them little ways of handling the machine-guns. Ryan came across a
group of men who were hovering about one of the _mitrailleuses_,
and the man in charge obligingly started it off, to show them how
it worked--shooting down the street in the direction in which it
_happened_ to be turned. Rather debonair! Mr. Seeger tells the tale
of asking a man at a gun who his _jefe_ was--Huertista, Maderista,
Felicista? He answered, “I don’t know.” He saw him, a moment afterward,
turn the gun around and shoot toward the opposite barricade. Enemy or
friend, it was all the same to _that_ “man behind the gun!”
_December 7th._
I was at Tacubaya this morning, to see the operation and cure for
tuberculosis of a strange Brazilian, a Dr. Botelho. Rows of emaciated
Indians, stripped to the waist, were lying or sitting in the sun.
The operation is a painless injection of hydrogen gas into the lung,
compressing it so that microbes, as my lay mind understands it, don’t
get the space they need to develop. As the patients lay about they
seemed to me like exotic vegetation, ready to drop to earth, rot, and
spring up again. Strange Indian seed!
After Mass I found Colonel and Mrs. Hayes (the former a son of
ex-President Hayes), waiting to see us. They are here for a few days
only. I have asked them to dine with us to-morrow evening.
The foreign Powers used to think that, though extremely annoying, our
Monroe doctrine was respectable. Now they seem inclined to think it
is an excuse for monopolizing the New World for our own benefit. We
may come into Mexico with glory. Can we get out with credit and not
too high a bill? A letter from General Wisser (you remember him, from
Berlin) came just now, written “In Camp, Texas City.” It had taken a
little matter of two months to get here. It is not impossible I may
welcome him to Mexico City.
_December 9th._
The aftermath of that reception at Chapultepec has begun to come in.
Among many letters, one from an ex-army officer says _he_ would have
“thrown the wine into Huerta’s face.” All the newspapers mention the
incident, but with the empire tottering we saw no reason to unduly
precipitate matters by boycotting Mme. Huerta’s reception, nor for
being morose and brutal when there. I wonder what would have happened
if any of the various fools, writing to protest, had been running
matters?
One of the New York newspapers prints a long editorial headed
“O’Shaughnessy,” saying President Wilson is fortunate in having had the
services of Mr. O’S. during the diplomatic negotiations with Mexico. It
presents the matter as I would like, and winds up by saying that the
history of Mexican-American diplomacy, to be complete, would need more
than one chapter headed “O’Shaughnessy.”
The dinner for Colonel and Mrs. Hayes was rather amusing, though the
food was horrid and everything was cold _except_ the champagne. After
dinner the visit of two potential Presidents of Mexico (they are always
being drawn to the Embassy like steel to the magnet of recognition)
gave a decided touch of local color to the scene. A large, handsome,
alert man, of the flashy type--Zerafino Dominguez--came first. His
battle-cry and banner is “Land for the landless, and men for the
men-less lands”--a good, sound, agricultural cry with everything in it,
if it could only come true. “_El apostol del maiz_,” as he sometimes is
called, is a wealthy landowner and scientific farmer, who contends that
Mexico needs more _corn_ rather than more _politics_--and never was a
truer word spoken. He has within the last few days, however, given up
his presidential pretensions to a friend who came in later, with the
same desire of the moth for the star.
The shape of the friend’s head, however--narrow across the forehead
and terminating in a high peak--would prevent his getting any votes
from _me_. The pale young son of the hearty Dominguez was also there. I
offered them cigarettes and _copitas_; the latter they did not accept.
Burnside said it was to prove they hadn’t the weaknesses of Huerta.
I thought they might be afraid to drink, remembering afterward that
none of us had offered to partake with them of the possibly poisoned
draught. They sang the praises of the great and beautiful _Estados
Unidos del Norte_ till we were quite embarrassed. Incidentally “ze
American womans” came in for a share of admiration. I wonder shall we
be giving Huerta asylum some day?
_December 11th._
Yesterday I was too busy to write; spent the morning at the Red Cross,
and then had luncheon at Coyoacan, at Mrs. Beck’s charming old house.
Coyoacan is the most interesting, as well as livable, of all the
suburbs, with its beautiful gardens and massive live-oaks shading the
streets. Cortés made Coyoacan his stamping-ground, and one lovely old
Spanish edifice after the other recalls his romantic history.
From here he launched his final assault against Mexico City; here
poor, noble Guauhtémoc (I have an old print representing him with his
feet in boiling water and an expression of complete detachment on his
face) was tortured, in vain, to make him reveal the hiding-place of
Montezuma’s treasure. After leaving Mrs. B.’s, Mrs. Kilvert and I went
for a stroll in the garden of the celebrated Casa de Alvarado, built by
him, of the famous leap. An old _servidor_ of Mrs. Nuttall’s, to whom
the house now belongs, opened the gate for us, with a welcoming smile.
We passed through the _patio_, in one corner of which is the old well
(with a dark history connected with the murder of the wife of one of
the Conquerors), out into the garden with its melancholy and mysterious
charm. The possession of the house is supposed to bring bad luck to
the possessors, and sudden and violent death has happened to a dweller
there even in my time. Roses and heliotrope and the brilliant _drapeaux
Espagnoles_, with their streaks of red and yellow, were running riot,
and a eucalyptus-tree drooped over all. In this magic land, even a
few months of neglect will transform the best-kept garden into some
enchanted close of story.
As I was getting out of the auto in front of the Embassy, I found
sitting on the curb a pitiful family of five--four children of from
seven years to eighteen months, and the mother, who was about to have
another child. The father had been taken by the press-gang in the
morning, and they were in the streets. I gave the woman some money, and
one of the maids brought out bread and cake, and a bundle of garments
for the children. Such bright-eyed little girls, real misery not having
pinched them yet. I speak of them because they typify thousands of
cases. A hand on his shoulder, and the father is gone forever! Such
acts, occurring daily, estrange possible sympathy for the government.
The woman will return to me when the money is spent.
There are Federal rumors of a split between Villa and Carranza, but,
though they will inevitably fight, I don’t think the time is ripe
for it, and they are some five hundred kilometers apart, which makes
for patience and charity. Villa, whose latest name is the “Tiger of
the North,” has made such daring and successful military moves that
Carranza must put up with him. He has just married again, during the
sacking of Torreon (a detail, of course, as was also his appearance
at a ball in _puris naturalibus_--a shock to the guests, even in
revolutionary Mexico!)
I only heard at luncheon at the Russian Legation that Count Peretti,
_conseiller_ of the French embassy in Washington, is leaving for Paris
to-night, by the _Navarre_. He married when _en poste_ here a handsome
Mexican wife. This letter goes with him. On Saturday we dine at Lady
Carden’s. The dinner is given for Colonel Gage, the handsome and
agreeable British military _attaché à cheval_ between Washington and
Mexico City.
The fight around Tampico continues, the town being indeed “between the
_devils_ and the deep sea.” No one yet knows the outcome, except that
the unoffending blood of the Mexican _peon_ is reddening the soil.
The _Kronprinzessin Cecilie_ is down there to take off refugees; also
the _Logican_, and we are sending the _Tacoma_ and the _Wheeling_. I
understand that, though some hundreds have been taken on board, about
five hundred unfortunates are still waiting on the pier in the neutral
zone.
I must begin to arrange my Christmas tree for the few friends remaining
in this restless, distant land, with some little gift for each.
_December 12th._
To-day is the Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe, the patroness of
Mexico and of all the _Lupes_. For the last few days the mysterious
Indian world has been hurrying to the shrine from far and near. I went
out there this morning with dear Madame Lefaivre and Mr. de Soto.
The crowd was immense, the same types, costumes, habits, language,
gestures, even, that Cortés found on his arrival, unmodified (and
unmodifiable, which Washington cannot understand) by four hundred years
of surrounding civilization. Our motor gliding along the straight road
was quite out of the note and picture. Many of the Indians were doing
the distance between the city and Guadalupe, several kilometers, _on
their knees_, with bowed heads and folded hands. Madame Lefaivre found
it _très-beau_, but was glad that no voice told her that to save her
soul, or, what is more important, her Paul’s soul, she would have to do
likewise.
The plaza before the church was thronged with a brightly clad, motley
crowd, venders of all sorts predominating, mostly selling candles and
votive offerings of strange kinds. Hundreds of _tortilleras_ were
sitting on their haunches before their primitive braziers, piles of
dough (_masa_, they call it) in their laps, molding the _tortillas_
with a slapping noise of the palms--an old, inherited gesture, and
pinching them into shape with their slender, graceful fingers. The
church itself, as we pressed in, was crowded to suffocation, almost
every one holding a candle of some length and thickness. The high altar
was a blaze of light, the celebrated image above visible to all. It is
the famous _Imagen de la Virgen_, stamped miraculously on the _tilma_
(coarse cloth mantle) of a lowly Indian, Juan Diego, as the Virgin
appeared to him passing the rock of Tepeyac on his way to Tlaltelolco,
to receive instructions in the mysteries of the Faith. The sacred
image is placed above the high altar in a gold frame, and there is a
gleaming, solid silver stair-railing leading up both sides.
In the middle aisle were double files of young Indian girls, with
bright-colored scarfs about their shoulders, and strange, high,
picturesque-looking head-dresses, of gaudy tissue-paper, with trimmings
of gold. They were chanting monotonous minor songs, accompanied by
a swaying, dance-like movement of the hips--all most reverent. They
had been there for hours and showed no sign of leaving. I hope I said
a reverent prayer, but I felt a bit cheap in contrast to the rapt
devotion on all sides. I was glad to get a breath of fresh air in the
plaza, or rather, “fresher,” as it was almost as crowded as the
church, and every dog in Mexico seemed to be there, scratching and
shaking itself.
[Illustration: VILLA DE GUADALUPE]
We made our way, Mr. de Soto clearing a path for us, to the Capilla
del Pocito. These waters are said to have gushed from under the feet
of the Virgin as she appeared to Juan Diego. _A la_ the fountain of
Trevi, whoever drinks of it returns to Mexico. We didn’t drink, for
various reasons unconnected with return. The Indians use it for healing
purposes and a lively trade in brightly painted, earthen-ware bottles,
in which to carry the water away, was going on about the chapel. The
Indians come, sometimes a many days’ journey, on foot, of course, and
when they arrive they bivouac all about the church as if they had
reached “home.” What with babies crying, beggars begging--“_por la
Virgen_,” “_por la Santa Madre de Dios_”--dogs yapping and venders
hawking, the whole dominated by the acrid smell of the various pungent
messes they roll up in their _tortillas_, it was, indeed, Indian life
at its flood. They must have presented much the same scene when they
gathered to receive instruction and baptism from the old friars.
The “Aztec wheels” (merry-go-rounds) and all kinds of games of chance,
to which they are addicted, help to get the centavos out of the Indian
pocket; but it is their greatest holiday, this journey to their “Virgen
India de Tepeyac,” and they count no cost of fatigue and savings. I
only hope the press-gang will abstain to-day from doing any of its
deadly work of separating families. You remember I once did a novena
out there with Señora Madero, praying for graces that Heaven did not
grant.
In the afternoon we went to the Reforma Club, the British country club,
where Sir Lionel and Lady Carden were to present the prizes for the
contests. Señora Huerta, always dignified and quiet, sat between Lady
C. and myself. She had a married daughter with her, high-chested and
thick-lipped, clad in a changeable green-and-red surah silk and a hat
with bedraggled pink feathers. Señora Huerta herself wore black velvet,
with touches of white in the wrong places. She has, I imagine, natural
taste in dress, but must first learn. She has seen much of life. So
many children and a soldier husband always starting for some seat of
war, and now at last President of “glorious, gory Mexico,” means that
few of the human experiences are foreign to her. I must say I have a
great esteem for her. The President was not well--_el estómago_. Of
course every one jumps to the conclusion that he had been consorting
too freely with his friends Martell and Hennessy. It isn’t given to
_him_ to have a simple indigestion! Afterward we left cards at the
houses of various _Lupes_.
_December 13th._
I feel ill at the news this morning. The Federals seem to have taken
many positions from the horrible rebels; and the fratricidal war will
take on a new strength without hope of issue on either side. I feel
the cruelty and the uselessness of our policy more and more every
day. The “fine idealism” does not prevent the inhabitants from being
exterminated. Why don’t we come in? Or--hands off, and give Huerta a
chance!
The Mexicans have never governed themselves, and there is no reason to
suppose they can till a part of the eighty-six per cent. that can’t
read have at least learned to spell out a few words. The much vaunted
and pledged rights of man, voting and abiding by the results, are
unknown and, as long as Mexico is Mexico, unknowable. So why lose time
in that search for the impossible? The rebels seem to be able to take
the towns, but not to _hold_ them. Once in the various strategical
positions they are in the same plight as the Federals; and so the
see-saw continues, with no results except horrors beyond words. I am
tempted to hope for intervention (unnecessary though it once was), no
matter what the cost.
There are so many plays and puns and doggerels on the inviting name of
O’Shaughnessy. One Shamus O’S. says he won’t admit the man in Mexico
who bears the Frenchy name of _chargé d’affaires_ to the family!
However, why worry? The last viceroy bore the noble name of Juan
O’Donoju! Another calls N. the man that put the “O” in Mexico. And they
do love a head-line: “Hugged by Huerta”; or “Is it not better to be
kissed than kicked when you deliver the periodical ultimatum?” Of such
slender things fame is made.
_December 14th._
My poor woman with the four children returned yesterday, having got to
the end of the money I gave her a few days ago. They didn’t look quite
as prosperous (?) as they did the first time I saw them. The mother
asked for five dollars for a fruit license and two dollars to get the
fruit. I gave it to her, whereupon she knelt down in the street, baby
in arms, the three other little girls following suit, and asked for my
blessing. When I put my hand on her head I felt the tears come to my
eyes. I suddenly saw in _one_ woman all the misfortunes of the women of
this land, separation, destitution, ravishments,--all the horrors flesh
is heir to.
In the evening we dined at the British Legation. Colonel Gage is
most agreeable and brought a lot of outside news. Like all military
visitors, I suppose he is hoping to happen on a “scrap.”
Am waiting for the auto. Elim and I go out to the del Rios’ garden at
Tlalpam for a picnic; the del Rios are in Europe. The day is heavenly
beyond compare and the Ajusco hills (in which the Zapatistas operate)
are soft and blue in the near distance. We all miss Mr. James Brown
Potter very much. He was the witty, unfailing life of all those picnics
of my first Mexican visit.
Villa has just set up a somewhat uncertain dictatorship in Chihuahua,
in which state he, so to speak, graduated in banditry. He began his
public killing career _not_ too badly, according to the story, by
shooting a man for seducing his sister. It was probably the best act of
his life. He is now in the prime of life and “ready for anything.” Even
in Diaz days, Villa was a proscribed bandit; but with a few followers,
well-mounted and knowing every trail and water-hole in the country, he
was uncatchable. He subsequently went over to Madero. The women flee
the towns that he and his men enter. I suppose there is no crime that
he has not committed, no brutality toward wounded, sick, and prisoners
and women. With it all, he may be the heaven-born general that some
assert, but God help Mexico if he is! In Chihuahua, Luis Terrazas, one
of the nephews of Enrique Creel (who was ambassador to Washington,
Minister for Foreign Affairs, etc.), is being held for five hundred
thousand dollars ransom. Mr. C. came to see N. the other day, looking
very much put out. N. thought he perhaps reflected that five hundred
thousand dollars was a large sum, and was wondering if it was worth it.
However, it is always convenient to suppose that people held for ransom
will get along all right, even if the money isn’t forthcoming. N.
promised Mr. C. that through the most _in_direct of channels he would
have it brought to Villa’s attention that he’d better be careful on
account of unfavorable impressions in the United States. One wonders
and wonders where Villa, Aguilar, Zapata, and all the brigands get
their endless guns and ammunition. Of course the foreign Powers think
we supply it or let it be supplied.
Intervention in Mexico is an accomplished fact, it would almost seem,
though not a shot has been fired by us. And what is done cannot be
undone.
VIII
The sad exodus from Chihuahua--Archbishop Mendoza--Fiat
money--Villa’s growing activities--Indian stoicism--Another
Chapultepec reception--A day of “Mexican Magic” in the country.
_December 14th._
This evening, as I was coming through the _Zocalo_ motoring home from
the Country Club, I found the _Palacio_ decked out in the national
colors, to celebrate the _clausura_ of the _Camara_, which will not
open until April 1, 1914. Huerta has all extraordinary powers vested
in himself, and is going to run the whole “shooting-match.” Thick
_défilés_ of carriages and autos, full of richly dressed people, were
on both sides of San Francisco, the most brilliantly, extravagantly
lighted street I know. The Embassy motor was allowed to run quickly
between the two lines. The town seemed so animated and prosperous that
one can’t realize the horrors underneath.
The _cantinas_ have been closed on Sunday for several months--a wise
act of Urrutia, then Minister of Gobernación. The people thus buy food,
instead of _pulque_, on the Sabbath, and can work on Monday--_San
Lunes_, as the first, often idle, day of the week is called. The
_pulquerías_, with their sickening, sour smell, abound in all the
poorer quarters, and are distinguished, besides the smell, by fringes
of many-colored tissue-paper hanging from the tops of the doors. Their
names--_El amor divino_, _Hija del Mar_, _El Templo de Venus_, etc.,
seem to be enticing.
The Italian minister, Cambiaggio, is “biding a wee” in Havana, having
been stopped by his government.... It is the question, always
recurring, of not having a new minister arrive who, by presenting his
credentials, places another stone in the Huerta arch....
The confidential report of Admiral Cradock to _his_ government was
filched by the press. The typewriter who made the copy was paid $200
for it. In it, it appears, he quotes Nelson as saying that the “most
sacred international relationship in the world is that between England
and the United States.” Most annoying for Sir Christopher!
_December 15th._
Many of the American statesmen seem to be giving opinions on the
Mexican situation. Mr. Choate, at a dinner in New York, asks, “What
most agitates the hearts of Americans to-day? It is Mexico,” and
then goes on to say, “There is but one thing for us to do--trust the
President, and stand by him.” Andrew D. White doesn’t approve of the
Administration’s policy and thinks we are drifting into war, “Which,”
he continues, “is a better thing for the generals who bring it to a
successful finish than for those who bring it on--Lincoln being the
great exception.”
The Spaniards in Chihuahua (some four or five hundred) are having a
dreadful time. The Villista order gives them ten hours in which to get
out of the town; and now, as I write, that long caravan of weak and
strong, old and young, fit and unfit, is wending its way, on foot,
through the immense desert of Chihuahua toward Torreon--425 miles. The
nights are icy cold and there are stretches of 90 miles without water;
and hostile bands are ready to attack at any moment. The confiscated
property will amount to millions, as the Spaniards own nearly all the
mercantile establishments, as well as the upper-class homes. Villa is
quoted as saying that he would like to kill every _gachupin_ (Spaniard
born in Mexico) _and_ his offspring. No one knows when the march and
assault on Monterey, a rich old city on a hill and not easy to take,
will begin. I hear that the Spaniards there want to come _en masse_
to Mexico City, also leaving everything. They know they will have no
quarter at Villa’s hands.
The Spaniards are the traders of Mexico. They keep the countless
pawn-shops (_empeños_); they are the usurers and money-lenders of all
kinds; they are the overseers on the _haciendas_ and, incidentally,
they keep all the grocery-shops; in fact, they control the sale of
nearly everything in Mexico. The Spanish minister (with the Irish name
of Cologan), whose handsome wife was born in Vera Cruz, has just been
here. His life is one huge burden, and the collective troubles of
Mexico are laid at our broad doors.
D’Antin leaves to-night for Vera Cruz, to take with him Dr. Silva
(ex-governor of Michoacan), who, to tell the truth, has not voluntarily
resigned, which is the reason he needs safe-conduct. Silva was at one
time a faithful adherent of Huerta. He is to board a Spanish ship
sailing at twelve to-morrow.
_December 16th._
Last night, after dinner, Burnside and Dr. Ryan took the map to
see what route the unfortunate Spaniards of Chihuahua could have
followed. It seems scarcely credible, with the frontier and hospitality
nearly one-half nearer, that they should have chosen the terrible
march through the desert and over the mountains to Torreon, which,
at any time, may again fall into Villa’s hands. He _would_ be in a
rage to find he had to bother a second time with the _same_ set of
unfortunates! They say their route is strewn with valuables that they
started out with and little by little were obliged to abandon. Isn’t
the picture appalling?