II
Sanctuary to Bonilla—Sir Lionel and Lady Carden—Carranza—Mexican servants—First reception at the American Embassy—Huerta receives the Diplomatic Corps—Election Day and a few surprises.
Manuel Bonilla, a former Maderista, Minister of Ways and Communications (known sometimes as “Highways and Buyways”), now Senator from Sinaloa, has just come, begging asylum. They are out to kill him. He greatly resembles the people who are after him. Of course we have had a room made ready for him, and he can stay quietly in it until a chance offers for getting out of the country. His room, by the way, contains the bed that Mrs. —— refused when she was shown over the Embassy, saying, “What! Sleep in the bed of a murderess?” The murderess being dear, gentle, pretty Mrs. Wilson, my latechefesse, and the murdered ones, Isuppose, being Madero and Pino Suarez!
President Wilson has now sent a message to the provisional government, entirely disapproving of the act of dissolving Congress, saying that any violence offered any Deputy will be looked on as an offense against the United States, and that, furthermore, the United States will not recognize any President elected after any such proceedings. N. has just gone to the Foreign Office to deliver himself of the news. Moheno is a large, stout, curly-haired Indian from Chiapas, with a bit of something dark thrown in. He suggests a general effect of Italian tenor, but he is clever—perhaps “cute” is abetter word. These unfortunate people are between the devil and the deep sea—i. e., between their own lawlessness and us.
The Cardens had their first reception to-day. The Legation is a new, artistic, most comfortable house just off the Paseo—the sort of thing English diplomats find awaiting them everywhere. Sir L. was here for sixteen years as consul. He was the British government’s first representative after the Maximilian affair; so, though he has been absent many years, he finds himselfen pays de connaissance. He is the handsome, perfectly groomed, tall, fresh-complexioned, white-mustached, unmistakable Briton. She is an agreeable American woman; but they both look pale and bloodless after many years of Habana and Guatemala. We are none of us at our rosiest under the palm and cactus. Sir L. has had thirty years of Latin-American diplomatic experience.
Proofs multiply of direct conspiracy of the Deputies against the provisional government. If you scratch a Maderista Deputy you are sure to find a revolutionary of some sort. The task of establishing peace seems well-nigh hopeless. Everywhere are treachery and venality. The note N. handed yesterday to the Foreign Office has not yet been answered, though Moheno refers to it in a press interview, saying that it had been presented to him byChargé d’affairesO’Shaughnessy, “A gentleman of the most exquisite culture,” and that he must not be held responsible for the “intemperate language of his government,”—rather cocky! Though N. is handling the officials with all possible care, everybody thinks they are preparing a fiery answer for to-morrow. They are capable, at any moment, of sending an ultimatum toWashington themselves, and then the fat would be in the fire!
A heavenly warm sun is streaming in. These October mornings, after the rains have ceased, are the brightest jewels in Mexico’s crown of loveliness.
N. is so sick of the murder and destruction he sees at first hand that he refuses to read anything about Mexico. He is, in fact, living a book of his own. But I take an interest in outside comment. I have just read an article in theNorth American Review, by Sydney Brooks, giving the English view of the situation, which seems to be that if we had recognized Huerta he would, by now, have been far on the road toward the establishment of peace. Also a quotation fromLe Temps, in to-day’sImparcial, to the same effect. N., however, is beginning to think that nothing but intervention can bring about order. The elements of peace seem no longer in the republic itself. Interventionisa big word, but it needn’t mean the extermination of Americans or their interests in Mexico. Many French people stayed on through the French intervention and reached a green old age; Americans could do the same. Any one who really knows how easily peace is frightened out of a Latin-American republic, and how wary she is about coming back, would think twice about alarming her.
Elim has just presented me with a large bunch of pink geraniums from the vases at our front entrance. I wish he would choose a more remote spot for depredations. He is drawn, as if by a magnet, to thegendarmesand the untasted joys of the pavement. The Mexicans are always nice with children. There isn’t as much difference between the little ones and the grown-ups as in more sophisticated countries.
Bonilla, our minister-in-hiding, keeps very quiet. From what I hear, just to feel safe appears to be a greatluxury. I have had no intercourse with him, beyond an exchange of polite messages and putting one of the men-servants at his disposition. They tell me he is very particular about keeping his windows shut and his blinds well drawn at night, and is a bit jumpy if any one knocks at the door.
Huerta has very little natural regard for human life. This isn’t a specialty of successful dictators, anyway. Only by the hand of iron can this passionate, tenacious, mysterious, gifted, undisciplined race, composed of countless unlike elements, be held in order. In the States, where, of course, as we all know, everybody and everything are just as they ought to be, this isn’t quite understood.
There is a very persistent rumor to-night that the answer to President Wilson’s message delivered by N. yesterday will be met by Mexico with the breaking off of diplomatic relations, in which case we will have to clear out immediately for Vera Cruz. The private citizens in town can take their time in leaving;wemust go quickly. I am not even unpacked; the linen of the voyage still hangs on the roof. It all quite takes my breath away; I scarcely feel as if I had returned, and can’t take in the idea of leaving. The full cup from the lip. We shall be a nine days’ wonder on reaching New York, and then what? The American diplomatic service is the most uncertain quantity in the world.
Much expectant coming and going in the house, as I write. N., who is admirable at soothing these people, has seen Moheno, and, after long argument, has persuaded the Foreign Office to modify the belligerent tone of the answer to Washington. There were three Cabinetmeetings held since last night, to discuss the answer, with a majority in favor of extreme measures. It is, however, only putting off the day of rupture a few weeks or months, though N. feels each victory is so much gained for the United States. But the day will come when we will find ourselves trekking north.
Yesterday, at dark, we got Bonilla off, grateful but nervous. The motor took him to a station about twenty kilometers from the town, where he boarded the train for Vera Cruz, to get the German boat of to-day. Along a certain trend of legal reasoning he is some sixth in line for President, after Madero, Pino Suarez, Lascurain, and others who have been killed, or have disappeared from the uncertain glories of office. He goes to Washington to join the Maderistas, Isuppose, in spite of the fact that he has given his word of honor not to ally himself with the revolutionists. It was only on such a promise that we could give asylum to an enemy of the government to which N. is accredited.
The legal (if not the moral) genealogical tree of Huerta’s Presidency is the following: Madero, Constitutional President; Pino Suarez, Constitutional Vice-President (their resignations were accepted previous to their imprisonment, by Pedro Lascurain, Minister for Foreign Affairs, and a God-fearing, honorable gentleman, by the way); Lascurain became President by operation of law in regard to the vacant executive power; he was President some twenty minutes it appears (a bit short, even for Latin-America), giving him time to appoint Huerta to the post of Minister of Gobernación (Interior). After Lascurain’s resignation, given, I understand, with alacrity, automatically, by operation of law, the executive power fell to Huerta with its provisionalcharacter, and under the Constitutional promise to call especial elections. This is the technical way by which Huerta became President, and, according to the Mexican constitution, there are no doubts about the complete legality of the operation.
A quiet day; many rumors, but no events. All the time the Carranzistas are gathering strength as a party; strength apparently coming to them from “above”—a higherlatitude, I mean. Seen at close range they are, unfortunately, no better than “the others.” Carranza is not a bloodthirsty villain, but the physically timid, greedy, quiet, conscienceless, book-reading kind, and “constitucionalista” is a word to conjure with. It can move a good Anglo-Saxon to tears, though I must say that all revolutionary leaders in Mexico get hold of excellent banner devices. Madero’s were above criticism—“Sufragio efectivo y no Re-elección” (“Effective Suffrage and No Re-election”). This last shows you that they can go much farther in the expression of pure, distilled patriotism and democracy than we, as those of us called to the dignity of office are not entirely able to rid ourselves of a wish for a second term.
Also Carranza, who has none of the ability of Huerta and none of his force, has had the luck to strike a convincing note with his long whiskers and generally venerable aspect, imitated by all his followers as far as nature allows. They tell me New York and Washington are full of respectable, thin, long-whiskered, elderly Mexicans. Those who have watched Carranza’s long career, however, say that a quiet, tireless, sleepless greed has been his motive force through life, and his strange lack of friendliness to Washington is accounted for by the fact that he really hates foreigners, any and all, who prosper in Mexico. It seems to me one canscent trouble here. Lack of any special political color and principles, and general mediocrity, have kept him obscure, but he now finds himself at last accidentally clothed and most acceptable to theGran Nación del Nortein the fashionable and exclusive garb of constitutionalism. I wonder if he doesn’t sometimes wonder why on earth he is so popular in Washington.
I am told that Señora Madero, poor, pitiful, little, black-robed figure, saw President Wilson soon after the murders, and her tragic tale may perhaps have determined his policy.
The fact remains, however, that Huerta is in control of the army and the visible machinery of government which represents to the conservative elements (badly enough or well is a detail), their constitution, the only form around which the affairs of the nation can group themselves with any definiteness.
I had a long talk the other day with the —— minister.
He seems to think (all, of course, politely veiled) that the policy of the United States is to weaken these people by non-recognition, and, when they are agonizing, to come in cheaply and easily, thus avoiding armed intervention now, which would be much better for the Mexicans, though more expensive for us. All thechers collèguesveil behind unassailably discreet remarks their not very flattering idea of what they doubtless call among themselves our “little game.”
I am enjoying the spaces in this huge house, free to the sun and air on all sides. Its lack of furniture is amply compensated for by flooding luxuries of light and air. I am going to receive on Tuesday, and I suppose many people will come.
Yesterday I had my first reception. About fifty people came—thechers collèguesand some of the colony,mostly only those whose orbit sometimes crosses the diplomatic orbit. There were flowers in every available receptacle. I made a delicious punch myself, if I do say it, and Mrs. Burnside poured tea; but I miss so many of the familiar and friendly faces of our first sojourn—Mr. James Brown Potter and the Riedls, Mr. Butler, and many others.
Monday I am giving a “bridge” for Lady C. I cannot yet have any one for lunch or dinner, but I want to give some little sign on her arrival. The Cardens are a very great addition to an ever-narrowing circle.
Great Britain stands pat on its recognition of Huerta, which adds greatly to his prestige in the eyes of his own people, and is most welcome in view of the approaching elections. We understand the ticket will be Huerta and Blanquet, in spite of Washington’s frowns.
I do not know the real qualities of Blanquet, up to now faithful supporter of Huerta and his Minister of War. The dramatic fact that, in the firing-squad at Querétaro, it was he who gave thecoup de grâceto Maximilian, has always overtopped everything else. The pictures of Maximilian in the National Museum, poor, blond, blue-eyed gentleman, show him utterly unfitted to grapple with the situation, though filled with the best intentions. He was like some rabbit, or other helpless animal, caught in a trap. When one has seen archdukes on their native heaths, one realizes that they are not of the material to wrestle with the descendants of Montezuma; though I don’t know that we, in spite of all our “efficiency,” are being any more successful!
Great Britain will be very polite, but will not depart one hair’s-breadth from what it has decided on as its Mexican policy, involving big questions, not alone of prestige, but oil, railways, mines, etc. In fact, the British reply to Mr. Bryan in to-day’s newspaper quiteclearly says that England will be delighted to follow any policy from Washington as long as it does not interfere with what the British Foreign Office has decided to do. They simply can’t understand our not protecting American lives and interests. Their policy here is purely commercial, while ours, alas! has come to be political.
Great excitement is predicted for Sunday, the day of the election, but all the timid have to do is to stay at home,iftheir curiosity permits.
The import duties are raised 50 per cent. from the twenty-eighth of October. But it will, fortunately, bear less heavily on thefrijoles- and banana-eating part of the population than on those who want breakfast-foods andpâté de foie gras.
A cook comes to-day, highly recommended, but I can see just the sort of things she will turn out, if left to herself—fried bananas, goat stew, etc. She comes accompanied by her little girl of three. One of the washerwomen also has a child with her, and there are tentative remarks from other quarters regarding offspring. But the house is so big that a few indwellers, more or less, make no difference; and I am not sorry, in these uncertain times, to harbor a few bright-eyed, soft-skinned, silent brown babies under my roof. The handsome Indian maid who came to the city from herpueblo, because her stepfather was too attentive, has gone. She simply vanished; but as the other servants, on inquiry, don’t seem worried, I suppose it is all right. They have a way of leaving after they get their month’s wages, though their departure is generally preceded by some such formality as declaring that their grandmother is dead, or their aunt ill. Where they go is a mystery.
To-morrow we lunch at the Simon’s. He is the clever FrenchInspecteur des Financesof the Banco Nacional. They have a handsome house in the Paseo, an excellentFrenchchef, and are most hospitable. She is witty and cultivated; we sometimes call her “la belle cuisinière.” In the evening we dine with Rieloff, the musical German consul-general, who will serve Beethoven and Bach very beautifully, after dinner. I am very little disposed to go out in the evening here, and N. is nearly always busy with despatches until a late hour. There is something in the air, nearly 8,000 feet in the tropics, which discourages night life, even in normal times, andtertulias[2]of any kind are infrequent. At ten the streets are deserted and the Mexicans all under some sort of cover. Even in the big houses they take the most abstemious of evening meals, and go to bed early, to be ready for the exceeding beauty of the early morning.
All the foreigners here have nerves. What would be peaceful, dove-like households at sea-level, become scenes of breakage of all description at this altitude, and all sorts of studies might be made on the subject of “air pressure” on the life of man and woman. There is not the accustomed amount of oxygen in the air and, with all the burning-up processes of the body lessened, there is an appalling strain on the nerves. Hence many tears!
I wonder if you ever got the book and letter I sent you from the boat from Santander. I gave them, with ample postage and a fat tip, to an attractive, barefooted, proud-looking Spaniard, who had brought a letter on board for some one. I told him they were formi madre. With a most courtly bow, hat in one hand, the other on his heart, he assured me that he would attend to the matter as if it were for hisownmother!Pues quién sabe?
Yesterday at noon, Huerta, surrounded by his entire Cabinet, received the Diplomatic Corps, and, thoughthere was much excitement beforehand, when his remarks were boiled down, nothing was changed. The Mexican is a past master at presenting the same condition under some other expedient and disarmingly transparent disguise. The way out of what we all considered a great difficulty is amazingly simple. There will be no President elected! Huerta declares he will not be a candidate, and no one else will have the necessary majority.
The plain English of it all is—Huerta at the head of the government as full-fledged military dictator. After the formal statement of affairs he turned to N. and begged him to assure Washington of his good faith; and he reiterated that his sole aim was the pacification of Mexico. He then became overpoweringly, embarrassingly polite—even tender. He took N.’s arm and led him out to have acopita[3]in the face of the assembled corps, having previously embraced him, saying, with playful reminiscence, “I arrest you.” Such are the vicissitudes of representing the Stars and Stripes in Mexico! People tell me Huerta’s speeches are generally masterpieces of brevity, with something magnetic and human about them. The English support has strengthened him, within and without.
Sir L. and N. were snap-shotted together by indiscreet newspaper men as they were leaving thePalacio. Apièce à conviction, if ever there was one. Sir L. was laughingly apologetic for N.’s being “found so near the body.”
Mrs. Lind left yesterday for the United States, and I have written to the Governor, who may be lonely, to tell him how welcome he would be if he likes to return to Mexico City. I can make him comfortable—in a bedroom and study adjoining—and we would really like to see him. However, he may not care to come up foranotherfausse couche, as one of the colleagues called his first visit.
Everybody is expecting disorders on Sunday—Election Day. There is very little difference between lawmakers and lawbreakers in Mexico. We foreign devils can scarcely keep our faces straight when we hear the word “elections.” Sunday is sure to find Huerta still in the saddle.
Yesterday L——, confidential agent of Felix Diaz, appeared at luncheon-time. He is a clever and plausible individual, angling for the United States recognition for Diaz’s candidacy. A special train has been offered Felix Diaz, but he is afraid, and not without reason, to venture up into the unknown, so he will wait presidential results at Vera Cruz, with its attractive harbor full of fast ships.
The great day of the elections—the 26th—passed off, not only without disturbance, but without voters or votes! The candidates so talked of during these last days were conspicuous by their absence. Felix Diaz was afraid to come to the capital, though all “assurances”—whatever that may mean—had been given him. In Vera Cruz he stayed at a second-rate hotel, next door to the American Consulate—the Stars and Stripes, doubtless, looking very comfortable from an accessible roof-to-roof vantage-ground. He has missed, fatalistically, it would seem, the occasions whereby he might have become ruler of Mexico. He is a gentleman, rather in our sense of the word, and the name he bears is linked to the many glories of Mexico, but this is, probably, his political burial. Already opportunity has called him thrice—Vera Cruz, in 1912; then Mexico City, in February,1913; now again at Vera Cruz, in October, 1913; and still another wields the destinies of Mexico.
Thechers collèguesprophesy that we shall be here until next May, when probably new elections will be held. The consensus of opinion is that I might as well get the much-discussed drawing-room curtains and the rest, though I can’t feel enthusiastic about ordering a lot of things that may come in only as I go out. The dining-room continues to strike me as a terribly bleak place, like all north rooms in the tropics.
I must say that one has very little hunger at this height, where the processes of digestion are much slower than at ordinary altitudes. When one has eaten a soup of some sort, a dish of rice garnished with eggs, bacon, and bananas (which any Mexican can do beautifully), or one of the delicious light omelettes—tortilla de huevos—topped off by some of the little, wild, fragrant strawberries almost perennial here, and over which wine is poured as a microbe-killer, one’s “engine is stoked” for twenty-four hours.
There have just been the usual parleyings about the brandy for the turkey—theguajolote, the Indians call him—the ancestral bird of Mexico. The Aztecs ate, and continue to eat, him; and good cooks have the habit of giving him the following happy death: on the morning of the day on which you are to eat him, you generally hear him gobbling about. Then there is the demand for whisky or brandy “por el guajolote, pobrecito.” The unfortunate (or fortunate) bird is then allowed to drink himself to death. This is the effective way of rendering him chewable, it being impossible to hang meats at this altitude. The flesh becomes soft and white and juicy. But try a gravel-fedguajolotethat has not gone to damnation!
The food question is difficult here, anyway, and personallyI am unable to wrestle with it. The far-famed tropical fruits of this part of the world are most disappointing, with the exception of the mango, with its clear, clean, slightly turpentiny taste. There are many varieties of bananas, but scarcely a decent one to be had, such as any Italian push-cart is stocked with in New York. Thechirimoyahas a custard-like taste—thechico zapote, looking like a potato, has also, to our palate, a very unpleasant, mushy consistency, and everything is possessed of abnormally large seeds at the center. The beautiful-looking, but tough, peaches that adorn our tables come from California; also the large, rather withered grapes.