A diplomat's wife in Mexico (2024)

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

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

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

FOREWORD

Though the events recorded in these letters are knownto all the world, they may, perhaps, take on another significanceseen through the eyes of one who has lovedMexico for her beauty and wept for the disasters thathave overtaken her.

The time has not yet come for a full history of theevents leading to the breaking off of diplomatic relations,but after much pondering I have decided to publishthese letters. They were written to my mother,day by day, after a habit of long years, to console bothher and me for separation, and without any thought ofpublication. In spite of necessary omissions they maythrow some light on the difficulties of the Mexican situation,which we have made our own, and which everyAmerican wishes to see solved in a way that will testifyto 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 thenation still goes on. So above all thought of party orpersonal expediency, and because of vital issues yet tobe decided, I offer this simple chronicle. The Mexicanbook is still open, the pages just turned are crumpledand ensanguined. New and momentous chapters forus and for Mexico are being written and I should beforever regretful had courage failed me to write my littleshare.

It is two years ago to-day that diplomatic relationswere broken off between the two republics. It is morethan two years since the Constitutionalists under Villaand Carranza have had our full moral and materialsupport. The results have been a punitive expeditionsent into Mexico to capture Villa, and very uncertainand unsatisfactory relations with the hostile de factogovernment under Carranza. As for beautiful Mexico—herindustries are dead, her lands laid waste, her sonsand daughters are in exile, or starving in the “treasure-houseof the world.” What I here give forth—and thegiving is not easy—I offer only with a trembling hopeof service.

Edith Coues O’Shaughnessy.

The Plaza,
New York, April 23, 1916.

A DIPLOMAT’S WIFE IN
MEXICO

Arrival at Vera Cruz—Mr. Lind—Visits to the battle-ships—We reachMexico City—Huerta’s second coup d’état—A six-hour Reception atthe Chinese Legation. An all-afternoon hunt for the Dictator.

Mexico City, October 8, 1913.

Precious Mother,—You will have seen by thecable flashes in your Paris Herald that Elim andI arrived at Vera Cruz yesterday, safe and sound, anddeparted the same evening for the heights in the presidentialcar, put at N.’s disposal the night before, for the tripfrom Mexico City and back.

It was a long day. Everybody was up at dawn, walkingabout the deck or hanging over the sides of the ship,all a bit restless at the thought of the Mexican uncertaintieswhich we were so soon to share. About sixo’clock we began to distinguish the spires of Vera Cruz—thepeak of Orizaba, rivaling the loveliest pictures ofFujiyama, showing its opal head above a bank of dark,sultry clouds. A hot, gray sea was breaking over thereefs at the mouth of the harbor, and the same lonelypalms stood on the Isla de los Sacrificios. As we passed[2]between the two gray battle-ships just outside the harbor,I could not help a little shudder at the note of warningthey struck. The dock was crowded with the well-remembered,picturesque, white-clad Indians, with high-peakedhats, who suggested immediately the changelessmystery of Mexico.

Fortunately, the weather being overcast, the intenseheat was a little modified, though it was no day to setoff looks or clothes; every one’s face and garments weregray and limp. N. arrived just as we were getting upto the docks, his train having been late. His face wasthe last we discovered among various officials coming andgoing 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 wehad no customs formalities we passed quickly throughthe damp, boiler-like shed where the little tricks of theaduana (the customs) were about to be performedon hot and excited voyagers. Then we got into a ricketycab, its back flap flying to the breeze, and drove acrossthe sandy, scrubby stretch to the Hotel Terminus,where the Linds are living. The fascinating little pinkhouses with their coquettish green balconies were as ofyore, but the tropical glint and glitter seemed gone fromeverything under the hot, gray sky.

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

In a few minutes Mr. Lind appeared, in shirt-sleevesand a panama fan. (I suppose he wore other articles,[3]but these are what I remember.) I was greatly struckby him. He is evidently a man of many natural abilitiesand much magnetism—tall, gaunt, sandy-haired, unmistakablyScandinavian, with the blue, blue eyes of theNorsemen set under level brows. I imagine fire behindthat northern façade. The conversation opened withconciliatory and smiling remarks, after the manner ofexperts in any situation, meeting for the first time. Ifound him very agreeable. There was even somethingLincolnesque in his look and bearing, but his entry onthe Mexican stage was certainly abrupt, and the settingcompletely unfamiliar, so some very natural barking ofthe shins has been the result. Looking at him, I couldn’thelp thinking of “the pouring of new wine into oldbottles” and all the rest of the scriptural text.

The Linds, who have a handsome house in Minneapolisand another “on the lake,” are accepting things asthey find them, with an air of “all for the good of theUnited States and the chastising of Mexico.” But all thesame, it is a hardship to inhabit the Terminus and thento tramp three times a day through the broiling streetsto another hotel for very questionable food.

The Hotel Diligencias, where we lunched, is deeperin the town, has fewer flies, is a little cleaner, and is verymuch hotter. Once away from the sea breeze you mightas well be in Hades as in Vera Cruz on a day like yesterday.The Diligencias is the hotel whereon De Chambrunhangs the famous story of his wife’s maid goingback for something that had been forgotten, and findingthat the servants had whisked the sheets off the bedsand were ironing them out on the floor for the next comers—sansautre forme de procès! We had a pleasantlunch, with the familiar menu of Huachinango, polloy arroz, alligator pears and tepid ice-cream, consumedto the accompaniment of suppositions regarding[4]Mexican politics. Then we plunged into the deserted,burning street (all decent folk were at the business of thesiesta) and back to the Hotel Terminus, feeling much theworse for wear.

At four o’clock Lieutenant Courts came to conductus to the flag-ship Louisiana, and we asked Hohler, theBritish chargé who was in Vera Cruz awaiting the arrivalof Sir Lionel and Lady Carden, to go with us.Admiral Fletcher and his officers were waiting for Nelsonat the gangway and the band was playing the belovedair as we went up. We were there about an hour, whichseemed all too short, sitting on the spotless deck, wherea delightful breeze was blowing. The time passed ineager conversation about the situation with AdmiralFletcher, a charming and clever man, with dark, earnesteyes and serious, intent expression, all set off by themost 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 glanceat 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 tearscame 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 onCaptain Oliver. More health-drinking and stirring offriendly feelings. Pictures of the Holy Father and prelatesI have known gave a familiar note to Captain Oliver’squarters. Then, in the wondrous tropical dusk, thelittle launch steamed quickly back to town, where wehad just time to gather up our belongings and maid atthe Terminus and descend to the station beneath. Mr.Lind stood waving farewell as we steamed out, and Imust say I am quite taken by him!

[5]

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

We had a quiet night, rising swiftly up those enchantingslopes, a warm, perfumed, exotic air coming in atthe 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, lookingtranquilly down on the beauteous plateau, indifferentto man’s disorders.

At Mexico City Captain Burnside and the Embassystaff were at the station to meet us, and in a momentI found myself once again driving through the familiar,vivid streets, the changeless, silent Indians coming andgoing about their simple affairs. The Embassy is ahuge house—a gray-stone, battlemented, castle-on-the-Rhineeffect—which, fortunately, had been put on apossible 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 veryimprobable that they will ever return. He is a man ofgood sense, and there is, as in most establishments,room for many men but only for one maîtresse demaison.

Now I must be up and doing. I want to pull the furnitureabout, down-stairs, and make myself a setting ofsome sort. There are several packing-boxes containingthe accumulation of our first Mexican bout—books,vases, cushions, and the like. Fortunately, the comfortablegreen leather library set of Mr. Henry Lane Wilson,together with handsome rugs and bookcases, were alsobought for the “confidential agent”; and I shall usethem in my drawing-room, instead of a rather uncomfortable[6]French set upholstered in pink. The bedroomsare already fully and handsomely furnished withthe Wilsons’ things.

Dear Mme. Lefaivre came last night, and we hadlunch at the Legation to-day. Such an affectionatewelcome from her warmest of hearts! Many personshave called and cards and flowers were coming in allday.

P. S. Yesterday, Torreon fell into the hands of therebels, and many atrocities were committed againstSpanish subjects. The Spanish minister is in a greatstate 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.

October 11th.

Last night Huerta accomplished his second coup d’état;he is getting very skilful. He surrounded the Chamberof Deputies while the honorable gentlemen were in session,conspiring against their constitution. He had themarrested as they came out into the hall, and I understandthere was quite a stampede from the Chamber itselfwhen they got wind of the fact that something waswrong. He accuses them of obstructing his policy ofpacification by every low and unpatriotic means at theircommand, and these are numerous.

Now one hundred and ten of them are lodged in thefamous Penitenciaría, whither Madero was going on hislast journey. N. was out until two o’clock in the morning,with the Spanish minister (dean of the diplomaticcorps), going first to the Foreign Office to try to obtainguarantees for the lives of the imprisoned Deputies, andafterward to the Penitenciaría, where they were showna list of eighty-four, and given assurances that they wouldnot suffer. It looked a bit black for the remaining[7]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, oranybody’s else), but he is a strong and astute man; andif he could get a few white blackbirds, in the shape ofpatriots, to work with him, and if the United States werenot on his back, he might eventually bring peace to hiscountry.

I am not yet reaccustomed to the extreme beauty ofthe Mexican morning; a dazzling, many-colored lightthat would dim the spectrum is filtering into my room,as I write, glorifying every object and corner. I havehad the covers taken off the pink furniture; a rose-coloredcoverlet and cushions are on my chaise-longue,and the glow is indescribable.

You will have seen that the Chambers are convenedfor the fifteenth of November, but in spite of preparationsfor legislation, a warlike something is in the air.Squads of soldiers are passing the Embassy, with muchplaying of the beautiful national hymn. They handletheir brass very well, and their military music would begood anywhere.

In Washington they are taking the news of the coupd’état with their coffee....

I have not yet seen von Hintze,[1] though he came earlyyesterday, bringing a gift of fortifying liqueur, “for thealtitude,” and some flowers; and I went with Elim tothe Legation, later on. I understand that he looks atthe situation rather en noir. But he is somewhat of abear on Mexican matters, anyway, his first experience,on arriving three years ago, being the horrid Covadongamurders.... A certain natural exclusiveness andaloofness are among his special attributes, and his psychology[8]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 theForeign Office, where they will hear the official reason ofthe coup d’état. I shall be most interested in the explanation,which will probably be some adroit Latin-Americanarrangement of facts. One has a feeling of being atschool, here, and constantly learning something new tothe Anglo-Saxon mentality.

Now I must hie me down-stairs and tackle a few ofmy “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 thegates of the garden, greeting the passers-by—a littleIndian habit, and incurable. What I need is a Europeanmaître d’hôtel to thunder at them from his Aryan heightsas the Wilsons had. There are some good Aztec specimensleft over from their administration, whom I shallkeep 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 andpressing; everything was wrinkled by the damp, penetratingheat of the sea-trip.

The Embassy has two gendarmes to watch the gate,instead of the usual one given to legations—nice, oldFrancisco, who has been in the service of the UnitedStates 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.[9]Elim always goes out with me, and loves sitting on thefront seat with his dog, a melancholy Irish terrier sentby Mr. Armstead from Guanajuato.

Exchange is now very low. One hundred dollars equalstwo hundred and eighty Mexican dollars. Very nice forthose supplied from abroad, but killing to these people,and with the sure prospect of getting worse. The priceof articles has gone up by leaps and bounds—not nativefoods so much, but all articles of import. I hear theauto-horn and must stop. Will be very much interestedto hear the official wherefor of the coup d’état.

October 12th, Evening.

Well, the Diplomatic Corps, in uniform, was receivedat the Foreign Office with much unction, by the large,stout Moheno, Minister of Foreign Affairs, of whommore another time. He insisted principally on thegreat efforts General Huerta was making to restorepeace, and the equally great obstructions placed inhis way, saying that since the opening of Congressthese 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 manneeding an immediate operation; and that the governmentwas confronted by the dilemma formulatedby Gambetta (they do love to find a European similefor their situation)—“Yield or resign!” which, in thiscase, would have been tantamount to national dissolution.The crux of the speech is, however, that theelections are to be held this month.

Sir Lionel presented his letters of credence yesterday,thus putting the hall-mark of his government uponHuerta. It appears there was quite a love-feast; Huerta,of course, was immensely pleased at the proof of recognition[10]at the delicate moment of his birth and firststruggling cry as a dictator.

Since the imprisonment of the Deputies there has beena constant stream of their mothers and wives and daughterscoming to the Embassy for help, though, of course,we can do nothing; little, plain, black-dressed, black-eyedwomen or high-chested, thick-lipped, diamond-ear-ringedones, inclining to magenta or old gold; mostly,as far as I can see, Maderista in their tendencies. Twoof the little, plain, black type who were here late lastnight, said they went every day to visit Madero’s grave!They fear the Deputies will be shot, but I hardlythink shrewd old Huerta will go to any unnecessarylengths with the very cold eye of the world upon him.Keeping them locked up, where they can’t vote, or disqualifyingthem, is all that he wants. It is true that theyhave never missed an opportunity in the Chamber toput a spoke in his wheel, and he got bored with thecontinual “block.” He didn’t arrest members of theCatholic party who, for the most part, had been tryingto sustain order through him; they are, after all is saidand done, the conservative, peace-wishing element inMexico.

The Senate he simply dissolved. They have not beengiving him so much trouble. One of the heads of theCatholic party came to see N. yesterday, to talk over theopportuneness of their putting up any one as candidatefor President—a tentative conversation, on his part.Men of his class, unfortunately for Mexico, rarely identifythemselves with political life, and were entirely invisibleduring the Madero régime. The Clerical partyhas very little money, and feels the battle unequal andthe outcome most uncertain. N. was, of course, non-committalin the matter, which he said was not in hisprovince; but he added that there was no reason for[11]the party to neglect to make some kind of representation,any more than for the others to do so. Huertais, of course, thoroughly anti-Clerical.

Yesterday was the first anniversary of the independenceof China; it may be because it is so far away, butthey seem to have had their revolution with very littlesound of breakage. There was a reception at the ChineseLegation during the generous hours of 4 to 10. Iwent at about 5. I got up to go four times, and eachtime the chargé d’affaires caught me at the door and said,“You have been absent eight years—no, I mean eightmonths—and I can’t let you go.” I finally ran theblockade at 7.30, promising some insistent Oriental nearthe outer door that I would return. All the diplomatswere there. I found von Hintze, like a visitant fromanother world, sitting, inscrutable, by the handsome,buxom wife of the Guatemalan minister. She was inblack lace over orange silk, making my white tailor suitseem very severe. Stalewski, the Russian minister, wasstanding near, waiting for his tea. Sir L. and Lady C.came in at 6 o’clock only, then Madame Lefaivre—theOccidental diplomats naturally gravitating toward oneanother. Finally, at 7, when the rooms down-stairswere packed like sardine-boxes, we were directed up-stairs,where a handsome “champagne lunch” wasserved. It was after this that I made my escape. Thewife of the chargé, and some other Oriental ladies, inappalling Western costumes, stood in close formationnear the door from start to finish, wearing an unfadingOriental smile.

N. spent the afternoon hunting for the Dictator,having been unable to track him down since the famouscoup. He hopes to induce him to clemency regardingthe Deputies. Huerta has a very effective way of droppingout of a situation—just subtracting himself and[12]reappearing when events have moved on. He preserves,according to his edict of the 11th, the full powers vestedin the executive, adding generously the powers of Gobernación(Interior), Hacienda (Treasury), and War, thoughonly for the time absolutely necessary for the re-establishmentof the legislative power. By the powers ofGobernación he has declared invalid the exemption ofDeputies from arrest and makes them subject to thejurisdiction of the tribunals if found guilty of any offenseor crime; most of the Deputies are only getting whatthey deserve. There is certainly reason to complain oftheir lack of public spirit; there seems little or no availablematerial here from which to build a self-governingstate, and a dictator (or intervention) is what they need.Juarez took the fear of hell away from them some fiftyyears ago; Madero took the respect for the supremogobierno (supreme power) as typified by the strong handof Diaz. There seems nothing left to hold them—thosefifteen millions, with their sixty-three dialects and theirthousand idiosyncrasies of race and climate.

Huerta has a handsome, quiet-faced wife and elevenchildren. These and a rented house (he has never livedat Chapultepec or at the Palace) are, up to now, hisonly apparent worldly possessions. I doubt whether hehas the inclination or takes the time for an undue amountof grafting. He is, from what I hear, very canny in thematter of human equations and seems full of vitalityand a sort of tireless, Indian perseverance. Theysay that the more he drinks the clearer his brainbecomes.

Nine Spaniards that were killed in Torreon the otherday, on refusing to give up their goods and money,had their execution preceded by such gentle rites asdigging their own graves. Villa has declared no quarterto Spaniards; they must get out of his Mexico, bag and[13]baggage, and he intends to see that the Church leaveswith them.

On all sides are praises of N.’s handling of the manycomplicated questions coming up, and his being personagrata with all parties. It is known that though in thecarrying out of difficult orders from Washington there isan absolute point-blankness, in their own affairs theMexicans can count on tact, courtesy, and any servicecompatible with his position.

I imagine that Mr. Lind will soon be realizing the futilityof an indefinite stay on Mexican soil. There areno results—and I rate him a man used to results.

Sanctuary to Bonilla—Sir Lionel and Lady Carden—Carranza—Mexicanservants—First reception at the American Embassy—Huerta receivesthe Diplomatic Corps—Election Day and a few surprises.

October 13th.

Manuel Bonilla, a former Maderista, Ministerof 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. Ofcourse we have had a room made ready for him, and hecan stay quietly in it until a chance offers for gettingout of the country. His room, by the way, contains thebed that Mrs. —— refused when she was shown overthe Embassy, saying, “What! Sleep in the bed of amurderess?” The murderess being dear, gentle, prettyMrs. Wilson, my late chefesse, and the murdered ones, Isuppose, being Madero and Pino Suarez!

President Wilson has now sent a message to the provisionalgovernment, entirely disapproving of the actof dissolving Congress, saying that any violence offeredany Deputy will be looked on as an offense against theUnited States, and that, furthermore, the United Stateswill not recognize any President elected after any suchproceedings. N. has just gone to the Foreign Office todeliver himself of the news. Moheno is a large, stout,curly-haired Indian from Chiapas, with a bit of somethingdark thrown in. He suggests a general effect ofItalian tenor, but he is clever—perhaps “cute” is a[15]better word. These unfortunate people are betweenthe devil and the deep sea—i. e., between their own lawlessnessand us.

The Cardens had their first reception to-day. TheLegation is a new, artistic, most comfortable house justoff the Paseo—the sort of thing English diplomats findawaiting them everywhere. Sir L. was here for sixteenyears as consul. He was the British government’sfirst representative after the Maximilian affair; so,though he has been absent many years, he finds himselfen pays de connaissance. He is the handsome, perfectlygroomed, tall, fresh-complexioned, white-mustached,unmistakable Briton. She is an agreeable Americanwoman; but they both look pale and bloodless aftermany years of Habana and Guatemala. We are noneof us at our rosiest under the palm and cactus. Sir L.has had thirty years of Latin-American diplomaticexperience.

October 14th.

Proofs multiply of direct conspiracy of the Deputiesagainst the provisional government. If you scratcha Maderista Deputy you are sure to find a revolutionaryof some sort. The task of establishing peace seems well-nighhopeless. Everywhere are treachery and venality.The note N. handed yesterday to the Foreign Office hasnot yet been answered, though Moheno refers to it in apress interview, saying that it had been presented to himby Chargé d’affaires O’Shaughnessy, “A gentleman ofthe most exquisite culture,” and that he must not beheld responsible for the “intemperate language of hisgovernment,”—rather cocky! Though N. is handlingthe officials with all possible care, everybody thinks theyare preparing a fiery answer for to-morrow. They arecapable, at any moment, of sending an ultimatum to[16]Washington themselves, and then the fat would be inthe fire!

A heavenly warm sun is streaming in. These Octobermornings, after the rains have ceased, are the brightestjewels in Mexico’s crown of loveliness.

N. is so sick of the murder and destruction he sees atfirst hand that he refuses to read anything about Mexico.He is, in fact, living a book of his own. But I takean interest in outside comment. I have just read anarticle in the North American Review, by Sydney Brooks,giving the English view of the situation, which seems tobe that if we had recognized Huerta he would, by now,have been far on the road toward the establishment ofpeace. Also a quotation from Le Temps, in to-day’s Imparcial,to the same effect. N., however, is beginning tothink that nothing but intervention can bring aboutorder. The elements of peace seem no longer in therepublic itself. Intervention is a big word, but itneedn’t mean the extermination of Americans or theirinterests in Mexico. Many French people stayed onthrough the French intervention and reached a green oldage; Americans could do the same. Any one who reallyknows how easily peace is frightened out of a Latin-Americanrepublic, and how wary she is about comingback, would think twice about alarming her.

Elim has just presented me with a large bunch of pinkgeraniums from the vases at our front entrance. I wishhe would choose a more remote spot for depredations.He is drawn, as if by a magnet, to the gendarmes andthe untasted joys of the pavement. The Mexicans arealways nice with children. There isn’t as much differencebetween the little ones and the grown-ups as inmore sophisticated countries.

Bonilla, our minister-in-hiding, keeps very quiet.From what I hear, just to feel safe appears to be a great[17]luxury. I have had no intercourse with him, beyond anexchange of polite messages and putting one of the men-servantsat his disposition. They tell me he is very particularabout keeping his windows shut and his blindswell drawn at night, and is a bit jumpy if any one knocksat 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 countlessunlike elements, be held in order. In the States,where, of course, as we all know, everybody and everythingare just as they ought to be, this isn’t quite understood.

October 14th.

There is a very persistent rumor to-night that theanswer to President Wilson’s message delivered by N.yesterday will be met by Mexico with the breaking off ofdiplomatic relations, in which case we will have to clearout immediately for Vera Cruz. The private citizens intown can take their time in leaving; we must go quickly.I am not even unpacked; the linen of the voyage stillhangs on the roof. It all quite takes my breath away; Iscarcely feel as if I had returned, and can’t take in theidea of leaving. The full cup from the lip. We shallbe a nine days’ wonder on reaching New York, and thenwhat? The American diplomatic service is the mostuncertain quantity in the world.

Later.

Much expectant coming and going in the house, as Iwrite. N., who is admirable at soothing these people,has seen Moheno, and, after long argument, has persuadedthe Foreign Office to modify the belligerent toneof the answer to Washington. There were three Cabinet[18]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 weeksor months, though N. feels each victory is so muchgained for the United States. But the day will comewhen we will find ourselves trekking north.

October 16th.

Yesterday, at dark, we got Bonilla off, grateful butnervous. The motor took him to a station about twentykilometers from the town, where he boarded the trainfor Vera Cruz, to get the German boat of to-day. Alonga certain trend of legal reasoning he is some sixth in linefor President, after Madero, Pino Suarez, Lascurain, andothers who have been killed, or have disappeared fromthe uncertain glories of office. He goes to Washingtonto join the Maderistas, I suppose, in spite of the fact thathe has given his word of honor not to ally himself withthe revolutionists. It was only on such a promisethat we could give asylum to an enemy of the governmentto which N. is accredited.

The legal (if not the moral) genealogical tree ofHuerta’s Presidency is the following: Madero, ConstitutionalPresident; Pino Suarez, Constitutional Vice-President(their resignations were accepted previous totheir imprisonment, by Pedro Lascurain, Minister forForeign Affairs, and a God-fearing, honorable gentleman,by the way); Lascurain became President byoperation of law in regard to the vacant executive power;he was President some twenty minutes it appears (abit short, even for Latin-America), giving him time toappoint Huerta to the post of Minister of Gobernación(Interior). After Lascurain’s resignation, given, I understand,with alacrity, automatically, by operation oflaw, the executive power fell to Huerta with its provisional[19]character, and under the Constitutional promiseto call especial elections. This is the technical way bywhich Huerta became President, and, according to theMexican constitution, there are no doubts about thecomplete legality of the operation.

October 17th.

A quiet day; many rumors, but no events. All thetime the Carranzistas are gathering strength as a party;strength apparently coming to them from “above”—ahigher latitude, I mean. Seen at close range they are,unfortunately, no better than “the others.” Carranzais not a bloodthirsty villain, but the physically timid,greedy, quiet, conscienceless, book-reading kind, and“constitucionalista” is a word to conjure with. Itcan move a good Anglo-Saxon to tears, though I mustsay that all revolutionary leaders in Mexico get hold ofexcellent banner devices. Madero’s were above criticism—“Sufragioefectivo y no Re-elección” (“EffectiveSuffrage and No Re-election”). This last shows youthat they can go much farther in the expression of pure,distilled patriotism and democracy than we, as those ofus called to the dignity of office are not entirely able torid ourselves of a wish for a second term.

Also Carranza, who has none of the ability of Huertaand none of his force, has had the luck to strike a convincingnote with his long whiskers and generally venerableaspect, imitated by all his followers as far asnature allows. They tell me New York and Washingtonare full of respectable, thin, long-whiskered, elderlyMexicans. Those who have watched Carranza’s longcareer, however, say that a quiet, tireless, sleeplessgreed has been his motive force through life, and hisstrange lack of friendliness to Washington is accountedfor by the fact that he really hates foreigners, any andall, who prosper in Mexico. It seems to me one can[20]scent trouble here. Lack of any special political colorand principles, and general mediocrity, have kept himobscure, but he now finds himself at last accidentallyclothed and most acceptable to the Gran Nación delNorte in the fashionable and exclusive garb of constitutionalism.I wonder if he doesn’t sometimes wonderwhy 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 themurders, and her tragic tale may perhaps have determinedhis policy.

The fact remains, however, that Huerta is in controlof the army and the visible machinery of governmentwhich represents to the conservative elements (badlyenough or well is a detail), their constitution, the onlyform around which the affairs of the nation can groupthemselves with any definiteness.

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

He seems to think (all, of course, politely veiled) thatthe policy of the United States is to weaken these peopleby non-recognition, and, when they are agonizing, tocome in cheaply and easily, thus avoiding armed interventionnow, which would be much better for the Mexicans,though more expensive for us. All the chers collèguesveil behind unassailably discreet remarks theirnot very flattering idea of what they doubtless call amongthemselves our “little game.”

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

October 22nd.

Yesterday I had my first reception. About fifty peoplecame—the chers collègues and some of the colony,[21]mostly only those whose orbit sometimes crosses the diplomaticorbit. There were flowers in every availablereceptacle. I made a delicious punch myself, if I dosay it, and Mrs. Burnside poured tea; but I miss somany 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 cannotyet have any one for lunch or dinner, but I want to givesome little sign on her arrival. The Cardens are a verygreat 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 ownpeople, and is most welcome in view of the approachingelections. We understand the ticket will be Huerta andBlanquet, in spite of Washington’s frowns.

I do not know the real qualities of Blanquet, up tonow faithful supporter of Huerta and his Minister ofWar. The dramatic fact that, in the firing-squad atQuerétaro, it was he who gave the coup de grâce to Maximilian,has always overtopped everything else. Thepictures of Maximilian in the National Museum, poor,blond, blue-eyed gentleman, show him utterly unfittedto grapple with the situation, though filled with thebest intentions. He was like some rabbit, or other helplessanimal, caught in a trap. When one has seen archdukeson their native heaths, one realizes that they arenot of the material to wrestle with the descendants ofMontezuma; though I don’t know that we, in spite of allour “efficiency,” are being any more successful!

Great Britain will be very polite, but will not departone hair’s-breadth from what it has decided on as itsMexican policy, involving big questions, not alone ofprestige, but oil, railways, mines, etc. In fact, theBritish reply to Mr. Bryan in to-day’s newspaper quite[22]clearly says that England will be delighted to follow anypolicy from Washington as long as it does not interferewith what the British Foreign Office has decided to do.They simply can’t understand our not protecting Americanlives and interests. Their policy here is purely commercial,while ours, alas! has come to be political.

Great excitement is predicted for Sunday, the day ofthe election, but all the timid have to do is to stay athome, if their curiosity permits.

The import duties are raised 50 per cent. from thetwenty-eighth of October. But it will, fortunately,bear less heavily on the frijoles- and banana-eating partof the population than on those who want breakfast-foodsand pâté de foie gras.

A cook comes to-day, highly recommended, but I cansee just the sort of things she will turn out, if left toherself—fried bananas, goat stew, etc. She comes accompaniedby her little girl of three. One of the washerwomenalso has a child with her, and there are tentativeremarks from other quarters regarding offspring.But the house is so big that a few indwellers, more orless, make no difference; and I am not sorry, in theseuncertain times, to harbor a few bright-eyed, soft-skinned,silent brown babies under my roof. The handsomeIndian 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. Theyhave a way of leaving after they get their month’s wages,though their departure is generally preceded by somesuch formality as declaring that their grandmother isdead, or their aunt ill. Where they go is a mystery.

To-morrow we lunch at the Simon’s. He is the cleverFrench Inspecteur des Finances of the Banco Nacional.They have a handsome house in the Paseo, an excellent[23]French chef, and are most hospitable. She is witty andcultivated; we sometimes call her “la belle cuisinière.”In the evening we dine with Rieloff, the musical Germanconsul-general, who will serve Beethoven and Bachvery beautifully, after dinner. I am very little disposedto go out in the evening here, and N. is nearly alwaysbusy with despatches until a late hour. There is somethingin the air, nearly 8,000 feet in the tropics, whichdiscourages night life, even in normal times, and tertulias[2]of any kind are infrequent. At ten the streetsare deserted and the Mexicans all under some sort ofcover. Even in the big houses they take the most abstemiousof evening meals, and go to bed early, to beready for the exceeding beauty of the early morning.

All the foreigners here have nerves. What would bepeaceful, dove-like households at sea-level, become scenesof breakage of all description at this altitude, and allsorts of studies might be made on the subject of “airpressure” on the life of man and woman. There is notthe accustomed amount of oxygen in the air and, withall the burning-up processes of the body lessened, thereis an appalling strain on the nerves. Hence many tears!

I wonder if you ever got the book and letter I sent youfrom the boat from Santander. I gave them, with amplepostage and a fat tip, to an attractive, barefooted,proud-looking Spaniard, who had brought a letter onboard for some one. I told him they were for mi madre.With a most courtly bow, hat in one hand, the other onhis heart, he assured me that he would attend to thematter as if it were for his own mother! Pues quién sabe?

October 24th.

Yesterday at noon, Huerta, surrounded by his entireCabinet, received the Diplomatic Corps, and, though[24]there was much excitement beforehand, when his remarkswere boiled down, nothing was changed. The Mexicanis a past master at presenting the same condition undersome other expedient and disarmingly transparent disguise.The way out of what we all considered a greatdifficulty is amazingly simple. There will be no Presidentelected! 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 ofthe government as full-fledged military dictator. Afterthe formal statement of affairs he turned to N. andbegged him to assure Washington of his good faith; and hereiterated that his sole aim was the pacification of Mexico.He then became overpoweringly, embarrassinglypolite—even tender. He took N.’s arm and led him outto have a copita[3] in the face of the assembled corps,having previously embraced him, saying, with playfulreminiscence, “I arrest you.” Such are the vicissitudesof representing the Stars and Stripes in Mexico! Peopletell me Huerta’s speeches are generally masterpieces ofbrevity, with something magnetic and human aboutthem. The English support has strengthened him, withinand without.

Sir L. and N. were snap-shotted together by indiscreetnewspaper men as they were leaving the Palacio. Apièce à conviction, if ever there was one. Sir L. waslaughingly apologetic for N.’s being “found so near thebody.”

Mrs. Lind left yesterday for the United States, andI have written to the Governor, who may be lonely, totell him how welcome he would be if he likes to returnto Mexico City. I can make him comfortable—in abedroom and study adjoining—and we would really liketo see him. However, he may not care to come up for[25]another fausse couche, as one of the colleagues calledhis first visit.

Everybody is expecting disorders on Sunday—ElectionDay. There is very little difference between lawmakersand lawbreakers in Mexico. We foreign devilscan scarcely keep our faces straight when we hear theword “elections.” Sunday is sure to find Huerta still inthe saddle.

October 25th.

Yesterday L——, confidential agent of Felix Diaz, appearedat luncheon-time. He is a clever and plausibleindividual, angling for the United States recognition forDiaz’s candidacy. A special train has been offered FelixDiaz, but he is afraid, and not without reason, to ventureup into the unknown, so he will wait presidential resultsat Vera Cruz, with its attractive harbor full of fastships.

Tuesday, 28th.

The great day of the elections—the 26th—passed off,not only without disturbance, but without voters orvotes! The candidates so talked of during these lastdays were conspicuous by their absence. Felix Diazwas afraid to come to the capital, though all “assurances”—whateverthat may mean—had been given him.In Vera Cruz he stayed at a second-rate hotel, next doorto the American Consulate—the Stars and Stripes,doubtless, looking very comfortable from an accessibleroof-to-roof vantage-ground. He has missed, fatalistically,it would seem, the occasions whereby he mighthave become ruler of Mexico. He is a gentleman, ratherin our sense of the word, and the name he bears is linkedto the many glories of Mexico, but this is, probably, hispolitical burial. Already opportunity has called himthrice—Vera Cruz, in 1912; then Mexico City, in February,[26]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 hereuntil next May, when probably new elections will beheld. The consensus of opinion is that I might as wellget the much-discussed drawing-room curtains and therest, though I can’t feel enthusiastic about ordering alot of things that may come in only as I go out. Thedining-room continues to strike me as a terribly bleakplace, like all north rooms in the tropics.

I must say that one has very little hunger at thisheight, where the processes of digestion are much slowerthan at ordinary altitudes. When one has eaten a soupof some sort, a dish of rice garnished with eggs, bacon,and bananas (which any Mexican can do beautifully), orone of the delicious light omelettes—tortilla de huevos—toppedoff by some of the little, wild, fragrant strawberriesalmost perennial here, and over which wine ispoured as a microbe-killer, one’s “engine is stoked” fortwenty-four hours.

There have just been the usual parleyings about thebrandy for the turkey—the guajolote, the Indians callhim—the ancestral bird of Mexico. The Aztecs ate, andcontinue to eat, him; and good cooks have the habit ofgiving him the following happy death: on the morning ofthe day on which you are to eat him, you generally hearhim gobbling about. Then there is the demand forwhisky or brandy “por el guajolote, pobrecito.” The unfortunate(or fortunate) bird is then allowed to drinkhimself to death. This is the effective way of renderinghim chewable, it being impossible to hang meats atthis altitude. The flesh becomes soft and white andjuicy. But try a gravel-fed guajolote that has not goneto damnation!

The food question is difficult here, anyway, and personally[27]I am unable to wrestle with it. The far-famedtropical 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 varietiesof bananas, but scarcely a decent one to be had,such as any Italian push-cart is stocked with in NewYork. The chirimoya has a custard-like taste—the chicozapote, looking like a potato, has also, to our palate, a veryunpleasant, mushy consistency, and everything is possessedof abnormally large seeds at the center. Thebeautiful-looking, but tough, peaches that adorn ourtables come from California; also the large, rather witheredgrapes.

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

October 29th.

The Minister for Foreign Affairs is now in the drawing-room,from which I have fled, having asked to conferwith N. He has been frightened at the interventionoutlook and probably has come to try to find out whatWashington really has in store for Mexico. He said theother day that the suspense was paralyzing to thenation.

The British vice-consul at Palacio Gomez, Mr. CunardCummings, came for lunch. He has had a thoroughexperience with both rebels and Federals at Torreon, andhas terrible stories to tell of both sides. You don’tchange Mexican methods by draping them in differentbanners. In fact, it isn’t the banner, here, but thekind of hand carrying it, that makes the difference. Hetold us how one night the rebels shot up the hospitalin his town, crowded with wounded whom he and thedoctors had left fairly comfortable. The next morning,when he went back, his attention was first caught bysomething dark and sticky dripping from the balcony,as he went into the patio. Up-stairs a dreadful sight waspresented 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 swordand spurs, seized the priest officiating at Mass, and threw[29]him and the sacred vessels out into the street, to theconsternation and terror of the humble worshipers.

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

October 30th.

Last night there was a very pleasant dinner at theGerman Legation, at which I presided. I wore myblack satin Spitzer dress, with the white-and-silver hangingsleeves, which was much admired. Everybody’sclothes are known here and people are thankful to seesomething new. The Belgian minister was on one sideof me, and the Japanese on the other. Von Hintze wasopposite, with Lady C. on his right, and Señora de Rul,wearing magnificent pearls and a high-necked dress, onhis left. Three of the officers of the Hertha were there,giving rise to uncomplicated jokes about “Hertha” and“Huerta.” Of course conversation about la situacióntwisted through the various courses. The opinion isthat there are enough warring elements in town to providea sort of spontaneous combustion, without the aidof any outside happenings.

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

October 31st.

Yesterday there was a luncheon at May’s in honor ofthe Belgians who have come to get the much-talked-ofrailroad concession—a little matter of five thousand kilometers.Everything is beautifully done at his house, and[30]he has many lovely works of art. The table was a mass ofsmall, yellow chrysanthemums in a beautiful, old Englishporcelain surtout de table, having a yellow fond; the foodwas the triumph of a French chef over Mexican material.But, like all houses facing north, the May’s houseseemed desperately chilly when one came in out of thebright, fresh autumn day. Simon, the clever FrenchInspecteur des Finances, came in only when lunch wasnearly over. His wife had been in tears most of the time,and we were all a bit jumpy—as there were rumors ofa raid on the bank, and we feared that he and theother directors might have been asked for their moneyor 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 longfor my Lares and Penates, so safe in Vienna; though, Imust say, the drawing-room has begun to look veryhomelike and comfortable, with its deep chairs, broadwriting-desk, small tables, reading-lamps, palms, photographs,books, and bibelots.

In the afternoon we went to a small tea in anotherworld than the political. It was given by Madame deRiba, nee Garcia Pimentel, of the inner circle of thearistocrats, where el gobierno is looked at from more orless of a distance, and where foreigners seldom penetrate.They are the delightful, charming people onesees in the same set all over the world, and remind me ofthe “cousinage” of the “first society” of Vienna. Theyconstantly intermarry, and, though they travel, theyrarely make foreign alliances, and are apt to return totheir own country, which, despite its political uncertainties,is more beautiful than any other. There aremany works of art left in Mexico from the old Spanishdays, and in such houses one finds them. The handsome,agreeable, amiable women, moreover, wear Paris[31]clothes and Cartier-set jewels; the men are dressed byLondon tailors. The scene yesterday suggested any Europeancapital, and that inner circle where beauty,wealth, and distinction abide. The members of thisinner circle are all in favor of the paternal form of government.They themselves exercise a more or less beneficentsway over the laborers on their big estates; andthey realize from experience the necessity of a highlycentralized government in this country, where, of thefifteen millions of inhabitants, thirteen million are Indians,and the other two million gachupines, mestizos,foreigners of various sorts. Huerta once told N. that thegachupines had spoiled a good race. He casts the stoneback 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 feelthat business ought to improve. Lack of money is thecrux of the whole situation in Mexico, and, with theUnited States frowning on any nation that even hints ata loan, the case seems desperate. Any one, however, canafford a bull-fight ticket. If not for the more expensiveseats en sombra (in the shade), the people get a boleto desol, where they simmer blissfully in the sunny half of theRing.

I inclose a newspaper cutting about Bonilla, who wasin hiding here. He is celebrated for his blunders—bonilladas,they are called. As a delicate expressionof his thanks, on his arrival at Washington, he sent N.an open telegram announcing his safe arrival and endingwith messages of gratitude neatly calculated to maketrouble for his benefactor in both capitals.

I am finding myself very well off here, in the center ofdaily occurrences of vital interest. A full plate of life!One of its sweetnesses, doubtless, is that I don’t knowhow long it will last. My tea-service is the only thing I[32]really miss. A tent of a night I know—but the tea hourcomes every day!

November 2nd.

Last night came what is practically an ultimatumfrom Washington to Huerta. He is to get out, he, andall his friends, or—intervention. N. was at the palaceuntil one o’clock in the morning. It is asking Huerta tocommit political suicide, and he, unfortunately, does notfeel so inclined. Also, he has a conviction that he is asort of “Man of Destiny” who can bring peace toMexico. N. tried to convince him of the complete impossibilityof standing up against the United States, andurged him again and again to give way. I was troubledduring the night by visions of intervention, further devastationof this beautiful land, and the precious bloodof my own people.

I am reading a Spanish book on the war of 1847, publishedin 1848. The reasons why battles were lostsound immensely familiar—generals not coming up withreinforcements, or the commissary not materializing, orthe troops deserting. It is all so like what we are readingnow in the newspapers! No tempora mutantur here.

November 3rd.

If Huerta feels himself in his last ditch, with thisthreat of intervention, he may answer “que vengan.”The upper classes here seem to feel that it is what weintend and feel that if “’twere done, ’twere well ’tweredone quickly,” before the country is ruined. The bitterpill will be sugar-coated by thoughts of the prosperity tofollow. A—— came this morning, and, after a long conversationabout Mexico’s troubles, cried: “Come in immediatelyand clear up this impossible situation, orleave us alone. Nothing is safe; nothing is sacred!”His large sugar interests are in the Zapatista country,[33]and he is pretty well ruined by their destruction. If wecome in, the military part is, perhaps, the least of it; ahuge administrative job would follow—Cuba and thePhilippines 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 feelsthat he can’t do anything! He has learned, as somebodysaid, enough Spanish to say nothing in it. I think, however,it is as difficult for the United States to withdrawhim as it was embarrassing to send him. Also a lettercame from Burnside, from Vera Cruz, telling of the war-shipsand their positions in the harbor. He predicts amigration north for all of us, at an early date—but whoknows?

November 4th.

More battle-ships are announced. We shall have, accordingto to-day’s paper, about 6,000 men at VeraCruz. Box-cars are being sent to the frontier; it mustall mean preparation for some definite stroke on thepart of the United States. I feel that I am seeinglife from a very big angle. In spite of the underlyingexcitement 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 towardthe enchanting hills which form its near backgroundwill be pure joy. The mountains have a way of changingtheir aspect as one motors along, even with one’seye on them. From being a breath, an emanation, theybecome blue, purple realities of matchless beauty—darkshadows pinned to them with spears of light.

The extremely delicate negotiations N. has been havingwith the President’s private secretary, Rabago,concerning Huerta’s possible resignation, have leakedout, not from Mexico, but from the United States, and,[34]we suspect, via Vera Cruz. At the somewhat early hourof two in the morning the press correspondents began tocome to the Embassy. It is now 11.30 and they havebeen coming ever since.

N., of course, denies categorically having negotiationson hand. Mr. Bryan, we see by the morning newspaper,is reported as looking very pleased at the aspect of theMexican situation, on account of the aforesaid negotiations.The correspondents here must be heaven-born.Their scent is unerring. If there is anything even dreamedof they appear in shoals; when things are in abeyanceyou wouldn’t know there was one in town. They try,naturally, to read something political into everythingthat happens. For instance, the officers of the Germantraining-ship invited several of the ministers to take alittle trip to Vera Cruz, and the German, Russian, andNorwegian ministers accepted—which is why the newspapershad it that there was a meeting of plenipotentiariesat Vera Cruz. They are on a hunting trip for twodays and will return to-morrow.

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

November 5th.

Rabago is a very clever man, endowed to a highdegree with the peculiarly caustic type of Latin-Americanwit, whose natural object here seems always to be Mexico’skaleidoscopic government. His paper El Mañana didmore than anything else to kill Madero by perseveringlyreflecting his weaknesses in a mirror of ridicule. On accountof his opposition to the Maderos and his Porfiristasympathies he was taken up by the aristocratic classand has been of immense service to Huerta, a sort of[35]bridge between him and them. But how far the adviceto 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 cannotbe predicted.

It was amusing to see the various ministers arrive atthe Embassy, one after the other, to assure N. thatthere had been no conference of ministers at VeraCruz with Mr. Lind. They intend to uphold the protocol,and wouldn’t be caught flirting with an unknownofficial quantity behind N.’s back for anything in theworld.... Huerta easily gets suspicious and I dare saythe whole proceeding is spoiled. N. goes to-day with theultimatum to the President himself, and we shall seewhat we shall see. It is all very uncertain, but intenselyinteresting, in the magnetic, highly colored, Latin-Americanway. It makes London, Paris, and New York seemvery banal.

Just home, after leaving N. at the Palacio, where theanswer 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 abelated look at the booths stocked with the articlesappropriate, according to Aztec ideas, for All Saints’Day and the Feast of the Dead. Countless Indians,picturesque and mysterious, flood into the city, buildtheir booths, stay a few days, and then silently ebbaway, unseen until the next occasion—Christmas.Great bunches of a yellow flower—cinco llagas, “Flowerof Death,” the Indians call it—are everywhere for sale,to be placed afterward on the evanescent graves. Toydeath’s-heads and small toy coffins of all sorts abound.A favorite device is one whereby a string is pulled, thedead man raises his head, and when one lets go he falls[36]back with a rattling sound. It is all a bit macabre, sold bythese imperturbable Indians of the plateau, who are farfrom being a jovial race. Pulque and their other drinksoften induce silence and melancholy rather than hilarity.They never sing nor whistle in the streets. They almostnever dance. If they go through a few figures it is mostlyin a solemn manner and on the occasion of some churchfestival, when they dance and gesticulate, strangely garlanded,in the patio of the church itself.

The Alameda is a handsome park in the very middleof the town, and marks the site of the old Aztec tianguiz,or market-place. Fountains and flowers abound, and itis lavishly planted with beautiful eucalyptus and palms;an excellent band plays daily. The pajarera (aviary)around which the children cluster is very poor, consideringthe beauty and variety of the Mexican birds andthe Aztec traditions in this regard. The park has norailing around it—one can stroll in from the broad AvenidaJuarez. The drawback to the stone benches, placedat intervals, is that the most prominent have gravenupon them the words, “Eusebio Gayosso”—the name ofthe popular undertaker. In the midst of life you are indeath there. However, the eternal Indians, sunningthemselves and their offspring on the benches, can’tread; they have this advantage over any ilustrado whomight want to rest a bit.

N. has just returned with the anxiously awaited answer,which is quite beside the point. Huerta is probablysparring for time. He proffers vague, pleasant wordsin answer to the very definite message of the President,to the effect that he has always been animated by themost patriotic desires, that he will always limit hisacts to the law, and that after the elections he willscrupulously respect the public wish and will recognizeany person elected as President for the term to the[37]30th of November, 1916. N. recommends the withdrawalof the Embassy if, after the 23d of this month,when a new congress is to be convened, Huerta has notresigned. This might influence Huerta; and again, hemay 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 insteadof by the Ward Line are very good, the “d” in this instancemaking all the difference. I shall hate to leavethis palpitating, prismatic sort of life; but it isn’tthe 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 autosand carriages full of handsomely dressed people, themen standing along the edge of the pavement as theydo in Rome on the Corso, it seemed impossible that Iwas looking at a people over whom a great nationalhumiliation was hanging. The crowds become moreand more Mexican every day, with fewer Americanfaces.

We lunched to-day with the Iturbides. Everythingwas done in the best of style—with beautiful old silver andporcelain. He is a descendant of the Emperor AugustinIturbide of tragic history, and a charming and veryclever young man who would adorn any society. SeñorBernal, with his Christus head, its extreme regularitychiseled in pale, ivory tones, sat on my other side. Theyall seemed to fear that in view of the, to them, inexplicableattitude of the United States, the end in Mexicowould be the long-dreaded intervention in some form.Not a man who was at the table, however, really occupieshimself with politics. They all have handsomehouses in town, but they live for the most part on theirhaciendas, which they work on the paternal plan, theonly plan as yet productive of results here and which we[38]in the United States don’t at all understand, not beingable to put ourselves into another nation’s shoes. Theactual political business here is left to the educatedmiddle class, whose members, instead of being pillars ofsociety, form the stratum from which the professionalpolitician and embryo revolutionist always spring—thelicenciados, sometimes called the curse of Mexico, andother men of the civil professions, generally venal to adegree. The peon is faithful when he has no power andthe aristocrat is noble; but no country is secure whosebest elements are the extremes.

I am not, however, pessimistic as to the future of thereal Latin-American typified by this middle stratum,generally mestizo. He always forms the active part ofthe population, and in his hands seems to lie the futureof the country. The Spaniard as typified by the aristocraticclasses is apt to hold himself aloof and willalways do so. The Indian, except in the isolated case ofsome individual possessing genius, sure to present himselffrom time to time, has not the qualities to form thedominant element. It is, therefore, reserved for thiscrossing of Spaniard and native to finally embody andpresent the real national characteristics.

A rumor is out to-night that, as the present bankingact relative to certain reserves of gold and silver doesn’tsuit Huerta, he has decided to do away with it, and weare to stand firmly (?) on paper. Shades of Limantour!

This afternoon I bought several beautiful old inlaidframes. These last words tell of one of the greatestpleasures in Mexico—prowling around for antiques.Almost every one coming down here gets the fever andspends hours turning over junk, in an almost deliriousway, in the hope of unearthing treasure. In spite of thefact that for almost fifty years Mexico has been drainedby the traveler, and again and again devastated by civil[39]strife, there still remain endless lovely things, testifyingto the wealth and taste of the old Spanish days.

November 6th.

The statement in the Mexican Herald that Mr. Lindhad confirmed the report of an ultimatum and the probablefailure of negotiations is simply astounding. Turnthe light of publicity on Huerta and he is as wary assome wild animal who comes into contact with man forthe second time. Whatever he may have been contemplating,these special negotiations are now dead andburied.

There was a big dinner at the Belgian Legation to-night;everything beautifully done, as usual. I sat oppositemy host, between von H. and Sir L. Wore theflowered black velvet chiffon, and that black aigrettewith the Pocahontas effect in my hair; von H. wantedto know why this delicate Indian tribute. There was nopolitical conversation, as, with the exception of the C.’s,von H., and ourselves, only handsome, well-dressed, andbejeweled members of the Mexican smart set were present.May is nothing if not exclusive, with a perfectflair for the chicheria. His handsome wife is in Paris.

My drawing-room is filled with the beautiful pinkgeraniums that grow thick on the walls of the Embassygardens and balconies. Juan, the gardener, who, likeall Aztecs, understands flowers, brings them in everyother morning, cutting them most effectively with verylong stems and many leaves.

“Ship ahoy!” in the harbor of Vera Cruz no longerexcites attention. Counting the French and Germanships, there are about a dozen in all. Seven belong tous. There were only two—the New Hampshire and theLouisiana—guarding the entrance to the channel whenwe arrived a month ago. Is the plot thickening?

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

November 7th.

The newspaper with the announcement that Mr.Lind had left Vera Cruz last night for MexicoCity was brought up on my breakfast tray. I have hadtwo rooms made ready for him, moving rugs and desksand furniture about, robbing Peter to pay Paul, as onedoes in an incompletely furnished house. He will bewelcome, and I hope comfortable, as long as he seesfit to stay. I bear the memory of something magnetic,something disarming of criticism, in his clear, straightgaze, blue viking eye, his kindly smile, and his tall,spare figure, clothed, not dressed. He won’t find iteasy here and I don’t think any Mexican official sportingthe oak of the protocol will receive him unless he isaccompanied by N.—a sort of political, Siamese-twineffect, 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 newspapermen clustering like bees around the honey-pot of“copy.” I presented him, so to speak, with the keys ofthe borough, and retreated to my own bailiwick to orderluncheon for one o’clock. The whole town is whisperingand wondering what it all will mean. Huerta remainssilent. It appears that he and his generals are now[41]willing to make headway against the rebels. Why notbefore? A hundred years ago “dips” were sent toConstantinople to learn a thing or two they hadn’tknown before. Now, I think, Mexico is as good a schoolfor the study of other points of view.

Mr. Lind makes no secret of his conviction of thehostile intentions of England in the Mexican situation;but I have difficulty in thinking that to save her interestshere, big though they be, England would everdo anything to jeopardize our friendship. In last week’sMulticolor there was a picture of the White House, withEngland, Germany, and France in the act of painting itgreen. Poner verde is to insult.

Huerta feels that he has the support of many foreignpowers, especially of England. Sir L., by presentinghis credentials the morning after the coup d’état, stiffenedhim up considerably.

November 8th.

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

N. finally ran Huerta down yesterday in the El Globocafé. He received the usual affectionate abrazo,[4] andthey had a copita together, but Huerta never mentionedLind any more than if he were non-existent, andshied off at the remotest hint of “business.” Instead, heasked N., “How about the girls?” (“Y las muchachas?”)a phrase often used for opening or closing a conversation,[42]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 thismonth. Huerta plays with the government in Washingtonin a truly Machiavellian way. They want his resignation,but for the moment there is no recognized governmentin whose hands to place such a resignation.After the 23d, if the elections bear fruit, he will find someother reasons for remaining. If it were not for the factthat might is always right, the Administration would beas the kindergarten class, in regard to this clever, involved,astute old Indian. “They say” he is gettingrich, but there are no apparent signs. I don’t think hismentality is that of the money-loving order, thoughpossibly his principles would not prevent his makinghimself comfortable if he put his mind to it. He is now,however, so under the domination of his idée fixe—pacification—inspite of the difficulties within and without,that I doubt if he is taking an undue interest in personalenrichment.

November 9th.

This morning I began the day by telephoning vonHintze to come for lunch, as Mr. Lind wanted to seehim informally. Then I went to the house of the Chilianchargé, who died yesterday. He was laid out in thecenter of the little dining-room, the electric bell from thehanging lamp, which he must often have pressed whileeating, dangling over his poor, dead face. There is aquite particular sadness about the passing away ofdiplomats in lands distant from their own, their littlespan spun among the polite, but the unrelated and uncaring.I stayed for a rosary and litany, the priest, hispretty, childless wife, and myself, alone in the room.Great hangings of purple bougainvillæa, the glory ofMexico, darkened the window. May he rest in peace.

[43]

There was interesting conversation at lunch, onlywe four being present. Mr. Lind repeated to von Hintzewhat he has, curiously enough, said to many people here—hisopinion that the crux of the matter was the Anglo-Americanrelations, and that the United States wouldnever allow the dominance of British interests to theinjury of American or Mexican ones; von Hintze, thoughhe listened attentively, was non-committal and mostdiplomatic in his answers. It is always of absorbinginterest to Germans to hear of possible difficulties betweenEngland and other nations, and vice versa, too, forthat matter. A light springs into the eye; and I daresay von Hintze made a report to his home governmenton returning to the Legation. He told Mr. Lind hethought we had not sufficiently respected the amourpropre of the Mexicans; that we were wrong in tryingthreats when what they needed was skilful coaxing.Mr. Lind volunteered the surprising statement that itdidn’t suit us to have the elections held, anyway, asthere would be concessions granted and laws passed thatwould render the Mexican situation difficult for us forfifty years. I really felt quite embarrassed.

The Vera Cruz elections amused Mr. Lind considerably,the “urn” being a common pasteboard shoe-boxwith a slit in it. This objet de vertu he had actuallyseen 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. Politicalmatters are quite in abeyance. There was ascarcely subdued excitement among the servants as thegay throng passed the Embassy en route for the Ring, andconsiderable dejection this evening because all hadn’tbeen able to stampede the house and hie them tothe fray. They are like children; any disappointment[44]seems the end of everything. A continual cloud of dustwrapped us about, stirred up by the thousands passingin motor, carriage, or on foot. During my first Mexicansojourn I went to two bull-fights, but didn’t acquirethe taste. De Chambrun told me one had to go sixtimes running, after which one couldn’t be kept away!

I saw Belmonte driving yesterday, the crowds cheeringwildly. His expression of pride, yet condescension, distinguishedhim as much as his clothes. He wore theusual flat black hat, showing his tiny pigtail, a wide-frilledshirt under a tight jacket which didn’t pretend tomeet the still tighter trousers, and he was covered withjewelry—doubtless votive offerings from adoring friends.And to-night he may be dead!

Burnside and Ensign H., of the Louisiana, who accompaniedLind as body-guard, return with him toVera Cruz. The Embassy is to engage a compartmentfor 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 workalong those lines I suppose it doesn’t matter. There isno question of the tailor making this man.

A heavenly, transforming sun, for which I am givingthanks, shines in at my windows. I am going out to dosome “junking” with Lady C. With exchange three forone, every now and then some one does unearth somethingfor nothing. The Belgian minister, who has moneyand flair, makes the most astounding finds. He gotfor a song what seems to be an authentic enamel ofDiane de Poitiers, in its original frame—a relic of theglories of the viceroys.

Something that developed in a conversation with Mr.[45]Lind has been making me a bit thoughtful, and morethan 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, shiveringin 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 wouldbe opening a Pandora box of troubles here.” Seeing howaghast I was, he changed the subject. But I cannot getit out of my head. The Mexican book is rolled out likea scroll before him; can it be that he is not going toread it? Any measures tending to undermine the centralauthority here, imperfect though it be, can onlybring calamity. I witnessed that at first hand in the disastrousoverturning of the Diaz rule and the installationof the ineffective Madero régime. I think Madero wasmore surprised than any one that, after having taken somuch trouble to help him in, we took so little to keephim in. The diplomats are forever insisting that Diaz’ssituation in 1877 was analogous to Huerta’s now, andthat after a decently permissible delay of ten months,or whatever it was, we recognized him. So why notHuerta? He, at least, is in possession of the very delicatemachinery of Mexican government, and has shownsome understanding of how to keep it going.

Later.

The lunch at the German Legation was most interesting.Lind, Rabago, the Belgian minister, and ourselveswere the guests. Rabago doesn’t speak a word of English,and Mr. Lind not a word of Spanish, so there was arather scattered conversation. Everybody smiled withexceeding amiability—all to show how safe we felt onthe thin ice. The colleagues are always very polite, but[46]none of them is really with us as regards our policy.Standing with von Hintze by the window for a few minutesafter lunch, I used the word intervention, and vonHintze said something about the unpreparedness of theUnited States for war. This, though true, I could notaccept unchallenged from a foreigner. I answered thatif war were declared, we would have a million men at therecruiting offices between sunrise and sunset. It soundedpatriotic and terrifying, but it was rendered rather ineffectiveby his reply, “Men, yes, but not soldiers.Soldiers are not made between sunrise and sunset.” Headded something about the apparent divergence in publicopinion in the States, and threw a bit of Milton at me inthe shape of “not everybody thinks they serve who onlystand and wait.” Ignoring this quotation from theblind bard, I said that whatever the divergence of publicopinion might be before war, the nation would beas one man with the President after any declaration.I also told him we did not regard the Mexican situationso much as a military situation as a police and administrativejob, which we were unwilling to undertake. Ithen made my adieux, leaving the “junta” in fullswing, the Belgian minister’s agile tongue doing wondersof interpretation between Lind and Rabago. Theresult of the palaver, however, as I heard afterwardfrom the various persons who took part, was nil.

Mr. Lind keeps me on the qui vive by predictions of arupture in the next few days. He is naturally becomingimpatient and would like things to come to a head. Ihave not drawn a peaceful breath since landing.

Runs on the banks to draw out silver in exchange forpaper have complicated matters. When I went thismorning to the Banco Internacional I saw people standingat the paying-teller’s desk, with big canvas bags inwhich to carry off silver. Since the law to coin more[47]silver has been passed, I should say that each patriotintends to do his best to line his own cloud with thatmaterial.

November 12th.

A telegram came from Washington last night. Ruptureof diplomatic relations unless Huerta accedes to ourdemands. N. has taken it to the Foreign Office, toRabago and to Garza Aldape, to prove to them that,though they may not believe it, we are ready to takestrenuous measures. It is all more like being on a volcanothan near one. Neither the Mexican nation, norany other, for that matter, believes we are ready andable to go to war; which, of course, isn’t true, as wemay 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; andcertainly anarchy, as exemplified here, is infinitely moredisastrous. We ourselves were “conceived in wars, bornin 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 infull enjoyment of destruction of life and property. Itwould give them all a salutary scare. There are hugeEnglish oil interests there. The owners are all worriedabout their property and generally a bit fretful at theuncertainty. Will we protect their interests or will weallow them to? Our government gave warning thatit would not consider concessions granted during theHuerta régime as binding on the Mexicans. It makesone rub one’s eyes.

Later.

Things Mexican seem approaching their inevitableend. At three o’clock to-day N. showed Rabago thetelegram from Washington about the probable breakingoff of diplomatic relations. He turned pale and said[48]he would arrange an interview with the President forsix o’clock. At six o’clock N., accompanied by Mr.Lind, presented himself at the Palace. Neither Presidentnor secretary was there. Rabago finally telephonedfrom some unknown place that he was looking for Huerta,but could not find him. Some one suggested that hemight at that time be closeted with the only “foreigners”he considered really worth knowing—Hennessyand Martell.

Mr. Lind came for a moment to the drawing-room totell me that he leaves to-night at 8.15. He thinks wewill be following him before Saturday—this being Wednesday.The continual sparring for time on the part ofthe government and a persistently invisible Presidenthave got on his nerves. He hopes, by his sudden departure,to bring things to a climax, but climaxes, as we of thenorth understand them, are hard to bring about in LatinAmerica. 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. Heknows it is N.’s right to conduct any business connectedwith the breaking off of relations, which he seems surewill be decided on at Washington, and he realizes thatN. has borne the heat and burden of the Mexicanday. He seems more understanding of us than ofthe situation, alas! I said Godspeed to him with tearsin my eyes. Vague fears of impending calamity pressupon me. How is this mysterious and extraordinarypeople fitted to meet the impending catastrophe—thisburning of the forest to get the tiger?

An American citizen, Krauss, has been put withouttrial in the Prison of Santiago, where he has come downwith pneumonia. N. has sent a doctor to him withd’Antin, who has been for years legal adviser and translatorto the Embassy, and is almost, if not quite, a Mexican.[49]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, whowere mostly men of education—political suspects. Oneaspect of a dictatorship!

Garza de la Cadena, the man I wrote you about (whoseized the priest at the altar and threw him into thestreet in Gomez Palacio), was shot yesterday, by his ownrebels, for some treachery—a well-deserved fate. Hewas taken out at dawn near Parral, placed against anadobe wall, and riddled with bullets.

This morning I was reading of the breaking off of ourrelations with Spain in 1898. Most interesting, andpossibly to the point. History has a way of repeatingitself with changes of names only. I wonder will theday come when N.’s name and Algara’s figure asdid General Woodford’s and Polo de Bernabé’s? Varioushorrors take place here, but no one fact, it seems tome, can equal the dwindling of the population of the“green isle of Cuba” (indescribably beautiful as onesteams along its shores), which dropped from 1,600,000to 1,000,000 in ten months—mostly through hunger.Mothers died with babes at their breasts; weak, totteringchildren dug the graves of their parents. GoodGod! 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 thenN. goes “big-game hunting” again. It bids fair to be abusy night.

Uncertain days—The friendly offices of diplomats—A side-light on executions—Mexicanstreet cries—Garza Aldape resigns—First officialReception at Chapultepec Castle—The jewels of Cortés.

November 13th.

The President was not trackable last night, thoughN. kept up the search until a late or, rather, an earlyhour. It certainly is an efficient, if not satisfactory, wayof giving answer—just to subtract yourself from thesituation.

N. will not present himself at the convening of Congresson Saturday, the 15th. His absence will make abig hole in the Corps Diplomatique.

Several reporters were here early this morning to saythey had positive information that Huerta had fled thecountry. But Mexico City as a rumor factory is unexcelled,and one no longer gets excited over the ondits. Moreover, nothing, probably, is further fromHuerta’s mind than flight. From it all emerged onekernel of truth: Mr. Lind had left for Vera Cruz withoutsatisfaction of any kind.

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

I have gone so far as to tell Berthe to pack my clothes.[51]The things in the drawing-rooms I will leave—and loseif necessary. It would create a panic if any one came inand saw the rooms dismantled. No one can tell what isreally impending. The American editor who remarkedthat what we take for an Aztec Swan Song is generallyonly another yelp of defiance is about right.

The five days’ siege of Chihuahua was ended yesterdayby a Federal victory. The rebels lost about nine hundredmen. The corpses of the latter were very well dressed,many wearing silk underclothing, the result of the lootingof Torreon, which the rebels took several weeks ago.The Chihuahua victory will probably strengthen theprovisional government if anything can. The generals,including Orozco, who fought against Madero, have beenpromoted.

Night before last the train on the Inter-oceanic betweenMexico City and Vera Cruz was held up by rebelbandits for two hours. Everybody was robbed andterrorized. The rebels had in some way got news of thelarge export of bullion on the train. There was so muchthat they could not have carried it off, even if theyhadn’t been frightened in the midst of their raid by ahastily summoned detachment of Federals. If we departI don’t care to chaperon silver bars to the port. AndN. says he would like Huerta to sit on the seat with himall the way down.

I wonder if the government will be so huffed at thenon-appearance of the American representative onSaturday that the Sabbath will see us on the way, withour passports? Probably men may come and men maygo (vide Mr. Lind), coldness and threats may be triedon them, and they will continue to let everything gotill the United States is actually debarking troops atthe ports and pouring them over the frontier. Masterlyinaction with a vengeance.

[52]

I have an idea that Washington is not in accord withMr. Lind’s impatience to end the situation by a ruptureof diplomatic relationship. Once broken off, we wouldbe faced by an urgent situation, demanding immediateaction. Perhaps it is true that we are not efficientlyready for intervention, besides not wanting it. As longas N. stays the wheels will be oiled.

November 14th.

Last night the atmosphere cleared—for a while, atleast. Congress will not be convened to-morrow, whichputs quite a different aspect on things. If it had beenheld, Mexico would have been the only country, by theway, able to display a triplicate set of Congressmen,i. e., those in jail, those elected since the coup d’état, andthe last new ones.

Sir L. called yesterday to offer his services. GreatBritain knows she must be in accord with us. Manyother colleagues also called, fearing some trouble whenit was understood that N. was not to attend the openingand that the United States proposed to declare null andvoid any act of the Congress. Quite a flutter among theexpectant concessionaires Belges! It all had a verysalutary effect. There is no use in any of the Powerstrying to “rush” the United States, no matter what theirinterests on the Western Hemisphere.

Later.

President Wilson has decided to delay the announcementof his new Mexican policy. Incidentally, I toldBerthe to unpack. Well, we will all be quiet until somethingelse turns up. Hundreds of dollars’ worth of cableswent out from the Embassy yesterday, N. dictating forhours and the clerks coding. Several of them are sleepingat the Embassy, anyway—so much night work thatthey are needed on the ground.

[53]

I am giving this letter to M. Bourgeois, the Frenchconsul-general, leaving on the Espagne, next week. Heis an agreeable man of the world, who has just beenassigned to Tientsin.

Evening, 10 o’clock.

Matters very serious. N. is to deliver to-night whatis practically an ultimatum. He called up ManuelGarza Aldape, Minister of Gobernación (Interior), andarranged for an interview with him at his house at nineo’clock. Then he rang up the ministers he needs as witnesses,to accompany him there.

Von Hintze arrived first. When he had read the paperhere in the drawing-room he said, after a silence, “Thismeans war.” (Some one had intimated such a possibilityon 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 hefights the rebels in the north or the United States, it isdisaster for him. Only, I fancy, he has less to lose in theway of prestige if he chooses the United States. Hisnation will make some show of rallying around him inthis latter case.” Von Hintze is persuaded that we arenot ready for war, practically or psychologically. Hekept repeating to N.: “But have you represented to yourgovernment what all this will eventually lead to?” N.answered “Washington is justly tired of the situation.For six months our government has urged and threatenedand coaxed. It doesn’t want any more useless explanations.It is too late.”

However, until the note is in Huerta’s hands it isnot official. So I still hope. Garza Aldape is one of thebest of the ministers.

I went with von Hintze and N. to the big front doorand watched the motor disappear in the darkness. Deliciousodors from the geraniums and heliotrope in the[54]garden enveloped the house, but after a moment I cameback, feeling very still. The idea of American bloodwatering the desert of Chihuahua grips my heart. I cansee those dry, prickly cactus stubs sticking up in the sand.No water anywhere! During the Madero revolution acouple of hundred Mexicans died there of thirst, andthey knew their country. I kept looking about my comfortabledrawing-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 puttingof another’s house in order is getting on my nerves.

The telephone has been ringing constantly. The journalistshave had indications from Washington that somethingis impending.

Saturday, November 15th.

N. came in last night at half past twelve, after athree hours’ conference with Aldape. He is to see himagain at ten this morning. They say that the presenceof Mr. Lind gives publicity to every step, that theirnational dignity is constantly imperiled, and that it isimpossible to negotiate under such conditions. Aldapealso said that Huerta flies into such a rage wheneverLind’s name is mentioned that conversation becomesimpossible.

Later.

Things are very strenuous to-day. N. saw GarzaAldape at ten. He said he had passed a sleepless night,after their conference, and had not yet presented theultimatum to Huerta. N. asked him if he were afraidto do so, and he answered, quite simply, “Yes.” N. toldhim he would return at three o’clock, and if by thattime the note had not been presented through the regularchannels, he would do it himself.

The outlook is very gloomy. Carranza in the northhas refused the offices of W. B. Hale as mediator, saying,[55]“No foreign nation can be permitted to interfere inthe 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 negotiationson the head by the noise and publicity of his arrival inthe city of Montezuma and Huerta. The Latin-Americanmay know that you know his affairs, and know that youknow he knows you know; but he does not want andwill not stand publicity.

This morning I went out “junking” at the Thieves’Market with Lady C. It seemed to us that all the rustykeys in the world, together with all the locks, door-knobs,candlesticks, spurs, and family chromos were onexhibition. We were just leaving when my eye fell ona beautiful old blue-and-white Talavera jar, its metaltop and old Spanish lock intact. After considerablehaggling I ended by giving the shifty-eyed Indian morethan he had ever dreamed of getting, and much lessthan the thing was worth. Drugs, sweetmeats, and valuablesof various kinds used to be kept in these jars.Greatly encouraged, I dragged Lady C. to the Montede Piedad. All foreigners as well as natives frequent it,hoping, in vain, to get a pearl necklace for what onewould pay for a string of beads elsewhere. One of themonthly remates, or auctions, was going on, and theelbowing crowd of peons and well-dressed people, togetherwith the familiar Aztec smell, made us feel itwas no place for us. The diamonds and pearls here aremostly very poor, and the great chunks of emeraldswith their thousand imperfections are more decorativethan valuable. The fine jewels of the wealthy class havecome mostly from Europe, though shrewd buyers areon the lookout for possible finds in the constant turnoverof human possessions. There are beautiful opals[56]to be had in Mexico, but you know I wouldn’t touchone, and the turquoise has been mined from time immemorial.The museums everywhere are full of themas talismans and congratulatory gifts, to say nothing ofthe curio-shops.

Cortés, it appears, was very fond of jewels, and wasalways smartly dressed in fine linen and dark colors, withone handsome ornament. When he went back to Spainhe set all the women crazy by the jewels he took withhim. Emeralds, turquoises, gold ornaments, and panachesof plumes of the quetzal (bird of paradise) cunninglysewn with pearls and emeralds, after the Aztec fashion,were distributed with a lavish hand. The presents forhis second wife were so splendid that the queen becamequite jealous, though he had made her wonderful offerings.It is hinted that this was the beginning of his disfavorat court.

November 17th.

Yesterday, which began so threateningly, ended withoutcatastrophe. On opening the morning newspaper,I saw that Garza Aldape had resigned. He finally presentedthe American note to Huerta, with the resultthat he also presented his own demission and leavesalmost immediately for Vera Cruz, to sail on the Espagnefor Paris, where, it is rumored, he will be minister inplace of de la Barra. Anyway, it is his exit fromHuertista politics. He is a gentleman and a man ofunderstanding. The way Huerta has of dispersing hisCabinet is most unfortunate.

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

[57]

What the diplomats are fearing in the event of N.’swithdrawal is the interregnum after our departure andbefore the American troops could get here. They foreseepillaging of the city and massacre of the inhabitants;as their natural protectors, the Federal troops, would beotherwise occupied, fighting “the enemy”—i. e., us!They always say Washington would be held responsiblein such an event, by the whole world, but thisthought does not seem to comfort them much. Theineradicable idea among all foreigners is that we areplaying a policy of exhaustion and ruin in Mexico bynon-recognition, so that we will have little or no difficultywhen we are ready to grab. One can talk oneselfhoarse, explain, embellish, uphold the President’spolicy—it makes no difference: “It is like that.”

We came home after I had shown myself with Elimat the Country Club on our way in. People are in apanic here, but no one has heard anything from meexcept that I expect to receive on Thanksgiving Dayfrom four to eight. The telephones are being rung allday by distracted fathers and husbands, not knowingwhat to do. They cannot leave their daily bread.They are not men who have bank accounts in NewYork or in any other town, and to them leavingmeans 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 thequestions asked.

Dr. Ryan, the young physician who did such goodwork during the Decena Tragica last February, is hereagain. 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 fortheir own lives or for any one’s else. They will stand up[58]and look at the guns of the firing-squad, with big roundeyes, 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 streetcries are sad. The scissors-grinder’s cry is beautiful—andmelancholy to tears.

I was startled as I watched the faces of some conscriptsmarching to the station to-day. On so many wasimpressed something desperate and despairing. Theyhave a fear of displacement, which generally means catastropheand 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-gangtakes any likely-looking person. Fathers of families,only sons of widows, as well as the unattached, areenrolled, besides women to cook and grind in the powder-mills.Sometimes a few dozen school-children paradethe streets with guns, escorted by their teachers. Unripefood for cannon, these infants—but looking soproud. These are all details, but indicative of the situation.

November 18th.

To-morrow Huerta and his señora are to receive atChapultepec, the first time they will have made use ofthe official presidential dwelling. They are moving fromthe rented house in the Calle Liverpool to one of theirown, a simple enough affair in the Mexican style, onestory 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 SeñoraHuerta the disrespect of staying away.

When we arrived in Mexico, beautiful Doña CarmenDiaz was presiding; then came Señora de la Barra,newly married, sweet-faced, and smiling; followed bySeñora Madero, earnest, pious, passionate. Now Señora[59]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-morrowhas just come in—exactly as if the United States hadnot decided that no such Congress should be convenedand its acts be considered null and void.

Elim told me to-day that all the children he plays withhave 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 friendliestmanner. He concluded the conversation, however,by telling Aldape the Espagne was sailing on Monday,and that he had better leave on Sunday morning, so asto be sure not to miss it. This being late Saturday evening,Garza Aldape demurred, saying his family had notrunks. The President assured him that he himselfwould see that he got all he needed. Subsequently hesent 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 aroyal manner of doing things on some occasions; andthen again he becomes the Indian, inscrutable, unfathomableto us, and violent and high-handed to his ownpeople—whom he knows so very well.

The reception at Chapultepec, yesterday, was mostinteresting. As we drove through the Avenida de losInsurgentes up the Paseo toward the “Hill of the Grasshopper”the windows of the castle were a blaze of lighthigh up against the darkening sky.

On our last visit to Chapultepec,[5] Madero and PinoSuarez were there, and shades of the murdered ones began[60]to accost me as I appeared on the terrace. One ofthe glittering presidential aides, however, sprang to giveme his arm, and in a moment I was passing into thefamiliar Salon de Embajadores, to find Señora Huerta installedon the equally familiar gilt-and-pink brocadedsofa placed across the farther end. She has been a veryhandsome woman, with fine eyes and brow, and hasnow a quiet, dignified, and rather serious expression.She was dressed in a tight-fitting princess gown of redvelvet, with white satin guimp and black glacé kid gloves.She has had thirteen children, most of whom seemed tobe present on this, their first appearance in an officialsetting. The daughters, married and unmarried, andtheir friends receiving with them, made quite a gatheringin themselves. As I looked around, after salutingSeñora Huerta, the big room seemed almost entirelyfilled with small, thick-busted women, with black hairparted on one side over low, heavy brows, and helddown by passementerie bandeaux; well-slippered, verytiny 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, walkingquickly into the room as the national air was played, andwe all arose. It was the first time I had seen him. N.presented me, and we three stood talking, in the middleof the room, while everybody watched “America andMexico.”

Huerta is a short, broad-shouldered man of strongIndian type, with an expression at once serious, amiable,and penetrating; he has restless, vigilant eyes, screenedbehind large glasses, and shows no signs of the much-talked-ofalcoholism. Instead, he looked like a total abstainer.I was much impressed by a certain underlyingforce whose momentum may carry him to recognition—nowthe great end of all.

[61]

I felt myself a bit “quivery” at the thought of thewar-cloud hanging over these people, and of how the mandominating the assembly took his life in his hands at hisevery appearance, and was apparently resolved to dierather than cede one iota to my country. After the usualgreetings, “a los pies de Vd. señora” (“at your feet,señora”), etc., he remarked, with a smile, that he wassorry I should find things still a little strained on myreturn, but that he hoped for a way out of the very naturaldifficulties. I answered rather ambiguously, so faras he is concerned, that I loved Mexico and didn’t wantto leave it. I felt my eyes fill over the potentialities ofthe situation, whereupon he answered, as any gentleman,anywhere in the world, might have done, that now thatla señora had returned things might be arranged! Afterthis he gave his arm to Madame Ortega, wife of theGuatemalan minister, the ranking wife of the Spanishminister being ill, and Madame Lefaivre not yet arrived.Señor Ortega gave me his arm, and we all filed out intothe long, narrow gallery, la Vitrina, overlooking the cityand the wondrous valley, where an elaborate tea wasserved. The President reached across the narrow tableto me to touch my glass of champagne, as the usualsaludes were beginning, and I found he was drinking tothe health of the “Gran Nación del Norte.” Could I doless than answer “Viva Mexico”?

After tea, music—the photograph fiends taking magnesiumsnap-shots of Señora Huerta and the dark-browedbeauties clustering around, with an incidental head orarm of some near-by diplomat. Madame Ortega thengot up to say good-by, and after making our adieux wepassed out on to the beautiful flower- and palm-plantedterrace. Again, in the dim light the memory of Maderoand Pino Suarez assailed me rather reproachfully.It was a curious presentment of human destinies,[62]played out on the stage of the mysterious valley ofAnahuac, which seems often a strange astral emanationof a world, rather than actual hills and plains. A mysteriouscorrespondence between things seen and unseenis always making itself felt, and now, in this space betweentwo destinies, I felt more than ever the fathomlessnessof events. Other “kings” were dead, and thisone could not “long live.”

Afterward we played bridge at Madame Simon’s withthe chicheria there assembled. It seemed very banal.All the guests, however, turned their handsome faces andrustled their handsome clothes as I entered, and in adetached 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. Iam glad, in the interests of the dove of peace, that wewent to the reception yesterday. The officials will realizethere 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. Theyare very nice to us, but I feel that Sir L. is naturallymuch chagrined at the unmeritedly adverse press commentshe has had in the United States. We all shiveredin our evening dresses, in spite of the rare joy of anopen fire in the long drawing-room. There is a thin,penetrating, unsparing sort of chill in these Novemberevenings, in houses meant only for warm weather.I should have enjoyed wearing my motor coat instead ofthe gray-and-silver Worth dress.

The British cruiser squadron under Admiral Cradocksailed last night for Vera Cruz, which is packed to overflowingwith people from here. The prices, “twelvehours east and a mile and a half down,” are fabulous.One woman, so her husband told me, pays ten dollars aday at the Diligencias for a room separated only by a[63]curtain from an electric pump, which goes day andnight.

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

Well, another Sabbath has passed and we are stillhere. Burnside is up from Vera Cruz. He says wecan’t back down, and war seems inevitable. It willtake the United States one hundred years to makeMexico into what we call a civilized country, duringwhich process most of its magnetic charm will go. TheSpanish imprint left in the wonderful frame of Mexicois among the beauties of the universe. Every pink belfryagainst every blue hill reminds one of it; every fine oldfaçade, unexpectedly met as one turns a quiet streetcorner; in fact, all the beauty in Mexico except that ofthe natural world—is the Spaniards’ and the Indians’.Poor Indians!

I have been reading accounts of the deportation of theYaquis from Sonora to Yucatan, the wordless horrors ofthe march, the separation of families. I can’t go intoit now; it is one of the long-existent abuses that Madero,at first, was eager to abate. Volumes could be writtenabout it. Another crying shame is the condition of theprisons. Belem, here in town, is an old building erectedtoward the end of the seventeenth century, and used asan asylum of some kind ever since. Much flotsam andjetsam has been washed up at its doors, though I don’tknow that the word “washed” is in any sense suitable.When one thinks that a few hundred pesos’ of bichloride[64]of lime and some formaldehyde gas would clean up thevermin-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 inextricablywith the general laisser-aller of the nation. Noone is in Belem three days without contracting an itchingskin disease, and a large proportion of the prisonersthere, as well as at Santiago, near by, are political, journalists,lawyers, et al., who are used to some measure ofcleanliness. The Penitenciaría is their show prison,built on modern principles, and compares favorably withthe best in the United States.

Yesterday we lunched with the Ösi-Sanz. He is anagreeable, clever, musical Hungarian, married to a handsomeyoung Mexican, widow of an Iturbide. In theircharming rooms are many Maximilian souvenirs that hehas ferreted out here; big portraits of the emperor andCarlota look down from the blue walls of the very artisticsalon, and a large copy of the picture of the deputationheaded by Estrada, which went to Miramar to offerMaximilian the imperial and fatal crown. Vitrines arefilled with Napoleon and Maximilian porcelain, andthey have some beautiful old Chinese vases. In theviceregal days these were much prized, being broughtup from the Pacific coast on the backs of Indianrunners. Afterward, we had bridge at the Corcuera-Pimentels—anothersmart young Mexican ménage. Theirhouse, too, is charming, full of choice things, beautifullyand sparingly placed; the rooms would be lovelyanywhere. Then home, where I looked over that depressingbook, Barbarous Mexico.

In Huerta’s speech before Congress on the 20th, hemakes use of the famous words of Napoleon—“The lawis not violated if the country be saved.” We all wonderedhow he fished it up!

[65]

There is a cartoon reproduced in The Literary Digest,which I am sending you. In it Uncle Sam is saying toPresident Wilson, “It’s no use, Woody; you can’t pet aporcupine,” the porcupine being Huerta, in the background,sitting near a bit of cactus. Some Londonpapers call Huerta the “Mexican Cromwell.” Hisspeech, putting patriotism and morality above expediency,evidently made a hit.

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

November 28th.

An exciting day. The long-looked-for “decisive” wordcame from Washington this morning, to be communicatedthis evening to every embassy and legationin Europe. By to-night all the foreign representativeshere and the press will be informed. It states that wewill not recede one step from our position; that Huertaand 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 endin Latin America; that we will protect our interests andthe interests of all foreigners, and that peace must bemade in Mexico, or that we will make it ourselves!It is the argumentum ad hominem certainly, and we canonly wait to see what acrobatic feats to avoid the blowwill be performed by Huerta. The language is unmistakableand could only be used because the militaryforce necessary is behind it and ready.

November 29th.

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

Last month, on the 25th, Huerta signed a decreeincreasing the army to 150,000; the work of conscription[67]has been going on at a great rate. After the bull-fighton Sunday seven hundred unfortunates wereseized, doubtless never to see their families again. Oncefar from Mexico City, they are not bright about gettingback. At a big fire a few days ago nearly a thousandwere taken, many women among them, who are put towork in the powder-mills. A friend told me this morningthat the father, mother, two brothers, and the sisterof one of her servants were taken last week. Theyscarcely dare, any of them, to go out after dark. Postinga letter may mean, literally, going to the cannon’smouth.

In “junking” the other day I found an interestingold print of the taking of Chapultepec by the Americans,September, 1847, which I have fitted into a nice oldframe. I am keeping it up-stairs. I went to the RedCross 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 myservice.

To-morrow is Thanksgiving. I am receiving for theColony and such of the chers collègues as care to helpwave the Stars and Stripes. It will be a sort of censusof how many Americans are really left in town. Theirnumber is fast dwindling.

Yesterday was a busy day. I went to mass at SanLorenzo, where the nice American rector gave a verygood Thanksgiving sermon. I rarely go there, excepton some such occasion. It is far from the Embassy, and,though once in the best residential part of the city, itis 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[68]that quarter strike a most forlorn note, with their silentbelfries and dirt and general shabbiness.

About two hundred came to the reception yesterday,and I only wish all had come. I really enjoyed shakingthose friendly hands. The times are uncertain, and ruinfor many is probable at any moment. The rooms werefilled 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 reappearedten minutes later, his radiance dimmed, having beensprinkled accidentally by the nice Indian gardener.He was reclad, but some over-enthusiastic compatriotgave him a glass of punch, and the rest of the afternoonI seemed to see little legs and feet in the air. Thechefs de mission all came also, but of course it was anAmerican day, the beloved flag flying high and catchingthe brilliant light in a most inspiring way.

Clarence Hay (John Hay’s son) is down here withProfessor Tozzer and his bride, for archæological work.They first appeared on the horizon yesterday, the atmosphereof a less harassed world still hanging aroundthem, and were most welcome. Tozzer is professor ofarchæology at Harvard and has mapped out work hereuntil May, in connection with the Museo Nacional. TheToltec and Aztec treasures still hidden in the earthwould repay any labor.

We fly up and down the Paseo constantly. I thinkthere is the fastest and most reckless motor-driving inthe world in Mexico, but some divinity is sleepless andthere are few accidents. Jesus, our chauffeur, is a gemof 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 allday, he not only says “good,” but “very good,” with aflash of white teeth and dark eyes. The rest of the[69]servants are so-so. If I thought we were going to stayI should change the first man. He ought to be the last,as he is not only a fool, but an unwilling one. As it ishe who is supposed to stand between me and the world,I am often maddened by him. He is Indian, with a dashof Japanese, not a successful mixture in his case, thoughhe is supposed to be honest.

November 29th.

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

We had a white bull-terrier given us seven weeksold, Juanita by name. It has threatened to rain dogshere since it became known that we wanted one, but Ihave avoided all but two since returning. Elim lookssweet playing with her, two little milk-white young things.But Juanita’s stock is low. She tries her teeth on anythingthat is light-colored and soft, especially hats, andfaces now stiffen at her approach.

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

Later.

I have just been going over the map with CaptainBurnside, and we have been tracing the slow and sureadvance of the rebels. They are down as far as SanLuis Potosí, not more than fourteen hours from here.[70]They manage to isolate the Federal detachments, oneafter the other, cutting the railroad lines in front andin the rear. There is a good deal of that northern marchwhere one can go a hundred kilometers without findinga drop of water.

I was reading Mme. Calderon de la Barca’s letters—1840-1842—lastnight. She was the Scotch wife of thefirst Spanish minister after the Mexican independence,and her descriptions of political conditions would fit to-dayexactly, even the names of some of the generals repeatingthemselves. She speaks of “the plan of the Federals,”“the political regeneration of the Republic,”“evils now arrived at such a height that the endeavorsof a few men no longer suffice,” “a long discussion inCongress to-day on the granting of extraordinary powersto 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 theguise of insurgents taking an active part in the independence,they have independently laid waste the country.As expellers of the Spaniards these armed bandsinfested the roads between Vera Cruz and the capital,ruined all commerce, and without any particular inquiryinto 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 tothe Grito de Dolores of Hidalgo). That was in the infancyof our independence. Now we begin to pronounce,pronunciamos (a pronunciamiento is a revolution).Heaven only knows when we shall be old enough to speakplainly, 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[71]Cowdray representative of the huge oil interests inMexico. It sometimes looks as if this whole situationcould be summed up in the one word, “oil.” Mexicois so endlessly, so tragically rich in the things that theworld covets. Certainly oil is the crux of the Anglo-Americansituation. All the modern battle-ships will beburning oil instead of coal—clean, smokeless, no moreof the horrors of stoking—and for England to have practicallyan unlimited oil-fount in Mexico means muchto her.

We had a pleasant dinner last night here—ClarenceHay, Mr. and Mrs. Tozzer, and Mr. Seeger; the dinneritself only so-so. Mr. Seeger’s suggestion that theguajolote had been plied with grape-juice rather thanwith something more inspiring was borne out by thebird’s toughness, and there were strange, unexplainedintervals. However I impressed upon C. H. that I wasgiving him this splendid fiesta because his father hadsigned N.’s first commission (to Copenhagen), and thetime passed merrily. There are other things you can doat 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 herefor some years—1873-1880, I think. His relations, too,of conditions at that time seem a replica of these in ourtime: “The railroad trains always contained one ormore cars loaded with armed soldiers. The Hacendadosdid not venture off their estates without an armed guardand the richest of them lived in the cities for safety.Everybody armed to the teeth when traveling and thebullion-trains coming from the mines were always heavilyprotected by guards.” Mr. Foster sets forth the actionsof the United States in delaying recognition of Diaz whenhe assumed the Presidency, and tells of the various momentsin which we were on the brink of war with Mexico.[72]In 1875, Congress conferred on Diaz “extraordinaryfaculties,” the effect of which was to suspend thelegislative power and make him a dictator.

N. paid over the Pius Fund, yesterday—the indemnityof 45,000 pesos that Mexico is forced to pay yearly tothe Catholic Church in California for confiscation of itsproperty about one hundred years ago. It was the firstdecision of the Hague Tribunal. Archbishop Riordan,when consulted about the manner of paying it, telegraphedto Mr. Bryan that he left it in N.’s handsto be disposed of as if it were his own. N.’s policyhas been to get the various foreign powers to appeal tous for protection of their citizens, thus tacitly acknowledgingour “Monroe” right to handle questions thatcame up. So far France, Germany, Spain, and Japanhave done so.

December 3d.

Yesterday, at four o’clock, Sir Lionel and Sir ChristopherCradock were announced. When I went down-stairs,a few minutes later, I found my drawing-room ablaze of afternoon sun, setting off to perfection twicesix feet or more of Royal British navy—Sir Christopherand his aide, Cavendish, resplendent in full uniform.They had just come from calling on Huerta in state, atthe Palace. I was really dazzled for the first moment.Sir Christopher is a singularly handsome man, regular offeature, and of distinguished bearing. His aide, equallytall and slender, a younger silhouette of himself, wasstanding by his side. Britannia resplendens! Sir Christopherwas evidently very interested in seeing, at firsthand, the situation he is to “observe” from the vantageof Vera Cruz. After a lively half-hour he was borne offby Sir L. for visits at the legations, and comparativedarkness fell upon the room. As we are all dining at theGerman Legation, where there is a gala dinner for him[73]and the captain of the Bremen and his staff, we merelysaid au revoir.

December 4th.

The dinner last night for twenty-four was most brilliant,and perfectly appointed, from the lavish caviaron beds of ice to the last flaming omelette en surprise.We sat at the small ends of the table, Madame Lefaivreon von Hintze’s right, and I on his left; Sir Lionel byme, and Sir Christopher by Madame Lefaivre; LadyCarden, handsomely gowned and jeweled, at the otherextreme end, with the next ranking men on either side.Sir C., just opposite to me, was glistening with decorationsand shining with the special, well-groomed, Englishlook. I asked him if he hadn’t been afraid to comeover the rebel-infested mountains with so much temptationon his person. He answered, as a forceful, sportinglook came into his eyes, “They wouldn’t get the chanceto keep anything of mine!”[6]

It is impossible to talk politics; things are too delicateand I imagine we all have rather a shifty look in the eyeat the remotest mention of la situación. I can see,however, that Sir C. has been impressed by Huerta, andwould probably have liked to tell him to “keep it up.”

I wore my filmy black and my pearls, which combinationseemed to give pleasure. After dinner, and someconversation with the captain of the Bremen, who, howevergreat his merit, didn’t have the clothes nor the distinction[74]of Sir C., we played bridge—Sir C., Lady Carden,Hohler, and myself. Sir C. won every rubber in anice, quiet way. He lunches with us to-morrow at Chapultepecrestaurant; 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 scentthat hung round me—to go to Chapultepec. Sir C. andCavendish, somewhat dimmed by being in plain clothes,drove up to the restaurant just as I was getting out ofthe motor, the Belgian minister, Mr. Percival, and theCardens coming a few minutes later. We had espiedHuerta’s auto in the Park, and I had the bold idea ofgetting the President for lunch, knowing it would renderthings spicy for Sir C. Heaven was watching over me,however, for instead of stopping at the restaurant forone of the famous copitas, Huerta passed through thePark, disappearing in the direction of Popotla.

It was ideal lunching on the veranda, bathed in thewarm, scented air, talking of many things, and climes,with the easy exchange of thoughts that is the pleasureof people of the world. Sir C. said that he had spentmost of his time changing his clothes, since his arrival,having come with nothing between full uniform andmorning coat. He had been to the Foreign Office thatmorning in uniform, into civilian for lunch, was to dressat three for some sort of function at the Palace, and thenchange to visit the castle of Chapultepec and the cadetschool attached. He had accomplished all these laborswhen at six we met again at Madame Simon’s for bridge.His roving seaman’s eye lighted up and seemed veryappreciative of the bevy of handsome young women hefound there. Again, with “Cradock’s luck,” he raked the[75]shekels in. He said the visit to Chapultepec and thecadet school was a most thorough proceeding, and thathe 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 Englishcolony to-night, and to-morrow early he descends to thesea. Sir C. has distinguished himself in many climesand will, I imagine, get a bit restless at Vera Cruz, waitingfor something to happen. He directed the British,American, Japanese, and Italian forces for the relief ofTientsin. He has yet to learn that no outside force canhurry events in Latin America. They happen from theirown momentum, in their own way. I have an idea he isa 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 Britanniarule the waves in the sacred territorial waters ofthe Monroe doctrine? But it is always the same. On allinternational occasions our admirals find themselvesoutranked, even by navies of inferior powers. Thehighest rank our officers on active duty can attain isrear-admiral. They bring up the rear in more sensesthan one, while all other forces have vice-admirals andadmirals 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 withoutcreating a panic. No one would really know that wehad left a hostage in the shape of the blue-eyed boy. Ifelt rather in the mood to go, after the visit of Sir Christopher,who painted the harbor of Vera Cruz in mostattractive colors.

Huerta is gradually getting rid of his Cabinet. Garza[76]Aldape, Gobernación, went, as I wrote you, and nowde 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-daythat when Huerta really has a Cabinet meeting it consistsof himself and advisers in the shape of copitas. Hehas just got full powers from “Congress” to put into effectany orders he may give in military and naval mattersfor the next year. He pays no attention to Washingtonand it is rather difficult to do anything with a person whoacts as if you were non-existent. The ultimata continueto go into the waste-paper basket, and Vera Cruzis so full of war-ships that those yet to come will have tostay outside the harbor. The Rhode Island, the Suffolk,and the Condé have the best places available for the bigships. The rest of the harbor is taken up with gunboats.

Huerta visits the Jockey Club—Chihuahua falls—“The tragic ten days”—Exhibitionof gunnery in the public streets—Mexico’s “potentialPresidents”—“The Tiger of the North.”

December 6th.

The position here gets more curious every day.Public opinion, as we understand it, is non-existentin Mexico. It is always some despot who brings somesort of order out of chaos by means unknown (thoughthey may be suspected) to the public, who judge hisworth entirely by the degree of peace and prosperitythat follows.

N. was sitting with some of the males of the “FirstFamilies” of Mexico, in the Jockey Club, this morning,when in sailed Huerta. He knew none of the jeunesse orviellesse 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 necessarypresentations, Huerta hanging on his arm. Afterthe first shock of his entrance there was a rallying aroundhim. He doesn’t belong to the club, but that, of course,doesn’t make any difference to him; he feels himselfPresident and superior in brain, will, and achievement.N. ordered copitas, and the visit went off with the snappeculiar to all of Huerta’s sorties. After all, he is theirPresident.

I send you a copy of Life, with an editorial on Mexico.It remarks that, asking the Mexicans (13,000,000 beingIndians) to elect a President by constitutional methods[78]is “like asking the infant class to select a teacher.”There is no doubt that our ways don’t yet fit them. It’slike dressing sonny up in father’s clothes!

Another military train blown up. We were all hopingthat the rumored shortage in dynamite among the rebelswould make railway travel more attractive. Also storiesof mutilations that cause one to shiver.

The reason some of the newspapers give for the almostgroveling attitude of the Powers, and their acquiescencein our exclusive tutelage in Mexico, is that, according tointernational law, we will be responsible for the millionsthey are losing, and that, at the appointed hour, theyintend to press Uncle Sam with the bill—the French, theEnglish, the Germans, and the Spaniards.

Lunch to-day at the French Legation. Very pleasant,as always. I sat next to Corona, governor of the FederalDistrict, a handsome, highly colored, dark-eyed manin the prime of life. His wife and daughter are in Paris.There is such a sense of the transitoriness of the officialsin Mexico, here to-day and gone to-morrow, that intercourseseems very bootless; the sword of Damocles isnot only hanging, but falling all the time. May was alsothere, as pessimistic and politically wrought up as usual.

My big salon begins to look very home-like. I havesome lovely lamps made of single, big, brass-and-silverchurch candlesticks, many exquisite Ravell photographsof 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 youngwomen with beautiful jewels and dresses to set off theirdark beauty; Señora Bernal, Señora Amor, Señora Corcuera,Duquesa de Huette (her husband is a handsome,polo-playing Spaniard), Señora Cervantes, Señora Riba—twoor three of them enceinte, as is usual. They made[79]the rooms quite radiant. The Mexican men are oftenput in the shade by their handsome wives, who would belovely anywhere. The difficulties of bringing up youngboys here are, for obvious reasons, so great that bothMexicans and foreigners send their sons away at anearly age. The men we know have most of them beenat school in England (Beaumont, or Stonyhurst); andtheir English is as good as ours—sometimes better.There is a sort of resigned irritation, veiled by perfectcourtesy and unfailing amiability, on the part of thesepeople toward our policy, which seems to them cruel,stupid, and unwarranted. I can only hope it will soonbear testimony to itself, for this close watching of themeans 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 theJockey Club, and he thinks there may be something in it,adding that if it had not been for the progress of the rebelshe would have gone home. Chihuahua is in theirhands now, and their military man is installed in thehouse formerly occupied by the Federal governor of thestate.

Last night I had a long talk with Burnside and Ryanafter dinner. There is a general expectancy of a cuartelazo(revolution in the barracks) on the 10th. The troopsare paid every ten days, and this will be the second pay-dayto be passed over, unless Huerta can raise the necessarymillions before that time. Many influences besidesthe United States are at work to make things uncertain;sedition is rife, and the work of the press-gang is so constantthat the peons do not dare to leave their homes ortheir holes to go to work.

Revolutions are not convenient, either for those who[80]watch or for those who participate. The hegira ofnatives and foreigners continues. The Mexicans whocan get away are, without doubt, thankful “there is noplace like home.”

I can’t agree that the foreign representatives couldbe, at any time, in real peril. Huerta, Carranza, Zapata,Villa, or the intervening United States troops would seeto it that not a diplomatic hair was touched. I canimagine us all tightly housed in the Palacio, with ourinfants and our jewels, the rest of our belongings goneforever. Dr. R. is for having every woman and childleave Mexico City, things have come to such a pass. Iknow one who won’t go!

N. is thinking of telegraphing to Washington to ask tohave a few marines sent up from one of the war-ships, encivil, of course. We could lodge them easily down-stairs.The losing of material things does not disturb me. Whenthe bad day comes we will be occupied with life andhonor. “Todo por la patria” (“all for one’s country”),which reminds me of the story of Huerta’s parting witha one-time Minister of War, and one of the various mensupposed to have witnessed Madero’s death. (Anotherdistinction is, that in six weeks’ office he was able toamass a fortune of some millions, quite a record.) ThePresident told him, at a dinner, casually, that it might bebetter for his health to leave next day for Paris. Hecried, “Impossible!” The upshot, of course, was thatHuerta saw him off at the station at the appointed hour,saying, as he embraced him: “Todo por la patria, miGeneral!” whereupon the victim, not to be outdone, repeatedin his turn: “Todo por la patria, mi General!”

People have curious stories to tell of the “tragic tendays,” among them little ways of handling the machine-guns.Ryan came across a group of men who were hoveringabout one of the mitrailleuses, and the man in[81]charge obligingly started it off, to show them how itworked—shooting down the street in the direction inwhich it happened to be turned. Rather debonair! Mr.Seeger tells the tale of asking a man at a gun who his jefewas—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 operationand cure for tuberculosis of a strange Brazilian, aDr. Botelho. Rows of emaciated Indians, stripped tothe waist, were lying or sitting in the sun. The operationis a painless injection of hydrogen gas into the lung,compressing it so that microbes, as my lay mind understandsit, don’t get the space they need to develop. Asthe patients lay about they seemed to me like exoticvegetation, ready to drop to earth, rot, and spring upagain. Strange Indian seed!

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

The foreign Powers used to think that, though extremelyannoying, our Monroe doctrine was respectable.Now they seem inclined to think it is an excuse for monopolizingthe New World for our own benefit. We maycome into Mexico with glory. Can we get out withcredit and not too high a bill? A letter from GeneralWisser (you remember him, from Berlin) came just now,written “In Camp, Texas City.” It had taken a littlematter of two months to get here. It is not impossibleI may welcome him to Mexico City.

[82]

December 9th.

The aftermath of that reception at Chapultepec hasbegun to come in. Among many letters, one from anex-army officer says he would have “thrown the wineinto Huerta’s face.” All the newspapers mention the incident,but with the empire tottering we saw no reason tounduly precipitate matters by boycotting Mme. Huerta’sreception, nor for being morose and brutal when there.I wonder what would have happened if any of thevarious fools, writing to protest, had been runningmatters?

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

The dinner for Colonel and Mrs. Hayes was ratheramusing, though the food was horrid and everything wascold except the champagne. After dinner the visit oftwo potential Presidents of Mexico (they are always beingdrawn to the Embassy like steel to the magnet ofrecognition) gave a decided touch of local color to thescene. A large, handsome, alert man, of the flashy type—ZerafinoDominguez—came first. His battle-cry andbanner is “Land for the landless, and men for the men-lesslands”—a good, sound, agricultural cry with everythingin it, if it could only come true. “El apostol delmaiz,” as he sometimes is called, is a wealthy landownerand scientific farmer, who contends that Mexico needsmore corn rather than more politics—and never was atruer word spoken. He has within the last few days,however, given up his presidential pretensions to a friend[83]who came in later, with the same desire of the moth forthe star.

The shape of the friend’s head, however—narrow acrossthe forehead and terminating in a high peak—wouldprevent his getting any votes from me. The pale youngson of the hearty Dominguez was also there. I offeredthem cigarettes and copitas; the latter they did notaccept. Burnside said it was to prove they hadn’t theweaknesses of Huerta. I thought they might be afraidto drink, remembering afterward that none of us hadoffered to partake with them of the possibly poisoneddraught. They sang the praises of the great and beautifulEstados Unidos del Norte till we were quite embarrassed.Incidentally “ze American womans” came infor a share of admiration. I wonder shall we be givingHuerta asylum some day?

December 11th.

Yesterday I was too busy to write; spent the morningat the Red Cross, and then had luncheon at Coyoacan, atMrs. Beck’s charming old house. Coyoacan is the mostinteresting, as well as livable, of all the suburbs, with itsbeautiful gardens and massive live-oaks shading thestreets. Cortés made Coyoacan his stamping-ground,and one lovely old Spanish edifice after the other recallshis romantic history.

From here he launched his final assault against MexicoCity; here poor, noble Guauhtémoc (I have an oldprint representing him with his feet in boiling water andan expression of complete detachment on his face) wastortured, in vain, to make him reveal the hiding-placeof Montezuma’s treasure. After leaving Mrs. B.’s, Mrs.Kilvert and I went for a stroll in the garden of the celebratedCasa de Alvarado, built by him, of the famous leap.An old servidor of Mrs. Nuttall’s, to whom the house nowbelongs, opened the gate for us, with a welcoming[84]smile. We passed through the patio, in one corner ofwhich is the old well (with a dark history connected withthe murder of the wife of one of the Conquerors), outinto the garden with its melancholy and mysteriouscharm. The possession of the house is supposed to bringbad luck to the possessors, and sudden and violentdeath 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 runningriot, and a eucalyptus-tree drooped over all. In thismagic land, even a few months of neglect will transformthe 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—fourchildren 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 somemoney, and one of the maids brought out bread and cake,and a bundle of garments for the children. Such bright-eyedlittle girls, real misery not having pinched themyet. I speak of them because they typify thousands ofcases. A hand on his shoulder, and the father is goneforever! Such acts, occurring daily, estrange possiblesympathy for the government. The woman will returnto me when the money is spent.

There are Federal rumors of a split between Villa andCarranza, but, though they will inevitably fight, I don’tthink the time is ripe for it, and they are some five hundredkilometers apart, which makes for patience andcharity. Villa, whose latest name is the “Tiger of theNorth,” has made such daring and successful militarymoves that Carranza must put up with him. He hasjust married again, during the sacking of Torreon (adetail, of course, as was also his appearance at a ball in[85]puris naturalibus—a shock to the guests, even in revolutionaryMexico!)

I only heard at luncheon at the Russian Legation thatCount Peretti, conseiller of the French embassy inWashington, is leaving for Paris to-night, by the Navarre.He married when en poste here a handsome Mexicanwife. This letter goes with him. On Saturday wedine at Lady Carden’s. The dinner is given for ColonelGage, the handsome and agreeable British militaryattaché à cheval between Washington and Mexico City.

The fight around Tampico continues, the town beingindeed “between the devils and the deep sea.” No oneyet knows the outcome, except that the unoffendingblood of the Mexican peon is reddening the soil. TheKronprinzessin Cecilie is down there to take off refugees;also the Logican, and we are sending the Tacoma and theWheeling. I understand that, though some hundredshave been taken on board, about five hundred unfortunatesare still waiting on the pier in the neutral zone.

I must begin to arrange my Christmas tree for thefew friends remaining in this restless, distant land, withsome little gift for each.

December 12th.

To-day is the Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe, thepatroness of Mexico and of all the Lupes. For thelast few days the mysterious Indian world has beenhurrying to the shrine from far and near. I went outthere this morning with dear Madame Lefaivre and Mr.de Soto. The crowd was immense, the same types, costumes,habits, language, gestures, even, that Cortésfound on his arrival, unmodified (and unmodifiable,which Washington cannot understand) by four hundredyears of surrounding civilization. Our motor glidingalong the straight road was quite out of the note andpicture. Many of the Indians were doing the distance[86]between the city and Guadalupe, several kilometers, ontheir knees, with bowed heads and folded hands. MadameLefaivre found it très-beau, but was glad that novoice told her that to save her soul, or, what is moreimportant, her Paul’s soul, she would have to do likewise.

The plaza before the church was thronged with abrightly clad, motley crowd, venders of all sorts predominating,mostly selling candles and votive offeringsof strange kinds. Hundreds of tortilleras were sitting ontheir haunches before their primitive braziers, piles ofdough (masa, they call it) in their laps, molding thetortillas with a slapping noise of the palms—an old,inherited gesture, and pinching them into shape withtheir slender, graceful fingers. The church itself, as wepressed in, was crowded to suffocation, almost every oneholding a candle of some length and thickness. Thehigh altar was a blaze of light, the celebrated imageabove 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 tohim 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 agold frame, and there is a gleaming, solid silver stair-railingleading up both sides.

In the middle aisle were double files of young Indiangirls, with bright-colored scarfs about their shoulders,and strange, high, picturesque-looking head-dresses, ofgaudy tissue-paper, with trimmings of gold. They werechanting monotonous minor songs, accompanied by aswaying, dance-like movement of the hips—all most reverent.They had been there for hours and showed nosign of leaving. I hope I said a reverent prayer, but Ifelt a bit cheap in contrast to the rapt devotion on allsides. I was glad to get a breath of fresh air in the plaza,[87]or rather, “fresher,” as it was almost as crowded as thechurch, and every dog in Mexico seemed to be there,scratching and shaking itself.

We made our way, Mr. de Soto clearing a path for us,to the Capilla del Pocito. These waters are said to havegushed from under the feet of the Virgin as she appearedto Juan Diego. A la the fountain of Trevi, whoeverdrinks of it returns to Mexico. We didn’t drink, forvarious reasons unconnected with return. The Indiansuse it for healing purposes and a lively trade in brightlypainted, earthen-ware bottles, in which to carry thewater away, was going on about the chapel. The Indianscome, sometimes a many days’ journey, on foot,of course, and when they arrive they bivouac all aboutthe church as if they had reached “home.” What withbabies crying, beggars begging—“por la Virgen,” “porla Santa Madre de Dios”—dogs yapping and vendershawking, the whole dominated by the acrid smell of thevarious pungent messes they roll up in their tortillas, itwas, indeed, Indian life at its flood. They must have presentedmuch the same scene when they gathered to receiveinstruction and baptism from the old friars.

The “Aztec wheels” (merry-go-rounds) and all kindsof games of chance, to which they are addicted, help toget the centavos out of the Indian pocket; but it istheir greatest holiday, this journey to their “Virgen Indiade Tepeyac,” and they count no cost of fatigue andsavings. I only hope the press-gang will abstain to-dayfrom doing any of its deadly work of separating families.You remember I once did a novena out there withSeñora Madero, praying for graces that Heaven did notgrant.

In the afternoon we went to the Reforma Club, theBritish country club, where Sir Lionel and Lady Cardenwere to present the prizes for the contests. Señora[88]Huerta, always dignified and quiet, sat between Lady C.and myself. She had a married daughter with her, high-chestedand thick-lipped, clad in a changeable green-and-redsurah silk and a hat with bedraggled pink feathers.Señora Huerta herself wore black velvet, with touches ofwhite in the wrong places. She has, I imagine, naturaltaste in dress, but must first learn. She has seen muchof life. So many children and a soldier husband alwaysstarting for some seat of war, and now at last Presidentof “glorious, gory Mexico,” means that few of thehuman experiences are foreign to her. I must say I havea great esteem for her. The President was not well—elestómago. Of course every one jumps to the conclusionthat he had been consorting too freely with his friendsMartell and Hennessy. It isn’t given to him to have asimple indigestion! Afterward we left cards at the housesof various Lupes.

December 13th.

I feel ill at the news this morning. The Federals seemto have taken many positions from the horrible rebels;and the fratricidal war will take on a new strength withouthope of issue on either side. I feel the cruelty and theuselessness of our policy more and more every day.The “fine idealism” does not prevent the inhabitantsfrom being exterminated. Why don’t we come in?Or—hands off, and give Huerta a chance!

The Mexicans have never governed themselves, andthere is no reason to suppose they can till a part of theeighty-six per cent. that can’t read have at least learned tospell out a few words. The much vaunted and pledgedrights of man, voting and abiding by the results, areunknown 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 tohold them. Once in the various strategical positions[89]they are in the same plight as the Federals; and so thesee-saw continues, with no results except horrors beyondwords. I am tempted to hope for intervention(unnecessary though it once was), no matter what thecost.

There are so many plays and puns and doggerels onthe inviting name of O’Shaughnessy. One ShamusO’S. says he won’t admit the man in Mexico who bearsthe Frenchy name of chargé d’affaires to the family!However, why worry? The last viceroy bore the noblename of Juan O’Donoju! Another calls N. the man thatput the “O” in Mexico. And they do love a head-line:“Hugged by Huerta”; or “Is it not better to be kissedthan 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 hera few days ago. They didn’t look quite as prosperous (?)as they did the first time I saw them. The mother askedfor five dollars for a fruit license and two dollars to getthe fruit. I gave it to her, whereupon she knelt downin the street, baby in arms, the three other little girlsfollowing suit, and asked for my blessing. When I putmy hand on her head I felt the tears come to my eyes.I suddenly saw in one woman all the misfortunes of thewomen of this land, separation, destitution, ravishments,—allthe horrors flesh is heir to.

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

Am waiting for the auto. Elim and I go out to thedel Rios’ garden at Tlalpam for a picnic; the del Riosare in Europe. The day is heavenly beyond compare[90]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 Mexicanvisit.

Villa has just set up a somewhat uncertain dictatorshipin Chihuahua, in which state he, so to speak,graduated in banditry. He began his public killingcareer not too badly, according to the story, by shootinga man for seducing his sister. It was probably the bestact of his life. He is now in the prime of life and “readyfor anything.” Even in Diaz days, Villa was a proscribedbandit; but with a few followers, well-mountedand knowing every trail and water-hole in the country,he was uncatchable. He subsequently went over toMadero. The women flee the towns that he and hismen enter. I suppose there is no crime that he has notcommitted, no brutality toward wounded, sick, andprisoners and women. With it all, he may be theheaven-born general that some assert, but God helpMexico if he is! In Chihuahua, Luis Terrazas, one ofthe nephews of Enrique Creel (who was ambassador toWashington, Minister for Foreign Affairs, etc.), is beingheld 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 thousanddollars was a large sum, and was wondering if itwas worth it.

However, it is always convenient to suppose thatpeople held for ransom will get along all right, even ifthe money isn’t forthcoming. N. promised Mr. C. thatthrough the most indirect of channels he would have itbrought to Villa’s attention that he’d better be carefulon account of unfavorable impressions in the UnitedStates. One wonders and wonders where Villa, Aguilar,[91]Zapata, and all the brigands get their endless guns andammunition. Of course the foreign Powers think wesupply it or let it be supplied.

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

The sad exodus from Chihuahua—Archbishop Mendoza—Fiat money—Villa’sgrowing activities—Indian stoicism—Another Chapultepec reception—Aday of “Mexican Magic” in the country.

December 14th.

This evening, as I was coming through the Zocalomotoring home from the Country Club, I found thePalacio decked out in the national colors, to celebrate theclausura of the Camara, which will not open until April 1,1914. Huerta has all extraordinary powers vested inhimself, and is going to run the whole “shooting-match.”Thick défilés of carriages and autos, full of richly dressedpeople, were on both sides of San Francisco, the mostbrilliantly, extravagantly lighted street I know. TheEmbassy motor was allowed to run quickly between thetwo lines. The town seemed so animated and prosperousthat one can’t realize the horrors underneath.

The cantinas have been closed on Sunday for severalmonths—a wise act of Urrutia, then Minister of Gobernación.The people thus buy food, instead of pulque, onthe Sabbath, and can work on Monday—San Lunes, asthe first, often idle, day of the week is called. The pulquerías,with their sickening, sour smell, abound in all thepoorer quarters, and are distinguished, besides the smell,by fringes of many-colored tissue-paper hanging from thetops of the doors. Their names—El amor divino, Hijadel 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....[93]It is the question, always recurring, of not having a newminister arrive who, by presenting his credentials, placesanother stone in the Huerta arch....

The confidential report of Admiral Cradock to hisgovernment was filched by the press. The typewriterwho made the copy was paid $200 for it. In it, it appears,he quotes Nelson as saying that the “most sacredinternational relationship in the world is that betweenEngland and the United States.” Most annoying forSir Christopher!

December 15th.

Many of the American statesmen seem to be givingopinions on the Mexican situation. Mr. Choate, at adinner in New York, asks, “What most agitates thehearts of Americans to-day? It is Mexico,” and thengoes on to say, “There is but one thing for us to do—trustthe President, and stand by him.” Andrew D.White doesn’t approve of the Administration’s policyand thinks we are drifting into war, “Which,” he continues,“is a better thing for the generals who bring itto a successful finish than for those who bring it on—Lincolnbeing the great exception.”

The Spaniards in Chihuahua (some four or five hundred)are having a dreadful time. The Villista ordergives 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—425miles. The nights are icy cold and there arestretches of 90 miles without water; and hostile bands areready to attack at any moment. The confiscated propertywill amount to millions, as the Spaniards own nearlyall the mercantile establishments, as well as the upper-classhomes. Villa is quoted as saying that he would liketo kill every gachupin (Spaniard born in Mexico) and[94]his offspring. No one knows when the march and assaulton Monterey, a rich old city on a hill and not easyto take, will begin. I hear that the Spaniards there wantto come en masse to Mexico City, also leaving everything.They know they will have no quarter at Villa’shands.

The Spaniards are the traders of Mexico. They keepthe countless pawn-shops (empeños); they are theusurers and money-lenders of all kinds; they are theoverseers on the haciendas and, incidentally, they keepall the grocery-shops; in fact, they control the sale ofnearly everything in Mexico. The Spanish minister(with the Irish name of Cologan), whose handsome wifewas born in Vera Cruz, has just been here. His life isone huge burden, and the collective troubles of Mexicoare laid at our broad doors.

D’Antin leaves to-night for Vera Cruz, to take withhim Dr. Silva (ex-governor of Michoacan), who, to tellthe truth, has not voluntarily resigned, which is thereason he needs safe-conduct. Silva was at one time afaithful adherent of Huerta. He is to board a Spanishship sailing at twelve to-morrow.

December 16th.

Last night, after dinner, Burnside and Dr. Ryan tookthe map to see what route the unfortunate Spaniards ofChihuahua could have followed. It seems scarcely credible,with the frontier and hospitality nearly one-halfnearer, that they should have chosen the terrible marchthrough the desert and over the mountains to Torreon,which, at any time, may again fall into Villa’s hands. Hewould be in a rage to find he had to bother a second timewith the same set of unfortunates! They say their routeis strewn with valuables that they started out with andlittle by little were obliged to abandon. Isn’t the pictureappalling?

[95]

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 issueout for Huerta. Is he on the track of something thatmay be of service to both sides? In Washington a coupleof weeks ago it was suggested from some source (probablyBrussels) that the matter should be so submitted—bothsides, however, resenting it. Von Hintze brought mea dainty, gold-headed cane to replace his handsomeChinese stick that was supposed, unjustly, to have disappearedunder the protection of the Stars and Stripes,on Thanksgiving Day. I made up my mind to get thatcane, and I subsequently found it, accidentally, standingnear the unused umbrella-stand at the Norwegian Legation,where he had left it himself that same day. Theinnocent was, for once, rewarded. Von Hintze is alwaysvery fair-minded and impersonal in political matters, anddoesn’t lose his head when the political compass veersas wildly as it does here. He is a good friend, too, Ithink, and there may be something in the Hague suggestion.We may, at any day, see another faction startup; the victor of Torreon, Juarez, and Chihuahua willnot care to lay his victories at Carranza’s feet. One manafter 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 theMexican Herald dryly remarked, “A traitor in Mexicoseems to be any one that doesn’t hold office.”

The Zapatistas are getting very active again, fightinghard at Milpa Alta, in the Ajusco hills near here. Somewere seen at Tlalpam and Xochimilco (Tlalpam is wherewe often go on Sundays). Sometimes on the road to theCountry Club or Tlalpam one hears the shooting.

All is quiet again at Tampico, though the dead are yetlying about unburied. The rebels got far into the town,[96]but did very little damage to property. They wanted,people think, to get hold of a lot of the rolling stock ofthe railway. Tampico is a horrible, flat, mosquito-infested,malarial place, but it can give to the navies ofthe world the motive power that they want. It is thefocus of the guerre des pétroles. Is it really true that oilis at the back of all these tragedies?

At the dinner at the British Legation on Saturdaythere was an Englishman, a Mr. Graham, who has a placenear Durango. He told, as an eye-witness, the story Ihad heard before, of one of the rebel chiefs seizing theaged and saintly archbishop Mendoza while at the altar,forcing him to walk two miles over stubble fields, in theheat of the day, then putting him in a damp and filthycell, two feet by six. Mr. Graham gave a bond for$15,000, and he was got out. This is but one of athousand stories to the shame of the rebels.

December 17th.

Villa has finished the confiscation of the huge Terrazasestates in Chihuahua. We hear that the wife of theAmerican consul, Mrs. Letcher, is among the refugeesat El Paso. The Terrazas estates include palatial residencesin the city of Chihuahua, banks, mines, lands,cattle, etc. Luis Terrazas is now a refugee in the UnitedStates. His sister, known as the “Angel of Chihuahua,”by reason of her endless charities, married Mr. Creel, formerAmbassador to Washington. It is Mr. Terrazas’seldest 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 theBanco de Londres y Mexico for the exchange of certainbank-notes, no longer good, was enormous. Many shopsare hanging out signs that notes of Chihuahua, Coahuila,[97]Querétaro, Guanajuato, etc., will not be acceptedfrom customers. The richer refugees coming in fromChihuahua had hundreds of thousands of such. Oh, fora few wicked cientificos!

A lot of trouble about the Constitutionalist fiat moneyis beginning in the north. Merchants who fight shy of itare put into jail, regardless of nationality. Its appearance,to a careful, thrifty man, must be appalling. Billshave only one signature, and any one holding them forgesthe missing signatures, or the nearest and most interestedjefe politico affixes the stamp of his jefatura. Thedrawback is that it is difficult to get merchandise or foodin exchange. When is money not money? That waylies economic ruin.

Huerta talks a good deal about Napoleon these days—“granhombre, gran hombre!” (“a great man! a greatman!”). In a recent speech he said: “We have a rightto our independence, and we will keep it. If any attackis made against the country, all will witness somethinggreat and extraordinary.” Villa, Carranza, Huerta(Zapata, too, the chance offered), delight in ignoring theUnited States. On that point, all are united. The recoveryof Torreon has had immense, though, of course,only temporary, economic importance. The huge cottoncrop which Villa picked when he took the town, pressinginto service every man, woman, and child, and thinkingto sell it to the United States, has been shipped by theFederals to various cotton-mills, and means work forthousands.

There are sometimes really bright things in the MexicanHerald. To-day, about the United States protectionof citizens, it says: “Mr. Bryan’s idea of protectionseems to be built on the cafetería plan—come and getit. We don’t carry it to you.”

Cambiaggio, the new Italian minister, will be detained[98]indefinitely in Havana, Italian affairs in the meanwhile being in the hands of the British. I wonder howlong the foreign Powers will be willing to wait and watch.What they say about our policy when N. and I are notpresent is probably not according to the protocol!

December 17th.

Another reception is to be held at Chapultepec thisafternoon. I keep thinking of the four incumbents whohave lived and breathed and had their being there sincewe arrived—Diaz, de la Barra, Madero, and Huerta.With the exception of the first two, each lived in a separatesociety. The members of one don’t spill overinto the other. At Señora Huerta’s reception there wasnot a face, except those of the chers collègues, that I hadever seen there before—no homogeneity, no esprit decorps. “No me gusta” (“I don’t like it”) seems a sufficientreason for not standing by the administration,whatever it may be.

It is strange how little trace is left of those who havelived there, suffered, and grown great. There is scarcelya Maximilian souvenir or a Diaz recuerdo, not a thingof de la Barra, nor any vestige of Madero, except hisplanchette and his library, consisting of vegetarian andspiritualistic literature, which confronts Doña CarmenDiaz’s collection of works of piety. Of course there isnothing of Huerta; his shadow has scarcely even darkenedit. It was planned in a most extravagant way in1783 by one of the viceroys, Galvez, who had the beautiful,white-skinned, red-haired bride. It was unoccupiedduring many revolutionary years, then refitted for Maximilian.Later Diaz used it as his summer residence. PoorMadero lived there during the sixteen months of his incumbency,and I remember him pacing up and downthe terrace in that robin-egg-blue vest of his, with a visionary[99]but indestructible smile on his honest face; reallymentally, as well as bodily, lifted above all the realitiesof life.

The “Hill of the Grasshopper” has always had a habitationon it. Montezuma lived there, “king and gentleman,”and many of the old ahuehuetes[7] are supposed tobe contemporaneous with him. At any rate, the viewthat entrances my eyes is the same that his looked on.The whole valley stretches out before one, fringed bythose lovely mountains. Sunsets, sometimes in goldentones and sometimes in silver, flood the valley, giving thewhite points of the volcanoes the most dazzling effects oflight imaginable; and then there are luminous enchantments,dissolving distances, an intermingling crystallineblue and rose. How can I express its beauty! Peoplesay 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 iridescenceto the grays—gray with red or blue or yellowor violet in it—never the dull tones of our rain-clouds.

December 18th.

Just back from a gira in the city. Immense crowdsaround the Banco Central. This is the clearing-housefor all the state banks, and each person waiting outsidehad state bank-notes to exchange against those moreattractive ones of the Banco Nacional.

I see Cardinal Rampolla is dead. I thought of his magnificentappearances in St. Peter’s, that tall and slenderform, that proud and beautiful profile, the head heldhigh—a fit frame on which to hang the gorgeous vestments.I remember the disappointment of our variousfriends when Austria vetoed his election at the last conclave.[100]I wish he might have had it; but now that he haspassed through the door I would not call him (nor anyone) back. The old Roman days came so vividly tomy mind—and many besides Rampolla who are nomore.

Elim is sitting by me, writing in two colors all thewords he knows—Gott, kuss, bonnemaman, papa, mama.He has just asked “Who handed me down from the cloudswhen I was born?”

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

The Mexican papers take great pleasure in likeningWoodrow Wilson to Napoleon III., with comparisons ofthe Mexican policy and Sedan!

The reception yesterday did not have the snap and goof the first. We got there about six, going in almost immediatelyto tea, spread, as usual, in the long gallery. Istood at the table between von Hintze and Hedry, theAustrian chargé.

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

The President was preoccupied and vague, drank nohealths, and his frock-coat seemed longer and looser thanever; indeed, the servants had just begun to pourthe champagne when, his wine untasted, Huerta gavehis arm to Mme. Lefaivre, with a gesture of putting thefunction behind him, and, the banquet almost untouched,we all filed out behind him. He was evidently terribly[101]bored and thinking of other things. And, anyway, heisn’t the man to conduct things twice in the same way.He stopped as he was leaving the salon and told me hehad muchas muy buenas cosas (many good things) to sayof N. “Only good things, even in my absence.” Withthat, he left the festive scene and the affair rather fell topieces. N. had a dinner at the club for Colonel Gage,who was at the reception in morning coat. He had purposelynot brought his uniform, being wary at touchingthe official note, which might re-echo too loudly inWashington.

I went to the Simons’, who were having a dinner forthe captain of the Condé and his staff lieutenant. Theywere big, good-looking Frenchmen, who had been at thereception in all their glory of gold braid and decorations.Through a motor trip and a punctured tire they hadmissed the audience arranged for them by their ministerwith Huerta, and to atone they had gone looking especiallyofficial.

Yesterday I went out to see Mother Semple at theAmerican Convent of the Visitation. Until two yearsago she had had a large and flourishing school at Tepexpam.There came a Zapatista scare, thirty or fortybandits dancing around the convent one night, shootingoff pistols and screaming out ribaldries. Fortunatelynothing precious was broken, but the nuns were ruined, asthe parents withdrew their little darlings. Now theyare trying to get the school together again in a house atTacubaya, which, though very picturesque, with anold garden and a sunny patio, is not at all suited to thedouble purpose of community life and school. Theyhave dreams of selling the big property at Tepexpam fora barracks. The government may get the barracksin these days of taking what one sees, but I doubt ifthe nuns will ever get the money.

[102]

December 19th.

Mexican calls all the afternoon. Mme. Bernal has areally 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 delCampo, whom I found, with her baby and an Indiannurse, in the palm- and eucalyptus-planted garden. She,like all the others, is young and handsome. Her husbandwas in the diplomatic service under Diaz, but since thenhas fought shy of the administration set. It’s a pity, ashe would be an ornament to any service. Such beautifulEnglish—such perfect French!

They are living in the house of their aunt, MadameEscandon, in the Puente de Alvarado, the street namedafter this most dashing of Cortés’ captains. It was nearby that he made his famous leap in the retreat of theNoche Triste; the “dismal night,” when the Indians, witnessinghis apparently miraculous escape, thought him agod. A little farther up from the Escandon house is thecelebrated Palacio Bazaine or Casa de la Media Luna.It was presented, with all its luxurious furnishings, bythe Emperor to Marshal Bazaine, on the day of hissplendid nuptials with a beautiful Mexican. Here theEmperor and Carlota were often received, and it becamethe center of the fashionable life of the time. There aremany stories of the extravagant and almost regal entertainingthat 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 ofMaximilian and the “Ya es hora” of the guard whothrew open the prison door of the Capuchin Convent inQuerétaro on that fatal morning, and of Bazaine’s saddestof all sad ends.

The luncheon for Colonel Gage, who returns to Washingtonnext week, went off very snappily. When I got[103]to Chapultepec I found all my guests assembled on theveranda. I excused my lateness by saying that I hadbeen waiting for N., who was with the President. “Butthe President is here!” they all cried. I said, “I wonderif he would lunch with us.” They all looked aghast, butdelighted at my boldness.

I then saw Huerta approaching us through the largehall toward the veranda, with the governor of theFederal district, Corona, and a pale, dissipated, cleverman—for the moment (which I imagine he is makinggolden) Minister of Communicaciones. I went forwardwith some élan, as to a charge, and invited thePresident to the fiesta. That small Indian hand ofhis waved very cordially. It is literally the velvethand, whatever violent deeds it may have done. Buthe said that he had a junta of much importance; hewould be delighted to accept another time, and so on.There was more shaking of velvet hands, and we wentback to our expectant guests, who were decidedly disappointed.It was very pleasant, as always, on thebroad veranda, looking toward the Castle, visible abovethe great branches of the century-old ahuehuetes.

N. had been driving with the President for an hourbefore lunch, and had asked him for the release of threeAmericans, long imprisoned here. Huerta assured himthat they should all be set free, whether guilty or not, justto please him; and at six o’clock this evening the firstinstalment arrived at the Embassy, delivered into N.’shands by two Federal officers. And so the work goes on.Huerta is very prime-sautier. Once before when N. hadasked for the punishment of some soldiers, convicted ofdeeds of violence against some Americans, he respondedpromptly: “Who are they? Where are they? They shallall be killed!” N. protested, aghast at the possibly innocentuntried sheep suffering with the guilty goats.[104]Anything, however, to please N. in particular and theUnited States in general. There is really nothing thatthe 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 keepson at his own gait, not allowing himself to be rushed orhustled by the more definite energy of the Republica delNorte, playing the game of masterly inaction and scoring,for the time being, on Washington. After all, you don’tget any “forwarder” by waving copies of the constitutionin a dictator’s face. He ignores his relations withthe United States, never mentioned us in his speech toCongress, and probably put the ultimatum into thewaste-paper basket. I am beginning to think that, inthe elegant phrasing of my native land, he is “some”dictator! The New York Sun speaks admiringly of theway in which he continues to treat Mr. O’Shaughnessywith a friendly and delicate consideration.

December 20th.

Red Cross all the morning. It is wonderful, the stoicismof the Indian, where pain, hard pain, is concerned.A rather amusing incident occurred to-day. I asked aman who had had his hand shot off if it were a “Zapatista,”“Constitucionalista,” or “Huertista” deed. Heraised the other paw to his forehead, answering with greatexactitude, “No, señora, Vasquista.” I thought theVasquista movement had long since died the usual unnaturaldeath.

I see that the new Austrian minister to Mexico hasarrived in the United States en route for his post, and thenew 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 protocolhas gone to meet him and bring him up to the city. The[105]European Powers evidently mean to carry out theirprogram independent of “watchful waiting.” It willbe rather hard on our government when two morerepresentatives of great nations present their credentialsto the “Dictator.”

People say it is a pity that Huerta did not, on assumingpower, declare formally that he would have a dictatorshipfor two years, until such time as the country waspacified, leaving out entirely any question of elections.However, that is “hindsight.” Apropos of Villa, I seeone of the United States papers chirps: “Is a new sunrising in Mexico?” I have seen several rise and set onthe reddest horizon imaginable, in my short Mexicanday. As a butcher Villa cannot possibly be surpassed.But “who loves the sword shall perish by the sword,” isalways true here. I spent the morning at the Red Cross,washing and bandaging dirty, forlorn Aztecs. This yearthey have the beds made according to our ideas. Lastyear they used the blankets next the body and the sheeton top—it “looked better.”

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

December 21st.

Just home from Mass. I go to the Sagrado Corazonnear by, built mostly with money given by the muypiadoso Lascurain, a man of the highest integrity andlarge personal fortune. For a long time he was Minister[106]for Foreign Affairs, and for twenty minutes (as I wroteyou), President, between Madero and Huerta.

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

Evening.

We had a peaceful dia de campo in the old garden, thestrange Mexican magic making beautiful things morebeautiful 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—lookingvery attractive in white lace and beating upthe sort of sauce you make yourself, if you can, or gowithout, in Mexico. We partook of an excellent combinedluncheon—we all brought something—under anarbor of honeysuckle and roses, with true Mexican lackof hurry. Afterward we strolled over the near hillsidein its garb of maguey and pepper trees. The volcanoeslooked inexpressibly white and beautiful in their aloofnessfrom our troubles, though the hills at their base arethe stamping-grounds of hordes of Zapatistas, and oftenthe 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 dePeru, which, the Indians say, gives headache, unable totake our eyes from the soft outline of the city, swimmingin the warm afternoon light. Countless domes andchurch spires were cut softly into the haze, the lake ofTexcoco was a plaque of silver far beyond, and above allwere the matchless volcanoes. To complete the firstplan of the picture, an old Indian, a tlachiquero, wasquietly drawing the juice from some near-by magueyplants, after the fashion of centuries, with a sort ofgourd-like instrument which he worked by sucking in[107]some primitive but practical fashion. It looks to theuninitiated as if the Indian were drinking it, but its finaldestination is a pigskin slung athwart his back. Aftertea in the garden, on which a mystical blue light hadfallen, 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 attackingTampico. They evidently got what they wanted atthe last attack—four cartloads of dynamite and lots ofrolling stock, and are in a position to give a tidy bit oftestimony 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 andhis followers were sitting around their camp-fire. Hebarely escaped in the skirmish, leaving behind him hisprecious hat, a big, black, Charro hat, wide-brimmed andpointed crown, loaded with silver trimmings. It wasbrought to town by Colonel Gutierrez, greatly chagrinedbecause he could not also bring what had been under thehat. The image of Zapata on his charger, dashingthrough fields of maguey, up and down barrancas, is verycharacteristic of the brigand life so much the thing inMexico just now.

The new loan of 20,000,000 pesos has been underwrittenby 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 coupleof months or so, and then the “sorrows of Huerta” willbegin again. As it is, he can continue for that length oftime to play with the kindergarten class at Washington.A nice cable came from Mr. Bryan saying that the StateDepartment was much gratified at N.’s being able toprocure the release of the American prisoners I mentioned.

[108]

December 24th.

The banks here have been given legal holidays fromthe 22d of this month to the 2d of January. That isone way of solving the banking problem. It is supposedto be for the safeguarding of the depositors, who, however,are crowding the streets leading to the closedbanks, wild to get out what they put in, to confide it tothe more trust-inspiring stocking.

To-day is Huerta’s saint’s day, Sanctus Victorianus.There was a reception of the gentlemen of the DiplomaticCorps at the Palace. The doyen made an address dealingin safe but pleasant generalities, and Huerta replied,protesting that he had but one idea, the pacification ofMexico. The German minister is away to investigatethe murder of one of his nationals.

I again visited the tuberculosis hospital this morningand was interested to see patients risen from the dead,so to speak, and walking once more with the living. Theclimate here is ideal for cures. I took some Christmaspackages to the Red Cross, then went to the Alameda.On three sides of the Park the Christmas booths are setout—puestos, they are called. The Indians bring theirbeautiful and fragile potteries from long distances, andendless varieties of baskets and toys, and last, but notleast, their relatives, so that family life in all its detailscan be studied. They are selling, cooking, dressing,saying rosaries, examining little black heads for theever-present visitants—a familiar Mexican occupationat all seasons. The smell of Christmas trees and greens,banked along the street, mingles with odors of peanutsand peppers, enchiladas, and all sorts of pungent foods.

The cohetes are going off as I write. They are noisycrackers, making sounds like rifle-fire. Their use is anold custom that is observed for the nine days beforeChristmas; but in these troublous days one is led to[109]think rather of pistols than of the advent of the “Sonof Peace.”

A very nice letter came from Admiral Cradock, sayingthat he has just got back to Vera Cruz from theTampico fray, the sojourn enlivened by some “goodtarpon-fishing.” He will not be able to return here forChristmas, as he intended, but hopes we will soon rundown to Vera Cruz and be dined and saluted by him onthe Suffolk.

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

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

La Noche Buena, Christmas, 1913.

These Christmas hours I have been dwelling onmemories of my precious brother on his bed ofpain 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 aboutthe room, he crashed down, step-ladder and all, on theside where the toys were piled. There had to be swiftrunnings down-town to repair the damage. I was soannoyed that I didn’t even ask if he were hurt, and heseemed too aghast at the occurrence to feel any pain.It was very pleasant to have the small remnant of thefaithful under one roof. The children played with theirtoys and we grown-ups exchanged our little offeringsand greetings and everything seemed very cozy and safe—justas if we weren’t “riding a revolution.”

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

After the departure of the families, a few of the lone[111]ones stayed—Seeger, Clarence H., Ryan—and we talkeduntil a late hour of the strange adventures we are allliving through in this land of endless possibilities.

To-day, after Mass, we drove to the beautiful littleAutomobile Club, where Seeger gave a luncheon for us,the Tozzers, Clarence Hay, and the Evans. The club isbuilt in the new part of the Park, on the edge of one ofthe little artificial lakes made when Limantour laid outthe Park as it now is. We sat on the terrace toward thehigh hill of the castle, which breaks the round horizonof the magic hills. The air was soft, yet bright, themoss-hung old ahuehuetes, symbols of grief and mourning,had joyous, burnished, filmy outlines, and thevolcanoes were flinging white clouds about their lovelyheads. It was one of God’s own days—as days hereusually are.

December 26th.

I am sending you a few Heralds, with their Christmas(?)head-lines: “Vera Cruz Rebels Suffer Defeat in FierceFight”; “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.” Theymake one feel that “watchful waiting” in Washingtonbids fair to be woeful waiting south of the RioGrande.

Elim was worn out by the Christmas festivities andwas 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, dressedin tissue-paper and tinsel, depending from the ceiling,is the center of attention. The dress conceals ahuge, but fragile, earthern jar (olla) filled with nuts,fruits, candies, and small toys. Each child is blindfoldedand allowed to have a whack at it with a big stick.[112]When it is finally broken the contents spill everywhereand are scrambled for. It seems a messy sort of game,but it is time-hallowed here.

I sent Mr. Lind a telegram yesterday: “Affectionategreetings; best wishes.” He might as well, or better,be in Minneapolis. Nobody ever speaks of him and VeraCruz is like the grave as far as the government here isconcerned. Mexico is going to her downfall, and itseems as if she must be nearly there. It is very sad tous, 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: hehas been in Central America for twenty years, and saysthis is his thirty-second revolution.

I caught sight of Mr. Creel-Terrazas in his carriage,yesterday. His face was sunk and ashen, and he washuddled up in one corner of the coupé, changed indeedfrom the hale, rosy, white-haired man of a few weeksago. He and his family have lost everything at thehands of the rebels. The family owned nearly the wholeof Chihuahua, and though stories—probably true—aretold of how, generations ago, they came into possessionof the vast property, driving the Indians from theirholdings into the desert, it does not change the presentfact that they are ruined, and the country with them;the “judgment” upon them, if judgment it be, involvingcountless others.

The whole question up there seems to reduce itselfvery simply to a matter of grabbing from those in possessionby those desirous of possession. We are all waitingfor the inevitable falling out of Carranza and Villa.The hero in any Mexican drama is never more than afew months removed from being the villain. The actorsalone change; never the horrid plot of blood, treachery,and devastation.

[113]

You saw that de la Barra actually reached Tokio.I was sure he would, having a way of finishing whathe begins. Five sets of ambassadors have been appointedto set out for Japan to return the nation’sthanks for the special embassy sent to the splendid1910 Centenario—that apogee of Mexico’s national andinternational life. The last two were the murderedGustavo Madero, who couldn’t tear himself away becauseof the golden harvests to be reaped at home; andFelix Diaz, because of his political aspirations.

You remember de la Barra, from Paris, an agreeable,adroit man of the world, who proved himself, duringthe five months that he was President ad interim,a very good tight-rope walker on a decidedly slackrope. The country was still enjoying the Diaz prestige,and he found himself pretty generally acceptable to boththe old and the new régime. He has always been verycatholic. He became, later, rather a source of anxietyto Madero, who feared his popularity, though his successat the time was largely a matter of allowing allreally important questions to stand over for his successor.Looking back on it all now, I see him in a very favorablelight: a careful, hard-working, skilful politician, with ataste for peace and order which is not always inherentin the Mexican breast, and a safe man to fall back on toconduct the affairs of his country with dignity. Whenin doubt, “take” de la Barra.

The mañana (to-morrow) game is the best playeddown here; it is never actually subversive; and, as exemplifiedby Huerta’s attitude vis-à-vis the United States,it is very effective against a nation that wants thingsdone, and done at once. I find that the Mexicans areconstantly studying us, which is more than we do inregard to them. They look upon us as something immenselypowerful, that is able and, perhaps, if displeased,[114]willing, to crush them. They are infinitely more subtlethan we, and their efforts tend more to keeping out ofour clutches than to imitating us. Our institutions, allour ways of procedure, are endlessly wearisome to them,and correspond to nothing they consider profitable andagreeable. Suum cuique.

I have discovered that there are five Spanish phrasesquite sufficient for all uses, in the length and breadth ofthis fair land: “Mañana” (“to-morrow”). “Quién sabe?”(“who knows?”). “No hay” (“there isn’t any”). “Nole hace” (“it doesn’t matter”). “Ya se fué” (“he hasgone”). This last I add as, whenever any one tries toget hold of anybody, “Ya se fué” is the answer. I havegiven this small but complete phrase-book to many, whofind it meets almost any situation or exigency.

No news from Mr. Lind for some time. DoubtlessChristmas, as spent on the Mexican coast, alternatingdamp heat and north winds, is a poor affair comparedwith the tannenbaums and skating and general cheer ofboth his Fatherlands. Some Western editor suggests that,on his return, he will be in a position to publish a “comprehensiveblank book” on the Mexican situation. Ihave broken many a lance for him; but when one ofthe foreign ministers said to me yesterday, “your Scandinavianfriend is anti-Latin, anti-British and anti-Catholic,”I could but retire from the field ofbattle.

Elim is always followed by his two dogs—Micko, themelancholy Irish terrier, and Juanita. The white bullpup becomes more destructive and demonstrative everyday. Yesterday when she seemed not quite her awfulself one of the servants suggested hanging a string oflemons around her neck. I remember having seen disconsolatedogs wearing necklaces of lemons, but thoughtchildren had placed them there. It appears, however,[115]that such a necklace is in high favor among the Indiansas a cure for distemper.

I hear that the government intends to lease the TehuantepecRailroad to Pearson’s Oil Company fortwenty-five years, for 25,000,000 pesos. Huerta is depictedin one of the papers as knocking at the Europeanpawnshop 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 theFosters read the Mexican news with interest and understanding,as they were here during the years Diaz wastrying to establish himself in spite of the Mexican people,and not in spite of us as well, fortunately for Diaz andthem....

I send a cartoon from Novedades, representing Huertaparalyzed. One nurse asks the other how he is, and sheanswers: “No change. He can’t move yet.”

Well, some one has got to “move” if this countryand all national and foreign interests are to be saved.I cannot see that a new revolutionary party in thenorth, whose sole virtue, up to now, is that it is “agin”the government, can do it. Besides which it representsonly another pack of hungry wolves to be let loose uponthe 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 arepredictions that it will look as though the locusts hadbeen over it, if he really gets a “chance.”

Four clerks are sleeping in the house, and the work isgoing on apace. Cambiaggo, the new Italian minister,was received yesterday with all honors emphasized. Oh,that Fata Morgana of recognition! The Belgian ministerhas got his leave and has just been here to say good-by.[116]He has already the European eye so familiar tothose left behind. He has had a very cordial telegramfrom a big banker in New York, and wondered if thebanker expected to put him up. I said, “If you aremet by an automobile and servants in New York, youcan be pretty sure you are to stay with him; otherwiseyou’d better rough it at the Ritz.”

Various ideas are advanced by diplomats here as tothe possibility of some arrangement being made througha third party, some one of the great Powers; ... some[117]way by which the elections could really be held, andHuerta, if really elected, allowed to remain. N. can’tdo it, nor Mr. Lind, nor any American. The nationalpride on both sides is too compromised to admit of anythingbut a third power stepping in and “doing thetrick.”

There is talk of a big English loan, guaranteed by thecustoms, at the same time allowing a certain amountof these to be freed—a couple of millions of pesos a monthfor the expenses of the government. There is a generaltwitching of international fingers, a longing to remedyour bungling. May, with his face toward Europe, seeseverything rose-colored. He predicts that we shall behere until the next elections, the first Sunday in July.There is a great deal of speculation as to Huerta’s personalfortune, but no one knows whether he is rich orpoor. His new house in San Cosme is, I hear, a cheapaffair. 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 monotonousand horrid record of grab by the temporarilystrong from the always weak. A “good deed” inChihuahua is one that transfers any valuable propertyto a rebel. Those palatial residences, the homes of prosperityand wealth for generations, have all changedhands during the last three weeks, which, however, doesnot mean that the much-talked-of peon has benefitedin the slightest degree. It simply means that a few men,some of whom can neither read nor write, now holdwhat used to be in the possession of a few men who couldread and write. The land in Mexico has always been inthe hands of a few thousand individuals, and the peon isalways exploited, no matter what the battle-cry. A kind[118]paternalism on the part of some of the upper class hacendados,who leave him more or less to the mercies ofthe Spanish administrador, has been his best fate.

His unfitness for government has never been questioned.When he is weak, he promises all things; whenhe is strong, he is destructive. Though there havebeen sentimental remarks about the peon’s intelligence,and his wrongs, which are appalling, no government exceptours ever dreamed of putting the destinies of thestate into his hands—into the hands of these eighty-sixper cent. of human beings who can neither read norwrite.

Curiously enough, it is the custom to assert that theChurch kept the Indians in this state of ignorance; buteducation, after the Laws of Reform in 1857, was takenout of the hands of the priests and given into those ofthe lay authorities. That was nearly sixty years ago—threeIndian generations. Who runs may read, literally,in this case.

Eduardo I. told me an amusing and enlighteningstory yesterday. An Indian went to a priest to ask tobe married. The priest, finding his ideas of the Divinitywere of the haziest in spite of much instruction, said,“Hijo” (son), “I cannot do it until you have learnedel rezo” (a very elemental catechism), and proceeded togive him further instruction. The Indian returned thenext day and said that it was all very difficult and thathe 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” (yardof my godmother’s house)? “Of course; He is alwaysthere,” said the priest. The Indian’s expression becametriumphant. “Padrecito,” he said, “I have caught you.My comadre’s house has no yard!”

[119]

Evening.

Mr. Lind is hurrying aboard the U. S. S. Chester tomeet the President at Pass Christian. Strong Carranzistathough Mr. Lind is proving himself, I don’t thinkthe President will be led into the risky policy of recognizingthis undeveloped but certainly not very promisingquantity. We can put in any sort of government inMexico—but can we keep one in? We encouraged thepowers of dissolution around Diaz, recognizing and aidingMadero. The world knows the result. History alwaysrepeats itself here, and the writing on the wall isalways in blood. After Mr. Lind’s months of inactionit must seem good to be plowing the high seas en routeto the weighty conference. He said he would have returnedto the States some time ago but for the “verysatisfactory” progress of the rebels. He was especially“bucked up” when Villa announced his intention of eatinghis 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 lastword for you. May we all be folded in the EternalLove. I think of my precious brother and his rare gifts.I sometimes had the feeling of receiving through hisbeautiful mind something direct from the universal reservoirof thought.

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

January 1, 1914.

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

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

Later.

The President received the ministers at the Palacethis morning and in the afternoon Señora Huerta receivesat Chapultepec. I have people for dinner also.The President’s answer to the Spanish minister’s speechat the Palace was long and disconnected, with, however,the insistent refrain that he had but one idea—thepacification of Mexico, which he would and could accomplishif given time. The German minister wasn’tthere. He was off investigating the murder of a Germansubject in the interior.

Huerta appeared at the New-Year’s eve ball at theCountry Club—a most unusual stage-setting for him.As soon as he saw N. he joined him and gave him oneof the abrazos they so enjoy hearing about in theStates. His undaunted amiability may stand him andus and the Colony in good stead on some day of reckoning.He himself will always find asylum here. It is[121]a pity that the Embassy did not hide Madero behind itssecure door.

Later.

I went to Señora Huerta’s reception with the Cardens.N., having paid his tithe in the morning, had fled to thecountry. There were few present. She received on thelower floor of the Palace in the rooms which were oncethe 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 ifpaneled in plaster and painted a hideous brownishyellow; but I am told it is really finished in carvedAlsatian oak. On the table was one large silver épergnebearing Maximilian’s arms; how it has managed to remainwhere it is all these years I know not.

The room where Señora Huerta stood, which used tobe Carlota’s boudoir, is now hung with an ugly, brownish-pinkbrocade; a lovely Gobelin border remains toframe the panels of the brocade, and two exquisitelunettes of the same Gobelin are over the windows.The rooms are only inconveniently reached one throughthe other. Visitors pass through the Salon Rojo, with itsbig table and chairs, where the Cabinet sits when meetingsare held at Chapultepec, then through the RecamaraAzul, hung with blue brocade, in which is an elaborateBuhl bed and dressing-table. Other traces of the rulerwith 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 theDiplomatic Corps a happy new year. He went on tosay, 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[122]many blessings of culture and enlightenment; that shewas an adolescent, a minor; but that, like any nation,she possessed a right to her own development andevolution along her own line, and he begged the mercyand patience of the Powers. He got balled up in someastronomical metaphors. One heard vague references toJupiter and Mars; but he soon disentangled himselfwith his usual sang-froid. I found his speech, under thecircumstances, tragic and touching. He is backed up determinedlyagainst 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 theUnited States, or at least without its indifference.

Eight years ago, in one of those interregna known toall Mexican statesmen, Huerta was overseer of peonsbuilding houses in the new quarter of Mexico City.But mostly his avocations have required courage andknowledge. 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 apassing general who needed some one for secretarialwork. Having taken the fullest advantage of the verypoor schooling of his native town, he was ready whenopportunity came. He was taken to Mexico City, wherehe was brought to the attention of Diaz, through whoseinfluence he entered the Military Academy. After thishis qualities were speedily acknowledged and he becamean important figure in the military history of Mexico.

He once told N. that when, during de la Barra’s incumbencyin 1911, he was sent in to Morelos to suppressthe Zapatistas, the Cientifico party offered him many inducementsto aid in their reinstatement as rulers of Mexico.He added that he had preferred to remain faithful tohis constitutional oath. The same thing occurred duringthe brilliant campaign he carried out in the north for[123]Madero against Orozco. He said, “I could have done iteasily then, because I had control of the army and thearms, but I remained faithful to Madero, as representingconstitutional government.” Later on, he said, he becameconvinced that Madero was not capable of the businessof government and that disaster was unavoidable.

How well I remember going once to Chapultepecto see Señora Madero. She was in bed in the roomnext the Salon de Embajadores, consumed with feverand anxieties, twisting a rosary in her hot hands. Shetold me, with shining eyes, of the news received thatvery afternoon of the success of Huerta’s northerncampaign against Orozco, and added that he was theirstrongest general and muy leal (very loyal). Howquickly any situation here in Latin America becomes partof an irrevocable past!

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

The cook departed an hour ago, leaving word thather sister is dying and that she will be back in eightdays. They are apt to take time for grief in this partof the world, and food for an Embassy is a mere detail.The galopina (kitchen-maid), seen for the first time—apale, high-cheeked Indian girl, with her hair hangingdown her back—answered my every question bya most discouraging, “Quién sabe?” The women servantsseem to be forever washing their hair, andthough it would doubtless be unreasonable and uselessto forbid it, the sight has an irritating effect. Everybodywho has really lived in Mexico has at some timeor 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[124]I followed some golfers over the beautiful links. Theshort grass was dry and springy, the air clear and cool,without a breath of wind. As we motored home wefound ourselves enveloped in an indescribable glory—astrange light thrown over everything by a blue andcopper sunset. The luster-tiled roof of the little Chapelof Churubusco was like a diamond held in the sun—therest of the church gray and flat. All this is historicground for us as well as for the Mexicans. Over thegolf-links and in the fields between the Country Cluband Churubusco, our men, on their way up fromVera Cruz in 1847, fought a desperate fight beforepressing into Mexico City. It is said we lost more thana thousand men here, and there are grass-grown moundsbeneath which pale and bronze heroes lie together indeath. In the old Aztec days Churubusco had a templededicated to the war-god Huitzilopochtli, and Churubuscois the word the Spaniards produced from thisrather 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 neverstops. He told me about the three hundred Morelospeasant women taken from their families and sent toQuintana Roo, the most unhealthful of the Mexicanstates, lying south of Yucatan, where it is customaryto send men only. The women had been convoyedthere with some idea of forming a colony with the unfortunatemen deported to that region for army service.On their arrival there was a mutiny and a scramble forthe women by the soldiers. Such disorder prevailedthat the officials shipped the women back to Vera Cruzand dumped them on the beach. Almost every womanhad a baby, but there was no food, no clothing, no oneresponsible for them in any way. They were merely[125]thrown there, separated from their families by hundredsof miles. It was one of those tragedies that countlessIndian 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 FederalDistrict, for the President, who made speeches at intervals.Several times Huerta seemed to be on the vergeof mentioning the United States, but N. said he kepta restraining eye fastened on him. After dinner N. wascalled to the telephone. When he came back there wasa subtle something in the air which made him feel thatin his absence the President had drifted near the Washingtonrocks, for Huerta took pains to go over and embracehim. Later the President quoted the saying that“all thieves are not gachupines,” but that “all gachupinesare thieves,” whereupon, catching the Spanish minister’seye, he felt obliged to go over and embrace him, too!However, drifting a bit nearer to Scylla and Charybdismatters little to him.

He was not responsible for the much-talked-of New-Year’sgreeting to President Wilson. It was sent outfrom the Foreign Office with the other usual annualmessages to the heads of Powers, and in the ForeignOffice they explained that they did not like to pass overthe United States.

The admonition given out by the State Departmentyesterday, the third to Americans, warning them notto return to Mexico, was printed in small type in a cornerof the Mexican Herald. Formerly it would haveoccupied a whole page, but the people are getting blaséabout warnings. Each man looks to himself for protection—onthe even chance. I don’t know whether thisadmonition was in any way an outcome of Mr. Lind’sconference; it might easily be, as one of his strong beliefs[126]is that foreigners would better get out. This isalso Carranza’s idea.

January 5th.

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

No news from the Chester conference, but, of course,we are all on the qui vive for possible results. Things getmore chaotic all the time, and whatever is to be doneshould be done quickly. There is some regard for lifeand property under the near gaze of the Dictator in theprovinces he controls, but in the north reigns completelawlessness. Everywhere brother is killing brother, andas for the sisters, they are often lassoed and captured asif they were stampeding cattle. Educated people, whohave been prosperous all their lives, are now withoutfood or shelter, knowing that strangers eat at theirtables, sleep in their beds, and scatter their treasures.If only poor old Huerta could have begun in some otherway than by riding into the capital in a path of bloodspilled by himself and others, he would probably havebeen able, with recognition, to do as well as any one, andbetter than most. As it is, he is like a woman who hasbegun wrong. The neighbors won’t let her start again,no matter how virtuously she lives.

The “bull-fight charity,” organized to raise funds forthe Red Cross, is considered the hit of the season. Ithad been advertised as a “humane” fight, as the bull’shorns were capped. However, the toreador was killed—amidimmense excitement, pleasurable rather than otherwise.As I was coming home, about five this afternoon,[127]from a peaceful day at Xochimilco, I saw in every directionimmense clouds of dust. For a moment I thoughtthat a storm was rising, but it was only the dust raisedby the vehicles bringing spectators back from the bull-ring,half a kilometer beyond the Embassy. Havingtried, on two awful and useless occasions, to “get thespirit of the game,” I have put the whole question ofbull-fights out of my consciousness.

Several people have just been here on their way home.Mr. Lefaivre thinks this unfortunate government mightpossibly get money from abroad if it could be placed inthe hands of a commission for spending and accounting,and would be willing to urge it on his government undersuch conditions. The idea of such a commission, forseveral reasons, has not been popular here. It would, ofcourse, be mixte (foreigners and Mexicans). It would reflecton their cultura (a Spanish word for personal dignityand urbanity), and on their bizarría, meaning gallantry,mettle, valor, generosity. Last, but not least,what would be the use of an arrangement where therewould be no “pickings” for anybody?

Well, the sun shines faithfully on what might be anearthly paradise, and Xochimilco was beautiful beyondwords. We motored out, skirting a bit of the picturesqueViga Canal (fifty years ago the fashionable drive ofMexico City), to the old water-gates, where we got intoa great flatboat and were poled by a big-hatted, white-trouseredIndian along the watery aisles in between thebeautiful floating islands—Chinampas, the Indians callthem—so near that one could almost reach the flowersand vegetables planted on them. Masses of lilies,stocks, and pansies are now in bloom and are reflectedeverywhere in the smooth water. Silent Indians, innarrow canoes often simply hollowed out of trunks oftrees, passed and repassed us. Sometimes it was a couple[128]of women in bright garments, poling quietly along, withheaps of flowers and vegetables between them. Sometimesthere was a family, with a bright-eyed baby lyingagainst the carrots and cauliflowers, the eternal trio—whenit isn’t the national sextette or octette so familiarhere. The picturesque life of a changeless people little,if at all, modified since the coming of Cortés, unfoldeditself to our gaze. They offered us bouquets as theypassed, and bunches of carrots and radishes and aromaticherbs, until our boat was a mass of flowers andscent, and a dreamy, hypnotic quiescence took the placeof our strenuousness. Some one said, in a far-awayvoice, “La vida es sueño” (“Life is a dream”). But,fortunately or unfortunately, a practical-minded picnickerwas able to shake off his share of the strangemagic that was upon us, saying, with an attempt atbriskness, “This isn’t for us!”

Beautiful willow- and flower-bordered vistas had away of unexpectedly leading to a sight of the volcanoes,sometimes Popocatepetl, sometimes Iztaccihuatl, whenone was sure they must be somewhere else. The brilliantatmosphere of the Mexican plateau lay over the entirepicture, seeming to hold the colors of the spectrum, andyet 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 thatgray, foggy dawn at Zürich, when I realized that I mustget up and do something that was undoable. Countlessmillions know the complete revolt of humanity againstthe laying of one’s own in the earth. The beautiful Massat the Liebfrauen Kirche was strength to my soul. PaterBraun’s handsome, earnest face, as he spoke Elliott’s[129]precious name in prayer and supplication, the light playingaround the pulpit, and the beatitudes in mosaicagainst gold—all are graven on my heart. I could onlyread through tears the words Beati qui esuriunt—Elliott’slife history. And that peaceful hour with himafterward, in the flower-filled room, when we felt thatit was only his afternoon rest we were watching over!When they came to cover his face forever I was souplifted that I could turn those screws myself, insteadof leaving it to hirelings to shut the light away fromthose noble features.

Oh, that loving heart, that crystal brain, with itspower of original thought, that gift of industry! Howfar Elliott might have gone on the road of science!Others will discover and progress, but he, so fitted tolift 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 andMexico. The English are always dignified in the treatmentof their representatives. Instead of recalling SirL., when faced with the advisability of a change, theysend him to Brazil, a higher-ranking post with a muchlarger salary. It is said that the matter was crystallizedby his strong and entirely justified recommendation forthe proceeding to his post of the Italian minister. Italianaffairs, since the departure of Aliotti, had been inthe hands of the British; but the Italian colony herebegan to get restive, feeling the necessity, in these troubloustimes, of having their own representative, who hadbeen “waiting and watching” so long at Havana. However,nothing can be successful down here that is againstthe United States policy—right or wrong. The Carden[130]incident will doubtless put the other foreign representativeson their guard.

Von Hintze made a most enlightened speech at theGerman Club, not long ago—in which he said that, byreason of our unalterable geographical relations to Mexico,the United States would always have paramountinterests here. He recommended his colony not to makecriticisms of our policy—but to accept it as inevitableand natural.

I am wondering if I can go to Vera Cruz with N. to-nightwithout causing a panic here. He is going to conferwith Mr. Lind, from whom we had a wire this morning,saying that he hoped N. would find it possible tocome, and that President Wilson sent his best wishes.There is a norther blowing at Vera Cruz, and we havethe resultant penetrating cold up here. When once theheat gets out of the body at this altitude it is difficultto make it up. I am leaving Elim, as a sort of hostageand an assurance to the Colony that I am not fleeing.Dr. Ryan is living in the house, also the Parkers, andthey will all watch over him.

As soon as Huerta heard that N. was going to VeraCruz he sent one of his colonels to ask if we wanteda special train, or a private car attached to the nightexpress. 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 whatseems to him the next best thing—he shows courtesyto its representative. He said to d’Antin, who wentto thank him, in N.’s name, for the car: “Mexico escomo una serpiente; toda la vida está en la cabeza” (“Mexicois like a snake; all its life is in its head.”) Then hebanged his head with his small fist and said, “Yo soyla cabeza de Mexico!” (“I am the head of Mexico!”) “And[131]until I am crushed,” he added, “she will survive!”D’Antin, who is a Frenchman with a Latin-Americanpast, probably gave him words of consolation thatwould fit neither the letter nor the spirit of watchfulwaiting. Huerta is magnetic. There is no disputingthat fact.

Vera Cruz, January 8th.

I am writing this hasty line in Mr. Lind’s dim room atthe Consulate, to let you know that we slipped quietlydown 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 ofthe norther and the temperature is delightful. Themoving-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 onthe plea that he is not in politics. I asked him howabout his noble Lincoln head, and he answered, “Nothingdoing; that unrepeatable head is long in its grave.”...The admiral is announced.

Dramatic values at Vera Cruz—Visits to the battle-ships—Our superbhospital-ship, the Solace—Admiral Cradock’s flag-ship—An Americansailor’s menu—Three “square meals” a day—Travel in revolutionaryMexico.

“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 wentwith Admiral Fletcher and Commander Stirling to theDolphin for lunch. Fortunately the admiral’s flag isflying from her instead of from the Rhode Island, whichis anchored, while waiting for a good berth inside thebreakwater, in the rough sea beyond the Isla de losSacrificios.

Captain Earl is in command of the Dolphin, the despatch-boatthat successive Secretaries of the Navy haveused for their journeyings and which has just come from“watching” the elections in Santo Domingo. Theadmiral offered to put us up, but I thought it was unnecessaryto trouble him, as we were already unpackedon the car. Admiral Fletcher, besides being an agreeableman of the world, is an open-minded, shrewd, experiencedseaman, versed in international usage, knowingjust what the law allows in difficult decisions, whereto curtail his own initiative and fall in with establishedcodes, or where to go ahead. The splendid order andefficiency of the men and matters under his commandare apparent even to my lay eyes.

[133]

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

On leaving the Dolphin Nelson received his elevensalutes, standing up with bared head in the admiral’sbarge as they thundered across the bay. We thenwent over to the Monterey to say good-by to Armstead,who made the journey down with us, and to see CaptainSmith, who brought us first to the land of the cactus.The various boats, Spanish, French, and English, salutedas we passed in the Dolphin’s launch.

In the evening Mr. Lind had a dinner for us under theportales of the Diligencias. Admiral Fletcher, ConsulCanada, Commander Yates Stirling, Captain Delaneyof the commissary-ship, and Lieutenant Courts, one ofthe admiral’s aides, were the guests. The Diligenciastakes up two sides of the old Plaza. The MunicipalPalace, a good Spanish building, is on the third side, andthe picturesque cathedral with its many domes and belfriesembellishes the last. The band plays every night inthe Plaza and the whole scene is gay and animated.Women in their mantillas and rebozos, dozens of tinyflower-girls, newspaper babes, and bootblacks of verytender years cluster like flies around soft-hearted diners.

The Mexican Herald arrived while we were sittingthere, and we were most amused by the head-lines:“Five-Hour Conference This Morning Between Lind[134]and O’Shaughnessy Resumed in the Afternoon.” “PolicyNot Yet Known.”

At nine-thirty I broke up the festive gathering. Theadmiral, Mr. Lind, and N. went off toward the pier,and Commander Stirling and Lieutenant Courts broughtme back to the car in a round-about way through thequiet streets. As half after four is a favorite breakfasthour here, they are all “early to bed.” Vera Cruzseems the most peaceful city in the world at the presentmoment, though no port in the world has seen morehorrors and heroisms. Cortés landed there, la VillaRica de la Vera Cruz, as he called it, and for centuriesthe seas around were pirate-infested. She has beensacked by buccaneers times without number; bombardedby nearly every power that has had interests here—theSpaniards, ourselves (in 1847), the French, etc.; andnow her port is again black with battle-ships ready toturn their twentieth-century guns upon La SiempreHeroica (the always heroic). Two enemies she seems tohave done with—yellow fever and cholera. The zopilotes(buzzards) that sail about in uncountable numbers findit rather hard to get a living. I see that the cleaning upof Guayaquil has been given to an English firm, who,however, will use our methods. Very few Latin-Americancontracts will be given to Uncle Sam thesedays.

Admiral Fletcher would like to come up to MexicoCity, which he has never seen, but after all these monthsof not coming he could only do so now officially with hisstaff—uniforms, visits to Huerta and other authorities—andthat is out of the question. I could put him upat the Embassy, with his two aides, and am quite keenabout it, and so is he; but nothing can be done untilwhat the newspapers call Watchington has been sounded.Mr. Lind thinks it impossible (he knows he can’t return),[135]as it would be taken as a sign that the President mightbe wishing to change his Mexican policy. On the otherhand, if he should wish to change that policy, such avisit could be the entering wedge, and lead to big thingsin the way of peace and prosperity.

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

We had a most comfortable night. Practically notrains come and go in the station at night and there isnone of the usual dust and dirt of travel, all the railroadsburning oil instead of coal. I go at ten to visit ourhospital-ship, the Solace, and I must now arise and buckleme up for a long day. I have a white silk tailor-madecostume and various fresh blouses to choose from. Nelsonis busy with newspaper men, who have discoveredthe car.

January 10th, Morning.

Before I was dressed yesterday morning Mr. Lindappeared with a steward from Captain Delaney, bringingme some delicious hams and bacons and other goodthings 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 lastsummer, I think, and is a charming man of the world.I was out of my state-room by this time and freshmyself, but the state-room looked like Messina afterthe earthquake. General Maass, military governoror Commander of the Port, and his aide, were next toappear. He shows his German blood in various ways(not in that of language, however). He has light, upstandinghair, German eyes, and much manner. There[136]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 offeringit after the courteous Spanish custom. The interviewfinally ended by my arranging to call on hisseñora in the afternoon, and by N. escorting himfrom the car and down the platform. LieutenantCourts then arrived to take me to the Solace. All theofficers look so smart in their fresh linens. The Solacewas lying quite inside the breakwater, looking verycool and inviting. She was painted white, with a broad,green stripe around her—her official colors. Dr. vonWedekin was waiting on deck with his staff. I was mostinterested in seeing the perfect arrangements for thecare of all that is mortal of man; even eyes, teeth, ears,are looked after in a most efficient and up-to-dateway. 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 afterthe seven days’ bout at Tampico, and half a dozen ofappendicitis. The ship carries no cargo, having the medicalstores for the whole fleet. The captain told me hehad not lost a case of anything for fourteen months.His operating-room can compare with that of any hospitalI have ever seen and the ship also has a fine laboratory.She is well-named the Solace.

She was leaving that afternoon for Tampico, whichis one of the dreariest spots on the earth, despite themighty forces at work there. Mexico’s oil is at onceher riches and her ruin. The place is malaria-ridden,infested with mosquitoes, and the inhabitants, I amtold, have the weary, melancholy expression peculiar tofever districts. The ships that go there are as wellscreened as possible, but men on duty can’t always beprotected. I understand the mosquito that does the[137]damage is a gauzy, diaphanous, rather large kind, andthe “female of the species is deadlier than the male.”

On leaving, Lieutenant Courts took me for a littleturn about the harbor, as it was too early for the Suffolklunch. We went around the ill-famed prison of SanJuan Ulua. Its six desolate palms are almost the firstthing one sees on entering the harbor. I regret that Idid not get a pass from General Maass to visit it. Isaw a few pale, hopeless-looking prisoners in dull blueand white stripes, standing on the parapets or workingin the dry dock, the guns of soldiers always pokingin their faces. These are the “better class” of criminals;there are those in dark, oozing, terrible holes who arenever allowed outside of them, and it is said that thosewho survive lose in a few years all human semblance.The foundations of the fortress were laid in early Cortésdays and the fortunes and misfortunes of the town havealways centered round it. It was from its tower that thelast Spanish flag was lowered at the time of the Mexicanindependence, 1821. When first in Mexico I used tohear that Madero was to close the prison; but, likemany of his intentions, this never became a fact. Peaceto his soul!

We got back to the Sanidad landing at half past twelve.Admiral Cradock’s flag-lieutenant was waiting withthe barge and I was delivered into his hands. N. cameup 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 tohis delightful room. It contains really good thingsfrom all parts of the world—old silver from Malta,a beautiful twelfth-century carving (suitable for amuseum) from Greece, fine enamels from Pekin, whereSir Christopher distinguished himself during the siege,[138]and many other lovely things, besides books and easy-chairs.He is really a connoisseur, but he said that theladies, God bless them, had robbed him of most of hispossessions. After an excellent lunch Captain Niblackcame in to say good-by, the Michigan having receivedsailing orders for New York. We had such a friendlytalk with Sir Christopher, who said—and we quite concurred—thathe didn’t see any cause for feeling aboutBritish 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. Hewants to come up to Mexico again and jokingly lays it atNelson’s door that he can’t. There is something so gallantabout him, but with a note of sadness; and I amalways conscious of a certain detachment in him fromthe personal aims of life. We left about three o’clock.The English use black powder for their salutes and thethirteen guns made a very imposing effect. The ship wasenveloped in smoke, a sort of Turneresque effect, makingone think of “Trafalgar,” while the shots reverberatedthrough the harbor.

I went back to the Consulate to have a little talk withMr. Lind, then got into the Maass auto, which waswaiting at the Consulate door, and proceeded to pay myrespects to Señora Maass. General Maass has a breezyhouse at the barracks at the other end of the town, infront of the rather dreary Alameda, with its dusty palmsand 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 sawthem all—daughters, and nieces, and friends, and the parrotand the dog; the beasts were most useful conversationally.Then the family sang and played, and one of thedaughters, pretty, with a clear soprano, gave me a good[139]deal of Tosti. Then more talk. I was getting desperate,no move being made to a large, well-spread, absolutelyunavoidable, preordained table in the corner. I finallysaid that Captain Niblack, who was leaving for theUnited States in the morning, was waiting for meto go to the Michigan. That broke through the teaimpasse, and, after partaking of the collation, I finallygot away, escorted on General Maass’s arm to “my”automobile.

I arrived at the Consulate, hot and tired, and withoutthe sustaining feeling that “duty is a well-spring in thesoul.” I was thankful to find myself at last in the Michigan’sboat with Captain Niblack and Nelson, going outacross a bay of wondrous sunset effects—“twilight andevening hour and one last call for me.” It was a marvelous“crossing the bar.” Looking back, the outline ofthe Pico de Orizaba made a soft violet mass against thedeepening sky, with a strange, red lighting up of thetop. The bay was filled with ships of destruction fromall over the world, but everything in nature for once wassoft and merciful and seemed to dissolve and harmonizediscordant and destructive meanings.

The Michigan is a huge ship, one of the first dreadnaughts,and Captain Niblack is both enthusiastic andearnest about his work. After a glass of something—fora lady inclined to temperance I have drained manypleasant cups to their cheerful lees these days—we allwent over to the Chester, a ship of the scout type, thathad just returned with Mr. Lind from the Pass Christiantrip. There we picked up Captain Moffett—who alsoinsisted on decocting something sustaining—and thenturned shoreward, where Mr. Lind was giving anotherdinner for us, under the portales of the Diligencias.It was quite dark, but a thousand lights from a hundredboats made the harbor one vast jewel—not in the[140]“Ethiop’s ear,” but in Mexico’s poor, battered, tornear. At half after nine, after another pleasant dinner, Ibegan to feel that my bed would be my best friend, andwe went back to the car, through the quiet, well-lightedstreets. Women were leaning over the little green balconiesof the little pink houses in the classic Spanishstyle, 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 AdmiralFletcher’s dinner to-night, for which we decided tostay over. We spent the morning on the Michigan,Captain Niblack giving us an early luncheon, as he expectedtill 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 awaitingher to coal immediately for a trip to Panama. CaptainSimpson, her commander, had rushed in for lunch withCaptain Niblack, and there got the wireless. CaptainN. hated to tell the officers and the crew that after allthe months of waiting at Vera Cruz they were not toleave, their hearts had been beating so high. The crewsare never allowed ashore for fear of complications, andit is no light task to keep the thousands of sailors andmarines in Vera Cruz harbor well occupied and contentwithin the compass of their ships. They are, I can testify,magnificently fed. At lunch Captain Niblack orderedfor us some of the soup the men were having, a deliciousbean soup with pieces of sweet pork; also the meatserved us was the same as theirs—a juicy, tender steaksuch 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[141]tasted they have first-class fare, and all at an expense ofthirty cents a day for each man.

We had taken on board with us Wallace, the moving-pictureman, who had come with a letter to N. fromJohn Bassett Moore. Captain Niblack had the drill,salutes, etc., for N. on leaving the boat, so I supposethat brief episode of our career will be duly chronicledin our native land. After leaving the Michigan we wentagain to the Chester, and sat on deck for an hour orso with Captain Moffett, who had many interestingthings to tell about the Tampico fight. A heavenlybreeze was blowing. Salutes were fired as usual when weleft. Some one made the little joke that they could“hear us walking all over the harbor.” Going from oneship to another, as we have been doing for three days,I have received a tremendous impression of the might andglory of our navy, and of the noble, clean, and wiselives which must be led by the men who command theships.

At Orizaba, (the Next Morning), January 11th, 10.30.

Well, traveling in Mexico in revolutionary times isall that it is supposed to be! The rebels have destroyedthe track at Maltrata ahead of us, sacked and burnedfourteen provision-cars, damaged a bridge, and, officialssay, we are held up until to-morrow. It is the first timeanything has happened on this road, though all the otherlines in Mexico have been cut times without number.Maltrata, above which the damage has been done, is thesite of the most delicate and difficult engineering-workon the line and a tempting spot for havoc.

I am staying in my state-room, worn out with the comingsand goings of the last three days. A drizzling rainis 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[142]which you will remember is applied to Rouen. N. isdisgusted at not getting back to Mexico City, and Idare say the town is full of all sorts of rumors about us.He has just been to see the train-master, who has simplyhad orders to await instructions; no tickets are to besold further than Orizaba.

I am glad of these moments for a little word with myprecious mother. Last night the admiral’s dinner wasmost agreeable. The Military Commander Maass andhis wife were there, Admiral Cradock with two of his officers,Mr. Lind, the Consul, Yates Stirling, and othersof the admiral’s staff. I sat on Admiral Fletcher’sleft, with Maass next to me. The conversation was inSpanish, and I worked hard; I told the admiral thatI deserved a trip to Panama as a recompense. Thenorte which had been announced from Tampico begancreakingly and ominously to make itself felt and heardabout half after nine. The admiral gave us an amusingpicture of the life at Tampico with a hundred refugees,mostly women and children, on board. He said it wasa sweet and touching sight to see certain baby garmentshung out to dry on the cannon, and officers lulling thelittle innocents to sleep, or engaged in other and oftenunsuccessful attempts to keep the refugees pleased andhappy.

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 seventeenthgangway that day. The northers of Vera Cruz are agreat feature of the climate. They have all sorts and degrees—thenortes 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 variousothers. I don’t know what kind was developing last[143]night, but after an uncertain trip we were dashed upagainst the Sanidad pier, where the large Maass autowas waiting. We said good-by to Mr. Lind and Mr.Canada at the Consulate door, and in an instant theywere blotted out in the thick darkness of the gatheringnorte. The Maasses took us on to the station, where weparted 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, hadeverything in order. I don’t think I would have beenable to don my filmy black gown for the dinner had itnot been for his deftness and general efficiency. At sixo’clock they hitched our car onto the morning train,with indescribable groanings and joltings, and this isour history up to the present moment.

Through the window I see only bits of a dreary stationand crowds of Indians huddled under their serapes andrebozos. The poor wretches do so hate to get wet. Itmeans hours of chill until the garments dry on them.Worried train employees are running about. I understandthat Orizaba, in spite of the “watering-pot”effect, is a delightful resort. Many people from Yucatancome up to recuperate—rich henequén and sisalplanters; there are all the beauties and marvels of thetropics in the way of flowers and fruits, orchids, convolvuli,ahuacate pears, pineapples, pomegranates, anda wonderfully tonic, even temperature. If it weren’tfor the downpour I would venture out for antiques.This is an old Spanish city and there are lovely thingsto be picked up in the way of ivory and wood inlaid-workif one is lucky. However, I don’t feel like beingwatered. I haven’t had the desire, since hearing of thehold-up, to tell you of the beauty of the scenery fromVera Cruz, but look at those first enchanting pages ofPrescott’s Conquest. He who never saw it, describes its[144]beauties as if they were spread before him. Though, forreally up-to-date reading on Mexico give me Humboldt,1807. He still seems to have said the last and latest wordabout Mexico and Mexicans as we know them to-day.

Two train-loads of Federal soldiers, well armed, havejust pulled out of the station, where women were weepingand holding up baskets of food to them as theyhung out of the windows. They were laughing andjoking as befits warriors. Poor wretches! I couldn’thelp my eyes filling with tears. They go to reconnoiterthe track for us. I suppose it is known everywhere bynow that the American chargé and his wife are held upon that usually safe stretch between Orizaba and MexicoCity. A group of armed men are standing in front of mywindow. They have black water-proof covers for theirlarge hats, like chair covers; the hats underneath aredoubtless gray felt, heavily trimmed with silver. One soldier,apparently as an incidental effect, has a poor, red-blanketedIndian attached to him by a lasso tightenedaround the waist. Nobody pays any attention to them;not even the women, with their babes completely concealedand tightly bound to their backs or breasts bythe inevitable rebozo. One feels hopelessly sad at thethought of the world of chaos those little heads will, intheir time, peep out upon.

A thick and heartbreaking book could be writtenupon the soldadera—the heroic woman who accompaniesthe army, carrying, in addition to her baby, any othermortal possession, such as a kettle, basket, goat, blanket,parrot, fruit, and the like. These women are the onlyvisible commissariat for the soldiers; they accompanythem in their marches; they forage for them and theycook for them; they nurse them, bury them; they receivetheir money when it is paid. All this they do andkeep up with the march of the army, besides rendering[145]any other service the male may happen to require.It is appalling what self-abnegation is involved in thislife. And they keep it up until, like poor beasts, theyuncomplainingly drop in their tracks—to arise, I hope,in Heaven.

3 o’clock.

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

Later.

We arrived at Maltrata to be met by dozens of wetIndian women selling lemons, tortillas, and enchiladas.Each wore the eternal blue rebozo and a pre-Spanish cutof skirt—a straight piece of cloth bound around thehips, held somewhat fuller in front. They are calledenredadas, from the fashion of folding the stuff aboutthem. 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 thrownabout their shoulders, their big-brimmed, high-peakedhats, with their black rain-proof covers, these men madea startling and gaudy picture with the underthrill ofdeath and destruction. We have been moving along ata snail’s pace. In a narrow defile we came on one of thetrain-loads of Federals we had seen leave Orizaba, theirguns pointed, ready to fire.

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

5.30.

We have just passed the scene of pillage. Dozens ofIndians—men, women, and children—are digging out hotbottles of beer, boxes of sardines and other conservesfrom the smoking wreck. Cars, engine, and everything[146]in them were destroyed after the brigands had selectedwhat they could carry away.

A white mist has settled over the mountain. Many ofthe Indians are wearing a sort of circular cape made ofa thatch of bamboo or grass hanging from their shoulders—akind of garment often seen in wet weather in thisaltitude. It is marvelous that in so few hours a newtrack could be laid by the old one. We are passing gingerlyover it, and if nothing else happens we shall bein Mexico City after midnight. I am too tired to feeladventurous to-day and shall be glad to find myselfwith my babe in the comfortable Embassy, instead ofwitnessing 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 theEmbassy, who received us as from the wars. Aboutfifty soldiers got out of the train when we did; and really,in the unsparing station light they had the appearanceof assailants rather than of protectors. In a fightit would have been so easy to confuse the rôles. Ithought they had long since given up putting forces onpassenger-trains; it usually invites attack on accountof the guns and ammunition.

However, all’s well that ends well, and I have just hadmy breakfast in my comfortable bed with my preciousboy. They tell me he has been “good” while his motherwas away. Mrs. Parker says he insisted on having thelights put out before saying his prayers at night. Hewas so dead with sleep when I got in that he didn’topen his eyes; only cuddled up to me when he felt menear.

The newspaper gives details of the Maltrata wrecking.[147]The attacking band placed a huge pile of stones on therails 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 ofworkmen have been sent to repair the damage, and athousand rurales to guard and pursue. The “Mexican”is the big artery between this city and Vera Cruz, and ifthat line is destroyed we would be entirely cut off.Nothing gets to us from anywhere now except fromVera Cruz. The other line to Vera Cruz—the Interoceanic—hasoften been held up and is not in favorwith levanting families. It is about time for one of theperiodical scares, when they leave their comfortablehomes with their children and other valuables, for theexpensive discomforts of the “Villa Rica de la VeraCruz.”

Ojinaga evacuated—Tepozotlan’s beautiful old church and convent—Azcapotzalco—AMexican christening—The release of Vera Estañol—Necaxa—Thefriars—The wonderful Garcia Pimentel library.

January 14th.

Yesterday Huerta decided to suspend paymenton the interest on the national debt for six months,which will free about three million pesos a month forpacification purposes. He denies anything approachingrepudiation, but says this step was forced on him bythe attitude of the United States. It will make theEuropean investors rather restive under “watchfulwaiting,” though they can employ the time by makinglarge and frequent additions to the bill they intend topresent to Uncle Sam, pobrecito.

Ojinaga has been evacuated by General Mercado,who would better look out for his head. Huerta sayshe is going to have him shot. Villa will use Ojinaga forstrategic purposes, and the refugees, four thousand officersand soldiers and about two thousand five hundredwomen and children, are eventually to be interned atFort Bliss. Uncle Sam will present the bill to Mexicolater on. They have been started on a four days’ marchto Marfa, where they will at last get a train. Mercadosays he only surrendered and passed on to Americansoil when his ammunition gave out. The soldiers andgenerals—six of these last were in Ojinaga—will not bepermitted to return to Mexico until peace is effected.[149]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 andwas planning to get to our relief by hook or crook.He is “without fear and without reproach.” I am veryglad to be safe again in this big, comfortable, sun-bathedhouse.

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

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

Sunday Evening, January 18th.

To-day we had a long motor trip to the old church andconvent of Tepozotlan, with Seeger, Hay, the Tozzers,and Elim. There were pistols under the seats, of course,[150]though the road (the old post-road to the north) is nota haunt of the Zapatistas. We drove two hours or morethrough the dazzling air, the road running for milesbetween picturesque fields planted with maguey, theIndian’s all, including his perdition. Here and there arecollections of adobe huts, with bright-eyed, naked childrenplaying by fences of nopal, and sometimes a lovelycandelabra cactus standing guard. We passed throughCuauhtitlan—a most interesting place, with its deserted,picturesque hostelries that used to do a lively relaytrade in the old coaching days. Each carved door,with glimpses of the big courtyard within, seems to tellthe tale of past activities.

Tepozotlan is celebrated for its beautiful old church,with a fine carved façade, built by the Jesuits at the endof 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 toits grass-grown patio, adorned by a few pepper-trees,with here and there an occasional bit of maguey. Itwas all sun-baked and radiant, receiving the many-coloredlight and seeming to give it forth again in themagic way of the Mexican plateau. We wanderedthrough the church, which preserves its marvelous altarpiecesin the Churrigueresque style, and admired thegilded, high-relief wood carvings, to which time has lenta marvelous red patiné. Some of the old chapels arestill most beautifully adorned with rich blue Pueblatiles, now loosened and falling from neglected ceilingsand walls. The adjoining seminario, with its endless corridorsand rooms, is dim and deserted, except for spidersand millions of fleas; I thought at first, in my innocence,that these were gnats, as they settled on my whitegloves. We lunched in the enchanting old patio of thecloisters, where orange-trees and a Noche Buena tree, with[151]its brilliant red flowers, were growing around an oldstone well in the middle. For those hours, at least, wefelt that all was well with the world. Afterward weclimbed the belfry and feasted our eyes on the beauty unfoldedto our sight. East, west, south, and north otherpink belfries pressed themselves against other blue hills,repeating the loveliness until one could have wept for thebeauty of it all. The almost deserted village, stragglingup to the patio of the church, is where Madre Matianawas born at the end of the seventeenth century. Shemade, on her death-bed, the celebrated prophecies whichhave been so strangely confirmed by subsequent eventsin Mexican history.

The Ojinaga refugees, garrison, and civilians are justarriving after the four days’ march through the desert toMarfa and Fort Bliss. This affair has cost $142,000 upto date, and $40,000 were spent for new equipments forofficers. 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 andsuffering in the detention camp, however, if the soldiersare called on to comply with the hygienic rules of theAmerican army.

Jesus Flores Magon, whom we knew as Minister ofGobernación under Madero, a strong and clever man ofpronounced Zapoteca Indian type, is going to Vera Cruzat N.’s suggestion, to see Mr. Lind. Flores Magon, whoknows his people, says there is no use in “trying out” anothergovernment here. Though he was in Madero’scabinet, he is now for the sustaining of Huerta. He thinksanother government would only mean another set oftraitors, who would, in turn, be betrayed. N. asked himif he were convinced that Huerta had other aims in viewthan the graft and personal aggrandizement his enemiescredit him with. Though not unreservedly enthusiastic,[152]he answered that he thought he had within him the elementsnecessary to control in Mexico, but that, likeall Indians, he was cruel. Lind is out-and-out for recognizingthe northern rebels, or, at least, raising the embargoon arms and ammunition. A terrible policy, itseems to me. Taking from the possessors to give to thosedesirous of possessing can hardly mend things—here oranywhere. Nothing that Mr. Lind has seen or heard hasmodified in the slightest the ideas with which he arrived.

Delendus est Huerta is the mot d’ordre, and I find myselfassisting at the spectacle. I am dazed at this flying inthe face of every screaming fact in the situation. N.went to see Moheno yesterday, with the usual bundle ofclaims 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 inOaxaca, doing nothing—simply awaiting orders. Theyare Felicistas. Everybody is waiting to betray everybodyelse.

I had to stop writing for a few minutes; one of thosestrange accompaniments of life in Mexico has just manifesteditself—a slight earthquake. The doors that wereajar swung quietly open and as quietly closed themselves.The chandeliers were thrown out of plumb in a rhythmicway; there was a sliding sound of small objects fromtheir position and then back. I had an unpleasant sort ofdepolarized sensation. It is all over now—the temblor,as they call it. But I feel as if some ghost has passedthrough the room, leaving me not quite the same.

January 20th.

The papers have the report of the five hours’ conversationbetween Flores Magon and Lind at Vera Cruz.[153]Lind is reported as saying: “Flores Magon is a splendidgentleman, 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 isplenty of food, there is money for oil stock and bull-fights,and other necessaries. We may have to seePancho Villa in a dress-suit. He has collected wives, ashe would anything else, in his paso de vencedor throughMexico, and I understand that some of them are curios.I suppose accident will decide which one he willturn up with as “first lady in the land.” A recent portraitof one of them drove a woman we knew nearlycrazy. It showed the “bride” decked out in an oldfamily necklace forcibly taken from our friend, withother valuables, before her flight from Torreon.

Yesterday I went to the christening of the CorcueraPimentel baby. The young mother, very pretty, wasstill in bed, enveloped in beautiful and costly laces, andthe house was full of handsome relatives. After I hadcongratulated her, Don Luis, her father, took me outto 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 laMexicaine, and drank atolli aurora, a thick, pink drinkof corn-meal and milk, flavored with cinnamon and coloredwith a dash of carmine—though less exotic daintieswere pressed on me.

January 21st.

Yesterday was a busy day. To show you how difficultit often is to get hold of Huerta,—N. was up and out atseven-thirty, looking for him. He went to his house—gone.He went to Popotla, a place Huerta has in thesuburbs near the Noche Triste[8] tree. Not there. N. came[154]home. I was just starting down-town, so I drove him tothe Palace, where one of the aides said the Presidentmight be found at Chapultepec—the restaurant, not thecastle, which he does not affect. We again went thelength of the city, from the Zocalo, through Plateros, upthe beautiful, broad Paseo. Huerta was just passingthrough the entrance to the Park in a big limousine, followedby two other automobiles containing secretariesand aides. N. got out of our auto and went into that ofthe President, the others keeping their distance. There isalways more or less “waiting around” on royalty. Theysat there for an hour, I remaining in our auto, during whichtime N. procured the release of Vera Estañol, one of themost brilliant of the Deputies, imprisoned since thecoup d’état of October 10th. Huerta also sent one of hisaides with a note to the Supreme Court, written andsigned by him, telling the judges to render a just decisionin a case affecting American interests, whichis now before the court. This case has been in theEmbassy nearly twenty years, and four of our administrationshave tried, without result, to get justicedone through the Embassy, using every form of diplomaticrepresentation. Though N. saw him write theorder, and the auto which took the note started off inthe direction of the Supreme Court, and returned, havingdelivered it, no one can tell what wink may later begiven the judges.

I came home and ordered a room to be prepared forVera Estañol, as, of course, he must remain with us[155]until he can be shipped to the States or to Europe. Iimagine that the clean bed and the hot water and thereading-lamp and desk will look very pleasant, afterthree months in jail. N. wrote and signed a letterto Huerta, in which he guarantees that Vera Estañolwill not mix in politics and will immediately leavethe country with his family. He is one of the mostprominent and gifted lawyers in the republic, liberaland 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 disappearingwhen no one can track him to ground. Thismorning, N. is after him again, and, I suppose, will bringVera Estañol to the house, whence he will take thewell-worn route of hastily departing patriots to VeraCruz.

Yesterday afternoon Mrs. Tozzer, Mr. Seeger, and Imotored out beyond Azcapotzalco, where Tozzer andHay are excavating. Anywhere one digs in these suburbsmay be found countless relics of Aztec civilization.Azcapotzalco was once a teeming center, a greatcapital, 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 interestingold Dominican church of the sixteenth century; itsgreat patio, planted with olive and cypress trees is inclosedby a pink scalloped wall, marvelously patiné. Here theIndians came in masses, were baptized, had theirwounds bound up, their ailments treated, their strifesallayed, by the patient friars. As we went slowly overthe broken, neglected road little boys offered us beadsand idols and bits of pottery, which are so abundantin the fields that it is scarcely necessary to dig[156]for them. T. and C. H., for their work, simply chosea likely-looking sun-baked mound, planted with maguey,like dozens of others, and with twenty-five or thirtypicturesque and untrustworthy descendants of Montezuma(one skips back six or seven hundred yearswith the greatest ease when one looks at them) theydug out an old palace. When we demanded regalitos(presents), our friends drew, unwillingly, from theirdusty 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.

It is a heavenly spot. Here and there a pink belfryshowed 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 andAztec ruins, and made tea, and, in what may havebeen some patrician’s parlor, watched the sun go downin a blaze of colors, reappearing, as it were, to fling alast, unexpected glory over the snow-covered volcanoesand the violet hills. Every shaft of maguey was outlinedwith light, the whole universe a soft spectrum. A mysterious,blue-lined darkness fell upon us as we drovetoward the city.

January 23d.

N. was only able to get Vera Estañol out of the Penitenciaríaon Wednesday afternoon. He didn’t comehere, but was taken immediately to the station, caughtthe night train to Vera Cruz, and sailed yesterday,Thursday, by the Ward Line steamer. When N. wentto the prison with the President’s aide, carrying the orderfor his release and the duly signed safe-conduct, Estañolcame into the waiting-room with a volume of Taine’sHistoire Contemporaine in his hand, and the detached airacquired by persons who have long been in jail. There[157]was scarcely any conversation, his one idea being to leavethe building and get to the train under American cover.

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

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

Mexico City is lighted from Necaxa, nearly a hundredmiles away, and one of the loveliest spots in the world.In a day one drops down from the plateau into the hot[158]country; the train seems to follow the river, whichflows through a wild and beautiful barranca, and atNecaxa are the great falls supplying the power for thiswonderful feat of engineering. In my mind it is a memoryof blue skies, enchanting vistas of blue mountains,myriads of blue butterflies against falling water, brightsinging birds, and the most gorgeous and richest of tropicalvegetation, vine-twisted trees, orchids, morning-gloriesof all kinds, and countless other magnificences.I sometimes think that it is because Mother Earth is solavish here, asking only to give, demanding nothing ofher children, that they have become rather like spoiledchildren. Every mountain oozes with precious ores. Onthe coast, any accidental hole in the earth may revealthe oil for which the world is so greedy; and each greenthing left to itself will come up a thousandfold. Marvelous,magical Mexico! A white moon is shining in throughthe windows of the front salon, making my electric lampseem a dull thing. At this altitude the moonlight cutsout objects as if with a steel point.

Yesterday, Mr. Prince, Aunt Laura’s friend, andbrother-in-law of Mr. C., came to lunch. Mr. C.died during the bombardment, and in his last illness wasmoved from house to hospital, and from the hospital,when that was shelled, to another house, opposite theEmbassy. During the armistice Mr. P. was able to goout for a coffin, and to take it himself on a cab to the cemetery.This was the only way to dispose of it, the townbeing under fire at the time. That same week one ofthe little boys had his foot crushed by the tramway, andit had to be amputated while shot and shell were fallingand his father was lying dead. Emma, the child whofell through my glass roof, two years ago, has neversince walked. A chapter of tragedies! Mrs. C. is nowin the States, trying to recuperate.

[159]

Hanihara, the bright secretary from the JapaneseForeign Office, who is here to look into the conditionsand, doubtless, the possibilities of the Japanese situationin Mexico, turned up yesterday; we used to knowhim in Washington. He speaks English perfectly, and isEuropeanized, externally, to an unusual extent, but, ofcourse, he remains completely Japanese at bottom. Ishall give a luncheon for him at Chapultepec, with hisminister, the retiring Austrian chargé, and the new Italianminister, who fell at my door, the day before yesterday,and was laid up with a bad knee. I had himbound up by Dr. Ryan.

I saw a man yesterday who had known Villa in hispurely peon days; he said some mental, if not moral,evolution had been going on; among other things, hegenerally keeps to the regulation amount of clothing, buta collar gets on his nerves almost as much as the mentionof Porfirio Diaz—his pet abomination. He keepshimself fairly clean, and has shown himself clever aboutfinding capable agents to whom he is willing to leave thegentler mysteries of the three R’s. We wonder who isgetting out certain polished political statements appearingunder his name. What he once did to an officialdocument, on an official occasion, instead of signing hisname, pen cannot relate. He evidently has militarygifts, but remains, unfortunately, one of the most ignorant,sanguinary, and ruthless men in Mexico’s history,knowing nothing of the amenities of life, nothing ofstatesmanship, nor of government in any form exceptforce. 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 tothink of it. He saw it on the Indian on the street, onecold night, and his clever eye realized what it was. I am[160]not quite happy about it; but I have had it disinfectedand cleaned. I can only bring myself to use it becausesome 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 muymalos” (“Marieta, don’t be a coquette, because menare very wicked”).

January 23d, Evening.

I spent a quiet evening reading the fascinating bookDon L. Garcia Pimentel sent me yesterday, BibliografiaMexicana de lo Siglo XVI. I am impressed anew withthe wonderful work done by that handful of friars, Franciscansand Dominicans, who came over immediatelyafter Cortés and began with the Conquistadores thework of Spanish civilization in the new world. Theirfirst acts, as they made their way through the country,were to do away with the bloody sacrificial rites whichdisgraced and discredited the Aztec civilization. Theybuilt everywhere churches, hospitals, and schools, teachinggentler truths to the Indians, who gathered bythousands for instruction in the beautiful old patios tobe found in front of all the colonial churches.

One might almost say that Mexico was civilized bythat handful of friars, sixteen or seventeen in all, whocame over during the first eight or ten years followingthe Conquest. Their burning zeal to give the true faithto the Indians dotted this beautiful land with countlesschurches, and an energy of which we can have no conceptionchanged the gorgeous wilderness into a great kingdom.Padre Gante, one of the greatest of them, who arrivedin 1522, was related to the Emperor Charles V. Hehad been a man of the world, and was a musician and anartist. He had his celebrated school at Tlaltelolco, nowthe Plaza de Santiago, which, shabby and shorn of all itsancient beauty, is used as the city customs headquarters.[161]He wrote his Doctrina Christiana and baptized hundredsof thousands of Indians during his fifty years’ work. Henot only taught them to read and write, but startedschools of drawing and painting, at which he found themvery apt. They already possessed formulas for all sortsof beautiful colors, and had their own arts, such as theglazing and painting of potteries, the making of marvelousgarments of bright birds’ feathers, and of objectsin gold and silver, of the finest workmanship. In themuseum one can see beautiful old maps of Mexico Citywhen she was Anahuac, the glory of the Aztecs, paintedon cloth made from the maguey.

Fray Bartolomé de las Casas worked with Fray Gante,and they were greatly aided by the first viceroys. FrayMotolinía came later, and his Historia de los Indios is thereference book of all succeeding works on Nueva Espagna.The friars tried by every means to alleviate the miseriesof the Indians, and hospitals, homes for the aged anddecrepit, orphanages and asylums of all kinds were established.The generation which immediately succeededthe Conquest must have been a tragic spectacle, exhaustedby resistance and later on by the pitiless workof rebuilding cities, especially Mexico City, which wasdone in four years—to the sound of the whip. The viceroyswere responsible only to the Consejo de las Indias,in far-away Spain, and their success came naturally tobe judged by the riches they secured from this treasure-houseof the world, at the expense, of course, of theIndians, though many of the viceroys tried honestly, inconjunction with the friars, to alleviate the Indian lot.Seven or eight volumes of hitherto unpublished worksare waiting for me from Don Luis Garcia Pimentel, to oneof whose ancestors, Conde de Benavente, Motolinía dedicatedhis Historia de los Indios. I have simply steepedmyself in Mexicana—from the letters of Cortés, the recitals[162]of Bernal Diaz, who came over with him, down toAleman and Madame Calderon de la Barca.

Well, it is getting late and I must stop, but the historyof 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 thismarvelous land has produced a florescence so magnetic,so magical, that the dullest feel its charm. All that hasbeen done for Mexico the Spaniards did, despite theircruelties, their greeds, and their passions. We, of thenorth, have used it only as a quarry, leaving no monumentsto God nor testaments to man in place of thetreasure that we have piled on departing ship or train.Now we seem to be handing back to Indians verylike those the Spaniards found, the fruits of a great civilization,for them to trample in the dust. Let us not callit human service.

January 24th.

Von Hintze came in for a while this morning. Likeall the foreign representatives, he is weary of his workhere; so many ennuis, so much waiting for what they allbelieve alone can be the outcome now—American supremacyin some form.

Shots were heard in town last night. Dr. Ryan,who is making his home with us, thought it might be thelong-threatened cuartelazo (barracks’ revolution), andwent out to see, but it turned out to be only a little privateshooting. The Burnsides have gone to live atVera Cruz.

January 26th.

Only a word before beginning a busy day. I must goout to Chapultepec to see that the luncheon of twelve,for Hanihara and Cambiaggio, is all right. The town isfilling with Japanese officers from the Idzuma, lying atManzanillo. There will be a veritable demonstration for[163]them, indicating very completely the anti-Americanfeeling. There is an enormous official program for everyhour 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 whichI have cut the gordion knot of entertaining. The newItalian minister was there, the Norwegians, Mr. E. N.Brown, president of the National Railways, Parra, fromthe Foreign Office, and others. We reached home atfour o’clock, and I drove immediately to the GarciaPimentels, where Don Luis was waiting to show me someof the special treasures in his library. Up-stairs, thehandsome daughters and their equally handsome friends,married and single, were sewing for the Red Cross. Wemeet there every Tuesday. Each daughter had a beautifullyembroidered rebozo thrown over her smart Parisgown à la Mexicana—heirlooms of the family.

The house is one of the noble, old-style Mexicanedifices, with a large patio, and a fine stairway leadingup to the corridor that winds around its four palm- andflower-banked sides. Large, handsome rooms, with pictures,rare engravings, priceless porcelains, and old brocades,open from the corridor. I merely put my head inat the door of the big drawing-room where they wereworking, as Don Luis was waiting for me in his librarydown-stairs. I spent a couple of delightful hours withhim, among his treasures, so lovingly guarded throughgenerations. Oh, those fascinating title-pages in redsand blacks, that thick, rich-feeling hand-woven paper,that changeless ink, fit to perpetuate those romantic historiesand the superhuman achievement of the men ofGod! I could scarcely put down the beautifully writtenletter of Cortés to Charles V., wherein he tells of the[164]Indians as he found them. They so closely resemble theIndians as I have found them.

Many of Don Luis’s most valuable books and manuscriptswere found in Spain, and his library of Mexicanaembraces 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 alwaysbusy with countless works of charity. Just now they arebusy making up little bundles of layettes for the maternityhome. It does make one’s fingers nimble to seeIndian women obliged to wrap their babies in newspapers!

I had just time to get home and dress for dinner at theBritish Legation, but we came away at half past nine,leaving the rest of the party playing bridge. I had onagain the gray-and-silver Worth dress, but I feel sadwithout 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 anold Spanish screen. It is always a pleasure to go throughthe lovely, sun-baked patio, filled with gods and altars[165]of a lost race. Many of them, found in the Zocalo, havemade but a short journey to their resting-place. De Sotois always an agreeable companion for any little excursioninto the past—though it isn’t the past we are dreamingabout, these days. And as for his looks, put a laceruff and a velvet doublet on him and he would be a“Velasquez” of the best epoch.

Mme. Lefaivre, enveloped in an apron, was sitting ona little step-ladder before the largest screen I have everseen, its eight mammoth leaves representing variousamorous scenes, lovers, balconies, guitars, etc.—all mostdecorative and truly ambassadorial. I told her thatnothing but the Farnese Palace would be big enoughfor it, and the light of dreams—the kind of dreams weall dream—appeared in her eyes. The big sala was gettinga bit dim, so she left her work and we started for aturn through the museum. When we found ourselvestalking 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 themotor; so we went up to Chapultepec and continued thediscourse under the cypresses, which are growing, thoughslowly, with the living events that alone really interestone. The past is for those with peace and leisure.

Evening.

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

[166]

It appears that he is becoming daily more intoxicatedby the favors of the United States. No one is more surprisedthan he at his success with the powers that be,and as for the vogue he has with the confidentialagents, they tell me his face is one broad grin whenevertheir names are mentioned. However, this doesn’t meanhe is going to try to please them. Just now he wantsHuerta’s head, but that foxy old head can have asylumhere. Shouts and shots were heard an hour or so ago,but probably only from some Zapatistas near town.

Gamboa—Fêtes for the Japanese officers—The Pius Fund—The Tolucaroad—Brown, of the National Railways—President Wilson raises theembargo on arms and ammunition—Hunting for Zapatistas.

January 29th.

Yesterday the handsome Mexican set came forbridge, and in the evening we went to dine at SeñorPardo’s house. He is the clever attorney for the “Mexican”railways. Federico Gamboa and his wife werethere. Gamboa is most amusing, with one of thoseminds that answer to the point in conversation, what theFrench call le don de la réplique. He was Minister forForeign Affairs last summer, and resigned to run forPresident, as choice of the Clerical party. Huerta said,quite frankly, of him to N. a few days ago, “I told him Iliked him and wished him well, but if he had been electedPresident I should have had him shot.”

Gamboa’s answer to Mr. L. last August, though notsatisfactory to us when laid by Mr. Wilson before Congress,remains a dignified, clever, and unimpeachable exposéof the Mexican situation from their point of view,which is that the United States, by every internationallaw, is unwarranted in interfering in their interior affairs,as these, however unfortunate, are those of a sovereignstate. They never got over the fact that the communicationsMr. Lind brought with him were tactfully addressedto no one in particular, and referred to thegovernment as “the persons who at the present timehave authority or exercise influence in Mexico.” They[168]consider that if they even once allowed such counsel fromthe United States they would compromise indefinitelytheir destinies as a sovereign state.

As for the phrase “the United States will not hesitateto consummate matters, especially in times of domestictrouble, in the way that they, the United States, considerbest for Mexico”—it is graven on the mind ofevery Mexican who can read and write. Concerning ourprofessions of friendship, which left them decidedly cold,Gamboa neatly said that never could there be a morepropitious time for displaying it, that we had “onlyto watch that no material or military assistance of anykind be given to the rebels who find refuge, conspire, andprovide themselves with arms and food on the other sideof the border.” He further quietly states that he isgreatly surprised that Mr. Lind’s mission should betermed a “mission of peace,” as, fortunately, neitherthen nor to-day had there existed any state of warbetween Mexico and the United States. The wholedocument is the tragic and bootless appeal of a weaknation to a strong.

Gamboa has had numerous diplomatic posts. He wasminister to Brussels and to The Hague, and special ambassadorto Spain to thank the King for participationin the Centenary of 1910....

After the Pardo dinner, two bright-eyed, clear-voicedMexican girls, one of them Pardo’s daughter, sang Mexicansongs with the true beat and lilt to them. Haniharawas also there, listening to the music in the usual detached,Oriental manner. The Japanese officers are beingtremendously fêted, fed by each and every departmentof the government, till I should think theirabstemious “little Marys” would rebel.

After dinner we walked home, a short distance, in themild night, under a strangely low and starry sky. It[169]seemed to me that by reaching out I could have had aplanet for my own. The streets were deserted, save foran occasional Mexican, hurrying home, with his scarfacross his mouth. There is a tradition here about notinhaling the night air. Here and there a guardia shiveredin the shadows, as he watched his lantern, whichhe 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 liketo interfere with any one’s premier mouvement, but Iknow it for an expensive, bootless trip. No one will carewhat he thinks about the certain consequences of theraising of the embargo.

The rebels have just destroyed twenty-two huge tanksof oil near Tampico, destined for the running of the railroadbetween San Luis Potosí and the coast. I thinkI told you Mr. Brown said that the gross receipts hadnever been so big on his lines as last month, in spite ofthe danger in traveling, but that they could not keeppace with the immense damage going on all the time.Mr. Brown is the self-made man of story. He began atthe 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 thatPresident Wilson can’t raise the embargo on arms andammunition without the consent of Congress, which, iftrue, removes it as an immediate calamity.

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

[170]

Nelson has been requested by the powers that beto use his influence about the release of a certain American,the suggestion being added that he should not be toocordial with Huerta in public, as the United States was onofficial, not friendly terms with Mexico. The old manwould shut up like a clam and never raise a finger for N.,or any American, or any American interests, if N. didnot treat him with both public and private courtesy.In these difficult days the position here is almost entirelya 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 isentirely due to N.’s personal efforts that the Pius Fundof $43,000, has just been paid; due to him that manyprisoners have been released, and that many materialends have been gained for the United States.

I think history will testify that Huerta showed muchtact in dealing with us. His latest remark is, “If ourgreat and important neighbor to the north chooses towithhold her friendship, we can but deplore it—and tryto perform our task without her.”

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

Later.

A military revolt is brewing here—Felicista. N. gotwind of it. If it comes, they must give us Huerta, andhave so promised. We have had comparative, very comparative,quiet for a few weeks, and now things areseething again.

There is a room here always ready, which we callnacht asyl, and various uneasy heads have rested there inthe famous “bed of the murderess.” Yesterday I boughta lot of lovely dull blue-and-white serapes for thefloor and couch.

[171]

On returning from bridge at Madame Lefaivre’s, whereI left de Soto losing with more than his usual melancholydistinction, I found the Japanese minister with the captainof the Idzuma, in full regimentals, come to call—butN. was out. The captain said he wanted to expressespecially and officially to N. his appreciation of all thecourtesies he had received from Admiral Cowles, and theother officers of our ships at Manzanillo. He spokeFrench and English only fairly well, as they do. Iwas very cordial, of course, and said that in thesedifficult moments all must be friends, must stand byone 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 performedby his race in the Russo-Japanese War, withoutquestion or thought of individuals. He espiedIswolsky’s photograph and Adatchi showed him Demidoff’spicture, saying that Elim was his namesake.They never forget anything.

The officers had all been out to the celebrated pyramidof San Juan Teotihuacan to-day, with the Ministerof Public Instruction. It is a fatiguing trip, but an excursionalways arranged for strangers of distinction. (Imade 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, theMinister for Foreign Affairs, is to give them a dinner.The government is so in debt to the various restaurantshere that they couldn’t get credit for the dinner at Silvain’s,as first planned.

I met Lady Carden at bridge this afternoon. Shefeels badly at the way things have developed for herhusband. He has been called to London “to report”; àla Henry Lane Wilson to Washington, I suppose.Hohler, who was chargé when we first came to Mexico,[172]is already en route from England to take over the Legationduring Sir Lionel’s absence—but I suppose Sir L.will never return. I told Lady Carden to give Sir Lionelmy best regards, and added that it wasn’t, by anymeans, all beer and skittles at the Embassy.

Sir L. shouldn’t have tried, however, to “buck” theUnited States. All the representatives have become abit more cautious as to how they approach “the policy,”since the unpleasant newspaper notoriety Sir Lionel andPaul May received. Lady Carden is not going, I amglad to say, and we are all making plans to console herfor Sir L.’s absence.

January 31st.

Your cable “Love” received yesterday. I sent acable, “Bene,” in answer. I have been thinking all dayof those hours, many years ago, when my preciousmother was lying with me, her first-born, in her arms.

N. is in receipt of a proclamation from revolutionaryagents in Mexico City. The part referring to foreignersstates that any protection given by them to Huerta orto his intimates will result in their immediate execution,and that no flag will be respected in such cases. Itis one of those nice, little, confidence-inspiring documentswhich 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. Thismorning we made a wonderful run out the Toluca roadwith Seeger and Mr. and Madame Graux, our Belgianfriends, Chemins de fer secondaires, as we call them.After Tacubaya the road rises high above the city, andfor miles we motored along the heights, through stretchesof dazzling white tepetate and pink tezontle, the buildingstones[173]of the city from immemorial days. The road wasfairly alive with Indians bringing in their wares, thisSunday morning. They came from Toluca, seventy kilometersdistant, moving tirelessly over their roads withthe quick, short Aztec trot, and bearing such loads ofpottery, baskets, and wood, that nothing can be seenof 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 thatthe son of the Minister of War, Blanquet, was held upabout three weeks ago. His party was stripped and itsmembers sent home as they were born, even that lastpossible covering, the floor-rug of the motor, being removed.

However, beyond being stopped at intervals by gendarmes,who tried, unsuccessfully, to make us leave ourpistols at the jefetura of their little village, we were notinterfered with. Our cry of Embajada Americana, thoughnot over-popular now, had not lost all its potency. Inspite 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, evidentlysuffering from one of those bronchial epidemics so prevalentin these thin, high atmospheres. I fear that ourcoppers, though acceptable, were not therapeutic, as,doubtless, they all rounded up at the nearest pulqueríaafter our departure. We could not decide to turn lunch-ward,but kept on and on, until we had dipped into theToluca Valley as far as the statue of Hidalgo, commemoratingthe spot where he met the viceregal forces in1821. It always seems to me a sad spot, for when theSpaniards fell, with the exception of Diaz’s thirty years,the last stable government of Mexico also fell.

[174]

At the base of the statue three Indian women weresitting—enredadas. Each had a baby slung over herback and a burden by her side, giving the scene themysterious, changeless, lonely Indian note. In Mexico,nothing is ever missing from any picture to make it beautifuland peculiarly itself.

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

Nelson spent all Saturday morning getting the 1914instalment of the Pius Fund, the twelfth payment sincethe Hague decision in 1902. Diaz intended to pay offthe principal, but now, of course, the country is in nocondition 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 ofMexican 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’thelp wondering where they got it. Finally it was allsafely deposited in the bank. We then picked up theGraux at the Hotel Sanz and motored out for luncheonand golf at the Country Club.

February 1st, 10.30 P.M.

To-night has come the long-feared cable from Washingtonstating that the President intends to raise the embargoon arms and ammunition. The note was forNelson’s special information, not for delivery to the[175]Foreign Office yet, but the hour will come when he willhave to gird himself to do the deed. It has been sentto every chancery in Europe, where it will raise a storm,to blow hard or not, according to the amount of materialinvestments in Mexico. We scarcely know what tothink; we are dazed and aghast. I am glad that a fewhours, at least, must elapse before the facts will get out.I shall hardly dare to venture forth unveiled. Courteousas the Mexicans have been to Nelson and myself, someday, in face of the terrible catastrophes we have broughtupon them, their patience must fail. This act will notestablish the rebels in Mexico City or anywhere else,but will indefinitely prolong this terrible civil war andswell the tide of the blood of men and women, “and thechildren—oh, my brothers.”

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

February 2d.

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

February 3d, 11 A.M.

The second telegram has just come, saying that thePresident intends, within a few hours, to raise the embargo,and that N. is to inform all Americans andforeigners. I keep repeating to myself: “God! God!God!” A generation of rich and poor alike will be at themercy of the hordes that will have new strength andmeans to fight, and eat, and pillage, and rape their waythrough the country. There will be a stampede of[176]people leaving town to-night and to-morrow, but thosein the interior, what of them? There is sure to be violentanti-American demonstration, especially in out-of-the-wayplaces.

12.30.

The news previously leaked out from Vera Cruz lastnight. Nothing gets out from the Embassy, as our staffall happen to know how to keep their counsel. It is whatMr. Lind has wanted for months, and I suppose thenews was too satisfactory to keep. You will read itin to-morrow’s Paris Herald and the Journal de Genève.Don’t worry about us. We will have first-class safeguardif Huerta declares war. He may not. It ishis policy, and a strong one it has been, to ignoreWashington’s proclamations. On the other hand, hewill have no intention of being caught by Villa, likea rat in a hole; and war with us may seem to him aglorious solution of his problems. Villa and Carranzawill not arrive in the city together. No street isbroad enough to permit the double entry of their contrarypassions, violence, and greed.

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

February 3d. Evening.

A busy day—as you can well imagine. N. had toinform the various legations. I went down-town withhim for luncheon, a thing I never do. We met the Spanishminister driving up the Paseo in his victoria—apathetic figure. He has had so much worry and heartbreakover the situation and has been so helpless in theface of the disasters which have befallen his nationalsthat he is beyond surprise. Upon hearing the newshe merely made a tired gesture of acquiescence. To himthe raising of the embargo was, doubtless, only one more[177]inexplicable thing. Von Hintze was out, and we nextstopped at the French Legation, just opposite the German.Ayguesparsse, the secretary, possessed of one ofthe most elegant silhouettes in the world, was more thanpolite, but quite impassive, as he came out with Nelsonto speak a word to me. He is married to a handsomeyoung Mexican—the sister of Rincon Gaillardo, Marquésde Guadalupe—whose time, strength, money, andlife, if need be, are at the disposition of his country.

When we got to the restaurant in Plateros, the mostpublic and alarm-allaying spot we could think of, thenewspaper men assailed N. with questions. The “story”that they are after is what the relations of Huertawould be to N. and the Embassy, and they announcethat they were not going to let the chargé out of theirsight.

After lunch, at which Mr. S. joined us, we went to theBritish Legation. N. gave Sir L. the news, while Iwalked 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 afternoonprogram of calls, turning up late for bridge atMadame Simon’s. She asked me squarely, though inthe politest of French, “What is your governmentdoing?” I saw many people during the afternoon,but, apart from her greeting, there was no word ofpolitics. I think the matter is too distasteful to thepublic to be discussed with any one like myself, wherecare in the expression of feeling is necessary.

I drove home with Lady C., who was quietly aghast atthe situation, just in time to get into a tea-gown anddown-stairs for dinner. In the salon Seeger and theGraux (who leave to-morrow for Vera Cruz and NewYork) were waiting. N. telephoned that he was at thePalace, just going in to see Huerta. You can imagine that[178]we had a lively dinner of surmises. He returned barelyin time to say good-by to the Graux, and after they leftwe 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-openeddoor, N. thought that the old man was at lastlosing patience and control, and prepared himself for theworst. However, when N. finally went in Huerta wasperfectly calm and had never been more friendly. Henever mentioned President Wilson’s name, and concerningthe raising of the embargo quietly remarked that itwould not change matters much, but would merely givea recognized name to the smuggling over the border thathad been going on for three years. He kept repeatingthat the future would justify him; that he had hadnothing to do with the killing of Madero; that the attitudeof the administration toward him was simply “apersecution.” N. said he never flinched. He terminatedthe interview by saying that he greatly appreciatedN.’s public as well as private courtesies, and thathe was “very necessary to the situation,” whereuponhe ordered copitas, and the embargo question was dismissed.

Apropos of copitas, while we were talking N. wasrung up to hear that an English woman reporter andWallace, the cine man, sent us from the State Department,had been put in prison for trying to take a photographof Huerta at the Café Colon, while he was takinghis copita. They were both released at a late, or ratheran early hour, and I think they richly deserved theirexperience. Huerta’s reputation for drinking is verymuch exaggerated.

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

[179]

February 4th.

The newspapers have appalling head-lines about PresidentWilson. El Puritano, with his mask off, theavowed friend of bandits and assassins, is about themildest sample.

Evening.

Another full day. I had errands all the morning. Inthe afternoon, after being undecided as to whether Iwould shine by my absence or turn the full light of myAmerican countenance on my Mexican friends, I decidedto make calls. I found everybody in. I went first toSeñora Gamboa, where I had to talk Spanish. Fortunately,they have a few very good antiques on which tohang conversation. Then I went to see the Evanses.They have bought a handsome old Mexican house whichwe are all interested in seeing them modernize withoutspoiling. After that I drove out to Tacubaya, and onthe way out the broad calzada saw the leva at work.There were about twenty men hedged in by lines ofsoldiers, and two or three disconsolate-looking women.

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

Going home for a moment, I found Clarence Haywith Nelson at the gate, and drove him down-town. Ienjoyed talking English and hearing it instead of speaking[180]broken Spanish or listening to broken French. Webrowsed about in an antique-shop and did a little refreshinghaggling. I stopped at Madame Simon’s on myway back, where I found Rincon Gaillardo, who is, amongother things, chief of the rurales.

He had many interesting things to say about huntingfor Zapatistas, which seems to be the biggest kind of“big-game” shooting. After descending unexpectedlyupon sleeping villages the Zapatistas retreat to theirmountain fastnesses. By the time word reaches thepoint where rurales are stationed, the worst has beendone. The next day innocent-looking persons are beggingfor a centavo or working in the fields. They werethe bandits of the night before! It needs a Hercules toclear this mountainous country of “the plague of brigandage.”A gun, a horse, and full power are naturallymore attractive than a plow and a corn-field.

There are rumors of a student demonstration to-morrow—itis Constitution Day—when they propose tomarch the streets crying, “Death to Wilson!” Everybodywas not only polite, but even affectionate in theirgreetings to me. Whatever they thought of yesterday’sraising of the embargo they kept to themselves or expressedwhen I was absent. Even Rincon Gaillardo,who is giving his all—time, money, brain—to the pacifyingof the country under Huerta, maintained hisexquisite calm.

A “neat little haul” for brigands—Tea at San Angel—A picnic and aburning village—The lesson of “Two Fools”—Austria-Hungary’s newminister—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 heavensmore calmly beautiful. Madame Simon had a luncheonfor the new Austro-Hungarian minister, and afterward weall motored out the Toluca road, driving on till from ahigh mountain place we could see the setting sun fillingthe stretches of the Toluca Valley with translucentflame colors, mauves, reds, and browns. It was likesome new Jerusalem or any other promised glory.Every time we saw a group on horseback we wonderedif it were the redoubtable Zapatistas who make thatpart of the world so unquiet. It was all carefully patrolled,however, with armed men at intervals, cartridge-beltsfull, 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 magnificentstring of pearls, likewise a huge diamond pinthat blazed in the setting sun. I left my jewels at home,and Madame Simon kept hers well covered. I wonderthat we did get back as we went. It was marvelous, droppingdown from the heights to the glistening town, in themysterious Mexican half-light.

[182]

I wonder what President Wilson is going to do aboutthe revolution in Peru? I see they have deported Billinghurstfrom Callao, and Augusto Durand, the revolutionarychief, has assumed the Presidency. There wasa price on his head a day or two before. It will takemore than one administration to cure the Latin-Americansof their taste for revolutions. Have sent you aCosmopolitan, with a story, “Two Fools,” by FrederickPalmer; it deals with a certain burning side of the Mexicansituation, and has excited much comment.

February 8th. Evening.

Yesterday we went out to the beautiful San Angel Innfor tea, six of us in one motor, two empty motors following.Motoring about this marvelous plateau is one ofthe joys of Mexican life. We watched the sunset overthe volcanoes until the rose-tinted “White Lady,” Iztaccihuatl,was only a gigantic form lying against a purplesky, covered with a blue-white shroud; then we raced into dine with Clarence Hay and the Tozzers, who had abox for a mild circus performance in the evening.The night before last, so von Hintze told N. (and he isalways thoroughly informed), forty men and officers inthe Guadalupe Hidalgo barracks were shot. They wereaccused, probably justly, of a plot against Huerta. Fordays there have been persistent rumors of a military uprising—cuartelazo,as they call it. Perhaps at the predestinedhour one such rising will succeed. If Huerta isforced into bankruptcy and can’t pay his troops, whatwill become of us, the foreigners? He stated the fulltruth about elections here when he said that conditionswere such that the government of the nation mustnecessarily be in the hands of the few. A thoroughgoingdictatorship is what he doubtless thinks the best solution—froma close acquaintance with his own people.

[183]

This morning, after Mass at nine o’clock, I started withSeeger, Hay, the Tozzers, and Elim for Texcoco. It wasmarvelous, 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 wasdone in canoes and barques. There is a great columnnear Chapingo which points the spot Cortés startedfrom in his brigantine, in his last desperate and successfulattempt at the conquest of the City of Mexico. Itwas from the ridge of hills beyond that the conquerorsfirst looked down on the marvels of Tenochtitlan, setamong its shining lakes and its myriad gardens.

We found it was market-day at Texcoco, and Indianlife was beating its full around the old plaza with itsAztec sun-dial, palms, and eucalyptus. Here the Indiansset up their innumerable booths with their potteries,baskets, blankets, fruits, and vegetables. Wewere most amused watching a crowd gathered abouta steaming caldron. In it a pig, his outline still quiteintact, was converting himself into soup as fast asfire and water could assist him. Cortés, in one ofthe famous letters, gives as detailed an account of anIndian market as if he were a modern traveling agentsending back data to the firm. In the near-by oldchurch his venturesome heart lay for long years. Nowonly 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 mostvisible results of the “Laws of Reform” seem to be, asfar as I have discovered, huge, dusty waste spaces,where schools had once been. All over Mexico thereare such.

Texcoco doesn’t offer many inducements to modernpicnickers, so we motored back a short distance and[184]stopped at the hacienda of Chapingo, formerly belongingto Gonsalez, President of Mexico before Diaz’s secondadministration. He was allowed to leave thecountry. As Dooley remarks, “There is no such wordas ‘ix-Prisidint’ in Mexico. They are known as ‘the late-lamented,’or ‘the fugitive from justice’; and the onlytr’uble the country has with those who remain is to keepthe grass cut.”

Beautiful avenues of eucalyptus adorn the entranceto the gaudy clap-clappy house, and the dozens of peondwellings surrounding it. The administrador allowed usto have our luncheon in the grounds, and we sat aroundthe dry, flower-grown basin of an old fountain. Hay recited;we picked bunches of violets without moving aninch, 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 valleyof Texcoco.

As we passed the Peñon and got into the straight homeroad, some one remarked, “Nothing doing in the Zapatistaline this time.” A moment afterward, however, volleyswere heard in the direction of Xochimilco, and puffsof smoke could be seen. Then about forty rurales gallopedup. The sergeant, a fresh-complexioned, dull-wittedfellow, stopped us and asked if we knew fromwhere the firing came. We apparently knew more thanhe, 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, wehave no telephone. What are we to do?”) When weasked him the name of the village (pueblo) where itwas going on, he shrugged his shoulders and answered,“Quién sabe?” Finally we left the rurales to their owndevices and came upon a group of women running for[185]their lives and virtue. They all learn to get out of theway of the soldiers, as they are obliged to hear dreadfulgroserías, if nothing worse. A pink- or blue-skirted figurebeing chased in the maguey-fields is no uncommonsight.

We came back to the Embassy and had tea, learningthat a huge fire we had seen burning on the side of anot-distant hill, and which we thought might be from acharcoal-burners’ camp, was a village the Zapatistashad pillaged and set on fire at two o’clock, while we werepeacefully picnicking in “violet-crowned” Chapingo.

The Tozzers and Clarence Hay leave for Oaxaca andMitla, to-morrow night, for a week’s trip. I would haveloved to go, but “No traveling” is our motto. We mustkeep out of possible troubles. Later Kanya de Kanya,the new Austro-Hungarian minister, came to call. Hehas been ten years in the Foreign Office in Vienna, and isglad to be out of the turmoil of Near-East politics. Forhim Mexico is relatively quiet. There are only aboutfive or six hundred of his nationals in the whole country,as there has been little or nothing here for them since theMaximilian tragedy. Kanya is a Hungarian. He willbe a pleasant colleague, and I certainly hope the Magyarwill 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 hada “political” evening. Going back over things, it doesseem as if the United States, in conniving at the eliminationof Diaz, three years ago, had begun the deadlywork of disintegration here.

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

[186]

February 9th.

There was a pleasant luncheon at the Lefaivres’ forKanya. They—the Lefaivres—are both worn out withtheir long Mexican sojourn, five years, and the heavyresponsibilities entailed by the ever-increasing Frenchmaterial losses, and are planning to go on leave inMarch. They are good friends and I shall missthem greatly, but I have learned to be philosophicabout partings. Life keeps filling up, like a miraculouspitcher.

The newspapers have been getting the details of thehorrible disaster in the Cumbre tunnel in Chihuahua, afew days ago. A bandit chief, Castillo, set fire to it byrunning into it a burning lumber-train. A passenger-traincame along, collided with the débris, and all thathas been recovered is a few charred bones. It is nearthe frontier, and it is said that Villa allowed the rescue-partyto have an escort of American soldiers. Therewere a number of American women and children on thetrain; but it is a momentous step—or may be—forAmerican troops to get into Mexico. Castillo did thething, it is said, to revenge himself on Villa. This latteris getting a taste of the responsibilities success entails.He has Chihuahua, and Juarez, and a long line of railwayto protect, and I am sure he doesn’t find guerilla warfarea recommendable pastime, when it is directedagainst himself and his ambitions.

February 10th.

This morning we went over the magnificent Buen Tonocigarette-factories. Pugibet, who sold cigarettes in thestreet forty years ago, is the founder and millionaireowner. The factory is a model in all ways, and a testimonyto his brains, energy, and initiative. He showedus over the vast place himself. In one of the rooms he[187]had refrained from installing machinery, as it meanttaking work from hundreds of women.

Oh, the deftness and skill of those beautiful Indianhands! Their motions were so quick that one hardlysaw anything but the finished article. He loaded us withcigarettes and many souvenirs, and we drove homeafter 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 highletters, on the entrance-door. I hated to have themremoved.

N. has protested to the Foreign Office regarding thescurrilous language the Imparcial has used about thePresident, the Imparcial being a government organ.“Wicked Puritan with sorry horse teeth,” “Exotic andnauseous Carranzista pedagogue,” are samples of itsstyle.

Evening.

I have had a stone for a heart all day, thinking of thehorrors that are to be multiplied. Nelson went to seeGamboa this afternoon. Incidentally the raising ofthe embargo was mentioned, and Gamboa said hethought Huerta might declare war. Like all the rest,he is doubtless ready to desert the old man. Aprèsmoi le déluge and “the devil take the hindmost” are thesentiments governing people here. Mr. Jennings justrang up to ask if we had heard that the letter-bag of theZapatistas had been seized. In it was a letter to PresidentWilson from Zapata, saying he upheld and wasin perfect accord with his (Wilson’s) policy towardHuerta. A smile on the face of every one!

I went to the Garcia Pimentels’ at four o’clock, wherewe sewed till seven for the Red Cross. The women therewere all wives or daughters of wealthy hacendados.They asked me if there was any news, and as usual,[188]I answered, “Nothing new,” but I felt my eyes growdim. This measure will strike them hard. The hacendadosin this part of the country have made great sacrificesto co-operate with the Federal government (it isthe only visible thing in the shape of government) in thehope of preserving their properties and helping towardpeace.

There were crowds before the Church of the Profesain “Plateros” as I drove home. The church had beengutted by fire the night before, its second misfortunesince we arrived. Its great dome was rent during theterrific earthquake of the 7th of June, 1911—that unforgetableday on which I saw Madero make his triumphantentry into Mexico. At half past four in themorning the town was rocked like a ship in a gale, with astrange sound of great wind.

The Profesa, which has only just been repaired, wasbuilt late in the sixteenth century, and was a center ofJesuit activity. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuriesall the great marriages, baptisms, and functionstook place in it. One can see in one’s mind the array ofproud viceroys and their jewel-decked spouses and allthe glittering functionaries, and last, but not least, theinevitable accompaniment of the Indian population,wandering in and out. Yesterday, at San Felipe, Masswas celebrated by a priest with a pronounced Spanisheighteenth-century ascetic face of the Merry del Val type.As he turned to give the blessing, I thought of the manyelect and beautiful priests of Spain who had in bygonedays turned with that same gesture and expression togive the same blessing to like throngs of uplifted Indianfaces. The Indians crowd the churches and I am thankfulthat Heaven can be foreshown to them, somewhere,somehow. They are but beasts of burden here below.

Departure of the British minister—Guns and marines from Vera Cruz—Reviewat the Condesa—Mister Lind—The Benton case—Huertapredicts intervention—Villa at Chihuahua.

February 12th.

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

The protest Nelson made to the Foreign Office overthe abusive language of the Imparcial was in big head-linesin the newspapers yesterday. The Spanish languagelends itself exceedingly well to abuse. Miron, theman who wrote the articles, now goes about declaringthat he will shoot Nelson at the first opportunity. Idon’t think anything will come of this, however, thoughit keeps one a little uneasy in this land of surprises.

February 13th.

This morning we received a telegram that Nelson’sfather is seriously ill (pneumonia) and all day I havebeen broken with agonies of indecision. Ought I to goto New York, possibly in time to close those beautifulold eyes? Or ought I to stay here?

N. intends to have six marines come up from VeraCruz. We could lodge them here. This house was[190]built for two very large apartments and was joined bydoors and stairways when taken for an Embassy. Thevery large dining-room on the bedroom floor could easilyhold six cots and the necessary washing apparatus. Itis now used as a trunk-room, pressing-room, and generalstore-room. Personally I don’t feel that anything willhappen in Mexico City, beyond having a premonitionthat we may be giving asylum to Huerta some of thesedays. The scroll bearing his hour still lies folded uponthe lap of the gods.

February 17th.

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

I went to see von Hintze this morning about the circusperformance on Friday night for the Red Cross. Hehad already sent out invitations for a big dinner for thatnight, but he will postpone this until Saturday. Hethinks there will be trouble here, and soon, and that Iwould never have time to go and return. So are destiniesdecided. Suddenly it was clear to me that I was to staywith my boy and Nelson and await results. Von Hintzeconsiders the situation desperate and has sent out a circulartelling his nationals to leave the country. In thatstory, “Two Fools,” you will see some of the disadvantagesof leaving, faced by people whose all is here. VonHintze is having Maxim quick-firing guns up from VeraCruz. Three good mitrailleuses and the men to workthem would be ample protection for any of the legationsin case of riots.

Diaz Miron, who is threatening Nelson’s life, has alreadykilled three men. Another man he shot limpsabout town, and he himself has a bad arm. He is a poet,a neurotic, but wrote in his young days some of the most[191]beautiful Spanish verse that exists. Now he is old,violent, and eccentric. I hardly think anything will comeof his threats. Huerta has other Diaz Mirons; he hasbut one American chargé d’affaires; and if necessary DiazMiron can be put in the Penitenciaría or Belem. Ionly fear some fool may catch the idea and do whatMiron wouldn’t do.

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

The morning was soft, yet brilliant, when I walkeddown to von Hintze’s. It seems strange that blood andtragedy should be woven in such a beautiful woof. VonHintze is not an alarmist, but by telling me to go to NewYork, on the theory that everybody that can shouldleave, he certainly decided me to stay. I can’t be awayif 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 hasbeen in during the past few months. Portillo y Rojas, thenew minister, is also supposed to be that white blackbird,an honest man. He has held various public officeswithout becoming rich, even when he was governor ofthe State of Jalisco. He, like all the rest, however, willdo as Huerta dictates.

Maximo Castillo, the bandit responsible for the awfulCumbre tunnel disaster, was captured by American[192]troops yesterday. Twenty-one Americans perished inthe disaster. I wonder what Washington will do withhim? To which of the two unrecognized governmentscan he be turned over? He was making a big détouraround a mountain range, with a few followers, when hewas caught, trying to avoid Villa. This is another pieceof good luck for “the tiger.”

Huerta continues to believe in himself. N. says thatunless von Hintze had information of a precise naturethat Blanquet (Huerta’s intimate friend and his Ministerof War) is going to betray him, the end is by nomeans in sight. But treachery is as much a part of thislandscape 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 helpsto make nerves raw. The government sends downthree Gatling-guns, which Nelson is to get into the country“anyway he thinks best.” It will not be a simplematter. Everything is in a combustible condition here,needing but a match to ignite the whole.

Evening.

Just returned from Chapultepec from Señora Huerta’sreception. It was her first in two months, as she hadbeen in mourning for her brother. The “court” woreblack. I found myself next to Huerta for tea, havingbeen taken out by the Minister of Communicaciones—theMinister of “Highways and Buyways,” he mightbe called. I had a little heart-to-heart talk with thePresident—unfortunately in my broken Spanish. Hegave me some flowers and all the good things on thetable, and in return I gave him a red carnation for hisbuttonhole. He called for enchiladas and tamales—pinkjelly and fussy sandwiches don’t appeal to him—butthe majordomo, with a grin, said, “No hay.”

A few of the gens du monde were there. It seems cruel[193]for them to boycott their own government as theycontinually and consistently do. Huerta has promisedto put a larger house at our disposition for the RedCross, and I begged him to come, if only for a moment,to the benefit circus performance on Friday. He hassome military engagement for that night. I think wewill be able later to get up a really productive bull-fightfor the Red Cross, if he will sanction it. There is alwaysmoney for bull-fights in this country. If the bull-fightersdidn’t come so high, and if the bulls were notso dear, a bull-fight would be a wonderful way of puttingany organization on its feet!

Huerta sat with Nelson the whole time after tea,in the bedroom next to the big salon, and Nelsonbroached to him the subject of the guns. He said hecould bring in any blankety thing he pleased, or theSpanish equivalent, but he warned him to do it quietly.We were almost the last to leave and Huerta took meon his arm down the broad, red-carpeted stairs, tellingme that Mexicans were the friends of everybody, andoffering me a pony for Elim. When we got to the glassvestibule, in front of which the autos were waiting, hemade us take his auto. “Your automobile,” he insisted,when I said, “Oh, but this is yours!” What couldI do but get in, to the salute of officers, our emptycar following us. All his courtesies make it a bithard for us. I felt like a vampire in a churchyard orsome such awful thing, when I was sitting there in thebig salon, knowing that Huerta is up against the worldand can’t but slip at the end, no matter how he digsin 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 twelvethousand troops in 1847 to meet and engage Scott atPuebla, he finally arrived with a fourth of that number—the[194]others vanishing along the road a few ata time.

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

We hear that Diaz Miron leaves for Switzerland to-night;which, if true, ends that little flurry. The longarm of the Dictator moves the puppets as he wills, andI imagine he intends to take no risks concerning the brightestjewel in his crown—i. e., N., the last link with theUnited States. I keep thinking what a “grand thing”a dictatorship is if it is on your side. Most of thedozen Huerta children were at the reception—from theyoungest, a bright little girl of seven, to the fatuouseldest officer son of thirty or thereabouts. A big diamondin 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 firstappearance to-day. It is insulting and unclean, with acaricature of Lind on the second page. I can’t decidewhether the name is bright or stupid.

The Mexicans are master-hands at caricature andplay upon words, and there are generally some reallytrenchant political witticisms in their comic papers.There are wishes for Wilson’s early demise scatteredthrough the pages in various forms. But I imagine theyare boomerang wishes, and the journal itself will have ashort and unprofitable life. The big middle page hasa picture, calling itself El Reparto de Tierras (“The Divisionof Lands”). It represents a graveyard; underneathare the words, “tenemos 200,000 tierras tenientes” (“wehave 200,000 landholders”)—a sad play upon the division[195]of lands. Above it vultures are portrayed, wearingUncle Sam’s hat. Another caricature shows the Mexicanscarrying a coffin labeled Asuntos Nacionales (NationalAffairs), with President Wilson as a candle-bearer.The press gets more anti-American every day.

On one of N’s visits to the President, at his famouslittle shack-like retreat set in among a collection ofmarket-gardens, at Popotla, he began to talk about thedivision of lands, saying the Indian had inalienablerights to the soil, but that the lands should be returnedto him under circumstances of justice and order. On[196]no account should they be used as a reward for momentarilysuccessful revolutionaries. He added that theUnited States had never respected the rights of theirIndians, but had settled the whole question by force.

February 19th.

We went this morning to the big military revue at theCondesa, one of the most beautiful race-tracks in theworld. I thought of Potsdam’s strong men under dullskies. Now I am in this radiant paradise, watching morehighly colored troops, who make a really fine show, andwho perhaps are soon to fight with “the Colossus of theNorth.” Certainly in another year many of them willhave been laid low by brothers’ hands. The Presidentwas very pleased with the 29th, the crack regiment thathelped him to power a year ago. He addressed a fewwords to them, and his hands trembled as he decoratedtheir flag, pinning the cross at the top of the flag-staff,and attaching a long red streamer instead of the rosettethat generally goes with this decoration. They made afine showing, and the rurales, under command of RinconGaillardo, on a beautiful horse, and in all the splendor ofa yellow and silver-trimmed charro costume, were apicturesque and unforgetable sight. The rurales weargreat peaked hats, yellow-gray costumes made with thetight 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, andequipment. It was a testimony to Huerta’s militaryqualities that in the face of his manifold enemies hecould put up such an exhibition. I sat by Corona, governorof the Federal District, and watched the glitteringdéfilé and listened to the stirring martial music. The[197]Mexicans have probably the best brass in the world—lebeau côté de la guerre. But what horrors all that glittercovers! Twice, when Huerta’s emotion was too muchfor him, he disappeared for a copita, which was to behad in a convenient back inclosure.

Evening.

I started out with Kanya and Madame Simon to motorto Xochimilco, and before getting out of town we randown a poor pelado. It was a horrible sensation as thebig motor struck him. I jumped out and ran to him andfound him lying on his poor face, a great stream of bloodgushing 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 hishead as well as I could, with a handkerchief some onegave me, and with one of my long, purple veils. I tookthe motor—Kanya and Madame Simon are not used toblood—and went quickly to the comisaría and got adoctor. The chauffeur, whose fault it really was, wastrembling like an aspen. When we got back, it seemedto me the whole peon world had turned out. Finallywe got the victim laid on the camilla; and now, I suppose,his poor soul is with its Maker. As the motor isKanya’s, there will be no calling him up in court, andhe 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 onthis beautiful afternoon and being the instrument tosend that poor soul into eternity.

Later I went to see Madame Lefaivre. She is in bed witha “synovite,” and is trying to superintend her packing atthe same time. I met von Hintze as I came out of theLegation. He informed me, with a wicked smile, thatthe review was to celebrate, or rather, commemorate, themutiny of the celebrated Twenty-ninth against Maderolast February. Well, I hope we won’t get into trouble[198]with the powers that be. He addressed me, saying, “Ihear you presided over the military commemoration ofto-day.”

I said, “Good heavens! What commemoration?” Iknew nothing of it, and was only interested to see whatsort of a showing the troops would make!

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

February 20th.

The poor man is still alive, but is going to die. Thecurious thing about the fatality (which is the only wordfor it) is that the man had just come from Querétaro,where he had sold a house for 4,200 pesos, which he hadon him, and which were subsequently stolen from himat the policía. I noticed that when he was put on thestretcher his hand for a moment convulsively pressedhis belt. I suppose moving him brought a momentaryconsciousness, and he thought weakly of his all. Doubtlesshe was the only pelado in town that had that or anyamount on him. The chauffeur is in jail, and, after all,Kanya will have a lot of trouble before the matter hasbeen 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 Reconocimientoto Peru—a handsome young woman, representingla Revolución—while with the other hand he tears themap of Mexico from the wall.

The other day Nelson had a most interesting talk withHuerta. He said he realized that the existence of anygovernment in Mexico without the good-will of theUnited States was difficult, if not impossible; and thathe was deeply distressed that they did not take into[199]account the manifold difficulties under which he waslaboring. It was at this interview that N. arranged thequestion of getting in arms. Huerta pointed out that allthe requests N. had made him on behalf of the UnitedStates had been granted, and that the entire Federalarmy had been ordered to give special consideration toAmericans. He said that he did not desire to criticizethe government of the United States, but did wish topoint out that if it defeats him in pacifying the countryit will be forced into the difficult and thankless task ofarmed intervention. He continued that, on looking atthe Mexican situation, one must not lose sight of thefact that Mexico is an Indian country (mentioningthe difficulties we had had with our Indians); thatthe Indian population here had been oppressed by theSpaniards and the landowning classes for centuries; thatduring the régime of Porfirio Diaz they had conceivedthe desire for material betterment, but were given nochance (the chances being for the few); that under therégime of Madero the revolutionary habit became general,as the sequel of unfulfillable promises. Also that thepresent task in Mexico was not to establish a democracy,but to establish order. He did not criticize the rebels ofthe north, but said they would never, in the event ofvictory, be able to establish a government in Mexico,and that one of their first acts would be to turn againstthe United States. From Maximilian to Huerta theyhave all known our friendship is essential.

The Benton case is going to make an untold amount oftrouble, and the Mexican problem again comes into sightfrom the international point. A life is worth a life, perhaps,before God; but down here the murder of a wealthyBritish subject is of more account than that of some poorAmerican or a thousand Mexicans. The best and most-to-be-believedversion of Villa’s shooting of him is that,[200]on Benton’s expostulating with him about the confiscationof his property in Chihuahua, he was shot, then andthere. That is the reason they have been unwilling to lethis wife have the body, which shows bullet-wounds in thewrong places. Villa claims he was shot after a court-martialhad declared him guilty of an attempt on his, Villa’slife. You can imagine a wealthy Britisher attemptingVilla’s life! All any foreigner up there wants is to be letalone. Whatever the true history may be, there is intenseindignation on the frontier. Sir Cecil Spring-Ricehas made formal protestations to the State Department.The English press is aroused, and it was told us by onecorrespondent that Sir Edward Grey will be called on toanswer questions in Parliament. The fat is, at last, inthe fire.

Dr. Ryan returned yesterday, more or less discouragedwith his Washington trip. Everything for therebels. Mr. Lind is so fascinated by them that I understandhe is counseling direct financial aid—a loan. Hehasn’t perceived the shape and color of events here, buthas become obsessed by the idea of getting rid of Huerta.That and his hallucination about Villa cover the wholesituation for him. What is to be done afterward ifHuerta is squeezed out? That is what we all want toknow—the afterward. One long vista of bloodshed andheartbreak 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 Ifinally yielded. I feel rather uncertain about it. Therewas a very chic dinner at von Hintze’s last night, for SirLionel, who leaves on Wednesday. I feel awfully sorryfor him, but this Benton matter may be a justification,to a certain extent. He says he is only to be gone six[201]weeks—but quién sabe? Hohler has arrived—a goodfriend of ours. His are safe hands in which to leavematters.

Nelson is busy getting one of the American correspondentsout of that terrible Belem. He has been putin there with all those vermin-covered people, with theirtyphoid and other germs, and must have had some badhours.

February 24th.

Just a line this morning. Am getting ready for myAmerican bridge party, with prizes, this afternoon. Ihave some lovely large Ravell photographs in good oldframes.

Last night Patchin, the very agreeable young Tribunecorrespondent, came for dinner; we had the usualpolitical conversation afterward. Clarence Hay read apoem of his (which I will later inclose) on the murder ofyoung Gen. Gabriel Hernandez, last July, by EnriqueZepeda, then governor of the Federal district. Zepeda iscalled a “nephew” of Huerta, but is supposed to be hisson. Zepeda gave a supper to which N. was invited; atthe last moment, press of work made him unable toassist. The gods were with him that time, for, after thesupper, at midnight, Zepeda, very much allumé, went tothe 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 werethoughtful enough to first pour kerosene. Zepeda wasput in jail for eight months, and is just out. When heisn’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 movedout of the station were for him, but it seems they[202]were for some departing bull-fighters, who are alwaysfirst in the hearts of their countrymen. It appears thatSir Lionel is carrying with him documents, plans, maps,etc., with a collection of fully authenticated horrors committedby the rebels in their campaign. He may notget 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 ofBenton. He was seated on a throne-like chair on araised dais, in almost regal style, his followers surroundinghim and doing him homage. The gubernatorial palaceis fitted up with the greatest luxury, the houses of thewealthiest residents of the town having been sacked forthe purpose. Consider the picture of that untutored,bloody-handed brigand, surrounded by his spoils andhis “courtiers.” He has never heard how “uneasy liesthe head that wears a crown,” but he will doubtless havesome practical experience of it. He has contradictedhimself repeatedly in his statements about the killing ofBenton. The body, bearing its mute testimony of beingriddled with bullets by a firing-squad, lies under a heapof refuse.

Huerta’s impressive review for the special correspondents—The Gritode Dolores—Tons of “stationery” for the Embassy—Villa andCarranza disagree—The Embassy guard finds itself occupied.

February 26th. Noon.

We are just home, after seeing the review (fromChapultepec through town to the Zocalo) of all thetroops now in the city. They were turned out for thebenefit of the special correspondents, invited to the gayscene by Huerta, and the government is paying allthe expenses. The regular correspondents in townfeel rather peeved about the matter. We sat in themotor in the Zocalo, under the cloudless sky and soft,penetrating sun, and watched the défilé. The banner ofthe Twenty-ninth bore the long, red streamer thatHuerta had tied on the other day, with trembling fingers.The troops were all well armed. They had new riflesand new, well-filled cartridge-belts, and the effect wasmost encouraging—for Huerta. The special correspondents,from the windows of the Palace, had their camerasand cine machines in action. Really, Huerta has donewonders to keep the troops together so well and so long,in the face of such overwhelming odds. The bugle-callsand the martial music echoed over the Plaza—the settingfor so many centuries of the hopes and fears, the beginningsand the endings, of these Mexican people.

I thought of the 1911 anniversary of the Grito deDolores—that night of the 16th of September when Istood on the middle balcony of the Palacio, with de la[204]Barra and Madero, when the former was still Presidentad interim, and the latter was hoping all things. Therewe looked down on fifty or sixty thousand upturnedfaces, while the celebrated Campana de la Independencia(Independence bell) rang above our heads, followed bythe great bells from the illuminated towers of thecathedral. The present is nearer the past in Mexicothan anywhere else.[10] As we came home we weresnapshotted a dozen times by the disconsolate correspondentswho had not been invited to the Palaceto “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 gardenwas released from its winter wrappings, if one can callthese cloudless days winter. The most wonderful bannersof purest, palest yellow are gently waving againstthe perfect sky. I am now waiting for Hohler to cometo lunch. Sir Lionel went off (during a tremendousnorte), in the battle-ship Essex, which is taking him toGalveston. His country is treating him almost to thehonors we give fleeing Maderistas.

Villa has not yet given up the body of Benton. Ifthere is much more delay it will not be able to beartestimony 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 anexample of the hasty officer, if the deed has really beencommitted. We heard this morning that Carranza is[205]going to make short work of O’Shaughnessy when hegets here. When!

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

The reverse of the medal is that he is a tireless collectorand connoisseur of beautiful things, and what hedoesn’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. Huertaexpects Villa to hang himself with his own rope. He sayshe is a tonto, violent, undisciplined, and can’t do what heought. The rumors that he is refusing to receive ordersfrom Carranza are taking more explicit shape. He saysthat Carranza has never once put himself in danger;that he (Villa) has done all; that he receives commandsfrom no one. He has repeatedly and vainly been askedto go to confer with Carranza, and we now hear thatthe mountain of all constitutional virtues is going toMohammed. The deadly wine of success is mountingto Villa’s head. He now has wealth to the extent ofsome millions of pesos. The Torreon and Chihuahuaconfiscations were enormous, not counting what he andhis followers have taken in all the small towns looted.He has not the sense to perceive in what difficulties hiskilling of Benton has placed the people who are anxiousto be his friends. He evidently thinks that a man whocannot write or read must “make his mark” in otherways.

[206]

Our Gatling-guns, with ammunition, are arriving to-dayin Vera Cruz, by the Ward Line steamer. They areto be got up here under the head of Embassy supplies—stationery,and the like. Huerta knows they are, butwants 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, buthis bang has been left. He is as proud as a puppy withtwo tails. The “crime” was committed by a soft-speakingHaitian barber, who won’t get another chanceat my only child. Elim knows nothing of death and dissolution;has been calling “Mima,” all over the house, andhas just dashed into the drawing-room, where I am writing,to ask for a trumpet. He is so clever about musicthat I am almost tempted to sacrifice every one in thehouse and get him one. He will soon be playing thenational air.

Yesterday I had tea with Madame B. She was lookingvery handsome, lying among her costly blue-ribbonedlaces. The baby, born ten days ago, looks likea miniature “conqueror,” with its severe Spanishfeatures and glossy black hair. Madame B.’s father,who is one of the wealthiest hacendados, spoke withHuerta for the first time several weeks ago at theJockey Club. The President asked him, “How arematters in Morelos?” (The Zapatista country wherethey have immense sugar haciendas.) Don. L. answered,“You are killing us with your demands for contributions.”Huerta grew rather excited. “You do nothingfor the country,” he declared, “neither you nor yoursons.” Don L. answered, “I have lost one and a halfmillions in the past year.” “Lucky man to have it tolose,” commented Huerta, grimly. “Great sugar cropsare now ready for harvesting, but I can get no men,”[207]Don L. went on; “they are all in the army. Give memen and I will give you contributions.”

Huerta immediately sent the men needed, the sugar isbeing harvested, and Don L. feels convinced that Huertais doing what he can; but his daughter, who told me allthis, added, with a smile and flash of white teeth, “Pardonme; but what can we do with your Mr. Wilson onour backs?”

Evening.

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

I kept my engagement to take the Russian and Austrianministers out to Tozzer’s Aztec diggings. Theirgovernments have subscribed money for archæologicalwork in Mexico (I have never quite understood why),and Tozzer was most anxious to have them see what hehad 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 wereinvisible—and things were generally gritty. All the timemy thoughts were turning toward the life-and-deathissue, and I was so anxious to get home.

The Lefaivres leave definitely on the 12th. The Legationis dismantled, and Madame Lefaivre is still lyingwith her knee in plaster. Their secretary and his wifenaturally see them leave with mixed feelings. We allknow how that is, for what greater benefit can a chief bestowthan absence? Madame Lefaivre said to thesecretary: “What if the ship doesn’t sail on the 12th?”[208]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 withthe soul and body of Nelson’s father....

This morning Washington must be thinking “howsharper than a serpent’s tooth”! Carranza and Villa aredefying the supreme powers. They even deny our rightsto ask information regarding Benton, who, they say, is aBritish subject—adding that they will listen to only suchrepresentations as are made to them by Great Britain herself“through the proper diplomatic channels.” No oneknew any such channels existed. They add, further,that this ruling applies to other nations desiring redressfor their people. The Frankenstein monster is certainlygrowing. Carranza also says that he has already investigatedthe Benton affair, but only for use in caseGreat Britain desires to take up the matter with himas head of the revolution. The matter of Gustav Bauch,American citizen, he will be kind enough to discuss withMr. Bryan, stating that he “greatly laments his death.”This turn is most unexpected, though Villa and Carranzawere very uppish several months ago whenWilliam Bayard Hale was sent to treat with them.Now that the embargo is lifted, their arrogance knowsno bounds.

Vergara, the supposed American citizen, supposed tohave been put to death at Piedras Negras by a Federalofficer, 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 ofeighteen bandits, and his occupation was the getting inof arms and ammunition across the border for the rebels,or the driving of large herds of stolen cattle over to the[209]American side. The Federals would have had a perfectright to shoot him.

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

Your report of having seen a statement in the newspapersabout “rushing the troops up to Mexico” remindsme of a correspondent of one of the big NewYork newspapers. He appeared here the other day,saying he had been sent hurriedly to Vera Cruz on insideinformation from Washington to be ready to go upto Mexico City with the troops.

Last night Huerta, in view of the safety of his crownjewel—i. e., Nelson—said he was going to send a guard tothe Embassy. There was an equivocación (there alwaysis some mistake in Mexico) and an armed guard of eightwas sent to the American Club, a place Nelson rarelygoes to. About half past nine we had excited telephonecalls that the Club was guarded by these soldiers, asriots were evidently feared by the authorities. Thenewspaper 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 havenice old Francisco and the new young gendarme, Manuel,who was added some months ago. Each legation herehas one guard. I am glad to have Francisco and Manuel,on Elim’s account. They always seem to know justwhat 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 courseit isn’t true, but it will make an excellent impression athome; and it may even give N.’s first-hand, accurate information[210]about matters some weight. The same newspaperalso shows a picture of Huerta at some charity performancewith his wife and daughters and Naranjo,Minister of Public Instruction. He looks (and doubtlessfelt) the personification of boredom. The head-linesare, “Huerta enjoying social life while riots rage incapital.”

March 2d.

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

Last night, on returning home, we found that Huertahad sent us six more soldiers with a sergeant. It made mefeel as if the house were the setting for an act from someopéra bouffe. We gave the soldiers packages of cigarettesand a drink apiece, and I suppose they rested on thesofas or floors of the parterre. N. never leaves thehouse without his secret-service man, a decent fellow,but dressed to the rôle in a loud, tight, bright-bluesuit with white stripes, and pistols—the last articlesoutlined against his person every time he makes amotion. We have a beautiful new motor—low, smooth-running,painted black, with a smart dark-gray bandabout it. He occupies the seat beside Jesus, gets outwhen N. gets out, and waits around ostentatiously whileN. attends to whatever he has on hand. He is an awfulbore, and quite unnecessary, but Huerta answered, whenN. protested, “Es mejor” (“It is better so”).

The torture of Terrazas—Mexico’s banking eccentricities—Departureof the Lefaivres—Zapatista methods—Gustavo Madero’s death—Firstexperience of Latin-American revolutions—Huerta’s wittyspeech.

March 4th. Afternoon.

Last night we received the news that Nelson’s fatherwas indeed approaching his mortal end. This morning,at seven o’clock, after a sleepless night of “vanishingsand finalities,” I went down-stairs in answer to atelephone call from Mr. Jennings, of the Hearst newspapers—whois always very nice about everything—tosay 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 toFather 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 CorpsDiplomatique, and friends. Now I am at home again, inthe mourning garments I wore for my precious brother.

March 4th. Evening.

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

Now the pouch is closed and everybody and everything[212]has departed. Elim is lying on the floor in frontof my little electric stove. The chords so strongly movedby the passing of my beloved brother are vibrating again,not alone because of death and parting, but because oflife and the imperfections of its relationships. Nelsonhas accepted his father’s death, has pulled himself together,and is going on with his work, of which there ismore than sufficient.

How true it is that men follow their destinies ratherthan their interests; a something innate and unalterabledrives each one along. Genio y figura hasta la sepultura—aSpanish 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 beserved, a visitant, rather than a visitor, appeared in mydrawing-room incognito—a simple “Mr. Johnson,” eager,intrepid, dynamic, efficient, unshaven!...

Young Terrazas, the son of the former great man ofChihuahua, of whom I wrote you when first he was capturedby Villa at the taking of Chihuahua, severalmonths ago, has not yet been released, and Villa threatensto execute him to-morrow if the half-million of ransommoney is not forthcoming. The father has raised,half the sum, with the greatest difficulty, but, fearingsome trick (and he has every reason for distrust), hewon’t give the money till he receives his son. It appearsthe son has been horribly treated, several times hung upuntil 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 broughtlast night to Mexico City who had been tortured by therebels; the soles of his feet were sliced off, his ears andtongue were gone, and there were other and nameless[213]mutilations, but the victim was still living. The onlydifference between the rebels and the Federals is thatthe 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 thatis at stake. Huerta, though he may not be troubledwith scruples or morals other than those that expediencydictates, has his prestige before the world to uphold, andis sagacious enough to realize its value. The rebels goto pieces as soon as there is any question of governmentor order. Villa is without doubt a wonderful bandit, ifbandits are what the United States are after. I see bythe newspapers that Mr. Bryan is begging the ForeignRelations Committee to keep the Mexican situation offthe floor of Congress....

One by one, the Mexicans to whom we have givenasylum and safe-conducts to Vera Cruz, upon receivingtheir word of honor not to intrigue against the government,break that word and go over to the rebels. Wehave just seen the name of Dr. Silva (formerly governorof Michoacan, whom we had convoyed to Vera Cruz) asone of the somewhat tardy commission appointed byCarranza to investigate the murder of Benton.

We are aghast at the resignation of Mr. John BassettMoore as counselor to the State Department. He islearned, perfectly understanding, and very experiencedin a practical way about Latin-American affairs.

Yesterday the Minister for Foreign Affairs came topresent his condolences to Nelson, and also to protestagainst the bringing up to the Embassy of our Gatling-gunsand ammunition, which are still in the customs atVera Cruz. There are seventy cases—and not featherweights.He fell over the threshold, as he entered, andwas picked up by Nelson and the butler. (It was hisfirst visit. I don’t know if he is superstitious.) Huerta,[214]as you may remember, in the famous bedchamber conversationat Chapultepec, had told Nelson he could getin all the guns he wanted, but to do it quietly. It isnow all over the country and is making a row amongMexicans. In these days of grief and agitation, N. hashappened to have an unusual amount of official work.

I have been busy all day with the list for to-morrow’srequiem Mass, and it is almost finished. My little ShornLocks has gone up-stairs, and I am resting myself bywriting these lines to you.

March 7th.

We are waiting to start for the church. You willknow all the thoughts and memories that fill my heart—thatdescent from fog-enveloped hills into the cold,gray town to lay away my precious brother. Now I amabout to start through this shimmering, wondrous morningto the black-hung church. In the end it is all thesame.

March 9th.

I have not written since Saturday morning, beforestarting to the requiem Mass. I have been so busy seeingpeople 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 wasbeautiful and sad. Afterward we went into the sacristyto receive the condolences of our friends, as is the customhere. Though he had never trod the threshold of ourMexican dwelling, it still seemed inexpressibly emptyas we returned to it. I was glad of the heaped-up deskand the living decisions awaiting N.

Huerta was very nice on seeing him to-day, called him“hijo” (“son”), gave him an affectionate abrazo, and allhis sympathy. Subsequently, Nelson had a long talk withhim in a little private room of the Café Colon, that[215]Huerta approached from the back entrance. Huerta isbroad in his ideas and very careful as to any remarksabout the United States, in Nelson’s presence. He alwaysspeaks of President Wilson as Su Excelencia, el SeñorPresidente Wilson; there are no diatribes of anykind. The thing that has really got on his nerves is ourkeeping his 4,000 soldiers at Fort Bliss and expectinghim to pay for them. He says Mexico is not at war withthe United States; that the rebels are allowed to go andcome as they please, and even to organize on the frontier.Why this discrimination? He says that our governmentthinks he is a bandit, like Villa, but that if Washingtonwould be just it would see that he keeps his mouthshut, does his work as well as he can in the face of theterrible injustice done him, and asks nothing of any oneexcept to be let alone; that he could have had the powerin Mexico long before he took it. He repeated that manya person of influence had urged him to put an end tothe disastrous Madero administration; that he is not inpolitics for personal ends; that his wants are few, hishabits those of an old soldier. He always insists thathe did not kill Madero....

As for that, one can talk for hours and hours with allsorts of people without finding any direct evidence ofany direct participation by Huerta in the death ofMadero. I have come to think it an inexcusable andfatal negligence on his part, incidental to the excitementand preoccupation of those tragic days. He was astuteenough to have realized that Madero dead would be evenmore embarrassing to him than living, and should haveinsisted on asylum for him where alone it was to be had.There is, however, at times a strange suspension ofmental processes in Mexico; with everything possibleand yet nothing appearing probable, nobody ever foreseesany situation.

[216]

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 allthe 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 manin society here to receive Diaz when he came to power.In fact, in his house Diaz met Doña Carmen. He told methat Diaz wasn’t then, by any means, the kind of manhe is now, after thirty years of power and knowledge.

Last night, at midnight, Nelson, who had goneto sleep early, was called down-stairs by urgent telephonemessages, to hear that the Texas Rangers haddashed over the border to Sabinas Hidalgo to recover thebody of the pseudo-American cattle-rustler, Vergara.Whether the report is true is not known, but of courseit is an act that would be resented by all classes here, andevery class really hates us.

Villa, not being able to get the full amount of theransom out of Terrazas père, has decided not to executethe son, but to take him with him when he besiegesTorreon, and to place him wherever the bullets are thickest.The mad dance of death goes on, and I feel as ifwe were the fiddlers. Mr. Lind has so idealized therebels in the north that he has come to think themcapable of all the civic virtues, and he is obsessed by theold tradition of north beating south whenever there isan issue. His deduction is not borne out by facts, as inMexico it is the south that has produced the greatestnumber of great men—“the governmental minds”; thesouth has come nearer to loving peace; the south hasshown the greatest degree of prosperity and advancement.Vera Cruz is the poorest possible vantage-groundfor a study of conditions; it is a clearing-housefor malcontents of all kinds, mostly rebels, fleeing from[217]the consequences of some act against some authority.My heart is heavy at the grim fatality that has permittedour policy to be shaped from there.

A dust-storm this afternoon, with all the color goneout of the air, and a few thick drops of cold rain. Ileft cards for an hour or two, then came home. I amglad to be here in my comfortable home, though I can’thelp a shiver as I think of the horrors sanctioned, evenencouraged, by us on every side. B. said once thatthe policy of the United States in lifting the embargowas to really give Mexicans a taste of civil war! Therewere some chirpings from Carranza the other day, to theeffect that “I understand Villa, and Villa understandsme.” Doubtless this is true; but they say that aftertheir rare meetings the old gentleman has to go to bedfor several days.

I have just been reading an article by Mr. Creelmanon Lind. He has caught the spirit of Vera Cruz anddescribed exactly Mr. Lind and his ambiente there. Hespeaks of him as “Mr. Wilson’s cloistered agent.” “Ina small, dark room with a red-tiled floor, opening on ashabby Mexican courtyard,” he adds, “in the rear of theAmerican Consulate in Vera Cruz, sits John Lind, thepersonal representative of the President of the UnitedStates, as he has sat for seven months, smilingly watchingand 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-boxunpacked and was sitting on a trunk, putting some restoringtouches to a Madonna of most uncertain value,[218]just discovered by the German consul-general. TheLefaivres have a pied-à-terre in Paris, with beautifulthings inherited from Madame Lefaivre’s father. Lefaivrehas decided to go, if the heavens fall, and, as welaughingly told him, if his wife falls, too, for that matter.I besought him to delay, for political reasons, but thelong sojourn is on his nerves, and he has a bad throat.I am sorry to see them go, on my own account—suchgood friends. I am writing this, expecting Hohler and awoman special correspondent for tea. Burnside tells meshe has been in many storm-centers and is bright anddiscreet.

March 11th.

N. is pretty hot about the arms which are in the customshere in Mexico City. The officials keep him runningfrom one to the other; they don’t really want us tohave them, though the French, German, English, andJapanese legations have long since been well stocked.I came down-stairs to hunt for literature, about fouro’clock this morning, and heard the “Pretorian guard”in the parterre, laughing and joking, as guards in allages have done. There are unlimited cigarettes and limitedpulque to make their watch easy.

Later.

We hear that Mr. Lind is having parleyings with theZapatistas! If he is going to dream this dream andpass it on to his friends in Washington, they will allhave the most awful nightmare ever visited ondreamers. Zapata has been the terror of every President—Diaz,de la Barra, Madero, and Huerta—fornearly five years. His crimes and depredations are committedunder the banner of “Land for the People,” andthere 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[219]conditions more tolerable for any except the rapers andlooters, is most debatable. I once saw some living remainsbrought to the Red Cross after one of his acts atTres Marias, about fifty kilometers from here. A trainwas attacked, looted, oil was poured on the passengers,and the train was set on fire. The doctors who went tothe station to get the remains out of the train say thesight was unforgetable. The name Zapata has now becomea symbol of brigandage, and many operate underit. No general sent into Morelos has ever brought order.For instance, one was sent to Michoacan with two thousandcavalry, to put down a small force of severalhundred brigands; though he had the grazing free, hecharged the government 50 centavos per horse! It becamea 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, andlately 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 tofound a bank of his own if the bankers did not do somethingfor him. Some say that the bankers brought on thebreak in exchange to scare him, and others that Huertaproposed establishing a bank of his own to scare them!Anyway, exchange broke. During his conversation withthe bankers, apropos of the loans they were loath to givehim, Huerta is said to have jocularly remarked thatthere were trees enough in Chapultepec Park to hangthem all on without crowding. Those old cypresseshave witnessed a good deal, but a consignment of indigenousand foreign bankers hanging with the long, graymoss from their branches would have savored of novelty.

A gusty day on this usually wind-still plateau. Thepale yellow streamers of the banana-tree are torn to[220]tatters, but one must forgive an occasional vagary inthis climate, unsurpassed in its steady beauty, and whichhas the further recommendation that one can count onwearing one’s winter clothes in summer, and one’s summerclothes in winter....

Disorder here has been most prejudicial to Frenchinterests. Since Maximilian’s time, especially, they havehad the habit of investments in Mexico. Now billionsof francs are unproductive. It will be a fine bill poorold Uncle Sam will get from la belle France!

7.30.

My callers are all gone, and Elim is playing bull-fightwith a red-velvet square from one of the tables, talkingSpanish to himself and making every gesture of his gametrue 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 thegay throng passing the Embassy to the Ring, and makingme feel like a wretch because they aren’t all there.

Nelson went down to try to look at his guns, presumablyat 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 theHot Country in a day or two. I am having the lovelycorner room next mine made ready for her.

March 14th.

We learn that the guns and ammunition supposed tobe got in quietly, as Embassy stores, bore on the invoicethe name of the colonel in charge at the Springfieldarsenal. Hence these tears! They are now reposing in adeserted church near the military station, outside thecity. There would have been no trouble had they beensent as Nelson requested. Now endless runnings arenecessary.

My house is overrun with children. They tell me[221]it looks like an orphanage, at the back. Such nice,little, bright-eyed Aztecs. In this stricken land howcan 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 goingto present us with another. La recherche de la paternitéshows the responsible person to have been our quiet,trusty messenger, Pablo. I will deduct ten pesos a monthfrom his wages for six months—a salutary proclama toeverybody else of my sentiments. I will send her to thehospital, and she will soon be back. The washerwomanhas just borrowed ten dollars to change her lodgings, asthe leva are after her husband. I sometimes feel like oneof the early friars. Nothing that is Indian is foreignto 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 aneye-witness and concerning whose death so many versionsare current. Shortly after one o’clock, on goingback to the Ciudadela, where Felix Diaz was quartered,to attend to wounded who had been brought in, Ryanencountered Madero being brought out with a guardof twelve men. Diaz didn’t want him there, saying hewas not his prisoner, but Huerta’s. Madero was gesticulatingin a hysterical manner and waving his arms inthe air. As Ryan afterward learned, he was offeringthe guards money if they would see him safely out oftown. His nerve seemed suddenly to leave him and hebegan to run, whereupon one of the guards fired, hittinghim in the eye as he turned his head to look behind him.The other eye was glass. This gave rise afterward tostories that his eyes had been gouged out. On his continuingto run, the whole guard fired at him, and he fell,riddled with bullets. Ryan afterward examined the body[222]and found ten or twelve wounds. It all took place inthe little park before the Ciudadela. This is the authenticaccount, and at least we know that Huerta wasin no way responsible for his death. Doubtless hadGustavo kept his nerve, instead of trying to run, hewould be alive to-day. He was an awful bounder, buthad qualities of vitality, intellect, and a certain animalmagnetism. His is the famous remark that “out of afamily of clever men, the only fool was chosen for President.”He wasn’t more than thirty-five or thirty-six, andloved life. He had a power of quick repartee, a glancingeye, and hands seeking treasure. Well, that is allover, but it remains part of the unalterable history ofMexico. Poor, revolution-ridden Mexico! Everybodyhere 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. Orozcowas the friend of Madero against Diaz, then againstMadero under Huerta, and so it goes. The historyof almost every public man shows like changes of banner,and as for revolution fomenters, the United Stateshave certainly played a consistent and persistentrôle for three years, outdone by no individual or factionhere.

I shall never forget my first experience of Latin-Americanrevolutions. It was a beautiful May afternoon,now nearly three years ago, when a howling mobof several thousands went through the streets, shouting“Death to Diaz!” finally collecting in the Zocalo underthe windows of the apartment in the Palacio Nacional,where Diaz was lying with a badly ulcerated tooth andjaw. Two days later, in the wee, small hours, the once-feared,adored, all-powerful, great man of Mexico, withthe immediate members of his family, was smuggled onboard a train secretly provided by Mr. Brown, under the[223]escort of Huerta, and was taken to Vera Cruz. Fromthere he embarked on the Ypiranga, to join other kingsin exile, having said good-by, probably forever, to theland of his triumphs and glories. It was touch and gowith him during those days, and he had created modernMexico out of blood and chaos.

When Madero is put out—in the almost automaticfashion by which governments are overthrown in LatinAmerica—we refuse to recognize the man who, by armedforce, put him out, as he himself got in. Put a revolutionin the slot and out comes a President. We isolateHuerta; we cut him off completely from the help ofother nations; we destroy his credit; we tell him he mustgo, because we tolerate no man coming to power throughbloodshed. Huerta, it appears, was amusing but unquotableabout the recognition of Peru, saying in partthat both he and Benavides were military leaders, andthat both executed a coup d’état resulting in the overthrowof the existing government. In Peru the révolutiondu palais cost the lives of eight functionaries, among themthe Ministers of War and Marine, the exile of PresidentBillinghurst, and ended in the setting up of a juntagovernment. As for the Peruvians themselves, theyare said to have had the vertigo, they were recognizedso suddenly—and so unexpectedly.

You will remember that months ago we gave asylumfor a week to Manuel Bonilla, and then conveyed himto Vera Cruz, under dramatic circumstances, on hispromise not to join the rebels. Well, he joined therebels as quickly as time and space would allow, and weread in this morning’s newspaper that he has now beenjailed by Carranza for plotting against him. I suppose hegot 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[224]without it—he will execute him some morning, inthe dawn. Oh, the thousands of men who have walkedout in the chilly, pale, Mexican dawn to render theirlast accounts!

March 17th.

Yesterday I did not write. Aunt L. arrived unexpectedly,at eight o’clock, and no one was at the stationto meet her. However, all’s well that ends well, and sheis now up in her red-carpeted, red-and-gold-papered, sun-floodedroom, and I hope will take a good rest. By wayof variety, not that I have much to choose from, I putMarius the Epicurean and The Passionate Friends on hernight-table, with a single white rose. She has ridden herown situation so courageously and so wittily all theseyears, that I am thankful to have her here where shecan turn that charming blue eye of hers, which so makesme think of yours, on my situation. When I looked intoher face this morning, I quite understood why they callher the “Angel of the Isthmus.”

News from the north shows slow, but sure, disintegrationof the rebel ranks. It is the old story of the housedivided against itself. Also, Villa may be yielding to theCapuan-like delights of Chihuahua and hesitating toundertake a new, and perhaps inglorious, campaignagainst Torreon. Just how Mr. Lind takes the slumpin rebels—for a slump there certainly has been—Idon’t know. We are beginning to see the results ofthe long months of cabling his dreams to the President,who, I am sure, if he ever awakes to the realkind of bedfellows, that he has been dreamingwith, will nearly die. The Washington cerebrationdoesn’t take in readily the kind of things that happenhere. All is known about burglars, white-slave trade,wicked corporations, unfaithful stewards, defaultingSunday-school superintendents, baseball cheats, and[225]the like; but the murky, exotic passions that move Villaare entirely outside consciousness.

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

I had a call from the —— minister this morning,and a talk about the matters none of us can keep awayfrom. He looks at politics without illusion and in arather Bismarckian way. He says we Americans are inthe act of destroying a people which is just becomingconscious of itself and could, in a few generations, becomea nation; but that it never will do so, because weare going to strangle its first cry. He considers that itis a geographical and ethical necessity for us to have noarmed nation between us and Panama, and if we canhave the patience and the iron nerves to watch its dissolutionon the lines we are now pursuing, it will be ourswithout a shot. But he adds that we will get nervous,as all moderns do, watching a people on the rack, andour policy will break. He added, with a smile, that nationsare like women, nervous and inconsistent; andthat, happily for the Mexicans and foreign Powers interested,we won’t be able to stand the strain of watchingthe horrors our policy would entail. I cried out againstthis parting shot, but he went off with an unconvincedgesture.

March 19th.

Yesterday we went to Chapultepec for the fiançailles ofthe second son of Huerta and the daughter of GeneralHernandez, 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[226]playing the part in the Huerta government that theEscandons did in the Diaz régime—a work of amalgamation,though they consistently boycotted the Maderorégime. Of course, there were many “curiosities.” Thetwo spinster sisters of Huerta were there with their flat,strong Indian faces and thick, dark wigs or hair, naturallysteered one of them toward old gold for a costume,and the other toward shot blue and red; but they weredignified and smiling. Señora Blanquet is another curiosity.Blanquet himself is one of the handsomest andmost distingué-looking elderly men I have ever seen; buthis wife, was squat, and flat-faced, and very dark, seemingto have come out of some long-hidden corner of hishistory. Madame Huerta looked very handsome andamiable in a good dress of white silk veiled with fine,black lace, the famous big, round diamond hung by aslender chain about her neck.

The prospective bridegroom, twenty-three, had hismother’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 atthe tea was a great success of spontaneity, with a fewfundamental truths and many flashes of humor. Hebegan by telling the young couple not to count on him,or his position, but on their own efforts to create positionand honor; and to begin modestly.

“You know how I began,” he added, with what I canonly call a grin illuminating his whole face, “and look atme now!”

Of course everybody applauded and laughed. Thenhe became grave again. “Struggle,” he said, “is the essenceof life, and those who are not called on to struggleare forgotten of Heaven. You all know what I am carrying.”He told them, also, to honor and respect eachother, and to try to be models; adding, with another[227]flash, “I have been a model, but a mediocre one!” (“Yohe sido un modelo—pero mediano!”)

It all passed off very genially, with much drinking ofhealths. Huerta has a way of moving his hands andarms when he speaks, sometimes his whole body, withoutgiving any impression of animation; but those oldeyes look at any one he addresses in the concentratedmanner of the born leader. He had had a meeting ofmany of the big hacendados, to beg their moral supportin the national crisis, and I imagine their attitude hadbeen very satisfactory. They are to contribute, amongother things, one hundred and sixty horses to haul thenew cannon and field-pieces shortly coming from France.They are each to supply ten men, etc. He was wiseenough to ask them to do things they could do....

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

The stories of rebel excesses brought here, by refugeesfrom Durango, pass all description. It was the Constitucionalistasunder General Tomas Urbina who had thefirst “go” at the town, and it was the priests, especially,that suffered. The Jesuit and Carmelite churches werelooted, and when they got to the cathedral they hadthe finest little game of saqueo[11] imaginable, breakingopen the tombs of long-dead bishops and prying thedusty remains out with their bayonets, in the hunt forvaluables, after having rifled the sacristy of the holyvessels and priceless old vestments. The wife of therebel cabecilla wore, in her carriage (or, rather, in somebodyelse’s carriage), the velvet mantle taken from theVirgen del Carmen, in the cathedral. The priests can’teven get into the churches to say Mass, and their principal[228]occupation seems to be ringing the bells on the saint’sday of any little chieftain who happens to find himselfin Durango. The orgies that go on in the Governmenthouse are a combination of drunkenness, revelings withwomen of the town (who are decked out in the jewels andclothes of the former society women of Durango), breakingfurniture and window-panes, and brawlings. Theonce well-to-do people of the town go about in peonclothes; anything else would be stripped from them.This seems to be “constitutionalism” in its fullestMexican sense, and what crimes are committed in itsname! Heaps of handsome furniture, bronzes, pianos,and paintings, once the appurtenances of the upper-classhomes, fill the plaza, or are thrown on dust-heaps outsidethe town, too cumbersome to be handled by therebels and too far from the border to sell to the Texans,—towhom, I understand, much of the loot of Chihuahuagoes for absurd prices.

Back to Vera Cruz—Luncheon on the Chester—San Juan’s prison horrors—Teaon the Mayflower—The ministry of war and the commissarymethods—Torreon falls again?—Don Eduardo Iturbide.

Vera Cruz, March 21st.

N.’s sciatica is so bad that Dr. Fichtner told him toget to sea-level immediately. So last night weleft, Dr. Ryan coming with us. At the station wefound a guard of fifty of the crack Twenty-ninth Regimentto “protect” us, and a car placed at our disposalby Huerta. We had already arranged to go with Hohlerand Mr. Easton, who is the secretary of the Nationallines, in his private car, thinking we wouldn’t put thegovernment to the expense of one specially for us—though,as the government already owes some millionsto the railroads, a few hundreds more or less would makelittle difference. We were half an hour late, as we insistedupon having the government car put off; butthe fifty soldiers, with a nice young captain, sufferingfrom an acute attack of tonsilitis, we could not shake.

At Vera Cruz we found a norther blowing, and Iwas glad to have my tailor-made suits. Mr. Lindseemed not quite so well as before. I think eight monthsof Vera Cruz food and monotony have told on him, besidesthe evident failure of his policy. He feels dreadfullyabout the Creelman article. He cast one look ofsupreme chagrin at me when I mentioned Shanklin’s disgustat being quoted as having found Huerta in the[230]coulisses of a theater, with an actress on each knee,and with another hanging around his neck, feedinghim brandy. The truth being that Shanklin went topay his respects to him in his box at some charity representation,and found Huerta, mightily bored, sittingalone with two aides. The Lind thing is not so easy torefute. He did write the letter to the rebel, Medina, andhe has dreamed dreams, and sent them on to Washington.His policy is a dead failure, and I think its ghostwalks with him at night.

We lunched on the Chester with Captain Moffett, whois most discriminating about the whole situation, and,after an hour on the wind-swept deck, came back to thecar, where we found delightful, spontaneous CaptainMcDougall, of the Mayflower, come to ask us if wewouldn’t transfer our bags and ourselves and servantover to his ship. The annoying part of the whole tripis that Admiral Fletcher is in Mexico City. We did nottell any one of our coming down to Vera Cruz, nor didhe announce that he was coming up, with Mrs. Fletcherand his two daughters. However, it is simply one ofthose annoying contretemps for which there is no help.They went up by the “Interoceanic” route as we camedown by the “Mexican.” I would have returned myself,leaving N. on the Mayflower; but he feels that he mustcarry out the plan of returning to-morrow night, as hehas correspondence that he wants to show the admiral.

Sunday.

Last night we dined on the Essex, to which AdmiralCradock has transferred his flag, the Suffolk having goneto Bermuda for a new coat of paint and other furbishings.Admiral Cradock is always the same delightfulfriend and companion. I played bridge till a latehour, with the admiral, Hohler, and Captain Watson.[231]Watson has just come from Berlin, where for threeyears he was naval attaché. I saw many photographs ofold friends—the Granvilles, Sir Edward Goschen, theGrews, the Kaiser. After a rather uncertain trip back tothe shore, Hohler, Nelson, and myself threaded our wayalong the dark interstices of the Vera Cruz wharves andterminal tracks to the car—I, in long dress and thinslippers, bowed to the norte.

We can’t get out to the Florida, Captain Rush incommand, on account of the high sea. I went to Masswith Ryan in the cathedral, which they have painted ahideous, cold gray, with white trimmings, since I saw itlast. Then it had its belle patiné of pinkish-brown, thatshone like bronze in the setting sun, and it was beautifulat all hours. However, the winds and the storms andthe hot sun will again beautify man’s hideous work.

In the Car. Sunday Evening.

We had lunch for Admiral Cradock and several of hisstaff in the car, to which we had also asked CaptainMoffett and Captain McDougall—a rather “close,” butmerry company of nine officers and myself, in the littledining-room. After dinner we started out to San JuanUlua.

Monday, 10.30 A.M.

I am comfortably writing in my state-room. We arenot yet near Mexico City. My beloved volcanoes are alittle unradiant, a dusty veil hangs over everything. Itis often that way a month before the rains begin.

When we got to the station at seven, last night, wefound that the train, which, according to schedule, wasto leave at 7.20, had departed, with our private car andthe servants, at 6.55. The servants had begged atleast to have our car uncoupled, but no! You can imaginethe faces of the chargés who had to be in Mexico[232]City Monday morning. The upshot of it all was that alocomotive was finally got ready, sent to catch the trainand to bring back our car. After the telegraph andtelephone, the whole station, and the town, for thatmatter, were up on end, we got off at ten o’clock. If thecar had not come back, we intended to board a locomotiveand to chase the train through the tropicalnight. The locomotive we finally secured broke downlater on. On one of the steep, dark, flower-scentedinclines, strange, dusky silhouettes gathered silently towatch the repairing, which was finally accomplished inthe uncertain light of torch and lantern. Now we aredue at the city at 12.30, the locomotive, our car, the carcontaining the fifty soldiers, and the poor officer whohasn’t had even a drop of water since he left Mexico City,Friday night. We sent pillows and blankets out to himand 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 SanJuan. After lunch, Dr. Ryan, Captain McDougall, Dr.Hart, Mr. Easton, and I got into the Mayflower’s boatand were taken to the landing of that most miserable ofplaces. A strong wind was blowing from the purifyingsea, which must help, from October to April, at least, tokeep San Juan from being an unmitigated pest-hole. Itis a huge place, composed of buildings of different periods,from the Conquerors to Diaz, with intersectingcanals between great masses of masonry. To get to thecommandant’s quarters we were obliged to skirt thewater’s edge, where narrow slits of about three inches’width, in walls a meter and a half thick, lead into otherwiseunlighted and unaired dungeons. Human soundscame faintly from these apertures.

Entering through the portcullis, we found ourselves inthe big courtyard where the official life of the prison[233]goes on, overlooked by the apartments of the coloneland the closely guarded cells for big political prisoners.Good-conduct men, with bits of braid on one arm, solicitedus to buy the finely carved fruit-stones and cocoa-nuts.To us these represented monkeys, heads, and thelike; to the men that make them they represent sanityand occupation for the horrible hours—though God aloneknows how they work the fine and intricate patterns inthe semi-darkness of even the “best” dungeons.

Afterward we went up on the great parapets, thenorte blowing fiercely—I in my black Jeanne Halléhobble-skirt and a black tulle hat, as later we were togo to tea on the Mayflower. We walked over great, flatroofs of masonry in which were occasional square, barredholes. 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 thesalt air. But as we threw boxes of cigarettes into thefoul blackness there came vague, human groans andrumbling noises, and we could see, in the blackness, humanhands upstretched or the gleam of an eye. If above,in that strong norther, we could scarcely stand thestench that arose, what must it have been in thedepths below? About eight hundred men live in thoseholes.

When we got back to the central court, our heartssick with the knowledge of misery we could do nothing toalleviate, the prison afternoon meal was being served—coffee,watery bean soup, and a piece of bread. Oh, thepale, malaria-stricken Juans and Ramons and Josés thatanswered to the roll-call, carrying their tin cups anddishes, as they passed the great caldrons. They filedout, blinking and stumbling, before the armed sentinels,to return in a moment to the filthy darkness! CaptainMcDougall, a very human sort of person, tasted of the[234]coffee from one of their tin cups. He said it wasn’tbad, and he gave the men a friendly word and packagesof 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 libertybeing all that any one of them would ask. The prisonersare there for every crime imaginable, but many ofthe faces were sorrowful and fever-stamped, rather thanbrutal. All were apparently forgotten of Heaven andunconsidered of man. We also visited the little, wind-sweptcemetery, with its few graves. The eternal hottides wash in and out of the short, sandy stretch thatbounds it. About the only “healing” worked here iswhat the salt sea does to the poor bodies raked out ofthose prison holes. There is a stone to mark the placewhere some of our men were buried when they took thefortress in 1847. Dr. Ryan discovered a foot in a goodAmerican boot—evidently the remains of an individualrecently eaten by a shark.

That fortress has been the home of generations ofhorrors, and there is no one in God’s world to breakthrough that oozing masonry and alleviate the sufferingit conceals. It was one of the cries of Madero to openup the prison, but he came, and passed, and San JuanUlua persists. I haven’t described one-tenth of thehorrors. I know there must be prisons and there must beabuses in all communities; but this pest-hole at the entranceto the great harbor where our ships lie within astone’s-throw seems incredible.

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

[235]

March 24th.

I am sitting in the motor, jotting this down in theshade of some trees by the beautiful Alameda, waitingfor N. to finish at the Foreign Office. Afterward he goesto “Guerra” and I to shop.

Yesterday afternoon, on our return from Vera Cruz,N. dashed to the telephone and communicated with theFletchers. They came to tea at four. Later Nelsonwent out with the admiral, and I drove to San Angelwith Mrs. Fletcher and her two pretty daughters. Sheis most agreeable. Her appreciation of the sunset on thevolcanoes, which were in their most splendid array forthe occasion, was all my heart could have asked. Theyreturn to Vera Cruz to-night.

I am feeling very fit, after a good night’s rest; the airenvelops me like a luminous wrap, and the sun is softlypenetrating.

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

The War Ministry is just off the Zocalo, in one side ofthe great, square building of the Palacio Nacional.From where I am sitting I see the soft, pink towers ofthe cathedral, in their lacy outlines. On the left is theMuseo Nacional—a beautiful old building of the pink,tezontle stone the Spaniards used to such effect in theirbuildings. It contains all the Aztec treasures still remainingafter centuries of destruction, and has a cozy,sun-warmed patio where the sacrificial altars and thelarger pieces are grouped. Most of them were found inthe very site of the cathedral, which replaced the teocalliof the Aztecs—the first thing the Spaniards destroyed,to rear on its site the beautiful cathedral. I am surroundedby an increasing crowd of beggars, drawn by a[236]few indiscreet centavos given to an old Indian woman,who too loudly blessed me; cries of “Niña, por el amorde Dios!” and “Niña, por la Santa Madre de Dios!” makeme feel that I would better move on. The name of Godis invoked so unceasingly by the beggars here that theword pordiosero (for-Godsaker, beggar,) has passed intothe language.

At Home, before Lunch.

N. came out of Guerra, having met in the corridor theimmensely tall Colonel Cardenas, the best shot in Mexico.He is supposed to know just how Madero’s mortalcoil was hustled off. He was in command of thesquad transporting him and Pino Suarez from the Palacioto the Penitenciaría when they were shot. We then wentto the third side of the Palacio Nacional, where the zapadoresbarracks is, to see how the officer of the Twenty-ninth,who went down with us to Vera Cruz, is gettingon. It was very interesting, at twelve o’clock, to watchthe various persons who bring food into the barracks.The guards search them all—men, women, and children—bypassing their hands down their sides. The prettieryoung women get pinches or pokes anywhere the guardhappens to fancy bestowing them, and they all give littlesqueals and jumps, sometimes annoyed, sometimespleased. They bring in great baskets of tortillas, enchiladas,frijoles, fruits, etc. The men in the barracks areabsolutely dependent on them for food, as there is noother 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. Ifound it most amusing. Finally the young captain himselfcame out to thank us and to tell us he was almostwell—with an expectant look on his pale face. Hewants N. to have him made a major. Why not,when every officer seems to have been promoted—a[237]clever trick of Huerta’s. He has made several extragrades at the top to give himself room. He will needspace for manœuvers of an army largely composed ofhigher officers. He is going to get the interior loan offifty millions, with the guarantee of the Paris loan....The Austro-Hungarian minister has just come to askme to go out to San Angel with him, so adieu.

March 25th.

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

Kanya de Kanya was with Count Aerenthal during hisfour years in Vienna, as Minister for Foreign Affairs, andduring that time made copious notes relating to theburning 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 inorder, though he can’t publish them until a lot morewater has flowed under the Austro-Hungarian mill.

I got home in time to sit with Aunt Laura awhile beforedressing for dinner, for which I was expectingHohler. The meal was somewhat unquiet. One of thenewspaper men called up to say that Torreon had fallen,and gave a few convincing details, such as that of Velasco’slife being spared. The fifty-million-dollar loanreceded into the dim distance. We immediately picturedto ourselves the pillaging, ravishing hordes ofVilla—the “human tiger,” as some of our newspapersmildly put it—falling down upon Mexico City, thepeaceful. Nelson ordered the motor, and he and Hohlerwent out, as soon as dinner was over, to get some newsat the War Department. A big fight, we know, is goingon. As I write, brother is killing and mutilating brother,[238]in the fertile laguna district, and horrors unspeakable aretaking 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 twomonths for his men. He also is supposed to be honest,and if he does feed his men, instead of putting the moneyin some bank in the States (if they would all feed theirmen, instead of asking worn, empty-stomached men todo the work), he may, perhaps, proceed toward victory.The corruption of the officers is what nullifies the workof the army, and Huerta says he is powerless against it.Any man he might court-martial is sure of the supportof the United States. In order to remain faithful thetroops only ask enough food to keep life in their bodiesduring 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 arelet out in the morning, makes one fairly sick. A freehand at loot and a full stomach on food belonging tosomebody else are naturally irresistible when the chancecomes.

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

Mexico has declined, upon good international law, totake upon herself the board bill (now amounting to hundredsof thousands in gold) for the interned refugeesat Fort Bliss. We wonder how long Uncle Sam will feellike playing host? This situation, among many tragicones growing out of our policy, is the only thing thatcalls an unrestrained grin to the face—a grin at UncleSam’s expense.

March 27th. Morning.

I am sitting in the motor in Chapultepec Park, underthe shade of a great cypress, while N. converses with the[239]Dictator in his motor down the avenue. All sorts ofbirds are singing, and a wonderful little humming-bird(chupamirtos, the Indians call them) is so near I can hearit “hum.” Elim is running over the green grass with hisbutterfly-net. I am thinking, “Sweet day, so soft, socool, so bright.” This seems the city of peace. In thenorth the great combat continues. The rebels use almostexclusively expansive bullets, which give no chanceto the wounded. Huerta, whom Nelson saw last night,is calm and imperturbable. His loan of 50,000,000 pesosis an accomplished fact. This won’t suit Washington.

Nelson was speaking this morning of the famous interviewbetween Lind, Gamboa (then Minister for ForeignAffairs), and himself—that interview which has now becomepart of history. Lind has a characteristic gesture—thatof tapping with his right hand on his leftwrist. With this gesture to emphasize his wordshe said to Gamboa, “Three things we can do if Huertadoes not resign: First, use the financial boycott.” (Thishas been done.) “Second, recognize the rebels.” (Thishas been done to the fullest extent by raising the embargo,giving them full moral support and being readyto give them financial aid with the slightest co-operationand decency on their part). “Third, intervene.”

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

If, by any remote chance, the rebels should get here,what desecrations, what violations of Mexico City—thepeaceful, 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[240]smart in his khaki riding-clothes with a touch of goldbraid. He is an erect, light-haired, straight-featuredAnglo-Saxon-looking man. He had just returned from atour of inspection in Hidalgo; had ridden through thestate with a couple of aides, and had found everythingmost peaceful. I asked, of course, if there was any newsfrom the north; but everywhere wire and communicationof any kind is cut, and no one knows. EduardoIturbide (he is spoken of as governor of the Federal districtto succeed Corona), also came up to speak to me.A lot of people were waiting to see Huerta, but henever hurries. After he had seen Rincon Gaillardo andNelson, he went away, ignoring discomfited occupants ofhalf a dozen motors.

Iturbide always says he has no political talents, butit was inevitable that he be drawn into events here. Hewould give prestige and dignity to any office. There isa description of the Emperor Augustin Iturbide, “brave,active, handsome, in the prime of life,” that entirely appliesto him. I wonder, sometimes, if Don Eduardo’sfate may not be as tragic as that of the man whose namehe bears. The ingredients of tragedy are never missingfrom any Mexican political situation. The only variationlies in the way they are mixed. What I call Mexicanmagic has a way of arresting judgment. One neverthinks a thing will happen here until it has happened—notthough a thousand analogous situations have workedthemselves out to their inevitable, tragic end. It wasDon Eduardo who made to me the profound and tragedy-pointingremark, “We understand you better than youunderstand us.”[12]

[241]

Huerta keeps very calm, these days, Nelson says; nonerves there while waiting for news. I suppose he knowsjust how bad his men are, and also the very indefinitequality of the rebels. He talked of two years’ work beingnecessary for pacification, and then of going to livein Washington, to prove that he is neither a wild Indiannor a brigand. He is very pleased to get his loan; themoney is here, and he has known how to get hold of it.

At the outset Huerta was surrounded by experiencedand responsible men, but when it became generally understoodthat the United States would not recognize hisgovernment, intrigues were started against him, and hewas 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 withblood. It is awful to think such things can exist, evenin imagination. N. has protested to the Federalauthorities.

March 28th.

This morning the newspapers give the “sad” newsthat Carranza seems to be lost in the desert—the mountainlost on its way to Mohammed! General Aquevedo,who knows that country as he knows his pocket, is supposedto be after him with 1,200 men. I don’t thinkVilla would weep other than crocodile tears if anythinghappened to Carranza; but what would Washington do[242]without that noble old man to bear the banner of Constitutionalism?“One year of Bryan makes the wholeworld grin!” The idealization of a pettifogging old lawyer(licenciado), who had already laid his plans to turnagainst Madero, and the sanctification of a bloodthirstybandit, might well make the whole world grin, if theagony of a people were not involved.

I went with Dr. Ryan, this morning, to visit the GeneralHospital. It is a magnificent establishment, modeledon the General Hospital in Paris, with completeelectrical, 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 isthat it is only about a third full. The leva (press-gang)always rakes in a lot of men here. They hang about thehandsome doors and grab the dismissed patients, whichmakes the poor wretches prefer to suffer and die in theirnameless holes.

On returning, I went down to the Palacio Nacionalwith N., who was on a still hunt for the President. Thearms are not yet in the Embassy. As I was sitting in themotor with Elim, the French chargé got out of his motorwith Captain de Bertier, the French military attachéjust arrived from Washington, and looking very smartin his spick-and-span uniform, ready for his officialpresentation to Huerta. They had their appointmentfor twelve, which had already struck, but the Presidentwas not there, having departed to Popotla. Huertaworks along his own lines, and a missed appointment islittle to him.

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

[243]

March 28th. 11.30 P.M.

At last news is in from the north (by the AssociatedPress), from Gomez Palacio and Ciudad Juarez. Twotrain-loads of rebel wounded had arrived, and Villa hadhastily telegraphed for more hospital supplies, thoughhe had taken with him an enormous quantity. At theend of five days’ continuous fighting the rebels hadfailed to make any break in the almost impregnable defensesof Torreon and Gomez Palacio. Wounded trooperssay that by order of Villa they charged into almostcertain death at Gomez Palacio, bringing upon themselvesthe heavy cannonading from the Federal guns;that they were deliberately sacrificed in order that otherforces might be able to attack the town at other pointswithout encountering much resistance. And there arestrange rumors of Villa’s succumbing to temptation fromthe “movie” men, and holding the attack back till daybreak!It is terrible to contemplate the slaughter ofunquestioning and innocent Pepes and Juans. I burnto go with the hospital service. There will be terribleneed on both sides, and a wounded man is neither rebelnor Federal.

This is largely an agrarian revolution, and Huerta wasthe first to realize it. He says that everybody hasmade 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 thisis not a question of taking sides, but of stating facts.

The invitation of the United States to Huerta toattend the Hague Conference has been solemnly acceptedby him; now international jurists are called onto decide if the very sending of the invitation does notimply technical recognition. It is one of those slipswhich occasionally happen, and Huerta is too astute tolet that, or any other opportunity, pass where he can[244]score against the United States. Things being equal, hecould rouler Washington as it has never been rouléd before;but things aren’t equal, and he can only showimmense courage, sustained indifference, and indomitablewill in whatever may come up. Just now more andmore troops are being rushed to the north.

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

News from the north is more encouraging, but a horriblestruggle is going on. Elim and I went with Nelsonto Chapultepec. Though the park is no longer crowdedin the morning, as in the old days, the band having disappeared,with a lot of other things, there is still muchstrolling about the cypress-shaded alleys. A shiningfreshness filters through the old trees, the birds sing, thechildren play. Its beauty makes one’s heart both gladand sick. As we expected, we found the Presidentsitting in his motor, which was surrounded by halfa dozen others full of petitioners of all sorts. GeneralCorral, in his khaki, came up to salute me and tosay good-by. He had just taken leave of the Presidentand was on his way to the station, whence he was startingto the north with 2,000 men. I pressed his handand wished him Godspeed; but he may never againstand under those trees with a smile on his face and hopein his heart.

The President got out of his auto and I out of ours,and we had a talk, I presenting Elim. Huerta really isa charming old fellow! I told him I was anxious to goto Saltillo with the Cruz Roja. He said, “There will bework to do here in town, and I will make you head of[245]the International League. You are very kind!” (“Vd. esmuy buena, Señora.”) And he pressed my hand withthose small, velvety paws of his. He has discarded theslouch-hat and now wears with his long, loose frock-coata top-hat—(“que da mas dignidad”) “for the sake ofdignity,” he said, when Nelson told him he was “verystunning.”

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 ofbaggage-cars, with fresh straw covering the floors; otherbaggage-cars containing army women, with their smallchildren, babes at the breast, and the bigger children,who may be of service. Infants between two and ten areleft behind. There is a good deal of heterogeneous impedimenta.Having no homes, these women are wontto take all their possessions with them—bird-cages,goats, old oil-cans, filled with Heaven knows what. Thesoldiers were laughing and joking, and the venders offruits, highly colored bonbons, and still more highly coloredsweet drinks, were having a busy time. The sunwas terribly hot, so we came away, I with a prayer in myheart 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. Imyself telegraphed to Admiral Fletcher, asking that abox of hospital stores, bandages, cotton, iodine, adhesivetape, and bichloride tablets be sent up by the officerwho is coming up to stay with us. Dr. Ryan canget off to-morrow afternoon. There is work, muchwork, to do, and I am sick that “my position” preventsme from going with him. My hands are tremblingfor work.

As to news, everybody in town is pleased, Huertistas[246]and Villistas alike. The former have had word of completevictory—and the latter hears that the rebel forceshad taken every gate in Torreon and that the Federalswere in full retreat!

Congress meets without the United States representative—Huertamakes his “profession of faith”—Exit Mr. Lind—Ryan leaves forthe front—French and German military attachés—The Jockey Club.

April 1st. Morning.

Yesterday Lieutenant Courts (one of AdmiralFletcher’s flag lieutenants) arrived for an indefinitetime. He is a shrewd and capable young officer, readyto study the situation intelligently and dispassionately.The big house is again full.

Yesterday we lunched at the German Legation. Theluncheon was given for the French military attaché,Count de Bertier de Sauvigny, and the German, Herr vonPapen, both from Washington for a few weeks. TheSimons were there, the von Hillers, and various others,everybody trying to enlighten the two new arrivals as tola situación. Both find themselves in a position requiringsome tact and agility to keep their seats—à chevalas they are between Washington and Mexico City.Von Hintze has never cared for Huerta. Occasionally,very occasionally, he has given him grudging praise; buta man of von Hintze’s fastidiousness would always findhimself fluide contraire to a man of just Huerta’s defects—defectswhich, I have sometimes argued with vonHintze, become qualities in Mexico. All came to teawith me later. De Bertier is a very handsome man, ofthe tall, distinguished, fine-featured Gallic type; von[248]Papen, with a pleasant and inquiring smile, is the quintessenceof the Teuton, his square head and every facebone in relief against the Mexican amalgam type myeyes are accustomed to.

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

In the evening Hay and Courts and H. Walker andRyan dined with us, all staying late. Dr. Ryan fears hecan’t get up to Torreon. The road between Montereyand Saltillo was blown up the night before last, and it isuseless to try to get through that desert afoot or onhorseback.

Later.

I went out to Chapultepec with N. and Courts. Iwanted to show Courts the administrative tableau set inthe morning beauty of the park, and N. had urgentbusiness with the President. There was the usual arrayof autos there, the President in his own, talking withde 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 IgnacioAlgara, brother of the Mexican chargé in Washington.They were going to have a sandwich, andasked Courts and me to go into the restaurant, whichwe did. N. appeared a few minutes later, the Presidentwith him. The much-advertised copitas were immediatelyserved, the President scarcely touching his glass.After much badinage between Huerta and N. the jeunessedorée looking on rather embarrassed, Huerta departed,with an obeisance to me, and a large, circular gestureto the others. He had a telegram from Ciudad Porfirio[249]Diaz, telling of immense losses of the rebels andof the Federals still holding their ground—which mayor may not be true. The little story I paste here is indicativeof Mexicans in general, and of the situation inparticular:

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

April 2d.

Congress reopened yesterday. Huerta showed someemotion when, in the morning, Nelson informed himthat he could not be present. In the same room thatsaw its dissolution, the same old Indian, in a business-likespeech that would do credit to any ruler, briefly outlinedto Congress the work of government, pending detailedreports by the departments. There is a tragicnote in the fact that this persecuted government, in themidst of all its anxieties, can discuss such matters asthe subterranean hydrology of the plateau, and the sendingof delegates to the electro-technic congress, in Berlin.Huerta wound up his speech with these solemn andstirring words:

“Before I leave this hall I must engrave upon yourhearts this, my purpose, which on another occasion Icommunicated to the National Assembly in the mostexplicit manner—the peace of the republic. If, in orderto secure it, the sacrifice of you and of me becomes indispensable,know, once for all, that you and I shall knowhow to sacrifice ourselves. This is my purpose, my professionof political faith.”

There was immense applause. But his task seemssuperhuman. To fight the rebels and the United Statesis not simply difficult—it is impossible.

[250]

April 2d. Evening.

Villa talks freely about his plan when he triumphs:first and foremost, it is to execute Huerta and his wholepolitical family, on the principle that the first duty of a“Mexican executive is to execute”; then to set up adictatorship 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 thetragic scene Don Juan Lindo (I sometimes feel like callinghim Don Juan Blindo), who commenced life in aScandinavian town as Jon Lind, and who has ended bydreaming northern dreams in Vera Cruz, in the hour ofMexico’s agony. My heart is unspeakably bewilderedat this trick of fate; and, too, he would have long sinceprecipitated us into war had it not been for the shrewdcommon sense and trained knowledge of the gifted manat the head of the fleet in Vera Cruz....

A hot indignation invades me as Mr. Lind dropsout of the most disastrous chapter of Mexican historyand returns to Minnesota. (Oh, what a far cry!) Uponhis hands the blood of those killed with the weaponsof the raising of the embargo—those weapons that, insome day and hour unknown to us, must inevitably beturned against their donors. It is all as certain asdeath, though there are many who refuse to look eventhat fact in the face.

I am not keen about the confidential agent system,anyway. With more standing in the community thanspies, and much less information, they are in an unrivaledposition to mislead (wittingly or unwittingly is a detail)any one who depends on them for information. Aproposof Mr. Lind, one of the foreigners here said it was as ifWashington kept a Frenchman in San Francisco to informthem concerning our Japanese relations. For somestrange reason, any information delivered by confidential[251]agents, is generally swallowed, hook and all, butunfortunately, the mere designating of them does notbestow upon them any sacramental grace.

April 5th.

Domingo de Ramos (Palm Sunday), with soft wind andwarm sun. The palms were blessed at the nine-o’clockMass in the cathedral. The great pillars of the churchwere hung with purple; thousands of palms were wavingfrom devout hands, the hands of beggars and the richalike, and there was some good Gregorian music, insteadof the generally rather florid compositions. Nearwhere I knelt was a paralyzed Indian girl, crawling alongon the most beautiful hands I have ever seen. Her Calvaryis constant.

Wonderful palm plaitings, of all shapes and patterns,are offered by the Indians as one enters the church. Ibought a beautiful sort of Greek-cross design, with silverygrasses depending from it. It now hangs over mybed.

We hear that the Bishop of Chilapa is held by Zapatafor a big ransom. As all the well-to-do families haveeither fled from that part of the country or been robbedof all they had, the ransom may not be paid. There isa threat to crucify him on Good Friday, if it is not forthcoming,but I hardly think he is in danger, as such an actwould certainly be thought to bring a curse upon thepeople and the place. This is the second time he hasbeen made prisoner. He was rescued by Federal soldiersonly 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 navalofficer up from the Essex, who is supposed to be trainingthe British colony volunteers), Lady C., von Papen, and[252]ourselves; de Bertier, the French military attaché, didnot materialize. They think, apropos of Torreon (“thekey of the south,” for the rebels; “the key of the north,”for the Federals), that the Federals may have been obligedto evacuate it and are now fighting to get it back.Any one seems able to take Torreon, and no one seemsable to hold it.

Tuesday Evening.

At two o’clock Dr. Ryan left for the front, von Papenwith him. Ryan has learned to travel light, but vonPapen took a lot of impedimenta—eating-utensils, uniform,blanket, pungaree hat, etc. He will drop his possessions,one by one, as—after Saltillo, which theyshould reach to-morrow night—they may be on horseback,or afoot. I was deeply touched to see Dr. Ryan gooff. I made the sign of the cross on his shoulder[13] andcommended him to Heaven as we stood at the gateunder the brilliant sky. He is so pleased to be takingall those stores with him—enough for two hundred andfifty or three hundred dressings, not including the othermaterials.

I received calls all afternoon. At four the two handsomeGarcia Pimentel sisters came—Lola Riba andRafaela Bernal. At five the Japanese minister broughthis wife for her first formal call. They are cultivatedpeople, with the quality that makes one feel theyare used to the best at home. I made conversation tillsix, when Clarence Hay saved my life. At seven, just asI 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[253]settle in the Embassy dove-cote to-night—about a tonof them already here.

Wednesday Morning. April 8th.

A Federal officer, Colonel Arce, got in from Torreonlast night. He says that on Friday, the third, it was stillin the hands of the Federals. Chieftain Urbina, a notoriousrebel, had been captured and forced, with otherRevolutionists, to parade the streets of Torreon, betweena detachment of Federal troops. Then he wassummarily executed in the presence of an immensecrowd. The railway lines are open between San Pedroand Saltillo, and on to Mexico City. Unless they areagain blown up, Dr. Ryan and von Papen will be ableto 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 isworth. One thing we know: the carnage is going on.

The story just now is that General Velasco, the verycompetent Federal in command of Torreon, voluntarilyevacuated, took his army and his field-guns to the hillsabove Torreon, with non-combatants and women andchildren, cut the water-supply, and is now waiting ordersfrom Huerta to bombard the town. He, of course, hasplenty of water where he is; but Torreon dry must be athing of horror. This story agrees with a good deal wehave been hearing. If true, it will really be a great coupon 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, arefaithful in the discharge of their duties. In this city ofpeace, how contrasting the tales of sacrilege in the rebelterritory! Five priests were killed and three held forransom in Tamaulipas, last month; a convent wassacked and burned and the nuns were outraged; a[254]cathedral was looted, the rebels getting off with the oldSpanish gold and silver utensils. What kind of adultswill develop out of the children to whom the desecrationof churches and the outraging of women are ordinarysights; who, in tender years, see the streets red withblood, and property arbitrarily passing into the hands ofthose momentarily in power? The children seem thepity of it, and it is a bitter fruit the next generation willbear. 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 usedto be the most gorgeous religious processions; but evennow, with all that splendor in abeyance, there remainssomething that is unsuppressed and unsuppressable. To-daythe population has streamed in and out of thechurches and visited the repositories (with their blaze oflight and bankings of orange-trees, roses, and lilies, andcountless varieties of beautiful palms), with all the ardorof the old days. No restrictions can prevent the Indianfrom being supremely picturesque at the slightest opportunity.

I went, as usual, to San Felipe, named after the Mexicansaint who, in the sixteenth century, found martyrdomin Japan. It is just opposite the Jockey Club.Outside the zaguan, on the chairs generally placed onthe pavement for the members, were sitting variousmales of the smart set. All, without exception (I think Icould put my hand in the fire for them), had been toMass; which, however, didn’t prevent their usual closescrutiny of the small, beautiful feet of the passing Mexicanwomen; two and one-half C is the usual size of aMexicana’s shoes.

This Casa de los Azujelos, where the Jockey Club hashad its being for generations, is a most lovely old house.It is covered with beautiful blue-and-white Puebla tiles,[255]appliquéd by an extravagant and æsthetic Mexican inthe seventeenth century, and is perfectly preserved, inspite of the many kinds of revolucionarios who havesurged up the Avenida San Francisco, which, with thePaseo, forms the thoroughfare between the Palacio andChapultepec. The men of the club play high and thereare stories of fabulous losses, as well as of occasionalshootings to death. It is the chic, aristocratic club ofMexico, the last and inviolable retreat of husbands. Anybodywho 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; armyreorganized, and it is now attacking Torreon, and willsurely take it back.” He and von Papen got as far asSaltillo by rail. There, communications had been cut.There had been a big encounter at San Pedro de lasColonias, and I hope that even as I write faithful Ryanis proceeding with his work of mercy among the wounded.

There was a meeting at the Embassy to-day, to discussways and means of defense among the Americans if anythinghappens in the city. Von Hintze and von Papenhave tried to do some organizing among their colony.The Japanese have long since had carte blanche from thegovernment in the way of ammunition and marines fromtheir ships at Manzanillo. Sir Christopher, some time ago,sent Lieutenant Strawbensie up from Vera Cruz, to teachthe English colony a few rudiments—and the Frenchhave also had a naval officer here for several weeks.

Last night, it appears, the boat taking 480,000 pesosto the north coast to pay the troops was captured by[256]rebels. “Juan and José” always come out at the littleend of the horn. There are immense geographical difficultiesin the way of transporting money to the armyin the north, over mountain chains and deserts, besides thestrategic difficulty of getting it to the proper placewithout the rebels or bandits seizing it. After that,there is the further possibility of the officers putting it intheir 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 arealways hungry, no matter what are the intentions anddesires of the central government.

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

The clever editor of the Mexican Herald remarks,apropos of the Presidential message of last week: “Ouridea of a smart thing for Carranza to do would be toread President Huerta’s message to Villa. The array ofthings a President has to worry about, besides war andconfiscation, are enough to remove the glamour.”

All Villa knows about revenue is embodied in theword loot. Even in this fertile land, where every mountainis oozing with gold, silver, and copper, and everyseed committed to the earth is ready to spring up ahundredfold, he who neglects to plant and dig can’treap or garner. The whole north is one vast devastationand invitation to the specters of famine.

Good Friday—Mexican toys with symbolic sounds—“The Tampicoincident”—Sabado de Gloria and Easter—An international photograph—Thelast reception at Chapultepec.

Viernes Santo Afternoon.

As I came home from church this morning the sacredday seemed to be a day of noise. The Indians werebusy in their booths along the Alameda. Thousands ofsmall, wooden carts are bought by thousands of smallboys and girls; metracas, they are called, and so constructedthat, in addition to the usual noise, every revolutionof the wheels makes a sound like the breaking ofwood. This noise is supposed to typify the breaking ofthe bones of Judas. There are also appalling tin objects,like nutmeg-graters, that revolve on sticks, with thesame symbolic sound. Little boys and girls outside thechurches 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 heartsomewhat perturbed by earthly happenings that I againwent to the cathedral, at three o’clock. At the doorsthe little venders of the holy words were as insistent asever. Thousands were filing in and out, going up withwhatever burden of babe or bundle they happened to becarrying, to kiss the great cross laid on the steps of thehigh altar. I bethought me of last Good Friday inRome, and of hearing Father Benson preach the “ThreeHours” at San Sylvestro.

[258]

April 10th. Good Friday Night.

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

This morning N. was informed, through the ForeignOffice, of something referred to as “the Tampico incident.”The Foreign Office was decidedly in the air aboutit. 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 findHuerta. Potential war lies in any incident here. He wasaway all the afternoon, hunting Huerta, but only foundhim at six o’clock. Huerta’s written answer was in theusual clever, Latin-American manner; his verbal remarkson 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 lightand heat.”

...

The final touch was put on the nerves of everybodyby Elim’s dragging his metraca about the halls. Withhowls of protestation he was separated from it.

...

N. said he might possibly have arranged the matterexcept for the little Sub-Secretary, who had never met thePresident before, and who wanted, all during the interview,to prove he was very much of a man. Portillo yRojas is away for the Easter holidays. At the President’sdoor a big, sullen Indian told N. he could not seethe President, who was taking a siesta. As N. could notentirely follow the injunction about sleeping dogs, hecompromised on a little tour, returning to find thePresident about to get into his motor. He asked N.to come with him, which N. did, sitting by his side, the[259]secretary facing them on the strapontin. N. told thePresident he had something “very delicate” (“un asuntomuy delicado”) to speak to him about. The Presidentmade one of his waving gestures, and the ball opened.Huerta said he would apologize for “the Tampicoincident.” N. indicated that his government wouldnot consider that sufficient. Huerta asked, squarely:“What do you want?” N. answered, “The salutes,”saying he might arrange the matter quietly, givingthe salutes some morning at sunrise, for instance. ThePresident began to ponder the matter; whereupon thesecretary, thinking his chance had come, broke in uponthe silence with the remark that it would be derogatoryto the national honor to salute, and that there was noguarantee that the salutes would be returned, thatMexico’s sovereignty was in question, and the like.The President immediately stiffened up.—So can a nobodyturn a nation’s destinies!

...

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

It is now ten o’clock; the answer of Huerta has beensent off to the State Department and to Admiral Fletcher.Many newspaper men have interviewed Nelson, and hehas gone up-stairs. These days of delicate negotiations—whena word too much or a word too little would maketrouble—are wearying, to say the least. But so is famemade.... It seemed to me the only thing I didn’t doto-day was to buy an imitation devil, also representingJudas, of which thousands in clay, in cardboard, in everyconceivable form, are offered on every street corner.

[260]

Sabado de Gloria.

To-day the papier-maché “Judases” were burned, onthe street corners, to the great joy of children andadults, while cannon and torpedoes and firecrackers ofall kinds made things rather noisy. I remembered againthe 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 Tampicoincident. The “Old Man” is recalcitrant and feels thatthe public apology by General Zaragoza should besufficient. 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 wasthis pleasing caption, “I may say, I am most annoyed;and if you do not immediately reform, I hesitate to saywhat 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 Mexicanswho, these last days, have spilled their life’s bloodfor reasons unknown to them. The Sub-Secretary forForeign Affairs spent the night hour from two to threewith Nelson. The Mexican government does not wantto salute the flag, though, of course, it will have to yieldto our demand. Fighting continues at Tampico. TheAmerican war-ships are crowded with unfortunate refugees,and there is increasing animosity against theAmericans. General Zaragoza has expressed official regretat the arrest, but the salute to the flag has beenpostponed.

Nelson has already been twice to the Foreign Office.He told the sub-secretary to tell the President the salutemust be given. He has looked up precedents in theinternational-law books at the Embassy, to soothe their[261]feelings, their cultura and bizarría. If the sub-secretarysays that Huerta still persists in refusing, N. is goingto try a personal appeal. It is a salute or intervention,I suppose.

It appears that Mr. Bryan has said he can see noreason why the Mexican government should not “cheerfullysalute,” and “that doubtless the church holidayshave interfered with the transaction of business.” Is itthe end, or not? Quién sabe?

April 12th. 5 P.M.

A written reply, very clever indeed, was received atone 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 ata part of the town then in the military zone, and withoutpermission; that fighting was going on at the time;that the city was under martial law. The men had beensent in to get gasoline for the ship with the paymaster(usually it is only a petty officer who accompanies themen on such errands). The reply ends with an acuerdoespecial (especial message) from Huerta to the effect thathe could not comply with the United States’ demandswithout wounding Mexico’s national honor and dignityand infringing on her sovereignty, which he is ready todefend at all times and in all ways. Now what are wegoing to do? The clerks have been working like madall day, and endless cables have gone out of the Embassy.Nelson says he will not go to Huerta, though when wepassed Chapultepec restaurant, coming from the ReformaClub near by, where we had been lunching, hesaw the President’s motor, and got out of our car andstrolled through the restaurant, to give Huerta a chanceto speak, if he was so minded, without seeking himout. However, Huerta was dining with the officers ofthe rural guard, and Nelson left immediately. Huerta[262]had been at the automobile races all the morning, we,in our Anglo-Saxon preoccupation, having, of course, forgottenabout them. The situation is again very tense;again war and destruction loom up—a specter to us, aswell as to this strange Indian republic that we are tryingto mold to our image and likeness.

Nelson has told all newspaper men that he gives noinformation to any one; that he is a “dry spring,” andthat 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 cableswere delayed until Nelson went to the office and madehis arrangements.

The white pony and the Mexican saddle that thePresident has asked to present to Elim, fortunately, havenot appeared. You can imagine the juicy dish of newsthat gift would make at home! Refusal or acceptancewould be equally delicate.

April 13th. Evening.

No news has come. I wonder what they did in Tampicoat six o’clock. A very insistent note has come fromthe Foreign Office, recounting, I think for the first time,Mexico’s many grievances against us—troubles causedby the raising of the embargo and the consequentsupplying of arms to the rebels; claiming the Federals’right to conduct the fight at Tampico any way they seefit; saying that they will tolerate no interference in theirnational affairs, etc. We, having armed the rebels, canhardly take exception to the Federals’ defending themselves.They insist that the whaleboat of the Dolphinwas on forbidden territory when the men were arrested,but the statement is not official. Washington is to-dayeither finding a way out of the affair or looking into thegrim, cold eyes of intervention.

I had an Easter-egg hunt in the garden, for Elim, at[263]which nine little darlings assisted. Then we had tea,with many flashes of Spanish wit. All the foreign childrenhere prefer to speak Spanish. The mothers and otherladies left at six, after which the French military attaché,de Bertier, and Letellier, came in, and we talked Mexicanatill eight. De Bertier said this was the second mostinteresting situation he had ever watched. The first wasthe beginning of the French power in Morocco—thatclear flame of French civilization, at first trembling anduncertain, 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 complicatedin Mexico, where a salade of races is involved.

April 14th. 2 P.M.

This morning, like so many mornings here, had its ownspecial color. Nelson had not seen Huerta since theinterview on Friday night, about the saluting of theflag. We drove out to Chapultepec, where, before therestaurant steps, the usual petit lever was being held—generals,Cabinet Ministers, and other officials. Nelsonwent over to the President, while the motor, withClarence Hay and myself in it, retreated out of the blazingsun under the shade of some convenient and beautifulahuehuetes. From afar we saw the President get outof his motor and Nelson go up to him; then both walkedup the broad stairs of the restaurant. In a few minutesRamon Corona, now chief of staff, walked quickly overto our motor.

“I come from the President to ask you to go to thefiesta militar in the Pereda cuartel,” he said. ThePresident took Nelson in his motor, I following in ours,with Corona. Hay vanished from the somewhat complicatedsituation. I got to the barracks to find that we[264]were the only foreigners, and I the only lady on theraised dais (where generals and Cabinet Ministers wereeven thicker than at Chapultepec), to watch the variousexercises the well-trained gendarme corps gave for thePresident. They are for the moment without horses, thelack of which is a great problem here. We watched thevarious steps, drills, and exercises for a couple of hourswith great interest, I sitting between Corona and charmingyoung Eduardo Iturbide, the present governor of theFederal district. It is wonderful what those Indiansdid, having been gathered in only during the last month.I told one or two little stories of things I had seen inBerlin and Rome. You remember how the raw recruitsused to pass Alsenstrasse on the way to those bigbarracks, just over the Spree—great, hulking, awkward,ignorant peasants who after six weeks couldstand straight, look an officer in the eye, and answer“Yes” or “No” to a question. The Italian storywas one once told me by a lieutenant who had beendrilling 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 anotherman, who responded, promptly, “The Pope.” The officer,much encouraged, asked further, “What is hisname?” “Victor Emmanuele,” was the unhappy response.This last story especially appealed to the officers.They told me their greatest difficulty is to get anykind of mental concentration from the Indians.

The exercises finally came to an end, with the PoliceBand—one of the finest I have ever heard—playing thewaltz time of “Bachimba,” composed in honor of Huerta’sgreat victory when fighting for Madero againstOrozco. Huerta gave me his arm and we went in to anelaborate collation—champagne, cold patés, and sweets—I[265]sitting on the President’s right. Huerta then madea speech that seemed as if it might have come from thelips of Emperor William, on the necessity of discipline,and the great results therefrom to the country. He saidthat when the country was pacified the almost countlessthousands of the army would, he hoped, return to thefields, the mines, the factories, stronger and better able tofight the battle of life for having been trained to obedience,concentration, and understanding. When the speechwas over, and all the healths had been drunk (mine comingfirst!), the President gave the sign and I turned toleave. We were standing in the middle of the flower-ladenhorseshoe table, and I moved to go out by theside I had come in. He stopped me.

“No, señora,” he said, “never take the road back—alwaysonward. Adelante.”

Repeating, “Adelante,” I took the indicated way.As we went down the steps and into the patio we foundfour cameras ready, about three yards in front of us!I felt that Huerta was rather surprised, and I myselfstiffened up a bit, but—what could “a perfect lady” do?It was not the moment for me to flinch, so we stood thereand let them do their worst. I could not show him thediscourtesy of refusing to be photographed—but here,on the edge of war, it was a curious situation for usboth. Well, the censura can sometimes be a friend;the photograph won’t be in every newspaper in the Statesto-morrow. If, in a few days, diplomatic relations arebroken off, that will be an historic photograph.

The Old Man is always delightful in his courtesy andtact. As for his international attitude, it has been flawless.On all occasions where there has been any mistakemade it has been made by others, not by him. Hisnational political attitude has perhaps left “much to bedesired,” though I scarcely feel like criticizing him in[266]any way. He has held up, desperately and determinedly,the tattered fabric of this state and stands before theworld without a single international obligation. Whohas done anything for him? Betrayed at home andneglected or handicapped abroad, he bears this wholerepublic on his shoulders.

5.30 P.M.

I am trembling with excitement. On getting out ofthe motor, I met Hyde, of the Herald. He has just hada telegram (the real sense made clear by reading everyother word—thus outwitting the censor) that the wholeNorth Atlantic fleet was being rushed to the Gulf, andthat 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 happento us!”

I hear Hohler’s voice in the anteroom....

April 14th. 6.30 P.M.

Burnside and Courts came in just after Hohler, andthe inevitable powwow on the situation followed. Burnsidesays we all have the Mexico City point of view, andperhaps we have. Hohler was very much annoyed at ahasty pencil scrawl just received from the north, informinghim that Villa had confiscated many car-loads ofBritish cotton and that many cruelties to Spaniards hadbeen committed in connection with it. Certainly thereis not much “mine and thine,” in the Constitutionalistterritory, and not much protection. Here property andlife are respected.

There is a report that Huerta wants to send the “Tampicoincident” to The Hague for settlement. He insiststhat he was in the right about the matter, and thatany impartial tribunal would give him justice. Be thatas it may, we know he must give the salutes. It only[267]remains for him to find the way. Cherchez la formule, ifnot la femme.

April 15th.

Another day, full to exhaustion, and winding up withthe reception at Chapultepec. There, while the Presidentand N. were conferring, we, the sixty or seventyguests—Mexicans, plenipotentiaries, officials, civil andmilitary—waited from six o’clock until long after sevento go in to tea, or “lunch,” as they call it here. Beyondoccasional glances at the closed doors, no impatience wasmanifested. All know these are the gravest and mostdelicate negotiations. We whiled away the time on thepalm-banked terrace, listening to the music of a band ofrurales, who made a picturesque mass in their orange-coloredclothes embroidered in silver, with neckties soscarlet that they were almost vermilion, and great, peaked,white felt hats, with a heavy cord around the crownof the same color as the flaming cravats. They sat inone corner of the great terrace, playing their nationalmusic most beautifully—dances full of swing, or melancholyand sensuous airs of the people, on zithers, mandolins,guitars, harps, and some strange, small, gourd-likeinstruments 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 gavehis arm to me, and he then wanted N. to take in MadameHuerta; but the chef du protocol headed off this rathertoo-close co-operation, saying that was the placeof the Russian minister. I talked to Huerta to the limitof my Spanish, with pacific intent, but he kept glancingabout in a restless way. I even quoted him that line ofSanta Teresa, “La paciencia todo lo alcanza.” Heasked me, abruptly, what I thought of his internationalattitude, and before I could reply to this somewhatdifficult question he fortunately answered it himself.[268]“Up to now,” he said, “I have committed no faults, Ithink, in my foreign policy; and as for patience, I ammade of it.” He added, “I keep my mouth shut.”I changed the subject, too near home for comfort, bytelling 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 toinclude the Kaiser. He brightened up and thanked mefor the compliment, in the way any man of the worldmight have done.... It is a curious situation. I haveall the time a sickening sensation that we are destroyingthese people and that there is no way out. We seem tohave taken advantage of their every distress.

We hurried away at eight o’clock, so that N. mightsee Courts at the station, and give him the summary ofhis conversation, to be repeated to Admiral Fletcher.It was that Huerta would be willing to give the salutesif he could trust us to keep our word about returningthem. As he certainly has no special reason for anyfaith in our benevolence, he finally stipulated that thetwenty-one salutes be fired simultaneously. N. said hewas very earnest and positive during the first part of theconversation, but that toward the end he seemed moreamenable. Heaven alone knows how it will all end.One thing is certain—it is on the lap of the gods and ofHuerta, and the issue is unknown to the rest of us.

I got home from the station to find Mrs. Burnsidein the drawing-room, ready to spend the evening. Thecaptain was down-stairs, with what he afterward characterizedas “blankety blanks” (willing, but unmechanicalcivilians), who were helping him to set up the rapid-firingguns, otherwise known as the “doves of peace.”Mrs. Burnside tried to persuade me to go to Vera Cruzto-morrow, when she departs, but I couldn’t, in conscience,[269]cause a probably unnecessary stampede of peoplefrom their comfortable homes. If I had taken advantageof the various opportunities held out to flee, I wouldhave had, in common with many others, an uncomfortablewinter à cheval between Mexico City and the “VillaRica de la Vera Cruz.”

I don’t know what answer has been made to theHague proposition, if any, by Washington; but it musthave staggered Mr. Bryan and caused him to blink.The Hague is one of the dearest children of his heart, anduniversal peace has ever been a beloved and fruitfulsource of eloquence. When it confronts him at this specialmoment, can he do otherwise than take it to hisbosom?

April 16th.

This morning things seemed very bad. A curious telegramcame from Mr. Bryan, to be given to the pressfor its private information, not yet for publication, sayingthat the Tampico incident was quite in the background,but reciting two recent and heinous crimes ofMexico. First, a cable for the Embassy was held over bya 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 thecable authorities. Hohler happened, for Mexico’s good,to be with N. at the time. The incident was less thannothing, until mentioned in the open cable from Washington.The other incident, also well enough known,happened a short time ago in Vera Cruz, where anothertoo-zealous official arrested an orderly in uniform, carryingthe mails between the ships and the Vera Cruz post-office.That matter was dismissed after an apology, anominal punishment of the offending official, and theimmediate release of the carrier. Admiral Fletcher attachedno importance to the affair.

[270]

I have not cited the incidents in order. The telegramfor the press, in referring to the cable incident, begins,“far more serious is the withholding by the censor of acable addressed to the chargé d’affaires of the UnitedStates.” It also points out that no like incidents havehappened to the representatives of other nations in Mexico,and that we must protect our national dignity—towhich I respond with all my heart. But when we dointervene here—which I know we must—let it be forsome vital case of blood and destruction. The dayHuerta has a stroke of apoplexy, gets a knife in his back,or is killed by a firing-squad, we must come in, foranarchy will reign. He may not be the best man in theworld, and clever and even profound thoughts of oneday are counterbalanced by ineptitudes of the next;but he does seem to be the only man in Mexico who canand will keep order in the provinces under his control,especially now that the best and most conservative elementsare associated with the task—Rincon Gaillardo,Iturbide, Garcia Pimentel, and many others.

Not a word of all the happenings of the past few dayshas appeared in any newspaper in Mexico. The greatpotentialities are hidden, like a smoldering, unsuspectedfire. There is a throbbing, an unrest—but thegreat public doesn’t yet know whence it comes.I think if N. has any luck in his pacific endeavors heought to have the Nobel prize—though I understandhis chef direct has an eye on that.

April 17th.

Last night N. was with the Minister for Foreign Affairsfor several hours. They finally tracked Huerta to hishouse. The orderly said he had gone to bed, but theMinister sent in his card. After a wait of half an hourhe sent in another. Huerta had forgotten that he waswaiting. He received him in bed, and in the midst of the[271]conversation asked him, as he afterward told N., whathe thought about his pajamas, adding, with a grin, thatthey were Japanese. Nelson did not go in. He hadspent several hours with the President at various timesduring the day, and did not want to see him about painfuland irritating matters at such a late hour, when heand 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 wayof consolidating the Federal troops. We may stiffen themto service of their country against a common enemy—but,oh, the graft! Oh, the dishonesty and self-seekingthat animate many of the hearts beating under thoseuniforms! They sell anything and everything to thehighest bidder, from automobile tires and munitions ofwar, to their own persons. As for punishing the variousofficers that are guilty, it seems very difficult;court-martials would mean the decamping to the rebelsof many officers, high and low. So when we demandpunishment of this or that official, the “Old Man” isplaced between the devil and the deep sea. It is a positionhe should now be accustomed to, however. Onspies or on those conspiring against the government heis relentless. That all political colors recognize, and theydo not hold it against him. Apropos of going over to therebels, the Mazatlan incident of last Christmas (or Januaryfirst) is a case in point. The officers on the gunboatTampico 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, boatand all, to the Constitutionalists at Topolobampo!

Mr. Bryan declines the kindly offices of The Hague—More Americansleave Mexico City—Lieutenant Rowan arrives—Guarding the Embassy—Elimkeeps 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 thequestion is narrowed down to one point:—the Mexicansmust salute our flag, and we engage ourselves to answerit. Many precedents for this are being cited by foreignershere. For instance, the celebrated case of the Frenchconsul in San Francisco, who was jailed for a few hoursthrough a mistake. We made all reparation and engagedourselves to fire twenty-one salutes to the firstFrench ship that came into the harbor. Kanya tells meof an incident that transpired when he was chargé d’affairesat Cettinje, that was regulated by an exchange ofsalutes between the contending parties, in Antivariharbor.

I have had calls all afternoon—German, Belgian,Austrian, and Italian colleagues, Marie Simon, de Soto(looking more like a handsome contemporary of Velasquezthan ever)—all, of course, talking about lasituación. Now I am waiting dinner for Nelson, whohas been out since four o’clock, trying to communicatethe very courteous, but firm, answer of Washingtoncited above.

[273]

Later.

N. came in for dinner as the Burnsides, d’Antin, andMcKenna were sitting with me at table. One of thenumerous telephone calls proved to be from the Ministerfor Foreign Affairs, saying that he was leaving the Ministerio,and would be immediately at the Embassy. I hadcognac and cigarettes placed in the drawing-room, andthen everybody got out of the way. They are both inthere now—9.45—and the fate of Mexico hangs in thebalance, in that pleasant, high-ceilinged salon of mine,with the big vases of long-stemmed pink geraniums, andbooks, and photographs, and bibelots, and its deep,comfortable green leather chairs and sofa. I am writingthis in one of the smaller rooms, with newspaper menrunning in and out, and the telephone ringing. To thejournalistic 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 recountedof a Russian Ambassador to London. His wifehad the bad taste to die at the time of the great visit ofthe Czar to Queen Victoria. The Ambassador, who wasabove everything a diplomat, had the body put on ice inthe cellar of the Embassy, and to all inquiries as to hiswife’s health he replied, suavely: “Thank you; madameis in the same condition.”

11.30.

Back in the drawing-room, with the historic cognac,the equally historic cigarette ash, and the drawn-upchairs as mute witnesses that something has takenplace. What will come of it all? Rocking the ship ofstate is an exciting business. I don’t understand Huerta’sattitude, unless he is whipped by the rebels, and knowsit, and prefers defeat at the hands of a nobler foe.

Portillo y Rojas said the President felt that he had doneall that he was called on to do as chief of the nation to[274]expiate the Tampico incidents; that the sailors wereput at liberty immediately, with an apology given bythe jefe de la plaza—General Moreles Zaragoza—toAdmiral Mayo; that since then the President himselfhad manifested regret and had ordered an investigationto punish the guilty party; that any nation in the worldwould have been satisfied by these proceedings, and thatfurthermore he agreed that the Mexican cannon might salutesimultaneously with those of the Americans, whichwould fully show the good-will on both sides, and alsolet the neighboring peoples witness the happy terminationof a difficulty that had never been serious. There isa Spanish proverb about having more fins than a fish,which certainly applies to this sauve and clever oldIndian. He further sent expressions of great friendshipfor Nelson by the Minister, but said he couldn’t do thisthing 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 wascoming up-stairs. Perhaps, like the rest of us, Elimfeels the disturbing electric currents in the air. He isnow lying on the sofa, wrestling with sleep. He had beenput to bed some hours before, rather unhappily. Hekept pressing close to my dressing-table as I was gettingready for dinner, fingered every article on it, andasked 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 intears.

There are fears that the Zapatistas will arrive in thecity; but they are nothing compared to other fearsthat stalk the town to-night. During the French interventionmany people remained in Mexico City,reached a ripe old age, and died in their beds; whichevery one seems anxious to do, though I have never felt[275]that dying in one’s bed is all it is cracked up to be.“Bury me where I fall. Everywhere will be heard thejudgment call.” I don’t much care when or where or howit comes.

April 18th. 4:30 P.M.

No news as yet from Washington. I have just returnedafter lunching at the Russian minister’s. Everythingwas very soigné, as it always is, with blinis anddelicious caviar and all sorts of good things. I feel asif I had eaten the Legation instead of at it. One hasso little appetite at eight thousand feet above sea-level.There were von Hintze, Kanya, Marie Simon, in one ofher smart Drecoll dresses, and myself. They all thinkthe situation in the south is very bad, but I am no moreto be scared by the cry of Zapatistas, having heard itever since I first put foot in Mexico.

The Mexican Herald remarks this morning (dealingwith the situation in glittering generalities) that “Wheneach party to an agreement gets the idea that the otherside is going to back down, it is certainly trying to thepatience of an Irish peacemaker.”

One of the great dust-storms of the end of the dryseason is on us to-day; all the color is gone out of theair, which has become opaque, gritty, non-refracting.

6.30.

Callers all the afternoon. Now McKenna comes into say that the final word, en clair, from Washingtonhas been received. It was given out at the White Houseat noon. “General Huerta is still insisting upon doingsomething less than has been demanded, and somethingless than could constitute an acknowledgment that hisrepresentatives were entirely in the wrong in the indignitiesthey have put upon the United States. ThePresident has determined that if General Huerta has[276]not yielded by six o’clock on Sunday afternoon, hewill take the matter to Congress on Monday.”

...

It makes me sick with dread to think of the probablefate of Americans in the desert spaces and the mountainfastnesses of Mexico. Some one has blundered, somewhere,somehow, that we should come in to give thecoup de grâce to this distracted nation, who yet clings,and rightly, to those tattered shreds of sovereignty wehave left her. The foreign Powers think we are playingthe most cold-blooded, most cruel game of “grab” in allhistory.

April 18th. 10 P.M.

Things do move. I came down from Aunt Laura’s roomto find Lieutenant Rowan in the hall, just off the trainfrom Vera Cruz, after a delayed, dusty trip. You can imaginehe got a warm welcome. Nelson came in just then,and a few minutes later, as we were still standing in thefront hall, Portillo y Rojas appeared at the door, looking,we instantly thought, much happier. He was wearing hisgreen, gold-embroidered sash, the insignia of militaryrank that Huerta has imposed rather than bestowed onall Cabinet officers, who are thus under military disciplineand obedience to him as generalissimo. They objectedto wearing full military uniform, compromisingon the sash. Rojas also wore a smile—I don’t knowwhether it was for me or for the situation. He had cometo 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 roomdrawing up a document—a protocol (il y va de sa propretête)—and he is doing it with the painstaking care of aman who has everything at stake. Nelson himself ispretty foxy, and has to look out for his skin. Well,“all’s well that ends well.” If we get through this the[277]next incident will mean war. I hope at Washingtonthey will appreciate some of the difficulties N. has tomeet, and act accordingly. However, “call no manhappy until his death.” I hear the click of the big irongate swinging to after the exit of Lopez Portillo y Rojas.

I am fairly tired out and shall now proceed to draw thedrapery of my couch about me and lie down—I hope topleasanter dreams than those of last night. How gladI am that I haven’t confided my son or my jewelsto various terror-stricken acquaintances who have levantedtwo hundred and fifty miles east and eight thousandfeet down. It hasn’t come yet; all, after everythingis said and done, hangs on the life of that astute and patientold Cori Indian, whose years of our Lord are fifty-nine,and who, whatever his sins, were they blackerthan night, is legally President of Mexico. Chaselegality out of Latin America and where are you? Afterhim anarchy, chaos, and finally intervention—the biggestpolice job ever undertaken in the Western Hemisphere,however one may feel like belittling it from a militarystandpoint. I have thought all these days of the probablehead-lines of the newspapers and hoped my preciousmother was not worrying about her distant ones. Goodnight, 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, havegone. Washington refused Nelson’s signature to theprotocol drawn up by Portillo y Rojas and sent for approval.Huerta then refused categorically to give thesalutes. So it is intervention. At 4.30 I went down-stairsfor tea, as usual, to find Adatchi and Eyguesparssethere. Eyguesparsse, as you know, married the sisterof General Rincon Gaillardo. He says that Huerta[278]will resist to the end; his esprit militaire is entirely opposedto the esprit universitaire of Wilson. “Ils ne pourrontjamais se comprendre.” Huerta said to RinconGaillardo that intervention would be a work of five years,and productive of the greatest trouble to the UnitedStates. Huerta’s stand is incroyable, unglaublich unbelievable,incredibile—what you will. Each representativewho called exclaimed the same thing in his special tongueas he greeted me. Hohler was very quiet, and really verysad at the happenings. He has been a faithful friendthrough everything. Sir Lionel gets here to-morrow orthe next day. Kanya, Letellier, and Clarence Haystayed for dinner. Hohler came back again in the evening,also von Hintze, who does not think the war votewill go with a rush through Congress to-morrow, andquotes the case of Polk. He said it took three monthsfor him to persuade Congress to vote the money andmen for the 1846 war. I can’t verify this. He andvon Papen left at eleven. Nelson, Rowan, and I cameup-stairs, all a bit fagged. To-morrow will be a full day.I long ago promised the American women here that ifand when I thought the break was impending I wouldlet them know. I think it has steadied their situationhere that I haven’t “lit out” from time to time. Butwhat of the hundreds—no, thousands—all over this fairland whose possible fate is scarcely to be looked in theface? The “Old Man” has some idea other than despairand fatigue or impatience. He is working on a plan,probably hoping for a chance to play his trump card—theunification of all Mexicans to repel the invaders,—whichwould 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 abig moment, and Nelson has been unremitting in his endeavors.

[279]

The Foreign Office here has given the press a statementof two thousand words to-night, which will bringforth dismay and horror in the morning. I can’t feelthe personal danger of the situation. I am sorry dear Dr.Ryan is away. I sent him yesterday, in care of theconsul at Saltillo, the prearranged word, “101,” whichmeant that, whenever, wherever, he got it, he was to returnimmediately. At last hearing, the more prudentvon Papen, who decided to return to Mexico City, sawhim start from Saltillo with his medical supplies andfour mules, to try to get to Torreon over a desert stretch.

Von Papen, who had a most uncertain trip, says theonly way to prevent the continual destruction of therailways is the establishment of the blockhouse systemnow planned by the Federal government.

2.30 A.M.

I can’t sleep. National and personal potentialitiesare surging through my brain. Three stalwart railroadmen came to the Embassy this evening. They broughtreports of a plan for the massacre of Americans in thestreet to-night, but, strange and wonderful thing, aheavy rain is falling. It is my only experience of a midnightrain in Mexico, except that which fell upon themobs crying “Death to Diaz,” nearly three years ago.As all Mexicans hate to get wet, rain is as potent asshell-fire in clearing the streets, and I don’t think therewill be any trouble. Providence seems to keep an occasionalunnatural shower on hand for Mexican crises.

N.’s secret-service man reappeared upon the scene yesterday,probably by the President’s orders. This workstwo ways. It protects N., and incidentally proves toHuerta that N. is not intriguing against him.

Had this war been induced by a great incident or fora great principle, I could bear it. But because the detailsof a salute could not be decided upon we give ourselves,[280]and inflict on others, the horrors of war. Mr.Bryan, so the Herald playfully remarks to-day, musthave been surprised and disappointed. The “saluteswere always so cheerfully returned at Chautauqua.”It is no situation for amateurs. The longer I live themore respect I have for technical training. Every ForeignOffice in Europe or any other continent keeps expertsfor just such cases. I may become an interventionist,but after Huerta. He has proved himself vastlysuperior, in executive ability, to any man Mexico hasproduced since Diaz, in spite of his lack of balance andhis surprising childishness, following upon strange subtleties,and he would have sold his soul to please theUnited States to the point of recognition. In that small,soft hand (doubtless bloody, too) were possibilities of arenewal of prosperity, after the dreams of Madero thathe himself could never have clothed in reality. The reassociationof the government with the conservative elementsmight have given some guarantee of peace, atleast during Huerta’s life, and any man’s life is a longtime in an Indian or Latin republic.

April 20th. 10 A.M.

We have awakened to a busy morning. At seveno’clock I began to telephone all those women. If anythinghappens, American women here will be thankful tobe out of the way, and if the clouds blow over, they willonly have done what they have done before, on severaloccasions—taken an unnecessary trip to Vera Cruz.Every American in town has either appeared at the Embassyor telephoned. Rowan remains with us, I hope.N. has telegraphed Admiral Fletcher that in view of thefact that he is alone with me at the Embassy, he begs notto have Rowan recalled. He is a dear fellow, and a greatcomfort and support. Anything his courage and good[281]sense can keep from happening to us will not happen.A cable saying the matter will be laid before Congressthis afternoon, instead of this morning, is just received.It gives us a breathing-space. But the telephone! Thenewspaper men! The frightened Americans! If we areobliged to go, Aunt Laura will stay with Mrs. Melick,that friend of hers who has a handsome house just acrossthe 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, “FromElim to Mamma.” A drawing inside represents a tombstone,and a star shines above it. It has a little bunchof fresh heliotrope fastened to it with a clipper, and theback is decorated with three crosses—a bit startling inthese potential days! My heart is sick. Wednesdaythat great fleet arrives. What is it going to fight? Itcan’t bombard Vera Cruz. The streets are full and thehouses overflowing with fleeing non-combatants. Itcan’t climb the mountains and protect the countlessAmericans getting their living in the fastnesses or in thevalleys. Huerta’s army is engaged in the death-struggle,in the north, against enemies of the government, armedwith our munitions. Oh, the pity of it!

And this city, this beautiful city, placed so wonderfully,so symmetrically, on the globe, in the very centerof the Western Hemisphere, a great continent to northand south, half-way between immense oceans, and liftednearly eight thousand feet up to the heavens! Strange,symbolic correspondences between the seen and the unseenconstantly make themselves sensible, in some unexplainable,magic way, while to the eye there are the manifoldabundancies of mother earth, and this queer, dark,unchanging, and unchangeable race, whose psychologicalformula is unknown to us, inhabiting and using it all.

[282]

April 20th. 7.30.

This afternoon a whirlwind of rumors. First, thatCongress had voted full power to Mr. Wilson, and onehundred and fifty million dollars; that Vera Cruz was beingbombarded; that an attack is being planned againstthe Embassy to-night. There is, doubtless, nothing inthis last, but N. telephoned to Eduardo Iturbide, alwaysto be counted on, who is sending us one hundred mountedgendarmes. Captain Burnside is coming over here tosleep, and Rowan is with us, besides secret-service menand our own gendarmes. We have machine-guns, rifles,and quantities of ammunition. Many people were in fortea, when I am always to be seen. Madame Simon expectsto leave to-night for Vera Cruz, with her little boyand two maids. Clarence Hay and the Tozzers are going,too, and about one hundred Germans. Von Hintzehas sent away as many men, women, and children as hecould induce to go.

I had a curious experience with Adatchi. Suddenly,as he was sitting on the sofa, drinking his tea, von Papenand Ayguesparsse also in the room, I had a queerpsychic impression that he was not speaking of what hewas thinking. I thought no more of it until he came overto a chair near me and said, with a curious, Orientalsmile:

“I had a talk with Portillo y Rojas, this afternoon.All is not yet lost. I have left my secretaries working ona 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, andAdatchi returns at nine-thirty. After he left, I toldAyguesparsse and von Papen what Adatchi had said.

Ayguesparsse said, “His government would naturally[283]favor the Mexicans.” And we all wondered if the Japscould have worked out an arreglamiento. The Japanesementalité is, of course, absolutely foreign and irreconcilableto ours, but it is not a negligible quantity. Ayguesparssehas been very, very nice all these days, and I realizethat behind that elegant silhouette there is a man ofpoise and kindness. Scarcely had he and von Papendeparted when Hohler came in, hoping still for somearrangement. In this dark hour every one of the colleagueshas shown himself sincerely desirous of someissue being found. So you have a little of my day, fullof a thousand other things. Many people have urgedme to depart with them, but I am not nervous, notafraid. I am no trouble to N., perhaps even some help;and certainly dignity and all manner of fitness demandthat I remain here with him till he gets his papers, if hegets them, and go off suitably at the time appointed byour country, or the country to which we are accredited.My leaving now would mean to the Americans here thatall was lost—even honor, I should add. Elim has notbeen far out of sight to-day. He was warned, and thegendarmes and everybody in the house warned, that hewas not even to look out of the gate; and, scenting possibledanger, he has not wandered far afield. He climbsinto my chair, trots after me, looks in at the door—hehas no intention of being out of call if suddenly wanted.His little senses are alert, and he knows that all is notquiet on the plateau.

April 21st.

Instead of an attack, last night, everything was verypeaceful. The automobile squad, composed of willingand capable Americans, circled continually about theEmbassy, as well as the guard of one hundred mountedgendarmes Eduardo Iturbide sent us. A bare messagecame from Washington, very late, saying that Congress[284]had voted the President full powers. The details wewill doubtless get this morning. The Ypiranga, of theHamburg-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 ifwe are going to seize it or not. If we do, it is an acte deguerre, and we will be out of here on short notice. Ifone were convinced of the good-will of Washington, thiswhole incident could be arranged in five minutes. TheMexican Foreign Office published this morning the fulltext of the documents on the Tampico incident. Theofficials feel there is nothing to conceal, and the diplomatsand every American in town have by now lappedup with their coffee all the secrets of the situation.

Vera Cruz taken—Anti-American demonstrations—Refugees at the Embassy—Along line of visitors—A dramatic incident in the cable-office—Huertamakes his first and last call at the Embassy.

April 21st. 12.30.

Nelson has been informed through Mexican sources—amost embarrassing way to get the news—thatVera Cruz was taken by our ships at eight o’clock thismorning. (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 blownup. I am so worn out that I wouldn’t mind seeing eventhe Zapatistas climbing in at the windows. Aunt Laurahas been sitting by my bed, wearing that pale-bluewoolen jacket you sent me. She feels, after all thesedecades of Tehuantepec, a chill even in these lovelydays. The situation she will find herself in after we goappalls me, but she is determined to remain. All theseyears she has watched the increasing glories and securitiesof Don Porfirio’s Mexico. One could go unarmedfrom the Rio Grande to Guatemala. Now, when theyears begin to press upon her, she is caught up andruined by present-day Mexican uncertainties, or rather,certainties. One knows one will lose everything one hashere.

N. just looked in at the door to say we may have toleave via the Pacific (Manzanillo and San Francisco).Well, it is all in the hands of the Lord. Some time, someway, we are destined to be recalled from Mexico City.[286]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 likesardines on transports for “home.” These are the realtragedies of the situation to us, though I can’t helpthinking of the Mexican side. Several hundred thousandmen, women, and children have been killed in variousways since Madero started for Mexico City—Americangunners manning his guns.

April 21st. 5 o’clock.

No news from Washington to-day. We might all bemassacred. It is due to the essential meekness, want ofnational spirit, want of whatever you will in the Mexicans,that we are not, not because a paternal governmentis watching over its public servants in foreign parts.I have sent out for a good supply of candles; the lightsmight be cut to-night by some Zapatista band. We allwonder why Huerta hasn’t cut the railroad to VeraCruz. 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 purpleParis 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 aneasy position. His family-in-law has made many andreal sacrifices for La Patria and the Huerta government.Three men, expert machinists, are having their dinnersdown-stairs, having set up the Gatling-guns under Burnside’sinstructions. I have provided pulque, tortillas,frijoles, and cigarettes for countless gendarmes. We areten at dinner, and perhaps twenty have been in for tea.There has been an anti-American demonstration at[287]Porter’s Hotel, where the very clever woman journalistI mentioned before is staying. She will sleep here to-night,in Ryan’s room. The landlady of Porter’s is alsocoming, and they will have to take friendly turns ina single bed. About twenty extra persons are sleepinghere. We hear nothing from Washington direct. Algara,the Mexican chargé, has been recalled. N. sawHuerta this afternoon, who begged him not to go. Wecan no longer cable, though the other legations can sendwhat they like to Washington via their various Europeanchanceries. No trains are going out to-night nor thismorning. Three of the many Pullmans, loaded with men,women, and children, which started yesterday for VeraCruz, have not yet arrived there. We understand therewas fighting along the road.

Rowan is being more than nice, but I think he is ratherlonging for the baptism of fire that might be his, werehe in Vera Cruz.

After dinner McKenna came to tell us that there werethree car-loads of women and children outside the Embassygate. They had to come in, of course, and beattended to.

Nelson saw Huerta to-day at his house. The Presidentsaid to him, very brusquely: “You have seized ourport. You have the right to take it, if you can, and wehave the right to try to prevent you. Su Excelencia elSeñor Presidente Wilson has declared war, unnecessarily,on a people that only ask to be left alone, to follow outtheir own evolution in their own way, though it may notseem to you a good way.” He added that he would havebeen willing to give the salutes, but that the incidentwas only a pretext. In three weeks or three months, hesaid, 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[288]camp against the foreign foe. He does not want Nelsonto 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’Shaughnessyto see Huerta and ask him to keep the roads open tofacilitate the getting out of refugees. We are askingfavors to the end. N. had not seen the President forseveral days and did not know in what disposition hewould find him. But Huerta took his hand and greetedhim, saying, “Como está, amigo?” (“How are you,friend?”). He might have been going to play someIndian 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 flowedin the streets of Vera Cruz to-day. The tale thatreaches us is that the captain of the Ypiranga tried toland the seventeen million rounds of ammunition. AdmiralFletcher expostulated. The captain of the Ypirangainsisted on doing it, and, as we were not atwar, he was within his international rights. Theadmiral prevented him by force, and, they say, in orderto justify the action imposed on him by Washington, tookthe town—thus putting us on a war basis. Whether thisis a true version of what has happened I don’t know. Itdoes not sound like Admiral Fletcher, but he may havehad definite orders from Washington. Von Hintze camein this afternoon. He minimized the incident, or rather,seemed to minimize it, but I could see that he was verymuch preoccupied. It may be a source of other and gravercomplications than those of Mexico. It has beenmany a year since American blood flowed in the streetsof Vera Cruz. General Scott took it in 1847. The endlessrepetitions of history!

[289]

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 somethingabout Vivan los Japoneses, and a few remarks not flatteringto los Gringos. There are many good and capableAmericans, willing, ready, and able to second any useof the guns. N. and Rowan have gone down to the cable-officeto try and send off something to Washington. Thesilence of our government remains unbroken. Sir Lionelcame back this morning. He is soon to go to Rio.How beautifully England treats her diplomats! Insteadof removing him, last autumn, when the row wason, our press campaign against him caused his superiorsto bide their time, but it must be a great trial to Sir L.to be removed at so critical a moment to another postwhich, though bigger and better paid, is not of theimminent importance of this.

April 22d.

The wedding morn of thirteen years ago! And weare in Mexico, in full intervention! The troops can’tget up from Vera Cruz by rail, as the Mexicans gotaway with all the locomotives when the town was taken.That beautiful plan of Butler’s ... I understand thathe is in Tampico, with his marines, and the other marinesare only due to-day in Vera Cruz. It will takethree weeks, even without resistance, for them to marchup with their heavy equipment.

At 12.30 last night N., who had gone to bed and tosleep, after a more than strenuous day, was called to thetelephone by the excited consul-general, who had hadthe United States shield torn off the Consulate, and otherindignities offered the sacred building, including window-breakingby the mob. N. wonders if Huerta will try tokeep him here as a hostage. Huerta told N. that he[290]intends to take our arms away, and, of course, there isno way of keeping them if he decides to do so. We havecertainly trampled on the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgoafter 1848, providing that all disputes should be submittedfirst for arbitration. So sing me no songs oftreaty rights!

We heard last night that the Zapatistas were to unitewith Huerta. It would be interesting and curious to seea “Mexico united” on any point. If those bandits comeout of their barrancas and mountains and do to theAmericans half the evil they work on one another, therewill be many a desolate mother, wife, sister, and sweetheartnorth of the Rio Grande. N. says we may get offto-morrow morning. No night trips. Yesterday Cardenand von Hintze tried to get Huerta to arrange for thedespatching of a refugee train to leave not later thanseven this morning, but why he should do that, oranything for any one, unless it falls in with his ownplans, I don’t see. It is curious that the Americans didnot get hold of a few locomotives. The railroad is indeedsounding brass and tinkling cymbals without them.

Every arm-chair, sofa, and bed in the house wasoccupied last night, and many of the inmates lay on thefloor. Constantly, in the distance, sounds the beautifulMexican bugle-call. The brass summons is clear andnoble, and the drums beat to the nation’s pulse—a poorthing, according to us, but Mexico’s own. Where willit all end? With the taking of Vera Cruz, through whosecustoms a full fourth of the total imports come, Huertais out a million pesos a month, more or less. We arecertainly 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 nothingfrom Vera Cruz. Alone on our plateau! Up to now,there are no great anti-American demonstrations. I put[291]my faith in Huerta, in spite of the feeling which Burnsideexpressed, that he might show Nelson an Indian’s treachery.Aunt Laura is game. It is good fortune for her tohave that comfortable home just across the way to go to.

Something is being prepared in town. To-morrow wemay get away. N. begins to feel that he ought to be outof here, the Mexican chargé at Washington having leftyesterday, with the entire Embassy staff. This we learnfrom the Foreign Office here, not from Washington.

The newspapers are rather fierce this morning. Onehead-line in the Independiente is to the effect that “theFederal bullets will no longer spill brothers’ blood, butwill perforate blond heads and white breasts swollenwith vanity and cowardice.” “Like a horde of banditsthe invaders assaulted the three-times heroic Vera Cruz.The brave costeños made the foreign thieves bite thedust they had stained with their impure blood,” etc.The newspapers add that the Americans landed “withouta declaration of war, feloniously and advantageously.”“Anathema to the cowardly mercantile projectsof the President of the United States!” they shriek.They had a picture of Mr. Wilson sitting on heaped-upmoney-bags, Huerta standing before him, a basket ofeggs on each arm. “The true forces of the opponents,”this was labeled. It is impossible to expect the Mexicansto seize the idea that the landing of our troops was asimple police measure. In face of the facts, such subtledistinctions will, I am sure, be overlooked. “El suelode la patria está conculcado por el invasor extranjero,” isthe fact to them! I inclose here what the papers call “elmanifiesto laconico y elocuente del Señor Presidente de laRepublica.”

12.30.

N. has just come in to say that perhaps we leave to-morrowfor Guadalajara and Manzanillo. I am notcrazy to see the Pacific coast under these conditions.How many uncertain hours, wild mountains, and deepbarrancas are between us and the United States men-of-war.

Mr. Cummings, chief of the cable-office, and allhis men were dismissed this morning, to be replaced byFederals. A dramatic incident occurred when he wentinto the office to collect his money and private papers.Finding himself for a moment alone, he quickly went tothe telegraph key and called up Vera Cruz. The operatorthere 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 theonly authentic news we have heard from Vera Cruz, oranywhere, for two days. But the wild rumors aroundtown are numberless and disquieting. Nothing istouched down-stairs. I don’t want to alarm people needlessly[293]by stripping my rooms; and who knows if we cantake out, if and when we go, more than the strict necessities.There will always be a fair amount of Embassypapers, 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—thematchless Mexican sun streaming in at thewindows—and poured tea. It was the last time, thoughI 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 receivedour passports? Were we to stay on? Could negotiationsbe reopened? Each came with another rumor,another question. The Cardens came in late, SirLionel very agitated over the rumors of the Zapatistascoming to town to-night. They are supposed to havejoined with the Federals. It was the first time I haveseen Sir L. since his return. He seemed whiter, paler,and older than when he went away. Then von Hintzecame. We talked of the hazy Vera Cruz incident andits international bearing, if the captain of the Ypirangahad been stopped on the high seas, before the blockadingof the port, etc.

There was a gleam in von Hintze’s eye during theconversation, answered by one in mine. We were boththinking that history has a way of repeating itself. Hewas von Dietrich’s flag-lieutenant at Manila, Rowan’sposition with Fletcher at Vera Cruz. It was he whotook the famous message to Dewey and received theequally famous and emphatic answer—so emphatic, historyhas it, that he almost backed down the hatchwayin his surprise. Thirteen years afterward he finds himselfin an American Embassy, discussing another marine[294]incident concerning Germany and the United States, anotherflag-lieutenant sitting by![15]

During all this time, the Embassy was closely surroundedby troops. Hearing more than the usual noise,I asked Rowan to see what was going on. It proved tobe a large squad of soldiers come to take our arms andammunition away—our sacred doves of peace. All wasdone with the greatest politeness—but it was done!Two hundred and fifty rifles, two machine-guns, seventy-sixthousand of one kind of ammunition, nine thousandof another. It was a tea-party, indeed. At half afterseven an officer appeared in the drawing-room, as vonHintze and I were sitting there alone, saying that thePresident was outside. Von Hintze departed throughthe dining-room, after hastily helping me and McKennato remove the tea-table. There was no time to ring forservants. I went to the door and waited on the honeysuckleand geranium-scented veranda while the tearlessold Indian, not in his top-hat (“que da mas dignidad”),but in his gray sweater and soft hat, more suitable toevents, came quickly up the steps. It was his first andlast visit to the Embassy during our incumbency.

I led him into the drawing-room, where, to the accompanimentof stamping hoofs outside, of changing arms,and footsteps coming and going, we had a strange and[295]moving conversation. I could not, for my country’ssake, speak the endless regret that was in my heartfor the official part we had been obliged to play in thehateful drama enacted by us to his country’s undoing.He greeted me calmly.

“Señora, how do you do? I fear you have had manyannoyances.”

Then he sat back, quietly, in a big arm-chair, impersonaland inscrutable. I answered as easily as I couldthat the times were difficult for all, but that we weremost appreciative of what he had done for our personalsafety and that of our nationals, and asked him if therewas 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—takingrefuge in generalities in that difficult moment—“Deathis not so terrible a thing.”

He answered again, very quietly, “It is the naturallaw, to which we must all submit. We were born into theworld according to the natural law, and must departaccording to it—that is all.”

He has wavy, interlacing, but not disturbing gesturesas he speaks. He went on to say that he had come, inhis name and that of his señora, to ask N. and myself toattend the wedding of his son, Victor, the next day. Andnotwithstanding much advice to the contrary by timidones, we think it expedient to go. The safety of allhangs on his good-will, and it will be wise, as well asdecent, to offer him this last public attention. Justthen Nelson came in. After greeting the President, hesaid, rather hastily, “They have taken the arms away.”

[296]

Huerta answered with a gesture of indifference, “Itmust 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 wehad taken seventeen million rounds of ammunition, andGod knows how many guns and rifles in Vera Cruz, hishaul at the Embassy did seem rather small!) He doesnot want us to go out by Guadalajara and Manzanillo,and, unless compelled to cut the line, he gives us histrain 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 thenorth, as I expect.”

I was dreadfully keyed up, as you can imagine; I feltthe tears gush to my eyes. He seemed to think it wasfear that moved me, for he told me not to be anxious.

I said, “I am not weeping for myself, but for thetragedy of life.”

And, indeed, since seeing him I have been in a sea ofsadness, personal and impersonal—impersonal becauseof the crushing destiny that can overtake a strong manand a country, and personal, because this many-colored,vibrant Mexican experience of mine is drawing to aclose. Nothing can ever resemble it.

As we three stood there together he uttered, veryquietly, his last word:

“I hold no rancor toward the American people, nortoward 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 speakthe President’s name. I gave him my hand as he stoodwith his other hand on Nelson’s shoulder, and knew thatthis was indeed the end. I think he realized that myheart was warm and my sympathies outrushing to[297]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, perfumedevening, and I turned back into the dwelling Iwas so soon to leave, with the sadness of life, like a hotpoint, deep in my heart. So is history written. So docircumstances and a man’s will seem to raise him up togreat ends, and so does destiny crush him.... Andwe, who arrogated to ourselves vengeance for unprovendeeds in a foreign land, was vengeance ours?

I left the Embassy staff alone at dinner and cameup-stairs, to Aunt Laura. Again I was sick at thethought of leaving her, old, ill, and in troubles of manykinds. I will do what I can for her before I go; but oh,I am sad, very sad, to-night. Whatever else life mayhave in reserve for me, this last conversation with a strongman of another psychology than mine will remain engravenon my heart—his calm, his philosophy on theeve of a war he knows can only end in disaster for himselfand his people. His many faults, his crimes, even,his desperate expedients to sustain himself, his non-fulfilments—allvanish. I know his spirit possessessomething which will see him safely over the dark spacesand hours when they come.[16]

The wedding of President Huerta’s son—Departure from the Embassy—Huerta’sroyal accommodations—The journey down to Vera Cruz—Thewhite 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 militarytrain which precedes us, with troops to test the line,and a flatcar for our three automobiles, to get usthrough the Federal lines at Tejería. We passed slowlyover the Metlac Bridge. There, in the middle, wasflying the great, white flag of peace! We could proceed.It made our hearts beat fast. The splendors of thisland under this cloudless sky are indescribable; marvelousodors come in at the windows, and great, blazingstars of red and vermilion decorate every bush. Thebroad banana leaves take every possible glint, and thebayonet palms are swords of light. Everything is gorgeous—everythinga splendid blaze.

At Orizaba orderly crowds cried “Viva Mexico!”“Mueran los Gringos!” and bared their heads, as thetroop-cars attached to our train rolled out. I cannotkeep my eyes from the beauties of this natural worldthrough which we are journeying, conducted so royallyby command of the “Grand Old Indian.” Nature is sogenerous here that she neither needs nor asks the co-operationof man in her giving. Alas for him!

[299]

At six o’clock this morning they awakened us atEsperanza, the highest point, to get out for a good breakfastoffered by Corona. The troops accompanying uswere also fed, which does not always happen. Rowanjogged the general’s mind by offering them a breakfastfrom us, but he said, “Oh no; we will provide forthem.” He evidently had orders from “on high” tospare no trouble or expense.

10.45.

We have just passed Cordoba, finding the crowds distinctlymore uneasy. We bought piles of bananas andoranges that Rowan is taking into the troop-car. Hehas just come back to say the soldiers are all smiles.The difficulty with the army is that the officers never inany way look after their men—and a soldier with anempty stomach and sore feet is a sad proposition.It is getting very warm. We are in the heart of thecoffee zone and have only about eighteen hundred feet totravel before reaching sea-level. Embosomed in treesor pressed against blue-green hills are the pink belfriesand domes my heart knows so well and my eyes love, aSpanish heritage of the land. I was thankful to see,higher up, that barley and corn were being planted forthe hungry days to come. Morning-glories twist aboutevery stump and branch and the hibiscus has a richercolor. Beautiful, beautiful Mexico!...

I wonder if the Embassy was pillaged and burned lastnight? Oh, the waste there! No time to sort out things.My clothes still hanging in the closets, my bric-à-bracleft about, and I dare say a lot of trash was packed thatI don’t care for. Dear Mrs. Melick kissed me as I cameout on General Corona’s arm, in a dream, it seemed tome, Elim clinging to my hand, to take the auto for thestation. I had left Aunt Laura in the salon with variousfriends whose faces are one great blur in my memory, and[300]Mrs. Melick was going in to get her and take her to herhouse. Since yesterday afternoon Americans can nolonger leave Mexico City. Huerta, having heard that noMexicans could leave Vera Cruz, posted this order. Myheart is sad at leaving our people. Heaven knows whatwill happen to them. The Mexicans have commandeeredall arms except those of foreign legations (and they willprobably have to go), all horses, all automobiles, greatreserves 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 collèguesand a very few others who knew of our going werethere to see us off, in the dimly lighted, gray station.At ten I begged our friends to go, and said good-byto von Hintze, Hohler, von Papen, les Ayguesparsse,Stalewski, Letellier, Kanya, and the Simons. (Simonhas 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 myjewels and money of our own and other people’s I carriedin the black hand-bag with the gilt clasps which yougave me in Paris. McKenna guards the codes as if theywere infants. No sovereign of Europe could haveplanned and executed this departure of ours more royallythan Huerta did it. You remember Polo de Bernabé’saccount of his “escape” from the land of theStars and Stripes?

At Guadalupe, the first stop just outside the city, apainful incident occurred. About twenty-five persons,friends, were waiting there to board the train and continuethe journey with us. But N. had given his wordof honor, when he received the safe-conduct, that noperson or persons other than the personnel of Embassy[301]and Consulate should avail themselves of this privilege.So rarely was faith kept with Huerta that it seemed hardthat it should be done in this crucial hour and at theexpense of our own people. We intended, however, tosave even honor; but as our train rolled out of the stationI felt, to the full, “the fell clutch of circumstance.”

My idea is to be immediately vaccinated and injectedfor all ills, and to return from New York with the firstRed Cross brigade. I look into the deep barrancas andup the high mountains, and know my people will be lyingthere, needing help, before long. Zapata is supposed tohave offered his services to Huerta, to place himself inthe 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 againhave an embassy in Mexico? This seems the death ofMexican 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 responsibilitythat he was about to undertake for our people. He isvery worried and anxious, and kept saying, “Oh, thedreadful responsibility it will be!” I told him we wouldnot fail to let Washington know all that he would bedoing for us. I fear a nervous break for him. Tears werein his eyes and his lip trembled. Our press has nothandled him gently these past months. I felt both gratefuland ashamed.

We have just passed over a deep, vine-draped ravine—theAtoyac Gorge, with a noisy river flowing through.Women and children are bathing and washing clothesunder the trees. Occasionally a blonde baby is seen inhis dark mother’s arms—so is life perpetuated. Wehave just passed the village of Atoyac, with its littlethatched shacks and adobe huts, where the people areshouting “Viva Mexico!” and we are about to make our[302]last descent into the burning plain. There, after a while,our outposts will be waiting for us—our people waitingto receive their own. This is the march of empire inwhich we literally join. Southward she takes her course.General Corona has had many offerings of fruit andflowers, people whom he had never seen calling him “Ramoncito”and “Mi General,” and throwing pineapplesand oranges into the train—the offerings of humblehearts.

But I must go back to Wednesday night—our lastnight in Mexico City—when I was too tired for feelingor thought. In the morning Nelson decided that, underthe circumstances, he would not, could not, go to theHuerta wedding. Then I decided to go alone. Rowanwent with me, in the automobile. I put on my bestblack things, long white gloves, and pearls, got throughthe crowd in front of the Embassy, and went to thePresident’s house in the Calle Alfonso Herrera, enfoldedand exhilarated by dazzling air. I got there to findmyself the only foreigner, of course, and only three orfour other women, the wives of Cabinet Ministers andgenerals. The men were mostly in full uniform. MadameHuerta came in, looking very handsome and dignifiedin a becoming dress of delicate pomegranate colorveiled partly with black lace—a good dress. We gaveeach other the abrazo, and she placed me at her side, on thesofa. The youngest son, Roberto, a fat but sympaticoboy of fourteen, also in full uniform, came in and kissed hismamacita’s hand, and asked for some order. The dark,bright-eyed bride, in a dress with a good deal of imitationlace, arrived nearly three-quarters of an hour late.Immediately after her arrival the President entered, inhis 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[303]said, and indicated a place near the table where themarriage contract was to be signed. So I rose, andstood with the family during the ceremony, which hehad put through at a lively pace. The contract, inreferring to the parents of the bridegroom, said “VictorianoHuerta, fifty-nine,” and “Emilia Huerta, fifty-two.”His age may be lessened in this document ayear or two, but I doubt it. Madame Huerta can’t bemuch more than fifty-two. The youngest girl, Valencita,is only seven.

After the ceremony, when we all went out to get intothe automobiles, Señora Blanquet was with us. She isshort, stout, and elderly. I wanted to give her her placeas wife of the Minister of War, but the President, whohelped me in, insisted first upon giving me his wife’splace. I said, firmly, “No”; but I was obliged to takethe seat beside her, while Señora Blanquet struggledwith the narrow strapontin! Imagine my feelings as westarted off through the dazzling streets to the somewhatdistant “Buen Tono” church—built by Pugibet, of“Buen Tono” cigarette fame, and put by him, mostbeautifully decorated, at the disposition of the Presidentfor the wedding. On our arrival the President, whohad gone ahead, appeared to help us out of the motor;then, saying to me, “Tengo que hacer” (“I havesomething to do”), he disappeared. I never saw himagain.

I went up the aisle after Madame Huerta, on RinconGaillardo’s arm. As soon as we were in our seats thearchbishop came out and the ceremony began—dignifiedand beautiful. Afterward there was a low Mass withfine music. The tears kept welling up in my eyes as Iknelt before the altar of the God of us all. After theceremony was over we went out into the sacristy. Icongratulated the bride and groom, spoke to a few of[304]the colleagues who were near, and then, feeling thatmy day and hour were over, I went up to MadameHuerta.

We embraced several times, with tears in our eyes,each of us knowing it was the end and thinking of thehorrors to come. Then I left the sacristy on some officer’sarm—I don’t know who it was—and was put intomy motor, where Rowan was patiently waiting. Therewere huge crowds before the church, but never a murmuragainst us. Tears were raining down my cheeks,but Rowan said: “Don’t mind. The Mexicans willunderstand the tribute, and all your sadness andregret.”

We passed by the round point, the “Glorieta,” whereI had seen the statue of George Washington so solemnlyunveiled two years ago, on the 22d of February, 1912.It had been pulled down in the night. On the defacedpedestal had been placed a small bust of Hidalgo.Flowers were scattered about, and a Mexican flag coveredthe inscription on the marble base. I learned afterwardthat the statue had been dragged in the night bypowerful automobiles, and placed at the feet of thestatue of Benito Juarez, in the Avenida Juarez, whencethe authorities had had the courtesy, and had taken thetime, to withdraw it—through streets whose windowswere hung with flags of every nationality except ours:German, French, English, Spanish.

At 12.50 I got home to find still larger crowds ofAmericans at the Embassy—orderly and polite, but deepanxiety was on every face; all realized the issue beforethem. At three o’clock I heard that we would be leavingabout seven. So many people were coming in that I hadno time to separate my things from the Embassy things,nor even to make any selections. Berthe was occupiedin throwing various articles into open trunks and valises,[305]some of value, some without. I don’t think she lost apin. I didn’t get even to my big writing-desk, where Ihad sat for seven months. You can imagine all the thingsthat were left there, the accumulations of these historicmonths. All my bibelots were left about the salon,the mantas and serapes, the signed photographs that haveaccompanied me for years, my beautiful old frames. Butin the face of the national catastrophe, and the leavingof our people to God knows what, I seemed to lose allsense of personal possession or to feel that objects couldhave 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 wantsto hear more “Mueran los Gringos!” We are aboutforty-five kilometers from Vera Cruz, and the heat,after the plateau, seems intense; though it is not disagreeableto feel the dissolving détente of the skin andnerves after the dry tenseness of many months at eightthousand feet.

Soledad, 1.15.

A blaze of heat, merciless, white. We find Mexicanrifles stacked at intervals along the station platforms,and there are groups of young voluntarios looking proudlyat their first guns or drawing long, cruel knives fromtheir belts. Some are eating small, green limes, notnourishing at best, slashing at them with their machetes.The lack of a commissariat is what prevents the Mexicanarmy from being in any way efficient. (Think of the fullstomachs and comfortably shod feet of our men.) Flatcarswith cannon and automobiles are on the sidings.General Gustavo Maass, whom I have not seen sinceour trip to Vera Cruz in January, is here in command.He will not prove efficient—a blue-eyed Mexican,[306]wearing his sandy-gray hair in a German brush effect,can’t be.

4 o’clock.

We have passed Tejería, the last Mexican station; thesand-hills and spires of Vera Cruz will soon be distinguishable.I have just looked out the window, my eyesdim with tears. Far up the broken track the blessedwhite flag of truce can be seen approaching—our people,our men, coming for their own. Admiral Fletcher evidentlygot the telegram. Am writing these words onthe bottom of a little bonbon-box, which afterward Iwill tuck into my hand-bag. Oh, the burning drearinessof this land! The hot, dry inhospitality of it! The Mexicanofficers of our escort are passing and repassing mydoor, with troubled, anxious, hot faces. It is a bitterpill, 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 thetrack to meet our men, and all are getting out of thetrain, 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 comfortablequarters of the admiral. We were awakened by theband playing the “Star-spangled Banner,” “God Savethe King,” the beautiful Spanish national air, the“Marseillaise”—all according to the order of the arrivalof the ships in the harbor. A delightful breeze is blowingand the electric fans are at work.

The last word I scribbled yesterday afternoon waswhen I was waiting in my state-room for Nelson to come[307]back to our Mexican train, with our officers, under thewhite flag. I was delighted and deeply moved whensuddenly big, agreeable, competent Captain Huse appearedat the door and said, “Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, Iam glad to see you safely arrived and to welcome you toour lines.”

Poor General Corona stood by at the meeting, and Iturned to him with a more than hearty handshake. Hekissed my hand, and his eyes filled. Poor, poor people!As Captain Huse helped me out of the train, to my joyand surprise I saw Hohler standing by the track. Hehad taken down a trainful of agitated Germans, English,and Americans, two days before, and was to go back toMexico City with our returning train and escort. I hada few words with him, amid the dry cactus of the parchedfield, and commended to his courage and good sense ourpoor, distracted compatriots left in the volcanic city.There may be no concerted massacre of Americans, butthe day will come when there will be other horrors.Hohler said he had not slept for three nights, and onlyprayed for a couple of hours of oblivion before tacklinganything else. I wished him Godspeed, and gave him ahandclasp to match the temperature.

Then Captain Huse came up to me, saying: “We mustgo. Time is passing, and we are unarmed.”

As I turned to walk down the track with him I saw thepathetic spectacle of Madame Maass, whom I had partedfrom on that starry night of the Fletcher dinner, fourmonths or more ago. She had walked, bareheaded, upthat dusty stretch of track, from one train to the other,to go to join her husband at Soledad. The step on tothe train by the steep embankment was so high I couldnot get up, nor could she descend; so she leaned down tome and I reached up to her. Tears were streaming downher grimy face; her black skirt was torn and rusty, her[308]other clothing nondescript, to say the least; a pathetic,stout, elderly woman caught out in the troublesof war—or of peace, as they tell me it is called inWashington.

Then Captain Huse and two of his officers, LieutenantFletcher, 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 eitherside, my back turned to the Mexican train, I was dividedbetween joy and sorrow—joy to see and be with my ownagain and the haunting thought of poor, distractedMexico, and of our own people, whom we had beenobliged to leave to Heaven knows what fate. It iseasy to be the last out of the danger zone, but very, veryhard to be the first; I hope that another time, if fateputs us again in such strange places, we will be the lastto go.

We finally got to our own train, which was run by apoor, dilapidated, leaking, propped-up engine, all thatwas left. The Mexicans had been quick about the machines,and every locomotive had been seized by themand sent away, after which they had destroyed thosekilometers of track. Everybody climbed into the relief-train,and there came the question of getting our luggagefrom one train to another. Captain Huse had beenobliged to come without an escort, accompanied only byFletcher and Dodd, unarmed. Until they had us theycould not make terms. So, to make a very long storyshort, several cutthroat-looking peons, casting deadlyglances at los Gringos, transferred a lot of the hand-luggage,aided by the men of the party. All I possess ofvalue, except that left at the Embassy, is contained in asingle, large trunk, now reposing in the cactus-fields in[309]the enemy’s lines, watched over by the same shambling,dark-browed, cutthroat Mexicans who helped to transferthe small baggage.

Captain Huse, finding himself with a broken-down engineand a lot of unarmed civilians, and with sundownapproaching, was too anxious to get into his own lines tothink of such trifles. He said, afterward, “You didn’trealize what danger we were in.” I remember that Isaw his face suddenly light up, as we slowly moved along.He had caught sight of the outposts that AdmiralFletcher, with vigilant forethought, had placed five milesout of town, with guns and telescopes, ready to rush toour aid, if necessary. Then he knew all was well, and, inspite of the fact that I had not been able to realize anydanger, my eyes filled again at the sight of our brave men,some looking through their telescopes, others ready withtheir guns.

I asked Captain Huse, “Are we at war with Mexico?”

And he answered, “I don’t know.” Adding, “Theysay not; but when one armed force opposes anotherarmed force, and many are killed, we are rather of theopinion that it is war.”

He had just come from the thick of the fray. We hadsixty-three wounded, seventeen killed, and several hundredMexicans were killed and wounded. The CadetAcademy made a fine defense. There would have beenmore casualties for us, but at the critical moment theSan Francisco, the Chester, and the Prairie opened fireon the Academy, a few feet only above the heads of theirown men, neatly piercing the windows of the broad, lowfaçade, as they would bulls’-eyes. All the officers areagreed that the immense sums spent in target practiceby the navy in the past five years were amply compensatedby that moment.

[310]

As we neared Vera Cruz our men in khaki (or whiteclothes dyed in coffee, according to the hurry order) wereseen in big detachments in classic poses—standing, leaningon their guns, or sitting in groups on the ground,drinking coffee and smoking. I must say it looked verycozy and safe. Admiral Fletcher met us at the station,and I was glad indeed to clasp that brave, friendly handagain. He has done splendid work along all lines, passiveor active, ever since he came to Mexican waters. Shortlyafterward I said good-by to him and to Captain Huse,who is his chief of staff, and we went out in the admiral’sbarge over the glistening harbor, a thousand lights stilllighting it, as when I last saw it, but all else changed.Captain Simpson, of the Minnesota, is on land duty, butthe second in command, Commander Moody, met us atthe gangway and we were shown into these most comfortablequarters. I have heard so much of the discomfortand heat of the men-of-war that I am most agreeablysurprised. The electric fan is working ten thousandrevolutions a moment; some one has called the newfan la Mexicana, for obvious reasons. Admiral Badgercame to welcome us last night, a great, powerful, steam-engineof a man—a “dictator” (pardon the awful word)!It is a big thing to have complete charge of so powerfula combination as the North Atlantic fleet. He also saidhe didn’t know whether we were at war or not,but that armed, opposing forces with heavy casualtieson both sides was generally considered to bewar; that we now “enjoyed all the disadvantagesof both peace and war.” He had heard we werearriving with eight hundred refugees, and had charteredthe 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,[311]“sufficiently Shermanically synonymous” forthose left in the interior!

11 o’clock.

Captain O’Keefe, of the Mexico, came to my state-rooma while ago. I had not seen him since before the “peaceat any price” régime was inaugurated. He is waitingfor a full complement of refugees; they are expecting aboatful from Coatzacoalcos, this afternoon. Am sittingin the drawing-room of the admiral, cannon trained fromthe 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 Nelsonwent to the Consulate with his clerks. There is a mass ofwork to be done, besides negotiations for getting allAmericans 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 Iwrite. I would be very interested in what is going onabout us were it not for the preoccupation about thoseleft behind. Elim has a toy pistol which he has beenshowing to the blue-jackets. He says it is strange howfrightened they all are, and told me, with shining eyes,he already had four friends on the ship and would soonhave six. It is a blessed age—where one can so definitelycount one’s friends.

4 P.M.

I have been sitting on deck, watching this busy port.Innumerable small boats, flying our flag are rapidlypassing to and fro over the burning waters. Behind theCondé, which has effectually blocked the view of theouter harbor, is the Solace. She contains the wounded,the dead, and, mayhap, the dying ones. The Minnesotais so near the Sanidad pier that one can almost recognizeindividuals. Squads of our men are constantly marchingalong with prisoners between double files, men who have[312]been caught sniping, bearing arms, or doing some overtact or deed of violence. Last night, while dining, theecho of shots came from the shore, and during the night,from time to time, desultory ghostly sounds of snipingwere heard.

I have just looked through the glass to distinguishabout a dozen of our men standing at the head of a streetwith fixed bayonets, facing a pink house, evidently readyto protect some one coming out of it, or to do justice.The lone torpedo-tube from San Juan Ulua is trainedtoward the Minnesota, but it is believed to be inoffensive.I am sure I hope it is, cuddled under our bows, so tospeak. Yesterday two Mexican officers came out of thathistoric fortress, begging to be allowed to get food.They said they and all the inmates were starving. Isaw the conditions in days of relative plenty. Whatmust they be now in those damp, deep, vermin-infestedholes? Pale specters of men, too weak to move, or wildwith hunger and all the ensuing horrors—and all this sonear that I could almost hit it with a stone.

Ships of refugees are passing in and out. A Dutchship, 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 preciousaccumulations of lifetimes of thrift and work, that aredeserted in the disorder of flight, to be left later to thecomplete devastation of looters. All over the countrythis is taking place. An officer who saw a group of thirtyor forty refugees at Tampico told me he thought at firstit was a band of gypsies; it proved, however, to be half-clad,starving women and children who but a few daysbefore had been prosperous American citizens.

The sun is under a cloud, but a hot, damp atmospherehas enveloped the port, and an opalescent lightplays over the town. From where I sit I can see the old[313]white fortress of Sant’ Iago which we shelled, and theyellow Naval Academy where the Mexican youths madetheir gallant stand. The chartered boats of the WardLine, Mexico, Monterey, and Esperanza, also the nowhistoric Ypiranga, are lying close to the various piers,ready to receive refugees and take them to New Orleansor Galveston. There they will be, in many cases, a threedays’ source of interest—and then they can starve!

Helen, the deer, a great pet of the sailors, and got inTampico, keeps trying to nibble my long, white veil; thespotless decks are rather poor for browsing, and she looksa bit disconsolate at times. A snappy green parrot isbeing 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 sendingoff his mail. About five o’clock, when he went toreturn Admiral Badger’s call, I went into town, first tothe headquarters of Admiral Fletcher, at the fly-infestedHotel Terminal. In the past the proprietor has encouragedin many ingenious ways the propagation of the fly.He owns the other hotel, the Diligencias, where he hashis cuisine. In order to save himself the expense andbother of keeping two cooking-places going, he allowedthe Terminal to become so disgustingly infested withflies that the “guests” are obliged to tramp through thehot streets to the Diligencias whenever the pangs ofhunger or thirst assail them. We have cleaned out morethings than flies in the tropics, however.

I saw at the headquarters, for a moment, CaptainHuse, Sir Christopher, and le capitaine de vaisseauGraux, commanding the Condé, and many others. AfterwardAdmiral Fletcher sent Rowan with me to see thetown.

[314]

Everything is closely watched and controlled by our fivethousand or more blue-jackets and marines. Everywhereare the marks of bullets along the once-peaceful streets—theclean perforations of the steel-jacketed bullets of theAmerican rifles; quaint cornices chipped; electric streetglobes destroyed; pink façades looking as if there wasa design in white where the shots had taken off the color.We walked over to the Plaza, meeting acquaintances atevery step, harassed and discomfited refugees. Severalhundreds had just got into the city of the “Truly” Crossfrom Mexico City in the last train, having been nearlytwenty hours en route and having left most of what theypossessed for the mobs of Mexico City. It is difficult toget any exact information from them. According totheir stories, many of the bankers were in jail; Americanshops were looted; some Americans were killed; and allMexican servants had been warned to leave Americanhomes. 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 thatdreadful things can happen in that beautiful city at anymoment. When the Embassy was closed, the wholething collapsed, from the point of view of Americans.

When Rowan and I got to the Plaza we found theband of the Florida playing in the band-stand—nothinglike so well as the Mexican Policia Band, by the way—andhundreds of people, foreigners, Americans, Mexicans,sitting about, taking their lukewarm drinks under theportales of the Hotel Diligencias, whose ice-plant hadbeen destroyed by a shell from the Chester. The placeswarms with our men, and the buildings looking on thePlaza are all occupied as quarters for our officers.From the bullet-defaced belfry of the newly paintedcathedral blue-jackets looked down upon us, and fromevery roof and every window faces of our own soldiers[315]and officers were to be seen. We walked across to theMunicipal Palace, which is also used by us as a barracks.The men of the Utah were answering the bugle-call tomuster for night duty. They were of the battalion landingin small boats under heavy fire that first day; theywere saved by the cannon-fire from the ships. Therewere many casualties among their ranks. The men lookhappy, proud, and pleased, and in all the novel excitementand pride of conquest. I went into the church,where I also found some of our men stationed. Some onehad been shot and killed from behind the high altar,two days ago. I fell on my knees, in the dimness, andbesought the God of armies.

As we walked along in the older part of the town, enroute to the Naval Academy, there were piles of oncepeaceful, love-fostering, green balconies heaped in thestreets. They will be used for camp-fires by our men.Doors were broken in, houses empty. There was a greatdeal of sniping done from the azoteas (roofs) those firstdays, and it was necessary, in many cases, to batter downthe doors and go up and arrest the people caught inflagrante, 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 seeheaps of broken glass, overturned tables and chairs. Asour, acrid smell of various kinds of tropical “enliveners”hung in the still, heavy air—mute witnesses of what hadbeen. We passed through several sinister-looking streets,and I thought of “Mr. Dooley’s” expression, “Thetrouble we would have if we would try to chase the Monroedoctrine up every dark alley of Latin America.” The[316]big, once-handsome Naval Academy was patrolled byour men, its façade telling the tale of the taking of thetown only too well; windows destroyed by the Chester’sguns, balconies hanging limply from their fastenings.We looked through the big door facing the sea, but thepatrol said we could not enter without a permit. Everyconceivable disorder was evident—cadets’ uniforms laywith sheets, pillows, books, broken furniture, heaps ofmortar, plaster. The boys made a heroic stand, andmany of them gave up their lives; but what could theydo when every window was a target for the unerring markof the Chester’s guns? Many a mother’s hope and pridedied that day for his country, before he had had a chanceto 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 somelukewarm ginger-ale; my sticky glass had a couple ofreminiscent lemon-seeds in it. It was getting dusk andRowan was afraid the sniping might begin. I got intothe Minnesota’s waiting boat, feeling unspeakably sad,and was put out across the jeweled harbor—but whatjewels! Every one could deal a thousand deaths.

Nelson had a long talk with Admiral Fletcher....On receipt of orders to prevent the delivery by theYpiranga of the arms and ammunition she was carryingto the Mexican government and to seize the customs,his duty was solely to carry out the commands of thePresident in a manner as effective as possible, with aslittle 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, strongknife of war and occupation, we have only put ourfingers in each festering wound and inflamed it further.In Washington there is a word they don’t like, though ithas been written all over this port by every movement[317]of every war-ship and been thundered out by everycannon—War. What we are doing is war accompaniedby all the iniquitous results of half-measures, and inWashington they call it “peaceful occupation.”

Now I must sleep. The horrors of San Juan Ulua (onwhich our search-lights play continually) will haunt me,I know. The stench of those manholes is rising to anunanswering, starlit sky. May we soon deliver itfrom itself!

Saturday Morning.

Captain Simpson came back from shore duty late lastnight. He is so kind and solicitous for our comfort, thatI only hope we are not too greatly interfering with his.He has had his men lodged in a theater, commandeeredfor the purpose. He went to some barracks first, butfortunately learned in time that there had been meningitisthere, and decamped even quicker than he went in.Captain Niblack has taken his place.

The Minnesota, on which Admiral Fletcher was whenhe went into Vera Cruz, is a ship not belonging to anydivision down here, and is only temporarily in harbor.So she is used for all sorts of disjointed, but importantwork—distributing of supplies, communications of allkinds. She is more than busy—a sort of clearing-house—duringwhat they call here “the hesitation war, one stepforward, one step back, hesitate, and then—side-step.”

The rescue-train goes out through our lines every dayunder Lieutenant Fletcher, to meet any train possiblyarriving from the interior. And, oh, the odds and endsof exasperated and ruined American humanity itbrings in!

Dinner on the Essex—The last fight of Mexico’s naval cadets—Americanheroes—End of the Tampico incident—Relief for the starving at SanJuan Ulua—Admiral Fletcher’s greatest work.

“Minnesota,” April 26th.

When Nelson left, as you know, he turned ouraffairs over to the British, an English-speaking,friendly, great Power, which could and would help ournationals 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, spotlesslinen, met us at the gangway with real cordialityand interest.

His first words after his welcome were, “I have goodnews for you.”

“What is it?” we asked, eagerly. “We have heardnothing.”

“Carden is going to arrange to get out a refugee-trainof several hundred Americans on Monday or Tuesday,and I have this afternoon sent off Tweedie [commanderof the Essex] with two seven-foot marines and a nativeguide to accompany the convoy down. He is to get upby 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 wewent down to dinner. We were proceeding with a verynice piece of mutton (Admiral Badger had sent a fine,juicy saddle over to Sir Christopher that morning) whena telegram came—I think from Spring-Rice. Anyway,[319]the four Englishmen read it and looked rather grave.After a pause Sir Christopher said, “They might as welllearn it from us.” What do you think that telegramcontained? The news that American interests had beentransferred 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 complimentand sustain good relations with South America,and this is an opportunity to emphasize the fact,” butit was rather a damper to our love feast.

Well, we have taken our affairs and the lives of manycitizens out of the hands of a willing, powerful, and resourcefulnation and put them into the hands of a manwho, whatever Power he represents, has not the practicalmeans to carry out his kind desires or friendly intentions.I doubt if Huerta knows him more than bysight. Washington has made up its mind aboutCarden and the English rôle in Mexico, and no deedsof valor on the part of Carden will make any difference.Washington won’t have him. Sir ChristopherCradock, here in a big battle-ship in the harbor, is willingand able to co-operate with Sir Lionel, the head of apowerful legation in Mexico City, for the relief of ournationals in sore plight and danger of life; but apparentlythat 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 onWednesday. Paymaster Kimber, whom they took me into see after dinner, was in bed, shot through both feetand 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 hadbeen found at the Naval Academy after the fight—dumb[320]witnesses of other things than war. The officers saidthe Academy was a horrid sight. Those boys had takentheir mattresses from their beds, put them up at thewindows, and fired over the top; but when the firefrom the ships began these flimsy defenses were asnothing. There were gallant deaths that day. Maytheir brave young souls rest in peace. I don’t want tomake invidious distinctions, but in Mexico the youngestare often the brightest and noblest. Later there isapt to be a discouraging amount of dross in the gold.

I keep thinking of Captain Tweedie, en route to MexicoCity to help bring out American women and children.When he gets there he will find that rescue isn’t any ofhis business!

Yesterday afternoon the North Dakota came in. Wesaw her smoke far out at sea, and she was a great sightas she dropped anchor outside the breakwater. I waslooking through the powerful glass on Captain Simpson’sbridge. Her blue-jackets and marines were massed inorderly lines, doubtless with their hearts beating highat the idea of active service. Lieutenant Stevens, whowas slightly wounded in the chest on Wednesday, cameback to the ship yesterday. He is a young bridegroomof last autumn and has been here since January. The“cheerful, friendly” bullet is in his chest in a placewhere he can always carry it. I understand that whenhe was wounded he was on the outskirts of the town,and that he and another wounded man, themselves onthe verge of collapse, carried an unconscious comradeseveral kilometers to the hospital. But who shall recordall the gallant deeds of the 21st and 22d of April?[18]

[321]

“Minnesota,” April 26th. 3 P.M.

I witnessed from the deck of our ship, an hour ago, thedramatic end of the Tampico incident, and, doubtless,the beginning of a much greater one—the raising of ourflag over the town of Vera Cruz, which was to-day putunder martial law. At 1.30 I went up on deck. Thebay was like a hot mirror, reflecting everything. Througha glass I watched the preparations for the raising of theflag on the building by the railroad station—an Englishrailway. “Who’s whose now,” came into my mind.

It was a busy scene on shore and land. AdmiralBadger passed over the shining water in his barge, abeautiful little Herreschoff boat, shortly before two o’clock,wearing side-arms. His staff was with him. Battalionswere landing from various ships and immense crowdsstood near the railroad station. There was an electricsomething 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 whatthe foreign war-ships would do. Would they acknowledgeour salute? Exactly at two o’clock the flagwas raised, and immediately afterward the Minnesotagave the famous twenty-one salutes to our own flag, refusedus at Tampico. The bay was ominously quiet afterthe thunder of our cannon. I suppose the foreignships were all busy cabling home to their governmentsfor instructions. No man could venture to settle thatquestion on his own initiative. It was anti-climax witha vengeance!

[322]

Is this to be the end of all that triangular work ofNelson’s between Huerta, the Foreign Office, and Washingtonduring the two weeks elapsing since Colonel Hinojosa’staking of our blue-jackets out of their boat atTampico and our leaving the Embassy in Mexico City?

...

This morning I went ashore, accompanied by a youngofficer, McNeir. We sauntered for an hour or so aboutthe town, which has decidedly pulled itself together.Shops that were heaped with overturned furniture,broken glass, and strewn with dirty papers and débris ofevery description, visible through shattered windows andbroken doors two days ago, had been swept out andwere showing signs of normal occupation. New doorswere being made, and the little green balconies of peacewere being mended. Ensign McNeir suddenly foundthat he had been spat upon. His broad chest was lavishlyembroidered in a design of tobacco-juice, doubtlessfrom an innocent-looking green balcony. He had bloodin his eye, and kept glancing about, hoping to find theman that did it.

The Naval Academy was a horrid sight as we went infrom the sea-front. In the school-rooms books, maps,globes, and desks were overthrown among masses ofmortar. One of the blackboards bore the now familiarwords in chalk, Mueran los Gringos. Great holes were infloors, walls, and ceilings. When we went up-stairs thedevastation was even greater. Our men had fought inthe street, and the Chester and Prairie fired over theirheads just into the windows of the second floor, wherewere the commandant’s quarters, and the large, airy dormitories.The dormitories had been rifled before we puta guard over the building, the lockers emptied of theirboyish treasures—knives, books, photographs; occasionally[323]a yellow or red artificial rose, a ribbon, or a bit oflace testified to other gods than Mars.

The great floors were ankle-deep in a litter of uniforms,shirts, collars, gloves, letters, brushes, combs, andthe like. They had been comfortable, airy quarters, andI suppose now will make good barracks, or headquarters,for our officers. Photographers were busy as we passedthrough. In the two dormitories giving on the Plazaat the back, away from the ships’ fire, the dying andwounded 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 undermartial law seemed, this morning, an orderly affairindeed.

I inclose Admiral Fletcher’s “Proclamation to thePublic 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 theregular civil and business activities of the town. Thereis a clause in the Mexican constitution which makes ithigh treason for any Mexican to hold employment undera foreign flag during enemy occupation, and for once theMexicans seem to be living up to the constitution.

It is wonderful how our blue-jackets and marines havebeen able to go into Vera Cruz and perform the complicated,skilled labor necessary to the well-being of atown. Everything, from the ice-plants and tramwaysto the harbor lighthouse and post-office, has been put inworking order; they seem to step with equal facilityinto 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 distinctlyin that tropical setting. I was deeply impressed.Six thousand of them are on land. On the trip down[324]our automobile clutch was damaged. Two blue-jacketslooked at it and, though neither had ever been in anautomobile before, they brought it back to the Terminalstation, several hours later, in perfect order, able andlonging to run it about town.

At noon yesterday thousands of arms were deliveredto the authorities—a hybrid collection of Mauser guns,old duelling and muzzle-loading pistols. Relics of 1847were also numerous. For several days there has beenlittle or no “sniping.” One man remarked, “Take itfrom me, it’s a quiet old town. I walked ten blocks atmidnight, last night, without seeing a human being.”I might also add that I know two methods of clearingstreets at night rivaling the curfew—snipers, and thepress-gang.

Yesterday at five o’clock we sent one thousand rationsinto the starving fort of San Juan Ulua, and to-day ourflag flies high above it. All the political prisoners were[325]released. We could see from the deck of the Minnesotatwo boat-loads of them coming across the shining waterand being landed at the Sanidad pier. After that, Isuppose, they swelled the ranks of the undesirable withoutmoney, occupation, homes, or hopes.

I saw Mr. Hudson, yesterday, looking rather worn.With groanings and travail unspeakable the MexicanHerald is being published in Vera Cruz. He says theyhave the greenest of green hands to set the type, and theoftener it is corrected the worse the spelling gets, thenights being one long hell. But as most of his readershave a smattering of Spanish and English, with morethan a smattering of personal knowledge of the situation,the Herald still is most acceptable as a “breakfastfood.”

The Inter-oceanic, the route to Mexico City over Puebla,is being fast destroyed. Mustin in his hydroplanecan be seen flying over the bay, reconnoitering in thatdirection. Puebla is the key to the taking of MexicoCity from Vera Cruz. It is always capitulating to somebody.It will doubtless do so to us. In 1821 Iturbidetook it. In 1847 it was taken by Scott; in 1863 by theFrench soldiers of Napoleon. In the battle of Puebla,1867, there was a furious engagement between Don Porfirioand the French. It is a beautiful old city—sometimescalled the “Rome” of Mexico, founded by PadreMotolinía, situated about midway between the coastand the Aztec city. It is crowded with churches andconvents, though many of these latter have been putto other uses; however, the point now is when and howour men will reach it. The blue skies and the deepbarrancas 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[326]telegraphic episode, and is decidedly downcast atthe idea that some peaceful agreement of a makeshiftorder will be reached. He is like a hungry man who hasbeen given thin bread and butter when he wants beefsteakand potatoes. He seemed, also, rather embarrassedto 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 newspapersat home (without my knowledge, of course) that I wasgetting up a Red Cross nurse corps; but there is no needfor it. The Solace is not half full, the hospitals on shorehave plenty of room, and the ships’ doctors are not toobusy. I had said that if fighting continued I would returnfrom New York with the first corps of nurses thatcame out. I have a feeling that instead of pushing onto Panama via Mexico and Guatemala we are going tomake some patchwork with the A. B. C. combination.It can be only a makeshift, at the best, and in any eventwill be a reprieve for Huerta, though that is the lastthing our government intends. Its heart is given elsewhere.

Last night Admiral Cradock and Captain Watson cameto dinner. No mention was made by them of the raisingof the flag over Vera Cruz and of the salutes that had sothrilled us. I imagine each admiral and captain in portconfined his activities during the afternoon to cabling tohis home government. The only thing Sir Christophersaid on the situation was to mildly inquire, “Do youknow yet whether you are at war or not?” CaptainSimpson had an excellent dinner, and we played bridgeafterward, the starry night concealing the fateful flagabove the English railroad terminal.

A belated norte is predicted, but my land eyes see nosign of it. General Funston, of Aguinaldo and San[327]Francisco earthquake fame, arrives this morning. Thearmy, I understand, has more suitable equipment andparaphernalia for the work of occupation, or whateverthey call it; but I am unforgettably thrilled by themajesty and might of our great navy.

April 29th. Morning.

The norte still threatens, but up to now, with fallingglass, there has been only a slight stirring of heavy, lifelessair.

Yesterday morning we went on shore at ten, and foundthe auto before the door of the Terminal station (otherwiseAdmiral Fletcher’s headquarters). A French chauffeur,risen up from somewhere, was sitting in it. No useinquiring into the genesis of things these days. Wetook Captain Simpson down to his old headquarters onthe Paseo de los Cocos. He wanted to see CaptainNiblack, who had replaced him in command. Then wedrove down through the town to the “roundhouse,”bowing to friends and acquaintances on every side, andfeeling unwontedly comfortable and cool.

The roundhouse makes ideal quarters—a huge coolness,with plenty of room for all the avocations of camplife. After wading through a stretch of sand under ablazing sky, we found Major Butler in his “headquarters”—afreight-car—but with both opposite doorsrolled back, making the car cool and airy. Two of hisofficers were with him. He is himself a man of exhaustlessnervous energy, and the A. B. C. combinationhangs like a sword over his head. He could go forwardand wipe up the coast to Panama, if he had the chance,he and his set of dauntless men. A few disconsolate-lookingmules and horses were browsing in the dry, sandygrass near by; they had been taken against payment.

“In the good old days in Nicaragua it was otherwise.[328]You took what you needed. This government runningthings is too pious and honest to suit me,” was hisdisgruntled observation when I asked if the steeds belongedto him.

The order and tranquillity of this town is maintainedby force of arms and is complete. Since the desultoryshots heard Friday night, sniping being then in full force,there has been silence along the dark waters; silence inevery cul-de-sac, and silence on every roof.

At twelve we went back for Captain Simpson. Wehad 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, wherepeople still drink lukewarm liquids, though CaptainSimpson said he had told them where they could getcart-loads of ammonia for the repairing of the ice-plant.At one o’clock I had a very pleasant tête-à-têtelunch with Captain Simpson. He was naval attachéin London before getting the Minnesota, and we foundourselves, for once, talking of people and things farremoved from Vera Cruz. A note came for Nelsonfrom Captain Huse, saying the admiral wanted toconfer with him, and Captain Simpson sent a manto find Nelson and deliver it. Afterward, Captain Moffettof the Chester came on board. He has been afriend of ours from the first, a very agreeable man, alwaysau courant with events as they really are. We areall hoping that the matter of the affairs of Americansbeing taken out of the hands of Sir Lionel and given tothe Brazilians would not get into the newspapers. Itmight lead to hard feeling between the nations and individualsconcerned. Captain Watson of the Essex thenappeared on board, with the Baron and Baroness vonHiller, and we all went in his launch to the outer harbor,which I had not yet seen—the view being completely[329]blocked by the Condé, which also hid the handsome Essex,really very near us. Oh, the glory and majesty and potencyof the United States as there depicted! Greatdreadnoughts, destroyers, torpedo-boats, every imaginablecraft, nearly eighty of them—and for what? Topry a sagacious and strong old Indian out of a place andposition that he has proved himself eminently well fittedto fill. Captain Ballinger’s hydroplane, operated byMustin, was circling above the harbor, coming from timeto time to rest upon the water like some creature equallyat home in sky or sea.

In the evening we went to dine with the von Hillers,aboard the Ypiranga. Admiral Cradock and CaptainWatson were also there. Captain Watson told me of thereturn of Commander Tweedie, who had brought downfrom Soledad in his private car two hundred and sixAmerican men, women, and children, whom he hadfound dumped on sand-dunes, and who had been withoutfood and without drink for twenty-four hours. I don’tknow the details, but I will ask Tweedie to lunch to-morrow.This much I do know—that the English, whosehelp we have refused, continue to display their strongarms and kind hearts and have been angels of mercyto our ruined and distracted countrymen.

After dinner we went up on deck, where CaptainBonath of the Ypiranga joined the party. He was morethan polite to N. and myself, in a frozen way, butthe air was charged and tense, and the look of surprise,indignation, and resentment not yet gone from hisface. In the course of the conversation it came out thatthe Brazilian consul in Vera Cruz is a Mexican! Therewas a scarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulders on thepart of the captain, and Captain Watson caught andthen avoided his eye. To all inquiries and innuendoeswe have only answered that, as Washington seemed to[330]put some hope in the A. B. C. mediation affair, it wasthought best, at home, to pay Brazil the compliment ofputting our affairs in her hands. The fact is that all thathas been done at this special moment for our needy andsuffering ones has been accomplished by the long, strongarm of England. Rowan, who was also at dinner, cameaway with us and we walked along the pier through ourlines of sentinels pacing everywhere in the heavy darkness.Away back in the country, on the dim distant sand-dunesthey are pacing too, alert, prepared for any surprise.

When we came out to the Minnesota not a breath wasstirring over the glassy water. Captain Simpson met usat the gangway. I told him the air was a little tense onshore, and added that I wanted to have Tweedie cometo see us to-morrow. So we arranged luncheon for to-day.Captain Simpson remarked, with his usual broadoutlook, “The nations will have to work out things intheir own way; but we, the individuals, can always showappreciation and courtesy.”

“Minnesota,” April 30th. 8 A.M.

Yesterday, at 9.30, Captain Watson came to fetch meto go to San Juan, dashing up to the ship in great stylein his motor-launch. Captain Simpson sent LieutenantSmyth, who was eager to see it, with us. We descendedthe gangway in the blazing sun and got into the launch,which, however, refused to move further. Finally, aftersome time of hot rolling on the glassy water, we transferredto one of the Minnesota’s boats, and in a few minutesI found myself landing, after two months, at thedreadful 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[331]strong, fine-looking young man. Indeed, our marines andblue-jackets are a magnificent-looking set, hard as nails,and endlessly eager. Captain Chamberlain was surroundedby all the signs of “occupation,” in more sensesthan one. Records, arms, ammunition, uniforms of the“old régime” were piled about, waiting till the morevital issues of flesh and blood, life and death, have beendisposed of. Captain Chamberlain was in New Yorkonly 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 wentthrough a door on which the Spanish orders of the daywere still to be seen written in chalk.

We started through the big machine-house, which wasin excellent up-keep, so the officers said, full of all sortsof valuable material, especially electrical. This broughtus out on the big central patio, where three groups offifty-one prisoners each sat blinking in the unaccustomedlight, and waiting to have straw hats portionedout to them, temporarily shielding their heads from thesun with rags, dishes, pans, baskets, and the like. Anextraordinary coughing, sneezing, spitting, and wheezingwas going on. Even in the hot sunshine these men werepursued 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 sothick with human miasmas; and for hours afterward anacrid, stifling something remained in my lungs, thoughI kept inhaling deeply the sun-baked air. As my eyesbecame accustomed to the darkness, I looked about; thedripping walls were oozing with filth; there were wetfloors, and no furniture or sanitary fittings of any kind.A few shallow saucepans, such as I had seen rationspoured into at my former visit, were lying about. The[332]rest was empty, dark, reeking horror. But God knowsthe place was abundantly hung and carpeted and furnishedwith human misery, from the dull, physical acheof the half-witted peon, to the exquisite torture of theman of mind habituated to cleanliness and comfort.What appalling dramas have there been enacted I darenot think.

One was told me. A man, not long imprisoned,accidentally found, in the darkness, a stick and athick, empty bottle. With the bottle he drove thestick deep into the brain of a man, unknown to him, whowas dozing near him. When taken out to be shot hewas found to be of the educated class. He said, in unavailingself-defense, that he had been crazed by thedarkness and the suffocating stench.

On coming out into the blessed air again, we examinedat rather close range these lines of men just readmittedto the fellowship of sun and sky. They presenteda varied and disheartening study for the ethnologist—orconqueror. There was every type, fromhalf-breed to full Indian; the majority of the faceswere pitted by smallpox. A few of the men had small,treasured bundles, to which they clung, while others, exceptfor the rags that covered them, were as unfetteredby possessions as when they were born. Thick, matted,black hair and irregular growths of stubby, Indianbeards gave their faces a savage aspect. At the end ofone of the lines were two very young boys, not more thanthirteen or fourteen, their faces still fresh and their eyesbright. I wanted to ask why they were there, but theirline had received its hats, and they were marched outthrough the portcullis to the beach.

Many of the inmates of San Juan were conscriptsawaiting the call to “fight” for their country; otherswere civil delinquents, murderers, thieves. Most of the[333]poor brutes had a vacant look on their faces. The politicalprisoners had already been freed. Two of the bigdungeons were still full. There were five or six hundredin one space, pending the cleaning out of the empty ones,when they were to be redistributed. Captain Chamberlainwas in the patio, trying to expedite matters, whenwe came out of the first dungeon. I think he had somesixty men to assist him, and was wrestling with book andpencil, trying to make some sort of classification andrecord. We walked over to another corner to inspect adungeon said to have chains on the walls and otherhorrors still in place. Between the thick bars of onewhere those sentenced to death for civil crimes werekept 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 investigatefully the meager, inexact records of the prison. We wentthrough the patio, under the big portcullis, along theway leading by the canals or moats to the graveyardby the beach. This was speakingly empty. There wereonly a few graves, and those seemed to be of officers orcommanders of the castle and members of their familieslong since dead. With mortality so constantly at work,and with no graves to be found, testimony, indeed, wasgiven by the sharks swimming in the waters. A simplerprocess than burial was in practice: a hunting in thedarkness, a shoveling out of bodies, a throwing to thesea—the ever-ready.

As we passed along one of the ledges we could hearsounds of life, almost of animation, coming through theloopholes that slanted in through the masonry—a yardand a half deep by four inches wide. These four-inchspaces were covered by a thick iron bar. When I had[334]last passed there, a dead, despairing silence reigned.Now, all knew that something had happened, that morewas to happen, and that good food was the order of theday. Coming back, we met the second detachment offifty-one, being marched out to the sandy strip at theocean-end of the fortress. Many of them will be freedto-day to join those other hundreds that I saw. Theywill know again the responsibilities, as well as the joys offreedom, but, alas, they will be of very little use tothe state or to themselves. We walked up the broadstairs leading to the flat roofs covering the dungeons.A squad of our men had established themselves on thewide landing, with their folding-cots, rifles, and all theparaphernalia of their business. Captain Watson said,as we got upon the azotea, “The holes in the floor wereordered cut by Madero when he came into power.” Itold him that I didn’t think so, they had seemed to mevery old; and when we examined them the raised edgeswere found to be of an obsolete form and shape of brick,and the iron barrings seemed to have centuries of ruston them. Nothing was changed. Nothing had ever beenchanged. It remained for a foreign hand to open thedoors.

The torpedo-house, which was near our landing,seemed business-like, clean, and very expensive, even tomy inexpert eyes. Stores were being landed by one ofthe Minnesota’s boats—great sides of beef, bread, coffee,vegetables, sugar. I was so thankful to see them, and toknow that hunger no longer stalked right under ourbows.

I reached home in time for two baths and to change allmy clothing before one o’clock, when CommanderTweedie arrived for lunch. He had a most interestingtale to tell of his journey down from Mexico City, andtold it in the characteristic, deprecating way of an Englishman[335]who has done something, but who neither wantscredit nor feels that he has done anything to deserve it.He came back as far as Soledad in a special train, witha guard of twenty-five of the famous Twenty-ninth.At Soledad he saw a miserable, hungry, thirsty, worn-outparty of Americans, men, women, and children, fromCordoba. Most of them had been in jail for eight days,and then found themselves stranded at Soledad fortwenty-four hours, without food or drink, huddled up bythe railroad station. Tweedie is a man of resource.Instead of getting back to Vera Cruz and reporting onthe condition, he made up his mind that he would takethe party on with him, or stay behind himself. Aftersome 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 tostart for Vera Cruz with the derelicts, under the fictionof their being English.

They had to walk the twenty blazing kilometers fromTejería, a sort of burning plowshare ordeal, one oldlady and various children being carried in blankets. Hegave them every available drop of liquid he had in hiscar, and he said the way the children lapped up theginger-ale and lemonade was very amusing. Still underthe auspices of Carden, a train-load of five or six hundredstarted, last night or this morning, for Coatzacoalcos.Sir Lionel, fearing a panic, decided not to say, till he getsoff this last train-load, that our affairs are no longer in hishands. I think magnanimity can scarcely go further;my heart is full of gratitude for the inestimable servicesthe English have rendered my countrypeople.

At four o’clock I went on shore to see Admiral Fletcher.Ensign Crisp (wearing side-arms) accompanied me. CaptainSimpson thinks it more suitable to send some onewith me, but never, in all her four hundred years or so[336]of existence, has Vera Cruz been safer, more cheerful,more prosperous, more hygienic. The zopilotes circlingthe town must think mournfully of the days when everythingwas thrown into the street for all that flies orcrawls to get fat and multiply on.

I found Admiral Fletcher in his headquarters at theTerminal, serene and powerful. He said, “I go out tothe 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 duringthese last days, and what it entailed, but that more thanall I admired his work of keeping peace in Mexicanwaters for fourteen months. A dozen incidents couldhave made for disturbance but for his calm judgment,his shrewd head, and the big, very human heart beatingin his breast; and I said to him what I have repeatedon many occasions, that it is due to Huerta, to AdmiralFletcher, and to Nelson that peace has been maintainedduring these long, difficult months. It was destined foran incident outside the radius of the power of thesethree to bring about the military occupation.

We spoke a few words of the old Indian, still wrestlingon the heights. Admiral Fletcher ended by saying, inhis quiet, convincing manner, “Doubtless when I get toWashington I will understand that point of view. Upto now I know it only from this end.”

I told him how I hated half-measures; how they weredisastrous in every relation of life—family, civil, public,and international—and never had that been proven moreclearly than here. Even he does not seem to knowwhether we have brought all this tremendous machineryto the shores of Mexico simply to retreat again, orwhether we are to go on. As I went away, I could buttell him once more of my respect and affection for himselfand my admiration for his achievements. I passed[337]out of the room, with tears in my eyes. I had seen agreat and good man at the end of a long and successfultask. Later, other honors will come to him. Probablyhe will get the fleet. But never again will he, for fourteenlong months, keep peace, with his battle-ships fillinga rich and coveted harbor. When all is said and done,that is his greatest work.

Our recall from Mexican soil—A historic dinner with General Funston—Thenavy turns over the town of Vera Cruz to the army—The marchof 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 unknownprosperity. But of that later. At eleven o’clock, as wewere about to go on shore, an envelope was brought toN. On opening it he found it was his recall from Mexicansoil, and we forthwith departed for the shore to seeAdmiral Fletcher. He was receiving visitors, for thelast time, at his headquarters, and N. was immediatelyadmitted. Admiral Badger passed through theantechamber, in his strong, dynamic way, as I waitedwith Captain Huse, whose face and personality aregraven on my memory as he appeared in my compartmentthat afternoon at Tejería.

Soon I went into Admiral Fletcher’s room, a great,square, high-ceilinged room, where he and Captain Husehad slept and worked during all those strange days, withanother almost equally large, a sort of Neronian bathroom,opening out of it. A breeze nearly always blowsin from the sea. N. was turning over the motor tothe navy, where it will be of great service. It wasa feat to get it down here with no further injurythan a damaged clutch, which the clever seamen put inorder. There was a good deal of coming and going at[339]headquarters, so we soon left and went to call on GeneralFunston at General Maass’s old headquarters. Itended by our remaining to dinner with General Funston—hisfirst dinner in General Maass’s home.

I suppose I am not only the only woman who hashad a meal there under two flags, but the only person.I went up the broad stairs with Colonel Alvord, thestairs I had last descended on General Maass’s arm.When I got there General Funston was in the large frontroom where the Maass family had lived and breathedand had its being. After greeting him, my eye rovedover the room. On the table, with its white drawn-workcloth, was the same centerpiece of white coral(from which hung bits of bright green artificial moss) andthe large silver cup; there was the silent piano, with itspiles of worn music; the porcelain ship (sad augury),filled with faded artificial roses; the bead curtains dividingthe big room in half; the rocking-chair of which thefamily had been so proud; even the doily that came offon my back! We went in almost immediately to thelarge, bountifully spread table, where the food wasserved in the Maass china. I, of course, sat on GeneralFunston’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 gracetheir first meal.”

General Funston is small, quick, and vigorous. Thereis a great atmosphere of competency about him, and heis, they tell me, a magnificent field officer. He had beento Mexico nineteen years before, thinking to investmoney in coffee; now in the turning wheel of life his reputationis being invested in the situation which he ismore than equal to. They are all afraid that some hybridbreed of “dove of peace”—“peace at any price” (or[340]“preparedness for more kicks”—as some one gloomilyobserved) will flap his wings over the land. The army isready, willing, and able to bring to a successful issue,in the face of any difficulty, any task set it. I amsure that the officers feel the cruelty of half-measures,cruelty both to our own people and to Mexico; theyknow war can’t be more disastrous than what we aredoing. 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 aroundthe big table. My eyes rested admiringly on those half-dozenstrong, competent men in their khaki suits. It isthe most becoming of all manly apparel—flannel shirt,with low, pointed collar, trousers like riding-breeches,leather leggings, cartridge-belts, and side-arms all inone tone. They are going to pack the Maass relicsand turn them over to their owners. Admiral Fletcherhad sent a message to General Maass, promising to forwardall their effects. I must say I had a real conceptionof “fortunes of war” when they hunted for butter-dishesand coffee-cups in the Maasses’ gaudy china-closet.They had only got into the house in the morning, andhad had no time for anything except the arrangementsfor 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! PrairieSunk!” and he felt that the moment of departuremight, indeed, be near. He gave N. an historic passto go between the lines at any time, and we left soonafterward, as it was nearing the hour for the officers togo to the function on the Sanidad pier—“a little Funston,”as Captain Huse called it. I shook hands withthem all and wished the general “Godspeed to the[341]heights.” Whatever is necessary, he and his strong,faithful men will do. We walked through the hot, whitestreets to the Plaza, and were soon overtaken by GeneralFunston and his chief of staff, riding in a disreputablecoche drawn by a pair of meager gray nags. I believethe navy arrived on the scene in our smart auto. A fewminutes later I saw the general, in his khaki, standing byAdmiral Fletcher, who was in immaculate white on theSanidad pier.

Then began the wonderful march of six thousand blue-jacketsand marines back to their ships. The men hadhad their precious baptism of fire. As ship’s battalionafter battalion passed, there was cheering, lifting of hatsto the colors, and many eyes were wet. The menmarched magnificently, with a great, ringing tread, andmade a splendid showing. If the old Indian on the hillcould have seen them he would have recognized all themight and majesty of our land and the bootlessness ofany struggle. The passing of the troops and theirembarkment took exactly thirty-seven minutes. Theyseemed to vanish away, to be dissolved into the sea,their natural element. For a moment only the harborlooked 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 wereuntold cinematograph and photograph men, and theworld will know the gallant sight. N. stood withAdmiral Fletcher and General Funston.

Sometimes, alone in Mexico City, with the whole responsibilityof the Embassy on his Shoulders, N.would be discouraged, and I, too, fearful of the ultimateend. Had I realized the might and magnificence of thenavy represented in the nearest harbor, ready and ableto back up our international undertakings and our nationaldignity, I think I would never have had a moment’s[342]despondency. I said something of this to CaptainSimpson, and he answered, “Yes, but remember youwere in the woods.”

Admiral Busch took us back to the Minnesota, wherewe arrived in time to see the returned men drawn upon the decks to be inspected by Captain Simpson,who gave them a few warm, understanding words ofcommendation. Some were missing. Peace to them!

Later.

We went again on shore, leaving Nelson at the CarlosV., to return the call of the Spanish captain in MexicoCity. I was so tired out with the sun and the long daythat I stayed in the small boat. I simply had not thenervous energy to climb the gangway and go on board,though I would have liked to see the ship. After thevisit we went and sat under the portales of the Diligenciasfor an hour or so, to watch the busy scene. Theice-plant of the Diligencias was not yet in working order,so the usual dirty, lukewarm drinks were being served todisgusted patrons. In the Palacio Municipal, the SecondInfantry regiment was quartered, and under its portalesthey had put up their cook-stoves and were preparingtheir early evening meal, before going to their night-workon the outposts. Several dozen fat, sleek, well-dressedMexicans were being shoved off at the point ofthree or four bayonets. I asked Ensign McNeir why itwas, and he said:

“Oh, that is the bread-line. They can’t be botheredwith it now.” The “bread-line,” which at timesprobably includes one-third of the population of VeraCruz, had evidently had good success at other points,and had been enjoying a workless, well-fed day; for itsmembers had disposed themselves comfortably on benchor curb of the Plaza, and listened to the strains of the[343]“Star-spangled Banner,” “Dixie,” and “The DollarPrincess”—provided for their entertainment by thethoughtful, lavish invaders. Even the little flower-girlsseemed to have on freshly starched petticoats; thebright-eyed newsboys had clean shirts, and the swarmingbootblacks looked as spruce as their avocation permitted.A sort of millennium has come to the city; andmoney, too, will flow like water when pay-day comesfor the troops.

Richard Harding Davis came up to our table. Hisquick eye misses nothing. If there is anything dull torecord of Vera Cruz, it won’t be dull when it gets to theworld through that vivid, beautiful prose of his. Weteased him about his hat, telling him there had beenmany loud bands in town that day, marine bands, armybands, and navy bands, but nothing quite as loud as hisblue-and-white polka-dot hat-band. We said he couldbe spotted at any distance.

He answered, quite unabashed: “But isn’t recognitionwhat 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 ofothers. Captain Lansing, a very smart-looking officer,had recently been transferred from the pomp and circumstanceof Madrid, where he had been military attaché, tothe jumping-off place of the world, Texas City. He saidthat after a year in the dust or mud and general flatnessand staleness of that place, Vera Cruz seemed a gayparadise. Lieutenant Newbold, from Washington, andmany others, were also presented. They all looked sostrong, so sound, so eager. I think eagerness is the qualityI shall best remember of the men at Vera Cruz.Burnside walked back to the boat with us, the tropicalnight falling in that five minutes’ walk. General Funston’s[344]first official orders were already up with the formalnotification of his authority:

Already in those short hours since the army “flowed”in, the soldiers had installed themselves as though theyhad been there forever. In the dusk we saw their tentsstretched, their bake-ovens up, and the smell of freshbread was mingled with the warm sea odors. It was“efficiency” indeed.

May 3d.

This morning the news that Mr. Bryan will not permitany fighting during the period of armistice and mediationwill dampen much of the eagerness I mentioned.

The full complement of the blue-jackets being againon board, there is a lively sound of ship-cleaning going on.Everything seemed immaculate before. We have beenso comfortable, so cool, so well looked after in every wayon this man-of-war. But I shall not soon forget the faceof the young officer just home from outpost duty whodiscovered that my French maid was occupying his cabin!

Last night, as we sat talking on the deck, looking outover the jeweled harbor, the gentle, peaceful bugle-callto “taps” sounded suddenly from San Juan Ulua.A big light hung over the entrance to Captain Chamberlain’squarters. It is balm on my soul that the pest-holeof centuries is open to the sun and light, the boltshanging slack, and comparative peace and plenty everywhere.[345]I say comparative peace, because those imprisonedfor murder and foul crimes are still to be dealt with.When I first visited the prison under the Mexican flagCaptain McDougall and I asked the sentry who showedus around if there had been many executions lately.

He answered, “Since Thursday” (this was Sunday)“only by order of the colonel!” Whether this was trueor not I don’t know; but the guard gave it out with theair of one making an ordinary statement. CaptainMcDougall asked because, from the Mayflower, anchoredalmost where we now are, he had heard many a shot atnight and in the early morning.

Immediately after dinner we had gone up on deck. Adelicious breeze was turning and twisting through thesoft, thick, tropical night. Every night a large screen isput up on the after part of the ship, and the officers andcrew gather to watch the “movies,” seating themselveswithout distinction of rank. The turrets are garlandedwith men; even the tops of the mast had their human decorations.It was most refreshing, after the hot, historicday, to sit quietly on the cool, dim deck and watch the oldtales of love, burglars, kidnapping, and kindred recitalsunroll themselves from the films. But it was morebeautiful later on, as we sat quietly on the deck in thedarkness, watching the wondrous scene about us. Athousand lights were flashing across the water, catchingeach dark ripple. The “city of ships,” as I call VeraCruz harbor, is constantly throwing its flash-lights, itssemaphores, its signalings of all kinds, and water andsky reflect them a hundredfold.

Just after the peaceful sounding of “Taps” from thefortress, Admiral Fletcher and Captain Huse came onboard to pay us a farewell visit. Admiral Fletcher’scourtesy is always of the most delicate kind, comingfrom the depths of his kind heart and his broad understanding[346]of men and life. He and N. walked up anddown the deck for a while, planning about our gettingoff. He intends that the chargé shall depart from Mexicanwaters with all fitting dignity. After a warm handclasphe and Captain Huse went off over the summersea. Standing at the rail, we watched the barge disappearinto 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 beput at our disposal on the morrow to take us to ournative shores, and so will the story end. I am homesickfor my beautiful plateau and the vibrant, multicolored lifeI have been leading. Adelante! But I have little tastefor dinners, teas, and the usual train-train, though a fewexpeditions to dress-makers and milliners will be profitableto me as well as to them. As you know, I had notime to have my personal things packed at the Embassy,and what I did bring with me reposed for twenty-fourhours on the sand-dunes at Tejería, between the Mexicanlines and ours. My big yellow trunk is reported at theTerminal station. What is left in it will be revealedlater. They may not call it war in Washington, but whena woman loses her wardrobe she finds it difficult to callit peace. N.’s famous collection of boots, forty or fiftypairs, evidently left those sand-dunes on Aztec or mestizofeet. My silver foxes and other furs I don’t worry about.Under that blistering sky and on that hot, cutting sandthey could offer no temptations.

Joe Patterson has just been on board. He came downwith the army on the transport Hancock, sui generis, asusual, his big body dressed in the loosest of tan coverings.He is always electric and interesting, running with apractised touch over many subjects. He said he wantednot an interview with N. for his newspaper (which[347]would finish N. “dead”), but to make some accountthat would interest the public and not get him (N.) intotrouble. I shall be interested to see what he does. Theboresome news of the armistice has made him feel thathe wants to get back, and I dare say there will be manya departure. Nelson will not allow himself to be interviewedby a soul. It is impossible to please everybody,but, oh, how easy it is to displease everybody!

Homeward bound—Dead to the world in Sarah Bernhardt’s luxuriouscabin—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 yachtYankton, which is carrying us to New Orleans as thecrow flies—a special trip for the purpose. In anotherwalk of life the Yankton was known as La Cléopâtre, andbelonged to Sarah Bernhardt. Now I, much the worsefor wear, occupy her cabin. She has never brought arepresentative of the United States from the scene ofwar before, but she is Admiral Badger’s special ship,carries mails, special travelers, etc., and went aroundthe world with the fleet. The fleet met a typhoon, andall were alarmed for the safety of the Yankton, whichemerged from the experience the least damaged of any ship.I can testify that she rides the waves and that she evenjumps them. Admiral B. says that in harbor he usesher chiefly for court-martials. Now I am here. Life is ajumble, is it not?

At five o’clock, on Friday, May 1st, we said good-byto dear Captain Simpson and all the luxurious hospitalityof the Minnesota, Commander Moody and the officers ofthe day wishing us “Godspeed.” Just as we were leavingCaptain Simpson told us that he had been signaledto send five hundred rations to San Juan Ulua. As wepushed off across the water, accompanied by EnsignCrisp, the boat officer of the day, great patches of khaki[349]colored the shores of the town. They were squads ofour men, their tents and paraphernalia, the color comingout strong against Vera Cruz, which had an unwontedgrayish tone that afternoon. The Yankton was lying inthe outer harbor, surrounded by battle-ships, dreadnoughts,and torpedo-boats—a mighty showing, acircle of iron around that artery of beautiful, gaspingMexico. It was about quarter before six when we reachedthe Yankton. As I looked about I seemed to be in astrange, gray city of battle-ships. Shortly afterwardAdmiral Badger put out from his flag-ship, the Arkansas,to say good-by to us. He came on board, greeting usin his quick, masterful way. Such power has rarelybeen seen under one man as that huge fleet representedin Vera Cruz harbor, and the man commandingit is fully equal to the task; he is alert, with piercingblue eyes, very light hair gone white, and a clean, freshcomplexion—the typical mariner in a high place. Ithink he feels entirely capable of going up and downthe coast and taking all and everything, even thedreaded Tampico, with its manifest dangers of oil, fire,disease, and all catastrophes that water can bring.He spoke of the thirty thousand Americans who havealready appeared at our ports, driven from their comfortablehomes, now destitute, and who can’t return toMexico until we have made it possible.... I imaginehe strains at the leash. He loves it all, too, and it waswith a deep sigh that he said, “Unfortunately, in littlemore than a month my time is up.” But all endings aresad. Great bands of sunset red were suddenly stampedacross the sky as he went away, waving us more goodwishes.

Captain Joyce, who had gone into town to get us somespecial kind of health certificate to obviate any quarantinedifficulties, came on board a little later, and soon[350]after his return we were under way. The quick, tropicalnight began to fall. What had been a circle of iron byday was a huge girdle of light pressing against Mexico,as potent under the stars as under the sun. My heartwas very sad.... I had witnessed a people’s agony andI had said an irrevocable farewell to a fascinating phaseof my own life, and to a country whose charm I havefelt profoundly. Since then I have been dead to theworld, scribbling these words with limp fingers on adamp bit of paper. This jaunty yacht is like a cockle-shellon the shining waters. Admiral Fletcher and AdmiralCradock sent wireless messages, which are lyingin a corner, crumpled up, like everything else.

I said to Elim, lying near by in his own little sackclothand ashes, “Yacht me no yachts,” and he answered,“No yachts for me.” Later, recovered enough to makea little joke, he said he was going to give me one for aChristmas present.

I said, “I will sell it.”

He answered, “No, sink it. If we sell it dey’ll inviteus—dey always do.” He looked up later, with a moan,to say, faintly, “I would rather have a big cramp dandis horriblest feeling in de world.”

This is, indeed, noblesse oblige! I have suffered somewhat,perhaps gloriously, for la patria, and I suppose Iought to be willing to enact this final scene without bewailings;but I have been buried to the world, and thedivine Sarah’s cabin is my coffin. If such discomfortcan exist where there is every modern convenience oflimitless ice, electric fans, the freshest and best offood, what must have been the sufferings of peoplein sailing-ships, delayed by northers or calms, withnever a cold drink? I envelop them all in boundlesssympathy, from Cortés to Madame Calderon de laBarca.

[351]

U. S. S. “Yankton.” May 4th. 3.30.

Awhile ago I staggered up the hatchway, a palecreature in damp white linen, to once more behold thesky, after three cribbed and cabined days. A pilot’sboat was rapidly approaching us on the nastiest, yellowest,forlornest sea imaginable. I felt that I could nolonger endure the various sensations animating my body,not even an instant longer. Then, suddenly, it seemedwe were in the southwest passage of the great delta,out of that unspeakable roll, passing up the “Father ofWaters”—the abomination of desolation. Even thegulls looked sad, and a bell-buoy was ringing a sort ofdeath-knell. Uniformly built houses were scattered atintervals on the monotonous flat shores, where the onlything that grows is tall, rank grass—whether out ofland or water it is impossible to say. These are thedwellings of those lonely ones who work on the levees,the wireless and coaling stations, dredging and “redeeming”this seemingly ungrateful land, stretching outthrough 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 anenchantment. The pilot brought damp piles of paperson board, but I can’t bear to read of Mexican matters.Whether Carranza refuses flatly our request to discontinuefighting during the mediation proceedings, or ahasty New York editor calls Villa “the Stonewall Jacksonof Mexico,” it is only more of the same. My heartand mind know it all too well.

I have a deep nostalgia for Mexico; even for its blood-redcolor. Everything else the world can offer will seemdrab beside the memory of its strange magic.

A radio came from Mr. Bryan at six this morningrequesting N. to observe silence until he has conferredin Washington. But N. had already made up his[352]mind that silentium would be his sign and symbol. Unlesswe get in at the merciful hour of dawn he will bebesieged by reporters. A word too much just now couldendlessly complicate matters for Washington.

We are slipping up broad, mournful, lake-like expansesof water. From time to time a great split comes,and it seems as if we had met another river, seeking anotheroutlet. More white and gray houses show themselvesagainst the tall, pale-green, persistent grasses andthe yellow of the river. They are lonely, isolated homes,wherein each family earns its bread in the sweat of itsbrow by some kind of attendance on the exacting “Fatherof 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 telegramsfrom Washington, with orders not to hold us up,made it an easy matter. We saw the Monterey, whichhad arrived in the morning, with six hundred and twenty-threepassengers aboard, moored at the dock. Thewomen and children were to sleep in screened tents onland. Many of them were refugees from Mexico Cityitself, and they cheered and waved, as we passed by,and called “O’Shaughnessy! O’Shaughnessy!”

The refugees, according to the copy of the Picayunethe health officers left us, are loud in praise of Carden,saying their escape is due to him and not to the StateDepartment, and giving incidental cheers for Roosevelt.Dr. Corput is a martinet; but though he was hot anddecidedly wilted about the collar when his six-foot-twoperson came into the saloon where we were dining, helooked highly competent. It will be a bright microbethat gets by him. He, with his yellow flag, is lord andmaster of every craft and everything that breasts thisriver.

[353]

The whole question of guarding the health of theUnited States at this station is most interesting. It isone of the largest in the world, but is taxed to its utmostnow by the thousands of refugees from Mexico, most ofthem cursing the administration, as far as I can gather,during the hundred and forty-five hours of travel sinceleaving Mexico. The quarantine station itself, underthe red, late afternoon sun, looked a clean, attractivevillage, supplemented by rows of tents. There are immensesterilizers in which the whole equipment of aship can be put, huge inspection-rooms, great bathing-houses,and a small herd of cattle. It is sufficient toitself. Nothing can get at the inmates, nor can the inmates,on the other hand, get at anything. I shouldsay that the wear and tear of existence would bematerially lessened during the one hundred and forty-fivehours. The great ships that pass up now areladen with people who have been exposed to everyimaginable disease in the Mexican débâcle. You rememberthe small-pox outbreak in Rome, and howthat microbe was encouraged! Well, autre pays, autremœurs. The Indian, however, thinks very little moreof having small-pox than we think of a bad cold in thehead.

10 P.M.

We have been going up-stream very quietly, in thisdark, soft night, zigzagging up its mighty length toavoid the current. Sometimes we were so near theshores we could almost touch the ghostly willow-trees;while mournful, suppressed night noises fell upon ourears. The mosquitoes are about the size of flies—notthe singing variety, but the quiet, biteful kind. Myenergies are needed to keep them off, so good night; allis quiet along the Mississippi. We have ninety miles fromquarantine to New Orleans.

[354]

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 photographersgalore at the dock to meet us and the good shipYankton. They did not, however, get fat on what theygot from N., who refused to discuss the Mexican situationin any way. But we did lend ourselves to thecamera. We were photographed on the ship, on theblazing pier, in the noisy streets, near by, among a horrorof trucks and drays rattling over huge cobblestones,and a few more terrors in ink will be broadcast. Ithen went to the nearest good shop and got a blacktaffeta gown (a Paquin model with low, white-tulle neck),and began to feel quite human again. Then we motoredabout for several hours with one of the officers, througha city of beautiful homes, interesting old French andforeign quarters, driving at last over a magnificent causeway.On one side was a swamp filled by all sorts oftropical vegetation, and, doubtless, inhabited by wet,creeping things; on the other side, a broad canal. Wereached a place called West End, on Lake Pontchartrain,where we lunched on shrimps, soft-shelled crabs,and broiled chicken, quite up to the culinary reputationof New Orleans. Afterward we went back to the boatunder a relentless afternoon sun and over more of thoseunforgetable cobblestones.

I was completely done up. They were coaling as wegot back to the ship, but the sailors hastily shoveled away for me, and I threw myself on my bed in a state ofcomplete exhaustion. When I came on deck again at5.30 the hideous coaling was done, the decks were washed,and everything was in apple-pie order. Crowds wereagain on the pier, and the photographers got in more work.The golden figure of Cleopatra that decorates the prow[355]was blood-red in the afternoon sun. At six we startedout with Captain Joyce, who had literally “stood onthe 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 momentat the St. Charles, where I mailed my long Yankton letter,and found it overflowing with Americans fromMexico, with smiles or frowns upon their faces, accordingas they were going to or leaving a bank account.We then went to Antoine’s, which has beencelebrated for seventy-five years. There we had a perfectdinner, preceded by a mysterious and delightfulappetizer, called a “pink angel,” or some such name, mostsoothing in effect. (It proved to be made of the forbiddenabsinthe.) Also there were oysters, roasted insome dainty way, chicken okra, soft-shelled crabs again,and frozen stuffed tomatoes.

New Orleans still retains a certain Old World flavorand picturesqueness. One might even dream here.Everything is not sacrificed at the altar of what iscalled efficiency—that famous American word whicheverywhere hits the returning native.

Some of the newspapers were quite amusing, and allwere complimentary. One congratulates N. on beingrelieved “from the daily task of delivering ultimatumsto, and being hugged by, Huerta.” Others are veryanxious to know if “Vic Huerta” kissed and embracedMr. O’Shaughnessy on his departure. The abrazo iscertainly not in form or favor in the more reticent UnitedStates of America.

Richmond Hotel, Washington, D. C.

We got in at seven o’clock, and, accompanied by theusual press contingent, came to this hotel. The proprietorhad telegraphed to us to New Orleans, saying thatN. was the greatest diplomat of the century, American[356]patriot, and hero. We thought we’d try him, he soundedso very pleasant, and we have found comfortablequarters. Now, while waiting breakfast, ordered froma Portuguese, I have these few minutes.

An amusing letter from Richard Harding Davis ishere, inclosing newspaper head-lines two and a half incheshigh—“O’Shaughnessy Safe.” He adds, “Any manwho gets his name in type this size should be satisfiedthat republics are not ungrateful!”

A pile of letters and notes awaits me; the telephonehas begun to ring. How will the Washington pagewrite itself? Adelante!

THE END

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74308 ***