cypress, which has been cherished and doctored by botanical
commissioners and outraged by mobs. Under it Cortés is supposed to
have sat and wept as he saw defile before him the tattered remnants of
his army after the terrible retreat from Tenochtitlan, July 2, 1520.
There are three of these especially historic trees which survived the
horrors of the Conquest--the others are the _Arbol de Montezuma_,
in the Chapultepec park, and the great Tree of Tule, in Oaxaca,
which sheltered Cortés and his venturesome company on their way to
Honduras.--E. O’S.
[9] This noble house has since passed into alien hands, and the great
library is scattered. Señora Garcia Pimentel was, fortunately, able
to send a few of the most valuable manuscripts to England--the Cortés
letters, the famous Motolinía manuscript, dedicated to the Conde de
Benavente, a first edition of Cervantes, the “Dialogos” of Salazar, and
a volume or two of Padre de la Vera Cruz and Padre Sahagun. She and her
unmarried daughter took these away, concealed under shawls, when they
were obliged to leave the house. There had been a sudden loud knocking
at the door in the dead of night, followed by the entry of Carranzista
officials. Madame Garcia Pimentel and her beautiful daughter were alone
in the house at the time; the father and sons, in danger of their
lives, had been secretly got to Vera Cruz, some time before.
The far-famed library of Casasus has also been scattered, its
treasures destroyed. Sometimes a priceless volume has been bought for a
few cents from a street vender, by some one on the lookout, but mostly
these treasures have forever disappeared.--E. O’S.
XIII
Gamboa--Fêtes for the Japanese officers--The Pius Fund--The Toluca
road--Brown, of the National Railways--President Wilson raises the
embargo on arms and ammunition--Hunting for Zapatistas.
_January 29th._
Yesterday the handsome Mexican set came for bridge, and in the evening
we went to dine at Señor Pardo’s house. He is the clever attorney for
the “Mexican” railways. Federico Gamboa and his wife were there. Gamboa
is most amusing, with one of those minds that answer to the point in
conversation, what the French call _le don de la réplique_. He was
Minister for Foreign Affairs last summer, and resigned to run for
President, as choice of the Clerical party. Huerta said, quite frankly,
of him to N. a few days ago, “I told him I liked him and wished him
well, but if he had been elected President I should have had him shot.”
Gamboa’s answer to Mr. L. last August, though not satisfactory to _us_
when laid by Mr. Wilson before Congress, remains a dignified, clever,
and unimpeachable _exposé_ of the Mexican situation from _their_ point
of view, which is that the United States, by every international law,
is unwarranted in interfering in their interior affairs, as these,
however unfortunate, are those of a sovereign state. They never got
over the fact that the communications Mr. Lind brought with him were
tactfully addressed to no one in particular, and referred to the
government as “the persons who at the present time have authority or
exercise influence in Mexico.” They consider that if they even once
allowed such counsel from the United States they would compromise
indefinitely their destinies as a sovereign state.
As for the phrase “the United States will not hesitate to consummate
matters, especially in times of domestic trouble, in the way that they,
the United States, consider best for Mexico”--it is graven on the mind
of every Mexican who can read and write. Concerning our professions of
friendship, which left them decidedly cold, Gamboa neatly said that
never could there be a more propitious time for displaying it, that
we had “only to watch that no material or military assistance of any
kind be given to the rebels who find refuge, conspire, and provide
themselves with arms and food on the other side of the border.” He
further quietly states that he is greatly surprised that Mr. Lind’s
mission should be termed a “mission of peace,” as, fortunately, neither
then nor to-day had there existed any state of war between Mexico and
the United States. The whole document is the tragic and bootless appeal
of a weak nation to a strong.
Gamboa has had numerous diplomatic posts. He was minister to Brussels
and to The Hague, and special ambassador to Spain to thank the King for
participation in the Centenary of 1910....
After the Pardo dinner, two bright-eyed, clear-voiced Mexican girls,
one of them Pardo’s daughter, sang Mexican songs with the true beat
and lilt to them. Hanihara was also there, listening to the music
in the usual detached, Oriental manner. The Japanese officers are
being tremendously _fêted_, fed by each and every department of the
government, till I should think their abstemious “little Marys” would
rebel.
After dinner we walked home, a short distance, in the mild night, under
a strangely low and starry sky. It seemed to me that by reaching out I
could have had a planet for my own. The streets were deserted, save for
an occasional Mexican, hurrying home, with his scarf across his mouth.
There is a tradition here about not inhaling the night air. Here and
there a _guardia_ shivered in the shadows, as he watched his lantern,
which he always places in the middle of the four crossings. One can
walk with jewels gleaming, and without fear, under the Dictator.
Dr. Ryan left last night for Washington. I don’t like to interfere with
any one’s _premier mouvement_, but I know it for an expensive, bootless
trip. No one will care what he thinks about the certain consequences of
the raising of the embargo.
The rebels have just destroyed twenty-two huge tanks of oil near
Tampico, destined for the running of the railroad between San Luis
Potosí and the coast. I think I told you Mr. Brown said that the gross
receipts had never been so big on his lines as last month, in spite of
the danger in traveling, but that they could not keep pace with the
immense damage going on all the time. Mr. Brown is the self-made man of
story. He began at the foot of the ladder and is now the president of
the “National Railways”; quiet, poised, shrewd, and agreeable. Mexico
owes him much.
_Evening._
The Mexican papers come out with the statement that President Wilson
can’t raise the embargo on arms and ammunition without the consent of
Congress, which, if true, removes it as an immediate calamity.
This morning they rang up from the American grocery to say that the
stores ordered yesterday had not arrived, as the man who was delivering
them was taken by the press-gang, with all the provisions. A nice way
to popularize a government!
Nelson has been requested by the powers that be to use his influence
about the release of a certain American, the suggestion being added
that he should not be too cordial with Huerta in public, as the
United States was on official, _not_ friendly terms with Mexico. The
old man would shut up like a clam and never raise a finger for N.,
or any American, or any American interests, if N. did not treat him
with _both_ public and private courtesy. In these difficult days the
position here is almost entirely a personal equation. N. has danced
the tight-rope, up to now, to the satisfaction of almost everybody, in
spite of the inevitable jealousies and enmities. It is entirely due
to N.’s personal efforts that the Pius Fund of $43,000, has just been
paid; due to him that many prisoners have been released, and that many
material ends have been gained for the United States.
I think history will testify that Huerta showed much tact in dealing
with us. His latest remark is, “If our great and important neighbor
to the north chooses to withhold her friendship, we can but deplore
it--and try to perform our task without her.”
Elim asked me, yesterday, “Where is our Uncle Sam, that everybody talks
about?” He thought he was on the track of a new relative.
_Later._
A military revolt is brewing here--Felicista. N. got wind of it. If
it comes, they must give us Huerta, and have so promised. We have had
comparative, very comparative, quiet for a few weeks, and now things
are seething again.
There is a room here always ready, which we call _nacht asyl_, and
various uneasy heads have rested there in the famous “bed of the
murderess.” Yesterday I bought a lot of lovely dull blue-and-white
_serapes_ for the floor and couch.
On returning from bridge at Madame Lefaivre’s, where I left de Soto
losing with more than his usual melancholy distinction, I found
the Japanese minister with the captain of the _Idzuma_, in full
regimentals, come to call--but N. was out. The captain said he wanted
to express especially and officially to N. his appreciation of all the
courtesies he had received from Admiral Cowles, and the other officers
of our ships at Manzanillo. He spoke French and English only fairly
well, as they do. I was very cordial, of course, and said that in these
difficult moments all must be friends, must stand by one another,
and show mutual understanding of difficulties. As I looked at him I
thought, for some reason, of the horrors suffered and the deeds of
valor performed by his race in the Russo-Japanese War, without question
or thought of individuals. He espied Iswolsky’s photograph and Adatchi
showed him Demidoff’s picture, saying that Elim was his namesake. They
never forget _anything_.
The officers had all been out to the celebrated pyramid of San Juan
Teotihuacan to-day, with the Minister of Public Instruction. It is
a fatiguing trip, but an excursion always arranged for strangers of
distinction. (I made it with Madero, mounting those last great steps,
exhausted and dripping, on his arm.) They, the Japanese, were going
to the Jockey Club, where Moheno, the Minister for Foreign Affairs,
is to give them a dinner. The government is so in debt to the various
restaurants here that they couldn’t get credit for the dinner at
Silvain’s, as first planned.
I met Lady Carden at bridge this afternoon. She feels badly at the way
things have developed for her husband. He has been called to London “to
report”; _à la_ Henry Lane Wilson to Washington, I suppose. Hohler, who
was _chargé_ when we first came to Mexico, is already _en route_ from
England to take over the Legation during Sir Lionel’s absence--but I
suppose Sir L. will never return. I told Lady Carden to give Sir Lionel
my best regards, and added that it wasn’t, by any means, _all_ beer and
skittles at the Embassy.
Sir L. shouldn’t have tried, however, to “buck” the United States. All
the representatives have become a bit more cautious as to how they
approach “the policy,” since the unpleasant newspaper notoriety Sir
Lionel and Paul May received. Lady Carden is not going, I am glad to
say, and we are all making plans to console her for Sir L.’s absence.
_January 31st._
Your cable “Love” received yesterday. I sent a cable, “_Bene_,” in
answer. I have been thinking all day of those hours, many years ago,
when my precious mother was lying with me, her first-born, in her arms.
N. is in receipt of a proclamation from revolutionary agents in Mexico
City. The part referring to foreigners states that any protection given
by them to Huerta or to his intimates will result in their immediate
execution, and that _no_ flag will be respected in such cases. It is
one of those nice, little, confidence-inspiring documents which induce
one to ponder on the Mexican situation, not as it might be or ought to
be, but as it _is_. Its caption, “_La revolución es revolución_,” is
completely expressive.
_February 1st. Afternoon._
A few lines while waiting for tea and callers. This morning we made
a wonderful run out the Toluca road with Seeger and Mr. and Madame
Graux, our Belgian friends, _Chemins de fer secondaires_, as we call
them. After Tacubaya the road rises high above the city, and for miles
we motored along the heights, through stretches of dazzling white
_tepetate_ and pink _tezontle_, the buildingstones of the city
from immemorial days. The road was fairly alive with Indians bringing
in their wares, this Sunday morning. They came from Toluca, seventy
kilometers distant, moving tirelessly over their roads with the quick,
short Aztec trot, and bearing such loads of pottery, baskets, and
wood, that nothing can be seen of them but their feet. This is also a
Zapatista country, and we had provided ourselves with three pistols.
High in the hills could be seen the smoke of camp-fires, Zapatistas
_or_ charcoal-burners. It was on this road that the son of the Minister
of War, Blanquet, was held up about three weeks ago. His party was
stripped and its members sent home as they were born, even that last
possible covering, the floor-rug of the motor, being removed.
However, beyond being stopped at intervals by _gendarmes_, who tried,
unsuccessfully, to make us leave our pistols at the _jefetura_ of their
little village, we were not interfered with. Our cry of _Embajada
Americana_, though not over-popular now, had not lost all its potency.
In spite of the dazzling sun it is very cold on the heights, and in
the little village where we stopped to “water” our car a coughing,
sneezing, sniffling crowd of half-naked, shivering Indians gathered
around us, evidently suffering from one of those bronchial epidemics
so prevalent in these thin, high atmospheres. I fear that our coppers,
though acceptable, were not therapeutic, as, doubtless, they all
rounded up at the nearest _pulquería_ after our departure. We could not
decide to turn lunch-ward, but kept on and on, until we had dipped into
the Toluca Valley as far as the statue of Hidalgo, commemorating the
spot where he met the viceregal forces in 1821. It always seems to me
a sad spot, for when the Spaniards fell, with the exception of Diaz’s
thirty years, the last stable government of Mexico also fell.
[Illustration: THE GUARD THAT STOPPED US]
At the base of the statue three Indian women were sitting--_enredadas_.
Each had a baby slung over her back and a burden by her side, giving
the scene the mysterious, changeless, lonely Indian note. In Mexico,
nothing is ever missing from any picture to make it beautiful and
peculiarly itself.
A very gratifying letter came to-day from Mr. John Bassett Moore,
counselor of the State Department. There are so many difficulties, so
many enmities ready to lift their poisoned heads, so many delicate
transactions, so much hanging in the balance, that it is gratifying to
have, sometimes, an appreciative word from headquarters. Also a very
nice letter came from General Crozier. I am so glad of that Mexican
visit of his two years ago. He will understand just what the situation
is--and many things besides.
Nelson spent all Saturday morning getting the 1914 instalment of the
Pius Fund, the twelfth payment since the Hague decision in 1902. Diaz
intended to pay off the principal, but now, of course, the country
is in no condition to do so. We went down to Hacienda (Treasury
Department). I sat in the auto in the sun, in the historic _Zocalo_,
from immemorial days the focus of Mexican events. The officials had
only $37,000 of the $43,000, but told N. to return at half past twelve,
and they would have the other six for him. I couldn’t help wondering
where they got it. Finally it was all safely deposited in the bank. We
then picked up the Graux at the Hotel Sanz and motored out for luncheon
and golf at the Country Club.
_February 1st, 10.30_ P.M.
To-night has come the long-feared cable from Washington stating that
the President intends to raise the embargo on arms and ammunition.
The note was for Nelson’s special information, not for delivery to
the Foreign Office yet, but the hour will come when he will have to
gird himself to do the deed. It has been sent to every chancery in
Europe, where it will raise a storm, to blow hard or not, according
to the amount of material investments in Mexico. We scarcely know
what to think; we are dazed and aghast. I am glad that a few hours,
at least, must elapse before the facts will get out. I shall hardly
dare to venture forth unveiled. Courteous as the Mexicans have been
to Nelson and myself, some day, in face of the terrible catastrophes
we have brought upon them, their patience must fail. This act will
not establish the rebels in Mexico City or anywhere else, but will
indefinitely prolong this terrible civil war and swell the tide of the
blood of men and women, “and the _children_--oh, my brothers.”
I think Wilhelmstrasse, Downing Street, Quai d’Orsay, Ballplatz, and
all the other _Ministères_ will pick many a flaw in the President’s
document; but what can they do except anathematize us behind our backs?
_February 2d._
My first thought, on awaking this morning, was of the irremediable
catastrophe threatening this beautiful land. Nelson says he thinks
Huerta will disregard it, as he has disregarded all other moves of
Mr. Wilson; but it can be nothing but a further source of terrible
embarrassment.
_February 3d, 11_ A.M.
The second telegram has just come, saying that the President intends,
within a few hours, to raise the embargo, and that N. is to inform all
Americans and foreigners. I keep repeating to myself: “God! God! God!”
A generation of rich and poor alike will be at the mercy of the hordes
that will have new strength and means to fight, and eat, and pillage,
and rape their way through the country. There will be a stampede of
people leaving town to-night and to-morrow, but those in the interior,
what of them? There is sure to be violent anti-American demonstration,
especially in out-of-the-way places.
_12.30._
The news previously leaked out from Vera Cruz last night. Nothing gets
out from the Embassy, as our staff all happen to know how to keep their
counsel. It is what Mr. Lind has wanted for months, and I suppose the
news was too satisfactory to keep. You will read it in to-morrow’s
Paris _Herald_ and the _Journal de Genève_. Don’t worry about us. We
will have first-class safeguard _if_ Huerta declares war. He may not.
It is his policy, and a strong one it has been, to ignore Washington’s
proclamations. On the other hand, he will have no intention of being
caught by Villa, like a rat in a hole; and war with us may seem to him
a glorious solution of his problems. Villa and Carranza will not arrive
in the city together. No street is broad enough to permit the double
entry of their contrary passions, violence, and greed.
It is “to laugh” when Villa is thanked publicly and officially for his
kind promises in regard to life and property in the north.
_February 3d. Evening._
A busy day--as you can well imagine. N. had to inform the various
legations. I went down-town with him for luncheon, a thing I never do.
We met the Spanish minister driving up the _Paseo_ in his victoria--a
pathetic figure. He has had so much worry and heartbreak over the
situation and has been so helpless in the face of the disasters which
have befallen his nationals that he is beyond surprise. Upon hearing
the news he merely made a tired gesture of acquiescence. To him the
raising of the embargo was, doubtless, only one more inexplicable
thing. Von Hintze was out, and we next stopped at the French Legation,
just opposite the German. Ayguesparsse, the secretary, possessed of one
of the most elegant silhouettes in the world, was more than polite, but
quite impassive, as he came out with Nelson to speak a word to me. He
is married to a handsome young Mexican--the sister of Rincon Gaillardo,
Marqués de Guadalupe--whose time, strength, money, and life, if need
be, are at the disposition of his country.
When we got to the restaurant in Plateros, the most public and
alarm-allaying spot we could think of, the newspaper men assailed N.
with questions. The “story” that they are after is what the relations
of Huerta would be to N. and the Embassy, and they announce that they
were not going to let the _chargé_ out of their sight.
After lunch, at which Mr. S. joined us, we went to the British
Legation. N. gave Sir L. the news, while I walked in the garden
with Lady C., both of us wilted, with nerves on edge. I came home,
rested for a few minutes, and then dressed, and went out to fulfil
my afternoon program of calls, turning up late for bridge at Madame
Simon’s. She asked me squarely, though in the politest of French, “What
is your government doing?” I saw many people during the afternoon, but,
apart from her greeting, there was no word of politics. I think the
matter is too distasteful to the public to be discussed with any one
like myself, where care in the expression of feeling is necessary.
I drove home with Lady C., who was quietly aghast at the situation,
just in time to get into a tea-gown and down-stairs for dinner. In the
_salon_ Seeger and the Graux (who leave to-morrow for Vera Cruz and
New York) were waiting. N. telephoned that he was at the Palace, just
going in to see Huerta. You can imagine that we had a lively dinner of
surmises. He returned barely in time to say good-by to the Graux, and
after they left we sat up late to talk over the appalling situation.
Sir Lionel was with the President when N. got there. From the violent
sounds coming through the half-opened door, N. thought that the old man
was at last losing patience and control, and prepared himself for the
worst. However, when N. finally went in Huerta was perfectly calm and
had never been more friendly. He never mentioned President Wilson’s
name, and concerning the raising of the embargo quietly remarked that
it would not change matters much, but would merely give a recognized
name to the smuggling over the border that had been going on for three
years. He kept repeating that the future would justify him; that he
had had nothing to do with the killing of Madero; that the attitude of
the administration toward him was simply “a persecution.” N. said he
never flinched. He terminated the interview by saying that he greatly
appreciated N.’s public as well as private courtesies, and that he was
“very necessary to the situation,” whereupon he ordered _copitas_, and
the embargo question was dismissed.
Apropos of _copitas_, while we were talking N. was rung up to hear
that an English woman reporter and Wallace, the cine man, sent us
from the State Department, had been put in prison for trying to take
a photograph of Huerta at the Café Colon, while he was taking his
_copita_. They were both released at a late, or rather an early hour,
and I think they richly deserved their experience. Huerta’s reputation
for drinking is very much exaggerated.
The hall, stairway, and chancery were black with reporters all the
evening, until one o’clock. It has been a long day of responsibility,
excitement, and fatigue.
_February 4th._
The newspapers have appalling head-lines about President Wilson.
_El Puritano_, with his mask off, the avowed friend of bandits and
assassins, is about the mildest sample.
_Evening._
Another full day. I had errands all the morning. In the afternoon,
after being undecided as to whether I would shine by my absence or
turn the full light of my American countenance on my Mexican friends,
I decided to make calls. I found everybody in. I went first to Señora
Gamboa, where I had to talk Spanish. Fortunately, they have a few very
good antiques on which to hang conversation. Then I went to see the
Evanses. They have bought a handsome old Mexican house which we are
all interested in seeing them modernize without spoiling. After that
I drove out to Tacubaya, and on the way out the broad _calzada_ saw
the _leva_ at work. There were about twenty men hedged in by lines of
soldiers, and two or three disconsolate-looking women.
Señora Escandon’s house is situated in the midst of one of the
beautiful gardens for which Tacubaya is celebrated, inclosed by high
walls over which run a riot of vines and flowers. I found her and
her daughter, Señora Soriano, at home. The Spanish son-in-law is a
mechanical genius and spends this revolutionary period peacefully
constructing small, perfect models of war-ships and locomotives. I
shall take Elim there when “the fleet” is on the little lake in the
garden. The Escandons are people of immense wealth, agreeable and
cultivated, but, like all their kind, aloof from politics. Their
perfect and friendly courtesy made me more than a little sad.