Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
BOOKS BY
EDITH O'SHAUGHNESSY
A DIPLOMAT'S WIFE IN MEXICO. Illustrated.
DIPLOMATIC DAYS. Illustrated.
HARPER & BROTHERS. NEW YORK
[ESTABLISHED 1817]
[Illustration: HILLSIDE HOUSES AND CHURCH TOWERS IN THE ZAPATISTA
COUNTRY
Photograph by Ravell]
DIPLOMATIC DAYS
BY
EDITH O'SHAUGHNESSY
[MRS. NELSON O'SHAUGHNESSY]
AUTHOR OF
_A Diplomat's Wife in Mexico_
ILLUSTRATED
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
Copyright, 1917, by Harper & Brothers
Printed in the United States of America
Published November, 1917
CONTENTS
FOREWORD xi
I
First impressions of the tropics--Exotic neighbors on Page 1
shipboard--Havana--Picturesque Mayan stevedores--Vera
Cruz--The journey up to Mexico City
II
First visit to the Embassy--Adjusting oneself to a height of Page 16
eight thousand feet in the tropics--Calle Humboldt--Mexican
servants--Diplomatic dinners--Progress of Maderista forces
III
Mexico in full revolution--Diaz's resignation wrung from Page 32
him--Memories of the "King in Exile"--President de la Barra
sworn in--Social happenings--Plan de San Luis Potosí
IV
First reception at Chapultepec Castle--First bull-fight--A Page 47
typical Mexican earthquake--Madero's triumphal march through
Mexico City--Three days of adoration
V
Dinner at the Japanese Legation--The real history of the Page 61
Japanese in Mexico--Dinner at the Embassy--Coronation
services for England's king--The rainy season sets in
VI
Speculations as to the wealth of "the Greatest Page 69
Mexican"--Fourth of July--Madero as evangelist--The German
minister's first official dinner with the Maderos as the
_clou_
VII
The old monastery of Tepozotlan--Lively times on the Page 84
Isthmus--The Covadonga murders--The Chapultepec
reception--Sidelights on Mexican housekeeping--Monte de
Piedad
VIII
Elim's fourth birthday party--Haggling over the prices of Page 93
old Mexican frames--Zapata looms up--First glimpse of
General Huerta--Romantic mining history of Mexico
IX
The Vírgen de los Remedios--General Bernardo Reyes--A Page 107
description of the famous ceremony of the "Grito de Dolores"
at the palace
X
The uncertainty of Spanish adverbs--Planchette and the Page 120
destiny of the state--Madame Bonilla's watery
garden-party--De la Barra's "moderation committee"--Madero's
"reform platform"
XI
Election of Madero--The strange similarity between a Mexican Page 127
election and a Mexican revolution--The penetrating cold in
Mexican houses--Madame de la Barra's reception--The
_Volador_
XII
Dia de Muertos--Indian booths--President de la Barra Page 141
relinquishes his high office--Dinner at the Foreign
Office--Historic Mexican streets--Madero takes the oath
XIII
Uprising in Juchitan--Madero receives his first Page 153
delegation--The American arrest of Reyes--Chapultepec
Park--Sidelights on Juchitan troubles--Zapata's Plan de
Ayala
XIV
The feast of Guadalupe--Peace reigns on the Page 164
Isthmus--Earthquakes--Madero in a dream--The French colony
ball--Studies in Mexican democracy--Christmas preparations
XV
The first Christmas in Mexico City--Hearts sad and Page 179
gay--Piñatas--Statue to Christopher Columbus
XVI
Off for Tehuantepec--A journey through the jungles--The Page 184
blazing tropics--Through Chivela Pass in the lemon-colored
dawn--Ravages of the revolution--A race of queens
XVII
Gathering clouds--"Tajada" the common disease of Page 198
republics--Reception at Chapultepec--Madero in optimistic
mood--His views of Mexico's liabilities to America
XVIII
Washington warns Madero--Mobilization orders--A visit to the Page 206
Escuela Preparatoria--A race of old and young--The watchword
of the early fathers
XIX
A tragic dance in the moonlight--Unveiling George Page 217
Washington's statue--The _Corps Diplomatique_ visits the
Pyramids of San Juan Teotihuacan--Orozco in full revolt
XX
Madero shows indications of nervous tension--Why one guest Page 226
of Mexico's President did not sit down--A novena with Madame
Madero--Picture-writing on maguey--Picnic at El
Desierto--San Fernando
XXI
Mexico's three civilizing, constructive processes--A typical Page 245
Mexican family group--Holy Week--"La Catedral" on a "canvas"
of white flowers--Reply of the Mexican government
XXII
The home of President Madero's parents--Señor de la Barra Page 254
returns from Europe--Zapatistas move on Cuernavaca--Strange
disappearances in Mexico--Oil--The President and the
railways
XXIII
The "Apostle" begins to feel the need of armed forces--A Page 269
statesman "who is always revealing something to
somebody"--Nursing the wounded at Red Cross headquarters
XXIV
One Indian's view of voting--Celebrating the King's birthday Page 279
at the British Legation--A single occasion when Mexican
"pillars of society" appear--Reception at Don Pedro
Lascurain's
XXV
Orozco and his troops flee toward the American border--A Page 295
typical conversation with President Madero--Huerta's
brilliant campaign in the north--The French fêtes--San
Joaquin
XXVI
Balls at the German Legation and at Madame Page 310
Simon's--Necaxa--A strange, gorge-like world of heat and
light--Mexican time-tables--The French trail
XXVII
A luncheon for Gustavo Madero--Celebrating the _Grito_ at Page 316
the Palace--The President's brother explains his
philosophy--Hacienda of San Cristobal--A typical Mexican
Sunday dinner
XXVIII
Good-by to Mexico, and a special farewell to Madame Page 333
Madero--Vera Cruz--Mexico in perspective
ILLUSTRATIONS
HILLSIDE HOUSES AND CHURCH TOWERS IN THE Frontispiece
ZAPATISTA COUNTRY
THE REVOLUTIONARY CAMP, MAY 5, 1911 Facing p. 10
(In front, Francisco I. Madero, behind him, José
Marcia Suarez. Next him, Gustavo Madero. At
left front, Abram Gonsalez. All are dead)
FRANCISCO I. MADERO " 24
(From a photograph taken in 1911)
MADERO AND OROZCO IN 1911--MADERO AT THE " 34
LEFT
MEXICAN WOMEN SELLING TORTILLAS " 42
NELSON O'SHAUGHNESSY " 46
(Secretary of the American Embassy, 1911-1912)
PAUL LEFAIVRE " 46
(French Minister to Mexico, 1911)
FRANCISCO LEON DE LA BARRA " 46
(President _ad interim_ of the Mexican
Republic between Diaz and Madero)
A ROAD-SIDE SHRINE " 56
VON HINTZE, GERMAN MINISTER TO MEXICO (1911 " 74
to 1914)
MEXICAN WOMEN WATER-CARRIERS " 88
A TYPICAL GROUP OF CORN-SELLERS " 108
ELIM O'SHAUGHNESSY, MEXICO, JUNE, 1911 " 134
MADAME LEFAIVRE, WIFE OF THE FRENCH MINISTER " 134
TO MEXICO, 1911
XOCHIMILCO " 154
BOATS ON THE VIGA CANAL " 200
AT EL DESIERTO, APRIL 29, 1912
(Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and Elim in the foreground) " 234
LUNCHEON AT THE VILLA DES ROSES " 234
(In front row, left to right, Mr. de " 234
Vilaine, Mlle. de Tréville, Ambassador
Wilson, Madame Lefaivre, Mr. J. B. Potter,
Mr. Rieloff (German Consul-general), Mrs.
Nelson O'Shaughnessy, Von Hintze, Mr.
Kilvert, Mr. Seger)
A BEAUTIFUL OLD MEXICAN CHURCH " 262
MEXICAN NUNS GOING TO MASS " 304
FOREWORD
The letters which form this volume were written in a period of
delightful leisure, when I was receiving my first impressions of
Mexico. The might and beauty of the great Spanish civilization, set in
a frame of exceeding natural loveliness, kindled new enthusiasms, and
to it all was added the spectacle of that most passionately personal of
human games, Mexican politics.
Though I was standing on its threshold, I had little prescience of the
national tragedy which later I was to enter into completely, beyond
the feeling of mysterious possibilities of calamity in that rich,
beautiful, and coveted land.
I saw as in a glass darkly dim forms whose outlines I could not
distinguish, and I heard as from a distance the confused cries of a
people about to undergo a supreme national crisis, where the greatest
delicacy and reserve were necessary on the part of the neighboring
nations.
Since then all has happened to Mexico that can happen to a land and
permit of its still existing. Even as individuals bear, they know not
how, the unbearable, so has Mexico endured.
It is not easy for those who witnessed her great years of prosperity
and peace to be reconciled to the years of chaos which have followed,
unable as they are to distinguish any good that has resulted to
compensate for the misery undergone.
All theories have been crushed to atoms by the tragic avalanche of
facts, and above it the voice of the prophet has been heard, "Let that
which is to die, die; that which is to be lost, lose itself; and of
them that remain, let them devour one another"--until the time comes
for new things.
_EDITH COUES O'SHAUGHNESSY._
PARIS, September, 1917.
DIPLOMATIC DAYS
I
First impressions of the tropics--Exotic neighbors on
shipboard--Havana--Picturesque Mayan stevedores--Vera
Cruz--The journey up to Mexico City
Off the Florida Keys,
On board the _Monterey, May 1, 1911_.
Precious mother: From the moment of arrival at the docks I began to
have a suspicion of the tropics, which, however, with everything else,
was in abeyance as we rounded Cape Hatteras. During that period an
unhappy lot of passengers spent the hours more or less recumbent.
We left New York on a day beautiful and sunny overhead, but uncertain
and white-capped underneath, and I don't want to repeat Cape Hatteras
in any near future. However, sea evils are quickly forgotten, and I am
"taking notice" again.
When we got down to the docks strange equatorial-looking boxes were
being unloaded, and there were unfamiliar odors proceeding from crates
of fruits, with spiky green things poking out, and something aromatic
and suggestive about them. Unfamiliar people more highly colored and
less clear-cut than I am accustomed to were gesticulating and running
about and talking in Spanish, with quantities of strange-looking
luggage, countless children, and a great deal of very light-yellow
shoe.
It was twelve o'clock as we left. N. had our steamer chairs arranged,
and we went down to lunch to the sound of the loudest gong that
ever invited me to refresh. The _comedor_ (dining-room) had its menu
printed in English and Spanish, and, of course, I lapped up the Spanish
names with my lunch, which gave a charm and a relish to the otherwise
uninteresting food. Table decorations in the shape of paper palms
were rather disillusioning. The merest scrap of any growing exotic
thing would have satisfied me, though N. said I was probably expecting
to find the _comedor_ smothered in jasmine and mimosa, with orchids
clinging to the walls. Well, perhaps I was. You know I am romantic.
I am now ensconced on deck. Low, yellow stretches in the distances are
the "Keys," and I am beginning to feel a slow firing of the imagination
as we slip into these soft, bright waters--into the Caribbean. Our old
Lamartine quotation comes to mind, "_Ainsi toujours poussés vers de
nouveaux rivages_," etc.
A Mérida family occupies the state-room nearest mine--five children,
mother, father, and a beetling-browed Indian maid. I stumble over
details of their luggage every time I go out of my cabin--a pea-green
valise, a chair for one of the younger children, a large rocking-horse,
a great, round, black-and-white cardboard box from some hat-shop in
Fourteenth Street--they don't seem to mind what they carry.
Their parrot I had removed early in the game; none of them ever went
near it to give it food or water, though they had gone to the immense
bother of traveling with it. It was evidently pleased to be going back
to where it had come from, and its liveliest times were between 4 and
6 A.M. and 2 and 4 P.M.
They have an awful little boy they shriek at, called Jenofonte (in
toying with my dictionary I see it is Zenophon in English). He "hunts"
with a quiet, bright-eyed little sister called Jesusita, whom I have
several times found in my state-room investigating things. It seemed
at first like having them all in with me. The state-rooms have only
the thinnest partitions, with about a foot of nothing at the top for
ventilation.
The steward tells me they get off at Progreso. "Papacito" is a wealthy
henequen planter. "Mamacita" boarded the ship wearing huge diamond
ear-rings and molded into the tightest checked tailor-suit you ever
saw. This morning she is perfectly comfortable in a lace-trimmed, faded
lavender wrapper--doubtless inspired by the warm air. I can see her in
sack and petticoat on the plantation.
The boat is full of children, and how they squabble! The various
parents come up and talk in loud, harsh voices, and gesticulate and
scream what seem maledictions on one another, and one thinks there
is going to be a terrible row, when suddenly everybody walks off with
everybody else as pleasant as you please, and it is all over till the
next time.
More or less sophisticated literature was sent me for the voyage by
various well-wishers. To-day I have been reading _Les Dieux ont Soif_,
but with a feeling that this is not a setting for Anatole France, and
that I would do better to wait in spite of all the cleverness. He can't
compete with this sea-preface to the Mexican book I am to read.
I have an exotic neighbor in the chair next mine who attracted me
the first day out by her steamer rugs, which seemed to be white lace
bedspreads with wadded linings, now not as fresh as they were before
we all disappeared during the rounding of Cape Hatteras. I have only
been wont to travel in directions where steamer rugs _are_ steamer
rugs. I was further interested by the pillows embroidered with large
pink-and-blue swallows and the word in Italian, _Tornero_, reminding
me of the things one used to buy at Sorrento or Naples or in the Via
Sistina.
A large, fierce-mustached, chinless man sits by her--husband, manager,
protector, or devourer, I know not. She is an Argentine dancer going to
do a "turn" in Havana, a good soul with a naturally honest look out of
her sloe-black eyes and the most lovely lines from waist to feet; for
the rest getting top-heavy. I imagine she is "letting herself go," as
large boxes of chocolates and candied fruits are always by her side,
which she presses on Elim every time he appears. He is sitting by me
and says to tell you that he has you _zucker-lieb_.
He runs the deck from morning till night, and I think his little
alabaster legs are taking on a brownish tinge. It is getting very warm,
but there is always one side of the boat where a breeze is to be had.
He has been divested of most of his clothing, and is wearing a little
pale-blue linen suit, short above his sweet, white knees. He looks like
the fairest lily among all these dark blossoms.
_Later._
Between six and seven o'clock the sea was a marvelous mauve and blue;
myriads of little white-winged flying-fish were springing out of the
water; over us was a green-and-orange sky in which a pale crescent moon
was shining. Tell Elliott these wondrous seas seem to belong to him. My
thoughts enfolded him tenderly as a soft darkness fell.
Early to-morrow morning, about 6.30, we get into Havana. The Jacksons
cabled us before we left New York to lunch with them at the Legation.
The _Monterey_ has been taking strange, unrelated assortments of
passengers to Mexico for decades, and her only resemblance to the big
ocean liners is that she floats. The cabins have hard, narrow berths
with a still harder shelf of a sofa, and when I add that a bit of
cloth was tied round the stopper of my basin to prevent the water from
running out, you will quite understand. I used half of my bottle of
listerine on the stopper, and then removed the cloth, with the result
that I have to be quick about my ablutions. But when one is running
into a blue-and-mauve sea with a rainbow-colored sky above, it does
not matter; one is bathed in a gorgeous iridescence. The captain tells
me that on the last trip they ran into a hurricane, with the water
suddenly slopping and washing about in the famous _comedor_, everybody
wet and trying to stand on chairs and tables, screaming and saying
prayers.
_May 3d._
Between Havana and Progreso.
Yesterday we had a pleasant day with the Jacksons. You know they are
always handsomely established, and we found them in a very beautiful
old Spanish house opposite an old church with a pink belfry, and a tall
palm pressed against it--the sort of silhouette I had dreamed of and
hoped for. My eyes received it gratefully as we drove up to the door.
Once in the house, dim, cool, large spaces enveloped us, and Mrs.
Jackson, very dainty in the freshest and filmiest of white dresses,
received us. We had not met since the old Berlin days. Mr. Jackson,
also in immaculate white, was coming down the broad stone stairway from
the chancery as we got there.
They showed us the interesting house, a type fast disappearing, alas!
Mostly they are being turned into cigarette-factories or being torn
down to make room for entirely unsuitable buildings, such as are in
vogue in the temperate zone. Large suites of rooms are built between a
wide outer veranda and a large inner corridor giving on a courtyard.
During the season of rains, it appears, the water rushes down the
broad stairway, and the furniture in the huge, window-paneless rooms is
piled up in the middle. Nobody keeps books or engravings in Havana, on
account of the dampness. There is not a first edition on the island.
Even shoes and slippers left in the closets get a green mold in no
time. Mr. Jackson says they have a lot of work at the Legation, and
everything in Havana costs the eyes of the head.
An hour or so after lunch, with its "Auld Lang Syne" flavor spiced
with our hot, tropical inquiries, we took a drive along the deserted
Malecón, the entire population evidently at the business of the siesta.
But Havana should always be seen, indescribably beautiful, from a ship
entering the port in the pearly morn, as I saw it.
About four o'clock, when we were driving to the landing, the town
began to wake up. There was much coming and going of a many-colored
population, with the dark note dominating, and much whistling and
humming, and many knowing-looking, pretty, flashing-eyed, very young
girls were walking about. We had been refreshed with one of the
national beverages--shredded pineapple in powdered ice--most delicious,
before leaving the Legation. It helped us over the blaze of water to
the _Monterey_.
After getting back I walked about the deck, watching the beautiful
little harbor filled with all sorts and conditions of ships, hailing
from the four winds of the earth. The _Kronprinzessin Cecilie_, with
the new German minister to Mexico aboard, was just going out of the
harbor, and I was shown where they were busy dredging for the _Maine_.
A part of her historic form was to be seen and "gave to think."
About six o'clock fiery clouds began to pile themselves up in the
heavens with a lavishness I am unaccustomed to. One could not tell
where the sun was actually setting. The whole horizon was red and
pink and saffron and vermilion, and the rose-tinted Cabaña fortress
and Morro Castle cut sharply into it. The waters of the harbor slowly
became a magnificent purple, and as the ships began to hang their
masthead lights, and the throb of coming night was over everything,
we steamed out. For long after we could see the jeweled lights of the
lovely isle. So far, so good.
We have a day at Progreso, and we are planning to go ashore to
visit Mérida, the famous old capital of Yucatan, and evidently most
interesting. The accounts in Terry's Guide are quite alluring. It was
founded on the remains of the ancient Mayan city, and has a celebrated
cathedral built by one of the men who came over with Cortés, and still
filled with good old things. The description of Montejo's house, with
its door flanked on each side by the stone figure of a Spanish knight
with his feet on the head of a Mayan Indian, shows what that conqueror
thought of the situation.
Captain Smith, very rotund and quite blasé about the thrills of
passengers, who has not been ashore at Mérida for three decades, though
he passes by many times a year, recommended us to stay on the boat,
saying Mérida was always "hotter than Tophet," too hot to see anything.
"I know," he added. "I have seen 'them' go and seen 'them' return."
Some spectacled German travelers quite enlivened the deck to-day. When
they first hove in sight I thought they were professors or scientific
men of some sort, each having a large, flat valise under his arm. The
valises, according to the modest yet piercing glance I cast, proved,
however, to be filled with underpinnings for the female form divine,
that they are going to introduce into Yucatan--coarse embroidery
and lace-trimmed articles, with machine-stitching you could see the
length of the deck, and both men simply dripped with samples. Dots,
stripes, and checks, with the prices attached, seemed to be their whole
existence.
Awhile ago, however, the largest and most florid one leaned against
the railing under the warm starry sky, as we steamed through a
phosphorescent sea, and sang Walther's "Preislied" in a beautiful tenor
voice, with the purest, smoothest phrasing. The other, regretting
at intervals that he had not brought his _geige_ with him, hummed a
delightful second part to _Wie ist es möglich dann dass ich dich lassen
kann_. It was all as natural as breathing, and as close.
_May 4th._
Between Progreso and Vera Cruz.
The voyage is drawing to an end. A peace which doesn't pass
understanding has fallen on my part of the ship as the Mérida family
and their rainbow luggage were taken off to the sound of the shrieks of
the parrot, the screams of the family, and endless running back to get
things.
We did not go ashore, after all, as we had planned. From the direction
of Mérida came a strange heat enveloping like a garment, a heat unknown
to me, and a dazzling glaze of light, which seemed to bore holes
through the eyes. Later on at sunset, red as blood, there was a spongy
crimson ambiency about each figure on deck.
All day we watched the spotlessly clean Mayan stevedores unloading the
cargo on to the lighters. It was an effect of brown skin and white or
pale-pink or green garments, which I suppose had been some coarser
color to begin with. They are Mayan Indians with a big civilization
behind them. I remembered dimly those beautiful illustrated reports--I
think from the Smithsonian--that I used to look at in the Washington
house curled up in an arm-chair. It affected me to see these remnants
of a past race arrive for the unloading of our steamer so clean, so
fresh-smelling. All day long they have been crying "_Abajo!_" and
"_Arriba!_" as the heavy load swung down or the iron claws swung
up. The little boats and lighters of all kinds have pious names--_La
Concepción Inmaculada_, _Asunción_ (the grimiest and smallest of all
was _La Transfiguración_)--instead of the _Katies_ and _Susies_ and
_Dolphins_ of another clime.
_Later._
We were thankful we had not ventured into the Mérida furnace. Some
stout Germans who left in the morning active, rosy, fat, and inquiring,
came back languid, lead-colored, flabby, and silent. What happened to
the two who debarked to introduce coarse undergarments and fine singing
into Yucatan I shall never know.
I thought of Elliott, when the darkish women in pink dresses, with a
blue veil or two and jewelry and many children, got on the boat to go
from Progreso to Vera Cruz. It must have been the sort he used to see
in Haiti. I have just written Aunt Laura, to post at Vera Cruz, that
she may know we are _en route_ to the land of the cactus. Events have
succeeded one another so quickly these past few months that I am dazed.
Only the thread of love and sorrow and high adventure that holds life
together keeps me steady.
Yesterday Elim said, in the same tone he would have used feeding the
swans and the deer in any one of the accustomed international parks,
"Now I am going to feed the sharks." He was hoping they would show some
interest in the bits of bread he threw at them. These wondrous blue
waters are simply infested with the ravening creatures, and any one who
fell overboard would not need to fear drowning. Since we left Havana it
has been all color, no contours, no masses, even, except the gorgeous
sunset clouds, and they have presented themselves with unimaginable
pomp and circumstance. I have never seen such a waste of color.
The German son-in-law of Senator Newlands, whom you saw in Berlin, is
on board, also a count and countess--I _think_ the same ones that mixed
the tomato catsup in the bath-tub of the Washington house that the
clergy provided for them when they came from Rome seeking fortune. An
unidentified youth, _terzo incommodo_ or _commodo_, for all I know, is
with them; the returning families and German commercial travelers make
up the rest.
To-day, though the sea is smooth to the eye, there is a long, slow
ground-swell, and this blanket of heat further relieves one of all
strenuosity. I begin to understand lots of things. Campeche Bay is a
far cry from the Ritz-Carlton--but what would life be without its far
cries?
_Friday 5th._
Nearing Vera Cruz.
Very hot, though early this morning there was a drenching rain, a
deluge. The heavens simply opened, and everything, for an hour, was
running with a great sound of water. Now the sun is out, a strange,
pricking, nerve-disturbing sun.
[Illustration: THE REVOLUTIONARY CAMP, MAY 5, 1911
(In front, Francisco I. Madero; behind him, José Marcia Suarez; next
him, Gustavo Madero. In khaki at left front, Abram Gonsalez. All are
dead)]
I have a deep thrill of excitement when I think of the Mexico in
revolution that we are nearing, steaming so quickly to the center
of it all. The victories, the defeats, the glories, the abasements,
vanishings, and destructions we may witness, all that troubled magnetic
unknown awaiting us! In looking over the newspaper in Mrs. Jackson's
cool, dim, vast boudoir we saw that the Madero revolution is taking on
great proportions. Old things and new wrestling for supremacy, "and the
heavens above them all."
The ---- are going on to Mexico City to "_chercher fortune_." He is the
brother of the tomato catsup bathtub episode, as I gathered, when he
spoke of a brother having been in Washington. He quite frankly tells
people that he himself has had bad luck, as on the way to Mexico he
had stopped at Monte Carlo, and of the hundred thousand francs raised
to begin life again in the tropics he had lost eighty thousand at the
tables. Very sad!
We land at Vera Cruz about noon, according to Captain Smith, and can
take a night train (thirteen hours) up to Mexico City. I had some
thought of persuading N. to wait over, that we might make the famous
journey by daylight. But the train leaves at 6 A.M., which would
mean a night in Vera Cruz, and what I hear about the hotels is not
confidence-inspiring. I have a feeling of being completely at the mercy
of the unknown and the only partially controllable--unknown microbes,
unknown humanities, unknown everything; and there is the blue-eyed boy,
so we will probably let the scenery enjoy itself.
_Later, 3 p.m._
Sitting on deck in Vera Cruz harbor.
To-day is a great national holiday, the 5th of May (when the French
were defeated at Puebla), and things are not moving quickly, at any
rate not in our direction. The health officials have not materialized.
Somebody said it was a bad time to arrive, anyway, as they would be
taking their afternoon naps.
The only other visitor from foreign parts in the harbor is the
_Kronprinzessin Cecilie_ lying against the white glaze of shore. An
old Spanish fortress, San Juan Ulua, is near us--now used as a prison
and most dreadful, I am told. But I keep thinking how, through the
centuries, the vast, shining wealth of Mexico poured into Europe from
this port.
_Later._
The polite, vestless but _not_ coatless health officials have found
us "clean," and we are now waiting for the next set--I think it is the
port authorities--to finish _their_ naps.
On the docks so near, but apparently so far, is lying or sitting
a dark-faced, peaked-hatted, white-trousered race with one tall,
white-skinned, white-clad figure standing out--our consul, evidently
come to meet us. Captain Smith told me that in the old days navigators
got into Vera Cruz by the picturesque means of steering so that
the tower of the Church of San Francisco covered the tower of the
cathedral.
I was standing by him (it was his ninety-ninth entrance into Vera Cruz
harbor) just as we passed the lone palms on the flat, sandy island, and
he heaved a sigh of relief. In addition to the sandy islands and the
lonely palms were blackened ribs of various ships that did not get into
port. These things and the blur of heat confusing the outlines of the
city into a mass of white, pink, and green, with a hint of a lustrous
mountain form on a far horizon, are what I see as we sit here ready to
step ashore into the unknown.
Mexico City, _May 6th, noon_.
Hôtel de Genève, a stone's-throw from the Embassy.
We got in early, at 7.30, and I did not feel, driving through the broad
streets with their wash of Indian color, as one often does entering
strange cities in the early morning: "Why, oh, why have I come? What am
I doing here?"
There seemed abundant justification, if one could only get at it;
some personal pointing of the finger of a generally impersonal fate.
It's all very strange to both the psychical and physical being. N.
went early to present himself to the ambassador. We had purposely not
telegraphed our arrival. Elim is out with Gabrielle, and I am rather
limp and listless after the sleepless night, which was an unforgetable
rising up, up, up, with a ringing in the ears, through an exotic,
potential sort of darkness.
My last word was from the boat, posted at the consulate. Mr. Canada,
our calm, sensible, silver-haired, blue-eyed consul, welcomed us at
Vera Cruz, piloted us quickly through the furnace of the customs,
across an equally hot interval of sand and cobblestone to the dim,
cool consulate, where a strong, unexpected breeze was blowing in at the
sea-windows.
Then ensued a great telegraphing to and fro to know if the line, the
only one rumored to be intact to Mexico City, were really open and
safe. Other encouraging rumors, such as the cutting of the water and
light supplies of Mexico City by the revolutionaries, were rife. But,
not fancying a marooning in Vera Cruz, we decided "If it were done,
'twere well 'twere done quickly."
Half an hour before the train started, with babe, baggage, and maid
safely on board, we took a little turn about the streets. A blessed
blue darkness was falling, all that glaze of heat was gone, and the
note of color proved to be little low, pink houses with a great deal
of green shutter and balcony. We went as far as the Plaza, drawn by
the sound of some really snappy music. Indians, mantilla-covered,
white-clad women, little children in various stages of undress, and
a foreigner or two smoking, were sitting or walking about in the
palm-planted square, and under some arcades people were eating and
drinking. The domed and belfried cathedral was only a dark mass against
the sky, but all the same I deeply knew that it was the tropics, the
Spanish tropics. Thus has many a one debarked in a tropical port,
and there is nothing at all extraordinary about it, except one's own
feeling.
As the train moved out of the station every man had his revolver or
his rifle ready at hand, and there was a great wiping and clicking
and loading going on. The colored porter and a young man reading the
_Literary Digest_ gave, however, home notes of security.
It wasn't one of those nights when you "lie down to pleasant dreams."
As I put my head out of the window at one of the dark stops the scent
of some sickeningly sweet unknown flower fell like a veil over my
face. There was a hollow sound of the testing of the wheels. Torches
and lanterns cut the darkness, so that I got suggestions of unfamiliar
silhouettes, as a peaked hat or a flap of a cape or a bayonet caught
the light. Soldiers were guarding the bridges and trestle-works, which
seemed endless.
As the first dim light began to come in at my window I drew up
the curtain and looked out on a scene so beautiful, so unexpected,
that I could have wept. The two great volcanoes, Popocatepetl and
Ixtaccihuatl, were high, rose-colored, serene, ineffably beautiful
against the sky, still a pale tint of _bleu de nuit_. I felt all the
alarms and uncertainties of the darkness slip away. Elim was rolled
up like a little ball at the foot of the berth, nothing of his head
showing but a shock of yellow hair. We were safely on the heights.
Dim, bluish fields of the unfamiliar maguey were planted in regular
rows. Even as I looked out they began to take on a rich, brownish-pink
tone, the little Indian huts along the way became rose-colored,
everything began to glow. The two peaks, which had had no place in my
consciousness since I wrestled with their names at school, were masses
of flame-color against a sky of palest, whitest blue. At the little
stations an occasional red-blanketed, peaked-hatted Indian appeared. It
was the Mexico of dreams.
II
First visit to the Embassy--Adjusting oneself to a height of
eight thousand feet in the tropics--Calle Humboldt--Mexican
servants--Diplomatic dinners--Progress of Maderista forces.
_May 7, 1911._
Yesterday proved very full, though I had thought to engage it, as far
as the outer world was concerned, by a single visit to the Embassy. N.
came home to lunch with the announcement that it was Mrs. Wilson's day,
so I went back with him, thinking to greet her for a moment only, but
she insisted on my returning for the afternoon reception, and was most
cordial and welcoming.
I came home, tried to rest, and didn't, and, finally pulling my outer
self together with the help of the big, black Alphonsine hat, sallied
forth at five o'clock to see the general lay of the Mexican land. I
found various autos drawn up before the Embassy door, and Mrs. Wilson,
very gracious and attractive-looking in a heliotrope dress, was
receiving many callers in her handsome, flower-filled drawing-room.
Various diplomatic people were presented, but mostly, as it happened,
from or about the equator.
I met, however, a charming young Mexican--Del Campo, I think his
name is--from the Foreign Office. His English was so choice and
delightful that I asked how it came about. He explained that he had
an Irish mother and had been _en poste_ in London. Toward the end the
ambassador came in, very cordial, and asking why in the world we hadn't
telegraphed that we were coming up on the night train, so that we might
be properly met; but I told him one _couldn't_ be "properly met" at 7
A.M.
An agreeable, clever man, Stephen Bonsal, who has been correspondent at
various crises for various newspapers in various parts of the world,
came in late. He is down here to watch the progress of the revolution
from the very good perspective afforded by Mexico City. After every one
but Mr. Bonsal had gone there was an interesting conversation about the
potentialities of the Mexican situation.
The ambassador is a great admirer of Diaz, and fears the unknown
awaiting us.
In the evening we dined with the first secretary, Mr. Dearing, a
delightful man of good judgment, with dark, clever eyes, who says he
has in view just the house for us. I am glad to find him here.
It's all rather a blur of fatigue, however, and this morning not much
better. I am conscious all the time of an effort to adjust the body
to an unaccustomed air-pressure, a different ambiency. After all, it
is nearly eight thousand feet in the tropics. This hotel "leaves to be
desired" from every point of view, and we must make other arrangements
at the earliest opportunity.
_Later._
Various reporters have been here wanting details of our "previous
condition of servitude," and bothering us for our photographs, which we
have not got.
Mr. Weitzel, special secretary, sent from Washington to "help out"
pending N.'s arrival, has been to lunch, and I am going out to drive
with Mrs. Wilson in a few minutes.
Was it not tragic--one of those tricky, inexplicable, unnatural
arrangements of fate--that Aunt Laura, up from Tehuantepec on business,
should have been leaving one station as we got in at the other? It
would have seemed to the human understanding the preordained moment
to span the decades between this day and that long-ago parting in my
childhood.
_Later._
Just home from a delightful drive about Chapultepec Park with Mrs.
Wilson. It is entered through a broad, eucalyptus-planted avenue with
fine monuments and vistas, leading into the beautiful, poetic grounds,
with the far-famed castle of Chapultepec standing on a hill in the
midst, about which grow countless varieties of exotic tree and flower.
As we drove about she told me of the wonderful fiesta there at the time
of the Centenary, when the park was hung with thousands of electric
lights, of the dignity and state of Don Porfirio, and of Doña Carmen's
wonderful white Paris gown and her strings of pearls and diamonds, and
flashing through it all her gracious smile as she received the great of
the earth, gathered from the four winds.
But there seemed something of a fairy tale about it all, with a
revolutionary army in the north headed straight for us, brought
together by an unknown dreamer of the dream of equality, a sort of
prophet and apostle.
_May 8th._
I have already sent off two letters, but this goes _via_ the pouch to
Washington. I am not formulating anything about Mexico. I feel myself
simply a receptacle for impressions not yet crystallized.
I am now going to look at the house Dearing spoke of. This hotel,
though quite new, is already rickety and proves itself more primitive
at each turn. The doors in every room are placed just where you don't
expect them; either you can't shut them or they won't open. The hot
water runs cold, and the cold hot. We are up a huge number of stairs,
the first step placed at right angles as you go out of the door; and
I seem to be living in a world of luggage. The pleasant rooms can only
be got at through the undesirable ones. The food to me is interesting
with its American veneer over unclassified substances, but would never
do for Elim.
This afternoon I made official calls with Mrs. Wilson--just a leaving
of cards, and in the evening we dine with Dearing and Weitzel, who,
now that N. has arrived, is returning immediately to Washington. The
weather is beautiful, but the dark and splendid clouds that yesterday
"gathered round the setting sun" are, they tell me, the forerunners of
the rainy season.
_May 9, 1911._
Instead of dining with Mr. Weitzel we all had a very pleasant dinner
at the Embassy last night. Everything exceedingly well done. A Belgian
_maître d'hôtel_ has brought his Brussels ways with him, and it might
have been a pleasant dinner anywhere. The Embassy is very handsomely
equipped throughout with the furnishings of Mr. Wilson's Brussels
Legation, and the rooms are all large and high-ceilinged and generally
ambassadorial-looking. Mr. Wilson has a very complex situation well in
hand, but says he has ample reason to fear that if Diaz goes it will
be an embarking on unknown seas in a rudderless ship. Personally I
have not got any of the points of the compass yet, but something seems
brewing in all directions.
_Later._
We took the charming dwelling I spoke of yesterday--not too large, and
thoroughly furnished by comfortably living, cultured people--42 Calle
Humboldt. The name of the street itself is in the proper Mexican note.
I want to keep the house, which is built in the dignified, solid way
of half a century ago, on the basis of the former masters, so I looked
over the accounts, which in themselves give a picture of Mexican life.
The servants get fifteen cents a day for their food, consisting largely
of frijoles, and their everlasting pulque, which my nose is no longer a
stranger to, and their wages range from seven to nine dollars a month.
There is a dear little flower-planted corridor--pink geraniums and
calla-lilies--running around the four sides of the _patio_, on which
all the rooms open, and there is a second brick veranda, with various
shrubs and flowers and oleander-trees, out beyond the dining-room,
where Elim can play in the flooding sun. Four of the servants have been
many years with the Americans to whom the house belongs, Mrs. Seeger
and her daughter departing only last week on the Ward Line _Merida_.
The house has never been rented before. Its only drawback is that it
is in the center of the town, though it is at the end of the street
near the broad Paseo. The Embassy is some distance out, in one of the
new "Colonias." We can move in immediately. Everything is in apple-pie
order. I have seen two smiling, black-dressed, white-collared,
white-aproned maids, who said they wouldn't stay if I got a butler.
It sounds so promising that I certainly won't introduce any possibly
disturbing element into this paradise.
42 Calle Humboldt.
I am sitting here quietly in the charming little library waiting
for the _maître de maison_, whom we have just missed; a few final
arrangements are to be made. There are many bookcases filled with
really good books, easy-chairs, writing-desks, and all sheltered from
this beautiful but cruel light by awnings at the windows of court and
street--everything comfortable and _comme il faut_. The rooms have the
high ceilings of this part of the world, and in the drawing-room, which
gives into the library, are more books, and furniture that will be
pleasant to live with.
Mrs. S., fearing possible destructions of a very probable revolution,
took with her all her really good portable things, I understand.
Collections of fans, paintings on bronze, some old pictures, valuable
bric-à-brac--in short, the gleanings of years. I am thankful, of
course, not to have the responsibility of anybody's special treasures.
The rooms are all enfilade, with the open corridor running around the
inside of the _patio_, and all, except two big corner rooms giving on
the street, open onto it. Just opposite is the Ministry of Finance,
and at the head of the street in the big Plaza is the Foreign Office.
There is an artesian well at the back, but the water must be boiled
and filtered. I understand one must keep one's eye on the filtering
and boiling, which seems superfluous to the Aztec. Nothing is spoken
except Spanish, which pleases me, as it will break me in immediately.
The servants are a cook, the two nice maids, two washer-women, and a
little half-priced maid called a _galopina_. As you will judge by the
name, she does all the running, and doubtless the kitchen work nobody
else will do.
I am most fortunate not to have to try my novice hand on getting a
household together in this land of unknown equations. Just to step into
a well-ordered household is a piece of good luck. I have already seen
a corner I shall make mine, a sofa near a bookcase and reading-lamp,
and an old, low, square table which I shall put beside it for books and
flowers, and where the tea will be brought.
_May 10th._
A word in haste by the pouch. Don't believe all you see in the
newspapers, and especially don't let the Paris _Herald_ make you
panicky. We are well, and to-morrow we move into the pleasant home.
In case there are riots we can sport not only one oak, but two, as
there is a double set of doors to the large vestibule leading into the
courtyard, and we are up one flight, in what the Italians would call
the _piano nobile_. Nothing above but a flat, convenient, accessible
roof. I am told the roof is a great feature of Latin-American life,
especially in revolutionary days.
I write at length about the disposition of the house because I know you
will like to hear; not because there is one chance in a thousand of the
siege so much talked about, though it seems in the note to order large
supplies from the American grocery-stores, and people are having their
doors and window-shutters strengthened. The fighting on the frontier
has nothing, as yet, to do with us.
_May 12th._
All peaceful here in Mexico City. Diaz and Madero are supposed to
come to some sort of terms. The well-seasoned inhabitants who know the
people and conditions feel there is no cause for personal anxieties,
though, of course, there are always alarmists. One minister, whose
posts during a long career have been Guatemala, Siam, and Mexico, talks
wildly, and has stocked his house for a siege. He lets the water run
into his tub at night for fear the water-supply will be cut off, and
has had iron bars put across his shutters.
Yesterday, when we got to the house, there was not a sign of any of the
servants. It appeared completely deserted, and might have been a Mayan
ruin so far as signs of life were concerned. After an hour of thinking
their delicacy, or whatever it was, had gone far enough, I investigated
the back quarters, and they all appeared smiling and ready. As I
understand it, there was some Spanish-Indian idea about not intruding
at first; but _I_ wanted to get settled!
I was out this morning, getting a few necessary additions to the house,
though everything is here, even to some linen and silver. The departing
Belgian secretary is having a sale, and I met there several of the
colleagues looking over his household gods.
Last night we were again at the Embassy for dinner, and the cook
returned me some of the morning house money--fifty cents or so--that
had not been used. I was so surprised that I took it. They seem a
pleasant, peaceful, gentle, ungrasping sort of people.
The house is open day and night--we live a practically outdoor life.
To get to the really charming dining-room with its yellow walls, rare
old engravings in old dark, inlaid frames, its cabinets with bits of
Napoleon, Maximilian, and other old china, we have to go out under
"the inverted bowl" of an unimagined shining blueness and around the
corridor. It certainly poetizes the hour of refreshment. The climate
is indescribably beautiful to _look at_, but it is all too high. Few
foreigners can stand it _à la longue_. The _patio_ was flooded with
moonlight when I went to bed, and flooded with sun when I woke up. I
praised Allah.
The dinner of twelve at the Embassy last night was very pleasant.
President Taft's announcement that there would be no intervention made
every one feel easy again. Rumors had been rife in town as to possible
decisions in Washington. I sat between the ambassador and an American,
Mr. McLaren, an _intime_ of Madero, in whose house he lay concealed
last autumn when he was in danger of arrest.
I was most interested in hearing, at first hand, about Madero. Mr.
McLaren, a clever lawyer with a long experience of Mexico, says he is
inspired, illuminated, selfless, with but one idea, the regeneration
of Mexico. He seems to have no doubt of Madero's being able to work
out the Mexican situation along high, broad lines, and thinks he will
surely be here, in the city, through force or the abdication of Diaz,
within a month or two.
Mr. Wilson, on the contrary, told me again he saw with dread the
overthrow of the Diaz régime. Though the President is eighty-three,
with many of the infirmities and obstinacies of old age, he also
preserves many of the qualities that made him great, and Mr. Wilson
said that he personally, in all his dealings with him, never found him
lacking in understanding or energy.
I reminded myself of La Fontaine's fable, _Entre deux Âges_, with
the difference, however, that instead of having no hair left, I had
no opinions left, when we rose from dinner. We drove home in an open
motor under a thickly starred and gorgeous heaven; but the unfamiliar
constellations gave me sudden nostalgia.
_Later._
Last night the Ward Line _Merida_ sank. The wife and daughter of Mr.
Seeger were on her. After five hours of anguish and uncertainty, in
complete darkness, bereft of every personal belonging, the passengers
were transferred to the United Fruit Company steamer that ran into
them. The news has just come in. It makes 42 Calle Humboldt seem very
safe. To think that as we were returning to its security from the
pleasant dinner at the Embassy the disaster was taking place!
[Illustration: FRANCISCO I. MADERO
(From a photograph taken in 1911)]