true, ends _that_ little flurry. The long arm of the Dictator moves
the puppets as he wills, and I imagine he intends to take no risks
concerning the brightest jewel in his crown--_i. e._, N., the last
link with the United States. I keep thinking what a “grand thing”
a dictatorship is if it is on your side. Most of the dozen Huerta
children were at the reception--from the youngest, a bright little girl
of seven, to the fatuous eldest officer son of thirty or thereabouts.
A big diamond in a gold ring, next to a still bigger one in platinum,
were the most conspicuous things about him.
A new comic journal called _Mister Lind_ made its first appearance
to-day. It is insulting and unclean, with a caricature of Lind on the
second page. I can’t decide whether the name is bright or stupid.
The Mexicans are master-hands at caricature and play upon words, and
there are generally some really trenchant political witticisms in their
comic papers. There are wishes for Wilson’s early demise scattered
through the pages in various forms. But I imagine they are boomerang
wishes, and the journal itself will have a short and unprofitable
life. The big middle page has a picture, calling itself _El Reparto
de Tierras_ (“The Division of Lands”). It represents a graveyard;
underneath are the words, “_tenemos 200,000 tierras tenientes_”
(“we have 200,000 landholders”)--a sad play upon the division of
lands. Above it vultures are portrayed, wearing Uncle Sam’s hat.
Another caricature shows the Mexicans carrying a coffin labeled
_Asuntos Nacionales_ (National Affairs), with President Wilson as a
candle-bearer. The press gets more anti-American every day.
[Illustration: A BURIAL
MEXICO: “WHO GAVE _YOU_ A CANDLE TO CARRY IN THIS FUNERAL?”]
On one of N’s visits to the President, at his famous little shack-like
retreat set in among a collection of market-gardens, at Popotla, he
began to talk about the division of lands, saying the Indian had
inalienable rights to the soil, but that the lands should be returned
to him under circumstances of justice and order. On no account should
they be used as a reward for momentarily successful revolutionaries. He
added that the United States had never respected the rights of their
Indians, but had settled the whole question by force.
_February 19th._
We went this morning to the big military _revue_ at the Condesa, one
of the most beautiful race-tracks in the world. I thought of Potsdam’s
strong men under dull skies. Now I am in this radiant paradise,
watching more highly colored troops, who make a really fine show,
and who perhaps are soon to fight with “the Colossus of the North.”
Certainly in another year many of them will have been laid low by
brothers’ hands. The President was very pleased with the 29th, the
crack regiment that helped him to power a year ago. He addressed a
few words to them, and his hands trembled as he decorated their flag,
pinning the cross at the top of the flag-staff, and attaching a long
red streamer instead of the rosette that generally goes with this
decoration. They made a fine showing, and the _rurales_, under command
of Rincon Gaillardo, on a beautiful horse, and in all the splendor of
a yellow and silver-trimmed _charro_ costume, were a picturesque and
unforgetable sight. The _rurales_ wear great peaked hats, yellow-gray
costumes made with the tight _vaquero_ trousers, short embroidered
coats, and long, floating red-silk neckties--such a spot at which
to aim! I suppose there were six or seven thousand troops in all.
Everything was very spick and span--men, horses, and equipment. It was
a testimony to Huerta’s military qualities that in the face of his
manifold enemies he could put up such an exhibition. I sat by Corona,
governor of the Federal District, and watched the glittering _défilé_
and listened to the stirring martial music. The Mexicans have probably
the best brass in the world--_le beau côté de la guerre_. But what
horrors all that glitter covers! Twice, when Huerta’s emotion was too
much for him, he disappeared for a _copita_, which was to be had in a
convenient back inclosure.
_Evening._
I started out with Kanya and Madame Simon to motor to Xochimilco,
and before getting out of town we ran down a poor _pelado_. It was a
horrible sensation as the big motor struck him. I jumped out and ran
to him and found him lying on his poor face, a great stream of blood
gushing from a wound in his head.
They wouldn’t let me touch him till a sergeant came. Then we turned
him on his back, and I bound up his head as well as I could, with a
handkerchief some one gave me, and with one of my long, purple veils.
I took the motor--Kanya and Madame Simon are not used to blood--and
went quickly to the _comisaría_ and got a doctor. The chauffeur, whose
fault it really was, was trembling like an aspen. When we got back, it
seemed to me the whole _peon_ world had turned out. Finally we got the
victim laid on the _camilla_; and now, I suppose, his poor soul is with
its Maker. As the motor is Kanya’s, there will be no calling him up in
court, and he will be very generous to the family. I am thankful, for
various reasons, that it wasn’t the Embassy motor. I am awfully upset
about it; to think of starting out on this beautiful afternoon and
being the instrument to send that poor soul into eternity.
Later I went to see Madame Lefaivre. She is in bed with a “synovite,”
and is trying to superintend her packing at the same time. I met von
Hintze as I came out of the Legation. He informed me, with a wicked
smile, that the review was to celebrate, or rather, commemorate, the
mutiny of the celebrated Twenty-ninth against Madero last February.
Well, I hope we won’t get into trouble with the powers that be.
He addressed me, saying, “I hear you presided over the military
commemoration of to-day.”
I said, “Good heavens! _What_ commemoration?” I knew nothing of it, and
was only interested to see what sort of a showing the troops would make!
I write no more. I feel very _triste_ with the sight of that poor,
bleeding head before my eyes and the memory of the impact of that body
against the motor.
_February 20th._
The poor man is still alive, but is going to die. The curious thing
about the fatality (which is the only word for it) is that the man had
just come from Querétaro, where he had sold a house for 4,200 pesos,
which he had on him, and which were subsequently stolen from him at the
_policía_. I noticed that when he was put on the stretcher his hand for
a moment convulsively pressed his belt. I suppose moving him brought a
momentary consciousness, and he thought weakly of his all. Doubtless he
was the only _pelado_ in town that had that or _any_ amount on him. The
chauffeur is in jail, and, after all, Kanya will have a lot of trouble
before the matter has been arranged.
The comic journals of this week have just appeared. All take a shot at
Mr. Wilson for his recognition of Peru. _Multicolor_ has him, with a
smile, handing the _Reconocimiento_ to Peru--a handsome young woman,
representing _la Revolución_--while with the other hand he tears the
map of Mexico from the wall.
The other day Nelson had a most interesting talk with Huerta. He said
he realized that the existence of any government in Mexico without the
good-will of the United States was difficult, if not impossible; and
that he was deeply distressed that they did not take into account
the manifold difficulties under which he was laboring. It was at this
interview that N. arranged the question of getting in arms. Huerta
pointed out that all the requests N. had made him on behalf of the
United States had been granted, and that the entire Federal army had
been ordered to give special consideration to Americans. He said that
he did not desire to criticize the government of the United States, but
did wish to point out that if it defeats him in pacifying the country
it will be forced into the difficult and thankless task of armed
intervention. He continued that, on looking at the Mexican situation,
one must not lose sight of the fact that Mexico is an Indian country
(mentioning the difficulties _we_ had had with our Indians); that the
Indian population here had been oppressed by the Spaniards and the
landowning classes for centuries; that during the régime of Porfirio
Diaz they had conceived the desire for material betterment, but were
given no chance (the chances being for the few); that under the régime
of Madero the revolutionary habit became general, as the sequel of
unfulfillable promises. Also that the present task in Mexico was not
to establish a democracy, but to establish order. He did not criticize
the rebels of the north, but said they would never, in the event of
victory, be able to establish a government in Mexico, and that one
of their first acts would be to turn against the United States. From
Maximilian to Huerta they have all known our friendship is essential.
The Benton case is going to make an untold amount of trouble, and the
Mexican problem again comes into sight from the international point.
A life is worth a life, perhaps, before God; but down here the murder
of a wealthy British subject is of more account than that of some poor
American or a thousand Mexicans. The best and most-to-be-believed
version of Villa’s shooting of him is that, on Benton’s expostulating
with him about the confiscation of his property in Chihuahua, he was
shot, then and there. That is the reason they have been unwilling to
let his wife have the body, which shows bullet-wounds in the _wrong
places_. Villa claims he was shot after a court-martial had declared
him guilty of an attempt on his, Villa’s life. You can imagine a
wealthy Britisher attempting Villa’s life! All any foreigner up there
wants is to be let alone. Whatever the true history may be, there is
intense indignation on the frontier. Sir Cecil Spring-Rice has made
formal protestations to the State Department. The English press is
aroused, and it was told us by one correspondent that Sir Edward Grey
will be called on to answer questions in Parliament. The fat is, at
last, in the fire.
Dr. Ryan returned yesterday, more or less discouraged with his
Washington trip. Everything for the rebels. Mr. Lind is so fascinated
by them that I understand he is counseling direct financial aid--a
loan. He hasn’t perceived the shape and color of events here, but has
become obsessed by the idea of getting rid of Huerta. That and his
hallucination about Villa cover the whole situation for him. What is to
be done afterward if Huerta is squeezed out? That is what we all want
to know--the afterward. One long vista of bloodshed and heartbreak and
devastation presents itself.
_February 22d._
Elim has gone to his first and, I hope, his _last_ bull-fight, with Dr.
Ryan. He has clamored so to go that I finally yielded. I feel rather
uncertain about it. There was a very _chic_ dinner at von Hintze’s last
night, for Sir Lionel, who leaves on Wednesday. I feel awfully sorry
for him, but this Benton matter may be a justification, to a certain
extent. He says he is only to be gone six weeks--but _quién sabe?_
Hohler has arrived--a good friend of ours. His are safe hands in which
to leave matters.
Nelson is busy getting one of the American correspondents out of that
terrible Belem. He has been put in there with all those vermin-covered
people, with their typhoid and other germs, and must have had some bad
hours.
_February 24th._
Just a line this morning. Am getting ready for my American bridge
party, with prizes, this afternoon. I have some lovely large Ravell
photographs in good old frames.
Last night Patchin, the very agreeable young _Tribune_ correspondent,
came for dinner; we had the usual political conversation afterward.
Clarence Hay read a poem of his (which I will later inclose) on the
murder of young Gen. Gabriel Hernandez, last July, by Enrique Zepeda,
then governor of the Federal district. Zepeda is called a “nephew” of
Huerta, but is supposed to be his son. Zepeda gave a supper to which
N. was invited; at the last moment, press of work made him unable to
assist. The gods were with him that time, for, after the supper, at
midnight, Zepeda, very much _allumé_, went to the _Penitenciaría_
where General Hernandez was imprisoned, took him out into the _patio_,
and shot him dead. His men then burned the body, over which they were
thoughtful enough to first pour kerosene. Zepeda was put in jail for
eight months, and is just out. When he isn’t intoxicated he is almost
“American” in his ideas, it appears.
_Wednesday, February 25th._
Last night we went to the station to see Sir Lionel off. I thought
the cheers that went up as the train moved out of the station were
for him, but it seems they were for some departing bull-fighters,
who are always first in the hearts of their countrymen. It appears
that Sir Lionel is carrying with him documents, plans, maps, etc.,
with a collection of fully authenticated horrors committed by the
rebels in their campaign. He may not get an opportunity of laying them
before President Wilson, but he will enjoy showing them to Sir Cecil
Spring-Rice.
Yesterday, from the governor’s palace in Chihuahua, Villa gave forth a
statement about the killing of Benton. He was seated on a throne-like
chair on a raised dais, in almost regal style, his followers
surrounding him and doing him homage. The gubernatorial palace is
fitted up with the greatest luxury, the houses of the wealthiest
residents of the town having been sacked for the purpose. Consider the
picture of that untutored, bloody-handed brigand, surrounded by his
spoils and his “courtiers.” He has never heard how “uneasy lies the
head that wears a crown,” but he will doubtless have some practical
experience of it. He has contradicted himself repeatedly in his
statements about the killing of Benton. The body, bearing its mute
testimony of being riddled with bullets by a firing-squad, lies under a
heap of refuse.
XVI
Huerta’s impressive review for the special correspondents--The _Grito
de Dolores_--Tons of “stationery” for the Embassy--Villa and Carranza
disagree--The Embassy guard finds itself occupied.
_February 26th. Noon._
We are just home, after seeing the review (from Chapultepec through
town to the _Zocalo_) of all the troops now in the city. They were
turned out for the benefit of the special correspondents, invited to
the gay scene by Huerta, and the government is paying all the expenses.
The regular correspondents in town feel rather peeved about the matter.
We sat in the motor in the _Zocalo_, under the cloudless sky and
soft, penetrating sun, and watched the _défilé_. The banner of the
Twenty-ninth bore the long, red streamer that Huerta had tied on the
other day, with trembling fingers. The troops were all well armed. They
had new rifles and new, well-filled cartridge-belts, and the effect was
most encouraging--for _Huerta_. The special correspondents, from the
windows of the Palace, had their cameras and cine machines in action.
Really, Huerta has done wonders to keep the troops together so well
and so long, in the face of such overwhelming odds. The bugle-calls
and the martial music echoed over the Plaza--the setting for so many
centuries of the hopes and fears, the beginnings and the endings, of
these Mexican people.
I thought of the 1911 anniversary of the _Grito de Dolores_--that
night of the 16th of September when I stood on the middle balcony of
the _Palacio_, with de la Barra and Madero, when the former was still
President _ad interim_, and the latter was hoping all things. There
we looked down on fifty or sixty thousand upturned faces, while the
celebrated _Campana de la Independencia_ (Independence bell) rang above
our heads, followed by the great bells from the illuminated towers of
the cathedral. The present is nearer the past in Mexico than anywhere
else.[10] As we came home we were snapshotted a dozen times by the
disconsolate correspondents who had not been invited to the Palace
to “assist” at the parade. Coming up “Plateros,” Nelson saw Huerta’s
automobile outside of “El Globo” restaurant, and left me, to go in to
speak to him.
This morning the big banana-tree in the front garden was released from
its winter wrappings, if one can call these cloudless days winter.
The most wonderful banners of purest, palest yellow are gently waving
against the perfect sky. I am now waiting for Hohler to come to lunch.
Sir Lionel went off (during a tremendous _norte_), in the battle-ship
_Essex_, which is taking him to Galveston. His country is treating him
almost to the honors we give fleeing Maderistas.
Villa has not yet given up the body of Benton. If there is much
more delay it will not be able to bear testimony to the truth.
Unfortunately, a Federal officer, it is rumored, has hanged an
American citizen, Vergara, at Piedras Negras. His pardon, sent from
headquarters, came too late. Huerta will probably make an example of
the hasty officer, if the deed has really been committed. We heard this
morning that Carranza is going to make short work of O’Shaughnessy
when _he_ gets here. When!
I had a very interesting conversation with Hohler, who is thoroughly
sincere and trustworthy, and able to look at things as they are. We sat
long over our coffee, talking of the international web, of which Mexico
is now so uncertain and frail a mesh. He intends to do what he can for
_his_ nationals. He is without fear, in a practical, unnervous way.
The reverse of the medal is that he is a tireless collector and
connoisseur of beautiful things, and what he doesn’t get, the Belgian
minister does. Between them, there is very little left for anybody else.
_February 27th._
Villa is still refusing to deliver up the body of Benton, even at
the risk of offending the United States. Huerta expects Villa to
hang himself with his own rope. He says he is a _tonto_, violent,
undisciplined, and _can’t_ do what he ought. The rumors that he is
refusing to receive orders from Carranza are taking more explicit
shape. He says that Carranza has never once put himself in danger; that
he (Villa) has done all; that he receives commands from no one. He has
repeatedly and vainly been asked to go to confer with Carranza, and we
now hear that the mountain of all constitutional virtues is going to
Mohammed. The deadly wine of success is mounting to Villa’s head. He
now has wealth to the extent of some millions of pesos. The Torreon
and Chihuahua confiscations were enormous, not counting what he and
his followers have taken in all the small towns looted. He has not the
sense to perceive in what difficulties his killing of Benton has placed
the people who are anxious to be his friends. He evidently thinks that
a man who cannot write or read must “make his mark” in other ways.
Our Gatling-guns, with ammunition, are arriving to-day in Vera Cruz,
by the Ward Line steamer. They are to be got up here under the head of
Embassy supplies--stationery, and the like. Huerta knows they are, but
wants the thing done in a manner that he can wink at. The “stationery”
will weigh tons.
_February 28th._
Elim had his curls shockingly cut this morning, but his bang has
been left. He is as proud as a puppy with two tails. The “crime” was
committed by a soft-speaking Haitian barber, who won’t get another
chance at my only child. Elim knows nothing of death and dissolution;
has been calling “_Mima_,” all over the house, and has just dashed into
the drawing-room, where I am writing, to ask for a trumpet. He is so
clever about music that I am almost tempted to sacrifice every one in
the house and get him one. He will soon be playing the national air.
Yesterday I had tea with Madame B. She was looking very handsome, lying
among her costly blue-ribboned laces. The baby, born ten days ago,
looks like a miniature “conqueror,” with its severe Spanish features
and glossy black hair. Madame B.’s father, who is one of the wealthiest
_hacendados_, spoke with Huerta for the first time several weeks ago at
the Jockey Club. The President asked him, “How are matters in Morelos?”
(The Zapatista country where they have immense sugar haciendas.) Don.
L. answered, “You are killing us with your demands for contributions.”
Huerta grew rather excited. “You do nothing for the country,” he
declared, “neither you nor your sons.” Don L. answered, “I have lost
one and a half millions in the past year.” “Lucky man to have it to
lose,” commented Huerta, grimly. “Great sugar crops are now ready for
harvesting, but I can get no men,” Don L. went on; “they are all in
the army. Give me men and I will give you contributions.”
Huerta immediately sent the men needed, the sugar is being harvested,
and Don L. feels convinced that Huerta is doing what he can; but his
daughter, who told me all this, added, with a smile and flash of white
teeth, “Pardon me; but what _can_ we do with your Mr. Wilson on our
backs?”
_Evening._
We have had such a day of agitation. Telegrams from New York tell
us that Nelson’s father has received the last sacraments. We have
telegraphed to Vera Cruz to know if one of the smaller fast ships is in
the harbor. I might go in it to New Orleans and thence by rail to New
York--in all seventy-eight or eighty hours from Vera Cruz. Berthe has
been packing my things. I know lives must end, but my heart is very sad.
I kept my engagement to take the Russian and Austrian ministers out to
Tozzer’s Aztec diggings. Their governments have subscribed money for
archæological work in Mexico (I have never _quite_ understood why), and
Tozzer was most anxious to have them see what he had done. We had tea,
and _regalitos_ of heads of idols, dug up on the spot--spontaneously
offered, this time. There was a dust-storm blowing--the volcanoes were
invisible--and things were generally gritty. All the time my thoughts
were turning toward the life-and-death issue, and I was so anxious to
get home.
The Lefaivres leave definitely on the 12th. The Legation is dismantled,
and Madame Lefaivre is still lying with her knee in plaster. Their
secretary and his wife naturally see them leave with mixed feelings.
We all know how _that_ is, for what greater benefit can a chief bestow
than absence? Madame Lefaivre said to the secretary: “What if the ship
doesn’t sail on the 12th?” He made the most polite of disclaimers, but
she answered, smilingly, “Oh, I know the hearts of secretaries!”
_March 1st._
I have just come from Mass, wondering how it is with the soul and body
of Nelson’s father....
This morning Washington must be thinking “how sharper than a serpent’s
tooth”! Carranza and Villa are defying the supreme powers. They even
deny our rights to ask information regarding Benton, who, they say,
is a British subject--adding that they will listen to only such
representations as are made to them by Great Britain herself “through
the proper diplomatic channels.” No one knew any such channels existed.
They add, further, that this ruling applies to other nations desiring
redress for their people. The Frankenstein monster is certainly
growing. Carranza also says that he has already investigated the Benton
affair, but only for use in case Great Britain desires to take up
the matter with him as head of the revolution. The matter of Gustav
Bauch, American citizen, he will be kind enough to discuss with Mr.
Bryan, stating that he “greatly laments his death.” This turn is most
unexpected, though Villa and Carranza were very uppish several months
ago when William Bayard Hale was sent to treat with them. Now that the
embargo is lifted, their arrogance knows no bounds.
Vergara, the _supposed_ American citizen, _supposed_ to have been put
to death at Piedras Negras by a Federal officer, and whose death so
greatly outraged Washington, has simply escaped and rejoined the rebel
forces. It appears, on investigation, that he was the chief of a gang
of eighteen bandits, and his occupation was the getting in of arms and
ammunition across the border for the rebels, or the driving of large
herds of stolen cattle over to the American side. The Federals would
have had a perfect right to shoot him.
Yours of January 31st, understanding all so deeply, says nothing of my
typewritten letter about the Vera Cruz trip. It must be a relief to you
to get a legible letter. McKenna, N.’s new young secretary, discreet
and competent, copied it for me.