sounds like rifle-fire. Their use is an old custom that is observed for
the nine days before Christmas; but in these troublous days one is led
to think rather of pistols than of the advent of the “Son of Peace.”
A very nice letter came from Admiral Cradock, saying that he has just
got back to Vera Cruz from the Tampico fray, the sojourn enlivened by
some “good tarpon-fishing.” He will not be able to return here for
Christmas, as he intended, but hopes we will soon run down to Vera Cruz
and be dined and saluted by him on the _Suffolk_.
There are a thousand things to do about Christmas. We trimmed the tree
last night and it is locked away in the big _salon_, presumably safe
from infant eyes.
FOOTNOTE:
[7] Live-oak--Mexican cypress.
IX
Christmas--The strangling of a country--de la Barra--The “_mañana_
game”--Spanish in five phrases--Señora Huerta’s great diamond--The
peon’s desperate situation in a land torn by revolutions.
LA NOCHE BUENA, _Christmas, 1913_.
These Christmas hours I have been dwelling on memories of my precious
brother on his bed of pain throughout these days last year, his _Tod
und Verklärung_.... But I would call no one back, once through “the
door.”
* * * * *
The tree was a great success--though in the morning, when Feliz was
hanging the last festoons of green about the room, he crashed down,
step-ladder and all, on the side where the toys were piled. There had
to be swift runnings down-town to repair the damage. I was so annoyed
that I didn’t even ask if he were hurt, and he seemed too aghast at the
occurrence to feel any pain. It was very pleasant to have the small
remnant of the faithful under one roof. The children played with their
toys and we grown-ups exchanged our little offerings and greetings and
everything seemed very cozy and safe--just as if we weren’t “riding a
revolution.”
Clarence Hay brought N. a bottle of cognac, inscribed: “Nelson from
Victoriano,” and a like-sized bottle of grape-juice: “Nelson from W. J.
B.” I leave you to guess which we opened.
After the departure of the families, a few of the lone ones
stayed--Seeger, Clarence H., Ryan--and we talked until a late hour
of the strange adventures we are all living through in this land of
endless possibilities.
To-day, after Mass, we drove to the beautiful little Automobile Club,
where Seeger gave a luncheon for us, the Tozzers, Clarence Hay, and
the Evans. The club is built in the new part of the Park, on the edge
of one of the little artificial lakes made when Limantour laid out the
Park as it now is. We sat on the terrace toward the high hill of the
castle, which breaks the round horizon of the magic hills. The air was
soft, yet bright, the moss-hung old ahuehuetes, symbols of grief and
mourning, had joyous, burnished, filmy outlines, and the volcanoes were
flinging white clouds about their lovely heads. It was one of God’s own
days--as days here usually are.
_December 26th._
I am sending you a few _Heralds_, with their Christmas(?) head-lines:
“Vera Cruz Rebels Suffer Defeat in Fierce Fight”; “Rebels Ordered to
Execute All Prisoners”; “Town of Tapono Burnt to Ground by Federals”;
“Only Twelve Killed when Military Train Dynamited”; “Fierce Fighting
at Concepcion del Oro.” They make one feel that “watchful waiting” in
Washington bids fair to be _woeful_ waiting south of the Rio Grande.
Elim was worn out by the Christmas festivities and was dreadfully
naughty. The season of _piñatas_ is on, and he has a great number of
invitations--unfortunately. At the _piñatas_ a large, grotesque head
and figure, dressed in tissue-paper and tinsel, depending from the
ceiling, is the center of attention. The dress conceals a huge, but
fragile, earthern jar (_olla_) filled with nuts, fruits, candies, and
small toys. Each child is blindfolded and allowed to have a whack at
it with a big stick. When it is finally broken the contents spill
everywhere and are scrambled for. It seems a messy sort of game, but it
is time-hallowed here.
I sent Mr. Lind a telegram yesterday: “Affectionate greetings; best
wishes.” He might as well, or better, be in Minneapolis. Nobody ever
speaks of him and Vera Cruz is like the grave as far as the government
here is concerned. Mexico is going to her downfall, and it seems as if
she must be nearly there. It is very sad to us, who are on the ground.
I never witnessed, before, the strangling of a country, and it is a
horrible sight. The new Chilian _chargé_ came in a day or two ago: he
has been in Central America for twenty years, and says this is his
thirty-second revolution.
I caught sight of Mr. Creel-Terrazas in his carriage, yesterday. His
face was sunk and ashen, and he was huddled up in one corner of the
coupé, changed indeed from the hale, rosy, white-haired man of a few
weeks ago. He and his family have lost everything at the hands of the
rebels. The family owned nearly the whole of Chihuahua, and though
stories--probably true--are told of how, generations ago, they came
into possession of the vast property, driving the Indians from their
holdings into the desert, it does not change the present fact that they
are ruined, and the country with them; the “judgment” upon them, if
judgment it be, involving countless others.
The whole question up there seems to reduce itself very simply to
a matter of grabbing from those in possession by those desirous of
possession. We are all waiting for the inevitable falling out of
Carranza and Villa. The hero in any Mexican drama is never more than
a few months removed from being the villain. The actors alone change;
never the horrid plot of blood, treachery, and devastation.
You saw that de la Barra actually reached Tokio. I was sure he would,
having a way of finishing what he begins. Five sets of ambassadors have
been appointed to set out for Japan to return the nation’s thanks for
the special embassy sent to the splendid 1910 _Centenario_--that apogee
of Mexico’s national and international life. The last two were the
murdered Gustavo Madero, who couldn’t tear himself away because of the
golden harvests to be reaped at home; and Felix Diaz, because of his
political aspirations.
You remember de la Barra, from Paris, an agreeable, adroit man of the
world, who proved himself, during the five months that he was President
_ad interim_, a very good tight-rope walker on a decidedly slack rope.
The country was still enjoying the Diaz prestige, and he found himself
pretty generally acceptable to both the old and the new régime. He has
always been very catholic. He became, later, rather a source of anxiety
to Madero, who feared his popularity, though his success at the time
was largely a matter of allowing all really important questions to
stand over for his successor. Looking back on it all now, I see him in
a very favorable light: a careful, hard-working, skilful politician,
with a taste for peace and order which is not always inherent in the
Mexican breast, and a safe man to fall back on to conduct the affairs
of his country with dignity. When in doubt, “take” de la Barra.
The _mañana_ (to-morrow) game is the best played down here; it is
never actually subversive; and, as exemplified by Huerta’s attitude
_vis-à-vis_ the United States, it is very effective against a nation
that wants things done, and done at once. I find that the Mexicans are
constantly studying us, which is more than we do in regard to them.
They look upon us as something immensely powerful, that is able and,
perhaps, if displeased, willing, to crush them. They are infinitely
more subtle than we, and their efforts tend more to keeping out of
our clutches than to imitating us. Our institutions, all our ways of
procedure, are endlessly wearisome to them, and correspond to nothing
they consider profitable and agreeable. _Suum cuique_.
I have discovered that there are five Spanish phrases quite sufficient
for all uses, in the length and breadth of this fair land: “_Mañana_”
(“to-morrow”). “_Quién sabe?_” (“who knows?”). “_No hay_” (“there
isn’t any”). “_No le hace_” (“it doesn’t matter”). “_Ya se fué_” (“he
has gone”). This last I add as, whenever any one tries to get hold
of anybody, “_Ya se fué_” is the answer. I have given this small but
complete phrase-book to many, who find it meets almost any situation or
exigency.
No news from Mr. Lind for some time. Doubtless Christmas, as spent on
the Mexican coast, alternating damp heat and north winds, is a poor
affair compared with the _tannenbaums_ and skating and general cheer
of _both_ his Fatherlands. Some Western editor suggests that, on his
return, he will be in a position to publish a “comprehensive blank
book” on the Mexican situation. I have broken many a lance for him;
but when one of the foreign ministers said to me yesterday, “your
Scandinavian friend is anti-Latin, anti-British and anti-Catholic,” I
could but retire from the field of battle.
Elim is always followed by his two dogs--Micko, the melancholy Irish
terrier, and Juanita. The white bull pup becomes more destructive and
demonstrative every day. Yesterday when she seemed not quite her awful
self one of the servants suggested hanging a string of lemons around
her neck. I remember having seen disconsolate dogs wearing necklaces
of lemons, but thought children had placed them there. It appears,
however, that such a necklace is in high favor among the Indians as a
cure for distemper.
I hear that the government intends to lease the Tehuantepec Railroad
to Pearson’s Oil Company for twenty-five years, for 25,000,000 pesos.
Huerta is depicted in one of the papers as knocking at the European
pawnshop with the Isthmus under his arm.
_December 29th._
I inclose a delightful letter from Mrs. J. W. Foster, who always keeps
so apace with events. Of course the Fosters read the Mexican news with
interest and understanding, as they were here during the years Diaz was
trying to establish himself in spite of the Mexican people, and not in
spite of _us_ as well, fortunately for Diaz and them....
I send a cartoon from _Novedades_, representing Huerta paralyzed. One
nurse asks the other how he is, and she answers: “No change. He can’t
move yet.”
[Illustration: PARALYZED
“HOW IS HE?”
“NO CHANGE, HE CAN’T MOVE YET.”]
Well, some one has got to “move” if this country and all national
and foreign interests are to be saved. I cannot see that a new
revolutionary party in the north, whose sole virtue, up to now, is that
it is “agin” the government, can do it. Besides which it represents
only another pack of hungry wolves to be let loose upon the country. I
hear that Carranza has a brother, Jesus, who possesses the family vice
of greed to a great degree, and is about to “operate” on the Isthmus.
There are predictions that it will look as though the locusts had been
over it, if he really gets a “chance.”
Four clerks are sleeping in the house, and the work is going on apace.
Cambiaggo, the new Italian minister, was received yesterday with all
honors emphasized. Oh, that _Fata Morgana_ of recognition! The Belgian
minister has got his leave and has just been here to say good-by. He
has already the European eye so familiar to those left behind. He has
had a very cordial telegram from a big banker in New York, and wondered
if the banker expected to put him up. I said, “If you are met by an
automobile and servants in New York, you can be pretty sure you are to
stay with him; otherwise you’d better rough it at the Ritz.”
Various ideas are advanced by diplomats here as to the possibility of
some arrangement being made through a third party, some one of the
great Powers; ... some way by which the elections could really be
held, and Huerta, if really elected, allowed to remain. N. can’t do it,
nor Mr. Lind, nor any American. The national pride on both sides is
too compromised to admit of anything but a third power stepping in and
“doing the trick.”
There is talk of a big English loan, guaranteed by the customs, at the
same time allowing a certain amount of these to be freed--a couple
of millions of pesos a month for the expenses of the government.
There is a general twitching of international fingers, a longing
to remedy our bungling. May, with his face toward Europe, sees
everything rose-colored. He predicts that we shall be here until
the next elections, the first Sunday in July. There is a great deal
of speculation as to Huerta’s personal fortune, but no one knows
whether he is rich or poor. His new house in San Cosme is, I hear, a
cheap affair. Mme. Huerta wore, when she received, one large, very
magnificent diamond depending from her throat. But why shouldn’t she
have it?
_Evening._
No political excitements these last days; only a monotonous and horrid
record of grab by the temporarily strong from the always weak. A “good
deed” in Chihuahua is one that transfers any valuable property to a
rebel. Those palatial residences, the homes of prosperity and wealth
for generations, have all changed hands during the last three weeks,
which, however, does not mean that the much-talked-of _peon_ has
benefited in the slightest degree. It simply means that a few men,
some of whom can neither read nor write, now hold what used to be in
the possession of a few men who _could_ read and write. The land in
Mexico has always been in the hands of a few thousand individuals, and
the _peon_ is always exploited, no matter what the battle-cry. A kind
paternalism on the part of some of the upper class _hacendados_, who
leave him more or less to the mercies of the Spanish _administrador_,
has been his best fate.
His unfitness for government has never been questioned. When he is
weak, he promises all things; when he is strong, he is destructive.
Though there have been sentimental remarks about the peon’s
intelligence, and his wrongs, which _are_ appalling, no government
except ours ever dreamed of putting the destinies of the state into his
hands--into the hands of these eighty-six per cent. of human beings who
can neither read nor write.
Curiously enough, it is the custom to assert that the Church kept the
Indians in this state of ignorance; but education, after the Laws
of Reform in 1857, was taken out of the hands of the priests and
given into those of the lay authorities. That was nearly sixty years
ago--three Indian generations. Who runs may _read_, literally, in this
case.
Eduardo I. told me an amusing and enlightening story yesterday. An
Indian went to a priest to ask to be married. The priest, finding his
ideas of the Divinity were of the haziest in spite of much instruction,
said, “_Hijo_” (son), “I cannot do it until you have learned _el
rezo_” (a very elemental catechism), and proceeded to give him further
instruction. The Indian returned the next day and said that it was
all very difficult and that he still did not understand about God
being everywhere. “Is He in the church?” “Yes.” “Is He in the _milpa_”
(cornfield)? “Yes.” “Is He in my hut?” “Yes.” “Is He in the _corral de
la casa de mi comadre_” (yard of my godmother’s house)? “Of course;
He is always there,” said the priest. The Indian’s expression became
triumphant. “_Padrecito_,” he said, “I have caught you. My _comadre’s_
house has no yard!”
_Evening._
Mr. Lind is hurrying aboard the U. S. S. _Chester_ to meet the
President at Pass Christian. Strong Carranzista though Mr. Lind is
proving himself, I don’t think the President will be led into the risky
policy of recognizing this undeveloped but certainly not very promising
quantity. We can put in any sort of government in Mexico--but can we
_keep_ one in? We encouraged the powers of dissolution around Diaz,
recognizing and aiding Madero. The world knows the result. History
always repeats itself here, and the writing on the wall is always in
blood. After Mr. Lind’s months of inaction it must seem good to be
plowing the high seas _en route_ to the weighty conference. He said
he would have returned to the States some time ago but for the “very
satisfactory” progress of the rebels. He was especially “bucked up”
when Villa announced his intention of eating his New-Year’s dinner at
the Jockey Club.
_December 31, 1914._
Many people are still coming and going in the house, but I am alone,
thinking of New-Year’s eves of the past. Now I must let this year, with
its griefs, harassments, glories, and interests slip into the next with
this last word for you. May we all be folded in the Eternal Love. I
think of my precious brother and his rare gifts. I sometimes had the
feeling of receiving through his beautiful mind something direct from
the universal reservoir of thought.
X
New-Year’s receptions--Churubusco--Memories of Carlota--Rape of
the Morelos women--Mexico’s excuse for the murder of an American
citizen--A visit to the floating gardens of Xochimilco.
_January 1, 1914._
My first word goes to you. You know my heart, and all my love and hopes.
A letter came from Mr. Lind, who is to-day at Pass Christian. It was
sent before he started. He wants N. to come down to confer when he
returns.
_Later._
The President received the ministers at the Palace this morning and in
the afternoon Señora Huerta receives at Chapultepec. I have people for
dinner also. The President’s answer to the Spanish minister’s speech
at the Palace was long and disconnected, with, however, the insistent
refrain that he had but one idea--the pacification of Mexico, which he
would and could accomplish if given time. The German minister wasn’t
there. He was off investigating the murder of a German subject in the
interior.
Huerta appeared at the New-Year’s eve ball at the Country Club--a most
unusual stage-setting for him. As soon as he saw N. he joined him
and gave him one of the _abrazos_ they so enjoy hearing about in the
States. His undaunted amiability may stand him and us and the Colony in
good stead on some day of reckoning. He himself will always find asylum
here. It is a pity that the Embassy did not hide Madero behind its
secure door.
_Later._
I went to Señora Huerta’s reception with the Cardens. N., having paid
his tithe in the morning, had fled to the country. There were few
present. She received on the lower floor of the Palace in the rooms
which were once the intimate apartments of Maximilian and Carlota. They
were handsome rooms so far as proportions go, but were done over in
doubtful taste in Diaz’s time. The dining-room, where tea was served,
looked as if paneled in plaster and painted a hideous brownish yellow;
but I am told it is really finished in carved Alsatian oak. On the
table was one large silver épergne bearing Maximilian’s arms; how it
has managed to remain where it is all these years I know not.
The room where Señora Huerta stood, which used to be Carlota’s boudoir,
is now hung with an ugly, brownish-pink brocade; a lovely Gobelin
border remains to frame the panels of the brocade, and two exquisite
lunettes of the same Gobelin are over the windows. The rooms are only
inconveniently reached one through the other. Visitors pass through
the _Salon Rojo_, with its big table and chairs, where the Cabinet
sits when meetings are held at Chapultepec, then through the _Recamara
Azul_, hung with blue brocade, in which is an elaborate Buhl bed and
dressing-table. Other traces of the ruler with the blond hair and blue
eyes are not in evidence.
The President made a speech at tea. I was standing, two removed, on his
side of the table, next to Mme. Lefaivre and Sir Lionel. Huerta began
by wishing the Diplomatic Corps a happy new year. He went on to say,
with his usual genial ignoring of the United States, that Mexico was
not the equal of great Powers like England, Spain, France, or Germany;
that she had not their many blessings of culture and enlightenment;
that she was an adolescent, a minor; but that, like any nation, she
possessed a right to her own development and evolution along her own
line, and he begged the mercy and patience of the Powers. He got
balled up in some astronomical metaphors. One heard vague references
to Jupiter and Mars; but he soon disentangled himself with his usual
_sang-froid_. I found his speech, under the circumstances, tragic and
touching. He is backed up determinedly against the whole world of
Powers and Dominations, but at times he must know that he is slipping,
slipping. Mexico can’t exist without the favor of the United States, or
at least without its indifference.
Eight years ago, in one of those interregna known to all Mexican
statesmen, Huerta was overseer of peons building houses in the new
quarter of Mexico City. But mostly his avocations have required courage
and knowledge. He was for years head of the Geodetic Survey, and
was at one time inspector of the “National Railways.” He was first
discovered in his native town by a passing general who needed some one
for secretarial work. Having taken the fullest advantage of the very
poor schooling of his native town, he was ready when opportunity came.
He was taken to Mexico City, where he was brought to the attention
of Diaz, through whose influence he entered the Military Academy.
After this his qualities were speedily acknowledged and he became an
important figure in the military history of Mexico.
He once told N. that when, during de la Barra’s incumbency in 1911,
he was sent in to Morelos to suppress the Zapatistas, the Cientifico
party offered him many inducements to aid in their reinstatement as
rulers of Mexico. He added that he had preferred to remain faithful to
his constitutional oath. The same thing occurred during the brilliant
campaign he carried out in the north for Madero against Orozco. He
said, “I could have done it easily then, because I had control of the
army and the arms, but I remained faithful to Madero, as representing
constitutional government.” Later on, he said, he became convinced that
Madero was not capable of the business of government and that disaster
was unavoidable.
How well I remember going once to Chapultepec to see Señora Madero.
She was in bed in the room next the _Salon de Embajadores_, consumed
with fever and anxieties, twisting a rosary in her hot hands. She told
me, with shining eyes, of the news received that very afternoon of the
success of Huerta’s northern campaign against Orozco, and added that he
was their strongest general and _muy leal_ (very loyal). How quickly
any situation here in Latin America becomes part of an irrevocable past!
N. sent a telegram to Mr. Lind in answer to his letter, begging him to
give the President his most respectful wishes for a happy new year.
This afternoon we received the new Italian minister.
The cook departed an hour ago, leaving word that her sister is dying
and that she will be back in eight days. They are apt to take time for
grief in this part of the world, and food for an Embassy is a mere
detail. The _galopina_ (kitchen-maid), seen for the first time--a pale,
high-cheeked Indian girl, with her hair hanging down her back--answered
my every question by a most discouraging, “_Quién sabe?_” The women
servants seem to be forever washing their hair, and though it would
doubtless be unreasonable and useless to forbid it, the sight has an
irritating effect. Everybody who has really lived in Mexico has at some
time or other had food brought in by females with long, damp, black
hair floating down their backs.
We motored out to the Country Club, where Elim and I followed some
golfers over the beautiful links. The short grass was dry and springy,
the air clear and cool, without a breath of wind. As we motored home we
found ourselves enveloped in an indescribable glory--a strange light
thrown over everything by a blue and copper sunset. The luster-tiled
roof of the little Chapel of Churubusco was like a diamond held in the
sun--the rest of the church gray and flat. All this is historic ground
for us as well as for the Mexicans. Over the golf-links and in the
fields between the Country Club and Churubusco, our men, on their way
up from Vera Cruz in 1847, fought a desperate fight before pressing
into Mexico City. It is said we lost more than a thousand men here,
and there are grass-grown mounds beneath which pale and bronze heroes
lie together in death. In the old Aztec days Churubusco had a temple
dedicated to the war-god Huitzilopochtli, and Churubusco is the word
the Spaniards produced from this rather discouraging collection of
letters.