the troops up to Mexico” reminds me of a correspondent of one of the
big New York newspapers. He appeared here the other day, saying he had
been sent hurriedly to Vera Cruz on inside information from Washington
to be ready to go up to Mexico City with the troops.
Last night Huerta, in view of the safety of his crown jewel--_i. e._,
Nelson--said he was going to send a guard to the Embassy. There was an
_equivocación_ (there always _is_ some mistake in Mexico) and an armed
guard of eight was sent to the American Club, a place Nelson rarely
goes to. About half past nine we had excited telephone calls that the
Club was guarded by these soldiers, as riots were evidently feared by
the authorities. The newspaper men sent telegrams about it to New York,
but it was simply a case of going to the wrong place. This morning four
soldiers with rifles appeared as permanent “guests,” but we don’t need
them. We have nice old Francisco and the new young _gendarme_, Manuel,
who was added some months ago. Each legation here has one guard. I am
glad to have Francisco and Manuel, on Elim’s account. They always seem
to know just what he is doing in the garden.
We were so thankful to see, in one of the newspapers, the head-line,
“Huerta snubs O’Shaughnessy.” Of course it isn’t true, but it will make
an excellent impression at home; and it may even give N.’s first-hand,
accurate information about matters some weight. The same newspaper
also shows a picture of Huerta at some charity performance with his
wife and daughters and Naranjo, Minister of Public Instruction.
He looks (and doubtless felt) the personification of boredom. The
head-lines are, “Huerta enjoying social life while riots rage in
capital.”
_March 2d._
Your letter of the 5th, sent after the raising of the embargo, is
received. I can well understand your worrying about our remaining in
Mexico. We worried for a few minutes, but by now you will have received
my letter telling all about it. It will take something gigantic,
something outside of Huerta, to cause him to give Nelson his passports,
no matter how often fiery, enraged Cabinet Ministers may urge it.
Last night, on returning home, we found that Huerta had sent us six
more soldiers with a sergeant. It made me feel as if the house were
the setting for an act from some _opéra bouffe_. We gave the soldiers
packages of cigarettes and a drink apiece, and I suppose they rested on
the sofas or floors of the parterre. N. never leaves the house without
his secret-service man, a decent fellow, but dressed to the rôle in a
loud, tight, bright-blue suit with white stripes, and pistols--the last
articles outlined against his person every time he makes a motion. We
have a beautiful new motor--low, smooth-running, painted black, with a
smart dark-gray band about it. He occupies the seat beside Jesus, gets
out when N. gets out, and waits around ostentatiously while N. attends
to whatever he has on hand. He is an awful bore, and quite unnecessary,
but Huerta answered, when N. protested, “_Es mejor_” (“It is better
so”).
FOOTNOTE:
[10] This is the famous bell the priest Hidalgo rang from his church
in the village of Dolores, in the State of Guanajauto, in the early
morning of September 16th, 1810, sounding the appeal known as the
“Grito de Dolores” (cry from Dolores)--the first cry of Mexican
independence, to be continued through more than a century of blood and
disaster.
XVII
The torture of Terrazas--Mexico’s banking eccentricities--Departure
of the Lefaivres--Zapatista methods--Gustavo Madero’s death--First
experience of Latin-American revolutions--Huerta’s witty speech.
_March 4th. Afternoon._
Last night we received the news that Nelson’s father was indeed
approaching his mortal end. This morning, at seven o’clock, after a
sleepless night of “vanishings and finalities,” I went down-stairs
in answer to a telephone call from Mr. Jennings, of the Hearst
newspapers--who is always very nice about everything--to say that he
had passed away peacefully at half past six. You know the days of
death--how strained, how busy, how exhausting. The first thing I did
was to go to Father Reis, at San Lorenzo, the San Sylvester of Mexico,
and arrange for a requiem Mass on Saturday next, the 7th, to which we
will invite the Cabinet, the _Corps Diplomatique_, and friends. Now
I am at home again, in the mourning garments I wore for my precious
brother.
_March 4th. Evening._
The house seems very quiet to-night. No more looking for telegrams. He
is lying on his death-bed, looking very handsome, I know. The fatigue
of the busy, aching day is on me. Many people have been here to-day to
tender their sympathies. Hohler, the last, came in for tea after seeing
Nelson, and has just gone.
Now the pouch is closed and everybody and everything has departed.
Elim is lying on the floor in front of my little electric stove. The
chords so strongly moved by the passing of my beloved brother are
vibrating again, not alone because of death and parting, but because of
life and the imperfections of its relationships. Nelson has accepted
his father’s death, has pulled himself together, and is going on with
his work, of which there is more than sufficient.
How true it is that men follow their destinies rather than their
interests; a something innate and unalterable drives each one along.
_Genio y figura hasta la sepultura_--a Spanish saying to the effect
that mind, temperament, inclination, are unchanged by the circumstances
of life, even to the grave.
_March 5th._
As I was reading last night, waiting for dinner to be served,
a visitant, rather than a visitor, appeared in my drawing-room
_incognito_--a simple “Mr. Johnson,” eager, intrepid, dynamic,
efficient, unshaven!...
Young Terrazas, the son of the former great man of Chihuahua, of whom
I wrote you when first he was captured by Villa at the taking of
Chihuahua, several months ago, has not yet been released, and Villa
threatens to execute him to-morrow if the half-million of ransom money
is not forthcoming. The father has raised, half the sum, with the
greatest difficulty, but, fearing some trick (and he has every reason
for distrust), he won’t give the money till he receives his son. It
appears the son has been horribly treated, several times hung up until
he was nearly dead, then taken down and beaten. Young Hyde, of the
_Mexican Herald_, said yesterday, apropos of like matters, that he had
seen a man brought last night to Mexico City who had been tortured by
the rebels; the soles of his feet were sliced off, his ears and tongue
were gone, and there were other and nameless mutilations, but the
victim was still living. The only difference between the rebels and the
Federals is that the former have _carte blanche_ to torture, loot, and
kill, and the Federals _must_ behave, to a certain extent, whether they
want to or not. It is their existence that is at stake. Huerta, though
he may not be troubled with scruples or morals other than those that
expediency dictates, has his prestige before the world to uphold, and
is sagacious enough to realize its value. The rebels go to pieces as
soon as there is any question of government or order. Villa is without
doubt a wonderful bandit, if bandits are what the United States are
after. I see by the newspapers that Mr. Bryan is begging the Foreign
Relations Committee to keep the Mexican situation off the floor of
Congress....
One by one, the Mexicans to whom we have given asylum and safe-conducts
to Vera Cruz, upon receiving their word of honor not to intrigue
against the government, break that word and go over to the rebels. We
have just seen the name of Dr. Silva (formerly governor of Michoacan,
whom we had convoyed to Vera Cruz) as one of the somewhat tardy
commission appointed by Carranza to investigate the murder of Benton.
We are aghast at the resignation of Mr. John Bassett Moore as counselor
to the State Department. He is learned, perfectly understanding, and
very experienced in a practical way about Latin-American affairs.
Yesterday the Minister for Foreign Affairs came to present his
condolences to Nelson, and also to protest against the bringing up
to the Embassy of our Gatling-guns and ammunition, which are still
in the customs at Vera Cruz. There are seventy cases--and _not_
featherweights. He fell over the threshold, as he entered, and was
picked up by Nelson and the butler. (It was his first visit. I don’t
know if he is superstitious.) Huerta, as you may remember, in the
famous bedchamber conversation at Chapultepec, had told Nelson he could
get in all the guns he wanted, but to do it quietly. It is now all over
the country and is making a row among Mexicans. In these days of grief
and agitation, N. has happened to have an unusual amount of official
work.
I have been busy all day with the list for to-morrow’s requiem Mass,
and it is almost finished. My little Shorn Locks has gone up-stairs,
and I am resting myself by writing these lines to you.
_March 7th._
We are waiting to start for the church. You will know all the thoughts
and memories that fill my heart--that descent from fog-enveloped
hills into the cold, gray town to lay away my precious brother. Now
I am about to start through this shimmering, wondrous morning to the
black-hung church. In the end it is all the same.
_March 9th._
I have not written since Saturday morning, before starting to the
requiem Mass. I have been so busy seeing people and attending to
hundreds of cards, telegrams, and notes. Huerta did not appear at the
church, as people thought he might do. Instead, Portillo y Rojas, the
Minister for Foreign Affairs, sat by us. All was beautiful and sad.
Afterward we went into the sacristy to receive the condolences of
our friends, as is the custom here. Though _he_ had never trod the
threshold of our Mexican dwelling, it still seemed inexpressibly empty
as we returned to it. I was glad of the heaped-up desk and the living
decisions awaiting N.
Huerta was very nice on seeing him to-day, called him “_hijo_” (“son”),
gave him an affectionate _abrazo_, and all his sympathy. Subsequently,
Nelson had a long talk with him in a little private room of the Café
Colon, that Huerta approached from the back entrance. Huerta is broad
in his ideas and very careful as to any remarks about the United
States, in Nelson’s presence. He always speaks of President Wilson as
_Su Excelencia, el Señor Presidente Wilson_; there are no diatribes of
any kind. The thing that has really got on his nerves is our keeping
his 4,000 soldiers at Fort Bliss and expecting him to pay for them.
He says Mexico is not at war with the United States; that the rebels
are allowed to go and come as they please, and even to organize on the
frontier. Why this discrimination? He says that our government thinks
he is a bandit, like Villa, but that if Washington would be just it
would see that he keeps his mouth shut, does his work as well as he can
in the face of the terrible injustice done him, and asks nothing of any
one except to be let alone; that he could have had the power in Mexico
long before he took it. He repeated that many a person of influence had
urged him to put an end to the disastrous Madero administration; that
he is not in politics for personal ends; that his wants are few, his
habits those of an old soldier. He always insists that he did not kill
Madero....
As for that, one can talk for hours and hours with all sorts of people
without finding any direct evidence of any direct participation by
Huerta in the death of Madero. I have come to think it an inexcusable
and fatal negligence on his part, incidental to the excitement and
preoccupation of those tragic days. He was astute enough to have
realized that Madero dead would be even more embarrassing to him than
living, and should have insisted on asylum for him where alone it was
to be had. There is, however, at times a strange suspension of mental
processes in Mexico; with everything possible and yet nothing appearing
probable, nobody ever foresees any situation.
I had a long call yesterday from Rincon Gaillardo, Marqués de
Guadalupe, the smart, youngish general. Besides his military work,
he is doing something that all the members of the upper class should
co-operate in--_i. e._, helping to amalgamate the classes. His father,
Duca de Regla and “Grand d’Espagne,” was the first man in society here
to receive Diaz when he came to power. In fact, in his house Diaz met
Doña Carmen. He told me that Diaz wasn’t then, by any means, the kind
of man he is now, after thirty years of power and knowledge.
Last night, at midnight, Nelson, who had gone to sleep early, was
called down-stairs by urgent telephone messages, to hear that the Texas
Rangers had dashed over the border to Sabinas Hidalgo to recover the
body of the pseudo-American cattle-rustler, Vergara. Whether the report
is true is not known, but of course it is an act that would be resented
by all classes here, and every class really hates us.
Villa, not being able to get the full amount of the ransom out of
Terrazas _père_, has decided not to execute the son, but to take him
with him when he besieges Torreon, and to place him wherever the
bullets are thickest. The mad dance of death goes on, and I feel as if
we were the fiddlers. Mr. Lind has so idealized the rebels in the north
that he has come to think them capable of all the civic virtues, and he
is obsessed by the old tradition of north beating south whenever there
is an issue. His deduction is not borne out by facts, as in Mexico it
is the south that has produced the greatest number of great men--“the
governmental minds”; the south has come nearer to loving peace; the
south has shown the greatest degree of prosperity and advancement. Vera
Cruz is the poorest possible vantage-ground for a study of conditions;
it is a clearing-house for malcontents of all kinds, mostly rebels,
fleeing from the consequences of _some_ act against _some_ authority.
My heart is heavy at the grim fatality that has permitted our policy to
be shaped _from there_.
A dust-storm this afternoon, with all the color gone out of the air,
and a few thick drops of cold rain. I left cards for an hour or two,
then came home. I am glad to be here in my comfortable home, though
I can’t help a shiver as I think of the horrors sanctioned, even
encouraged, by us on every side. B. said once that the policy of the
United States in lifting the embargo was to really give Mexicans a
taste of civil war! There were some chirpings from Carranza the other
day, to the effect that “I understand Villa, and Villa understands me.”
Doubtless this is true; but they say that after their rare meetings the
old gentleman has to go to bed for several days.
I have just been reading an article by Mr. Creelman on Lind. He has
caught the spirit of Vera Cruz and described exactly Mr. Lind and his
_ambiente_ there. He speaks of him as “Mr. Wilson’s cloistered agent.”
“In a small, dark room with a red-tiled floor, opening on a shabby
Mexican courtyard,” he adds, “in the rear of the American Consulate in
Vera Cruz, sits John Lind, the personal representative of the President
of the United States, as he has sat for seven months, smilingly
watching and waiting, while Mexico and her 15,000,000 men, women, and
children have moved to ruin.” It makes me “creepy,” it is so true!
_March 10th, 5_ P.M.
I am back from saying good-by to dear Madame Lefaivre; she starts off
to-night with swollen foot and leg, and I am very much fearing the long
voyage for her. With her usual good nature she had had her paint-box
unpacked and was sitting on a trunk, putting some restoring touches
to a Madonna of most uncertain value, just discovered by the German
consul-general. The Lefaivres have a _pied-à-terre_ in Paris, with
beautiful things inherited from Madame Lefaivre’s father. Lefaivre
has decided to go, if the heavens fall, and, as we laughingly told
him, if his wife falls, too, for that matter. I besought him to delay,
for political reasons, but the long sojourn is on his nerves, and he
has a bad throat. I am sorry to see them go, on my own account--such
good friends. I am writing this, expecting Hohler and a woman special
correspondent for tea. Burnside tells me she has been in many
storm-centers and is bright and discreet.
_March 11th._
N. is pretty hot about the arms which are in the customs here in Mexico
City. The officials keep him running from one to the other; they don’t
really want us to have them, though the French, German, English,
and Japanese legations have long since been well stocked. I came
down-stairs to hunt for literature, about four o’clock this morning,
and heard the “Pretorian guard” in the parterre, laughing and joking,
as guards in all ages have done. There are unlimited cigarettes and
limited _pulque_ to make their watch easy.
_Later._
We hear that Mr. Lind is having parleyings with the Zapatistas! If
he is going to dream this dream and pass it on to his friends in
Washington, they will all have the most awful nightmare ever visited
on dreamers. Zapata has been the terror of every President--Diaz, de
la Barra, Madero, and Huerta--for nearly five years. His crimes and
depredations are committed under the banner of “Land for the People,”
and there has been a certain consistency about his proceedings, always
“agin the government”; but that he has, after these years of bloodshed,
rapine, and loot, rendered conditions more tolerable for any except
the rapers and looters, is most debatable. I once saw some _living_
remains brought to the Red Cross after one of his acts at Tres Marias,
about fifty kilometers from here. A train was attacked, looted, oil was
poured on the passengers, and the train was set on fire. The doctors
who went to the station to get the remains out of the train say the
sight was unforgetable. The name Zapata has now become a symbol of
brigandage, and many operate under it. No general sent into Morelos
has ever brought order. For instance, one was sent to Michoacan with
two thousand cavalry, to put down a small force of several hundred
brigands; though he had the grazing free, he charged the government 50
centavos per horse! It became a vicious, but profitable, circle, as you
can well see.
There has been a great break in exchange. The peso, which was two to
one when we first came to Mexico, and lately has been three to one, or
nearly that, broke Saturday, and went to four and a half to the gold
dollar. Various explanations. Huerta has been threatening to found a
bank of his own if the bankers did not do something for him. Some say
that the bankers brought on the break in exchange to scare him, and
others that Huerta proposed establishing a bank of his own to scare
them! Anyway, exchange broke. During his conversation with the bankers,
apropos of the loans they were loath to give him, Huerta is said to
have jocularly remarked that there were trees enough in Chapultepec
Park to hang them all on without crowding. Those old cypresses have
witnessed a good deal, but a consignment of indigenous and foreign
bankers hanging with the long, gray moss from their branches would have
savored of novelty.
A gusty day on this usually wind-still plateau. The pale yellow
streamers of the banana-tree are torn to tatters, but one must forgive
an occasional vagary in this climate, unsurpassed in its steady beauty,
and which has the further recommendation that one can count on wearing
one’s winter clothes in summer, and one’s summer clothes in winter....
Disorder here has been most prejudicial to French interests. Since
Maximilian’s time, especially, they have had the habit of investments
in Mexico. Now billions of francs are unproductive. It will be a fine
bill poor old Uncle Sam will get from _la belle_ France!
_7.30._
My callers are all gone, and Elim is playing bull-fight with a
red-velvet square from one of the tables, talking Spanish to himself
and making every gesture of his game true to life. I am thankful the
bull-fight season is over. No more doleful-faced servants of a Sunday,
heartbroken, like children, because they are not swelling the gay
throng passing the Embassy to the Ring, and making me feel like a
wretch because they aren’t _all_ there.
Nelson went down to try to look at his guns, presumably at the customs.
At least, he is as near as that, with ears full of promises.
A telegram from Aunt L. says she starts up from the Hot Country in a
day or two. I am having the lovely corner room next mine made ready for
her.
_March 14th._
We learn that the guns and ammunition supposed to be got in _quietly_,
as Embassy stores, bore on the invoice the name of the colonel in
charge at the Springfield arsenal. Hence these tears! They are now
reposing in a deserted church near the military station, outside the
city. There would have been no trouble had they been sent as Nelson
requested. Now endless runnings are necessary.
My house is overrun with children. They tell me it looks like an
orphanage, at the back. Such nice, little, bright-eyed Aztecs. In
this stricken land how can I deny shelter and food to little children
who are, so to speak, washed up at my door? The cook has three, the
washerwoman two, and the chambermaid is going to present us with
another. _La recherche de la paternité_ shows the responsible person to
have been our quiet, trusty messenger, Pablo. I will deduct ten pesos a
month from his wages for six months--a salutary _proclama_ to everybody
else of my sentiments. I will send her to the hospital, and she will
soon be back. The washerwoman has just borrowed ten dollars to change
her lodgings, as the _leva_ are after her husband. I sometimes feel
like one of the early friars. Nothing that is Indian is foreign to me.
Last night Dr. Ryan was telling us, after dinner (Patchin, who is
returning to New York, also was here), of the killing of Gustavo
Madero, of which he was an eye-witness and concerning whose death so
many versions are current. Shortly after one o’clock, on going back to
the Ciudadela, where Felix Diaz was quartered, to attend to wounded who
had been brought in, Ryan encountered Madero being brought out with
a guard of twelve men. Diaz didn’t want him there, saying he was not
his prisoner, but Huerta’s. Madero was gesticulating in a hysterical
manner and waving his arms in the air. As Ryan afterward learned, he
was offering the guards money if they would see him safely out of town.
His nerve seemed suddenly to leave him and he began to run, whereupon
one of the guards fired, hitting him in the eye as he turned his head
to look behind him. The other eye was glass. This gave rise afterward
to stories that his eyes had been gouged out. On his continuing to
run, the whole guard fired at him, and he fell, riddled with bullets.
Ryan afterward examined the body and found ten or twelve wounds. It
all took place in the little park before the Ciudadela. This is the
authentic account, and at least we know that Huerta was in no way
responsible for _his_ death. Doubtless had Gustavo kept his nerve,
instead of trying to run, he would be alive to-day. He was an awful
bounder, but had qualities of vitality, intellect, and a certain animal
magnetism. His is the famous remark that “out of a family of clever
men, the only fool was chosen for President.” He wasn’t more than
thirty-five or thirty-six, and _loved_ life. He had a power of quick
repartee, a glancing eye, and hands seeking treasure. Well, that is all
over, but it remains part of the unalterable history of Mexico. Poor,
revolution-ridden Mexico! Everybody here has been one kind, generally
two kinds, of revolutionist. Huerta served under Diaz, was gotten
rid of, and served under Madero, whom he got rid of. Orozco was the
friend of Madero against Diaz, then against Madero under Huerta, and
so it goes. The history of almost every public man shows like changes
of banner, and as for revolution _fomenters_, the United States have
certainly played a consistent and persistent rôle for three years,
outdone by no individual or faction _here_.