, and
the light of dreams--the kind of dreams we all dream--appeared in her
eyes. The big sala was getting a bit dim, so she left her work and we
started for a turn through the museum. When we found ourselves talking
of Huerta by the “Morning Star,” a mysterious, hard-faced, green god
(his little name is Tlahuizcalpantecuhtli), I thought we might as well
take a turn in the motor; so we went up to Chapultepec and continued
the discourse under the cypresses, which are growing, though slowly,
with the living events that alone really interest one. The past is for
those with peace and leisure.


_Evening._

A quiet day, but we are distressed beyond words at the renewed reports
of a lifting of the embargo on arms and ammunition for the rebels.
I feel as if I couldn’t stand it, and N. even felt that he ought to
resign if it happens. The ship of state is going so inevitably on the
rocks. He will make some sort of protest to Washington against the
advisability of this move. Villa’s cry is “On to Mexico,” and he may
get there, or rather, here--if we decide to carry him.

It appears that he is becoming daily more intoxicated by the favors of
the United States. No one is more surprised than he at his success with
the powers that be, and as for the vogue he has with the confidential
agents, they tell me his face is one broad grin whenever their names
are mentioned. However, this doesn’t mean he is going to try to please
them. Just now he wants Huerta’s head, but that foxy old head can
have asylum here. Shouts and shots were heard an hour or so ago, but
probably only from some Zapatistas near town.


FOOTNOTES:

[8] The celebrated _Arbol de la Noche Triste_ is an old, weather-beaten
cypress, which has been cherished and doctored by botanical
commissioners and outraged by mobs. Under it Cortés is supposed to
have sat and wept as he saw defile before him the tattered remnants of
his army after the terrible retreat from Tenochtitlan, July 2, 1520.
There are three of these especially historic trees which survived the
horrors of the Conquest--the others are the _Arbol de Montezuma_,
in the Chapultepec park, and the great Tree of Tule, in Oaxaca,
which sheltered Cortés and his venturesome company on their way to
Honduras.--E. O’S.

[9] This noble house has since passed into alien hands, and the great
library is scattered. Señora Garcia Pimentel was, fortunately, able
to send a few of the most valuable manuscripts to England--the Cortés
letters, the famous Motolinía manuscript, dedicated to the Conde de
Benavente, a first edition of Cervantes, the “Dialogos” of Salazar, and
a volume or two of Padre de la Vera Cruz and Padre Sahagun. She and her
unmarried daughter took these away, concealed under shawls, when they
were obliged to leave the house. There had been a sudden loud knocking
at the door in the dead of night, followed by the entry of Carranzista
officials. Madame Garcia Pimentel and her beautiful daughter were alone
in the house at the time; the father and sons, in danger of their
lives, had been secretly got to Vera Cruz, some time before.

The far-famed library of Casasus has also been scattered, its
treasures destroyed. Sometimes a priceless volume has been bought for a
few cents from a street vender, by some one on the lookout, but mostly
these treasures have forever disappeared.--E. O’S.




XIII


  Gamboa--Fêtes for the Japanese officers--The Pius Fund--The Toluca
  road--Brown, of the National Railways--President Wilson raises the
  embargo on arms and ammunition--Hunting for Zapatistas.


_January 29th._

Yesterday the handsome Mexican set came for bridge, and in the evening
we went to dine at Señor Pardo’s house. He is the clever attorney for
the “Mexican” railways. Federico Gamboa and his wife were there. Gamboa
is most amusing, with one of those minds that answer to the point in
conversation, what the French call _le don de la réplique_. He was
Minister for Foreign Affairs last summer, and resigned to run for
President, as choice of the Clerical party. Huerta said, quite frankly,
of him to N. a few days ago, “I told him I liked him and wished him
well, but if he had been elected President I should have had him shot.”

Gamboa’s answer to Mr. L. last August, though not satisfactory to _us_
when laid by Mr. Wilson before Congress, remains a dignified, clever,
and unimpeachable _exposé_ of the Mexican situation from _their_ point
of view, which is that the United States, by every international law,
is unwarranted in interfering in their interior affairs, as these,
however unfortunate, are those of a sovereign state. They never got
over the fact that the communications Mr. Lind brought with him were
tactfully addressed to no one in particular, and referred to the
government as “the persons who at the present time have authority or
exercise influence in Mexico.” They consider that if they even once
allowed such counsel from the United States they would compromise
indefinitely their destinies as a sovereign state.

As for the phrase “the United States will not hesitate to consummate
matters, especially in times of domestic trouble, in the way that they,
the United States, consider best for Mexico”--it is graven on the mind
of every Mexican who can read and write. Concerning our professions of
friendship, which left them decidedly cold, Gamboa neatly said that
never could there be a more propitious time for displaying it, that
we had “only to watch that no material or military assistance of any
kind be given to the rebels who find refuge, conspire, and provide
themselves with arms and food on the other side of the border.” He
further quietly states that he is greatly surprised that Mr. Lind’s
mission should be termed a “mission of peace,” as, fortunately, neither
then nor to-day had there existed any state of war between Mexico and
the United States. The whole document is the tragic and bootless appeal
of a weak nation to a strong.

Gamboa has had numerous diplomatic posts. He was minister to Brussels
and to The Hague, and special ambassador to Spain to thank the King for
participation in the Centenary of 1910....

After the Pardo dinner, two bright-eyed, clear-voiced Mexican girls,
one of them Pardo’s daughter, sang Mexican songs with the true beat
and lilt to them. Hanihara was also there, listening to the music
in the usual detached, Oriental manner. The Japanese officers are
being tremendously _fêted_, fed by each and every department of the
government, till I should think their abstemious “little Marys” would
rebel.

After dinner we walked home, a short distance, in the mild night, under
a strangely low and starry sky. It seemed to me that by reaching out I
could have had a planet for my own. The streets were deserted, save for
an occasional Mexican, hurrying home, with his scarf across his mouth.
There is a tradition here about not inhaling the night air. Here and
there a _guardia_ shivered in the shadows, as he watched his lantern,
which he always places in the middle of the four crossings. One can
walk with jewels gleaming, and without fear, under the Dictator.

Dr. Ryan left last night for Washington. I don’t like to interfere with
any one’s _premier mouvement_, but I know it for an expensive, bootless
trip. No one will care what he thinks about the certain consequences of
the raising of the embargo.

The rebels have just destroyed twenty-two huge tanks of oil near
Tampico, destined for the running of the railroad between San Luis
Potosí and the coast. I think I told you Mr. Brown said that the gross
receipts had never been so big on his lines as last month, in spite of
the danger in traveling, but that they could not keep pace with the
immense damage going on all the time. Mr. Brown is the self-made man of
story. He began at the foot of the ladder and is now the president of
the “National Railways”; quiet, poised, shrewd, and agreeable. Mexico
owes him much.


_Evening._

The Mexican papers come out with the statement that President Wilson
can’t raise the embargo on arms and ammunition without the consent of
Congress, which, if true, removes it as an immediate calamity.

This morning they rang up from the American grocery to say that the
stores ordered yesterday had not arrived, as the man who was delivering
them was taken by the press-gang, with all the provisions. A nice way
to popularize a government!

Nelson has been requested by the powers that be to use his influence
about the release of a certain American, the suggestion being added
that he should not be too cordial with Huerta in public, as the
United States was on official, _not_ friendly terms with Mexico. The
old man would shut up like a clam and never raise a finger for N.,
or any American, or any American interests, if N. did not treat him
with _both_ public and private courtesy. In these difficult days the
position here is almost entirely a personal equation. N. has danced
the tight-rope, up to now, to the satisfaction of almost everybody, in
spite of the inevitable jealousies and enmities. It is entirely due
to N.’s personal efforts that the Pius Fund of $43,000, has just been
paid; due to him that many prisoners have been released, and that many
material ends have been gained for the United States.

I think history will testify that Huerta showed much tact in dealing
with us. His latest remark is, “If our great and important neighbor
to the north chooses to withhold her friendship, we can but deplore
it--and try to perform our task without her.”

Elim asked me, yesterday, “Where is our Uncle Sam, that everybody talks
about?” He thought he was on the track of a new relative.


_Later._

A military revolt is brewing here--Felicista. N. got wind of it. If
it comes, they must give us Huerta, and have so promised. We have had
comparative, very comparative, quiet for a few weeks, and now things
are seething again.

There is a room here always ready, which we call _nacht asyl_, and
various uneasy heads have rested there in the famous “bed of the
murderess.” Yesterday I bought a lot of lovely dull blue-and-white
_serapes_ for the floor and couch.

On returning from bridge at Madame Lefaivre’s, where I left de Soto
losing with more than his usual melancholy distinction, I found
the Japanese minister with the captain of the _Idzuma_, in full
regimentals, come to call--but N. was out. The captain said he wanted
to express especially and officially to N. his appreciation of all the
courtesies he had received from Admiral Cowles, and the other officers
of our ships at Manzanillo. He spoke French and English only fairly
well, as they do. I was very cordial, of course, and said that in these
difficult moments all must be friends, must stand by one another,
and show mutual understanding of difficulties. As I looked at him I
thought, for some reason, of the horrors suffered and the deeds of
valor performed by his race in the Russo-Japanese War, without question
or thought of individuals. He espied Iswolsky’s photograph and Adatchi
showed him Demidoff’s picture, saying that Elim was his namesake. They
never forget _anything_.

The officers had all been out to the celebrated pyramid of San Juan
Teotihuacan to-day, with the Minister of Public Instruction. It is
a fatiguing trip, but an excursion always arranged for strangers of
distinction. (I made it with Madero, mounting those last great steps,
exhausted and dripping, on his arm.) They, the Japanese, were going
to the Jockey Club, where Moheno, the Minister for Foreign Affairs,
is to give them a dinner. The government is so in debt to the various
restaurants here that they couldn’t get credit for the dinner at
Silvain’s, as first planned.

I met Lady Carden at bridge this afternoon. She feels badly at the way
things have developed for her husband. He has been called to London “to
report”; _à la_ Henry Lane Wilson to Washington, I suppose. Hohler, who
was _chargé_ when we first came to Mexico, is already _en route_ from
England to take over the Legation during Sir Lionel’s absence--but I
suppose Sir L. will never return. I told Lady Carden to give Sir Lionel
my best regards, and added that it wasn’t, by any means, _all_ beer and
skittles at the Embassy.

Sir L. shouldn’t have tried, however, to “buck” the United States. All
the representatives have become a bit more cautious as to how they
approach “the policy,” since the unpleasant newspaper notoriety Sir
Lionel and Paul May received. Lady Carden is not going, I am glad to
say, and we are all making plans to console her for Sir L.’s absence.


_January 31st._

Your cable “Love” received yesterday. I sent a cable, “_Bene_,” in
answer. I have been thinking all day of those hours, many years ago,
when my precious mother was lying with me, her first-born, in her arms.

N. is in receipt of a proclamation from revolutionary agents in Mexico
City. The part referring to foreigners states that any protection given
by them to Huerta or to his intimates will result in their immediate
execution, and that _no_ flag will be respected in such cases. It is
one of those nice, little, confidence-inspiring documents which induce
one to ponder on the Mexican situation, not as it might be or ought to
be, but as it _is_. Its caption, “_La revolución es revolución_,” is
completely expressive.


_February 1st. Afternoon._

A few lines while waiting for tea and callers. This morning we made
a wonderful run out the Toluca road with Seeger and Mr. and Madame
Graux, our Belgian friends, _Chemins de fer secondaires_, as we call
them. After Tacubaya the road rises high above the city, and for miles
we motored along the heights, through stretches of dazzling white
_tepetate_ and pink _tezontle_, the buildingstones of the city
from immemorial days. The road was fairly alive with Indians bringing
in their wares, this Sunday morning. They came from Toluca, seventy
kilometers distant, moving tirelessly over their roads with the quick,
short Aztec trot, and bearing such loads of pottery, baskets, and
wood, that nothing can be seen of them but their feet. This is also a
Zapatista country, and we had provided ourselves with three pistols.
High in the hills could be seen the smoke of camp-fires, Zapatistas
_or_ charcoal-burners. It was on this road that the son of the Minister
of War, Blanquet, was held up about three weeks ago. His party was
stripped and its members sent home as they were born, even that last
possible covering, the floor-rug of the motor, being removed.

However, beyond being stopped at intervals by _gendarmes_, who tried,
unsuccessfully, to make us leave our pistols at the _jefetura_ of their
little village, we were not interfered with. Our cry of _Embajada
Americana_, though not over-popular now, had not lost all its potency.
In spite of the dazzling sun it is very cold on the heights, and in
the little village where we stopped to “water” our car a coughing,
sneezing, sniffling crowd of half-naked, shivering Indians gathered
around us, evidently suffering from one of those bronchial epidemics
so prevalent in these thin, high atmospheres. I fear that our coppers,
though acceptable, were not therapeutic, as, doubtless, they all
rounded up at the nearest _pulquería_ after our departure. We could not
decide to turn lunch-ward, but kept on and on, until we had dipped into
the Toluca Valley as far as the statue of Hidalgo, commemorating the
spot where he met the viceregal forces in 1821. It always seems to me
a sad spot, for when the Spaniards fell, with the exception of Diaz’s
thirty years, the last stable government of Mexico also fell.

[Illustration: THE GUARD THAT STOPPED US]

At the base of the statue three Indian women were sitting--_enredadas_.
Each had a baby slung over her back and a burden by her side, giving
the scene the mysterious, changeless, lonely Indian note. In Mexico,
nothing is ever missing from any picture to make it beautiful and
peculiarly itself.

A very gratifying letter came to-day from Mr. John Bassett Moore,
counselor of the State Department. There are so many difficulties, so
many enmities ready to lift their poisoned heads, so many delicate
transactions, so much hanging in the balance, that it is gratifying to
have, sometimes, an appreciative word from headquarters. Also a very
nice letter came from General Crozier. I am so glad of that Mexican
visit of his two years ago. He will understand just what the situation
is--and many things besides.

Nelson spent all Saturday morning getting the 1914 instalment of the
Pius Fund, the twelfth payment since the Hague decision in 1902. Diaz
intended to pay off the principal, but now, of course, the country
is in no condition to do so. We went down to Hacienda (Treasury
Department). I sat in the auto in the sun, in the historic _Zocalo_,
from immemorial days the focus of Mexican events. The officials had
only $37,000 of the $43,000, but told N. to return at half past twelve,
and they would have the other six for him. I couldn’t help wondering
where they got it. Finally it was all safely deposited in the bank. We
then picked up the Graux at the Hotel Sanz and motored out for luncheon
and golf at the Country Club.


_February 1st, 10.30_ P.M.

To-night has come the long-feared cable from Washington stating that
the President intends to raise the embargo on arms and ammunition.
The note was for Nelson’s special information, not for delivery to
the Foreign Office yet, but the hour will come when he will have to
gird himself to do the deed. It has been sent to every chancery in
Europe, where it will raise a storm, to blow hard or not, according
to the amount of material investments in Mexico. We scarcely know
what to think; we are dazed and aghast. I am glad that a few hours,
at least, must elapse before the facts will get out. I shall hardly
dare to venture forth unveiled. Courteous as the Mexicans have been
to Nelson and myself, some day, in face of the terrible catastrophes
we have brought upon them, their patience must fail. This act will
not establish the rebels in Mexico City or anywhere else, but will
indefinitely prolong this terrible civil war and swell the tide of the
blood of men and women, “and the _children_--oh, my brothers.”

I think Wilhelmstrasse, Downing Street, Quai d’Orsay, Ballplatz, and
all the other _Ministères_ will pick many a flaw in the President’s
document; but what can they do except anathematize us behind our backs?


_February 2d._

My first thought, on awaking this morning, was of the irremediable
catastrophe threatening this beautiful land. Nelson says he thinks
Huerta will disregard it, as he has disregarded all other moves of
Mr. Wilson; but it can be nothing but a further source of terrible
embarrassment.


_February 3d, 11_ A.M.

The second telegram has just come, saying that the President intends,
within a few hours, to raise the embargo, and that N. is to inform all
Americans and foreigners. I keep repeating to myself: “God! God! God!”
A generation of rich and poor alike will be at the mercy of the hordes
that will have new strength and means to fight, and eat, and pillage,
and rape their way through the country. There will be a stampede of
people leaving town to-night and to-morrow, but those in the interior,
what of them? There is sure to be violent anti-American demonstration,
especially in out-of-the-way places.


_12.30._

The news previously leaked out from Vera Cruz last night. Nothing gets
out from the Embassy, as our staff all happen to know how to keep their
counsel. It is what Mr. Lind has wanted for months, and I suppose the
news was too satisfactory to keep. You will read it in to-morrow’s
Paris _Herald_ and the _Journal de Genève_. Don’t worry about us. We
will have first-class safeguard _if_ Huerta declares war. He may not.
It is his policy, and a strong one it has been, to ignore Washington’s
proclamations. On the other hand, he will have no intention of being
caught by Villa, like a rat in a hole; and war with us may seem to him
a glorious solution of his problems. Villa and Carranza will not arrive
in the city together. No street is broad enough to permit the double
entry of their contrary passions, violence, and greed.

It is “to laugh” when Villa is thanked publicly and officially for his
kind promises in regard to life and property in the north.


_February 3d. Evening._

A busy day--as you can well imagine. N. had to inform the various
legations. I went down-town with him for luncheon, a thing I never do.
We met the Spanish minister driving up the _Paseo_ in his victoria--a
pathetic figure. He has had so much worry and heartbreak over the
situation and has been so helpless in the face of the disasters which
have befallen his nationals that he is beyond surprise. Upon hearing
the news he merely made a tired gesture of acquiescence. To him the
raising of the embargo was, doubtless, only one more inexplicable
thing. Von Hintze was out, and we next stopped at the French Legation,
just opposite the German. Ayguesparsse, the secretary, possessed of one
of the most elegant silhouettes in the world, was more than polite, but
quite impassive, as he came out with Nelson to speak a word to me. He
is married to a handsome young Mexican--the sister of Rincon Gaillardo,
Marqués de Guadalupe--whose time, strength, money, and life, if need
be, are at the disposition of his country.

When we got to the restaurant in Plateros, the most public and
alarm-allaying spot we could think of, the newspaper men assailed N.
with questions. The “story” that they are after is what the relations
of Huerta would be to N. and the Embassy, and they announce that they
were not going to let the _chargé_ out of their sight.

After lunch, at which Mr. S. joined us, we went to the British
Legation. N. gave Sir L. the news, while I walked in the garden
with Lady C., both of us wilted, with nerves on edge. I came home,
rested for a few minutes, and then dressed, and went out to fulfil
my afternoon program of calls, turning up late for bridge at Madame
Simon’s. She asked me squarely, though in the politest of French, “What
is your government doing?” I saw many people during the afternoon, but,
apart from her greeting, there was no word of politics. I think the
matter is too distasteful to the public to be discussed with any one
like myself, where care in the expression of feeling is necessary.

I drove home with Lady C., who was quietly aghast at the situation,
just in time to get into a tea-gown and down-stairs for dinner. In the
_salon_ Seeger and the Graux (who leave to-morrow for Vera Cruz and
New York) were waiting. N. telephoned that he was at the Palace, just
going in to see Huerta. You can imagine that we had a lively dinner of
surmises. He returned barely in time to say good-by to the Graux, and
after they left we sat up late to talk over the appalling situation.

Sir Lionel was with the President when N. got there. From the violent
sounds coming through the half-opened door, N. thought that the old man
was at last losing patience and control, and prepared himself for the
worst. However, when N. finally went in Huerta was perfectly calm and
had never been more friendly. He never mentioned President Wilson’s
name, and concerning the raising of the embargo quietly remarked that
it would not change matters much, but would merely give a recognized
name to the smuggling over the border that had been going on for three
years. He kept repeating that the future would justify him; that he
had had nothing to do with the killing of Madero; that the attitude of
the administration toward him was simply “a persecution.” N. said he
never flinched. He terminated the interview by saying that he greatly
appreciated N.’s public as well as private courtesies, and that he was
“very necessary to the situation,” whereupon he ordered _copitas_, and
the embargo question was dismissed.

Apropos of _copitas_, while we were talking N. was rung up to hear
that an English woman reporter and Wallace, the cine man, sent us
from the State Department, had been put in prison for trying to take
a photograph of Huerta at the Café Colon, while he was taking his
_copita_. They were both released at a late, or rather an early hour,
and I think they richly deserved their experience. Huerta’s reputation
for drinking is very much exaggerated.

The hall, stairway, and chancery were black with reporters all the
evening, until one o’clock. It has been a long day of responsibility,
excitement, and fatigue.


_February 4th._

The newspapers have appalling head-lines about President Wilson.
_El Puritano_, with his mask off, the avowed friend of bandits and
assassins, is about the mildest sample.


_Evening._

Another full day. I had errands all the morning. In the afternoon,
after being undecided as to whether I would shine by my absence or
turn the full light of my American countenance on my Mexican friends,
I decided to make calls. I found everybody in. I went first to Señora
Gamboa, where I had to talk Spanish. Fortunately, they have a few very
good antiques on which to hang conversation. Then I went to see the
Evanses. They have bought a handsome old Mexican house which we are
all interested in seeing them modernize without spoiling. After that
I drove out to Tacubaya, and on the way out the broad _calzada_ saw
the _leva_ at work. There were about twenty men hedged in by lines of
soldiers, and two or three disconsolate-looking women.

Señora Escandon’s house is situated in the midst of one of the
beautiful gardens for which Tacubaya is celebrated, inclosed by high
walls over which run a riot of vines and flowers. I found her and
her daughter, Señora Soriano, at home. The Spanish son-in-law is a
mechanical genius and spends this revolutionary period peacefully
constructing small, perfect models of war-ships and locomotives. I
shall take Elim there when “the fleet” is on the little lake in the
garden. The Escandons are people of immense wealth, agreeable and
cultivated, but, like all their kind, aloof from politics. Their
perfect and friendly courtesy made me more than a little sad.

Going home for a moment, I found Clarence Hay with Nelson at the gate,
and drove him down-town. I enjoyed talking English and hearing it
instead of speaking broken Spanish or listening to broken French. We
browsed about in an antique-shop and did a little refreshing haggling.
I stopped at Madame Simon’s on my way back, where I found Rincon
Gaillardo, who is, among other things, chief of the _rurales_.

He had many interesting things to say about hunting for Zapatistas,
which seems to be the biggest kind of “big-game” shooting. After
descending unexpectedly upon sleeping villages the Zapatistas retreat
to their mountain fastnesses. By the time word reaches the point
where _rurales_ are stationed, the worst has been done. The next day
innocent-looking persons are begging for a centavo or working in the
fields. They were the bandits of the night before! It needs a Hercules
to clear this mountainous country of “the plague of brigandage.” A gun,
a horse, and full power are naturally more attractive than a plow and a
corn-field.

There are rumors of a student demonstration to-morrow--it is
Constitution Day--when they propose to march the streets crying, “Death
to Wilson!” Everybody was not only polite, but even affectionate in
their greetings to me. Whatever they thought of yesterday’s raising of
the embargo they kept to themselves or expressed when I was absent.
Even Rincon Gaillardo, who is giving his _all_--time, money, brain--to
the pacifying of the country _under_ Huerta, maintained his exquisite
calm.




XIV


  A “neat little haul” for brigands--Tea at San Angel--A picnic and a
  burning village--The lesson of “Two Fools”--Austria-Hungary’s new
  minister--Cigarettes in the making--Zapata’s message.


_February 6th._

There was no disturbance of any kind yesterday. Never were the streets
more peaceful, nor the heavens more calmly beautiful. Madame Simon had
a luncheon for the new Austro-Hungarian minister, and afterward we
all motored out the Toluca road, driving on till from a high mountain
place we could see the setting sun filling the stretches of the Toluca
Valley with translucent flame colors, mauves, reds, and browns. It was
like some new Jerusalem or any other promised glory. Every time we saw
a group on horseback we wondered if it were the redoubtable Zapatistas
who make that part of the world so unquiet. It was all carefully
patrolled, however, with armed men at intervals, cartridge-belts full,
and guns across their saddles.

Our party would have been a neat little haul for brigands: the
Austro-Hungarian minister, the Italian minister, Joaquin Garcia
Pimentel, Señor and Señora Ösi, Madame Simon, and myself. Señora Ösi
had on a magnificent string of pearls, likewise a huge diamond pin that
blazed in the setting sun. I left my jewels at home, and Madame Simon
kept hers well covered. I wonder that we _did_ get back as we went. It
was marvelous, dropping down from the heights to the glistening town,
in the mysterious Mexican half-light.

I wonder what President Wilson is going to do about the revolution in
Peru? I see they have deported Billinghurst from Callao, and Augusto
Durand, the revolutionary chief, has assumed the Presidency. There
was a price on his head a day or two before. It will take more than
one administration to cure the Latin-Americans of their taste for
revolutions. Have sent you a _Cosmopolitan_, with a story, “Two Fools,”
by Frederick Palmer; it deals with a certain burning side of the
Mexican situation, and has excited much comment.


_February 8th. Evening._

Yesterday we went out to the beautiful San Angel Inn for tea, six of us
in one motor, two empty motors following. Motoring about this marvelous
plateau is one of the joys of Mexican life. We watched the sunset
over the volcanoes until the rose-tinted “White Lady,” Iztaccihuatl,
was only a gigantic form lying against a purple sky, covered with a
blue-white shroud; then we raced in to dine with Clarence Hay and
the Tozzers, who had a box for a mild circus performance in the
evening. The night before last, so von Hintze told N. (and he is
always thoroughly informed), forty men and officers in the Guadalupe
Hidalgo barracks were shot. They were accused, probably justly, of a
plot against Huerta. For days there have been persistent rumors of
a military uprising--_cuartelazo_, as they call it. Perhaps at the
predestined hour one such rising will succeed. If Huerta is forced
into bankruptcy and can’t pay his troops, what will become of _us_,
the foreigners? He stated the full truth about elections here when he
said that conditions were such that the government of the nation must
necessarily be in the hands of the few. A thoroughgoing dictatorship is
what he doubtless thinks the best solution--from a close acquaintance
with his own people.

[Illustration:

Copyright by Underwood & Underwood.

“THE WOMAN IN WHITE”--FROM SAN JUAN HILL]

This morning, after Mass at nine o’clock, I started with Seeger, Hay,
the Tozzers, and Elim for Texcoco. It was marvelous, speeding through
the soft, yet brilliant, air, each turn of the wheel bringing us to
historic spots. Texcoco was the “Athens” of Mexico in Aztec days,
and the whole length of this now so-dusty road was done in canoes
and barques. There is a great column near Chapingo which points the
spot Cortés started from in his brigantine, in his last desperate and
successful attempt at the conquest of the City of Mexico. It was from
the ridge of hills beyond that the conquerors first looked down on the
marvels of Tenochtitlan, set among its shining lakes and its myriad
gardens.

We found it was market-day at Texcoco, and Indian life was beating
its full around the old plaza with its Aztec sun-dial, palms, and
eucalyptus. Here the Indians set up their innumerable booths with
their potteries, baskets, blankets, fruits, and vegetables. We were
most amused watching a crowd gathered about a steaming caldron. In it
a pig, his outline still quite intact, was converting himself into
soup as fast as fire and water could assist him. Cortés, in one of the
famous letters, gives as detailed an account of an Indian market as
if he were a modern traveling agent sending back data to the firm. In
the near-by old church his venturesome heart lay for long years. Now
only unlettered Indians crowd in and out of the place. There is a huge
adjacent seminary of the Spanish period, unused since the “Laws of
Reform.” The most visible results of the “Laws of Reform” seem to be,
as far as I have discovered, huge, dusty waste spaces, where schools
had once been. All over Mexico there are such.

Texcoco doesn’t offer many inducements to modern picnickers, so we
motored back a short distance and stopped at the hacienda of Chapingo,
formerly belonging to Gonsalez, President of Mexico before Diaz’s
second administration. _He_ was allowed to leave the country. As Dooley
remarks, “There is no such word as ‘ix-Prisidint’ in Mexico. They are
known as ‘the late-lamented,’ or ‘the fugitive from justice’; and the
only tr’uble the country has with those who remain is to keep the grass
cut.”

Beautiful avenues of eucalyptus adorn the entrance to the gaudy
clap-clappy house, and the dozens of _peon_ dwellings surrounding it.
The _administrador_ allowed us to have our luncheon in the grounds,
and we sat around the dry, flower-grown basin of an old fountain. Hay
recited; we picked bunches of violets without moving an inch, and
watched cheerful lizards darting in and out. Coming home, great spiral
pillars of dust reached up, with a regular rotary motion, to the sky
over the lake, the results of the drainage works of the lake and valley
of Texcoco.

As we passed the _Peñon_ and got into the straight home road, some one
remarked, “Nothing doing in the Zapatista line this time.” A moment
afterward, however, volleys were heard in the direction of Xochimilco,
and puffs of smoke could be seen. Then about forty _rurales_ galloped
up. The sergeant, a fresh-complexioned, dull-witted fellow, stopped us
and asked if we knew from where the firing came. We apparently knew
more than he, little as it was. He continued, in a helpless way: “Those
are Mauser shots, _pero no hay tren, no hay telefono. Como vamos a
hacer?_” (“but we have no train, we have no telephone. What are we to
do?”) When we asked him the name of the village (_pueblo_) where it
was going on, he shrugged his shoulders and answered, “_Quién sabe?_”
Finally we left the _rurales_ to their own devices and came upon a
group of women running for their lives and virtue. They all learn
to get out of the way of the soldiers, as they are obliged to hear
dreadful _groserías_, if nothing worse. A pink- or blue-skirted figure
being chased in the maguey-fields is no uncommon sight.

We came back to the Embassy and had tea, learning that a huge fire
we had seen burning on the side of a not-distant hill, and which we
thought might be from a charcoal-burners’ camp, was a village the
Zapatistas had pillaged and set on fire at two o’clock, while we were
peacefully picnicking in “violet-crowned” Chapingo.

The Tozzers and Clarence Hay leave for Oaxaca and Mitla, to-morrow
night, for a week’s trip. I would have loved to go, but “No traveling”
is our motto. We must keep out of possible troubles. Later Kanya de
Kanya, the new Austro-Hungarian minister, came to call. He has been
ten years in the Foreign Office in Vienna, and is glad to be out of
the turmoil of Near-East politics. For him Mexico is relatively quiet.
There are only about five or six hundred of his nationals in the whole
country, as there has been little or nothing here for them since
the Maximilian tragedy. Kanya is a Hungarian. He will be a pleasant
colleague, and I certainly hope the Magyar will show itself. He is said
to be very musical.

In the evening Seeger came back for dinner; also Burnside, who is up
from Vera Cruz for a day or so. We had a “political” evening. Going
back over things, it does seem as if the United States, in conniving at
the elimination of Diaz, three years ago, had begun the deadly work of
disintegration here.

But all the time I kept before my mind’s eye the enchanting background
of blue hills and lakes shining in the slanting sun, millions of wild
ducks flying across the Lake of Chalco, and, above it, the smoldering
village, the reverberations of the Mauser rifles below!


_February 9th._

There was a pleasant luncheon at the Lefaivres’ for Kanya. They--the
Lefaivres--are both worn out with their long Mexican sojourn, five
years, and the heavy responsibilities entailed by the ever-increasing
French material losses, and are planning to go on leave in March. They
are good friends and I shall miss them greatly, but I have learned to
be philosophic about partings. Life keeps filling up, like a miraculous
pitcher.

The newspapers have been getting the details of the horrible disaster
in the Cumbre tunnel in Chihuahua, a few days ago. A bandit chief,
Castillo, set fire to it by running into it a burning lumber-train.
A passenger-train came along, collided with the débris, and all that
has been recovered is a few charred bones. It is near the frontier,
and it is said that Villa allowed the rescue-party to have an escort
of American soldiers. There were a number of American women and
children on the train; but it is a momentous step--or may be--for
American troops to get into Mexico. Castillo did the thing, it is said,
to revenge himself on Villa. This latter is getting a taste of the
responsibilities success entails. He has Chihuahua, and Juarez, and a
long line of railway to protect, and I am sure he doesn’t find guerilla
warfare a recommendable pastime, when it is directed against himself
and his ambitions.


_February 10th._

This morning we went over the magnificent Buen Tono
cigarette-factories. Pugibet, who sold cigarettes in the street forty
years ago, is the founder and millionaire owner. The factory is a model
in all ways, and a testimony to his brains, energy, and initiative.
He showed us over the vast place himself. In one of the rooms he had
refrained from installing machinery, as it meant taking work from
hundreds of women.

Oh, the deftness and skill of those beautiful Indian hands! Their
motions were so quick that one hardly saw anything but the finished
article. He loaded us with cigarettes and many souvenirs, and we drove
home after a visit to the big church he had built near by. On arriving
home, I found the words, “Papa,” “Mama,” “Elim,” and “Kuss,” written
in white chalk, in high letters, on the entrance-door. I hated to have
them removed.

N. has protested to the Foreign Office regarding the scurrilous
language the _Imparcial_ has used about the President, the _Imparcial_
being a government organ. “Wicked Puritan with sorry horse teeth,”
“Exotic and nauseous Carranzista pedagogue,” are samples of its style.


_Evening._

I have had a stone for a heart all day, thinking of the horrors that
are to be multiplied. Nelson went to see Gamboa this afternoon.
Incidentally the raising of the embargo was mentioned, and Gamboa
said he thought Huerta might declare war. Like all the rest, he is
doubtless ready to desert the old man. _Après moi le déluge_ and “the
devil take the hindmost” are the sentiments governing people here. Mr.
Jennings just rang up to ask if we had heard that the letter-bag of the
Zapatistas had been seized. In it was a letter to President Wilson from
Zapata, saying he upheld and was in perfect accord with his (Wilson’s)
policy toward Huerta. A smile on the face of every one!

I went to the Garcia Pimentels’ at four o’clock, where we sewed till
seven for the Red Cross. The women there were all wives or daughters
of wealthy _hacendados_. They asked me if there was any news, and as
usual, I answered, “Nothing new,” but I felt my eyes grow dim. This
measure will strike them hard. The _hacendados_ in this part of the
country have made great sacrifices to co-operate with the Federal
government (it is the only visible thing in the shape of government) in
the hope of preserving their properties and helping toward peace.

There were crowds before the Church of the Profesa in “Plateros” as I
drove home. The church had been gutted by fire the night before, its
second misfortune since we arrived. Its great dome was rent during the
terrific earthquake of the 7th of June, 1911--that unforgetable day on
which I saw Madero make his triumphant entry into Mexico. At half past
four in the morning the town was rocked like a ship in a gale, with a
strange sound of great wind.

The Profesa, which has only just been repaired, was built late in
the sixteenth century, and was a center of Jesuit activity. In the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries all the great marriages, baptisms,
and functions took place in it. One can see in one’s mind the array of
proud viceroys and their jewel-decked spouses and all the glittering
functionaries, and last, but not least, the inevitable accompaniment
of the Indian population, wandering in and out. Yesterday, at San
Felipe, Mass was celebrated by a priest with a pronounced Spanish
eighteenth-century ascetic face of the Merry del Val type. As he turned
to give the blessing, I thought of the many elect and beautiful priests
of Spain who had in bygone days turned with that same gesture and
expression to give the same blessing to like throngs of uplifted Indian
faces. The Indians crowd the churches and I am thankful that Heaven can
be foreshown to them, somewhere, somehow. They are but beasts of burden
here below.




XV


  Departure of the British minister--Guns and marines from Vera
  Cruz--Review at the Condesa--_Mister Lind_--The Benton case--Huerta
  predicts intervention--Villa at Chihuahua.


_February 12th._

Sir Lionel Carden is leaving next week. He feels (I think not without
reason) very bitter about his experience down here. He is going to
London _via_ Washington. I suppose he means to tell the President a lot
of things, but when he gets there he won’t do it. Something in the air
will make him feel that nothing is of any use....

The protest Nelson made to the Foreign Office over the abusive language
of the _Imparcial_ was in big head-lines in the newspapers yesterday.
The Spanish language lends itself exceedingly well to abuse. Miron,
the man who wrote the articles, now goes about declaring that he will
shoot Nelson at the first opportunity. I don’t think anything will come
of this, however, though it keeps one a little uneasy in this land of
surprises.


_February 13th._

This morning we received a telegram that Nelson’s father is seriously
ill (pneumonia) and all day I have been broken with agonies of
indecision. Ought I to go to New York, possibly in time to close those
beautiful old eyes? Or ought I to stay here?

N. intends to have six marines come up from Vera Cruz. We could lodge
them here. This house was built for two very large apartments and
was joined by doors and stairways when taken for an Embassy. The very
large dining-room on the bedroom floor could easily hold six cots
and the necessary washing apparatus. It is now used as a trunk-room,
pressing-room, and general store-room. Personally I don’t feel that
anything will happen in Mexico City, beyond having a premonition that
we may be giving asylum to Huerta some of these days. The scroll
bearing his hour still lies folded upon the lap of the gods.


_February 17th._

I decided this morning not to go to New York, though Berthe had my
things in readiness for to-morrow night. I was afraid that when I
wanted to return I might not be able to get up to the city from Vera
Cruz.

I went to see von Hintze this morning about the circus performance on
Friday night for the Red Cross. He had already sent out invitations for
a big dinner for that night, but he will postpone this until Saturday.
He thinks there will be trouble here, and _soon_, and that I would
never have time to go and return. So are destinies decided. Suddenly
it was clear to me that I was to stay with my boy and Nelson and await
results. Von Hintze considers the situation desperate and has sent out
a circular telling his nationals to leave the country. In that story,
“Two Fools,” you will see some of the disadvantages of leaving, faced
by people whose all is here. Von Hintze is having Maxim quick-firing
guns up from Vera Cruz. Three good mitrailleuses and the men to work
them would be ample protection for any of the legations in case of
riots.

Diaz Miron, who is threatening Nelson’s life, has already killed three
men. Another man he shot limps about town, and he himself has a bad
arm. He is a poet, a neurotic, but wrote in his young days some of the
most beautiful Spanish verse that exists. Now he is old, violent, and
eccentric. I hardly think anything will come of his threats. Huerta has
other Diaz Mirons; he has but one American _chargé d’affaires_; and if
necessary Diaz Miron can be put in the _Penitenciaría_ or Belem. I only
fear some fool may catch the idea and do what Miron wouldn’t do.

A very nice cable came from Mr. Bryan this afternoon, saying that the
President was deeply concerned at the threats against Nelson, and that
we should arrange for secret-service men to follow him when he goes out
of the Embassy; and also, if necessary, have a military guard at the
house. There has been a secret-service man walking up and down outside
for several days, and a dull time he must be having.

The morning was soft, yet brilliant, when I walked down to von
Hintze’s. It seems strange that blood and tragedy should be woven in
such a beautiful woof. Von Hintze is not an alarmist, but by telling me
to go to New York, on the theory that everybody that can should leave,
he certainly decided me to stay. I _can’t_ be away if anything happens
here. So now I am calm again. Having been ready to go, not dodging the
hard duty, makes me able to remain in peace.


_February 18th._

We have a new Minister for Foreign Affairs, a gentleman, to replace
Moheno, the joyful bounder who has been in during the past few months.
Portillo y Rojas, the new minister, is also supposed to be that white
blackbird, an honest man. He has held various public offices without
becoming rich, even when he was governor of the State of Jalisco. He,
like all the rest, however, will do as Huerta dictates.

Maximo Castillo, the bandit responsible for the awful Cumbre tunnel
disaster, was captured by American troops yesterday. Twenty-one
Americans perished in the disaster. I wonder what Washington will do
with him? To which of the two unrecognized governments can he be turned
over? He was making a big détour around a mountain range, with a few
followers, when he was caught, trying to avoid Villa. This is another
piece of good luck for “the tiger.”

Huerta continues to believe in himself. N. says that unless von Hintze
had information of a precise nature that Blanquet (Huerta’s intimate
friend and his Minister of War) is going to betray him, the end is by
no means in sight. But treachery is as much a part of this landscape as
the volcanoes are.

Had a wearing sort of day, full of corners and edges; also the first
real dust-storm of the season, which helps to make nerves raw. The
government sends down three Gatling-guns, which Nelson is to get into
the country “anyway he thinks best.” It will not be a simple matter.
Everything is in a combustible condition here, needing but a match to
ignite the whole.


_Evening._

Just returned from Chapultepec from Señora Huerta’s reception. It
was her first in two months, as she had been in mourning for her
brother. The “court” wore black. I found myself next to Huerta for
tea, having been taken out by the Minister of Communicaciones--the
Minister of “Highways and Buyways,” he might be called. I had a little
heart-to-heart talk with the President--unfortunately in my broken
Spanish. He gave me some flowers and all the good things on the table,
and in return I gave him a red carnation for his buttonhole. He called
for _enchiladas_ and _tamales_--pink jelly and fussy sandwiches don’t
appeal to him--but the majordomo, with a grin, said, “_No hay_.”

A few of the _gens du monde_ were there. It seems cruel for them to
boycott their own government as they continually and consistently do.
Huerta has promised to put a larger house at our disposition for the
Red Cross, and I begged him to come, if only for a moment, to the
benefit circus performance on Friday. He has some military engagement
for that night. I think we will be able later to get up a really
productive bull-fight for the Red Cross, if he will sanction it. There
is always money for bull-fights in this country. If the bull-fighters
didn’t come so high, and if the bulls were not so dear, a bull-fight
would be a wonderful way of putting any organization on its feet!

Huerta sat with Nelson the whole time after tea, in the bedroom next to
the big _salon_, and Nelson broached to him the subject of the guns. He
said he could bring in any blankety thing he pleased, or the Spanish
equivalent, but he warned him to do it quietly. We were almost the last
to leave and Huerta took me on his arm down the broad, red-carpeted
stairs, telling me that Mexicans were the friends of everybody, and
offering me a pony for Elim. When we got to the glass vestibule, in
front of which the autos were waiting, he made us take _his_ auto.
“_Your_ automobile,” he insisted, when I said, “Oh, but this is yours!”
What could I do but get in, to the salute of officers, our empty car
following us. All his courtesies make it a bit hard for us. I felt like
a vampire in a churchyard or some such awful thing, when I was sitting
there in the big _salon_, knowing that Huerta is up against the world
and can’t but slip at the end, no matter how he digs in his feet. He
needs fidelity. It is nowhere to be had, and never was to be had in
Mexico, if history is to be believed. When Santa Ana left Mexico City
with twelve thousand troops in 1847 to meet and engage Scott at Puebla,
he finally arrived with a fourth of that number--the others vanishing
along the road a few at a time.

There was a good deal of uniform up there this afternoon. I looked at
those gold-braided chests with mingled feelings--pity at the thought of
the uncertainty of life, and a sickening feeling of the undependability
of the sentiments that fill them when the constitution is in question.

We hear that Diaz Miron leaves for Switzerland to-night; which, if
true, ends _that_ little flurry. The long arm of the Dictator moves
the puppets as he wills, and I imagine he intends to take no risks
concerning the brightest jewel in his crown--_i. e._, N., the last
link with the United States. I keep thinking what a “grand thing”
a dictatorship is if it is on your side. Most of the dozen Huerta
children were at the reception--from the youngest, a bright little girl
of seven, to the fatuous eldest officer son of thirty or thereabouts.
A big diamond in a gold ring, next to a still bigger one in platinum,
were the most conspicuous things about him.

A new comic journal called _Mister Lind_ made its first appearance
to-day. It is insulting and unclean, with a caricature of Lind on the
second page. I can’t decide whether the name is bright or stupid.

The Mexicans are master-hands at caricature and play upon words, and
there are generally some really trenchant political witticisms in their
comic papers. There are wishes for Wilson’s early demise scattered
through the pages in various forms. But I imagine they are boomerang
wishes, and the journal itself will have a short and unprofitable
life. The big middle page has a picture, calling itself _El Reparto
de Tierras_ (“The Division of Lands”). It represents a graveyard;
underneath are the words, “_tenemos 200,000 tierras tenientes_”
(“we have 200,000 landholders”)--a sad play upon the division of
lands. Above it vultures are portrayed, wearing Uncle Sam’s hat.
Another caricature shows the Mexicans carrying a coffin labeled
_Asuntos Nacionales_ (National Affairs), with President Wilson as a
candle-bearer. The press gets more anti-American every day.

[Illustration: A BURIAL

MEXICO: “WHO GAVE _YOU_ A CANDLE TO CARRY IN THIS FUNERAL?”]

On one of N’s visits to the President, at his famous little shack-like
retreat set in among a collection of market-gardens, at Popotla, he
began to talk about the division of lands, saying the Indian had
inalienable rights to the soil, but that the lands should be returned
to him under circumstances of justice and order. On no account should
they be used as a reward for momentarily successful revolutionaries. He
added that the United States had never respected the rights of their
Indians, but had settled the whole question by force.


_February 19th._

We went this morning to the big military _revue_ at the Condesa, one
of the most beautiful race-tracks in the world. I thought of Potsdam’s
strong men under dull skies. Now I am in this radiant paradise,
watching more highly colored troops, who make a really fine show,
and who perhaps are soon to fight with “the Colossus of the North.”
Certainly in another year many of them will have been laid low by
brothers’ hands. The President was very pleased with the 29th, the
crack regiment that helped him to power a year ago. He addressed a
few words to them, and his hands trembled as he decorated their flag,
pinning the cross at the top of the flag-staff, and attaching a long
red streamer instead of the rosette that generally goes with this
decoration. They made a fine showing, and the _rurales_, under command
of Rincon Gaillardo, on a beautiful horse, and in all the splendor of
a yellow and silver-trimmed _charro_ costume, were a picturesque and
unforgetable sight. The _rurales_ wear great peaked hats, yellow-gray
costumes made with the tight _vaquero_ trousers, short embroidered
coats, and long, floating red-silk neckties--such a spot at which
to aim! I suppose there were six or seven thousand troops in all.
Everything was very spick and span--men, horses, and equipment. It was
a testimony to Huerta’s military qualities that in the face of his
manifold enemies he could put up such an exhibition. I sat by Corona,
governor of the Federal District, and watched the glittering _défilé_
and listened to the stirring martial music. The Mexicans have probably
the best brass in the world--_le beau côté de la guerre_. But what
horrors all that glitter covers! Twice, when Huerta’s emotion was too
much for him, he disappeared for a _copita_, which was to be had in a
convenient back inclosure.


_Evening._

I started out with Kanya and Madame Simon to motor to Xochimilco,
and before getting out of town we ran down a poor _pelado_. It was a
horrible sensation as the big motor struck him. I jumped out and ran
to him and found him lying on his poor face, a great stream of blood
gushing from a wound in his head.

They wouldn’t let me touch him till a sergeant came. Then we turned
him on his back, and I bound up his head as well as I could, with a
handkerchief some one gave me, and with one of my long, purple veils.
I took the motor--Kanya and Madame Simon are not used to blood--and
went quickly to the _comisaría_ and got a doctor. The chauffeur, whose
fault it really was, was trembling like an aspen. When we got back, it
seemed to me the whole _peon_ world had turned out. Finally we got the
victim laid on the _camilla_; and now, I suppose, his poor soul is with
its Maker. As the motor is Kanya’s, there will be no calling him up in
court, and he will be very generous to the family. I am thankful, for
various reasons, that it wasn’t the Embassy motor. I am awfully upset
about it; to think of starting out on this beautiful afternoon and
being the instrument to send that poor soul into eternity.

Later I went to see Madame Lefaivre. She is in bed with a “synovite,”
and is trying to superintend her packing at the same time. I met von
Hintze as I came out of the Legation. He informed me, with a wicked
smile, that the review was to celebrate, or rather, commemorate, the
mutiny of the celebrated Twenty-ninth against Madero last February.
Well, I hope we won’t get into trouble with the powers that be.
He addressed me, saying, “I hear you presided over the military
commemoration of to-day.”

I said, “Good heavens! _What_ commemoration?” I knew nothing of it, and
was only interested to see what sort of a showing the troops would make!

I write no more. I feel very _triste_ with the sight of that poor,
bleeding head before my eyes and the memory of the impact of that body
against the motor.


_February 20th._

The poor man is still alive, but is going to die. The curious thing
about the fatality (which is the only word for it) is that the man had
just come from Querétaro, where he had sold a house for 4,200 pesos,
which he had on him, and which were subsequently stolen from him at the
_policía_. I noticed that when he was put on the stretcher his hand for
a moment convulsively pressed his belt. I suppose moving him brought a
momentary consciousness, and he thought weakly of his all. Doubtless he
was the only _pelado_ in town that had that or _any_ amount on him. The
chauffeur is in jail, and, after all, Kanya will have a lot of trouble
before the matter has been arranged.

The comic journals of this week have just appeared. All take a shot at
Mr. Wilson for his recognition of Peru. _Multicolor_ has him, with a
smile, handing the _Reconocimiento_ to Peru--a handsome young woman,
representing _la Revolución_--while with the other hand he tears the
map of Mexico from the wall.

The other day Nelson had a most interesting talk with Huerta. He said
he realized that the existence of any government in Mexico without the
good-will of the United States was difficult, if not impossible; and
that he was deeply distressed that they did not take into account
the manifold difficulties under which he was laboring. It was at this
interview that N. arranged the question of getting in arms. Huerta
pointed out that all the requests N. had made him on behalf of the
United States had been granted, and that the entire Federal army had
been ordered to give special consideration to Americans. He said that
he did not desire to criticize the government of the United States, but
did wish to point out that if it defeats him in pacifying the country
it will be forced into the difficult and thankless task of armed
intervention. He continued that, on looking at the Mexican situation,
one must not lose sight of the fact that Mexico is an Indian country
(mentioning the difficulties _we_ had had with our Indians); that the
Indian population here had been oppressed by the Spaniards and the
landowning classes for centuries; that during the régime of Porfirio
Diaz they had conceived the desire for material betterment, but were
given no chance (the chances being for the few); that under the régime
of Madero the revolutionary habit became general, as the sequel of
unfulfillable promises. Also that the present task in Mexico was not
to establish a democracy, but to establish order. He did not criticize
the rebels of the north, but said they would never, in the event of
victory, be able to establish a government in Mexico, and that one
of their first acts would be to turn against the United States. From
Maximilian to Huerta they have all known our friendship is essential.

The Benton case is going to make an untold amount of trouble, and the
Mexican problem again comes into sight from the international point.
A life is worth a life, perhaps, before God; but down here the murder
of a wealthy British subject is of more account than that of some poor
American or a thousand Mexicans. The best and most-to-be-believed
version of Villa’s shooting of him is that, on Benton’s expostulating
with him about the confiscation of his property in Chihuahua, he was
shot, then and there. That is the reason they have been unwilling to
let his wife have the body, which shows bullet-wounds in the _wrong
places_. Villa claims he was shot after a court-martial had declared
him guilty of an attempt on his, Villa’s life. You can imagine a
wealthy Britisher attempting Villa’s life! All any foreigner up there
wants is to be let alone. Whatever the true history may be, there is
intense indignation on the frontier. Sir Cecil Spring-Rice has made
formal protestations to the State Department. The English press is
aroused, and it was told us by one correspondent that Sir Edward Grey
will be called on to answer questions in Parliament. The fat is, at
last, in the fire.

Dr. Ryan returned yesterday, more or less discouraged with his
Washington trip. Everything for the rebels. Mr. Lind is so fascinated
by them that I understand he is counseling direct financial aid--a
loan. He hasn’t perceived the shape and color of events here, but has
become obsessed by the idea of getting rid of Huerta. That and his
hallucination about Villa cover the whole situation for him. What is to
be done afterward if Huerta is squeezed out? That is what we all want
to know--the afterward. One long vista of bloodshed and heartbreak and
devastation presents itself.


_February 22d._

Elim has gone to his first and, I hope, his _last_ bull-fight, with Dr.
Ryan. He has clamored so to go that I finally yielded. I feel rather
uncertain about it. There was a very _chic_ dinner at von Hintze’s last
night, for Sir Lionel, who leaves on Wednesday. I feel awfully sorry
for him, but this Benton matter may be a justification, to a certain
extent. He says he is only to be gone six weeks--but _quién sabe?_
Hohler has arrived--a good friend of ours. His are safe hands in which
to leave matters.

Nelson is busy getting one of the American correspondents out of that
terrible Belem. He has been put in there with all those vermin-covered
people, with their typhoid and other germs, and must have had some bad
hours.


_February 24th._

Just a line this morning. Am getting ready for my American bridge
party, with prizes, this afternoon. I have some lovely large Ravell
photographs in good old frames.

Last night Patchin, the very agreeable young _Tribune_ correspondent,
came for dinner; we had the usual political conversation afterward.
Clarence Hay read a poem of his (which I will later inclose) on the
murder of young Gen. Gabriel Hernandez, last July, by Enrique Zepeda,
then governor of the Federal district. Zepeda is called a “nephew” of
Huerta, but is supposed to be his son. Zepeda gave a supper to which
N. was invited; at the last moment, press of work made him unable to
assist. The gods were with him that time, for, after the supper, at
midnight, Zepeda, very much _allumé_, went to the _Penitenciaría_
where General Hernandez was imprisoned, took him out into the _patio_,
and shot him dead. His men then burned the body, over which they were
thoughtful enough to first pour kerosene. Zepeda was put in jail for
eight months, and is just out. When he isn’t intoxicated he is almost
“American” in his ideas, it appears.


_Wednesday, February 25th._

Last night we went to the station to see Sir Lionel off. I thought
the cheers that went up as the train moved out of the station were
for him, but it seems they were for some departing bull-fighters,
who are always first in the hearts of their countrymen. It appears
that Sir Lionel is carrying with him documents, plans, maps, etc.,
with a collection of fully authenticated horrors committed by the
rebels in their campaign. He may not get an opportunity of laying them
before President Wilson, but he will enjoy showing them to Sir Cecil
Spring-Rice.

Yesterday, from the governor’s palace in Chihuahua, Villa gave forth a
statement about the killing of Benton. He was seated on a throne-like
chair on a raised dais, in almost regal style, his followers
surrounding him and doing him homage. The gubernatorial palace is
fitted up with the greatest luxury, the houses of the wealthiest
residents of the town having been sacked for the purpose. Consider the
picture of that untutored, bloody-handed brigand, surrounded by his
spoils and his “courtiers.” He has never heard how “uneasy lies the
head that wears a crown,” but he will doubtless have some practical
experience of it. He has contradicted himself repeatedly in his
statements about the killing of Benton. The body, bearing its mute
testimony of being riddled with bullets by a firing-squad, lies under a
heap of refuse.




XVI


  Huerta’s impressive review for the special correspondents--The _Grito
  de Dolores_--Tons of “stationery” for the Embassy--Villa and Carranza
  disagree--The Embassy guard finds itself occupied.


_February 26th. Noon._

We are just home, after seeing the review (from Chapultepec through
town to the _Zocalo_) of all the troops now in the city. They were
turned out for the benefit of the special correspondents, invited to
the gay scene by Huerta, and the government is paying all the expenses.
The regular correspondents in town feel rather peeved about the matter.
We sat in the motor in the _Zocalo_, under the cloudless sky and
soft, penetrating sun, and watched the _défilé_. The banner of the
Twenty-ninth bore the long, red streamer that Huerta had tied on the
other day, with trembling fingers. The troops were all well armed. They
had new rifles and new, well-filled cartridge-belts, and the effect was
most encouraging--for _Huerta_. The special correspondents, from the
windows of the Palace, had their cameras and cine machines in action.
Really, Huerta has done wonders to keep the troops together so well
and so long, in the face of such overwhelming odds. The bugle-calls
and the martial music echoed over the Plaza--the setting for so many
centuries of the hopes and fears, the beginnings and the endings, of
these Mexican people.

I thought of the 1911 anniversary of the _Grito de Dolores_--that
night of the 16th of September when I stood on the middle balcony of
the _Palacio_, with de la Barra and Madero, when the former was still
President _ad interim_, and the latter was hoping all things. There
we looked down on fifty or sixty thousand upturned faces, while the
celebrated _Campana de la Independencia_ (Independence bell) rang above
our heads, followed by the great bells from the illuminated towers of
the cathedral. The present is nearer the past in Mexico than anywhere
else.[10] As we came home we were snapshotted a dozen times by the
disconsolate correspondents who had not been invited to the Palace
to “assist” at the parade. Coming up “Plateros,” Nelson saw Huerta’s
automobile outside of “El Globo” restaurant, and left me, to go in to
speak to him.

This morning the big banana-tree in the front garden was released from
its winter wrappings, if one can call these cloudless days winter.
The most wonderful banners of purest, palest yellow are gently waving
against the perfect sky. I am now waiting for Hohler to come to lunch.
Sir Lionel went off (during a tremendous _norte_), in the battle-ship
_Essex_, which is taking him to Galveston. His country is treating him
almost to the honors we give fleeing Maderistas.

Villa has not yet given up the body of Benton. If there is much
more delay it will not be able to bear testimony to the truth.
Unfortunately, a Federal officer, it is rumored, has hanged an
American citizen, Vergara, at Piedras Negras. His pardon, sent from
headquarters, came too late. Huerta will probably make an example of
the hasty officer, if the deed has really been committed. We heard this
morning that Carranza is going to make short work of O’Shaughnessy
when _he_ gets here. When!

I had a very interesting conversation with Hohler, who is thoroughly
sincere and trustworthy, and able to look at things as they are. We sat
long over our coffee, talking of the international web, of which Mexico
is now so uncertain and frail a mesh. He intends to do what he can for
_his_ nationals. He is without fear, in a practical, unnervous way.

The reverse of the medal is that he is a tireless collector and
connoisseur of beautiful things, and what he doesn’t get, the Belgian
minister does. Between them, there is very little left for anybody else.


_February 27th._

Villa is still refusing to deliver up the body of Benton, even at
the risk of offending the United States. Huerta expects Villa to
hang himself with his own rope. He says he is a _tonto_, violent,
undisciplined, and _can’t_ do what he ought. The rumors that he is
refusing to receive orders from Carranza are taking more explicit
shape. He says that Carranza has never once put himself in danger; that
he (Villa) has done all; that he receives commands from no one. He has
repeatedly and vainly been asked to go to confer with Carranza, and we
now hear that the mountain of all constitutional virtues is going to
Mohammed. The deadly wine of success is mounting to Villa’s head. He
now has wealth to the extent of some millions of pesos. The Torreon
and Chihuahua confiscations were enormous, not counting what he and
his followers have taken in all the small towns looted. He has not the
sense to perceive in what difficulties his killing of Benton has placed
the people who are anxious to be his friends. He evidently thinks that
a man who cannot write or read must “make his mark” in other ways.

Our Gatling-guns, with ammunition, are arriving to-day in Vera Cruz,
by the Ward Line steamer. They are to be got up here under the head of
Embassy supplies--stationery, and the like. Huerta knows they are, but
wants the thing done in a manner that he can wink at. The “stationery”
will weigh tons.


_February 28th._

Elim had his curls shockingly cut this morning, but his bang has
been left. He is as proud as a puppy with two tails. The “crime” was
committed by a soft-speaking Haitian barber, who won’t get another
chance at my only child. Elim knows nothing of death and dissolution;
has been calling “_Mima_,” all over the house, and has just dashed into
the drawing-room, where I am writing, to ask for a trumpet. He is so
clever about music that I am almost tempted to sacrifice every one in
the house and get him one. He will soon be playing the national air.

Yesterday I had tea with Madame B. She was looking very handsome, lying
among her costly blue-ribboned laces. The baby, born ten days ago,
looks like a miniature “conqueror,” with its severe Spanish features
and glossy black hair. Madame B.’s father, who is one of the wealthiest
_hacendados_, spoke with Huerta for the first time several weeks ago at
the Jockey Club. The President asked him, “How are matters in Morelos?”
(The Zapatista country where they have immense sugar haciendas.) Don.
L. answered, “You are killing us with your demands for contributions.”
Huerta grew rather excited. “You do nothing for the country,” he
declared, “neither you nor your sons.” Don L. answered, “I have lost
one and a half millions in the past year.” “Lucky man to have it to
lose,” commented Huerta, grimly. “Great sugar crops are now ready for
harvesting, but I can get no men,” Don L. went on; “they are all in
the army. Give me men and I will give you contributions.”

Huerta immediately sent the men needed, the sugar is being harvested,
and Don L. feels convinced that Huerta is doing what he can; but his
daughter, who told me all this, added, with a smile and flash of white
teeth, “Pardon me; but what _can_ we do with your Mr. Wilson on our
backs?”


_Evening._

We have had such a day of agitation. Telegrams from New York tell
us that Nelson’s father has received the last sacraments. We have
telegraphed to Vera Cruz to know if one of the smaller fast ships is in
the harbor. I might go in it to New Orleans and thence by rail to New
York--in all seventy-eight or eighty hours from Vera Cruz. Berthe has
been packing my things. I know lives must end, but my heart is very sad.

I kept my engagement to take the Russian and Austrian ministers out to
Tozzer’s Aztec diggings. Their governments have subscribed money for
archæological work in Mexico (I have never _quite_ understood why), and
Tozzer was most anxious to have them see what he had done. We had tea,
and _regalitos_ of heads of idols, dug up on the spot--spontaneously
offered, this time. There was a dust-storm blowing--the volcanoes were
invisible--and things were generally gritty. All the time my thoughts
were turning toward the life-and-death issue, and I was so anxious to
get home.

The Lefaivres leave definitely on the 12th. The Legation is dismantled,
and Madame Lefaivre is still lying with her knee in plaster. Their
secretary and his wife naturally see them leave with mixed feelings.
We all know how _that_ is, for what greater benefit can a chief bestow
than absence? Madame Lefaivre said to the secretary: “What if the ship
doesn’t sail on the 12th?” He made the most polite of disclaimers, but
she answered, smilingly, “Oh, I know the hearts of secretaries!”


_March 1st._

I have just come from Mass, wondering how it is with the soul and body
of Nelson’s father....

This morning Washington must be thinking “how sharper than a serpent’s
tooth”! Carranza and Villa are defying the supreme powers. They even
deny our rights to ask information regarding Benton, who, they say,
is a British subject--adding that they will listen to only such
representations as are made to them by Great Britain herself “through
the proper diplomatic channels.” No one knew any such channels existed.
They add, further, that this ruling applies to other nations desiring
redress for their people. The Frankenstein monster is certainly
growing. Carranza also says that he has already investigated the Benton
affair, but only for use in case Great Britain desires to take up
the matter with him as head of the revolution. The matter of Gustav
Bauch, American citizen, he will be kind enough to discuss with Mr.
Bryan, stating that he “greatly laments his death.” This turn is most
unexpected, though Villa and Carranza were very uppish several months
ago when William Bayard Hale was sent to treat with them. Now that the
embargo is lifted, their arrogance knows no bounds.

Vergara, the _supposed_ American citizen, _supposed_ to have been put
to death at Piedras Negras by a Federal officer, and whose death so
greatly outraged Washington, has simply escaped and rejoined the rebel
forces. It appears, on investigation, that he was the chief of a gang
of eighteen bandits, and his occupation was the getting in of arms and
ammunition across the border for the rebels, or the driving of large
herds of stolen cattle over to the American side. The Federals would
have had a perfect right to shoot him.

Yours of January 31st, understanding all so deeply, says nothing of my
typewritten letter about the Vera Cruz trip. It must be a relief to you
to get a legible letter. McKenna, N.’s new young secretary, discreet
and competent, copied it for me.

Your report of having seen a statement in the newspapers about “rushing
the troops up to Mexico” reminds me of a correspondent of one of the
big New York newspapers. He appeared here the other day, saying he had
been sent hurriedly to Vera Cruz on inside information from Washington
to be ready to go up to Mexico City with the troops.

Last night Huerta, in view of the safety of his crown jewel--_i. e._,
Nelson--said he was going to send a guard to the Embassy. There was an
_equivocación_ (there always _is_ some mistake in Mexico) and an armed
guard of eight was sent to the American Club, a place Nelson rarely
goes to. About half past nine we had excited telephone calls that the
Club was guarded by these soldiers, as riots were evidently feared by
the authorities. The newspaper men sent telegrams about it to New York,
but it was simply a case of going to the wrong place. This morning four
soldiers with rifles appeared as permanent “guests,” but we don’t need
them. We have nice old Francisco and the new young _gendarme_, Manuel,
who was added some months ago. Each legation here has one guard. I am
glad to have Francisco and Manuel, on Elim’s account. They always seem
to know just what he is doing in the garden.

We were so thankful to see, in one of the newspapers, the head-line,
“Huerta snubs O’Shaughnessy.” Of course it isn’t true, but it will make
an excellent impression at home; and it may even give N.’s first-hand,
accurate information about matters some weight. The same newspaper
also shows a picture of Huerta at some charity performance with his
wife and daughters and Naranjo, Minister of Public Instruction.
He looks (and doubtless felt) the personification of boredom. The
head-lines are, “Huerta enjoying social life while riots rage in
capital.”


_March 2d._

Your letter of the 5th, sent after the raising of the embargo, is
received. I can well understand your worrying about our remaining in
Mexico. We worried for a few minutes, but by now you will have received
my letter telling all about it. It will take something gigantic,
something outside of Huerta, to cause him to give Nelson his passports,
no matter how often fiery, enraged Cabinet Ministers may urge it.

Last night, on returning home, we found that Huerta had sent us six
more soldiers with a sergeant. It made me feel as if the house were
the setting for an act from some _opéra bouffe_. We gave the soldiers
packages of cigarettes and a drink apiece, and I suppose they rested on
the sofas or floors of the parterre. N. never leaves the house without
his secret-service man, a decent fellow, but dressed to the rôle in a
loud, tight, bright-blue suit with white stripes, and pistols--the last
articles outlined against his person every time he makes a motion. We
have a beautiful new motor--low, smooth-running, painted black, with a
smart dark-gray band about it. He occupies the seat beside Jesus, gets
out when N. gets out, and waits around ostentatiously while N. attends
to whatever he has on hand. He is an awful bore, and quite unnecessary,
but Huerta answered, when N. protested, “_Es mejor_” (“It is better
so”).


FOOTNOTE:

[10] This is the famous bell the priest Hidalgo rang from his church
in the village of Dolores, in the State of Guanajauto, in the early
morning of September 16th, 1810, sounding the appeal known as the
“Grito de Dolores” (cry from Dolores)--the first cry of Mexican
independence, to be continued through more than a century of blood and
disaster.




XVII


  The torture of Terrazas--Mexico’s banking eccentricities--Departure
  of the Lefaivres--Zapatista methods--Gustavo Madero’s death--First
  experience of Latin-American revolutions--Huerta’s witty speech.


_March 4th. Afternoon._

Last night we received the news that Nelson’s father was indeed
approaching his mortal end. This morning, at seven o’clock, after a
sleepless night of “vanishings and finalities,” I went down-stairs
in answer to a telephone call from Mr. Jennings, of the Hearst
newspapers--who is always very nice about everything--to say that he
had passed away peacefully at half past six. You know the days of
death--how strained, how busy, how exhausting. The first thing I did
was to go to Father Reis, at San Lorenzo, the San Sylvester of Mexico,
and arrange for a requiem Mass on Saturday next, the 7th, to which we
will invite the Cabinet, the _Corps Diplomatique_, and friends. Now
I am at home again, in the mourning garments I wore for my precious
brother.


_March 4th. Evening._

The house seems very quiet to-night. No more looking for telegrams. He
is lying on his death-bed, looking very handsome, I know. The fatigue
of the busy, aching day is on me. Many people have been here to-day to
tender their sympathies. Hohler, the last, came in for tea after seeing
Nelson, and has just gone.

Now the pouch is closed and everybody and everything has departed.
Elim is lying on the floor in front of my little electric stove. The
chords so strongly moved by the passing of my beloved brother are
vibrating again, not alone because of death and parting, but because of
life and the imperfections of its relationships. Nelson has accepted
his father’s death, has pulled himself together, and is going on with
his work, of which there is more than sufficient.

How true it is that men follow their destinies rather than their
interests; a something innate and unalterable drives each one along.
_Genio y figura hasta la sepultura_--a Spanish saying to the effect
that mind, temperament, inclination, are unchanged by the circumstances
of life, even to the grave.


_March 5th._

As I was reading last night, waiting for dinner to be served,
a visitant, rather than a visitor, appeared in my drawing-room
_incognito_--a simple “Mr. Johnson,” eager, intrepid, dynamic,
efficient, unshaven!...

Young Terrazas, the son of the former great man of Chihuahua, of whom
I wrote you when first he was captured by Villa at the taking of
Chihuahua, several months ago, has not yet been released, and Villa
threatens to execute him to-morrow if the half-million of ransom money
is not forthcoming. The father has raised, half the sum, with the
greatest difficulty, but, fearing some trick (and he has every reason
for distrust), he won’t give the money till he receives his son. It
appears the son has been horribly treated, several times hung up until
he was nearly dead, then taken down and beaten. Young Hyde, of the
_Mexican Herald_, said yesterday, apropos of like matters, that he had
seen a man brought last night to Mexico City who had been tortured by
the rebels; the soles of his feet were sliced off, his ears and tongue
were gone, and there were other and nameless mutilations, but the
victim was still living. The only difference between the rebels and the
Federals is that the former have _carte blanche_ to torture, loot, and
kill, and the Federals _must_ behave, to a certain extent, whether they
want to or not. It is their existence that is at stake. Huerta, though
he may not be troubled with scruples or morals other than those that
expediency dictates, has his prestige before the world to uphold, and
is sagacious enough to realize its value. The rebels go to pieces as
soon as there is any question of government or order. Villa is without
doubt a wonderful bandit, if bandits are what the United States are
after. I see by the newspapers that Mr. Bryan is begging the Foreign
Relations Committee to keep the Mexican situation off the floor of
Congress....

One by one, the Mexicans to whom we have given asylum and safe-conducts
to Vera Cruz, upon receiving their word of honor not to intrigue
against the government, break that word and go over to the rebels. We
have just seen the name of Dr. Silva (formerly governor of Michoacan,
whom we had convoyed to Vera Cruz) as one of the somewhat tardy
commission appointed by Carranza to investigate the murder of Benton.

We are aghast at the resignation of Mr. John Bassett Moore as counselor
to the State Department. He is learned, perfectly understanding, and
very experienced in a practical way about Latin-American affairs.

Yesterday the Minister for Foreign Affairs came to present his
condolences to Nelson, and also to protest against the bringing up
to the Embassy of our Gatling-guns and ammunition, which are still
in the customs at Vera Cruz. There are seventy cases--and _not_
featherweights. He fell over the threshold, as he entered, and was
picked up by Nelson and the butler. (It was his first visit. I don’t
know if he is superstitious.) Huerta, as you may remember, in the
famous bedchamber conversation at Chapultepec, had told Nelson he could
get in all the guns he wanted, but to do it quietly. It is now all over
the country and is making a row among Mexicans. In these days of grief
and agitation, N. has happened to have an unusual amount of official
work.

I have been busy all day with the list for to-morrow’s requiem Mass,
and it is almost finished. My little Shorn Locks has gone up-stairs,
and I am resting myself by writing these lines to you.


_March 7th._

We are waiting to start for the church. You will know all the thoughts
and memories that fill my heart--that descent from fog-enveloped
hills into the cold, gray town to lay away my precious brother. Now
I am about to start through this shimmering, wondrous morning to the
black-hung church. In the end it is all the same.


_March 9th._

I have not written since Saturday morning, before starting to the
requiem Mass. I have been so busy seeing people and attending to
hundreds of cards, telegrams, and notes. Huerta did not appear at the
church, as people thought he might do. Instead, Portillo y Rojas, the
Minister for Foreign Affairs, sat by us. All was beautiful and sad.
Afterward we went into the sacristy to receive the condolences of
our friends, as is the custom here. Though _he_ had never trod the
threshold of our Mexican dwelling, it still seemed inexpressibly empty
as we returned to it. I was glad of the heaped-up desk and the living
decisions awaiting N.

Huerta was very nice on seeing him to-day, called him “_hijo_” (“son”),
gave him an affectionate _abrazo_, and all his sympathy. Subsequently,
Nelson had a long talk with him in a little private room of the Café
Colon, that Huerta approached from the back entrance. Huerta is broad
in his ideas and very careful as to any remarks about the United
States, in Nelson’s presence. He always speaks of President Wilson as
_Su Excelencia, el Señor Presidente Wilson_; there are no diatribes of
any kind. The thing that has really got on his nerves is our keeping
his 4,000 soldiers at Fort Bliss and expecting him to pay for them.
He says Mexico is not at war with the United States; that the rebels
are allowed to go and come as they please, and even to organize on the
frontier. Why this discrimination? He says that our government thinks
he is a bandit, like Villa, but that if Washington would be just it
would see that he keeps his mouth shut, does his work as well as he can
in the face of the terrible injustice done him, and asks nothing of any
one except to be let alone; that he could have had the power in Mexico
long before he took it. He repeated that many a person of influence had
urged him to put an end to the disastrous Madero administration; that
he is not in politics for personal ends; that his wants are few, his
habits those of an old soldier. He always insists that he did not kill
Madero....

As for that, one can talk for hours and hours with all sorts of people
without finding any direct evidence of any direct participation by
Huerta in the death of Madero. I have come to think it an inexcusable
and fatal negligence on his part, incidental to the excitement and
preoccupation of those tragic days. He was astute enough to have
realized that Madero dead would be even more embarrassing to him than
living, and should have insisted on asylum for him where alone it was
to be had. There is, however, at times a strange suspension of mental
processes in Mexico; with everything possible and yet nothing appearing
probable, nobody ever foresees any situation.

I had a long call yesterday from Rincon Gaillardo, Marqués de
Guadalupe, the smart, youngish general. Besides his military work,
he is doing something that all the members of the upper class should
co-operate in--_i. e._, helping to amalgamate the classes. His father,
Duca de Regla and “Grand d’Espagne,” was the first man in society here
to receive Diaz when he came to power. In fact, in his house Diaz met
Doña Carmen. He told me that Diaz wasn’t then, by any means, the kind
of man he is now, after thirty years of power and knowledge.

Last night, at midnight, Nelson, who had gone to sleep early, was
called down-stairs by urgent telephone messages, to hear that the Texas
Rangers had dashed over the border to Sabinas Hidalgo to recover the
body of the pseudo-American cattle-rustler, Vergara. Whether the report
is true is not known, but of course it is an act that would be resented
by all classes here, and every class really hates us.

Villa, not being able to get the full amount of the ransom out of
Terrazas _père_, has decided not to execute the son, but to take him
with him when he besieges Torreon, and to place him wherever the
bullets are thickest. The mad dance of death goes on, and I feel as if
we were the fiddlers. Mr. Lind has so idealized the rebels in the north
that he has come to think them capable of all the civic virtues, and he
is obsessed by the old tradition of north beating south whenever there
is an issue. His deduction is not borne out by facts, as in Mexico it
is the south that has produced the greatest number of great men--“the
governmental minds”; the south has come nearer to loving peace; the
south has shown the greatest degree of prosperity and advancement. Vera
Cruz is the poorest possible vantage-ground for a study of conditions;
it is a clearing-house for malcontents of all kinds, mostly rebels,
fleeing from the consequences of _some_ act against _some_ authority.
My heart is heavy at the grim fatality that has permitted our policy to
be shaped _from there_.

A dust-storm this afternoon, with all the color gone out of the air,
and a few thick drops of cold rain. I left cards for an hour or two,
then came home. I am glad to be here in my comfortable home, though
I can’t help a shiver as I think of the horrors sanctioned, even
encouraged, by us on every side. B. said once that the policy of the
United States in lifting the embargo was to really give Mexicans a
taste of civil war! There were some chirpings from Carranza the other
day, to the effect that “I understand Villa, and Villa understands me.”
Doubtless this is true; but they say that after their rare meetings the
old gentleman has to go to bed for several days.

I have just been reading an article by Mr. Creelman on Lind. He has
caught the spirit of Vera Cruz and described exactly Mr. Lind and his
_ambiente_ there. He speaks of him as “Mr. Wilson’s cloistered agent.”
“In a small, dark room with a red-tiled floor, opening on a shabby
Mexican courtyard,” he adds, “in the rear of the American Consulate in
Vera Cruz, sits John Lind, the personal representative of the President
of the United States, as he has sat for seven months, smilingly
watching and waiting, while Mexico and her 15,000,000 men, women, and
children have moved to ruin.” It makes me “creepy,” it is so true!


_March 10th, 5_ P.M.

I am back from saying good-by to dear Madame Lefaivre; she starts off
to-night with swollen foot and leg, and I am very much fearing the long
voyage for her. With her usual good nature she had had her paint-box
unpacked and was sitting on a trunk, putting some restoring touches
to a Madonna of most uncertain value, just discovered by the German
consul-general. The Lefaivres have a _pied-à-terre_ in Paris, with
beautiful things inherited from Madame Lefaivre’s father. Lefaivre
has decided to go, if the heavens fall, and, as we laughingly told
him, if his wife falls, too, for that matter. I besought him to delay,
for political reasons, but the long sojourn is on his nerves, and he
has a bad throat. I am sorry to see them go, on my own account--such
good friends. I am writing this, expecting Hohler and a woman special
correspondent for tea. Burnside tells me she has been in many
storm-centers and is bright and discreet.


_March 11th._

N. is pretty hot about the arms which are in the customs here in Mexico
City. The officials keep him running from one to the other; they don’t
really want us to have them, though the French, German, English,
and Japanese legations have long since been well stocked. I came
down-stairs to hunt for literature, about four o’clock this morning,
and heard the “Pretorian guard” in the parterre, laughing and joking,
as guards in all ages have done. There are unlimited cigarettes and
limited _pulque_ to make their watch easy.


_Later._

We hear that Mr. Lind is having parleyings with the Zapatistas! If
he is going to dream this dream and pass it on to his friends in
Washington, they will all have the most awful nightmare ever visited
on dreamers. Zapata has been the terror of every President--Diaz, de
la Barra, Madero, and Huerta--for nearly five years. His crimes and
depredations are committed under the banner of “Land for the People,”
and there has been a certain consistency about his proceedings, always
“agin the government”; but that he has, after these years of bloodshed,
rapine, and loot, rendered conditions more tolerable for any except
the rapers and looters, is most debatable. I once saw some _living_
remains brought to the Red Cross after one of his acts at Tres Marias,
about fifty kilometers from here. A train was attacked, looted, oil was
poured on the passengers, and the train was set on fire. The doctors
who went to the station to get the remains out of the train say the
sight was unforgetable. The name Zapata has now become a symbol of
brigandage, and many operate under it. No general sent into Morelos
has ever brought order. For instance, one was sent to Michoacan with
two thousand cavalry, to put down a small force of several hundred
brigands; though he had the grazing free, he charged the government 50
centavos per horse! It became a vicious, but profitable, circle, as you
can well see.

There has been a great break in exchange. The peso, which was two to
one when we first came to Mexico, and lately has been three to one, or
nearly that, broke Saturday, and went to four and a half to the gold
dollar. Various explanations. Huerta has been threatening to found a
bank of his own if the bankers did not do something for him. Some say
that the bankers brought on the break in exchange to scare him, and
others that Huerta proposed establishing a bank of his own to scare
them! Anyway, exchange broke. During his conversation with the bankers,
apropos of the loans they were loath to give him, Huerta is said to
have jocularly remarked that there were trees enough in Chapultepec
Park to hang them all on without crowding. Those old cypresses have
witnessed a good deal, but a consignment of indigenous and foreign
bankers hanging with the long, gray moss from their branches would have
savored of novelty.

A gusty day on this usually wind-still plateau. The pale yellow
streamers of the banana-tree are torn to tatters, but one must forgive
an occasional vagary in this climate, unsurpassed in its steady beauty,
and which has the further recommendation that one can count on wearing
one’s winter clothes in summer, and one’s summer clothes in winter....

Disorder here has been most prejudicial to French interests. Since
Maximilian’s time, especially, they have had the habit of investments
in Mexico. Now billions of francs are unproductive. It will be a fine
bill poor old Uncle Sam will get from _la belle_ France!


_7.30._

My callers are all gone, and Elim is playing bull-fight with a
red-velvet square from one of the tables, talking Spanish to himself
and making every gesture of his game true to life. I am thankful the
bull-fight season is over. No more doleful-faced servants of a Sunday,
heartbroken, like children, because they are not swelling the gay
throng passing the Embassy to the Ring, and making me feel like a
wretch because they aren’t _all_ there.

Nelson went down to try to look at his guns, presumably at the customs.
At least, he is as near as that, with ears full of promises.

A telegram from Aunt L. says she starts up from the Hot Country in a
day or two. I am having the lovely corner room next mine made ready for
her.


_March 14th._

We learn that the guns and ammunition supposed to be got in _quietly_,
as Embassy stores, bore on the invoice the name of the colonel in
charge at the Springfield arsenal. Hence these tears! They are now
reposing in a deserted church near the military station, outside the
city. There would have been no trouble had they been sent as Nelson
requested. Now endless runnings are necessary.

My house is overrun with children. They tell me it looks like an
orphanage, at the back. Such nice, little, bright-eyed Aztecs. In
this stricken land how can I deny shelter and food to little children
who are, so to speak, washed up at my door? The cook has three, the
washerwoman two, and the chambermaid is going to present us with
another. _La recherche de la paternité_ shows the responsible person to
have been our quiet, trusty messenger, Pablo. I will deduct ten pesos a
month from his wages for six months--a salutary _proclama_ to everybody
else of my sentiments. I will send her to the hospital, and she will
soon be back. The washerwoman has just borrowed ten dollars to change
her lodgings, as the _leva_ are after her husband. I sometimes feel
like one of the early friars. Nothing that is Indian is foreign to me.

Last night Dr. Ryan was telling us, after dinner (Patchin, who is
returning to New York, also was here), of the killing of Gustavo
Madero, of which he was an eye-witness and concerning whose death so
many versions are current. Shortly after one o’clock, on going back to
the Ciudadela, where Felix Diaz was quartered, to attend to wounded who
had been brought in, Ryan encountered Madero being brought out with
a guard of twelve men. Diaz didn’t want him there, saying he was not
his prisoner, but Huerta’s. Madero was gesticulating in a hysterical
manner and waving his arms in the air. As Ryan afterward learned, he
was offering the guards money if they would see him safely out of town.
His nerve seemed suddenly to leave him and he began to run, whereupon
one of the guards fired, hitting him in the eye as he turned his head
to look behind him. The other eye was glass. This gave rise afterward
to stories that his eyes had been gouged out. On his continuing to
run, the whole guard fired at him, and he fell, riddled with bullets.
Ryan afterward examined the body and found ten or twelve wounds. It
all took place in the little park before the Ciudadela. This is the
authentic account, and at least we know that Huerta was in no way
responsible for _his_ death. Doubtless had Gustavo kept his nerve,
instead of trying to run, he would be alive to-day. He was an awful
bounder, but had qualities of vitality, intellect, and a certain animal
magnetism. His is the famous remark that “out of a family of clever
men, the only fool was chosen for President.” He wasn’t more than
thirty-five or thirty-six, and _loved_ life. He had a power of quick
repartee, a glancing eye, and hands seeking treasure. Well, that is all
over, but it remains part of the unalterable history of Mexico. Poor,
revolution-ridden Mexico! Everybody here has been one kind, generally
two kinds, of revolutionist. Huerta served under Diaz, was gotten
rid of, and served under Madero, whom he got rid of. Orozco was the
friend of Madero against Diaz, then against Madero under Huerta, and
so it goes. The history of almost every public man shows like changes
of banner, and as for revolution _fomenters_, the United States have
certainly played a consistent and persistent rôle for three years,
outdone by no individual or faction _here_.

I shall never forget my first experience of Latin-American revolutions.
It was a beautiful May afternoon, now nearly three years ago, when a
howling mob of several thousands went through the streets, shouting
“Death to Diaz!” finally collecting in the _Zocalo_ under the windows
of the apartment in the Palacio Nacional, where Diaz was lying with a
badly ulcerated tooth and jaw. Two days later, in the wee, small hours,
the once-feared, adored, all-powerful, great man of Mexico, with the
immediate members of his family, was smuggled on board a train secretly
provided by Mr. Brown, under the escort of Huerta, and was taken to
Vera Cruz. From there he embarked on the _Ypiranga_, to join other
kings in exile, having said good-by, probably forever, to the land of
his triumphs and glories. It was touch and go with _him_ during those
days, and he had created modern Mexico out of blood and chaos.

When Madero is put out--in the almost automatic fashion by which
governments are overthrown in Latin America--we refuse to recognize
the man who, by armed force, put him out, as he himself got in. Put a
revolution in the slot and out comes a President. We isolate Huerta;
we cut him off completely from the help of other nations; we destroy
his credit; we tell him he _must_ go, because we tolerate no man
coming to power through bloodshed. Huerta, it appears, was amusing but
unquotable about the recognition of Peru, saying in part that both he
and Benavides were military leaders, and that both executed a _coup
d’état_ resulting in the overthrow of the existing government. In Peru
the _révolution du palais_ cost the lives of eight functionaries,
among them the Ministers of War and Marine, the exile of President
Billinghurst, and ended in the setting up of a junta government. As for
the Peruvians themselves, they are said to have had the vertigo, they
were recognized so suddenly--and so unexpectedly.

You will remember that months ago we gave asylum for a week to
Manuel Bonilla, and then conveyed him to Vera Cruz, under dramatic
circumstances, on his promise not to join the rebels. Well, he joined
the rebels as quickly as time and space would allow, and we read in
this morning’s newspaper that he has now been jailed by Carranza for
plotting against _him_. I suppose he got dissatisfied with what he was
getting out of the rebels, and tried something subversive that looked
promising. If Carranza gets any kind of proof against him--or probably
without it--he will execute him some morning, in the dawn. Oh, the
thousands of men who have walked out in the chilly, pale, Mexican dawn
to render their last accounts!


_March 17th._

Yesterday I did not write. Aunt L. arrived unexpectedly, at eight
o’clock, and no one was at the station to meet her. However,
all’s well that ends well, and she is now up in her red-carpeted,
red-and-gold-papered, sun-flooded room, and I hope will take a good
rest. By way of variety, not that I have much to choose from, I put
_Marius the Epicurean_ and _The Passionate Friends_ on her night-table,
with a single white rose. She has ridden her own situation so
courageously and so wittily all these years, that I am thankful to have
her here where she can turn that charming blue eye of hers, which so
makes me think of yours, on _my_ situation. When I looked into her face
this morning, I quite understood why they call her the “Angel of the
Isthmus.”

News from the north shows slow, but sure, disintegration of the rebel
ranks. It is the old story of the house divided against itself. Also,
Villa may be yielding to the Capuan-like delights of Chihuahua and
hesitating to undertake a new, and perhaps inglorious, campaign against
Torreon. Just how Mr. Lind takes the slump in rebels--for a slump there
certainly has been--I don’t know. We are beginning to see the results
of the long months of cabling his dreams to the President, who, I am
sure, if he ever awakes to the real kind of bedfellows, that he has
been dreaming with, will nearly die. The Washington cerebration doesn’t
take in readily the kind of things that happen here. All is known about
burglars, white-slave trade, wicked corporations, unfaithful stewards,
defaulting Sunday-school superintendents, baseball cheats, and the
like; but the murky, exotic passions that move Villa are entirely
outside consciousness.

Poor, old, frightened Carranza must feel more than uneasy at the
thought of that great, lowering brute in the flush of triumph, who
is waiting for him on the raised dais in the government house at
Chihuahua. His “cause” is dead if he listens to Villa--and _he_ is dead
if he doesn’t.

I had a call from the ---- minister this morning, and a talk about the
matters none of us can keep away from. He looks at politics without
illusion and in a rather Bismarckian way. He says we Americans are in
the act of destroying a people which is just becoming conscious of
itself and could, in a few generations, become a nation; but that it
never will do so, because we are going to strangle its first cry. He
considers that it is a geographical and ethical necessity for us to
have no armed nation between us and Panama, and if we can have the
patience and the iron nerves to watch its dissolution on the lines we
are now pursuing, it will be ours without a shot. But he adds that we
will get nervous, as all moderns do, watching a people on the rack, and
our policy will break. He added, with a smile, that nations are like
women, nervous and inconsistent; and that, happily for the Mexicans
and foreign Powers interested, we won’t be able to stand the strain of
watching the horrors our policy would entail. I cried out against this
parting shot, but he went off with an unconvinced gesture.


_March 19th._

Yesterday we went to Chapultepec for the _fiançailles_ of the second
son of Huerta and the daughter of General Hernandez, now at the front.
It was a large gathering, at which many elements of the old society
were present. The powerful, wealthy, _chic_ Rincon Gaillardo clan
are playing the part in the Huerta government that the Escandons did
in the Diaz régime--a work of amalgamation, though they consistently
boycotted the Madero régime. Of course, there were many “curiosities.”
The two spinster sisters of Huerta were there with their flat, strong
Indian faces and thick, dark wigs _or_ hair, naturally steered one of
them toward old gold for a costume, and the other toward shot blue
and red; but they were dignified and smiling. Señora Blanquet is
another curiosity. Blanquet himself is one of the handsomest and most
_distingué_-looking elderly men I have ever seen; but his wife, was
squat, and flat-faced, and very dark, seeming to have come out of some
long-hidden corner of his history. Madame Huerta looked very handsome
and amiable in a good dress of white silk veiled with fine, black lace,
the famous big, round diamond hung by a slender chain about her neck.

The prospective bridegroom, twenty-three, had his mother’s eyes; and
the family seemed happy in a nice, simple way in the midst of their
grandeur. The “tearless” old man was in high spirits, and his speech
at the tea was a great success of spontaneity, with a few fundamental
truths and many flashes of humor. He began by telling the young couple
not to count on him, or his position, but on their own efforts to
create position and honor; and to begin modestly.

“You know how I began,” he added, with what I can only call a grin
illuminating his whole face, “and look at me now!”

Of course everybody applauded and laughed. Then he became grave again.
“Struggle,” he said, “is the essence of life, and those who are not
called on to struggle are forgotten of Heaven. You all know what I am
carrying.” He told them, also, to honor and respect each other, and to
try to be models; adding, with another flash, “I have been a model,
but a mediocre one!” (“_Yo he sido un modelo--pero mediano!_”)

It all passed off very genially, with much drinking of healths. Huerta
has a way of moving his hands and arms when he speaks, sometimes his
whole body, without giving any impression of animation; but those old
eyes look at any one he addresses in the concentrated manner of the
born leader. He had had a meeting of many of the big _hacendados_, to
beg their moral support in the national crisis, and I imagine their
attitude had been very satisfactory. They are to contribute, among
other things, one hundred and sixty horses to haul the new cannon and
field-pieces shortly coming from France. They are each to supply ten
men, etc. He was wise enough to ask them to do things they _could_
do....

I saw a silver rebel peso the other day. It had _ejercito
constitucionalista_ for part of its device, and the rest was “_Muera
Huerta!_” (“Death to Huerta!”) instead of some more gentle thought, as
“In God we trust.”

The stories of rebel excesses brought here, by refugees from Durango,
pass all description. It was the Constitucionalistas under General
Tomas Urbina who had the first “go” at the town, and it was the
priests, especially, that suffered. The Jesuit and Carmelite churches
were looted, and when they got to the cathedral they had the finest
little game of _saqueo_[11] imaginable, breaking open the tombs of
long-dead bishops and prying the dusty remains out with their bayonets,
in the hunt for valuables, after having rifled the sacristy of the holy
vessels and priceless old vestments. The wife of the rebel _cabecilla_
wore, in her carriage (or, rather, in somebody else’s carriage), the
velvet mantle taken from the Virgen del Carmen, in the cathedral.
The priests can’t even get into the churches to say Mass, and their
principal occupation seems to be ringing the bells on the saint’s
day of any little chieftain who happens to find himself in Durango.
The orgies that go on in the Government house are a combination of
drunkenness, revelings with women of the town (who are decked out
in the jewels and clothes of the former society women of Durango),
breaking furniture and window-panes, and brawlings. The once well-to-do
people of the town go about in _peon_ clothes; anything else would
be stripped from them. This seems to be “constitutionalism” in its
fullest Mexican sense, and what crimes are committed in its name!
Heaps of handsome furniture, bronzes, pianos, and paintings, once the
appurtenances of the upper-class homes, fill the plaza, or are thrown
on dust-heaps outside the town, too cumbersome to be handled by the
rebels and too far from the border to sell to the Texans,--to whom, I
understand, much of the loot of Chihuahua goes for absurd prices.


FOOTNOTE:

[11] _Saqueo_ (sacking).




XVIII


  Back to Vera Cruz--Luncheon on the _Chester_--San Juan’s prison
  horrors--Tea on the _Mayflower_--The ministry of war and the
  commissary methods--Torreon falls again?--Don Eduardo Iturbide.


VERA CRUZ, _March 21st_.

N.’s sciatica is so bad that Dr. Fichtner told him to get to sea-level
immediately. So last night we left, Dr. Ryan coming with us. At the
station we found a guard of fifty of the crack Twenty-ninth Regiment
to “protect” us, and a car placed at our disposal by Huerta. We had
already arranged to go with Hohler and Mr. Easton, who is the secretary
of the National lines, in his private car, thinking we wouldn’t put
the government to the expense of one specially for us--though, as the
government already owes some millions to the railroads, a few hundreds
more or less would make little difference. We were half an hour late,
as we insisted upon having the government car put off; but the fifty
soldiers, with a nice young captain, suffering from an acute attack of
tonsilitis, we could not shake.

At Vera Cruz we found a norther blowing, and I was glad to have my
tailor-made suits. Mr. Lind seemed not quite so well as before. I
think eight months of Vera Cruz food and monotony have told on him,
besides the evident failure of his policy. He feels dreadfully about
the Creelman article. He cast one look of supreme chagrin at me when
I mentioned Shanklin’s disgust at being quoted as having found Huerta
in the _coulisses_ of a theater, with an actress on each knee, and
with another hanging around his neck, feeding him brandy. The truth
being that Shanklin went to pay his respects to him in his box at some
charity representation, and found Huerta, mightily bored, sitting alone
with two aides. The Lind thing is not so easy to refute. He _did_ write
the letter to the rebel, Medina, and he has dreamed dreams, and sent
them on to Washington. His policy is a dead failure, and I think its
ghost walks with him at night.

We lunched on the _Chester_ with Captain Moffett, who is most
discriminating about the whole situation, and, after an hour on the
wind-swept deck, came back to the car, where we found delightful,
spontaneous Captain McDougall, of the _Mayflower_, come to ask us if
we wouldn’t transfer our bags and ourselves and servant over to his
ship. The annoying part of the whole trip is that Admiral Fletcher
is in Mexico City. We did not tell any one of our coming down to
Vera Cruz, nor did he announce that he was coming up, with Mrs.
Fletcher and his two daughters. However, it is simply one of those
annoying _contretemps_ for which there is no help. They went up by
the “Interoceanic” route as we came down by the “Mexican.” I would
have returned myself, leaving N. on the _Mayflower_; but he feels that
he must carry out the plan of returning to-morrow night, as he has
correspondence that he wants to show the admiral.


_Sunday._

Last night we dined on the _Essex_, to which Admiral Cradock has
transferred his flag, the _Suffolk_ having gone to Bermuda for a new
coat of paint and other furbishings. Admiral Cradock is always the same
delightful friend and companion. I played bridge till a late hour,
with the admiral, Hohler, and Captain Watson. Watson has just come
from Berlin, where for three years he was naval _attaché_. I saw many
photographs of old friends--the Granvilles, Sir Edward Goschen, the
Grews, the Kaiser. After a rather uncertain trip back to the shore,
Hohler, Nelson, and myself threaded our way along the dark interstices
of the Vera Cruz wharves and terminal tracks to the car--I, in long
dress and thin slippers, bowed to the _norte_.

We can’t get out to the _Florida_, Captain Rush in command, on account
of the high sea. I went to Mass with Ryan in the cathedral, which they
have painted a hideous, cold gray, with white trimmings, since I saw it
last. Then it had its _belle patiné_ of pinkish-brown, that shone like
bronze in the setting sun, and it was beautiful at all hours. However,
the winds and the storms and the hot sun will again beautify man’s
hideous work.


_In the Car. Sunday Evening._

We had lunch for Admiral Cradock and several of his staff in the car,
to which we had also asked Captain Moffett and Captain McDougall--a
rather “close,” but merry company of nine officers and myself, in the
little dining-room. After dinner we started out to San Juan Ulua.


_Monday, 10.30_ A.M.

I am comfortably writing in my state-room. We are not yet near Mexico
City. My beloved volcanoes are a little unradiant, a dusty veil hangs
over everything. It is often that way a month before the rains begin.

When we got to the station at seven, last night, we found that the
train, which, according to schedule, was to leave at 7.20, had
departed, with our private car and the servants, at 6.55. The servants
had begged at least to have our car uncoupled, but no! You can imagine
the faces of the _chargés_ who _had_ to be in Mexico City Monday
morning. The upshot of it all was that a locomotive was finally got
ready, sent to catch the train and to bring back our car. After the
telegraph and telephone, the whole station, and the town, for that
matter, were up on end, we got off at ten o’clock. If the car had not
come back, we intended to board a locomotive and to chase the train
through the tropical night. The locomotive we finally secured broke
down later on. On one of the steep, dark, flower-scented inclines,
strange, dusky silhouettes gathered silently to watch the repairing,
which was finally accomplished in the uncertain light of torch and
lantern. Now we are due at the city at 12.30, the locomotive, our car,
the car containing the fifty soldiers, and the poor officer who hasn’t
had even a drop of water since he left Mexico City, Friday night. We
sent pillows and blankets out to him and tried to make him comfortable,
but of the good cheer, wine and viands he could take none.

I must tell you about the visit to the prison of San Juan. After lunch,
Dr. Ryan, Captain McDougall, Dr. Hart, Mr. Easton, and I got into the
_Mayflower’s_ boat and were taken to the landing of that most miserable
of places. A strong wind was blowing from the purifying sea, which must
help, from October to April, at least, to keep San Juan from being
an unmitigated pest-hole. It is a huge place, composed of buildings
of different periods, from the Conquerors to Diaz, with intersecting
canals between great masses of masonry. To get to the commandant’s
quarters we were obliged to skirt the water’s edge, where narrow slits
of about three inches’ width, in walls a meter and a half thick, lead
into otherwise unlighted and unaired dungeons. Human sounds came
faintly from these apertures.

Entering through the portcullis, we found ourselves in the big
courtyard where the official life of the prison goes on, overlooked
by the apartments of the colonel and the closely guarded cells for big
political prisoners. Good-conduct men, with bits of braid on one arm,
solicited us to buy the finely carved fruit-stones and cocoa-nuts.
To us these represented monkeys, heads, and the like; to the men
that make them they represent sanity and occupation for the horrible
hours--though God alone knows how they work the fine and intricate
patterns in the semi-darkness of even the “best” dungeons.

Afterward we went up on the great parapets, the _norte_ blowing
fiercely--I in my black Jeanne Hallé hobble-skirt and a black tulle
hat, as later we were to go to tea on the _Mayflower_. We walked
over great, flat roofs of masonry in which were occasional square,
barred holes. Peering down in the darkness, thirty feet or so, of any
one of these, there would be, at first, no sound, only a horrible,
indescribable stench mingling with the salt air. But as we threw boxes
of cigarettes into the foul blackness there came vague, human groans
and rumbling noises, and we could see, in the blackness, human hands
upstretched or the gleam of an eye. If above, in that strong norther,
we could scarcely stand the stench that arose, what must it have been
in the depths below? About eight hundred men live in those holes.

When we got back to the central court, our hearts sick with the
knowledge of misery we could do nothing to alleviate, the prison
afternoon meal was being served--coffee, watery bean soup, and a piece
of bread. Oh, the pale, malaria-stricken Juans and Ramons and Josés
that answered to the roll-call, carrying their tin cups and dishes, as
they passed the great caldrons. They filed out, blinking and stumbling,
before the armed sentinels, to return in a moment to the filthy
darkness! Captain McDougall, a very human sort of person, tasted of
the coffee from one of their tin cups. He said it wasn’t bad, and he
gave the men a friendly word and packages of cigarettes as they passed.

We bought all the little objects they had to sell, and distributed
among them dozens of boxes of cigarettes. But we, with liberty,
honors, opulence, and hopes, felt the foolishness of our presence,
our blessing of liberty being all that any one of them would ask.
The prisoners are there for every crime imaginable, but many of the
faces were sorrowful and fever-stamped, rather than brutal. _All_ were
apparently forgotten of Heaven and unconsidered of man. We also visited
the little, wind-swept cemetery, with its few graves. The eternal hot
tides wash in and out of the short, sandy stretch that bounds it. About
the only “healing” worked here is what the salt sea does to the poor
bodies raked out of those prison holes. There is a stone to mark the
place where some of our men were buried when they took the fortress in
1847. Dr. Ryan discovered a foot in a good American boot--evidently the
remains of an individual recently eaten by a shark.

That fortress has been the home of generations of horrors, and there
is no one in God’s world to break through that oozing masonry and
alleviate the suffering it conceals. It was one of the cries of Madero
to open up the prison, but he came, and passed, and San Juan Ulua
persists. I haven’t described one-tenth of the horrors. I know there
_must_ be prisons and there _must_ be abuses in all communities; but
this pest-hole at the entrance to the great harbor where our ships lie
within a stone’s-throw seems incredible.

Afterward, the contrast of tea, music, and smart, ready-to-dance young
officers on the beautiful _Mayflower_ rather inclined me to stillness.
I was finding it difficult to let God take care of _His_ world!


_March 24th._

I am sitting in the motor, jotting this down in the shade of some trees
by the beautiful Alameda, waiting for N. to finish at the Foreign
Office. Afterward he goes to “_Guerra_” and I to shop.

Yesterday afternoon, on our return from Vera Cruz, N. dashed to the
telephone and communicated with the Fletchers. They came to tea at
four. Later Nelson went out with the admiral, and I drove to San Angel
with Mrs. Fletcher and her two pretty daughters. She is most agreeable.
Her appreciation of the sunset on the volcanoes, which were in their
most splendid array for the occasion, was all my heart could have
asked. They return to Vera Cruz to-night.

I am feeling very fit, after a good night’s rest; the air envelops me
like a luminous wrap, and the sun is softly penetrating.

The arms and ammunition are not yet delivered. Nothing was done in N.’s
absence, of course. He didn’t want them, anyway; of what use are they
in civilian hands?...

The War Ministry is just off the _Zocalo_, in one side of the great,
square building of the Palacio Nacional. From where I am sitting I see
the soft, pink towers of the cathedral, in their lacy outlines. On
the left is the Museo Nacional--a beautiful old building of the pink,
_tezontle_ stone the Spaniards used to such effect in their buildings.
It contains all the Aztec treasures still remaining after centuries of
destruction, and has a cozy, sun-warmed _patio_ where the sacrificial
altars and the larger pieces are grouped. Most of them were found in
the very site of the cathedral, which replaced the _teocalli_ of the
Aztecs--the first thing the Spaniards destroyed, to rear on its site
the beautiful cathedral. I am surrounded by an increasing crowd of
beggars, drawn by a few indiscreet centavos given to an old Indian
woman, who too loudly blessed me; cries of “_Niña, por el amor de
Dios!_” and “_Niña, por la Santa Madre de Dios!_” make me feel that I
would better move on. The name of God is invoked so unceasingly by the
beggars here that the word _pordiosero_ (for-Godsaker, beggar,) has
passed into the language.


_At Home, before Lunch._

N. came out of _Guerra_, having met in the corridor the immensely tall
Colonel Cardenas, the best shot in Mexico. He is supposed to know
just how Madero’s mortal coil was hustled off. He was in command of
the squad transporting him and Pino Suarez from the Palacio to the
_Penitenciaría_ when they were shot. We then went to the third side
of the Palacio Nacional, where the zapadores barracks is, to see how
the officer of the Twenty-ninth, who went down with us to Vera Cruz,
is getting on. It was very interesting, at twelve o’clock, to watch
the various persons who bring food into the barracks. The guards
search them all--men, women, and children--by passing their hands down
their sides. The prettier young women get pinches or pokes anywhere
the guard happens to fancy bestowing them, and they all give little
squeals and jumps, sometimes annoyed, sometimes pleased. They bring in
great baskets of _tortillas_, _enchiladas_, _frijoles_, fruits, etc.
The men in the barracks are absolutely dependent on them for food, as
there is no other army supply. Another guard kept off troublesome, too
solicitous small boys with a bit of twisted twine, flicking them, with
a stinging sound, about the legs. I found it most amusing. Finally
the young captain himself came out to thank us and to tell us he was
almost well--with an expectant look on his pale face. He wants N. to
have him made a major. Why not, when every officer seems to have been
promoted--a clever trick of Huerta’s. He has made several extra grades
at the top to give himself room. He will need space for manœuvers
of an army largely composed of higher officers. He is going to get
the interior loan of fifty millions, with the guarantee of the Paris
loan.... The Austro-Hungarian minister has just come to ask me to go
out to San Angel with him, so adieu.


_March 25th._

We have just had a beautiful motor-drive out to San Angel Inn, talking
politics and scenery. The volcanoes had great lengths of clouds, thrown
like twisted scarfs, about their dazzling heads.

Kanya de Kanya was with Count Aerenthal during his four years in
Vienna, as Minister for Foreign Affairs, and during that time made
copious notes relating to the burning questions of the Near East, which
will, of course, throw light on the big international issues of that
period. He is hoping for a quiet time out here, to get them in order,
though he can’t publish them until a lot more water has flowed under
the Austro-Hungarian mill.

I got home in time to sit with Aunt Laura awhile before dressing
for dinner, for which I was expecting Hohler. The meal was somewhat
unquiet. One of the newspaper men called up to say that Torreon had
fallen, and gave a few convincing details, such as that of Velasco’s
life being spared. The fifty-million-dollar loan receded into the dim
distance. We immediately pictured to ourselves the pillaging, ravishing
hordes of Villa--the “human tiger,” as some of our newspapers mildly
put it--falling down upon Mexico City, the peaceful. Nelson ordered the
motor, and he and Hohler went out, as soon as dinner was over, to get
some news at the War Department. A big fight, we know, is going on. As
I write, brother is killing and mutilating brother, in the fertile
_laguna_ district, and horrors unspeakable are taking place. Velasco is
said to be honest and capable, and he has money and ammunition.

General Maure, who left for the front a few days ago, wouldn’t start
until he had money enough for two months for his men. He also is
supposed to be honest, and if he _does_ feed his men, instead of
putting the money in some bank in the States (if they would _all_
feed their men, instead of asking worn, empty-stomached men to do the
work), he may, perhaps, proceed toward victory. The corruption of the
officers is what nullifies the work of the army, and Huerta says he is
powerless against it. Any man he might court-martial is sure of the
support of the United States. In order to remain faithful the troops
only ask enough food to keep life in their bodies during the campaign.
The picture of starving troops, locked in box-cars during the night, to
prevent their deserting, and then being called on to fight when they
are let out in the morning, makes one fairly sick. A free hand at loot
and a full stomach on food belonging to somebody else are naturally
irresistible when the chance comes.

Such an appreciative letter has come from Archbishop Riordan, thanking
Nelson for his Pius Fund achievement.

Mexico has declined, upon good international law, to take upon herself
the board bill (now amounting to hundreds of thousands in gold) for the
interned refugees at Fort Bliss. We wonder how long Uncle Sam will feel
like playing host? This situation, among many tragic ones growing out
of our policy, is the only thing that calls an unrestrained grin to the
face--a grin at Uncle Sam’s expense.


_March 27th. Morning._

I am sitting in the motor in Chapultepec Park, under the shade of a
great cypress, while N. converses with the Dictator in his motor
down the avenue. All sorts of birds are singing, and a wonderful
little humming-bird (_chupamirtos_, the Indians call them) is so near
I can hear it “hum.” Elim is running over the green grass with his
butterfly-net. I am thinking, “Sweet day, so soft, so cool, so bright.”
This seems the city of peace. In the north the great combat continues.
The rebels use almost exclusively expansive bullets, which give no
chance to the wounded. Huerta, whom Nelson saw last night, is calm and
imperturbable. His loan of 50,000,000 pesos is an accomplished fact.
This won’t suit Washington.

Nelson was speaking this morning of the famous interview between Lind,
Gamboa (then Minister for Foreign Affairs), and himself--that interview
which has now become part of history. Lind has a characteristic
gesture--that of tapping with his right hand on his left wrist. With
this gesture to emphasize his words he said to Gamboa, “Three things we
can do if Huerta does not resign: First, use the financial boycott.”
(This has been done.) “Second, recognize the rebels.” (This has been
done to the fullest extent by raising the embargo, giving them full
moral support and being ready to give them financial aid with the
slightest co-operation and decency on their part). “Third, intervene.”

These propositions were set forth nearly eight months ago, and to-day
Huerta’s position is better, by far, than at that time. He has kept
law and order in his provinces. The big third thing--intervention--yet
remains, but on what decent grounds can we intervene?

If, by any remote chance, the rebels should get here, what
desecrations, what violations of Mexico City--the peaceful, the
beautiful!


_At Home. Afternoon._

I waited a long time for Nelson this morning. Gen. Rincon Gaillardo
came up to speak to me, looking very smart in his khaki riding-clothes
with a touch of gold braid. He is an erect, light-haired,
straight-featured Anglo-Saxon-looking man. He had just returned from
a tour of inspection in Hidalgo; had ridden through the state with a
couple of aides, and had found everything most peaceful. I asked, of
course, if there was any news from the north; but everywhere wire and
communication of any kind is cut, and no one knows. Eduardo Iturbide
(he is spoken of as governor of the Federal district to succeed
Corona), also came up to speak to me. A lot of people were waiting to
see Huerta, but he never hurries. After he had seen Rincon Gaillardo
and Nelson, he went away, ignoring discomfited occupants of half a
dozen motors.

Iturbide always says he has no political talents, but it was inevitable
that he be drawn into events here. He would give prestige and dignity
to any office. There is a description of the Emperor Augustin Iturbide,
“brave, active, handsome, in the prime of life,” that entirely applies
to him. I wonder, sometimes, if Don Eduardo’s fate may not be as tragic
as that of the man whose name he bears. The ingredients of tragedy are
never missing from any Mexican political situation. The only variation
lies in the way they are mixed. What I call Mexican magic has a way of
arresting judgment. One never thinks a thing will happen here until it
has happened--not though a thousand analogous situations have worked
themselves out to their inevitable, tragic end. It was Don Eduardo who
made to me the profound and tragedy-pointing remark, “We understand you
better than you understand us.”[12]

Huerta keeps very calm, these days, Nelson says; no nerves _there_
while waiting for news. I suppose he knows just how bad his men are,
and also the very indefinite quality of the rebels. He talked of two
years’ work being necessary for pacification, and then of going to live
in Washington, to prove that he is neither a wild Indian nor a brigand.
He is very pleased to get his loan; the money is here, and he has known
how to get hold of it.

At the outset Huerta was surrounded by experienced and responsible men,
but when it became generally understood that the United States would
not recognize his government, intrigues were started against him, and
he was forced to make changes in his Cabinet. Later on, when a friend
reproached him with this, he answered, quite frankly, “No one regrets
it more than I; for now, unfortunately, all my friends are thieves!”

Yesterday’s copy of _Mister Lind_ has, as a frontispiece, Mr. Wilson
and Villa, standing in a red pool, drinking each other’s health from
cups dripping with blood. It is awful to think such things can exist,
even in imagination. N. has protested to the Federal authorities.


_March 28th._

This morning the newspapers give the “sad” news that Carranza seems
to be lost in the desert--the mountain lost on its way to Mohammed!
General Aquevedo, who knows that country as he knows his pocket, is
supposed to be after him with 1,200 men. I don’t think Villa would weep
other than crocodile tears if anything happened to Carranza; but what
would Washington do without that noble old man to bear the banner of
Constitutionalism? “One year of Bryan makes the whole world grin!”
The idealization of a pettifogging old lawyer (_licenciado_), who had
already laid his plans to turn against Madero, and the sanctification
of a bloodthirsty bandit, might well make the whole world grin, if the
agony of a people were not involved.

I went with Dr. Ryan, this morning, to visit the General Hospital. It
is a magnificent establishment, modeled on the General Hospital in
Paris, with complete electrical, hydro-therapeutic, and mechanical
appliances, thirty-two large sun- and air-flooded pavilions,
operating-rooms, and special buildings for tuberculosis patients,
children, and contagious diseases. The sad part of it is that it is
only about a third full. The _leva_ (press-gang) always rakes in a lot
of men here. They hang about the handsome doors and grab the dismissed
patients, which makes the poor wretches prefer to suffer and die in
their nameless holes.

On returning, I went down to the Palacio Nacional with N., who was on a
still hunt for the President. The arms are not yet in the Embassy. As
I was sitting in the motor with Elim, the French _chargé_ got out of
his motor with Captain de Bertier, the French military _attaché_ just
arrived from Washington, and looking very smart in his spick-and-span
uniform, ready for his official presentation to Huerta. They had their
appointment for twelve, which had already struck, but the President
was not there, having departed to Popotla. Huerta works along his own
lines, and a missed appointment is little to him.

Just home. Mr. de Soto has called me up to tell me there is bad news
from the front; but I think even the bad news is a rumor, as every line
around Torreon has been cut for days.


_March 28th. 11.30_ P.M.

At last news is in from the north (by the Associated Press), from
Gomez Palacio and Ciudad Juarez. Two train-loads of rebel wounded had
arrived, and Villa had hastily telegraphed for more hospital supplies,
though he had taken with him an enormous quantity. At the end of five
days’ continuous fighting the rebels had failed to make any break in
the almost impregnable defenses of Torreon and Gomez Palacio. Wounded
troopers say that by order of Villa they charged into almost certain
death at Gomez Palacio, bringing upon themselves the heavy cannonading
from the Federal guns; that they were deliberately sacrificed in order
that other forces might be able to attack the town at other points
without encountering much resistance. And there are strange rumors of
Villa’s succumbing to temptation from the “movie” men, and holding the
attack back till daybreak! It is terrible to contemplate the slaughter
of unquestioning and innocent Pepes and Juans. I burn to go with the
hospital service. There will be terrible need on both sides, and a
wounded man is neither rebel nor Federal.

This is largely an agrarian revolution, and Huerta was the first to
realize it. He says that everybody has made promises to the people, and
nobody has kept them. I wonder, if the people ever get a chance to make
promises, will _they_ keep them? _Quién sabe?_ However, all this is not
a question of taking sides, but of stating facts.

The invitation of the United States to Huerta to attend the Hague
Conference has been solemnly accepted by him; now international
jurists are called on to decide if the very sending of the invitation
does not imply technical recognition. It is one of those slips which
occasionally happen, and Huerta is too astute to let that, or any other
opportunity, pass where he can score against the United States. Things
being equal, he could _rouler_ Washington as it has never been _rouléd_
before; but things aren’t equal, and he can only show immense courage,
sustained indifference, and indomitable will in whatever may come up.
Just now more and more troops are being rushed to the north.

We are delighted to hear that Warren Robbins and Jack White are to be
sent here as second and third secretaries. There is ample work for all,
and it will be pleasant to have friends and co-workers. It has been
a wearing time for N., single-handed in all official decisions and
representations.

News from the north is more encouraging, but a horrible struggle is
going on. Elim and I went with Nelson to Chapultepec. Though the park
is no longer crowded in the morning, as in the old days, the band
having disappeared, with a lot of other things, there is still much
strolling about the cypress-shaded alleys. A shining freshness filters
through the old trees, the birds sing, the children play. Its beauty
makes one’s heart both glad and sick. As we expected, we found the
President sitting in his motor, which was surrounded by half a dozen
others full of petitioners of all sorts. General Corral, in his khaki,
came up to salute me and to say good-by. He had just taken leave of the
President and was on his way to the station, whence he was starting to
the north with 2,000 men. I pressed his hand and wished him Godspeed;
but he may never again stand under those trees with a smile on his face
and hope in his heart.

The President got out of his auto and I out of ours, and we had a talk,
I presenting Elim. Huerta really is a _charming_ old fellow! I told
him I was anxious to go to Saltillo with the _Cruz Roja_. He said,
“There will be work to do here in town, and I will make you head of
the International League. You are very kind!” (“_Vd. es muy buena,
Señora._”) And he pressed my hand with those small, velvety paws of
his. He has discarded the slouch-hat and now wears with his long,
loose frock-coat a top-hat--(“_que da mas dignidad_”) “for the sake of
dignity,” he said, when Nelson told him he was “very stunning.”

Afterward we went down to the Buena Vista station, where General
Corral’s troops were being entrained. We found a very busy scene.
There were long lines of baggage-cars, with fresh straw covering the
floors; other baggage-cars containing army women, with their small
children, babes at the breast, and the bigger children, who may be of
service. Infants between two and ten are left behind. There is a good
deal of heterogeneous impedimenta. Having no homes, these women are
wont to take all their possessions with them--bird-cages, goats, old
oil-cans, filled with Heaven knows what. The soldiers were laughing and
joking, and the venders of fruits, highly colored bonbons, and still
more highly colored sweet drinks, were having a busy time. The sun was
terribly hot, so we came away, I with a prayer in my heart for the poor
devils. _Is_ “God in His heaven”? _Is_ “all well with the world”?


_Monday Morning._

I am advising Dr. Ryan to get off to Torreon. I myself telegraphed
to Admiral Fletcher, asking that a box of hospital stores, bandages,
cotton, iodine, adhesive tape, and bichloride tablets be sent up by
the officer who is coming up to stay with us. Dr. Ryan can get off
to-morrow afternoon. There is work, much work, to do, and I am sick
that “my position” prevents me from going with him. My hands are
trembling for work.

As to news, everybody in town is pleased, Huertistas and Villistas
alike. The former have had word of complete victory--and the latter
hears that the rebel forces had taken every gate in Torreon and that
the Federals were in full retreat!


FOOTNOTE:

[12] Later, under President Gutierrez, Don Eduardo made a most
hazardous exit from Mexico. With Zapata and Villa both threatening his
life, he lay concealed for some days in one of the foreign legations at
Mexico City. A safe-conduct from Gutierrez was finally procured, and he
left the city with Mr. Canova, one of our agents. Villa got news of his
departure and pursued him to Aguascalientes, Torreon, and Chihuahua,
finally coming up with him at Ortiz. Here, in the darkness, Don Eduardo
was able to escape from the train, wandering over that northern desert
for eight days before reaching the Rio Grande, which he swam, between
Mulato and Polvon.--E. O’S.




XIX


  Congress meets without the United States representative--Huerta
  makes his “profession of faith”--Exit Mr. Lind--Ryan leaves for the
  front--French and German military _attachés_--The Jockey Club.


_April 1st. Morning._

Yesterday Lieutenant Courts (one of Admiral Fletcher’s flag
lieutenants) arrived for an indefinite time. He is a shrewd and
capable young officer, ready to study the situation intelligently and
dispassionately. The big house is again full.

Yesterday we lunched at the German Legation. The luncheon was given
for the French military _attaché_, Count de Bertier de Sauvigny, and
the German, Herr von Papen, both from Washington for a few weeks. The
Simons were there, the von Hillers, and various others, everybody
trying to enlighten the two new arrivals as to _la situación_. Both
find themselves in a position requiring some tact and agility to keep
their seats--_à cheval_ as they are between Washington and Mexico
City. Von Hintze has never cared for Huerta. Occasionally, very
occasionally, he has given him grudging praise; but a man of von
Hintze’s fastidiousness would always find himself _fluide contraire_ to
a man of just Huerta’s defects--defects which, I have sometimes argued
with von Hintze, become qualities in Mexico. All came to tea with me
later. De Bertier is a very handsome man, of the tall, distinguished,
fine-featured Gallic type; von Papen, with a pleasant and inquiring
smile, is the quintessence of the Teuton, his square head and every
face bone in relief against the Mexican amalgam type my eyes are
accustomed to.

The story about the loan, Simon says, is true. Huerta remarked to the
banking magnates that he had, outside the door, two soldiers apiece for
each gentleman; that there were plenty of trees in Chapultepec; that he
would give them ten minutes to decide what they would do. He got the
loan.

In the evening Hay and Courts and H. Walker and Ryan dined with us,
all staying late. Dr. Ryan fears he can’t get up to Torreon. The road
between Monterey and Saltillo was blown up the night before last, and
it is useless to try to get through that desert afoot or on horseback.


_Later._

I went out to Chapultepec with N. and Courts. I wanted to show Courts
the administrative tableau set in the morning beauty of the park, and
N. had urgent business with the President. There was the usual array
of autos there, the President in his own, talking with de la Lama,
Minister of Finance. Afterward Hohler, Manuel del Campo, and the two
García Pimentel men, black-clad, came up, having been to the _honras_
of Ignacio Algara, brother of the Mexican _chargé_ in Washington. They
were going to have a sandwich, and asked Courts and me to go into
the restaurant, which we did. N. appeared a few minutes later, the
President with him. The much-advertised _copitas_ were immediately
served, the President scarcely touching his glass. After much
badinage between Huerta and N. the _jeunesse dorée_ looking on rather
embarrassed, Huerta departed, with an obeisance to me, and a large,
circular gesture to the others. He had a telegram from Ciudad Porfirio
Diaz, telling of immense losses of the rebels and of the Federals still
holding their ground--which may or may not be true. The little story I
paste here is indicative of Mexicans in general, and of the situation
in particular:

  The safest bet regarding the many stories about Torreon yesterday,
  was the answer of a Mexican mozo to his master’s query as to whether
  it would rain. After a careful survey of the heavens Juan replied:
  “Puede que si, o puede que no, pero lo mas probable es, quién sabe?”
  (Perhaps it will--perhaps it won’t; but the most probable is “_who
  knows_?”)


_April 2d._

Congress reopened yesterday. Huerta showed some emotion when, in the
morning, Nelson informed him that he could not be present. In the same
room that saw its dissolution, the same old Indian, in a business-like
speech that would do credit to any ruler, briefly outlined to Congress
the work of government, pending detailed reports by the departments.
There is a tragic note in the fact that this persecuted government,
in the midst of all its anxieties, can discuss such matters as the
subterranean hydrology of the plateau, and the sending of delegates to
the electro-technic congress, in Berlin. Huerta wound up his speech
with these solemn and stirring words:

“Before I leave this hall I must engrave upon your hearts this, my
purpose, which on another occasion I communicated to the National
Assembly in the most explicit manner--the peace of the republic.
If, in order to secure it, the sacrifice of you and of me becomes
indispensable, know, once for all, that you and I shall know how to
sacrifice ourselves. This is my purpose, my profession of political
faith.”

There was immense applause. But his task seems superhuman. To fight
the rebels _and_ the United States is not simply difficult--it is
impossible.


_April 2d. Evening._

Villa talks freely about his plan when he triumphs: first and foremost,
it is to execute Huerta and his whole political family, on the
principle that the first duty of a “Mexican executive is to execute”;
then to set up a dictatorship for a year. The program drips with blood;
and these are the people we are bolstering up!

Lind leaves to-night for Washington, so exit from the tragic scene Don
Juan Lindo (I sometimes feel like calling him Don Juan Blindo), who
commenced life in a Scandinavian town as Jon Lind, and who has ended by
dreaming northern dreams in Vera Cruz, in the hour of Mexico’s agony.
My heart is unspeakably bewildered at this trick of fate; and, too, he
would have long since precipitated _us_ into war had it not been for
the shrewd common sense and trained knowledge of the gifted man at the
head of the fleet in Vera Cruz....

A hot indignation invades me as Mr. Lind drops out of the most
disastrous chapter of Mexican history and returns to Minnesota. (Oh,
what a far cry!) Upon his hands the blood of those killed with the
weapons of the raising of the embargo--those weapons that, in some day
and hour unknown to us, must inevitably be turned against their donors.
It is all as certain as death, though there are many who refuse to look
even _that_ fact in the face.

I am not keen about the confidential agent system, anyway. With more
standing in the community than spies, and much less information, they
are in an unrivaled position to mislead (wittingly or unwittingly is
a detail) any one who depends on them for information. Apropos of Mr.
Lind, one of the foreigners here said it was as if Washington kept
a Frenchman in San Francisco to inform them concerning our Japanese
relations. For some strange reason, any information delivered by
confidential agents, is generally swallowed, hook and all, but
unfortunately, the mere designating of them does not bestow upon them
any sacramental grace.


_April 5th._

_Domingo de Ramos_ (Palm Sunday), with soft wind and warm sun. The
palms were blessed at the nine-o’clock Mass in the cathedral. The great
pillars of the church were hung with purple; thousands of palms were
waving from devout hands, the hands of beggars and the rich alike,
and there was some good Gregorian music, instead of the generally
rather florid compositions. Near where I knelt was a paralyzed Indian
girl, crawling along on the most beautiful hands I have ever seen. Her
Calvary is constant.

Wonderful palm plaitings, of all shapes and patterns, are offered by
the Indians as one enters the church. I bought a beautiful sort of
Greek-cross design, with silvery grasses depending from it. It now
hangs over my bed.

We hear that the Bishop of Chilapa is held by Zapata for a big ransom.
As all the well-to-do families have either fled from that part of
the country or been robbed of all they had, the ransom may not be
paid. There is a threat to crucify him on Good Friday, if it is not
forthcoming, but I hardly think he is in danger, as such an act would
certainly be thought to bring a curse upon the people and the place.
This is the second time he has been made prisoner. He was rescued by
Federal soldiers only a few weeks ago.


_Monday Evening._

We had a pleasant luncheon at Chapultepec restaurant, on the
veranda--von Hintze, Kanya de Kanya, Stalewski, the Bonillas, Courts,
Strawbensie (the young naval officer up from the _Essex_, who is
supposed to be training the British colony volunteers), Lady C., von
Papen, and ourselves; de Bertier, the French military _attaché_,
did not materialize. They think, apropos of Torreon (“the key of the
_south_,” for the rebels; “the key of the _north_,” for the Federals),
that the Federals may have been obliged to evacuate it and are now
fighting to get it back. Any one seems able to take Torreon, and no one
seems able to hold it.


_Tuesday Evening._

At two o’clock Dr. Ryan left for the front, von Papen with him.
Ryan has learned to travel light, but von Papen took a lot of
impedimenta--eating-utensils, uniform, blanket, pungaree hat, etc. He
will drop his possessions, one by one, as--after Saltillo, which they
should reach to-morrow night--they may be on horseback, or afoot. I was
deeply touched to see Dr. Ryan go off. I made the sign of the cross on
his shoulder[13] and commended him to Heaven as we stood at the gate
under the brilliant sky. He is so pleased to be taking all those stores
with him--enough for two hundred and fifty or three hundred dressings,
not including the other materials.

I received calls all afternoon. At four the two handsome Garcia
Pimentel sisters came--Lola Riba and Rafaela Bernal. At five the
Japanese minister brought his wife for her first formal call. They are
cultivated people, with the quality that makes one feel they are used
to the best at home. I _made_ conversation till six, when Clarence Hay
saved my life. At seven, just as I had gone up-stairs, a Frenchman--a
banker--appeared. At eight I was too tired for dinner, which N. and I
ignored. The “doves of peace” are beginning to settle in the Embassy
dove-cote to-night--about a _ton_ of them already here.


_Wednesday Morning. April 8th._

A Federal officer, Colonel Arce, got in from Torreon last night. He
says that on Friday, the third, it was still in the hands of the
Federals. Chieftain Urbina, a notorious rebel, had been captured and
forced, with other Revolutionists, to parade the streets of Torreon,
between a detachment of Federal troops. Then he was summarily executed
in the presence of an immense crowd. The railway lines are open between
San Pedro and Saltillo, and on to Mexico City. Unless they are again
blown up, Dr. Ryan and von Papen will be able to get to San Pedro,
where Generals de Maure, Hidalgo, Corral (the one I saw off), are
stationed, with large reinforcements. We’ll take the report for what it
is worth. One thing we know: the carnage is going on.

The story just now is that General Velasco, the very competent Federal
in command of Torreon, voluntarily evacuated, took his army and his
field-guns to the hills above Torreon, with non-combatants and women
and children, cut the water-supply, and is now waiting orders from
Huerta to bombard the town. He, of course, has plenty of water where he
is; but Torreon dry must be a thing of horror. This story agrees with
a good deal we have been hearing. If true, it will really be a great
_coup_ on the part of the Federals.


_April 9th. Holy Thursday._

The churches are full to overflowing, these holy days. Men, women,
and children, of all strata of society, are faithful in the discharge
of their duties. In this city of peace, how contrasting the tales of
sacrilege in the rebel territory! Five priests were killed and three
held for ransom in Tamaulipas, last month; a convent was sacked and
burned and the nuns were outraged; a cathedral was looted, the rebels
getting off with the old Spanish gold and silver utensils. What kind
of adults will develop out of the children to whom the desecration
of churches and the outraging of women are ordinary sights; who, in
tender years, see the streets red with blood, and property arbitrarily
passing into the hands of those momentarily in power? The children
seem the pity of it, and it is a bitter fruit the next generation will
bear. Let him who can, take; and him who can, hold; is the device the
Constitutionalists really fly.

In the old days, before the Laws of Reform, there used to be the
most gorgeous religious processions; but even now, with all that
splendor in abeyance, there remains something that is unsuppressed and
unsuppressable. To-day the population has streamed in and out of the
churches and visited the repositories (with their blaze of light and
bankings of orange-trees, roses, and lilies, and countless varieties of
beautiful palms), with all the ardor of the old days. No restrictions
can prevent the Indian from being supremely picturesque at the
slightest opportunity.

I went, as usual, to San Felipe, named after the Mexican saint who, in
the sixteenth century, found martyrdom in Japan. It is just opposite
the Jockey Club. Outside the _zaguan_, on the chairs generally placed
on the pavement for the members, were sitting various males of the
smart set. All, without exception (I _think_ I could put my hand in
the fire for them), had been to Mass; which, however, didn’t prevent
their usual close scrutiny of the small, beautiful feet of the passing
Mexican women; two and one-half C is the usual size of a Mexicana’s
shoes.

This Casa de los Azujelos, where the Jockey Club has had its being for
generations, is a most lovely old house. It is covered with beautiful
blue-and-white Puebla tiles, appliquéd by an extravagant and æsthetic
Mexican in the seventeenth century, and is perfectly preserved, in
spite of the many kinds of _revolucionarios_ who have surged up the
Avenida San Francisco, which, with the _Paseo_, forms the thoroughfare
between the _Palacio_ and Chapultepec. The men of the club play high
and there are stories of fabulous losses, as well as of occasional
shootings to death. It is the _chic_, aristocratic club of Mexico,
the last and inviolable retreat of husbands. Anybody who _is_ any one
belongs to it.[14]

A telegram from Dr. Ryan this morning reports: “The Federals have lost
Torreon. Velasco, retreating, met Maure, Maass, and Hidalgo, at San
Pedro; army reorganized, and it is now attacking Torreon, and will
surely take it back.” He and von Papen got as far as Saltillo by rail.
There, communications had been cut. There had been a big encounter at
San Pedro de las Colonias, and I hope that even as I write faithful
Ryan is proceeding with his work of mercy among the wounded.

There was a meeting at the Embassy to-day, to discuss ways and means of
defense among the Americans if anything happens in the city. Von Hintze
and von Papen have tried to do some organizing among their colony. The
Japanese have long since had _carte blanche_ from the government in
the way of ammunition and marines from their ships at Manzanillo. Sir
Christopher, some time ago, sent Lieutenant Strawbensie up from Vera
Cruz, to teach the English colony a few rudiments--and the French have
also had a naval officer here for several weeks.

Last night, it appears, the boat taking 480,000 pesos to the north
coast to pay the troops was captured by rebels. “Juan and José” always
come out at the little end of the horn. There are immense geographical
difficulties in the way of transporting money to the army in the north,
over mountain chains and deserts, besides the strategic difficulty of
getting it to the proper place without the rebels or bandits seizing
it. After that, there is the further possibility of the officers
putting it in their own pockets. What wonder that “Juan and José” sell
their rifles and ammunition or go over to the rebels, where looting is
permitted and encouraged? _They_ are always hungry, no matter what are
the intentions and desires of the central government.

Telegrams from the north are very contradictory, and generally
unfavorable to the government. The foreign correspondents were warned
this morning, by a note from the Foreign Office (and it was to be the
last warning), that they were not to send out false reports favorable
to the rebels and redounding to the injury of both foreigners and
Federals. They will get the famous “33” applied to them, if they don’t
“walk Spanish.” No joking here now; much depends, psychologically, if
not actually, on the issues at Torreon.

The clever editor of the _Mexican Herald_ remarks, apropos of the
Presidential message of last week: “Our idea of a smart thing for
Carranza to do would be to read President Huerta’s message to Villa.
The array of things a President has to worry about, besides war and
confiscation, are enough to remove the glamour.”

All Villa knows about revenue is embodied in the word loot. Even in
this fertile land, where every mountain is oozing with gold, silver,
and copper, and every seed committed to the earth is ready to spring up
a hundredfold, he who neglects to plant and dig can’t reap or garner.
The whole north is one vast devastation and invitation to the specters
of famine.


FOOTNOTES:

[13] When we saw Dr. Ryan off to Serbia he suggested laughingly that I
omit the cross, as he was in jail twice, and once led out to be shot,
between that Mexican parting and our meeting in Washington six weeks
later!--E. O’S.

[14] Now the club is stripped of its sumptuous fittings and historic
pictures and library, and is a working-man’s home (_casa de obreros_)
under the philanthropic and broad-minded _Constitucionalistas_. The
beautiful old _patio_ is used for stabling horses.




XX


  Good Friday--Mexican toys with symbolic sounds--“The Tampico
  incident”--Sabado de Gloria and Easter--An international
  photograph--The last reception at Chapultepec.


_Viernes Santo Afternoon._

As I came home from church this morning the sacred day seemed to be a
day of noise. The Indians were busy in their booths along the Alameda.
Thousands of small, wooden carts are bought by thousands of small boys
and girls; _metracas_, they are called, and so constructed that, in
addition to the usual noise, every revolution of the wheels makes a
sound like the breaking of wood. This noise is supposed to typify the
breaking of the bones of Judas. There are also appalling tin objects,
like nutmeg-graters, that revolve on sticks, with the same symbolic
sound. Little boys and girls outside the churches sell pious leaflets,
crying in their shrill voices, “_Las siete palabras de nuestro Señor
Jesus Christo_,” or “_El pesame de nuestra Señora Madre de Dios_.”

Something is brewing here, and it was with a heart somewhat perturbed
by earthly happenings that I again went to the cathedral, at three
o’clock. At the doors the little venders of the holy words were as
insistent as ever. Thousands were filing in and out, going up with
whatever burden of babe or bundle they happened to be carrying, to kiss
the great cross laid on the steps of the high altar. I bethought me
of last Good Friday in Rome, and of hearing Father Benson preach the
“Three Hours” at San Sylvestro.


_April 10th. Good Friday Night._

Events succeed each other in kaleidoscopic fashion in Latin America,
but I have, at last, a moment in which to tell you of the especial turn
to-day.

This morning N. was informed, through the Foreign Office, of something
referred to as “the Tampico incident.” The Foreign Office was decidedly
in the air about it. On returning home, at one o’clock, however, N.
found a very definite telegram from Admiral Fletcher, and there is sure
to be trouble....

N. took the penciled reading and dashed off to find Huerta. Potential
war lies in any incident here. He was away all the afternoon, hunting
Huerta, but only found him at six o’clock. Huerta’s written answer was
in the usual clever, Latin-American manner; his verbal remarks on the
subject to a foreigner were beyond editing. The newspaper men were
coming in, all the afternoon, and were disappointed not to find the
“source of light and heat.”

...

The final touch was put on the nerves of everybody by Elim’s dragging
his _metraca_ about the halls. With howls of protestation he was
separated from it.

...

N. said he might possibly have arranged the matter except for the
little Sub-Secretary, who had never met the President before, and who
wanted, all during the interview, to prove he was very much of a man.
Portillo y Rojas is away for the Easter holidays. At the President’s
door a big, sullen Indian told N. he could not see the President, who
was taking a _siesta_. As N. could not entirely follow the injunction
about sleeping dogs, he compromised on a little tour, returning to
find the President about to get into his motor. He asked N. to come
with him, which N. did, sitting by his side, the secretary facing
them on the _strapontin_. N. told the President he had something
“very delicate” (“_un asunto muy delicado_”) to speak to him about.
The President made one of his waving gestures, and the ball opened.
Huerta said he would apologize for “the Tampico incident.” N. indicated
that his government would not consider that sufficient. Huerta asked,
squarely: “What do you want?” N. answered, “The salutes,” saying he
might arrange the matter quietly, giving the salutes some morning
at sunrise, for instance. The President began to ponder the matter;
whereupon the secretary, thinking his chance had come, broke in upon
the silence with the remark that it would be derogatory to the national
honor to salute, and that there was no guarantee that the salutes
would be returned, that Mexico’s sovereignty was in question, and the
like. The President immediately stiffened up.--So can a nobody turn a
nation’s destinies!

...

There is talk of providing a neutral zone in Tampico during the
fighting. Every time an oil-tank is damaged, not only are several
hundred thousand dollars gone, but there is immense danger of the oil
flowing down the river and being set fire to. You can imagine the
result to the shipping in the harbor, as well as to the town.

[Illustration: THE SIESTA]

It is now ten o’clock; the answer of Huerta has been sent off to the
State Department and to Admiral Fletcher. Many newspaper men have
interviewed Nelson, and he has gone up-stairs. These days of delicate
negotiations--when a word too much or a word too little would make
trouble--are wearying, to say the least. But so is fame made....
It seemed to me the only thing I _didn’t_ do to-day was to buy an
imitation devil, also representing Judas, of which thousands in clay,
in cardboard, in every conceivable form, are offered on every street
corner.


_Sabado de Gloria._

To-day the _papier-maché_ “Judases” were burned, on the street corners,
to the great joy of children and adults, while cannon and torpedoes and
firecrackers of all kinds made things rather noisy. I remembered again
the old Roman days, and the quiet of Holy Saturday, “hidden in the tomb
with Christ.”

There is going to be a lot of trouble about the Tampico incident. The
“Old Man” is recalcitrant and feels that the public apology by General
Zaragoza should be sufficient. What we will do can only be surmised.
Recently, one of the newspapers had a cartoon of Mr. Bryan speaking to
“Mexico.” Under the picture was this pleasing caption, “I may say, I am
most annoyed; and if you do not immediately reform, I hesitate to say
what I may not be inclined to decide, perhaps!”


_Easter Sunday Morning._

A heavenly sky looks down on the Resurrection morn, and it is,
indeed, the resurrection of a good many Mexicans who, these last
days, have spilled their life’s blood for reasons unknown to them.
The Sub-Secretary for Foreign Affairs spent the night hour from two
to three with Nelson. The Mexican government does not want to salute
the flag, though, of course, it will have to yield to our demand.
Fighting continues at Tampico. The American war-ships are crowded
with unfortunate refugees, and there is increasing animosity against
the Americans. General Zaragoza has expressed official regret at the
arrest, but the salute to the flag has been postponed.

Nelson has already been twice to the Foreign Office. He told the
sub-secretary to tell the President the salute must be given. He has
looked up precedents in the international-law books at the Embassy,
to soothe their feelings, their _cultura_ and _bizarría_. If the
sub-secretary says that Huerta still persists in refusing, N. is going
to try a personal appeal. It is a salute or intervention, I suppose.

It appears that Mr. Bryan has said he can see no reason why the Mexican
government should not “cheerfully salute,” and “that doubtless the
church holidays have interfered with the transaction of business.” Is
it the end, or not? _Quién sabe?_


_April 12th. 5_ P.M.

A written reply, very clever indeed, was received at one o’clock,
refusing categorically to give the desired, or rather, _demanded_,
salute of twenty-one guns, at Tampico. The Mexicans say that the
whaleboat landed at a part of the town then in the military zone, and
without permission; that fighting was going on at the time; that the
city was under martial law. The men had been sent in to get gasoline
for the ship with the paymaster (usually it is only a petty officer
who accompanies the men on such errands). The reply ends with an
_acuerdo especial_ (especial message) from Huerta to the effect that
he could not comply with the United States’ demands without wounding
Mexico’s national honor and dignity and infringing on her sovereignty,
which he is ready to defend at all times and in all ways. Now what are
we going to do? The clerks have been working like mad all day, and
endless cables have gone out of the Embassy. Nelson says he will not
go to Huerta, though when we passed Chapultepec restaurant, coming
from the Reforma Club near by, where we had been lunching, he saw the
President’s motor, and got out of our car and strolled through the
restaurant, to give Huerta a chance to speak, if he was so minded,
without seeking him out. However, Huerta was dining with the officers
of the _rural_ guard, and Nelson left immediately. Huerta had been
at the automobile races all the morning, we, in our Anglo-Saxon
preoccupation, having, of course, forgotten about them. The situation
is again very tense; again war and destruction loom up--a specter to
us, as well as to this strange Indian republic that we are trying to
mold to our image and likeness.

Nelson has told all newspaper men that he gives no information to any
one; that he is a “dry spring,” and that they must cable to their home
offices for news. As, since nine-thirty, there has been the strictest
censorship, they won’t get or give much. Even the Embassy cables were
delayed until Nelson went to the office and made his arrangements.

The white pony and the Mexican saddle that the President has asked to
present to Elim, fortunately, have not appeared. You can imagine the
juicy dish of news that gift would make at home! Refusal or acceptance
would be equally delicate.


_April 13th. Evening._

No news has come. I wonder what they did in Tampico at six o’clock. A
very insistent note has come from the Foreign Office, recounting, I
think for the first time, Mexico’s many grievances against us--troubles
caused by the raising of the embargo and the consequent supplying
of arms to the rebels; claiming the Federals’ right to conduct the
fight at Tampico any way they see fit; saying that they will tolerate
no interference in their national affairs, etc. We, having armed
the rebels, can hardly take exception to the Federals’ defending
themselves. They insist that the whaleboat of the _Dolphin_ _was_ on
forbidden territory when the men were arrested, but the statement is
not official. Washington is to-day either finding a way out of the
affair or looking into the grim, cold eyes of intervention.

I had an Easter-egg hunt in the garden, for Elim, at which nine little
darlings assisted. Then we had tea, with many flashes of Spanish wit.
All the foreign children here prefer to speak Spanish. The mothers and
other ladies left at six, after which the French military _attaché_, de
Bertier, and Letellier, came in, and we talked _Mexicana_ till eight.
De Bertier said this was the second most interesting situation he
had ever watched. The first was the beginning of the French power in
Morocco--that clear flame of French civilization, at first trembling
and uncertain, in the deserts and mountains of North Africa, but ever
increasing, carried to the Arabs, a “race pure,” by a handful of brave
and dashing soldiers, also of a “race pure.” He finds the problem much
more complicated in Mexico, where a _salade_ of races is involved.


_April 14th. 2_ P.M.

This morning, like so many mornings here, had its own special color.
Nelson had not seen Huerta since the interview on Friday night, about
the saluting of the flag. We drove out to Chapultepec, where, before
the restaurant steps, the usual _petit lever_ was being held--generals,
Cabinet Ministers, and other officials. Nelson went over to the
President, while the motor, with Clarence Hay and myself in it,
retreated out of the blazing sun under the shade of some convenient and
beautiful ahuehuetes. From afar we saw the President get out of his
motor and Nelson go up to him; then both walked up the broad stairs
of the restaurant. In a few minutes Ramon Corona, now chief of staff,
walked quickly over to our motor.

“I come from the President to ask you to go to the _fiesta militar_
in the Pereda _cuartel_,” he said. The President took Nelson in his
motor, I following in ours, with Corona. Hay vanished from the somewhat
complicated situation. I got to the barracks to find that we were the
only foreigners, and I the only lady on the raised dais (where generals
and Cabinet Ministers were even thicker than at Chapultepec), to watch
the various exercises the well-trained _gendarme_ corps gave for the
President. They are for the moment without horses, the lack of which
is a great problem here. We watched the various steps, drills, and
exercises for a couple of hours with great interest, I sitting between
Corona and charming young Eduardo Iturbide, the present governor of
the Federal district. It is wonderful what those Indians did, having
been gathered in only during the last month. I told one or two little
stories of things I had seen in Berlin and Rome. You remember how
the raw recruits used to pass Alsenstrasse on the way to those big
barracks, just over the Spree--great, hulking, awkward, ignorant
peasants who after six weeks could stand straight, look an officer in
the eye, and answer “Yes” or “No” to a question. The Italian story was
one once told me by a lieutenant who had been drilling some recruits
back of the Pamfili-Doria Villa. After several weeks’ instruction, he
asked a man, “Who lives over there?” pointing to the Vatican. “I don’t
know,” was the answer. He called another man, who responded, promptly,
“The Pope.” The officer, much encouraged, asked further, “What is his
name?” “Victor Emmanuele,” was the unhappy response. This last story
especially appealed to the officers. They told me their greatest
difficulty is to get any kind of mental concentration from the Indians.

The exercises finally came to an end, with the Police Band--one of
the finest I have ever heard--playing the waltz time of “Bachimba,”
composed in honor of Huerta’s great victory when fighting for Madero
against Orozco. Huerta gave me his arm and we went in to an elaborate
collation--champagne, cold _patés_, and sweets--I sitting on the
President’s right. Huerta then made a speech that seemed as if it
might have come from the lips of Emperor William, on the necessity of
discipline, and the great results therefrom to the country. He said
that when the country was pacified the almost countless thousands
of the army would, he hoped, return to the fields, the mines, the
factories, stronger and better able to fight the battle of life for
having been trained to obedience, concentration, and understanding.
When the speech was over, and all the healths had been drunk (mine
coming first!), the President gave the sign and I turned to leave. We
were standing in the middle of the flower-laden horseshoe table, and I
moved to go out by the side I had come in. He stopped me.

“No, señora,” he said, “never take the road back--always onward.
_Adelante._”

Repeating, “_Adelante_,” I took the indicated way. As we went down
the steps and into the _patio_ we found _four_ cameras ready, about
three yards in front of us! I felt that Huerta was rather surprised,
and I myself stiffened up a bit, but--what could “a perfect lady” do?
It was not the moment for me to flinch, so we stood there and let
them do their worst. I could not show him the discourtesy of refusing
to be photographed--but here, on the edge of war, it was a curious
situation for us both. Well, the _censura_ can sometimes be a friend;
the photograph won’t be in every newspaper in the States to-morrow. If,
in a few days, diplomatic relations are broken off, that will be an
historic photograph.

The Old Man is always delightful in his courtesy and tact. As for his
international attitude, it has been flawless. On all occasions where
there has been any mistake made it has been made by others, not by him.
His national political attitude has perhaps left “much to be desired,”
though I scarcely feel like criticizing him in any way. He has held
up, desperately and determinedly, the tattered fabric of this state
and stands before the world without a single international obligation.
Who has done anything for him? Betrayed at home and neglected or
handicapped abroad, he bears this whole republic on his shoulders.


_5.30_ P.M.

I am trembling with excitement. On getting out of the motor, I met
Hyde, of the _Herald_. He has just had a telegram (the real sense made
clear by reading every other word--thus outwitting the censor) that
the whole North Atlantic fleet was being rushed to the Gulf, and that
a thousand marines were being shipped from Pensacola. Hyde says that
Huerta said to-day, “Is it a calamity? No, it is the best thing that
could happen to us!”

I hear Hohler’s voice in the anteroom....


_April 14th. 6.30_ P.M.

Burnside and Courts came in just after Hohler, and the inevitable
powwow on the situation followed. Burnside says we all have the Mexico
City point of view, and perhaps we have. Hohler was very much annoyed
at a hasty pencil scrawl just received from the north, informing him
that Villa had confiscated many car-loads of British cotton and that
many cruelties to Spaniards had been committed in connection with it.
Certainly there is not much “mine and thine,” in the Constitutionalist
territory, and not much protection. Here property and life are
respected.

There is a report that Huerta wants to send the “Tampico incident” to
The Hague for settlement. He insists that he was in the right about the
matter, and that any impartial tribunal would give him justice. Be that
as it may, we know he must give the salutes. It only remains for him
to find the way. _Cherchez la formule_, if not _la femme_.


_April 15th._

Another day, full to exhaustion, and winding up with the reception at
Chapultepec. There, while the President and N. were conferring, we, the
sixty or seventy guests--Mexicans, plenipotentiaries, officials, civil
and military--waited from six o’clock until long after seven to go in
to tea, or “lunch,” as they call it here. Beyond occasional glances at
the closed doors, no impatience was manifested. All know these are the
gravest and most delicate negotiations. We whiled away the time on the
palm-banked terrace, listening to the music of a band of _rurales_, who
made a picturesque mass in their orange-colored clothes embroidered in
silver, with neckties so scarlet that they were almost vermilion, and
great, peaked, white felt hats, with a heavy cord around the crown of
the same color as the flaming cravats. They sat in one corner of the
great terrace, playing their national music most beautifully--dances
full of swing, or melancholy and sensuous airs of the people, on
zithers, mandolins, guitars, harps, and some strange, small, gourd-like
instruments played as one would play on a mandolin.

At last the President and N. came in, looking inscrutable. No time to
ask results now. The President gave his arm to me, and he then wanted
N. to take in Madame Huerta; but the _chef du protocol_ headed off this
rather too-close co-operation, saying that was the place of the Russian
minister. I talked to Huerta to the limit of my Spanish, with pacific
intent, but he kept glancing about in a restless way. I even quoted
him that line of Santa Teresa, “_La paciencia todo lo alcanza_.” He
asked me, abruptly, what I thought of his international attitude, and
before I could reply to this somewhat difficult question he fortunately
answered it himself. “Up to now,” he said, “I have committed no
faults, I think, in my foreign policy; and as for patience, I am made
of it.” He added, “I keep my mouth shut.” I changed the subject, too
near home for comfort, by telling him that his speech of yesterday,
to the troops, might have been made by the Emperor of Germany. I
thought that would send his mind somewhat afield; you know he loves
Napoleon, and would be willing to include the Kaiser. He brightened
up and thanked me for the compliment, in the way any man of the world
might have done.... It is a curious situation. I have all the time a
sickening sensation that we are destroying these people and that there
is no way out. We seem to have taken advantage of their every distress.

We hurried away at eight o’clock, so that N. might see Courts at the
station, and give him the summary of his conversation, to be repeated
to Admiral Fletcher. It was that Huerta would be willing to give
the salutes if he could _trust_ us to keep our word about returning
them. As he certainly has no special reason for any faith in our
benevolence, he finally stipulated that the twenty-one salutes be
fired simultaneously. N. said he was very earnest and positive during
the first part of the conversation, but that toward the end he seemed
more amenable. Heaven alone knows how it will all end. One thing is
certain--it is on the lap of the gods and of Huerta, and the issue is
unknown to the rest of us.

I got home from the station to find Mrs. Burnside in the drawing-room,
ready to spend the evening. The captain was down-stairs, with what he
afterward characterized as “blankety blanks” (willing, but unmechanical
civilians), who were helping him to set up the rapid-firing guns,
otherwise known as the “doves of peace.” Mrs. Burnside tried to
persuade me to go to Vera Cruz to-morrow, when she departs, but I
couldn’t, in conscience, cause a probably unnecessary stampede of
people from their comfortable homes. If I had taken advantage of the
various opportunities held out to flee, I would have had, in common
with many others, an uncomfortable winter _à cheval_ between Mexico
City and the “Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz.”

I don’t know what answer has been made to the Hague proposition, if
any, by Washington; but it must have staggered Mr. Bryan and caused
him to blink. The Hague is one of the dearest children of his heart,
and universal peace has ever been a beloved and fruitful source of
eloquence. When it confronts him at this special moment, can he do
otherwise than take it to his bosom?


_April 16th._

This morning things seemed very bad. A curious telegram came from Mr.
Bryan, to be given to the press for its private information, not yet
for publication, saying that the Tampico incident was quite in the
background, but reciting two recent and heinous crimes of Mexico.
First, a cable for the Embassy was held over by a too-zealous partisan
of the _censura_ at the cable-office. N. arranged that matter in two
minutes, over the telephone, when it was brought to the attention of
the cable authorities. Hohler happened, for Mexico’s good, to be with
N. at the time. The incident was less than nothing, until mentioned
in the open cable from Washington. The other incident, also well
enough known, happened a short time ago in Vera Cruz, where another
too-zealous official arrested an orderly in uniform, carrying the
mails between the ships and the Vera Cruz post-office. That matter
was dismissed after an apology, a nominal punishment of the offending
official, and the immediate release of the carrier. Admiral Fletcher
attached no importance to the affair.

I have not cited the incidents in order. The telegram for the press,
in referring to the cable incident, begins, “far more serious is
the withholding by the censor of a cable addressed to the _chargé
d’affaires_ of the United States.” It also points out that no like
incidents have happened to the representatives of other nations in
Mexico, and that we must protect our national dignity--to which I
respond with all my heart. But when we do intervene here--which I know
we must--let it be for some vital case of blood and destruction. The
day Huerta has a stroke of apoplexy, gets a knife in his back, or is
killed by a firing-squad, we must come in, for anarchy will reign. He
may not be the best man in the world, and clever and even profound
thoughts of one day are counterbalanced by ineptitudes of the next;
but he does seem to be the only man in Mexico who can and will keep
order in the provinces under his control, especially now that the best
and most conservative elements are associated with the task--Rincon
Gaillardo, Iturbide, Garcia Pimentel, and many others.

Not a word of all the happenings of the past few days has appeared in
any newspaper in Mexico. The great potentialities are hidden, like a
smoldering, unsuspected fire. There _is_ a throbbing, an unrest--but
the great public doesn’t yet know whence it comes. I think if N.
has any luck in his pacific endeavors he ought to have the Nobel
prize--though I understand his _chef direct_ has an eye on that.


_April 17th._

Last night N. was with the Minister for Foreign Affairs for several
hours. They finally tracked Huerta to his house. The orderly said he
had gone to bed, but the Minister sent in his card. After a wait of
half an hour he sent in another. Huerta had forgotten that he was
waiting. He received him in bed, and in the midst of the conversation
asked him, as he afterward told N., what he thought about his pajamas,
adding, with a grin, that they were _Japanese_. Nelson did not go in.
He had spent several hours with the President at various times during
the day, and did not want to see him about painful and irritating
matters at such a late hour, when he and the President were worn out.

In thinking over Huerta’s remark, a few days ago, about the
demonstrations of our fleet not being a calamity, I believe he means
that this is, after all, the best way of consolidating the Federal
troops. We may stiffen them to service of their country against a
common enemy--but, oh, the graft! Oh, the dishonesty and self-seeking
that animate many of the hearts beating under those uniforms! They
sell anything and everything to the highest bidder, from automobile
tires and munitions of war, to their own persons. As for punishing
the various officers that are guilty, it seems very difficult;
court-martials would mean the decamping to the rebels of many officers,
high and low. So when _we_ demand punishment of this or that official,
the “Old Man” is placed between the devil and the deep sea. It is a
position he should now be accustomed to, however. On spies or on those
conspiring against the government he is relentless. That all political
colors recognize, and they do not hold it against him. Apropos of going
over to the rebels, the Mazatlan incident of last Christmas (or January
first) is a case in point. The officers on the gunboat _Tampico_ in
the harbor had a scandalous debauch, with stabbings, etc. They were to
be court-martialed, but they got out of that difficulty by going over,
boat and all, to the Constitutionalists at Topolobampo!




XXI


  Mr. Bryan declines the kindly offices of The Hague--More Americans
  leave Mexico City--Lieutenant Rowan arrives--Guarding the
  Embassy--Elim keeps within call.


_April 17th._

Washington will not take The Hague into consideration, and will not
fire simultaneous salutes, which, of course, it would be childish for
us to do, so the question is narrowed down to one point:--the Mexicans
must salute our flag, and we engage ourselves to answer it. Many
precedents for this are being cited by foreigners here. For instance,
the celebrated case of the French consul in San Francisco, who was
jailed for a few hours through a mistake. We made all reparation and
engaged ourselves to fire twenty-one salutes to the first French
ship that came into the harbor. Kanya tells me of an incident that
transpired when he was _chargé d’affaires_ at Cettinje, that was
regulated by an exchange of salutes between the contending parties, in
Antivari harbor.

I have had calls all afternoon--German, Belgian, Austrian, and Italian
colleagues, Marie Simon, de Soto (looking more like a handsome
contemporary of Velasquez than ever)--all, of course, talking about
_la situación_. Now I am waiting dinner for Nelson, who has been out
since four o’clock, trying to communicate the very courteous, but firm,
answer of Washington cited above.


_Later._

N. came in for dinner as the Burnsides, d’Antin, and McKenna were
sitting with me at table. One of the numerous telephone calls proved to
be from the Minister for Foreign Affairs, saying that he was leaving
the Ministerio, and would be immediately at the Embassy. I had cognac
and cigarettes placed in the drawing-room, and then everybody got out
of the way. They are both in there now--9.45--and the fate of Mexico
hangs in the balance, in that pleasant, high-ceilinged _salon_ of
mine, with the big vases of long-stemmed pink geraniums, and books,
and photographs, and bibelots, and its deep, comfortable green leather
chairs and sofa. I am writing this in one of the smaller rooms, with
newspaper men running in and out, and the telephone ringing. To the
journalistic demands Nelson has told the clerks to say “there is no
change,” which, in spite of my excitement, or perhaps because of it,
reminds me of the story recounted of a Russian Ambassador to London.
His wife had the bad taste to die at the time of the great visit of
the Czar to Queen Victoria. The Ambassador, who was above everything a
diplomat, had the body put on ice in the cellar of the Embassy, and to
all inquiries as to his wife’s health he replied, suavely: “Thank you;
madame is in the same condition.”


_11.30._

Back in the drawing-room, with the historic cognac, the equally
historic cigarette ash, and the drawn-up chairs as mute witnesses that
something has taken place. What will come of it all? Rocking the ship
of state is an exciting business. I don’t understand Huerta’s attitude,
unless he is whipped by the rebels, and _knows_ it, and prefers defeat
at the hands of a nobler foe.

Portillo y Rojas said the President felt that he had done all that he
was called on to do as chief of the nation to expiate the Tampico
incidents; that the sailors were put at liberty immediately, with an
apology given by the _jefe de la plaza_--General Moreles Zaragoza--to
Admiral Mayo; that since then the President himself had manifested
regret and had ordered an investigation to punish the guilty party;
that any nation in the world would have been satisfied by these
proceedings, and that furthermore he agreed that the Mexican cannon
might salute simultaneously with those of the Americans, which would
fully show the good-will on both sides, and also let the neighboring
peoples witness the happy termination of a difficulty that had never
been serious. There is a Spanish proverb about having more fins than
a fish, which certainly applies to this sauve and clever old Indian.
He further sent expressions of great friendship for Nelson by the
Minister, but said he _couldn’t_ do this thing even for him, much as he
desired to.

A moment ago a little blond-headed, blue-robed, sleepy angel appeared
on the scene to ask when I was coming up-stairs. Perhaps, like the
rest of us, Elim feels the disturbing electric currents in the air.
He is now lying on the sofa, wrestling with sleep. He had been put to
bed some hours before, rather unhappily. He kept pressing close to
my dressing-table as I was getting ready for dinner, fingered every
article on it, and asked me countless questions. These ranged from,
“What does God eat?” to, “Why don’t women wear suspenders?” until I was
frantic and had him removed in tears.

There are fears that the Zapatistas will arrive in the city; but they
are nothing compared to other fears that stalk the town to-night.
During the French intervention many people remained in Mexico City,
reached a ripe old age, and died in their beds; which every one seems
anxious to do, though I have never felt that dying in one’s bed is all
it is cracked up to be. “Bury me where I fall. Everywhere will be heard
the judgment call.” I don’t much care when or where or how it comes.


_April 18th. 4:30_ P.M.

No news as yet from Washington. I have just returned after lunching
at the Russian minister’s. Everything was very _soigné_, as it always
is, with _blinis_ and delicious caviar and all sorts of good things. I
feel as if I had eaten the Legation instead of at it. One has so little
appetite at eight thousand feet above sea-level. There were von Hintze,
Kanya, Marie Simon, in one of her smart Drecoll dresses, and myself.
They all think the situation in the south is very bad, but I am no more
to be scared by the cry of Zapatistas, having heard it ever since I
first put foot in Mexico.

The _Mexican Herald_ remarks this morning (dealing with the situation
in glittering generalities) that “When each party to an agreement gets
the idea that the other side is going to back down, it is certainly
trying to the patience of an _Irish_ peacemaker.”

One of the great dust-storms of the end of the dry season is on us
to-day; all the color is gone out of the air, which has become opaque,
gritty, non-refracting.


_6.30._

Callers all the afternoon. Now McKenna comes in to say that the final
word, _en clair_, from Washington has been received. It was given
out at the White House at noon. “General Huerta is still insisting
upon doing something less than has been demanded, and something less
than could constitute an acknowledgment that his representatives were
entirely in the wrong in the indignities they have put upon the United
States. The President has determined that if General Huerta has not
yielded by six o’clock on Sunday afternoon, he will take the matter to
Congress on Monday.”

...

It makes me sick with dread to think of the probable fate of Americans
in the desert spaces and the mountain fastnesses of Mexico. Some one
has blundered, somewhere, somehow, that _we_ should come in to give the
_coup de grâce_ to this distracted nation, who yet clings, and rightly,
to those tattered shreds of sovereignty we have left her. The foreign
Powers think we are playing the most cold-blooded, most cruel game of
“grab” in all history.


_April 18th. 10_ P.M.

Things _do_ move. I came down from Aunt Laura’s room to find Lieutenant
Rowan in the hall, just off the train from Vera Cruz, after a delayed,
dusty trip. You can imagine he got a warm welcome. Nelson came in just
then, and a few minutes later, as we were still standing in the front
hall, Portillo y Rojas appeared at the door, looking, we instantly
thought, much happier. He was wearing his green, gold-embroidered
sash, the insignia of military rank that Huerta has imposed rather
than bestowed on all Cabinet officers, who are thus under military
discipline and obedience to him as _generalissimo_. They objected to
wearing full military uniform, compromising on the sash. Rojas also
wore a smile--I don’t know whether it was for me or for the situation.
He had come to tell Nelson that the salutes would be given on his,
N.’s, written word of honor that they would be returned. He has been
an hour and a half in Nelson’s private room drawing up a document--a
protocol (_il y va de sa propre tête_)--and he is doing it with the
painstaking care of a man who has everything at stake. Nelson himself
is pretty foxy, and has to look out for _his_ skin. Well, “all’s well
that ends well.” If we get through this the next incident _will_ mean
war. I hope at Washington they will appreciate some of the difficulties
N. has to meet, and act accordingly. However, “call no man happy until
his death.” I hear the click of the big iron gate swinging to after the
exit of Lopez Portillo y Rojas.

I am fairly tired out and shall now proceed to draw the drapery of my
couch about me and lie down--I hope to pleasanter dreams than those of
last night. How glad I am that I haven’t confided my son or my jewels
to various terror-stricken acquaintances who have levanted two hundred
and fifty miles _east_ and eight thousand feet down. It hasn’t come
yet; all, after everything is said and done, hangs on the life of
that astute and patient old Cori Indian, whose years of our Lord are
fifty-nine, and who, whatever his sins, were they blacker than night,
is legally President of Mexico. Chase legality out of Latin America and
where are you? After him anarchy, chaos, and finally intervention--the
biggest police job ever undertaken in the Western Hemisphere, however
one may feel like belittling it from a military standpoint. I have
thought all these days of the probable head-lines of the newspapers and
hoped my precious mother was not worrying about her distant ones. Good
night, and then again good night. “God’s in His heaven; all’s well with
_us_.”


_April 19th. 11.30_ P.M.

The last of the continuous line of plenipotentiaries, _chargés
d’affaires_, railroad men, laymen of all kinds, have gone. Washington
refused Nelson’s signature to the protocol drawn up by Portillo y
Rojas and sent for approval. Huerta then refused categorically to give
the salutes. So it is intervention. At 4.30 I went down-stairs for
tea, as usual, to find Adatchi and Eyguesparsse there. Eyguesparsse,
as you know, married the sister of General Rincon Gaillardo. He
says that Huerta will resist to the end; his _esprit militaire_ is
entirely opposed to the _esprit universitaire_ of Wilson. “_Ils ne
pourront jamais se comprendre._” Huerta said to Rincon Gaillardo that
intervention would be a work of five years, and productive of the
greatest trouble to the United States. Huerta’s stand is _incroyable_,
_unglaublich_ unbelievable, _incredibile_--what you will. Each
representative who called exclaimed the same thing in his special
tongue as he greeted me. Hohler was very quiet, and really very sad
at the happenings. He has been a faithful friend through everything.
Sir Lionel gets here to-morrow or the next day. Kanya, Letellier,
and Clarence Hay stayed for dinner. Hohler came back again in the
evening, also von Hintze, who does not think the war vote will go
with a rush through Congress to-morrow, and quotes the case of Polk.
He said it took three months for him to persuade Congress to vote
the money and men for the 1846 war. I can’t verify this. He and von
Papen left at eleven. Nelson, Rowan, and I came up-stairs, all a bit
fagged. To-morrow will be a full day. I long ago promised the American
women here that if and when I thought the break was impending I would
let them know. I think it has steadied their situation here that I
haven’t “lit out” from time to time. But what of the hundreds--no,
thousands--all over this fair land whose possible fate is scarcely to
be looked in the face? The “Old Man” has some idea other than despair
and fatigue or impatience. He is working on a plan, probably hoping for
a chance to play his trump card--the unification of all Mexicans to
repel the invaders,--which would take the trick anywhere but in Mexico.
We are going to get some more _gendarmes_ for the Embassy. I feel very
calm and deeply interested. It is a big moment, and Nelson has been
unremitting in his endeavors.

The Foreign Office here has given the press a statement of two thousand
words to-night, which will bring forth dismay and horror in the
morning. I can’t feel the personal danger of the situation. I am sorry
dear Dr. Ryan is away. I sent him yesterday, in care of the consul at
Saltillo, the prearranged word, “101,” which meant that, whenever,
wherever, he got it, he was to return immediately. At last hearing, the
more prudent von Papen, who decided to return to Mexico City, saw him
start from Saltillo with his medical supplies and four mules, to try to
get to Torreon over a desert stretch.

Von Papen, who had a most uncertain trip, says the only way to prevent
the continual destruction of the railways is the establishment of the
blockhouse system now planned by the Federal government.


_2.30_ A.M.

I can’t sleep. National and personal potentialities are surging
through my brain. Three stalwart railroad men came to the Embassy this
evening. They brought reports of a plan for the massacre of Americans
in the street to-night, but, strange and wonderful thing, a heavy rain
is falling. It is my only experience of a midnight rain in Mexico,
except that which fell upon the mobs crying “Death to Diaz,” nearly
three years ago. As all Mexicans hate to get wet, rain is as potent as
shell-fire in clearing the streets, and I don’t think there will be any
trouble. Providence seems to keep an occasional unnatural shower on
hand for Mexican crises.

N.’s secret-service man reappeared upon the scene yesterday, probably
by the President’s orders. This works two ways. It protects N., and
incidentally proves to Huerta that N. is not intriguing against _him_.

Had this war been induced by a great incident or for a great principle,
I could bear it. But because the details of a salute could not be
decided upon we give ourselves, and inflict on others, the horrors
of war. Mr. Bryan, so the _Herald_ playfully remarks to-day, must
have been surprised and disappointed. The “salutes were always so
cheerfully returned at Chautauqua.” It is no situation for amateurs.
The longer I live the more respect I have for technical training. Every
Foreign Office in Europe or any other continent keeps experts for just
such cases. I may become an interventionist, but _after_ Huerta. He
has proved himself vastly superior, in executive ability, to any man
Mexico has produced since Diaz, in spite of his lack of balance and
his surprising childishness, following upon strange subtleties, and
he would have sold his soul to please the United States to the point
of recognition. In that small, soft hand (doubtless bloody, too) were
possibilities of a renewal of prosperity, after the dreams of Madero
that he himself could never have clothed in reality. The reassociation
of the government with the conservative elements might have given some
guarantee of peace, at least during Huerta’s life, and any man’s life
is a long time in an Indian or Latin republic.


_April 20th. 10_ A.M.

We have awakened to a busy morning. At seven o’clock I began to
telephone all those women. If anything happens, American women here
will be thankful to be out of the way, and if the clouds blow over,
they will only have done what they have done before, on several
occasions--taken an unnecessary trip to Vera Cruz. Every American in
town has either appeared at the Embassy or telephoned. Rowan remains
with us, I hope. N. has telegraphed Admiral Fletcher that in view of
the fact that he is alone with me at the Embassy, he begs not to have
Rowan recalled. He is a dear fellow, and a great comfort and support.
Anything his courage and good sense can keep from happening to us will
not happen. A cable saying the matter will be laid before Congress this
afternoon, instead of this morning, is just received. It gives us a
breathing-space. But the telephone! The newspaper men! The frightened
Americans! If we are obliged to go, Aunt Laura will stay with Mrs.
Melick, that friend of hers who has a handsome house just across the
way. This relieves both her and me from anxiety. Americans are leaving
in hosts--about five hundred persons, of all nationalities, leave
to-day.

I have just found on my table an envelope, “From Elim to Mamma.” A
drawing inside represents a tombstone, and a star shines above it. It
has a little bunch of fresh heliotrope fastened to it with a clipper,
and the back is decorated with three crosses--a bit startling in these
potential days! My heart is sick. Wednesday that great fleet arrives.
What is it going to fight? It can’t bombard Vera Cruz. The streets are
full and the houses overflowing with fleeing non-combatants. It can’t
climb the mountains and protect the countless Americans getting their
living in the fastnesses or in the valleys. Huerta’s army is engaged in
the death-struggle, in the north, against enemies of the government,
armed with our munitions. Oh, the pity of it!

And this city, this beautiful city, placed so wonderfully, so
symmetrically, on the globe, in the very center of the Western
Hemisphere, a great continent to north and south, half-way between
immense oceans, and lifted nearly eight thousand feet up to the
heavens! Strange, symbolic correspondences between the seen and the
unseen constantly make themselves sensible, in some unexplainable,
magic way, while to the eye there are the manifold abundancies of
mother earth, and this queer, dark, unchanging, and unchangeable race,
whose psychological formula is unknown to us, inhabiting and using it
all.


_April 20th. 7.30._

This afternoon a whirlwind of rumors. First, that Congress had voted
full power to Mr. Wilson, and one hundred and fifty million dollars;
that Vera Cruz was being bombarded; that an attack is being planned
against the Embassy to-night. There is, doubtless, nothing in this
last, but N. telephoned to Eduardo Iturbide, always to be counted on,
who is sending us one hundred mounted _gendarmes_. Captain Burnside is
coming over here to sleep, and Rowan is with us, besides secret-service
men and our own _gendarmes_. We have machine-guns, rifles, and
quantities of ammunition. Many people were in for tea, when I am always
to be seen. Madame Simon expects to leave to-night for Vera Cruz, with
her little boy and two maids. Clarence Hay and the Tozzers are going,
too, and about one hundred Germans. Von Hintze has sent away as many
men, women, and children as he could induce to go.

I had a curious experience with Adatchi. Suddenly, as he was sitting
on the sofa, drinking his tea, von Papen and Ayguesparsse also in the
room, I had a queer psychic impression that he was not speaking of what
he was thinking. I thought no more of it until he came over to a chair
near me and said, with a curious, Oriental smile:

“I had a talk with Portillo y Rojas, this afternoon. All is not yet
lost. I have left my secretaries working on a long telegram to Tokio.”

I asked: “You mean there may be a possible arrangement?”

And he said, “Yes,” without enlarging on it. N. is out, calling
on Iturbide to thank him for the guard, and Adatchi returns at
nine-thirty. After he left, I told Ayguesparsse and von Papen what
Adatchi had said.

Ayguesparsse said, “His government would naturally favor the
Mexicans.” And we all wondered if the Japs _could_ have worked out an
_arreglamiento_. The Japanese _mentalité_ is, of course, absolutely
foreign and irreconcilable to ours, but it is _not_ a negligible
quantity. Ayguesparsse has been very, very nice all these days, and I
realize that behind that elegant silhouette there is a man of poise
and kindness. Scarcely had he and von Papen departed when Hohler came
in, hoping still for some arrangement. In this dark hour every one
of the colleagues has shown himself sincerely desirous of some issue
being found. So you have a little of my day, full of a thousand other
things. Many people have urged me to depart with them, but I am not
nervous, not afraid. I am no trouble to N., perhaps even some help;
and certainly dignity and all manner of fitness demand that I remain
here with him till he gets his papers, _if_ he gets them, and go off
suitably at the time appointed by our country, or the country to which
we are accredited. My leaving now would mean to the Americans here
that all was lost--even honor, _I_ should add. Elim has not been far
out of sight to-day. He was warned, and the _gendarmes_ and everybody
in the house warned, that he was not even to look out of the gate;
and, scenting possible danger, he has not wandered far afield. He
climbs into my chair, trots after me, looks in at the door--he has no
intention of being out of call if suddenly wanted. His little senses
are alert, and he knows that all is not quiet on the plateau.


_April 21st._

Instead of an attack, last night, everything was very peaceful. The
automobile squad, composed of willing and capable Americans, circled
continually about the Embassy, as well as the guard of one hundred
mounted _gendarmes_ Eduardo Iturbide sent us. A bare message came from
Washington, very late, saying that Congress had voted the President
full powers. The details we will doubtless get this morning. The
_Ypiranga_, of the Hamburg-American Line, arrives at Vera Cruz to-day,
with seventeen million rounds of ammunition for Huerta, which will
greatly complicate matters. I do not know if we are going to seize it
or not. If we do, it is an _acte de guerre_, and we will be out of here
on short notice. If one were convinced of the good-will of Washington,
this whole incident could be arranged in five minutes. The Mexican
Foreign Office published this morning the full text of the documents on
the Tampico incident. The officials feel there is nothing to conceal,
and the diplomats and every American in town have by now lapped up with
their coffee all the secrets of the situation.




XXII


  Vera Cruz taken--Anti-American demonstrations--Refugees at the
  Embassy--A long line of visitors--A dramatic incident in the
  cable-office--Huerta makes his first and last call at the Embassy.


_April 21st. 12.30._

Nelson has been informed through Mexican sources--a most embarrassing
way to get the news--that Vera Cruz was taken by our ships at eight
o’clock this morning. (Cortés landed on April 21st, if I am not
mistaken, though, of course, that isn’t much help to _us_ now!) The
line from Mexico City to Vera Cruz has been blown up. I am so worn
out that I wouldn’t mind seeing even the Zapatistas climbing in at
the windows. Aunt Laura has been sitting by my bed, wearing that
pale-blue woolen jacket you sent me. She feels, after all these decades
of Tehuantepec, a chill even in these lovely days. The situation she
will find herself in after we go appalls me, but she is determined to
remain. All these years she has watched the increasing glories and
securities of Don Porfirio’s Mexico. One could go unarmed from the
Rio Grande to Guatemala. Now, when the years begin to press upon her,
she is caught up and ruined by present-day Mexican uncertainties, or
rather, certainties. One _knows_ one will lose everything one has here.

N. just looked in at the door to say we may have to leave _via_ the
Pacific (Manzanillo and San Francisco). Well, it is all in the hands
of the Lord. Some time, some way, we are destined to be recalled from
Mexico City. I wonder what Huerta is thinking of doing this morning.
Will the situation weld together his divided people? I am thankful
not to be among the hundreds--no, thousands--without bank accounts in
New York, Chicago, Boston, or other places, who are being packed like
sardines on transports for “home.” These are the real tragedies of the
situation to us, though I can’t help thinking of the Mexican side.
Several hundred thousand men, women, and children have been killed in
various ways since Madero started for Mexico City--American gunners
manning his guns.


_April 21st. 5 o’clock._

No news from Washington to-day. We might all be massacred. It is due
to the essential meekness, want of national spirit, want of whatever
you will in the Mexicans, that we are not, not because a paternal
government is watching over its public servants in foreign parts. I
have sent out for a good supply of candles; the lights might be cut
to-night by some Zapatista band. We all wonder why Huerta hasn’t cut
the railroad to Vera Cruz. Why doesn’t he make things a bit nasty for
us?


_8_ P.M.

A word from my sofa, where I am resting in my purple Paris draperies.
We have had a long line of visitors. Ayguesparsse was the first,
and so nice and sympathetic. With his Mexican wife he does not find
himself in an easy position. His family-in-law has made many and real
sacrifices for _La Patria_ and the Huerta government. Three men, expert
machinists, are having their dinners down-stairs, having set up the
Gatling-guns under Burnside’s instructions. I have provided _pulque_,
_tortillas_, _frijoles_, and cigarettes for countless _gendarmes_. We
are ten at dinner, and perhaps twenty have been in for tea. There has
been an anti-American demonstration at Porter’s Hotel, where the very
clever woman journalist I mentioned before is staying. She will sleep
here to-night, in Ryan’s room. The landlady of Porter’s is also coming,
and they will have to take friendly turns in a single bed. About twenty
extra persons are sleeping here. We hear nothing from Washington
direct. Algara, the Mexican _chargé_, has been recalled. N. saw Huerta
this afternoon, who begged him not to go. We can no longer cable,
though the other legations can send what they like to Washington _via_
their various European chanceries. No trains are going out to-night nor
this morning. Three of the many Pullmans, loaded with men, women, and
children, which started yesterday for Vera Cruz, have not yet arrived
there. We understand there was fighting along the road.

Rowan is being more than nice, but I think he is rather longing for the
baptism of fire that _might_ be his, were he in Vera Cruz.

After dinner McKenna came to tell us that there were three car-loads of
women and children outside the Embassy gate. They had to come in, of
course, and be attended to.

Nelson saw Huerta to-day at his house. The President said to him, very
brusquely: “You have seized our port. You have the right to take it, if
you can, and we have the right to try to prevent you. _Su Excelencia el
Señor Presidente_ Wilson has declared war, unnecessarily, on a people
that only ask to be left alone, to follow out their own evolution in
their own way, though it may not seem to you a good way.” He added that
he would have been willing to give the salutes, but that the incident
was only a pretext. In three weeks or three months, he said, it would
have been something else; that we were “after him,” or the Spanish to
that effect.

I think his real idea is to form the Mexicans into one camp against
the foreign foe. He does not want Nelson to go, in spite of the fact
that Algara has been recalled. We have no intimation, as yet, of our
leaving. Mr. Bryan has stated that he instructed Mr. O’Shaughnessy to
see Huerta and ask him to keep the roads open to facilitate the getting
out of refugees. We are asking favors to the end. N. had not seen
the President for several days and did not know in what disposition
he would find him. But Huerta took his hand and greeted him, saying,
“_Como está, amigo?_” (“How are you, friend?”). He might have been
going to play some Indian trick on him. I begged Rowan to go with N.,
and he waited in the automobile while N. had the interview.


_Later._

We are at war. American and Mexican blood flowed in the streets of
Vera Cruz to-day. The tale that reaches us is that the captain of the
_Ypiranga_ tried to land the seventeen million rounds of ammunition.
Admiral Fletcher expostulated. The captain of the _Ypiranga_
insisted on doing it, and, as we were not at war, he was within his
international rights. The admiral prevented him by force, and, they
say, in order to justify the action imposed on him by Washington,
took the town--thus putting us on a war basis. Whether this is a true
version of what has happened I don’t know. It does not sound like
Admiral Fletcher, but he may have had definite orders from Washington.
Von Hintze came in this afternoon. He minimized the incident, or
rather, seemed to minimize it, but I could see that he was very much
preoccupied. It may be a source of other and graver complications than
those of Mexico. It has been many a year since American blood flowed in
the streets of Vera Cruz. General Scott took it in 1847. The endless
repetitions of history!


_11_ P.M.

As I write, a mob, rather inoffensive, is howling outside, waving
Mexican flags and exhorting in loud voices. I can’t hear anything
from the window except something about _Vivan los Japoneses_, and a
few remarks not flattering to _los Gringos_. There are many good and
capable Americans, willing, ready, and able to second any use of the
guns. N. and Rowan have gone down to the cable-office to try and send
off something to Washington. The silence of our government remains
unbroken. Sir Lionel came back this morning. He is soon to go to Rio.
How beautifully England treats _her_ diplomats! Instead of removing
him, last autumn, when the row was on, our press campaign against him
caused his superiors to bide their time, but it must be a great trial
to Sir L. to be removed at so critical a moment to another post which,
though bigger and better paid, is not of the imminent importance of
this.


_April 22d._

The wedding morn of thirteen years ago! And we are in Mexico, in full
intervention! The troops can’t get up from Vera Cruz by rail, as the
Mexicans got away with all the locomotives when the town was taken.
That beautiful plan of Butler’s ... I understand that he is in Tampico,
with his marines, and the other marines are only due to-day in Vera
Cruz. It will take three weeks, even without resistance, for them to
march up with their heavy equipment.

At 12.30 last night N., who had gone to bed and to sleep, after a
more than strenuous day, was called to the telephone by the excited
consul-general, who had had the United States shield torn off the
Consulate, and other indignities offered the sacred building, including
window-breaking by the mob. N. wonders if Huerta will try to keep him
here as a hostage. Huerta told N. that he intends to take our arms
away, and, of course, there is no way of keeping them if he decides to
do so. We have certainly trampled on the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo
after 1848, providing that all disputes should be submitted first for
arbitration. So sing me no songs of treaty rights!

We heard last night that the Zapatistas were to unite with Huerta. It
would be interesting and curious to see a “Mexico united” on any point.
If those bandits come out of their _barrancas_ and mountains and do
to the Americans half the evil they work on one another, there will
be many a desolate mother, wife, sister, and sweetheart north of the
Rio Grande. N. says we may get off to-morrow morning. No night trips.
Yesterday Carden and von Hintze tried to get Huerta to arrange for
the despatching of a refugee train to leave not later than seven this
morning, but why he should do that, or anything for any one, unless
it falls in with his own plans, I don’t see. It is curious that the
Americans did not get hold of a few locomotives. The railroad is indeed
sounding brass and tinkling cymbals without them.

Every arm-chair, sofa, and bed in the house was occupied last night,
and many of the inmates lay on the floor. Constantly, in the distance,
sounds the beautiful Mexican bugle-call. The brass summons is clear
and noble, and the drums beat to the nation’s pulse--a poor thing,
according to us, but Mexico’s own. Where will it all end? With the
taking of Vera Cruz, through whose customs a full fourth of the total
imports come, Huerta is out a million pesos a month, more or less. We
are certainly isolating and weakening him at a great rate. “Might is
right.” We can begin to teach it in the schools.

We have heard nothing from Washington, and nothing from Vera Cruz.
Alone on our plateau! Up to now, there are no great anti-American
demonstrations. I put my faith in Huerta, in spite of the feeling
which Burnside expressed, that he might show Nelson an Indian’s
treachery. Aunt Laura is game. It is good fortune for her to have that
comfortable home just across the way to go to.

Something is being prepared in town. To-morrow we may get away. N.
begins to feel that he ought to be out of here, the Mexican _chargé_ at
Washington having left yesterday, with the entire Embassy staff. This
we learn from the Foreign Office here, _not_ from Washington.

The newspapers are rather fierce this morning. One head-line in the
_Independiente_ is to the effect that “the Federal bullets will no
longer spill brothers’ blood, but will perforate blond heads and white
breasts swollen with vanity and cowardice.” “Like a horde of bandits
the invaders assaulted the three-times heroic Vera Cruz. The brave
_costeños_ made the foreign thieves bite the dust they had stained
with their impure blood,” etc. The newspapers add that the Americans
landed “without a declaration of war, feloniously and advantageously.”
“Anathema to the cowardly mercantile projects of the President of the
United States!” they shriek. They had a picture of Mr. Wilson sitting
on heaped-up money-bags, Huerta standing before him, a basket of eggs
on each arm. “The true forces of the opponents,” this was labeled. It
is impossible to expect the Mexicans to seize the idea that the landing
of our troops was a simple police measure. In face of the facts, such
subtle distinctions will, I am sure, be overlooked. “_El suelo de la
patria está conculcado por el invasor extranjero_,” is the _fact_ to
them! I inclose here what the papers call “_el manifiesto laconico y
elocuente del Señor Presidente de la Republica_.”

  “_A LA REPUBLICA_

  “_En el Puerto de Veracruz, estamos sosteniendo con las armas el
  honor Nacional._

  “_El atentado que el Gobierno Yanqui comete contra un pueblo libre,
  como es, ha sido y será el de la Republica, pasará a la Historia, que
  pondrá a México y al Gobierno de los Estados Unidos, en el lugar que
  a cada cual corresponda._

  “_V. Huerta._”

  “TO THE REPUBLIC

  “In the port of Vera Cruz we are sustaining with arms the national
  honor.

  “The offense the Yankee government is committing against a free
  people, such as this Republic is, has always been, and will ever
  be, will pass into history--which will give to Mexico and to the
  government of the United States the place each merits.

  “V. HUERTA.”


_12.30._

N. has just come in to say that perhaps we leave to-morrow for
Guadalajara and Manzanillo. I am not crazy to see the Pacific coast
under these conditions. How many uncertain hours, wild mountains, and
deep _barrancas_ are between us and the United States men-of-war.

Mr. Cummings, chief of the cable-office, and all his men were dismissed
this morning, to be replaced by Federals. A dramatic incident occurred
when he went into the office to collect his money and private papers.
Finding himself for a moment alone, he quickly went to the telegraph
key and called up Vera Cruz. The operator there answered, “They are
fighting at the roundhouse.” There was a snap, and he heard no more.
Some one was listening and shut him off. That is the only authentic
news we have heard from Vera Cruz, or anywhere, for two days. But
the wild rumors around town are numberless and disquieting. Nothing
is touched down-stairs. I don’t want to alarm people needlessly by
stripping my rooms; and who knows if we can take out, if and when we
go, more than the strict necessities. There will always be a fair
amount of Embassy papers, codes, etc., that must go, whatever else is
left.


_10.30_ P.M.

At five o’clock I went down-stairs to my drawing-room--the matchless
Mexican sun streaming in at the windows--and poured tea. It was the
last time, though I didn’t know it. Many people came in: Kanya,
Stalewski, von Papen, Marie Simon, Cambiaggio, Rowan, de Soto, and
others; de Bertier had gone to Tampico. No one knew what was to
happen to us. Had we received our passports? Were we to stay on?
Could negotiations be reopened? Each came with another rumor, another
question. The Cardens came in late, Sir Lionel very agitated over the
rumors of the Zapatistas coming to town to-night. They are supposed to
have joined with the Federals. It was the first time I have seen Sir L.
since his return. He seemed whiter, paler, and older than when he went
away. Then von Hintze came. We talked of the hazy Vera Cruz incident
and its international bearing, _if_ the captain of the _Ypiranga_ had
been stopped on the high seas, before the blockading of the port, etc.

There was a gleam in von Hintze’s eye during the conversation, answered
by one in mine. We were both thinking that history has a way of
repeating itself. He was von Dietrich’s flag-lieutenant at Manila,
Rowan’s position with Fletcher at Vera Cruz. It was he who took the
famous message to Dewey and received the equally famous and emphatic
answer--so emphatic, history has it, that he almost backed down the
hatchway in his surprise. Thirteen years afterward he finds himself in
an American Embassy, discussing another marine incident concerning
Germany and the United States, another flag-lieutenant sitting by![15]

During all this time, the Embassy was closely surrounded by troops.
Hearing more than the usual noise, I asked Rowan to see what was going
on. It proved to be a large squad of soldiers come to take our arms
and ammunition away--our sacred doves of peace. All was done with the
greatest politeness--but it was done! Two hundred and fifty rifles,
two machine-guns, seventy-six thousand of one kind of ammunition, nine
thousand of another. It was a tea-party, indeed. At half after seven an
officer appeared in the drawing-room, as von Hintze and I were sitting
there alone, saying that the President was outside. Von Hintze departed
through the dining-room, after hastily helping me and McKenna to remove
the tea-table. There was no time to ring for servants. I went to the
door and waited on the honeysuckle and geranium-scented veranda while
the tearless old Indian, not in his top-hat (“_que da mas dignidad_”),
but in his gray sweater and soft hat, more suitable to events, came
quickly up the steps. It was his first and last visit to the Embassy
during our incumbency.

I led him into the drawing-room, where, to the accompaniment of
stamping hoofs outside, of changing arms, and footsteps coming and
going, we had a strange and moving conversation. I could not, for my
country’s sake, speak the endless regret that was in my heart for the
official part we had been obliged to play in the hateful drama enacted
by us to his country’s undoing. He greeted me calmly.

“Señora, how do you do? I fear you have had many annoyances.”

Then he sat back, quietly, in a big arm-chair, impersonal and
inscrutable. I answered as easily as I could that the times were
difficult for all, but that we were most appreciative of what he had
done for our personal safety and that of our nationals, and asked
him if there was nothing we could do for him. He gave me a long,
intraverted, and at the same time piercing look, and, after a pause,
answered:

“Nothing, señora. All that is done I must do myself. Here I remain. The
moment has not come for me to go. Nothing but death could remove me
now.”

I felt the tears come hot to my eyes, as I answered--taking refuge in
generalities in that difficult moment--“Death is not so terrible a
thing.”

He answered again, very quietly, “It is the natural law, to which we
must all submit. We were born into the world according to the natural
law, and must depart according to it--that is all.”

He has wavy, interlacing, but not disturbing gestures as he speaks. He
went on to say that he had come, in his name and that of his señora, to
ask N. and myself to attend the wedding of his son, Victor, the next
day. And notwithstanding much advice to the contrary by timid ones, we
think it expedient to go. The safety of all hangs on his good-will,
and it will be wise, as well as decent, to offer him this last public
attention. Just then Nelson came in. After greeting the President, he
said, rather hastily, “They have taken the arms away.”

Huerta answered with a gesture of indifference, “It must be,” adding,
“_no le hace_” (“it doesn’t matter”).

I told him with a smile, which he quite understood, that it wasn’t much
in the way of an exchange. (As we had taken seventeen million rounds
of ammunition, and God knows how many guns and rifles in Vera Cruz,
his haul at the Embassy did seem rather small!) He does not want us to
go out by Guadalajara and Manzanillo, and, unless compelled to cut the
line, he gives us his train to-morrow night to Vera Cruz, with a full
escort, including three officers of high rank.

“I would go myself,” he said, “but I cannot leave. I hope to send my
son in my place, if he returns from the north, as I expect.”

I was dreadfully keyed up, as you can imagine; I felt the tears gush to
my eyes. He seemed to think it was fear that moved me, for he told me
not to be anxious.

I said, “I am not weeping for myself, but for the tragedy of life.”

And, indeed, since seeing him I have been in a sea of sadness, personal
and impersonal--impersonal because of the crushing destiny that can
overtake a strong man and a country, and personal, because this
many-colored, vibrant Mexican experience of mine is drawing to a close.
Nothing can ever resemble it.

As we three stood there together he uttered, very quietly, his last
word:

“I hold no rancor toward the American people, nor toward _su Excelencia
el Señor Presidente Wilson_.” And, after a slight pause, he added, “_He
has not understood._”

It was the first and last time I ever heard him speak the President’s
name. I gave him my hand as he stood with his other hand on Nelson’s
shoulder, and knew that this was indeed the end. I think he realized
that my heart was warm and my sympathies outrushing to beautiful,
agonizing Mexico; for, as he stood at the door, he suddenly turned and
made me a deep reverence. Then, taking N.’s arm, he went out into the
starry, perfumed evening, and I turned back into the dwelling I was
so soon to leave, with the sadness of life, like a hot point, deep in
my heart. So is history written. So do circumstances and a man’s will
seem to raise him up to great ends, and so does destiny crush him....
And we, who arrogated to ourselves vengeance for unproven deeds in a
foreign land, was vengeance ours?

I left the Embassy staff alone at dinner and came up-stairs, to Aunt
Laura. Again I was sick at the thought of leaving her, old, ill, and
in troubles of many kinds. I will do what I can for her before I go;
but oh, I am sad, very sad, to-night. Whatever else life may have in
reserve for me, this last conversation with a strong man of another
psychology than mine will remain engraven on my heart--his calm, his
philosophy on the eve of a war he knows can only end in disaster
for himself and his people. His many faults, his crimes, even, his
desperate expedients to sustain himself, his non-fulfilments--all
vanish. I know his spirit possesses something which will see him safely
over the dark spaces and hours when they come.[16]


FOOTNOTES:

[15] Herr von Hintze began his career in the navy and before coming to
Mexico was for some years the German Emperor’s special naval _attaché_
to the Czar of Russia, after which he was made Minister to Mexico, with
the rank of Rear Admiral. On the outbreak of hostilities in Europe he
left Mexico, and is now Minister in Pekin. He crossed the Atlantic in
September, 1914, as steward on a small ship. When he was received by
the Emperor on his appointment to Pekin, report has it that he said,
“But, your Majesty, how am I to get there?” The Emperor replied, “As
you were able to get from Mexico to Berlin, you will doubtless be able
to get from Berlin to Pekin. Good-by, and good luck to you!” There
are fantastic and spectacular tales of his journey to China, in which
Zeppelins, submarines, and raiders figure--E. O’S.

[16] If I have idealized this Indian ruler, whom I knew only at the
flood-tide of his destiny, I have also, perhaps, given a clearer
testimony to facts. Let history deduce the truth--E. O’S.




XXIII


  The wedding of President Huerta’s son--Departure from the
  Embassy--Huerta’s royal accommodations--The journey down to Vera
  Cruz--The white flag of truce--We reach the American lines.


_April 24th. 9_ A.M. (In the train, after our sudden departure last
night.)

We have just passed the famous Metlac Bridge. Far down these enchanting
curves I see the military train which precedes us, with troops to test
the line, and a flatcar for our three automobiles, to get us through
the Federal lines at Tejería. We passed slowly over the Metlac Bridge.
There, in the middle, was flying the great, white flag of peace! We
could proceed. It made our hearts beat fast. The splendors of this land
under this cloudless sky are indescribable; marvelous odors come in at
the windows, and great, blazing stars of red and vermilion decorate
every bush. The broad banana leaves take every possible glint, and the
bayonet palms are swords of light. Everything is gorgeous--everything a
splendid blaze.

At Orizaba orderly crowds cried “_Viva Mexico!_” “_Mueran los
Gringos!_” and bared their heads, as the troop-cars attached to our
train rolled out. I cannot keep my eyes from the beauties of this
natural world through which we are journeying, conducted so royally by
command of the “Grand Old Indian.” Nature is so generous here that she
neither needs nor asks the co-operation of man in her giving. Alas for
him!

At six o’clock this morning they awakened us at Esperanza, the highest
point, to get out for a good breakfast offered by Corona. The troops
accompanying us were also fed, which does not always happen. Rowan
jogged the general’s mind by offering them a breakfast from _us_, but
he said, “Oh no; we will provide for them.” He evidently had orders
from “on high” to spare no trouble or expense.


_10.45._

We have just passed Cordoba, finding the crowds distinctly more uneasy.
We bought piles of bananas and oranges that Rowan is taking into the
troop-car. He has just come back to say the soldiers are all smiles.
The difficulty with the army is that the officers never in any way look
after their men--and a soldier with an empty stomach and sore feet is
a sad proposition. It is getting very warm. We are in the heart of the
coffee zone and have only about eighteen hundred feet to travel before
reaching sea-level. Embosomed in trees or pressed against blue-green
hills are the pink belfries and domes my heart knows so well and my
eyes love, a Spanish heritage of the land. I was thankful to see,
higher up, that barley and corn were being planted for the hungry days
to come. Morning-glories twist about every stump and branch and the
hibiscus has a richer color. Beautiful, beautiful Mexico!...

I wonder if the Embassy was pillaged and burned last night? Oh, the
_waste_ there! No time to sort out things. My clothes still hanging in
the closets, my bric-à-brac left about, and I dare say a lot of trash
was packed that I don’t care for. Dear Mrs. Melick kissed me as I came
out on General Corona’s arm, in a dream, it seemed to me, Elim clinging
to my hand, to take the auto for the station. I had left Aunt Laura
in the _salon_ with various friends whose faces are one great blur in
my memory, and Mrs. Melick was going in to get her and take her to
her house. Since yesterday afternoon Americans can no longer leave
Mexico City. Huerta, having heard that no Mexicans could leave Vera
Cruz, posted this order. My heart is sad at leaving our people. Heaven
knows what will happen to them. The Mexicans have commandeered all arms
except those of foreign legations (and _they_ will probably have to
go), all horses, all automobiles, great reserves of gasoline, etc. The
Embassy was well provisioned.

Last night our train was supposed to go at nine o’clock, but we did not
leave until eleven-thirty. The _chers collègues_ and a very few others
who knew of our going were there to see us off, in the dimly lighted,
gray station. At ten I begged our friends to go, and said good-by to
von Hintze, Hohler, von Papen, les Ayguesparsse, Stalewski, Letellier,
Kanya, and the Simons. (Simon has forty-five millions in _gold_ in
the Banco Nacional; some day he must give it up at the point of the
pistol.) We have masses of letters and telegrams to deliver. The “Pius
Fund” (forty-three thousand dollars) and my jewels and money of our own
and other people’s I carried in the black hand-bag with the gilt clasps
which you gave me in Paris. McKenna guards the codes as if they were
infants. No sovereign of Europe could have planned and executed this
departure of ours more royally than Huerta did it. You remember Polo
de Bernabé’s account of his “escape” from the land of the Stars and
Stripes?

At Guadalupe, the first stop just outside the city, a painful incident
occurred. About twenty-five persons, _friends_, were waiting there to
board the train and continue the journey with us. But N. had given his
word of honor, when he received the safe-conduct, that no person or
persons other than the personnel of Embassy and Consulate should avail
themselves of this privilege. So rarely was faith kept with Huerta that
it seemed hard that it should be done in this crucial hour and at the
expense of our own people. We intended, however, to save even honor;
but as our train rolled out of the station I felt, to the full, “the
fell clutch of circumstance.”

My idea is to be immediately vaccinated and injected for all ills, and
to return from New York with the first Red Cross brigade. I look into
the deep _barrancas_ and up the high mountains, and know _my_ people
will be lying there, needing help, before long. Zapata is supposed to
have offered his services to Huerta, to place himself in the Sierras
between Puebla and the Tierra Caliente. He can do heartbreaking things.
I know I must go now, but afterward I can return to work. Shall we
ever again have an embassy in Mexico? This seems the death of Mexican
sovereignty, _la fin d’une nation_.

I saw Sir Lionel for a moment, alone, last night. I thanked him for all
the work, the great responsibility that he was about to undertake for
our people. He is very worried and anxious, and kept saying, “Oh, the
dreadful responsibility it will be!” I told him we would not fail to
let Washington know all that he would be doing for us. I fear a nervous
break for him. Tears were in his eyes and his lip trembled. Our press
has not handled him gently these past months. I felt both grateful and
ashamed.

We have just passed over a deep, vine-draped ravine--the Atoyac Gorge,
with a noisy river flowing through. Women and children are bathing and
washing clothes under the trees. Occasionally a blonde baby is seen in
his dark mother’s arms--so is life perpetuated. We have just passed
the village of Atoyac, with its little thatched shacks and adobe huts,
where the people are shouting “_Viva Mexico!_” and we are about to
make our last descent into the burning plain. There, after a while,
our outposts will be waiting for us--_our_ people waiting to receive
their own. This is the march of empire in which we literally join.
_Southward_ she takes her course. General Corona has had many offerings
of fruit and flowers, people whom he had never seen calling him
“_Ramoncito_” and “_Mi General_,” and throwing pineapples and oranges
into the train--the offerings of humble hearts.

But I must go back to Wednesday night--our last night in Mexico
City--when I was too tired for feeling or thought. In the morning
Nelson decided that, under the circumstances, he would not, _could_
not, go to the Huerta wedding. Then I decided to go alone. Rowan went
with me, in the automobile. I put on my best black things, long white
gloves, and pearls, got through the crowd in front of the Embassy, and
went to the President’s house in the Calle Alfonso Herrera, enfolded
and exhilarated by dazzling air. I got there to find myself the only
foreigner, of course, and only three or four other women, the wives of
Cabinet Ministers and generals. The men were mostly in full uniform.
Madame Huerta came in, looking very handsome and dignified in a
becoming dress of delicate pomegranate color veiled partly with black
lace--a _good_ dress. We gave each other the _abrazo_, and she placed
me at her side, on the sofa. The youngest son, Roberto, a fat but
_sympatico_ boy of fourteen, also in full uniform, came in and kissed
his _mamacita’s_ hand, and asked for some order. The dark, bright-eyed
bride, in a dress with a good deal of imitation lace, arrived nearly
three-quarters of an hour late. Immediately after her arrival the
President entered, in his slouch-hat and the celebrated gray sweater.

He quickly greeted the guests, called his wife, “Emilia,” and then
turned to me. “Mrs. O’Shaughnessy,” he said, and indicated a place
near the table where the marriage contract was to be signed. So I rose,
and stood with the family during the ceremony, which he had put through
at a lively pace. The contract, in referring to the parents of the
bridegroom, said “Victoriano Huerta, fifty-nine,” and “Emilia Huerta,
fifty-two.” His age may be lessened in this document a year or two,
but I doubt it. Madame Huerta can’t be much more than fifty-two. The
youngest girl, Valencita, is only seven.

After the ceremony, when we all went out to get into the automobiles,
Señora Blanquet was with us. She is short, stout, and elderly. I
wanted to give her her place as wife of the Minister of War, but the
President, who helped me in, insisted first upon giving me his wife’s
place. I said, firmly, “No”; but I was obliged to take the seat beside
her, while Señora Blanquet struggled with the narrow _strapontin_!
Imagine my feelings as we started off through the dazzling streets to
the somewhat distant “Buen Tono” church--built by Pugibet, of “Buen
Tono” cigarette fame, and put by him, most beautifully decorated, at
the disposition of the President for the wedding. On our arrival the
President, who had gone ahead, appeared to help us out of the motor;
then, saying to me, “_Tengo que hacer_” (“I have something to do”), he
disappeared. I never saw him again.

I went up the aisle after Madame Huerta, on Rincon Gaillardo’s arm. As
soon as we were in our seats the archbishop came out and the ceremony
began--dignified and beautiful. Afterward there was a low Mass with
fine music. The tears kept welling up in my eyes as I knelt before the
altar of the God of us all. After the ceremony was over we went out
into the sacristy. I congratulated the bride and groom, spoke to a few
of the colleagues who were near, and then, feeling that my day and
hour were over, I went up to Madame Huerta.

We embraced several times, with tears in our eyes, each of us knowing
it was the end and thinking of the horrors to come. Then I left the
sacristy on some officer’s arm--I don’t know who it was--and was put
into my motor, where Rowan was patiently waiting. There were huge
crowds before the church, but never a murmur against us. Tears were
raining down my cheeks, but Rowan said: “Don’t mind. The Mexicans will
understand the tribute, and all your sadness and regret.”

We passed by the round point, the “Glorieta,” where I had seen the
statue of George Washington so solemnly unveiled two years ago, on the
22d of February, 1912. It had been pulled down in the night. On the
defaced pedestal had been placed a small bust of Hidalgo. Flowers were
scattered about, and a Mexican flag covered the inscription on the
marble base. I learned afterward that the statue had been dragged in
the night by powerful automobiles, and placed at the feet of the statue
of Benito Juarez, in the Avenida Juarez, whence the authorities had had
the courtesy, and had taken the time, to withdraw it--through streets
whose windows were hung with flags of every nationality except ours:
German, French, English, Spanish.

At 12.50 I got home to find still larger crowds of Americans at the
Embassy--orderly and polite, but deep anxiety was on every face; all
realized the issue before them. At three o’clock I heard that we would
be leaving about seven. So many people were coming in that I had no
time to separate my things from the Embassy things, nor even to make
any selections. Berthe was occupied in throwing various articles into
open trunks and valises, some of value, some without. I don’t think
_she_ lost a pin. I didn’t get even to my big writing-desk, where I had
sat for seven months. You can imagine all the things that were left
there, the accumulations of these historic months. All my bibelots
were left about the _salon_, the _mantas_ and _serapes_, the signed
photographs that have accompanied me for years, my beautiful old
frames. But in the face of the national catastrophe, and the leaving of
our people to God knows what, I seemed to lose all sense of personal
possession or to feel that objects could have a value.

       *       *       *       *       *

We have just passed Paso del Macho. Many people, motley groups, were
standing near the train, crying “_Viva la Independencia de Mexico!_”
Rowan says _he_ wants to hear more “_Mueran los Gringos!_” We are about
forty-five kilometers from Vera Cruz, and the heat, after the plateau,
seems intense; though it is not disagreeable to feel the dissolving
_détente_ of the skin and nerves after the dry tenseness of many months
at eight thousand feet.


SOLEDAD, _1.15._

A blaze of heat, merciless, white. We find Mexican rifles stacked at
intervals along the station platforms, and there are groups of young
_voluntarios_ looking proudly at their first guns or drawing long,
cruel knives from their belts. Some are eating small, green limes, not
nourishing at best, slashing at them with their _machetes_. The lack of
a commissariat is what prevents the Mexican army from being in any way
efficient. (Think of the full stomachs and comfortably shod feet of our
men.) Flatcars with cannon and automobiles are on the sidings. General
Gustavo Maass, whom I have not seen since our trip to Vera Cruz in
January, is here in command. He will not prove efficient--a blue-eyed
Mexican, wearing his sandy-gray hair in a German brush effect, _can’t_
be.


_4 o’clock._

We have passed Tejería, the last Mexican station; the sand-hills and
spires of Vera Cruz will soon be distinguishable. I have just looked
out the window, my eyes dim with tears. Far up the broken track the
blessed white flag of truce can be seen approaching--our people, our
men, coming for their own. Admiral Fletcher evidently got the telegram.
Am writing these words on the bottom of a little bonbon-box, which
afterward I will tuck into my hand-bag. Oh, the burning dreariness
of this land! The hot, dry inhospitality of it! The Mexican officers
of our escort are passing and repassing my door, with troubled,
anxious, hot faces. It is a bitter pill, but I see no use in trying to
sugar-coat it by conversation. They know my heart is heavy, too.


_Later, on the margin of a page of the “Mexican Herald.”_

Nelson has gone with the Mexican officers up the track to meet our men,
and all are getting out of the train, standing in the rank, stiff grass
by the track. God made the heaven and the earth....


_Vera Cruz, April 25th. Morning._

On board the _Minnesota_, in the very comfortable quarters of the
admiral. We were awakened by the band playing the “Star-spangled
Banner,” “God Save the King,” the beautiful Spanish national air, the
“Marseillaise”--all according to the order of the arrival of the ships
in the harbor. A delightful breeze is blowing and the electric fans are
at work.

The last word I scribbled yesterday afternoon was when I was waiting in
my state-room for Nelson to come back to our Mexican train, with our
officers, under the white flag. I was delighted and deeply moved when
suddenly big, agreeable, competent Captain Huse appeared at the door
and said, “Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, I am glad to see you safely arrived and
to welcome you to our lines.”

Poor General Corona stood by at the meeting, and I turned to him with
a more than hearty handshake. He kissed my hand, and his eyes filled.
Poor, poor people! As Captain Huse helped me out of the train, to my
joy and surprise I saw Hohler standing by the track. He had taken
down a trainful of agitated Germans, English, and Americans, two days
before, and was to go back to Mexico City with our returning train and
escort. I had a few words with him, amid the dry cactus of the parched
field, and commended to his courage and good sense our poor, distracted
compatriots left in the volcanic city. There may be no concerted
massacre of Americans, but the day will come when there will be other
horrors. Hohler said he had not slept for three nights, and only prayed
for a couple of hours of oblivion before tackling anything else. I
wished him Godspeed, and gave him a handclasp to match the temperature.

Then Captain Huse came up to me, saying: “We must go. Time is passing,
and we are unarmed.”

As I turned to walk down the track with him I saw the pathetic
spectacle of Madame Maass, whom I had parted from on that starry night
of the Fletcher dinner, four months or more ago. She had walked,
bareheaded, up that dusty stretch of track, from one train to the
other, to go to join her husband at Soledad. The step on to the train
by the steep embankment was so high I could not get up, nor could she
descend; so she leaned down to me and I reached up to her. Tears were
streaming down her grimy face; her black skirt was torn and rusty,
her other clothing nondescript, to say the least; a pathetic, stout,
elderly woman caught out in the troubles of war--or of peace, as they
tell me it is called in Washington.

Then Captain Huse and two of his officers, Lieutenant Fletcher, nephew
of Admiral Fletcher, and Ensign Dodd, walked down the track with me
about two kilometers. The rails were torn up, but the road-bed was
undestroyed, and as we walked along in the blazing sun, with scrubby,
dusty palms and cactus in the grayish fields on either side, my back
turned to the Mexican train, I was divided between joy and sorrow--joy
to see and be with my own again and the haunting thought of poor,
distracted Mexico, and of our own people, whom we had been obliged to
leave to Heaven knows what fate. It is easy to be the last out of the
danger zone, but very, very hard to be the first; I hope that another
time, if fate puts us again in such strange places, we will be the last
to go.

We finally got to our own train, which was run by a poor, dilapidated,
leaking, propped-up engine, all that was left. The Mexicans had been
quick about the machines, and every locomotive had been seized by
them and sent away, after which they had destroyed those kilometers
of track. Everybody climbed into the relief-train, and there came the
question of getting our luggage from one train to another. Captain
Huse had been obliged to come without an escort, accompanied only by
Fletcher and Dodd, unarmed. Until they had us they could not make
terms. So, to make a very long story short, several cutthroat-looking
peons, casting deadly glances at _los Gringos_, transferred a lot of
the hand-luggage, aided by the men of the party. All I possess of
value, except that left at the Embassy, is contained in a single, large
trunk, now reposing in the cactus-fields in the enemy’s lines, watched
over by the same shambling, dark-browed, cutthroat Mexicans who helped
to transfer the small baggage.

Captain Huse, finding himself with a broken-down engine and a lot of
unarmed civilians, and with sundown approaching, was too anxious to get
into his own lines to think of such trifles. He said, afterward, “You
didn’t realize what danger we were in.” I remember that I saw his face
suddenly light up, as we slowly moved along. He had caught sight of the
outposts that Admiral Fletcher, with vigilant forethought, had placed
five miles out of town, with guns and telescopes, ready to rush to our
aid, if necessary. Then he knew all was well, and, in spite of the fact
that I had not been able to realize any danger, my eyes filled again
at the sight of our brave men, some looking through their telescopes,
others ready with their guns.

I asked Captain Huse, “Are we at war with Mexico?”

And he answered, “I don’t know.” Adding, “They say not; but when one
armed force opposes another armed force, and many are killed, we are
rather of the opinion that it is war.”

He had just come from the thick of the fray. _We_ had sixty-three
wounded, seventeen killed, and several hundred Mexicans were killed and
wounded. The Cadet Academy made a fine defense. There would have been
more casualties for us, but at the critical moment the _San Francisco_,
the _Chester_, and the _Prairie_ opened fire on the Academy, a few feet
only above the heads of their own men, neatly piercing the windows of
the broad, low façade, as they would bulls’-eyes. All the officers are
agreed that the immense sums spent in target practice by the navy in
the past five years were amply compensated by that moment.

As we neared Vera Cruz our men in khaki (or white clothes dyed in
coffee, according to the hurry order) were seen in big detachments in
classic poses--standing, leaning on their guns, or sitting in groups
on the ground, drinking coffee and smoking. I must say it looked very
cozy and safe. Admiral Fletcher met us at the station, and I was glad
indeed to clasp that brave, friendly hand again. He has done splendid
work along all lines, passive or active, ever since he came to Mexican
waters. Shortly afterward I said good-by to him and to Captain Huse,
who is his chief of staff, and we went out in the admiral’s barge over
the glistening harbor, a thousand lights still lighting it, as when I
last saw it, but all else changed. Captain Simpson, of the _Minnesota_,
is on land duty, but the second in command, Commander Moody, met us at
the gangway and we were shown into these most comfortable quarters. I
have heard so much of the discomfort and heat of the men-of-war that I
am most agreeably surprised. The electric fan is working ten thousand
revolutions a moment; some one has called the new fan _la Mexicana_,
for obvious reasons. Admiral Badger came to welcome us last night, a
great, powerful, steam-engine of a man--a “dictator” (pardon the awful
word)! It is a big thing to have complete charge of so powerful a
combination as the North Atlantic fleet. He also said he didn’t know
whether we were at war or not, but that armed, opposing forces with
heavy casualties on both sides was generally considered to be war; that
we now “enjoyed all the _dis_advantages of both peace and war.” He had
heard we were arriving with eight hundred refugees, and had chartered
the _Mexico_, of the Ward Line, to take them away.

He asked, “Where are all the others?”

We said, “We are all that were allowed to come.” Apropos of that, if it
isn’t war, it is, as some one remarked, “sufficiently Shermanically
synonymous” for those left in the interior!


_11 o’clock._

Captain O’Keefe, of the _Mexico_, came to my state-room a while ago.
I had not seen him since before the “peace at any price” régime was
inaugurated. He is waiting for a full complement of refugees; they are
expecting a boatful from Coatzacoalcos, this afternoon. Am sitting in
the drawing-room of the admiral, cannon trained from the windows. The
_Condé_ got in early this morning. Lying in my berth I could see her
manœuvering into hers. It is intensely hot in the harbor. Two hours
ago Nelson went to the Consulate with his clerks. There is a mass of
work to be done, besides negotiations for getting all Americans out
of Mexico City. I wonder if that big, pleasant Embassy is now a mass
of charred ruins? A heavenly breeze is blowing through the room as I
write. I would be very interested in what is going on about us were
it not for the preoccupation about those left behind. Elim has a toy
pistol which he has been showing to the blue-jackets. He says it is
strange how frightened they all are, and told me, with shining eyes, he
already had four friends on the ship and would soon have six. It is a
blessed age--where one can so definitely count one’s friends.


_4_ P.M.

I have been sitting on deck, watching this busy port. Innumerable small
boats, flying our flag are rapidly passing to and fro over the burning
waters. Behind the _Condé_, which has effectually blocked the view of
the outer harbor, is the _Solace_. She contains the wounded, the dead,
and, mayhap, the dying ones. The _Minnesota_ is so near the Sanidad
pier that one can almost recognize individuals. Squads of our men are
constantly marching along with prisoners between double files, men who
have been caught sniping, bearing arms, or doing some overt act or
deed of violence. Last night, while dining, the echo of shots came from
the shore, and during the night, from time to time, desultory ghostly
sounds of sniping were heard.

I have just looked through the glass to distinguish about a dozen of
our men standing at the head of a street with fixed bayonets, facing a
pink house, evidently ready to protect some one coming out of it, or to
do justice. The lone torpedo-tube from San Juan Ulua is trained toward
the _Minnesota_, but it is believed to be inoffensive. I am sure I
hope it is, cuddled under our bows, so to speak. Yesterday two Mexican
officers came out of that historic fortress, begging to be allowed to
get food. They said they and all the inmates were starving. I saw the
conditions in days of relative plenty. What must they be _now_ in those
damp, deep, vermin-infested holes? Pale specters of men, too weak to
move, or wild with hunger and all the ensuing horrors--and all this so
near that I could almost hit it with a stone.

Ships of refugees are passing in and out. A Dutch ship, _Andrijk_, has
just left, and a French one, the _Texas_, passed by us, leaving for
Tampico to gather up refugees. Think of all the comfortable homes, with
the precious accumulations of lifetimes of thrift and work, that are
deserted in the disorder of flight, to be left later to the complete
devastation of looters. All over the country this is taking place. An
officer who saw a group of thirty or forty refugees at Tampico told me
he thought at first it was a band of gypsies; it proved, however, to be
half-clad, starving women and children who but a few days before had
been prosperous American citizens.

The sun is under a cloud, but a hot, damp atmosphere has enveloped the
port, and an opalescent light plays over the town. From where I sit I
can see the old white fortress of Sant’ Iago which we shelled, and
the yellow Naval Academy where the Mexican youths made their gallant
stand. The chartered boats of the Ward Line, _Mexico_, _Monterey_, and
_Esperanza_, also the now historic _Ypiranga_, are lying close to the
various piers, ready to receive refugees and take them to New Orleans
or Galveston. There they will be, in many cases, a three days’ source
of interest--and then they can starve!

Helen, the deer, a great pet of the sailors, and got in Tampico, keeps
trying to nibble my long, white veil; the spotless decks are rather
poor for browsing, and she looks a bit disconsolate at times. A snappy
green parrot is being taught to say, “Look out for the snipers.”


_April 25th. 10.30._

I spent yesterday quietly on board, getting my breath. N. was at the
Consulate all day, where he had been sending off his mail. About
five o’clock, when he went to return Admiral Badger’s call, I went
into town, first to the headquarters of Admiral Fletcher, at the
fly-infested Hotel Terminal. In the past the proprietor has encouraged
in many ingenious ways the propagation of the fly. He owns the other
hotel, the Diligencias, where he has his cuisine. In order to save
himself the expense and bother of keeping two cooking-places going,
he allowed the Terminal to become so disgustingly infested with flies
that the “guests” are obliged to tramp through the hot streets to the
Diligencias whenever the pangs of hunger or thirst assail them. We have
cleaned out more things than flies in the tropics, however.

I saw at the headquarters, for a moment, Captain Huse, Sir Christopher,
and _le capitaine de vaisseau_ Graux, commanding the _Condé_, and many
others. Afterward Admiral Fletcher sent Rowan with me to see the town.

Everything is closely watched and controlled by our five thousand or
more blue-jackets and marines. Everywhere are the marks of bullets
along the once-peaceful streets--the clean perforations of the
steel-jacketed bullets of the American rifles; quaint cornices chipped;
electric street globes destroyed; pink façades looking as if there was
a design in white where the shots had taken off the color. We walked
over to the Plaza, meeting acquaintances at every step, harassed and
discomfited refugees. Several hundreds had just got into the city of
the “Truly” Cross from Mexico City in the last train, having been
nearly twenty hours _en route_ and having left most of what they
possessed for the mobs of Mexico City. It is difficult to get any exact
information from them. According to their stories, many of the bankers
were in jail; American shops were looted; some Americans were killed;
and all Mexican servants had been warned to leave American homes. As
they left only seven hours later than we did, I don’t know that their
information is worth much. The telegraph lines are down. What we do
know is that dreadful things can happen in that beautiful city at any
moment. When the Embassy was closed, the whole thing collapsed, from
the point of view of Americans.

When Rowan and I got to the Plaza we found the band of the _Florida_
playing in the band-stand--nothing like so well as the Mexican Policia
Band, by the way--and hundreds of people, foreigners, Americans,
Mexicans, sitting about, taking their lukewarm drinks under the
_portales_ of the Hotel Diligencias, whose ice-plant had been destroyed
by a shell from the _Chester_. The place swarms with our men, and the
buildings looking on the Plaza are all occupied as quarters for our
officers. From the bullet-defaced belfry of the newly painted cathedral
blue-jackets looked down upon us, and from every roof and every window
faces of our own soldiers and officers were to be seen. We walked
across to the Municipal Palace, which is also used by us as a barracks.
The men of the _Utah_ were answering the bugle-call to muster for
night duty. They were of the battalion landing in small boats under
heavy fire that first day; they were saved by the cannon-fire from
the ships. There were many casualties among their ranks. The men look
happy, proud, and pleased, and in all the novel excitement and pride
of conquest. I went into the church, where I also found some of our
men stationed. Some one had been shot and killed from behind the high
altar, two days ago. I fell on my knees, in the dimness, and besought
the God of armies.

As we walked along in the older part of the town, _en route_ to the
Naval Academy, there were piles of once peaceful, love-fostering, green
balconies heaped in the streets. They will be used for camp-fires by
our men. Doors were broken in, houses empty. There was a great deal
of sniping done from the _azoteas_ (roofs) those first days, and it
was necessary, in many cases, to batter down the doors and go up and
arrest the people caught _in flagrante_, in that last retreat of the
Latin-American.

_Pulque_[17]-shops and _cantinas_ of all descriptions were barricaded,
and, looking through the doors, we could see heaps of broken glass,
overturned tables and chairs. A sour, acrid smell of various kinds of
tropical “enliveners” hung in the still, heavy air--mute witnesses of
what had been. We passed through several sinister-looking streets, and
I thought of “Mr. Dooley’s” expression, “The trouble we would have if
we would try to chase the Monroe doctrine up every dark alley of Latin
America.” The big, once-handsome Naval Academy was patrolled by our
men, its façade telling the tale of the taking of the town only too
well; windows destroyed by the _Chester’s_ guns, balconies hanging
limply from their fastenings. We looked through the big door facing the
sea, but the patrol said we could not enter without a permit. Every
conceivable disorder was evident--cadets’ uniforms lay with sheets,
pillows, books, broken furniture, heaps of mortar, plaster. The boys
made a heroic stand, and many of them gave up their lives; but what
could they do when every window was a target for the unerring mark of
the _Chester’s_ guns? Many a mother’s hope and pride died that day for
his country, before he had had a chance to live for it. This is history
at close range.

I had finally to hurry back, stopping, hot and tired, for a few minutes
at the Diligencias, where we had some lukewarm ginger-ale; my sticky
glass had a couple of reminiscent lemon-seeds in it. It was getting
dusk and Rowan was afraid the sniping might begin. I got into the
_Minnesota’s_ waiting boat, feeling unspeakably sad, and was put out
across the jeweled harbor--but what jewels! Every one could deal a
thousand deaths.

Nelson had a long talk with Admiral Fletcher.... On receipt of orders
to prevent the delivery by the _Ypiranga_ of the arms and ammunition
she was carrying to the Mexican government and to seize the customs,
his duty was solely to carry out the commands of the President in a
manner as effective as possible, with as little damage to ourselves as
possible. This he did.

I think we have done a great wrong to these people; instead of cutting
out the sores with a clean, strong knife of war and occupation, we
have only put our fingers in each festering wound and inflamed it
further. In Washington there is a word they don’t like, though it has
been written all over this port by every movement of every war-ship
and been thundered out by every cannon--WAR. What we are doing is war
accompanied by all the iniquitous results of half-measures, and in
Washington they call it “peaceful occupation.”

Now I must sleep. The horrors of San Juan Ulua (on which our
search-lights play continually) will haunt me, I know. The stench of
those manholes is rising to an unanswering, starlit sky. May we soon
deliver it from itself!


_Saturday Morning._

Captain Simpson came back from shore duty late last night. He is so
kind and solicitous for our comfort, that I only hope we are not too
greatly interfering with his. He has had his men lodged in a theater,
commandeered for the purpose. He went to some barracks first, but
fortunately learned in time that there had been meningitis there, and
decamped even quicker than he went in. Captain Niblack has taken his
place.

The _Minnesota_, on which Admiral Fletcher was when he went into Vera
Cruz, is a ship not belonging to any division down here, and is only
temporarily in harbor. So she is used for all sorts of disjointed, but
important work--distributing of supplies, communications of all kinds.
She is more than busy--a sort of clearing-house--during what they call
here “the hesitation war, one step forward, one step back, hesitate,
and then--side-step.”

The rescue-train goes out through our lines every day under Lieutenant
Fletcher, to meet any train possibly arriving from the interior. And,
oh, the odds and ends of exasperated and ruined American humanity it
brings in!


FOOTNOTE:

[17] One of the most amusing things ever stated about Carranza is that
he intends to have the too-popular _pulque_ replaced by light French
wines! One can only hope that, while he is about it, he will arrange to
replace corn by permanent manna!




XXIV


  Dinner on the _Essex_--The last fight of Mexico’s naval
  cadets--American heroes--End of the Tampico incident--Relief for the
  starving at San Juan Ulua--Admiral Fletcher’s greatest work.


_“Minnesota,” April 26th._

When Nelson left, as you know, he turned our affairs over to the
British, an English-speaking, friendly, great Power, which could and
would help our nationals in their desperate plight. Behold the result!
Last night we dined on the _Essex_, in our refugee clothes. Sir
Christopher, looking very handsome in cool, spotless linen, met us at
the gangway with real cordiality and interest.

His first words after his welcome were, “I have good news for you.”

“What is it?” we asked, eagerly. “We have heard nothing.”

“Carden is going to arrange to get out a refugee-train of several
hundred Americans on Monday or Tuesday, and I have this afternoon sent
off Tweedie [commander of the _Essex_] with two seven-foot marines and
a native guide to accompany the convoy down. He is to get up by hook
or crook. He will go by train, if there is a train, by horse if there
isn’t, and on foot, if he can’t get horses.”

You can imagine the love feast that followed as we went down to dinner.
We were proceeding with a very nice piece of mutton (Admiral Badger had
sent a fine, juicy saddle over to Sir Christopher that morning) when a
telegram came--I think from Spring-Rice. Anyway, the four Englishmen
read it and looked rather grave. After a pause Sir Christopher said,
“They might as well learn it from us.” What do you think that telegram
contained? The news that American interests had been transferred from
Sir Lionel’s hands into those of Cardoza, the Brazilian minister! Of
course I said to Sir Christopher, “Our government very naturally wants
to compliment and sustain good relations with South America, and this
is an opportunity to emphasize the fact,” but it was rather a damper to
our love feast.

Well, we have taken our affairs and the lives of many citizens out of
the hands of a willing, powerful, and resourceful nation and put them
into the hands of a man who, whatever Power he represents, has not the
practical means to carry out his kind desires or friendly intentions.
I doubt if Huerta knows him more than by sight. Washington has made up
its mind about Carden and the English rôle in Mexico, and no deeds of
valor on the part of Carden will make any difference. Washington won’t
have him. Sir Christopher Cradock, here in a big battle-ship in the
harbor, is willing and able to co-operate with Sir Lionel, the head of
a powerful legation in Mexico City, for the relief of our nationals in
sore plight and danger of life; but apparently that has nothing to do
with the case. Washington is relentless.

The _Essex_ shows between eighty and ninety “wounds,” the results of
the fire from the Naval Academy on Wednesday. Paymaster Kimber, whom
they took me in to see after dinner, was in bed, shot through both
feet and crippled for life. The ship was an “innocent bystander,” with
a vengeance. In Sir Christopher’s saloon, or rather, Captain Watson’s
saloon, were hung two slippers (one of pink satin and the other of
white) which had been found at the Naval Academy after the fight--dumb
witnesses of other things than war. The officers said the Academy was
a horrid sight. Those boys had taken their mattresses from their beds,
put them up at the windows, and fired over the top; but when the fire
from the ships began these flimsy defenses were as nothing. There were
gallant deaths that day. May their brave young souls rest in peace. I
don’t want to make invidious distinctions, but in Mexico the youngest
are often the brightest and noblest. Later there is apt to be a
discouraging amount of dross in the gold.

I keep thinking of Captain Tweedie, _en route_ to Mexico City to help
bring out American women and children. When he gets there he will find
that rescue isn’t any of his business!

Yesterday afternoon the _North Dakota_ came in. We saw her smoke far
out at sea, and she was a great sight as she dropped anchor outside
the breakwater. I was looking through the powerful glass on Captain
Simpson’s bridge. Her blue-jackets and marines were massed in orderly
lines, doubtless with their hearts beating high at the idea of active
service. Lieutenant Stevens, who was slightly wounded in the chest on
Wednesday, came back to the ship yesterday. He is a young bridegroom of
last autumn and has been here since January. The “cheerful, friendly”
bullet is in his chest in a place where he can always carry it. I
understand that when he was wounded he was on the outskirts of the
town, and that he and another wounded man, themselves on the verge of
collapse, carried an unconscious comrade several kilometers to the
hospital. But who shall record _all_ the gallant deeds of the 21st and
22d of April?[18]


_“Minnesota,” April 26th. 3_ P.M.

I witnessed from the deck of our ship, an hour ago, the dramatic end of
the Tampico incident, and, doubtless, the beginning of a much greater
one--the raising of our flag over the town of Vera Cruz, which was
to-day put under martial law. At 1.30 I went up on deck. The bay was
like a hot mirror, reflecting everything. Through a glass I watched
the preparations for the raising of the flag on the building by the
railroad station--an English railway. “Who’s whose now,” came into my
mind.

It was a busy scene on shore and land. Admiral Badger passed over
the shining water in his barge, a beautiful little Herreschoff boat,
shortly before two o’clock, wearing side-arms. His staff was with
him. Battalions were landing from various ships and immense crowds
stood near the railroad station. There was an electric something in
the air. Captain Simpson and his officers, of course, were all on
deck, looking through their glasses, and we were all breathing a
little hard, wondering what the foreign war-ships would do. Would they
acknowledge our salute? Exactly at two o’clock the flag was raised,
and immediately afterward the _Minnesota_ gave the famous twenty-one
salutes to our own flag, refused us at Tampico. The bay was ominously
quiet after the thunder of our cannon. I suppose the foreign ships were
all busy cabling home to their governments for instructions. No man
could venture to settle that question on his own initiative. It was
anti-climax with a vengeance!

Is this to be the end of all that triangular work of Nelson’s between
Huerta, the Foreign Office, and Washington during the two weeks
elapsing since Colonel Hinojosa’s taking of our blue-jackets out of
their boat at Tampico and our leaving the Embassy in Mexico City?

...

This morning I went ashore, accompanied by a young officer, McNeir.
We sauntered for an hour or so about the town, which has decidedly
pulled itself together. Shops that were heaped with overturned
furniture, broken glass, and strewn with dirty papers and débris of
every description, visible through shattered windows and broken doors
two days ago, had been swept out and were showing signs of normal
occupation. New doors were being made, and the little green balconies
of peace were being mended. Ensign McNeir suddenly found that he had
been spat upon. His broad chest was lavishly embroidered in a design of
tobacco-juice, doubtless from an innocent-looking green balcony. He had
blood in his eye, and kept glancing about, hoping to find the man that
did it.

The Naval Academy was a horrid sight as we went in from the sea-front.
In the school-rooms books, maps, globes, and desks were overthrown
among masses of mortar. One of the blackboards bore the now familiar
words in chalk, _Mueran los Gringos_. Great holes were in floors,
walls, and ceilings. When we went up-stairs the devastation was even
greater. Our men had fought in the street, and the _Chester_ and
_Prairie_ fired over their heads just into the windows of the second
floor, where were the commandant’s quarters, and the large, airy
dormitories. The dormitories had been rifled before we put a guard over
the building, the lockers emptied of their boyish treasures--knives,
books, photographs; occasionally a yellow or red artificial rose, a
ribbon, or a bit of lace testified to other gods than Mars.

The great floors were ankle-deep in a litter of uniforms, shirts,
collars, gloves, letters, brushes, combs, and the like. They had been
comfortable, airy quarters, and I suppose now will make good barracks,
or headquarters, for _our_ officers. Photographers were busy as we
passed through. In the two dormitories giving on the Plaza at the back,
away from the ships’ fire, the dying and wounded had evidently been
carried. Blood-soaked pillows, mattresses, and sheets bore witness to
their agonies. Our men were busy everywhere in the building, sorting,
packing, and putting things in order. A town under martial law seemed,
this morning, an orderly affair indeed.

I inclose Admiral Fletcher’s “Proclamation to the Public of Vera Cruz,”
also his order for martial law. This proclamation will facilitate
the functions of government. Many difficulties were in the way of
renewing the regular civil and business activities of the town. There
is a clause in the Mexican constitution which makes it high treason
for any Mexican to hold employment under a foreign flag during enemy
occupation, and for once the Mexicans seem to be living up to the
constitution.

It is wonderful how our blue-jackets and marines have been able to go
into Vera Cruz and perform the complicated, skilled labor necessary
to the well-being of a town. Everything, from the ice-plants and
tramways to the harbor lighthouse and post-office, has been put in
working order; they seem to step with equal facility into one and every
position requiring skilled labor. They are a most resourceful set of
men, these hatchet-faced, fair-haired youths, the type standing out
so distinctly in that tropical setting. I was deeply impressed. Six
thousand of them are on land. On the trip down our automobile clutch
was damaged. Two blue-jackets looked at it and, though neither had ever
been in an automobile before, they brought it back to the Terminal
station, several hours later, in perfect order, able and longing to run
it about town.

At noon yesterday thousands of arms were delivered to the
authorities--a hybrid collection of Mauser guns, old duelling and
muzzle-loading pistols. Relics of 1847 were also numerous. For several
days there has been little or no “sniping.” One man remarked, “Take it
from me, it’s a quiet old town. I walked ten blocks at midnight, last
night, without seeing a human being.” I might also add that _I_ know
two methods of clearing streets at night rivaling the curfew--snipers,
_and_ the press-gang.

  “PROCLAMATION TO THE PEOPLE OF VERA CRUZ

  “As the aggressions against the soldiers under my command have
  continued, isolated shots being made from various edifices, and
  desiring that order and tranquillity be absolutely re-established,
  I demand that all who have in their possession arms and ammunition
  give them up at the Police inspection in the Municipal Palace within
  the shortest time possible. Those who have not done so before twelve
  o’clock of the 26th of this month will be punished with all severity,
  as also those continuing hostilities against the forces under my
  command. On the surrender of arms the corresponding receipt will be
  given.

  “(Rear Admiral) F. F. FLETCHER.

  “VERA CRUZ, _April 25, 1914_.”

Yesterday at five o’clock we sent one thousand rations into the
starving fort of San Juan Ulua, and to-day our flag flies high above
it. All the political prisoners were released. We could see from
the deck of the _Minnesota_ two boat-loads of them coming across the
shining water and being landed at the Sanidad pier. After that, I
suppose, they swelled the ranks of the undesirable without money,
occupation, homes, or hopes.

I saw Mr. Hudson, yesterday, looking rather worn. With groanings and
travail unspeakable the _Mexican Herald_ is being published in Vera
Cruz. He says they have the greenest of green hands to set the type,
and the oftener it is corrected the worse the spelling gets, the nights
being one long hell. But as most of his readers have a smattering of
Spanish and English, with more than a smattering of personal knowledge
of the situation, the _Herald_ still is most acceptable as a “breakfast
food.”

The Inter-oceanic, the route to Mexico City over Puebla, is being fast
destroyed. Mustin in his hydroplane can be seen flying over the bay,
reconnoitering in that direction. Puebla is the key to the taking of
Mexico City from Vera Cruz. It is always capitulating to somebody. It
will doubtless do so to us. In 1821 Iturbide took it. In 1847 it was
taken by Scott; in 1863 by the French soldiers of Napoleon. In the
battle of Puebla, 1867, there was a furious engagement between Don
Porfirio and the French. It is a beautiful old city--sometimes called
the “Rome” of Mexico, founded by Padre Motolinía, situated about midway
between the coast and the Aztec city. It is crowded with churches and
convents, though many of these latter have been put to other uses;
however, the point now is when and how our men will reach it. The blue
skies and the deep _barrancas_ tell no tales.


_April 28th. Tuesday._

Yesterday afternoon Major Butler came to see us. He is in command
at the “roundhouse” of Mr. Cummings’s telegraphic episode, and is
decidedly downcast at the idea that some peaceful agreement of a
makeshift order will be reached. He is like a hungry man who has been
given thin bread and butter when he wants beefsteak and potatoes. He
seemed, also, rather embarrassed to be calling on us peacefully, on the
_Minnesota’s_ deck, instead of rescuing us after a successful storming
of Chapultepec, or a siege at the Embassy.

Yesterday a notice was sent to hundreds of newspapers at home (without
my knowledge, of course) that I was getting up a Red Cross nurse
corps; but there is no need for it. The _Solace_ is not half full, the
hospitals on shore have plenty of room, and the ships’ doctors are not
too busy. I had said that if fighting continued I would return from New
York with the first corps of nurses that came out. I have a feeling
that instead of pushing on to Panama _via_ Mexico and Guatemala we are
going to make some patchwork with the A. B. C. combination. It can be
only a makeshift, at the best, and in any event will be a reprieve for
Huerta, though that is the last thing our government intends. Its heart
is given elsewhere.

Last night Admiral Cradock and Captain Watson came to dinner. No
mention was made by them of the raising of the flag over Vera Cruz
and of the salutes that had so thrilled _us_. I imagine each admiral
and captain in port confined his activities during the afternoon to
cabling to his home government. The only thing Sir Christopher said on
the situation was to mildly inquire, “Do you know yet whether you are
at war or not?” Captain Simpson had an excellent dinner, and we played
bridge afterward, the starry night concealing the fateful flag above
the English railroad terminal.

A belated _norte_ is predicted, but my land eyes see no sign of it.
General Funston, of Aguinaldo and San Francisco earthquake fame,
arrives this morning. The army, I understand, has more suitable
equipment and paraphernalia for the work of occupation, or whatever
they call it; but I am unforgettably thrilled by the majesty and might
of our great navy.


_April 29th. Morning._

The _norte_ still threatens, but up to now, with falling glass, there
has been only a slight stirring of heavy, lifeless air.

Yesterday morning we went on shore at ten, and found the auto before
the door of the Terminal station (otherwise Admiral Fletcher’s
headquarters). A French chauffeur, risen up from somewhere, was sitting
in it. No use inquiring into the genesis of things these days. We
took Captain Simpson down to his old headquarters on the _Paseo de
los Cocos_. He wanted to see Captain Niblack, who had replaced him
in command. Then we drove down through the town to the “roundhouse,”
bowing to friends and acquaintances on every side, and feeling
unwontedly comfortable and cool.

The roundhouse makes ideal quarters--a huge coolness, with plenty
of room for all the avocations of camp life. After wading through a
stretch of sand under a blazing sky, we found Major Butler in his
“headquarters”--a freight-car--but with both opposite doors rolled
back, making the car cool and airy. Two of his officers were with
him. He is himself a man of exhaustless nervous energy, and the A. B.
C. combination hangs like a sword over his head. He could go forward
and wipe up the coast to Panama, if he had the chance, he and his set
of dauntless men. A few disconsolate-looking mules and horses were
browsing in the dry, sandy grass near by; they had been taken against
payment.

“In the good old days in Nicaragua it was otherwise. You _took_ what
you _needed_. This government running things is too pious and honest to
suit me,” was his disgruntled observation when I asked if the steeds
belonged to him.

The order and tranquillity of this town is maintained by force of arms
and is complete. Since the desultory shots heard Friday night, sniping
being then in full force, there has been silence along the dark waters;
silence in every _cul-de-sac_, and silence on every roof.

At twelve we went back for Captain Simpson. We had a glimpse of Captain
Niblack and Captain Gibbons, looking very big and effective in their
khaki clothes. We left N. at the Diligencias, under the arcades, where
people still drink lukewarm liquids, though Captain Simpson said he had
told them where they could get cart-loads of ammonia for the repairing
of the ice-plant. At one o’clock I had a very pleasant _tête-à-tête_
lunch with Captain Simpson. He was naval _attaché_ in London before
getting the _Minnesota_, and we found ourselves, for once, talking of
people and things far removed from Vera Cruz. A note came for Nelson
from Captain Huse, saying the admiral wanted to confer with him, and
Captain Simpson sent a man to find Nelson and deliver it. Afterward,
Captain Moffett of the _Chester_ came on board. He has been a friend
of ours from the first, a very agreeable man, always _au courant_ with
events as they really are. We are all hoping that the matter of the
affairs of Americans being taken out of the hands of Sir Lionel and
given to the Brazilians would not get into the newspapers. It might
lead to hard feeling between the nations and individuals concerned.
Captain Watson of the _Essex_ then appeared on board, with the Baron
and Baroness von Hiller, and we all went in his launch to the outer
harbor, which I had not yet seen--the view being completely blocked
by the _Condé_, which also hid the handsome _Essex_, really very
near us. Oh, the glory and majesty and potency of the United States
as there depicted! Great dreadnoughts, destroyers, torpedo-boats,
every imaginable craft, nearly eighty of them--and for what? To pry a
sagacious and strong old Indian out of a place and position that he
has proved himself eminently well fitted to fill. Captain Ballinger’s
hydroplane, operated by Mustin, was circling above the harbor, coming
from time to time to rest upon the water like some creature equally at
home in sky or sea.

In the evening we went to dine with the von Hillers, aboard the
_Ypiranga_. Admiral Cradock and Captain Watson were also there. Captain
Watson told me of the return of Commander Tweedie, who had brought
down from Soledad in his private car two hundred and six American men,
women, and children, whom he had found dumped on sand-dunes, and who
had been without food and without drink for twenty-four hours. I don’t
know the details, but I will ask Tweedie to lunch to-morrow. This much
I do know--that the English, whose help we have refused, continue to
display their strong arms and kind hearts and have been angels of mercy
to our ruined and distracted countrymen.

After dinner we went up on deck, where Captain Bonath of the _Ypiranga_
joined the party. He was more than polite to N. and myself, in a frozen
way, but the air was charged and tense, and the look of surprise,
indignation, and resentment not yet gone from his face. In the course
of the conversation it came out that the Brazilian consul in Vera Cruz
is a Mexican! There was a scarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulders
on the part of the captain, and Captain Watson caught and then avoided
his eye. To all inquiries and innuendoes we have only answered that,
as Washington seemed to put some hope in the A. B. C. mediation
affair, it was thought best, at home, to pay Brazil the compliment of
putting our affairs in her hands. The fact is that all that has been
done at this special moment for our needy and suffering ones has been
accomplished by the long, strong arm of England. Rowan, who was also
at dinner, came away with us and we walked along the pier through our
lines of sentinels pacing everywhere in the heavy darkness. Away back
in the country, on the dim distant sand-dunes they are pacing too,
alert, prepared for any surprise.

When we came out to the _Minnesota_ not a breath was stirring over the
glassy water. Captain Simpson met us at the gangway. I told him the air
was a little tense on shore, and added that I wanted to have Tweedie
come to see us to-morrow. So we arranged luncheon for to-day. Captain
Simpson remarked, with his usual broad outlook, “The nations will have
to work out things in their own way; but we, the individuals, can
always show appreciation and courtesy.”


_“Minnesota,” April 30th. 8_ A.M.

Yesterday, at 9.30, Captain Watson came to fetch me to go to San Juan,
dashing up to the ship in great style in his motor-launch. Captain
Simpson sent Lieutenant Smyth, who was eager to see it, with us. We
descended the gangway in the blazing sun and got into the launch,
which, however, refused to move further. Finally, after some time
of hot rolling on the glassy water, we transferred to one of the
_Minnesota’s_ boats, and in a few minutes I found myself landing,
after two months, at the dreadful and picturesque fortress, under its
new flag. The old one, let us hope, will never again fly over hunger,
insanity, despair, and disease.[19]

We found Captain Chamberlain in his office. He is a strong,
fine-looking young man. Indeed, our marines and blue-jackets are a
magnificent-looking set, hard as nails, and endlessly eager. Captain
Chamberlain was surrounded by all the signs of “occupation,” in more
senses than one. Records, arms, ammunition, uniforms of the “old
régime” were piled about, waiting till the more vital issues of flesh
and blood, life and death, have been disposed of. Captain Chamberlain
was in New York only a week ago, and now finds himself set to clean
up, in all ways, this human dumping-ground of centuries. He detailed
an orderly to accompany us, and we went through a door on which the
Spanish orders of the day were still to be seen written in chalk.

We started through the big machine-house, which was in excellent
up-keep, so the officers said, full of all sorts of valuable material,
especially electrical. This brought us out on the big central _patio_,
where three groups of fifty-one prisoners each sat blinking in the
unaccustomed light, and waiting to have straw hats portioned out to
them, temporarily shielding their heads from the sun with rags, dishes,
pans, baskets, and the like. An extraordinary coughing, sneezing,
spitting, and wheezing was going on. Even in the hot sunshine these
men were pursued by the specters of bronchitis, pneumonia, asthma, and
kindred ills. We went into a dim dungeon, just cleared of these one
hundred and fifty-three men. It seemed as if we must cut the air to
get in, it was so thick with human miasmas; and for hours afterward an
acrid, stifling something remained in my lungs, though I kept inhaling
deeply the sun-baked air. As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness,
I looked about; the dripping walls were oozing with filth; there were
wet floors, and no furniture or sanitary fittings of any kind. A few
shallow saucepans, such as I had seen rations poured into at my former
visit, were lying about. The rest was empty, dark, reeking horror. But
God knows the place was abundantly hung and carpeted and furnished with
human misery, from the dull, physical ache of the half-witted _peon_,
to the exquisite torture of the man of mind habituated to cleanliness
and comfort. What appalling dramas have there been enacted I dare not
think.

One was told me. A man, not long imprisoned, accidentally found, in the
darkness, a stick and a thick, empty bottle. With the bottle he drove
the stick deep into the brain of a man, unknown to him, who was dozing
near him. When taken out to be shot he was found to be of the educated
class. He said, in unavailing self-defense, that he had been crazed by
the darkness and the suffocating stench.

On coming out into the blessed air again, we examined at rather close
range these lines of men just readmitted to the fellowship of sun
and sky. They presented a varied and disheartening study for the
ethnologist--or conqueror. There was every type, from half-breed to
full Indian; the majority of the faces were pitted by smallpox. A few
of the men had small, treasured bundles, to which they clung, while
others, except for the rags that covered them, were as unfettered by
possessions as when they were born. Thick, matted, black hair and
irregular growths of stubby, Indian beards gave their faces a savage
aspect. At the end of one of the lines were two very young boys, not
more than thirteen or fourteen, their faces still fresh and their
eyes bright. I wanted to ask why they were there, but their line had
received its hats, and they were marched out through the portcullis to
the beach.

Many of the inmates of San Juan were conscripts awaiting the call to
“fight” for their country; others were civil delinquents, murderers,
thieves. Most of the poor brutes had a vacant look on their faces. The
political prisoners had already been freed. Two of the big dungeons
were still full. There were five or six hundred in one space, pending
the cleaning out of the empty ones, when they were to be redistributed.
Captain Chamberlain was in the _patio_, trying to expedite matters,
when we came out of the first dungeon. I think he had some sixty men to
assist him, and was wrestling with book and pencil, trying to make some
sort of classification and record. We walked over to another corner to
inspect a dungeon said to have chains on the walls and other horrors
still in place. Between the thick bars of one where those sentenced to
death for civil crimes were kept peered a sinister face, pockmarked,
loose of mouth, and dull-eyed. I asked the owner of it what he had
done. “_Maté_” (“I killed”), he answered, briefly and hopelessly. He
knew he was to pay the penalty.

There has not yet been time for our men to investigate fully the
meager, inexact records of the prison. We went through the _patio_,
under the big portcullis, along the way leading by the canals or moats
to the graveyard by the beach. This was speakingly empty. There were
only a few graves, and those seemed to be of officers or commanders
of the castle and members of their families long since dead. With
mortality so constantly at work, and with no graves to be found,
testimony, indeed, was given by the sharks swimming in the waters. A
simpler process than burial was in practice: a hunting in the darkness,
a shoveling out of bodies, a throwing to the sea--the ever-ready.

As we passed along one of the ledges we could hear sounds of life,
almost of animation, coming through the loopholes that slanted in
through the masonry--a yard and a half deep by four inches wide. These
four-inch spaces were covered by a thick iron bar. When I had last
passed there, a dead, despairing silence reigned. Now, all knew that
_something_ had happened, that more _was_ to happen, and that good food
was the order of the day. Coming back, we met the second detachment of
fifty-one, being marched out to the sandy strip at the ocean-end of
the fortress. Many of them will be freed to-day to join those other
hundreds that I saw. They will know again the responsibilities, as
well as the joys of freedom, but, alas, they will be of very little
use to the state or to themselves. We walked up the broad stairs
leading to the flat roofs covering the dungeons. A squad of our men had
established themselves on the wide landing, with their folding-cots,
rifles, and all the paraphernalia of their business. Captain Watson
said, as we got upon the _azotea_, “The holes in the floor were ordered
cut by Madero when he came into power.” I told him that I didn’t think
so, they had seemed to me very old; and when we examined them the
raised edges were found to be of an obsolete form and shape of brick,
and the iron barrings seemed to have centuries of rust on them. Nothing
was changed. Nothing had _ever_ been changed. It remained for a foreign
hand to open the doors.

The torpedo-house, which was near our landing, seemed business-like,
clean, and very expensive, even to my inexpert eyes. Stores were being
landed by one of the _Minnesota’s_ boats--great sides of beef, bread,
coffee, vegetables, sugar. I was so thankful to see them, and to know
that hunger no longer stalked right under our bows.

I reached home in time for _two_ baths and to change all my clothing
before one o’clock, when Commander Tweedie arrived for lunch. He had
a most interesting tale to tell of his journey down from Mexico City,
and told it in the characteristic, deprecating way of an Englishman
who has done something, but who neither wants credit nor feels that he
has done anything to deserve it. He came back as far as Soledad in a
special train, with a guard of twenty-five of the famous Twenty-ninth.
At Soledad he saw a miserable, hungry, thirsty, worn-out party of
Americans, men, women, and children, from Cordoba. Most of them had
been in jail for eight days, and then found themselves stranded at
Soledad for twenty-four hours, without food or drink, huddled up by the
railroad station. Tweedie is a man of resource. Instead of getting back
to Vera Cruz and reporting on the condition, he made up his mind that
he would take the party on with him, or stay behind himself. After some
telegraphing to Maass, with whom he had, fortunately, drunk a _copita_
(oh, the power of the wicked _copita_!) as he passed his garrison, he
finally got permission to start for Vera Cruz with the derelicts, under
the fiction of their being English.

They had to walk the twenty blazing kilometers from Tejería, a sort
of burning plowshare ordeal, one old lady and various children being
carried in blankets. He gave them every available drop of liquid he had
in his car, and he said the way the children lapped up the ginger-ale
and lemonade was very amusing. Still under the auspices of Carden, a
train-load of five or six hundred started, last night or this morning,
for Coatzacoalcos. Sir Lionel, fearing a panic, decided not to say,
till he gets off this last train-load, that our affairs are no longer
in his hands. I think magnanimity can scarcely go further; my heart
is full of gratitude for the inestimable services the English have
rendered my countrypeople.

At four o’clock I went on shore to see Admiral Fletcher. Ensign Crisp
(wearing side-arms) accompanied me. Captain Simpson thinks it more
suitable to send some one with me, but never, in all her four hundred
years or so of existence, has Vera Cruz been safer, more cheerful,
more prosperous, more hygienic. The _zopilotes_ circling the town must
think mournfully of the days when everything was thrown into the street
for all that flies or crawls to get fat and multiply on.

I found Admiral Fletcher in his headquarters at the Terminal, serene
and powerful. He said, “I go out to the _Florida_ to-morrow. I have
finished my work here. Things are ready to be turned over to General
Funston.” I told him not only of my admiration for his work during
these last days, and what it entailed, but that more than all I admired
his work of keeping peace in Mexican waters for fourteen months. A
dozen incidents could have made for disturbance but for his calm
judgment, his shrewd head, and the big, very human heart beating in his
breast; and I said to him what I have repeated on many occasions, that
it is due to Huerta, to Admiral Fletcher, and to Nelson that peace has
been maintained during these long, difficult months. It was destined
for an incident outside the radius of the power of these three to bring
about the military occupation.

We spoke a few words of the old Indian, still wrestling on the heights.
Admiral Fletcher ended by saying, in his quiet, convincing manner,
“Doubtless when I get to Washington I will understand that point of
view. Up to now I know it only from this end.”

I told him how I hated half-measures; how they were disastrous in
every relation of life--family, civil, public, and international--and
never had that been proven more clearly than here. Even he does not
seem to know whether we have brought all this tremendous machinery to
the shores of Mexico simply to retreat again, or whether we are to go
on. As I went away, I could but tell him once more of my respect and
affection for himself and my admiration for his achievements. I passed
out of the room, with tears in my eyes. I had seen a great and good man
at the end of a long and successful task. Later, other honors will come
to him. Probably he will get the fleet. But never again will he, for
fourteen long months, keep peace, with his battle-ships filling a rich
and coveted harbor. When all is said and done, that is his greatest
work.


FOOTNOTES:

[18] I think of a few--a very few--out of the number that were
recounted to me: McDonnell commanding the machine-guns, trained from
the Hotel Terminal, while the blue-jackets were landing under fire. In
that exposed position his men (mere boys) were falling all about him;
the dash of Wainright and Castle and Wilkinson for the Customs-House;
Badger and Townsend pushing up the steel belfry stairs of the cathedral
in the hunt for snipers; Courts taking messages to the _Chester_
through the zone of fire. The enlisted men were magnificent. Chief
Boatswain McCloy, with a few men in small launches, steamed across the
bay to attract the fire of the sharpshooters so the _Prairie_ could
get the range. The days of danger were all too short for those gallant
hearts.

[19] The dungeons of San Juan are again full--E. O’S.




XXV


  Our recall from Mexican soil--A historic dinner with General
  Funston--The navy turns over the town of Vera Cruz to the army--The
  march of the six thousand blue-jackets--Evening on the _Minnesota_.


_May 1st._

Yesterday, April 30th, Admiral Fletcher turned “La Villa Rica de la
Vera Cruz” over to the army. It was perfectly quiet, continuing to
enjoy unknown prosperity. But of that later. At eleven o’clock, as we
were about to go on shore, an envelope was brought to N. On opening it
he found it was his recall from Mexican soil, and we forthwith departed
for the shore to see Admiral Fletcher. He was receiving visitors, for
the last time, at his headquarters, and N. was immediately admitted.
Admiral Badger passed through the antechamber, in his strong, dynamic
way, as I waited with Captain Huse, whose face and personality are
graven on my memory as he appeared in my compartment that afternoon at
Tejería.

Soon I went into Admiral Fletcher’s room, a great, square,
high-ceilinged room, where he and Captain Huse had slept and worked
during all those strange days, with another almost equally large, a
sort of Neronian bathroom, opening out of it. A breeze nearly always
blows in from the sea. N. was turning over the motor to the navy, where
it will be of great service. It was a feat to get it down here with no
further injury than a damaged clutch, which the clever seamen put in
order. There was a good deal of coming and going at headquarters, so
we soon left and went to call on General Funston at General Maass’s
old headquarters. It ended by our remaining to dinner with General
Funston--his first dinner in General Maass’s home.

I suppose I am not only the only woman who has had a meal there under
two flags, but the only person. I went up the broad stairs with Colonel
Alvord, the stairs I had last descended on General Maass’s arm. When I
got there General Funston was in the large front room where the Maass
family had lived and breathed and had its being. After greeting him, my
eye roved over the room. On the table, with its white drawn-work cloth,
was the same centerpiece of white coral (from which hung bits of bright
green artificial moss) and the large silver cup; there was the silent
piano, with its piles of worn music; the porcelain ship (sad augury),
filled with faded artificial roses; the bead curtains dividing the big
room in half; the rocking-chair of which the family had been so proud;
even the doily that came off on my back! We went in almost immediately
to the large, bountifully spread table, where the food was served in
the Maass china. I, of course, sat on General Funston’s right, and N.
on his left. His fine, alert staff, ready and anxious to take over the
town and the country, the hemisphere, or anything else, made up the
party. They were all very nice about my being there “to grace their
first meal.”

General Funston is small, quick, and vigorous. There is a great
atmosphere of competency about him, and he is, they tell me, a
magnificent field officer. He had been to Mexico nineteen years before,
thinking to invest money in coffee; now in the turning wheel of life
his reputation is being invested in the situation which he is more
than equal to. They are all afraid that some hybrid breed of “dove of
peace”--“peace at any price” (or “preparedness for more kicks”--as
some one gloomily observed) will flap his wings over the land. The army
is ready, willing, and able to bring to a successful issue, in the
face of any difficulty, any task set it. I am sure that the officers
feel the cruelty of half-measures, cruelty both to our own people and
to Mexico; they know war can’t be more disastrous than what we are
doing. The dinner of ham, with cream sauce, potatoes, macaroni, beans,
and pickles, came to an end all too soon. Coffee and cigarettes were
served as we still sat around the big table. My eyes rested admiringly
on those half-dozen strong, competent men in their khaki suits. It
is the most becoming of all manly apparel--flannel shirt, with low,
pointed collar, trousers like riding-breeches, leather leggings,
cartridge-belts, and side-arms all in one tone. They are going to pack
the Maass relics and turn them over to their owners. Admiral Fletcher
had sent a message to General Maass, promising to forward all their
effects. I must say I had a real conception of “fortunes of war” when
they hunted for butter-dishes and coffee-cups in the Maasses’ gaudy
china-closet. They had only got into the house in the morning, and had
had no time for anything except the arrangements for taking over the
town.

General Funston said he had a little daughter, Elizabeth, born to him
the day he arrived in Vera Cruz. He also told us he had been routed
out of bed, one night, by extras, saying “O’Shaughnessy Assassinated!
_Prairie_ Sunk!” and he felt that the moment of departure might,
indeed, be near. He gave N. an historic pass to go between the lines
at any time, and we left soon afterward, as it was nearing the hour
for the officers to go to the function on the Sanidad pier--“a little
Funston,” as Captain Huse called it. I shook hands with them all and
wished the general “Godspeed to the heights.” Whatever is necessary,
he and his strong, faithful men will do. We walked through the hot,
white streets to the Plaza, and were soon overtaken by General Funston
and his chief of staff, riding in a disreputable _coche_ drawn by a
pair of meager gray nags. I believe the navy arrived on the scene in
our smart auto. A few minutes later I saw the general, in his khaki,
standing by Admiral Fletcher, who was in immaculate white on the
Sanidad pier.

Then began the wonderful march of six thousand blue-jackets and
marines back to their ships. The men had had their precious baptism
of fire. As ship’s battalion after battalion passed, there was
cheering, lifting of hats to the colors, and many eyes were wet. The
men marched magnificently, with a great, ringing tread, and made
a splendid showing. If the old Indian on the hill could have seen
them he would have recognized all the might and majesty of our land
and the bootlessness of any struggle. The passing of the troops and
their embarkment took exactly thirty-seven minutes. They seemed to
vanish away, to be dissolved into the sea, their natural element.
For a moment only the harbor looked like some old print of Nelsonian
embarkings--Trafalgar, the Nile, Copenhagen, I know not what! The navy
flowed out and the army flowed in. There were untold cinematograph and
photograph men, and the world will know the gallant sight. N. stood
with Admiral Fletcher and General Funston.

Sometimes, alone in Mexico City, with the whole responsibility of the
Embassy on his Shoulders, N. would be discouraged, and I, too, fearful
of the ultimate end. Had I realized the might and magnificence of the
navy represented in the nearest harbor, ready and able to back up our
international undertakings and our national dignity, I think I would
never have had a moment’s despondency. I said something of this to
Captain Simpson, and he answered, “Yes, but remember you were in the
woods.”

Admiral Busch took us back to the _Minnesota_, where we arrived in
time to see the returned men drawn up on the decks to be inspected
by Captain Simpson, who gave them a few warm, understanding words of
commendation. Some were missing. Peace to them!


_Later._

We went again on shore, leaving Nelson at the _Carlos V._, to return
the call of the Spanish captain in Mexico City. I was so tired out with
the sun and the long day that I stayed in the small boat. I simply had
not the nervous energy to climb the gangway and go on board, though I
would have liked to see the ship. After the visit we went and sat under
the _portales_ of the Diligencias for an hour or so, to watch the busy
scene. The ice-plant of the Diligencias was not yet in working order,
so the usual dirty, lukewarm drinks were being served to disgusted
patrons. In the Palacio Municipal, the Second Infantry regiment was
quartered, and under its _portales_ they had put up their cook-stoves
and were preparing their early evening meal, before going to their
night-work on the outposts. Several dozen fat, sleek, well-dressed
Mexicans were being shoved off at the point of three or four bayonets.
I asked Ensign McNeir why it was, and he said:

“Oh, that is the bread-line. They can’t be bothered with it now.”
The “bread-line,” which at times probably includes one-third of the
population of Vera Cruz, had evidently had good success at other
points, and had been enjoying a workless, well-fed day; for its members
had disposed themselves comfortably on bench or curb of the Plaza,
and listened to the strains of the “Star-spangled Banner,” “Dixie,”
and “The Dollar Princess”--provided for their entertainment by the
thoughtful, lavish invaders. Even the little flower-girls seemed to
have on freshly starched petticoats; the bright-eyed newsboys had clean
shirts, and the swarming bootblacks looked as spruce as their avocation
permitted. A sort of millennium has come to the city; and money, too,
will flow like water when pay-day comes for the troops.

Richard Harding Davis came up to our table. His quick eye misses
nothing. _If_ there is anything dull to record of Vera Cruz, it won’t
be dull when it gets to the world through that vivid, beautiful prose
of his. We teased him about his hat, telling him there had been many
loud bands in town that day, marine bands, army bands, and navy bands,
but nothing quite as loud as his blue-and-white polka-dot hat-band. We
said he could be spotted at any distance.

He answered, quite unabashed: “But isn’t recognition what is wanted in
Mexico?”

Jack London also came up to speak to us. Burnside, his hair closely
cropped and his heart as warm as ever, sat with us during the many
comings and goings of others. Captain Lansing, a very smart-looking
officer, had recently been transferred from the pomp and circumstance
of Madrid, where he had been military _attaché_, to the jumping-off
place of the world, Texas City. He said that after a year in the dust
or mud and general flatness and staleness of that place, Vera Cruz
seemed a gay paradise. Lieutenant Newbold, from Washington, and many
others, were also presented. They all looked so strong, so sound,
so eager. I think eagerness is the quality I shall best remember of
the men at Vera Cruz. Burnside walked back to the boat with us, the
tropical night falling in that five minutes’ walk. General Funston’s
first official orders were already up with the formal notification of
his authority:

  Headquarters United States Expeditionary Forces.

  VERA CRUZ, _April 30th, 1914_.

  GENERAL ORDER No. 1

  The undersigned, pursuant to instructions from the President of the
  United States, hereby assumes command of all the United States forces
  in this city.

  FREDERICK FUNSTON,
  Brig. Gen. U. S. Army Commanding.

Already in those short hours since the army “flowed” in, the soldiers
had installed themselves as though they had been there forever. In the
dusk we saw their tents stretched, their bake-ovens up, and the smell
of fresh bread was mingled with the warm sea odors. It was “efficiency”
indeed.


_May 3d._

This morning the news that Mr. Bryan will not permit any fighting
during the period of armistice and mediation will dampen much of the
eagerness I mentioned.

The full complement of the blue-jackets being again on board, there is
a lively sound of ship-cleaning going on. Everything seemed immaculate
before. We have been so comfortable, so cool, so well looked after in
every way on this man-of-war. But I shall not soon forget the face of
the young officer just home from outpost duty who discovered that my
French maid was occupying his cabin!

Last night, as we sat talking on the deck, looking out over the jeweled
harbor, the gentle, peaceful bugle-call to “taps” sounded suddenly
from San Juan Ulua. A big light hung over the entrance to Captain
Chamberlain’s quarters. It is balm on my soul that the pest-hole of
centuries is open to the sun and light, the bolts hanging slack, and
comparative peace and plenty everywhere. I say comparative peace,
because those imprisoned for murder and foul crimes are still to be
dealt with. When I first visited the prison under the Mexican flag
Captain McDougall and I asked the sentry who showed us around if there
had been many executions lately.

He answered, “Since _Thursday_” (this was Sunday) “_only_ by order of
the colonel!” Whether this was true or not I don’t know; but the guard
gave it out with the air of one making an ordinary statement. Captain
McDougall asked because, from the _Mayflower_, anchored almost where we
now are, he had heard many a shot at night and in the early morning.

Immediately after dinner we had gone up on deck. A delicious breeze was
turning and twisting through the soft, thick, tropical night. Every
night a large screen is put up on the after part of the ship, and the
officers and crew gather to watch the “movies,” seating themselves
without distinction of rank. The turrets are garlanded with men;
even the tops of the mast had their human decorations. It was most
refreshing, after the hot, historic day, to sit quietly on the cool,
dim deck and watch the old tales of love, burglars, kidnapping, and
kindred recitals unroll themselves from the films. But it was more
beautiful later on, as we sat quietly on the deck in the darkness,
watching the wondrous scene about us. A thousand lights were flashing
across the water, catching each dark ripple. The “city of ships,” as
I call Vera Cruz harbor, is constantly throwing its flash-lights, its
semaphores, its signalings of all kinds, and water and sky reflect them
a hundredfold.

Just after the peaceful sounding of “Taps” from the fortress, Admiral
Fletcher and Captain Huse came on board to pay us a farewell visit.
Admiral Fletcher’s courtesy is always of the most delicate kind, coming
from the depths of his kind heart and his broad understanding of men
and life. He and N. walked up and down the deck for a while, planning
about our getting off. He intends that the _chargé_ shall depart from
Mexican waters with all fitting dignity. After a warm handclasp he
and Captain Huse went off over the summer sea. Standing at the rail,
we watched the barge disappear into a wondrous marquetry design of
darkness and light, and knew that some things would never be again.

Later we got the inclosed radio from the _Arkansas_, Admiral Badger’s
flag-ship, to say the _Yankton_ would be put at our disposal on the
morrow to take us to our native shores, and so will the story end. I
am homesick for my beautiful plateau and the vibrant, multicolored
life I have been leading. _Adelante!_ But I have little taste for
dinners, teas, and the usual _train-train_, though a few expeditions
to dress-makers and milliners will be profitable to me as well as to
them. As you know, I had no time to have my personal things packed at
the Embassy, and what I did bring with me reposed for twenty-four hours
on the sand-dunes at Tejería, between the Mexican lines and ours. My
big yellow trunk is reported at the Terminal station. What is left in
it will be revealed later. They may not call it war in Washington,
but when a woman loses her wardrobe she finds it difficult to call it
peace. N.’s famous collection of boots, forty or fifty pairs, evidently
left those sand-dunes on Aztec or mestizo feet. My silver foxes and
other furs I don’t worry about. Under that blistering sky and on that
hot, cutting sand they could offer no temptations.

Joe Patterson has just been on board. He came down with the army on the
transport _Hancock_, _sui generis_, as usual, his big body dressed in
the loosest of tan coverings. He is always electric and interesting,
running with a practised touch over many subjects. He said he wanted
not an interview with N. for his newspaper (which would finish N.
“dead”), but to make some account that would interest the public and
not get him (N.) into trouble. I shall be interested to see what he
does. The boresome news of the armistice has made him feel that he
wants to get back, and I dare say there will be many a departure.
Nelson will not allow himself to be interviewed by a soul. It is
impossible to please everybody, but, oh, how easy it is to _dis_please
everybody!




XXVI


  Homeward bound--Dead to the world in Sarah Bernhardt’s luxurious
  cabin--Admiral Badger’s farewell--“The Father of Waters”--Mr. Bryan’s
  earnest message--Arrival at Washington--_Adelante!_


_Sunday, May 3d._

I am writing in the depths of my cabin on the yacht _Yankton_, which
is carrying us to New Orleans as the crow flies--a special trip for
the purpose. In another walk of life the _Yankton_ was known as _La
Cléopâtre_, and belonged to Sarah Bernhardt. Now I, much the worse for
wear, occupy her cabin. She has never brought a representative of the
United States from the scene of war before, but she is Admiral Badger’s
special ship, carries mails, special travelers, etc., and went around
the world with the fleet. The fleet met a typhoon, and all were alarmed
for the safety of the _Yankton_, which emerged from the experience the
least damaged of any ship. I can testify that she rides the waves and
that she even jumps them. Admiral B. says that in harbor he uses her
chiefly for court-martials. Now I am here. Life is a jumble, is it not?

At five o’clock, on Friday, May 1st, we said good-by to dear Captain
Simpson and all the luxurious hospitality of the _Minnesota_, Commander
Moody and the officers of the day wishing us “Godspeed.” Just as we
were leaving Captain Simpson told us that he had been signaled to
send five hundred rations to San Juan Ulua. As we pushed off across
the water, accompanied by Ensign Crisp, the boat officer of the day,
great patches of khaki colored the shores of the town. They were
squads of our men, their tents and paraphernalia, the color coming
out strong against Vera Cruz, which had an unwonted grayish tone that
afternoon. The _Yankton_ was lying in the outer harbor, surrounded by
battle-ships, dreadnoughts, and torpedo-boats--a mighty showing, a
circle of iron around that artery of beautiful, gasping Mexico. It was
about quarter before six when we reached the _Yankton_. As I looked
about I seemed to be in a strange, gray city of battle-ships. Shortly
afterward Admiral Badger put out from his flag-ship, the _Arkansas_,
to say good-by to us. He came on board, greeting us in his quick,
masterful way. Such power has rarely been seen under one man as that
huge fleet represented in Vera Cruz harbor, and the man commanding
it is fully equal to the task; he is alert, with piercing blue eyes,
very light hair gone white, and a clean, fresh complexion--the typical
mariner in a high place. I think he feels entirely capable of going
up and down the coast and taking all and everything, even the dreaded
Tampico, with its manifest dangers of oil, fire, disease, and all
catastrophes that water can bring. He spoke of the thirty thousand
Americans who have already appeared at our ports, driven from their
comfortable homes, now destitute, and who can’t return to Mexico
until we have made it possible.... I imagine he strains at the leash.
He loves it all, too, and it was with a deep sigh that he said,
“Unfortunately, in little more than a month my time is up.” But all
endings are sad. Great bands of sunset red were suddenly stamped across
the sky as he went away, waving us more good wishes.

Captain Joyce, who had gone into town to get us some special kind of
health certificate to obviate any quarantine difficulties, came on
board a little later, and soon after his return we were under way. The
quick, tropical night began to fall. What had been a circle of iron by
day was a huge girdle of light pressing against Mexico, as potent under
the stars as under the sun. My heart was very sad.... I had witnessed a
people’s agony and I had said an irrevocable farewell to a fascinating
phase of my own life, and to a country whose charm I have felt
profoundly. Since then I have been dead to the world, scribbling these
words with limp fingers on a damp bit of paper. This jaunty yacht is
like a cockle-shell on the shining waters. Admiral Fletcher and Admiral
Cradock sent wireless messages, which are lying in a corner, crumpled
up, like everything else.

I said to Elim, lying near by in his own little sackcloth and ashes,
“Yacht me no yachts,” and he answered, “No yachts for me.” Later,
recovered enough to make a little joke, he said he was going to give me
one for a Christmas present.

I said, “I will sell it.”

He answered, “No, sink it. If we sell it dey’ll invite us--dey always
do.” He looked up later, with a moan, to say, faintly, “I would rather
have a big cramp dan dis horriblest feeling in de world.”

This is, indeed, _noblesse oblige_! I have suffered somewhat, perhaps
gloriously, for _la patria_, and I suppose I ought to be willing to
enact this final scene without bewailings; but I have been buried
to the world, and the divine Sarah’s cabin is my coffin. If such
discomfort can exist where there is every modern convenience of
limitless ice, electric fans, the freshest and best of food, what
must have been the sufferings of people in sailing-ships, delayed by
northers or calms, with never a cold drink? I envelop them all in
boundless sympathy, from Cortés to Madame Calderon de la Barca.


_U. S. S. “Yankton.” May 4th. 3.30._

Awhile ago I staggered up the hatchway, a pale creature in damp white
linen, to once more behold the sky, after three cribbed and cabined
days. A pilot’s boat was rapidly approaching us on the nastiest,
yellowest, forlornest sea imaginable. I felt that I could no longer
endure the various sensations animating my body, not even an instant
longer. Then, suddenly, it seemed we were in the southwest passage of
the great delta, out of that unspeakable roll, passing up the “Father
of Waters”--the abomination of desolation. Even the gulls looked sad,
and a bell-buoy was ringing a sort of death-knell. Uniformly built
houses were scattered at intervals on the monotonous flat shores, where
the only thing that grows is tall, rank grass--whether out of land
or water it is impossible to say. These are the dwellings of those
lonely ones who work on the levees, the wireless and coaling stations,
dredging and “redeeming” this seemingly ungrateful land, stretching out
through its flat, endless, desolate miles.

The water is yellower than the Tiber at its yellowest, and no mantle
of high and ancient civilization lends it an enchantment. The pilot
brought damp piles of papers on board, but I can’t bear to read of
Mexican matters. Whether Carranza refuses flatly our request to
discontinue fighting during the mediation proceedings, or a hasty New
York editor calls Villa “the Stonewall Jackson of Mexico,” it is only
more of the same. My heart and mind know it all too well.

I have a deep nostalgia for Mexico; even for its blood-red color.
Everything else the world can offer will seem drab beside the memory of
its strange magic.

A radio came from Mr. Bryan at six this morning requesting N. to
observe silence until he has conferred in Washington. But N. had
already made up his mind that _silentium_ would be his sign and
symbol. Unless we get in at the merciful hour of dawn he will be
besieged by reporters. A word too much just now could endlessly
complicate matters for Washington.

We are slipping up broad, mournful, lake-like expanses of water.
From time to time a great split comes, and it seems as if we had met
another river, seeking another outlet. More white and gray houses
show themselves against the tall, pale-green, persistent grasses and
the yellow of the river. They are lonely, isolated homes, wherein
each family earns its bread in the sweat of its brow by some kind
of attendance on the exacting “Father of Waters”--mostly, trying to
control him.


_6.45_ P.M.

We have just slipped through quarantine like a fish. Our own
extraordinary orders and two or three telegrams from Washington,
with orders not to hold us up, made it an easy matter. We saw the
_Monterey_, which had arrived in the morning, with six hundred and
twenty-three passengers aboard, moored at the dock. The women and
children were to sleep in screened tents on land. Many of them were
refugees from Mexico City itself, and they cheered and waved, as we
passed by, and called “O’Shaughnessy! O’Shaughnessy!”

The refugees, according to the copy of the _Picayune_ the health
officers left us, are loud in praise of Carden, saying their escape
is due to him and not to the State Department, and giving incidental
cheers for Roosevelt. Dr. Corput is a martinet; but though he was hot
and decidedly wilted about the collar when his six-foot-two person came
into the saloon where we were dining, he looked highly competent. It
will be a bright microbe that gets by him. He, with his yellow flag, is
lord and master of every craft and everything that breasts this river.

The whole question of guarding the health of the United States at this
station is most interesting. It is one of the largest in the world, but
is taxed to its utmost now by the thousands of refugees from Mexico,
most of them cursing the administration, as far as I can gather, during
the hundred and forty-five hours of travel since leaving Mexico. The
quarantine station itself, under the red, late afternoon sun, looked
a clean, attractive village, supplemented by rows of tents. There are
immense sterilizers in which the whole equipment of a ship can be
put, huge inspection-rooms, great bathing-houses, and a small herd of
cattle. It is sufficient to itself. Nothing can get at the inmates, nor
can the inmates, on the other hand, get at anything. I should say that
the wear and tear of existence would be materially lessened during the
one hundred and forty-five hours. The great ships that pass up now are
laden with people who have been exposed to every imaginable disease in
the Mexican _débâcle_. You remember the small-pox outbreak in Rome, and
how _that_ microbe was encouraged! Well, _autre pays, autre mœurs_. The
Indian, however, thinks very little more of having small-pox than we
think of a bad cold in the head.


_10_ P.M.

We have been going up-stream very quietly, in this dark, soft night,
zigzagging up its mighty length to avoid the current. Sometimes we were
so near the shores we could almost touch the ghostly willow-trees;
while mournful, suppressed night noises fell upon our ears. The
mosquitoes are about the size of flies--not the singing variety, but
the quiet, biteful kind. My energies are needed to keep them off, so
good night; all is quiet along the Mississippi. We have ninety miles
from quarantine to New Orleans.


_May 5th._ _In the train, going through Georgia and North Carolina._

We got into New Orleans yesterday at 6.30 A.M., under a blazing sun.
There were reporters and photographers galore at the dock to meet us
and the good ship _Yankton_. They did not, however, get fat on what
they got from N., who refused to discuss the Mexican situation in any
way. But we _did_ lend ourselves to the camera. We were photographed
on the ship, on the blazing pier, in the noisy streets, near by,
among a horror of trucks and drays rattling over huge cobblestones,
and a few more terrors in ink will be broadcast. I then went to the
nearest good shop and got a black taffeta gown (a Paquin model with
low, white-tulle neck), and began to feel quite human again. Then we
motored about for several hours with one of the officers, through a
city of beautiful homes, interesting old French and foreign quarters,
driving at last over a magnificent causeway. On one side was a swamp
filled by all sorts of tropical vegetation, and, doubtless, inhabited
by wet, creeping things; on the other side, a broad canal. We reached
a place called West End, on Lake Pontchartrain, where we lunched on
shrimps, soft-shelled crabs, and broiled chicken, quite up to the
culinary reputation of New Orleans. Afterward we went back to the boat
under a relentless afternoon sun and over more of those unforgetable
cobblestones.

I was completely done up. They were coaling as we got back to the ship,
but the sailors hastily shoveled a way for me, and I threw myself on
my bed in a state of complete exhaustion. When I came on deck again
at 5.30 the hideous coaling was done, the decks were washed, and
everything was in apple-pie order. Crowds were again on the pier, and
the photographers got in more work. The golden figure of Cleopatra
that decorates the prow was blood-red in the afternoon sun. At six
we started out with Captain Joyce, who had literally “stood on the
burning deck” all day, overseeing the coaling process. We wanted to
show him a little of the city in the sudden, beautiful, balm-like
gloaming. We stopped a moment at the St. Charles, where I mailed my
long _Yankton_ letter, and found it overflowing with Americans from
Mexico, with smiles or frowns upon their faces, according as they were
going to or leaving a bank account. We then went to Antoine’s, which
has been celebrated for seventy-five years. There we had a perfect
dinner, preceded by a mysterious and delightful appetizer, called a
“pink angel,” or some such name, most soothing in effect. (It proved to
be made of the forbidden absinthe.) Also there were oysters, roasted
in some dainty way, chicken okra, soft-shelled crabs again, and frozen
stuffed tomatoes.

New Orleans still retains a certain Old World flavor and
picturesqueness. One might even dream here. Everything is not
sacrificed at the altar of what is called efficiency--that famous
American word which everywhere hits the returning native.

Some of the newspapers were quite amusing, and all were complimentary.
One congratulates N. on being relieved “from the daily task of
delivering ultimatums to, and being hugged by, Huerta.” Others are very
anxious to know if “Vic Huerta” kissed and embraced Mr. O’Shaughnessy
on his departure. The _abrazo_ is certainly not in form or favor in the
more reticent United States of America.


_Richmond Hotel, Washington, D. C._

We got in at seven o’clock, and, accompanied by the usual press
contingent, came to this hotel. The proprietor had telegraphed to us to
New Orleans, saying that N. was the greatest diplomat of the century,
American patriot, and hero. We thought we’d try him, he sounded so
_very_ pleasant, and we have found comfortable quarters. Now, while
waiting breakfast, ordered from a Portuguese, I have these few minutes.

An amusing letter from Richard Harding Davis is here, inclosing
newspaper head-lines two and a half inches high--“O’Shaughnessy Safe.”
He adds, “Any man who gets his name in type this size should be
satisfied that republics are not ungrateful!”

A pile of letters and notes awaits me; the telephone has begun to ring.
How will the Washington page write itself? _Adelante!_

THE END

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Footnotes have been moved to the end of each chapter and relabeled
consecutively through the document.

Illustrations have been moved to paragraph breaks near where they are
mentioned, except for the frontispiece.

Punctuation has been made consistent.

Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in
the original publication, except that obvious typographical errors have
been corrected.



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74308 ***