III
Federal and Rebel excesses in the north—Some aspects of social life—Mexico’s inner circle—Huerta’s growing difficulties—Rabago—The “Feast of the Dead.”—Indian booths at the Alameda—The Latin-American’s future.
The Minister for Foreign Affairs is now in the drawing-room, from which I have fled, having asked to confer with N. He has been frightened at the intervention outlook and probably has come to try to find out what Washington really has in store for Mexico. He said the other day that the suspense was paralyzing to the nation.
The British vice-consul at Palacio Gomez, Mr. Cunard Cummings, came for lunch. He has had a thorough experience with both rebels and Federals at Torreon, and has terrible stories to tell of both sides. You don’t change Mexican methods by draping them in different banners. In fact, it isn’t the banner, here, but the kind of hand carrying it, that makes the difference. He told us how one night the rebels shot up the hospital in his town, crowded with wounded whom he and the doctors had left fairly comfortable. The next morning, when he went back, his attention was first caught by something dark and sticky dripping from the balcony, as he went into thepatio. Up-stairs a dreadful sight was presented by the overturned cots, the broken medicine-bottles, and last, but not least, thehumanhorrors.
Another tale is that of an ex-Deputy, de la Cadena, who walked up the aisle of a church with clanking sword and spurs, seized the priest officiating at Mass, and threwhim and the sacred vessels out into the street, to the consternation and terror of the humble worshipers.
Two federal military trains have been blown up during the last week. Ninety persons were killed at one station and, the day before, one hundred and two killed in the same way at Lulu station. It is certainly a dance of death.
Last night there was a very pleasant dinner at the German Legation, at which I presided. I wore my black satin Spitzer dress, with the white-and-silver hanging sleeves, which was much admired. Everybody’s clothes are known here and people are thankful to see something new. The Belgian minister was on one side of me, and the Japanese on the other. Von Hintze was opposite, with Lady C. on his right, and Señora de Rul, wearing magnificent pearls and a high-necked dress, on his left. Three of the officers of theHerthawere there, giving rise to uncomplicated jokes about “Hertha” and “Huerta.” Of course conversation aboutla situacióntwisted through the various courses. The opinion is that there are enough warring elements in town to provide a sort of spontaneous combustion, without the aid of any outside happenings.
Moheno had evidently got word of the Cabinet meeting in Washington, when he came to see N., yesterday. He was most profuse in protestations of friendship, personal and political. They are all a bit worried and perhaps will be amenable to negotiations.
Yesterday there was a luncheon at May’s in honor of the Belgians who have come to get the much-talked-of railroad concession—a little matter of five thousand kilometers. Everything is beautifully done at his house, andhe has many lovely works of art. The table was a mass of small, yellow chrysanthemums in a beautiful, old English porcelainsurtout de table, having a yellowfond; the food was the triumph of a Frenchchefover Mexican material. But, like all houses facing north, the May’s house seemed desperately chilly when one came in out of the bright, fresh autumn day. Simon, the clever FrenchInspecteur des Finances, came in only when lunch was nearly over. His wife had been in tears most of the time, and we were all a bit jumpy—as there were rumors of a raid on the bank, and we feared that he and the other directors might have been asked for their money or their lives. I invited them all for tea on Monday. Graux, the chief engineer, has a handsome English wife.
When I see the fully furnishedsalonsof others, I long for my Lares and Penates, so safe in Vienna; though, I must say, the drawing-room has begun to look very homelike and comfortable, with its deep chairs, broad writing-desk, small tables, reading-lamps, palms, photographs, books, and bibelots.
In the afternoon we went to a small tea in another world than the political. It was given by Madame de Riba, nee Garcia Pimentel, of the inner circle of the aristocrats, whereel gobiernois looked at from more or less of a distance, and where foreigners seldom penetrate. They are the delightful, charming people one sees in the same set all over the world, and remind me of the “cousinage” of the “first society” of Vienna. They constantly intermarry, and, though they travel, they rarely make foreign alliances, and are apt to return to their own country, which, despite its political uncertainties, is more beautiful than any other. There are many works of art left in Mexico from the old Spanish days, and in such houses one finds them. The handsome, agreeable, amiable women, moreover, wear Parisclothes and Cartier-set jewels; the men are dressed by London tailors. The scene yesterday suggested any European capital, and that inner circle where beauty, wealth, and distinction abide. The members of this inner circle are all in favor of the paternal form of government. They themselves exercise a more or less beneficent sway over the laborers on their big estates; and they realize from experience the necessity of a highly centralized government in this country, where, of the fifteen millions of inhabitants, thirteen million are Indians, and the other two milliongachupines,mestizos, foreigners of various sorts. Huerta once told N. that thegachupineshad spoiled a good race. He casts the stone back as far as Cortés—rather a novel idea!
The bull-fight contingent from Spain arrives to-day. There is great excitement, and with such a spur we all feel that business ought to improve. Lack of money is the crux of the whole situation in Mexico, and, with the United States frowning on any nation that even hints at a loan, the case seems desperate. Any one, however, can afford a bull-fight ticket. If not for the more expensive seatsen sombra(in the shade), the people get aboleto de sol, where they simmer blissfully in the sunny half of the Ring.
I inclose a newspaper cutting about Bonilla, who was in hiding here. He is celebrated for his blunders—bonilladas, they are called. As a delicate expression of his thanks, on his arrival at Washington, he sent N. an open telegram announcing his safe arrival and ending with messages of gratitude neatly calculated to make trouble for his benefactor in both capitals.
I am finding myself very well off here, in the center of daily occurrences of vital interest. A full plate of life! One of its sweetnesses, doubtless, is that I don’t know how long it will last. My tea-service is the only thing Ireally miss. A tent of a night I know—but the tea hour comes every day!
Last night came what is practically an ultimatum from Washington to Huerta. He is to get out, he, and all his friends, or—intervention. N. was at the palace until one o’clock in the morning. It is asking Huerta to commit political suicide, and he, unfortunately, does not feel so inclined. Also, he has a conviction that he is a sort of “Man of Destiny” who can bring peace to Mexico. N. tried to convince him of the complete impossibility of standing up against the United States, and urged him again and again to give way. I was troubled during the night by visions of intervention, further devastation of this beautiful land, and the precious blood of my own people.
I am reading a Spanish book on the war of 1847, published in 1848. The reasons why battles were lost sound immensely familiar—generals not coming up with reinforcements, or the commissary not materializing, or the troops deserting. It is all so like what we are reading now in the newspapers! Notempora mutanturhere.
If Huerta feels himself in his last ditch, with this threat of intervention, he may answer “que vengan.” The upper classes here seem to feel that it is what we intend and feel that if “’twere done, ’twere well ’twere done quickly,” before the country is ruined. The bitter pill will be sugar-coated by thoughts of the prosperity to follow. A—— came this morning, and, after a long conversation about Mexico’s troubles, cried: “Come in immediately and clear up this impossible situation, or leave us alone. Nothing is safe; nothing is sacred!” His large sugar interests are in the Zapatista country,and he is pretty well ruined by their destruction. If we come in, the military part is, perhaps, the least of it; a huge administrative job would follow—Cuba and the Philippines are mere child’s play to it.
A rather cryptic letter came from Mr. Lind this morning. We gather that he is thinking of leaving, as he feels that he can’t do anything! He has learned, as somebody said, enough Spanish to say nothing in it. I think, however, it is as difficult for the United States to withdraw him as it was embarrassing to send him. Also a letter came from Burnside, from Vera Cruz, telling of the war-ships and their positions in the harbor. He predicts a migration north for all of us, at an early date—but who knows?
More battle-ships are announced. We shall have, according to to-day’s paper, about 6,000 men at Vera Cruz. Box-cars are being sent to the frontier; it must all mean preparation for some definite stroke on the part of the United States. I feel that I am seeing life from a very big angle. In spite of the underlying excitement here, outwardly things take their usual course. Now we motor out to Tlalpam with the Belgian minister, to lunch at Percival’s. It is a wondrous, glistening day, and the swift run over the smooth, straight road toward the enchanting hills which form its near background will be pure joy. The mountains have a way of changing their aspect as one motors along, even with one’s eye on them. From being a breath, an emanation, they become blue, purple realities of matchless beauty—dark shadows pinned to them with spears of light.
The extremely delicate negotiations N. has been having with the President’s private secretary, Rabago, concerning Huerta’s possible resignation, have leaked out, not from Mexico, but from the United States, and,we suspect,viaVera Cruz. At the somewhat early hour of two in the morning the press correspondents began to come to the Embassy. It is now 11.30 and they have been coming ever since.
N., of course, denies categorically having negotiations on hand. Mr. Bryan, we see by the morning newspaper, is reported as looking very pleased at the aspect of the Mexican situation, on account of the aforesaid negotiations. The correspondents here must be heaven-born. Their scent is unerring. If there is anything even dreamed of they appear in shoals; when things are in abeyance you wouldn’t know there was one in town. They try, naturally, to read something political into everything that happens. For instance, the officers of the German training-ship invited several of the ministers to take a little trip to Vera Cruz, and the German, Russian, and Norwegian ministers accepted—which is why the newspapers had it that there was a meeting of plenipotentiaries at Vera Cruz. They are on a hunting trip for two days and will return to-morrow.
Felix Diaz has at last been landed at Havana (much to the relief, I imagine, of the captain of the U. S. S.Wheeling, on which ship he sought refuge) and his political curtain has been rung down on this especial act.
Rabago is a very clever man, endowed to a high degree with the peculiarly caustic type of Latin-American wit, whose natural object here seems always to be Mexico’s kaleidoscopic government. His paperEl Mañanadid more than anything else to kill Madero by perseveringly reflecting his weaknesses in a mirror of ridicule. On account of his opposition to the Maderos and his Porfirista sympathies he was taken up by the aristocratic class and has been of immense service to Huerta, a sort ofbridge between him and them. But how far the advice to resign, which he swears that he has urged on Huerta, will be followed remains to be seen. Huerta has a deep, strange, Indian psychology entirely unfamiliar to us, which is at work on the situation, and the results cannot be predicted.
It was amusing to see the various ministers arrive at the Embassy, one after the other, to assure N. that there had been no conference of ministers at Vera Cruz with Mr. Lind. They intend to uphold the protocol, and wouldn’t be caught flirting with an unknown official quantity behind N.’s back for anything in the world.... Huerta easily gets suspicious and I dare say the whole proceeding is spoiled. N. goes to-day with the ultimatum to the President himself, and we shall see what we shall see. It is all very uncertain, but intensely interesting, in the magnetic, highly colored, Latin-American way. It makes London, Paris, and New York seem very banal.
Just home, after leaving N. at thePalacio, where the answer to the ultimatum is supposed to be forthcoming. All the clerks are here, in readiness to get off despatches.
On my way back I stopped at the Alameda for a belated look at the booths stocked with the articles appropriate, according to Aztec ideas, for All Saints’ Day and the Feast of the Dead. Countless Indians, picturesque and mysterious, flood into the city, build their booths, stay a few days, and then silently ebb away, unseen until the next occasion—Christmas. Great bunches of a yellow flower—cinco llagas, “Flower of Death,” the Indians call it—are everywhere for sale, to be placed afterward on the evanescent graves. Toy death’s-heads and small toy coffins of all sorts abound. A favorite device is one whereby a string is pulled, the dead man raises his head, and when one lets go he fallsback with a rattling sound. It is all a bitmacabre, sold by these imperturbable Indians of the plateau, who are far from being a jovial race. Pulque and their other drinks often induce silence and melancholy rather than hilarity. They never sing nor whistle in the streets. They almost never dance. If they go through a few figures it is mostly in a solemn manner and on the occasion of some church festival, when they dance and gesticulate, strangely garlanded, in thepatioof the church itself.
The Alameda is a handsome park in the very middle of the town, and marks the site of the old Aztectianguiz, or market-place. Fountains and flowers abound, and it is lavishly planted with beautiful eucalyptus and palms; an excellent band plays daily. Thepajarera(aviary) around which the children cluster is very poor, considering the beauty and variety of the Mexican birds and the Aztec traditions in this regard. The park has no railing around it—one can stroll in from the broad Avenida Juarez. The drawback to the stone benches, placed at intervals, is that the most prominent have graven upon them the words, “Eusebio Gayosso”—the name of thepopular undertaker. In the midst of life you are in death there. However, the eternal Indians, sunning themselves and their offspring on the benches, can’t read; they have this advantage over anyilustradowho might want to rest a bit.
N. has just returned with the anxiously awaited answer, which is quite beside the point. Huerta is probably sparring for time. He proffers vague, pleasant words in answer to the very definite message of the President, to the effect that he has always been animated by the most patriotic desires, that he will always limit his acts to the law, and that after the elections he will scrupulously respect the public wish and will recognize any person elected as President for the term to the30th of November, 1916. N. recommends the withdrawal of the Embassy if, after the 23d of this month, when a new congress is to be convened, Huerta has not resigned. This might influence Huerta; and again, he may consider it only another cry of wolf.
The fact is, nobody believes we really will intervene. The chances that we shall depart on a war-ship instead of by the Ward Line are very good, the “d” in this instance making all the difference. I shall hate to leave this palpitating, prismatic sort of life; but it isn’t the moment to have personal feelings of any sort.
Driving back this evening toward a beautiful, clear, red sunset, up the Plateros between the rows of autos and carriages full of handsomely dressed people, the men standing along the edge of the pavement as they do in Rome on the Corso, it seemed impossible that I was looking at a people over whom a great national humiliation was hanging. The crowds become more and more Mexican every day, with fewer American faces.
We lunched to-day with the Iturbides. Everything was done in the best of style—with beautiful old silver and porcelain. He is a descendant of the Emperor Augustin Iturbide of tragic history, and a charming and very clever young man who would adorn any society. Señor Bernal, with his Christus head, its extreme regularity chiseled in pale, ivory tones, sat on my other side. They all seemed to fear that in view of the, to them, inexplicable attitude of the United States, the end in Mexico would be the long-dreaded intervention in some form. Not a man who was at the table, however, really occupies himself with politics. They all have handsome houses in town, but they live for the most part on their haciendas, which they work on the paternal plan, the only plan as yet productive of results here and which wein the United States don’t at all understand, not being able to put ourselves into another nation’s shoes. The actual political business here is left to the educated middle class, whose members, instead of being pillars of society, form the stratum from which the professional politician and embryo revolutionist always spring—thelicenciados, sometimes called the curse of Mexico, and other men of the civil professions, generally venal to a degree. The peon is faithful when he has no power and the aristocrat is noble; but no country is secure whose best elements are the extremes.
I am not, however, pessimistic as to the future of the real Latin-American typified by this middle stratum, generallymestizo. He always forms the active part of the population, and in his hands seems to lie the future of the country. The Spaniard as typified by the aristocratic classes is apt to hold himself aloof and will always do so. The Indian, except in the isolated case of some individual possessing genius, sure to present himself from time to time, has not the qualities to form the dominant element. It is, therefore, reserved for this crossing of Spaniard and native to finally embody and present the real national characteristics.
A rumor is out to-night that, as the present banking act relative to certain reserves of gold and silver doesn’t suit Huerta, he has decided to do away with it, and we are to stand firmly (?) on paper. Shades of Limantour!
This afternoon I bought several beautiful old inlaid frames. These last words tell of one of the greatest pleasures in Mexico—prowling around for antiques. Almost every one coming down here gets the fever and spends hours turning over junk, in an almost delirious way, in the hope of unearthing treasure. In spite of the fact that for almost fifty years Mexico has been drained by the traveler, and again and again devastated by civilstrife, there still remain endless lovely things, testifying to the wealth and taste of the old Spanish days.
The statement in theMexican Heraldthat Mr. Lind had confirmed the report of an ultimatum and the probable failure of negotiations is simply astounding. Turn the light of publicity on Huerta and he is as wary as some wild animal who comes into contact with man for thesecondtime. Whatever he may have been contemplating, these special negotiations are now dead and buried.
There was a big dinner at the Belgian Legation to-night; everything beautifully done, as usual. I sat opposite my host, between von H. and Sir L. Wore the flowered black velvet chiffon, and that black aigrette with the Pocahontas effect in my hair; von H. wanted to know why this delicate Indian tribute. There was no political conversation, as, with the exception of the C.’s, von H., and ourselves, only handsome, well-dressed, and bejeweled members of the Mexican smart set were present. May is nothing if not exclusive, with a perfectflairfor thechicheria. His handsome wife is in Paris.
My drawing-room is filled with the beautiful pink geraniums that grow thick on the walls of the Embassy gardens and balconies. Juan, the gardener, who, like all Aztecs, understands flowers, brings them in every other morning, cutting them most effectively with very long stems and many leaves.
“Ship ahoy!” in the harbor of Vera Cruz no longer excites attention. Counting the French and German ships, there are about a dozen in all. Seven belong to us. There were only two—theNew Hampshireand theLouisiana—guarding the entrance to the channel when we arrived a month ago. Is the plot thickening?