she must be in accord with us. Many other colleagues also called,
fearing some trouble when it was understood that N. was not to attend
the opening and that the United States proposed to declare null and
void any act of the Congress. Quite a flutter among the expectant
_concessionaires Belges_! It all had a very salutary effect. There is
no use in any of the Powers trying to “rush” the United States, no
matter what their interests on the Western Hemisphere.
_Later._
President Wilson has decided to delay the announcement of his new
Mexican policy. Incidentally, I told Berthe to unpack. Well, we will
all be quiet until something else turns up. Hundreds of dollars’ worth
of cables went out from the Embassy yesterday, N. dictating for hours
and the clerks coding. Several of them are sleeping at the Embassy,
anyway--so much night work that they are needed on the ground.
I am giving this letter to M. Bourgeois, the French consul-general,
leaving on the _Espagne_, next week. He is an agreeable man of the
world, who has just been assigned to Tientsin.
_Evening, 10 o’clock._
Matters very serious. N. is to deliver to-night what is practically an
ultimatum. He called up Manuel Garza Aldape, Minister of Gobernación
(Interior), and arranged for an interview with him at his house at
nine o’clock. Then he rang up the ministers he needs as witnesses, to
accompany him there.
Von Hintze arrived first. When he had read the paper here in the
drawing-room he said, after a silence, “This means war.” (Some one had
intimated such a possibility on Wednesday last, to Garza Aldape, and
he had answered, quietly, “It _is_ war.”) Von Hintze went on to say:
“Huerta’s personal position is desperate. Whether he fights the rebels
in the north or the United States, it is disaster for him. Only, I
fancy, he has less to lose in the way of prestige if he chooses the
United States. His nation will make some show of rallying around him in
this latter case.” Von Hintze is persuaded that we are not ready for
war, practically or psychologically. He kept repeating to N.: “But have
you represented to your government what all this will eventually lead
to?” N. answered “Washington is justly tired of the situation. For six
months our government has urged and threatened and coaxed. It doesn’t
want any more useless explanations. It is too late.”
However, until the note is in Huerta’s hands it is not official. So I
still hope. Garza Aldape is one of the best of the ministers.
I went with von Hintze and N. to the big front door and watched the
motor disappear in the darkness. Delicious odors from the geraniums and
heliotrope in the garden enveloped the house, but after a moment I
came back, feeling very still. The idea of American blood watering the
desert of Chihuahua grips my heart. I can see those dry, prickly cactus
stubs sticking up in the sand. No water anywhere! During the Madero
revolution a couple of hundred Mexicans died there of thirst, and they
knew their country. I kept looking about my comfortable drawing-room,
with its easy-chairs and photographs, books and bowls of flowers, and
saying to myself: “So that is the way wars are made.” This putting of
another’s house in order is getting on my nerves.
The telephone has been ringing constantly. The journalists have had
indications from Washington that something is impending.
_Saturday, November 15th._
N. came in last night at half past twelve, after a three hours’
conference with Aldape. He is to see him again at ten this morning.
They say that the presence of Mr. Lind gives publicity to every step,
that their national dignity is constantly imperiled, and that it is
impossible to negotiate under such conditions. Aldape also said that
Huerta flies into such a rage whenever Lind’s name is mentioned that
conversation becomes impossible.
_Later._
Things are very strenuous to-day. N. saw Garza Aldape at ten. He said
he had passed a sleepless night, after their conference, and had not
yet presented the ultimatum to Huerta. N. asked him if he were afraid
to do so, and he answered, quite simply, “Yes.” N. told him he would
return at three o’clock, and if by that time the note had not been
presented through the regular channels, he would do it himself.
The outlook is very gloomy. Carranza in the north has refused the
offices of W. B. Hale as mediator, saying, “No foreign nation can be
permitted to interfere in the interior matters of Mexico.” If Carranza
says that, certainly Huerta cannot say less. So there we are. Though
nothing was further from his purpose, Mr. Lind has absolutely knocked
any possible negotiations on the head by the noise and publicity of his
arrival in the city of Montezuma _and_ Huerta. The Latin-American may
know that you know his affairs, and know that you know he knows you
know; but he does not want and will not stand publicity.
This morning I went out “junking” at the Thieves’ Market with Lady C.
It seemed to us that all the rusty keys in the world, together with all
the locks, door-knobs, candlesticks, spurs, and family chromos were on
exhibition. We were just leaving when my eye fell on a beautiful old
blue-and-white Talavera jar, its metal top and old Spanish lock intact.
After considerable haggling I ended by giving the shifty-eyed Indian
more than he had ever dreamed of getting, and much less than the thing
was worth. Drugs, sweetmeats, and valuables of various kinds used to be
kept in these jars. Greatly encouraged, I dragged Lady C. to the Monte
de Piedad. All foreigners as well as natives frequent it, hoping, in
vain, to get a pearl necklace for what one would pay for a string of
beads elsewhere. One of the monthly _remates_, or auctions, was going
on, and the elbowing crowd of peons and well-dressed people, together
with the familiar Aztec smell, made us feel it was no place for us. The
diamonds and pearls here are mostly very poor, and the great chunks of
emeralds with their thousand imperfections are more decorative than
valuable. The fine jewels of the wealthy class have come mostly from
Europe, though shrewd buyers are on the lookout for possible finds
in the constant turnover of human possessions. There are beautiful
opals to be had in Mexico, but you know I wouldn’t touch one, and the
turquoise has been mined from time immemorial. The museums everywhere
are full of them as talismans and congratulatory gifts, to say nothing
of the curio-shops.
Cortés, it appears, was very fond of jewels, and was always smartly
dressed in fine linen and dark colors, with one handsome ornament.
When he went back to Spain he set all the women crazy by the jewels he
took with him. Emeralds, turquoises, gold ornaments, and _panaches_ of
plumes of the _quetzal_ (bird of paradise) cunningly sewn with pearls
and emeralds, after the Aztec fashion, were distributed with a lavish
hand. The presents for his second wife were so splendid that the queen
became quite jealous, though he had made her wonderful offerings. It is
hinted that this was the beginning of his disfavor at court.
_November 17th._
Yesterday, which began so threateningly, ended without catastrophe. On
opening the morning newspaper, I saw that Garza Aldape had resigned.
He finally presented the American note to Huerta, with the result that
he also presented his own demission and leaves almost immediately for
Vera Cruz, to sail on the _Espagne_ for Paris, where, it is rumored, he
will be minister in place of de la Barra. Anyway, it is his exit from
Huertista politics. He is a gentleman and a man of understanding. The
way Huerta has of dispersing his Cabinet is most unfortunate.
Yesterday there was another little luncheon at Tlalpam. We sat in the
beautiful, half-neglected garden till half past four among a riot
of flowers in full bloom, callas, violets, roses, geraniums, and
heliotrope on every side. The two white, distant volcanoes crowned as
ever the matchless beauty of the scene about us.
What the diplomats are fearing in the event of N.’s withdrawal is
the interregnum _after_ our departure and before the American troops
could get here. They foresee pillaging of the city and massacre of the
inhabitants; as their natural protectors, the Federal troops, would
be otherwise occupied, fighting “the enemy”--_i. e._, us! They always
say Washington would be held responsible in such an event, by the
whole world, but this thought does not seem to comfort them much. The
ineradicable idea among all foreigners is that we are playing a policy
of exhaustion and ruin in Mexico by non-recognition, so that we will
have little or no difficulty when we are ready to grab. One can talk
oneself hoarse, explain, embellish, uphold the President’s policy--it
makes no difference: “It is like that.”
We came home after I had shown myself with Elim at the Country Club on
our way in. People are in a panic here, but no one has heard anything
from _me_ except that I expect to receive on Thanksgiving Day from
four to eight. The telephones are being rung all day by distracted
fathers and husbands, not knowing what to do. They cannot leave their
daily bread. They are not men who have bank accounts in New York or in
any other town, and to them leaving means ruin. They come with white,
harassed faces. “Is it true that the Embassy is to be closed to-night?”
“What do you advise?” “It is ruin if I leave.” “Can’t we count on any
protection?” are a few of the questions asked.
Dr. Ryan, the young physician who did such good work during the
_Decena Tragica_ last February, is here again. He has been in the
north these last months, where he saw horrid things and witnessed many
executions. He says the victims don’t seem to care for their own lives
or for any one’s else. They will stand up and look at the guns of the
firing-squad, with big round eyes, like those of deer, and then fall
over.
As I write I hear the sad cry of the tamale-women, two high notes, and
a minor drop. All Mexican street cries are sad. The scissors-grinder’s
cry is beautiful--and melancholy to tears.
I was startled as I watched the faces of some conscripts marching to
the station to-day. On so many was impressed something desperate and
despairing. They have a fear of displacement, which generally means
catastrophe and eternal separation from their loved ones. They often
have to be tied in the transport wagons. There is no system about
conscription here--the press-gang takes any likely-looking person.
Fathers of families, only sons of widows, as well as the unattached,
are enrolled, besides women to cook and grind in the powder-mills.
Sometimes a few dozen school-children parade the streets with guns,
escorted by their teachers. Unripe food for cannon, these infants--but
looking so proud. These are all details, but indicative of the
situation.
_November 18th._
To-morrow Huerta and his señora are to receive at Chapultepec, the
first time they will have made use of the official presidential
dwelling. They are moving from the rented house in the Calle Liverpool
to one of their own, a simple enough affair in the Mexican style, one
story with a _patio_, in an unfashionable quarter.
As we are still “accredited,” I think we ought to go, there being no
reason why we should offer to Señora Huerta the disrespect of staying
away.
When we arrived in Mexico, beautiful Doña Carmen Diaz was presiding;
then came Señora de la Barra, newly married, sweet-faced, and smiling;
followed by Señora Madero, earnest, pious, passionate. Now Señora
Huerta is the “first lady”--all in two years and a half. The dynasties
have a way of telescoping in these climes.
The invitation to the opening of Congress to-morrow has just come
in--exactly as if the United States had not decided that no such
Congress should be convened and its acts be considered null and void.
Elim told me to-day that all the children he plays with have gone
away--“afraid of the revolution,” he added, in a matter-of-fact voice.
He expects to die with me if “war” does come, and is quite satisfied
with his fate.
The details of Garza Aldape’s demission have come in. His resignation
was accepted by Huerta in the friendliest manner. He concluded the
conversation, however, by telling Aldape the _Espagne_ was sailing on
Monday, and that he had better leave on Sunday morning, so as to be
sure not to miss it. This being late Saturday evening, Garza Aldape
demurred, saying his family had no trunks. The President assured him
that he himself would see that he got all he needed. Subsequently he
sent Aldape a number of large and handsome receptacles. Madame G. A.
received a hand-bag with luxurious fittings, and 20,000 francs _oro_ in
it! The “old man” has a royal manner of doing things on some occasions;
and then again he becomes the Indian, inscrutable, unfathomable to us,
and violent and high-handed to his own people--whom he knows so very
well.
The reception at Chapultepec, yesterday, was most interesting. As we
drove through the Avenida de los Insurgentes up the _Paseo_ toward the
“Hill of the Grasshopper” the windows of the castle were a blaze of
light high up against the darkening sky.
On our last visit to Chapultepec,[5] Madero and Pino Suarez were there,
and shades of the murdered ones began to accost me as I appeared on
the terrace. One of the glittering presidential aides, however, sprang
to give me his arm, and in a moment I was passing into the familiar
_Salon de Embajadores_, to find Señora Huerta installed on the equally
familiar gilt-and-pink brocaded sofa placed across the farther end.
She has been a very handsome woman, with fine eyes and brow, and has
now a quiet, dignified, and rather serious expression. She was dressed
in a tight-fitting princess gown of red velvet, with white satin
guimp and black _glacé_ kid gloves. She has had thirteen children,
most of whom seemed to be present on this, their first appearance in
an official setting. The daughters, married and unmarried, and their
friends receiving with them, made quite a gathering in themselves. As I
looked around, after saluting Señora Huerta, the big room seemed almost
entirely filled with small, thick-busted women, with black hair parted
on one side over low, heavy brows, and held down by passementerie
bandeaux; well-slippered, _very_ tiny feet, were much in evidence. None
of the “aristocrats” were there, but _el Cuerpo_, was out in full force.
The President came at about six o’clock, walking quickly into the room
as the national air was played, and we all arose. It was the first time
I had seen him. N. presented me, and we three stood talking, in the
middle of the room, while everybody watched “America and Mexico.”
Huerta is a short, broad-shouldered man of strong Indian type, with an
expression at once serious, amiable, and penetrating; he has restless,
vigilant eyes, screened behind large glasses, and shows no signs of the
much-talked-of alcoholism. Instead, he looked like a total abstainer. I
was much impressed by a certain underlying force whose momentum _may_
carry him to recognition--now the great end of all.
I felt myself a bit “quivery” at the thought of the war-cloud hanging
over these people, and of how the man dominating the assembly took his
life in his hands at his every appearance, and was apparently resolved
to die rather than cede one iota to _my_ country. After the usual
greetings, “_a los pies de Vd. señora_” (“at your feet, señora”), etc.,
he remarked, with a smile, that he was sorry I should find things still
a little strained on my return, but that he hoped for a way out of the
very natural difficulties. I answered rather ambiguously, so far as he
is concerned, that I loved Mexico and didn’t want to leave it. I felt
my eyes fill over the potentialities of the situation, whereupon he
answered, as any gentleman, anywhere in the world, might have done,
that now that _la señora_ had returned things _might_ be arranged!
After this he gave his arm to Madame Ortega, wife of the Guatemalan
minister, the ranking wife of the Spanish minister being ill, and
Madame Lefaivre not yet arrived. Señor Ortega gave me his arm, and we
all filed out into the long, narrow gallery, _la Vitrina_, overlooking
the city and the wondrous valley, where an elaborate tea was served.
The President reached across the narrow table to me to touch my glass
of champagne, as the usual _saludes_ were beginning, and I found he was
drinking to the health of the “_Gran Nación del Norte_.” Could I do
less than answer “_Viva_ Mexico”?
[Illustration]
After tea, music--the photograph fiends taking magnesium snap-shots of
Señora Huerta and the dark-browed beauties clustering around, with an
incidental head or arm of some near-by diplomat. Madame Ortega then got
up to say good-by, and after making our adieux we passed out on to the
beautiful flower- and palm-planted terrace. Again, in the dim light the
memory of Madero and Pino Suarez assailed me rather reproachfully. It
was a curious presentment of human destinies, played out on the stage
of the mysterious valley of Anahuac, which seems often a strange astral
emanation of a world, rather than actual hills and plains. A mysterious
correspondence between things seen and unseen is always making itself
felt, and now, in this space between two destinies, I felt more than
ever the fathomlessness of events. Other “kings” were dead, and this
one could not “long live.”
Afterward we played bridge at Madame Simon’s with the _chicheria_ there
assembled. It seemed very banal. All the guests, however, turned their
handsome faces and rustled their handsome clothes as I entered, and in
a detached sort of way asked how it had all gone off--this, the first
official reception of _their_ President.
To-day Congress opens, and N. does not attend. I am glad, in the
interests of the dove of peace, that we went to the reception
yesterday. The officials will realize there is nothing personal in
to-day’s absence.
Last night there was a pleasant dinner at the Cardens’, who are now
settled at the comfortable Legation. They are very nice to us, but
I feel that Sir L. is naturally much chagrined at the unmeritedly
adverse press comments he has had in the United States. We all shivered
in our evening dresses, in spite of the rare joy of an open fire in
the long drawing-room. There is a thin, penetrating, unsparing sort
of chill in these November evenings, in houses meant only for warm
weather. I should have enjoyed wearing my motor coat instead of the
gray-and-silver Worth dress.
The British cruiser squadron under Admiral Cradock sailed last night
for Vera Cruz, which is packed to overflowing with people from here.
The prices, “twelve hours east and a mile and a half down,” are
fabulous. One woman, so her husband told me, pays ten dollars a day
at the Diligencias for a room separated only by a curtain from an
electric pump, which goes day and night.
Villa has made a formal declaration that, owing to Carranza’s
inactivity, he assumes the leadership of the rebellion, which is the
first, but very significant, hint of two parties in the north: Huerta
is very pleased, it appears, and is looking forward to seeing them eat
each other up like the proverbial lions of the desert. A few “lost
illusions” will doubtless stalk the Washington streets and knock at a
door or two.
Well, another Sabbath has passed and we are still here. Burnside is up
from Vera Cruz. He says we can’t back down, and war seems inevitable.
It will take the United States one hundred years to make Mexico into
what we call a civilized country, during which process most of its
magnetic charm will go. The Spanish imprint left in the wonderful frame
of Mexico is among the beauties of the universe. Every pink belfry
against every blue hill reminds one of it; every fine old façade,
unexpectedly met as one turns a quiet street corner; in fact, all the
beauty in Mexico except that of the natural world--is the Spaniards’
and the Indians’. Poor Indians!
I have been reading accounts of the deportation of the Yaquis from
Sonora to Yucatan, the wordless horrors of the march, the separation
of families. I can’t go into it now; it is one of the long-existent
abuses that Madero, at first, was eager to abate. Volumes could
be written about it. Another crying shame is the condition of the
prisons. Belem, here in town, is an old building erected toward the
end of the seventeenth century, and used as an asylum of some kind
ever since. Much flotsam and jetsam has been washed up at its doors,
though I don’t know that the word “washed” is in any sense suitable.
When one thinks that a few hundred _pesos’_ of bichloride of lime and
some formaldehyde gas would clean up the vermin-infested corners and
check the typhus epidemics, one can scarcely refrain from taking the
stuff there oneself. It seems so simple, but it is all bound up so
inextricably with the general _laisser-aller_ of the nation. No one is
in Belem three days without contracting an itching skin disease, and a
large proportion of the prisoners there, as well as at Santiago, near
by, are political, journalists, lawyers, _et al._, who are used to
some measure of cleanliness. The _Penitenciaría_ is their show prison,
built on modern principles, and compares favorably with the best in the
United States.
Yesterday we lunched with the Ösi-Sanz. He is an agreeable, clever,
musical Hungarian, married to a handsome young Mexican, widow of an
Iturbide. In their charming rooms are many Maximilian souvenirs that he
has ferreted out here; big portraits of the emperor and Carlota look
down from the blue walls of the very artistic _salon_, and a large
copy of the picture of the deputation headed by Estrada, which went
to Miramar to offer Maximilian the imperial and fatal crown. Vitrines
are filled with Napoleon and Maximilian porcelain, and they have some
beautiful old Chinese vases. In the viceregal days these were much
prized, being brought up from the Pacific coast on the backs of Indian
runners. Afterward, we had bridge at the Corcuera-Pimentels--another
smart young Mexican _ménage_. Their house, too, is charming, full of
choice things, beautifully and sparingly placed; the rooms would be
lovely anywhere. Then home, where I looked over that depressing book,
_Barbarous Mexico_.
In Huerta’s speech before Congress on the 20th, he makes use of the
famous words of Napoleon--“The law is not violated if the country be
saved.” We all wondered how he fished it up!
There is a cartoon reproduced in _The Literary Digest_, which I am
sending you. In it Uncle Sam is saying to President Wilson, “It’s no
use, Woody; you can’t pet a porcupine,” the porcupine being Huerta,
in the background, sitting near a bit of cactus. Some London papers
call Huerta the “Mexican Cromwell.” His speech, putting patriotism and
morality above expediency, evidently made a hit.
FOOTNOTE:
[5] Chapultepec--from the Aztec words _chapulin_ (grasshopper) and
_tepetl_ (hill).
VI
“Decisive word” from Washington--A passing scare--Conscription’s
terrors--Thanksgiving--The rebel advance--Sir Christopher
Cradock--Huerta’s hospitable waste-paper basket.
_November 28th._
An exciting day. The long-looked-for “decisive” word came from
Washington this morning, to be communicated this evening to every
embassy and legation in Europe. By to-night all the foreign
representatives here and the press will be informed. It states that
we will not recede one step from our position; that Huerta and all
his supporters must go; that we will isolate him, starve him out
financially, morally, and physically; that revolution and assassination
may come to an end in Latin America; that we will protect our interests
and the interests of all foreigners, and that peace must be made in
Mexico, or that we will make it ourselves! It is the _argumentum
ad hominem_ certainly, and we can only wait to see what acrobatic
feats to avoid the blow will be performed by Huerta. The language
is unmistakable and could only be used because the military force
necessary is behind it and ready.
_November 29th._
Well, the scare of yesterday has passed.... Now the Foreign Office here
can do more masterly ignoring!