XV
Departure of the British minister—Guns and marines from Vera Cruz—Review at the Condesa—Mister Lind—The Benton case—Huerta predicts intervention—Villa at Chihuahua.
Sir Lionel Carden is leaving next week. He feels (I think not without reason) very bitter about his experience down here. He is going to LondonviaWashington. I suppose he means to tell the President a lot of things, but when he gets there he won’t do it. Something in the air will make him feel that nothing is of any use....
The protest Nelson made to the Foreign Office over the abusive language of theImparcialwas in big head-lines in the newspapers yesterday. The Spanish language lends itself exceedingly well to abuse. Miron, the man who wrote the articles, now goes about declaring that he will shoot Nelson at the first opportunity. I don’t think anything will come of this, however, though it keeps one a little uneasy in this land of surprises.
This morning we received a telegram that Nelson’s father is seriously ill (pneumonia) and all day I have been broken with agonies of indecision. Ought I to go to New York, possibly in time to close those beautiful old eyes? Or ought I to stay here?
N. intends to have six marines come up from Vera Cruz. We could lodge them here. This house wasbuilt for two very large apartments and was joined by doors and stairways when taken for an Embassy. The very large dining-room on the bedroom floor could easily hold six cots and the necessary washing apparatus. It is now used as a trunk-room, pressing-room, and general store-room. Personally I don’t feel that anything will happen in Mexico City, beyond having a premonition that we may be giving asylum to Huerta some of these days. The scroll bearing his hour still lies folded upon the lap of the gods.
I decided this morning not to go to New York, though Berthe had my things in readiness for to-morrow night. I was afraid that when I wanted to return I might not be able to get up to the city from Vera Cruz.
I went to see von Hintze this morning about the circus performance on Friday night for the Red Cross. He had already sent out invitations for a big dinner for that night, but he will postpone this until Saturday. He thinks there will be trouble here, andsoon, and that I would never have time to go and return. So are destinies decided. Suddenly it was clear to me that I was to stay with my boy and Nelson and await results. Von Hintze considers the situation desperate and has sent out a circular telling his nationals to leave the country. In that story, “Two Fools,” you will see some of the disadvantages of leaving, faced by people whose all is here. Von Hintze is having Maxim quick-firing guns up from Vera Cruz. Three good mitrailleuses and the men to work them would be ample protection for any of the legations in case of riots.
Diaz Miron, who is threatening Nelson’s life, has already killed three men. Another man he shot limps about town, and he himself has a bad arm. He is a poet, a neurotic, but wrote in his young days some of the mostbeautiful Spanish verse that exists. Now he is old, violent, and eccentric. I hardly think anything will come of his threats. Huerta has other Diaz Mirons; he has but one Americanchargé d’affaires; and if necessary Diaz Miron can be put in thePenitenciaríaor Belem. I only fear some fool may catch the idea and do what Miron wouldn’t do.
A very nice cable came from Mr. Bryan this afternoon, saying that the President was deeply concerned at the threats against Nelson, and that we should arrange for secret-service men to follow him when he goes out of the Embassy; and also, if necessary, have a military guard at the house. There has been a secret-service man walking up and down outside for several days, and a dull time he must be having.
The morning was soft, yet brilliant, when I walked down to von Hintze’s. It seems strange that blood and tragedy should be woven in such a beautiful woof. Von Hintze is not an alarmist, but by telling me to go to New York, on the theory that everybody that can should leave, he certainly decided me to stay. Ican’tbe away if anything happens here. So now I am calm again. Having been ready to go, not dodging the hard duty, makes me able to remain in peace.
We have a new Minister for Foreign Affairs, a gentleman, to replace Moheno, the joyful bounder who has been in during the past few months. Portillo y Rojas, the new minister, is also supposed to be that white blackbird, an honest man. He has held various public offices without becoming rich, even when he was governor of the State of Jalisco. He, like all the rest, however, will do as Huerta dictates.
Maximo Castillo, the bandit responsible for the awful Cumbre tunnel disaster, was captured by Americantroops yesterday. Twenty-one Americans perished in the disaster. I wonder what Washington will do with him? To which of the two unrecognized governments can he be turned over? He was making a big détour around a mountain range, with a few followers, when he was caught, trying to avoid Villa. This is another piece of good luck for “the tiger.”
Huerta continues to believe in himself. N. says that unless von Hintze had information of a precise nature that Blanquet (Huerta’s intimate friend and his Minister of War) is going to betray him, the end is by no means in sight. But treachery is as much a part of this landscape as the volcanoes are.
Had a wearing sort of day, full of corners and edges; also the first real dust-storm of the season, which helps to make nerves raw. The government sends down three Gatling-guns, which Nelson is to get into the country “anyway he thinks best.” It will not be a simple matter. Everything is in a combustible condition here, needing but a match to ignite the whole.
Just returned from Chapultepec from Señora Huerta’s reception. It was her first in two months, as she had been in mourning for her brother. The “court” wore black. I found myself next to Huerta for tea, having been taken out by the Minister of Communicaciones—the Minister of “Highways and Buyways,” he might be called. I had a little heart-to-heart talk with the President—unfortunately in my broken Spanish. He gave me some flowers and all the good things on the table, and in return I gave him a red carnation for his buttonhole. He called forenchiladasandtamales—pink jelly and fussy sandwiches don’t appeal to him—but the majordomo, with a grin, said, “No hay.”
A few of thegens du mondewere there. It seems cruelfor them to boycott their own government as they continually and consistently do. Huerta has promised to put a larger house at our disposition for the Red Cross, and I begged him to come, if only for a moment, to the benefit circus performance on Friday. He has some military engagement for that night. I think we will be able later to get up a really productive bull-fight for the Red Cross, if he will sanction it. There is always money for bull-fights in this country. If the bull-fighters didn’t come so high, and if the bulls were not so dear, a bull-fight would be a wonderful way of putting any organization on its feet!
Huerta sat with Nelson the whole time after tea, in the bedroom next to the bigsalon, and Nelson broached to him the subject of the guns. He said he could bring in any blankety thing he pleased, or the Spanish equivalent, but he warned him to do it quietly. We were almost the last to leave and Huerta took me on his arm down the broad, red-carpeted stairs, telling me that Mexicans were the friends of everybody, and offering me a pony for Elim. When we got to the glass vestibule, in front of which the autos were waiting, he made us takehisauto. “Yourautomobile,” he insisted, when I said, “Oh, but this is yours!” What could I do but get in, to the salute of officers, our empty car following us. All his courtesies make it a bit hard for us. I felt like a vampire in a churchyard or some such awful thing, when I was sitting there in the bigsalon, knowing that Huerta is up against the world and can’t but slip at the end, no matter how he digs in his feet. He needs fidelity. It is nowhere to be had, and never was to be had in Mexico, if history is to be believed. When Santa Ana left Mexico City with twelve thousand troops in 1847 to meet and engage Scott at Puebla, he finally arrived with a fourth of that number—theothers vanishing along the road a few at a time.
There was a good deal of uniform up there this afternoon. I looked at those gold-braided chests with mingled feelings—pity at the thought of the uncertainty of life, and a sickening feeling of the undependability of the sentiments that fill them when the constitution is in question.
We hear that Diaz Miron leaves for Switzerland to-night; which, if true, endsthatlittle flurry. The long arm of the Dictator moves the puppets as he wills, and I imagine he intends to take no risks concerning the brightest jewel in his crown—i. e., N., the last link with the United States. I keep thinking what a “grand thing” a dictatorship is if it is on your side. Most of the dozen Huerta children were at the reception—from the youngest, a bright little girl of seven, to the fatuous eldest officer son of thirty or thereabouts. A big diamond in a gold ring, next to a still bigger one in platinum, were the most conspicuous things about him.
A new comic journal calledMister Lindmade its first appearance to-day. It is insulting and unclean, with a caricature of Lind on the second page. I can’t decide whether the name is bright or stupid.
The Mexicans are master-hands at caricature and play upon words, and there are generally some really trenchant political witticisms in their comic papers. There are wishes for Wilson’s early demise scattered through the pages in various forms. But I imagine they are boomerang wishes, and the journal itself will have a short and unprofitable life. The big middle page has a picture, calling itselfEl Reparto de Tierras(“The Division of Lands”). It represents a graveyard; underneath are the words, “tenemos 200,000 tierras tenientes” (“we have 200,000 landholders”)—a sad play upon the divisionof lands. Above it vultures are portrayed, wearing Uncle Sam’s hat. Another caricature shows the Mexicans carrying a coffin labeledAsuntos Nacionales(National Affairs), with President Wilson as a candle-bearer. The press gets more anti-American every day.
A BURIALMEXICO: “WHO GAVEYOUA CANDLE TO CARRYIN THIS FUNERAL?”
A BURIALMEXICO: “WHO GAVEYOUA CANDLE TO CARRYIN THIS FUNERAL?”
A BURIAL
MEXICO: “WHO GAVEYOUA CANDLE TO CARRYIN THIS FUNERAL?”
On one of N’s visits to the President, at his famous little shack-like retreat set in among a collection of market-gardens, at Popotla, he began to talk about the division of lands, saying the Indian had inalienable rights to the soil, but that the lands should be returned to him under circumstances of justice and order. Onno account should they be used as a reward for momentarily successful revolutionaries. He added that the United States had never respected the rights of their Indians, but had settled the whole question by force.
We went this morning to the big militaryrevueat the Condesa, one of the most beautiful race-tracks in the world. I thought of Potsdam’s strong men under dull skies. Now I am in this radiant paradise, watching more highly colored troops, who make a really fine show, and who perhaps are soon to fight with “the Colossus of the North.” Certainly in another year many of them will have been laid low by brothers’ hands. The President was very pleased with the 29th, the crack regiment that helped him to power a year ago. He addressed a few words to them, and his hands trembled as he decorated their flag, pinning the cross at the top of the flag-staff, and attaching a long red streamer instead of the rosette that generally goes with this decoration. They made a fine showing, and therurales, under command of Rincon Gaillardo, on a beautiful horse, and in all the splendor of a yellow and silver-trimmedcharrocostume, were a picturesque and unforgetable sight. Theruraleswear great peaked hats, yellow-gray costumes made with the tightvaquerotrousers, short embroidered coats, and long, floating red-silk neckties—such a spot at which to aim! I suppose there were six or seven thousand troops in all. Everything was very spick and span—men, horses, and equipment. It was a testimony to Huerta’s military qualities that in the face of his manifold enemies he could put up such an exhibition. I sat by Corona, governor of the Federal District, and watched the glitteringdéfiléand listened to the stirring martial music. TheMexicans have probably the best brass in the world—le beau côté de la guerre. But what horrors all that glitter covers! Twice, when Huerta’s emotion was too much for him, he disappeared for acopita, which was to be had in a convenient back inclosure.
I started out with Kanya and Madame Simon to motor to Xochimilco, and before getting out of town we ran down a poorpelado. It was a horrible sensation as the big motor struck him. I jumped out and ran to him and found him lying on his poor face, a great stream of blood gushing from a wound in his head.
They wouldn’t let me touch him till a sergeant came. Then we turned him on his back, and I bound up his head as well as I could, with a handkerchief some one gave me, and with one of my long, purple veils. I took the motor—Kanya and Madame Simon are not used to blood—and went quickly to thecomisaríaand got a doctor. The chauffeur, whose fault it really was, was trembling like an aspen. When we got back, it seemed to me the wholepeonworld had turned out. Finally we got the victim laid on thecamilla; and now, I suppose, his poor soul is with its Maker. As the motor is Kanya’s, there will be no calling him up in court, and he will be very generous to the family. I am thankful, for various reasons, that it wasn’t the Embassy motor. I am awfully upset about it; to think of starting out on this beautiful afternoon and being the instrument to send that poor soul into eternity.
Later I went to see Madame Lefaivre. She is in bed with a “synovite,” and is trying to superintend her packing at the same time. I met von Hintze as I came out of the Legation. He informed me, with a wicked smile, that the review was to celebrate, or rather, commemorate, the mutiny of the celebrated Twenty-ninth against Madero last February. Well, I hope we won’t get into troublewith the powers that be. He addressed me, saying, “I hear you presided over the military commemoration of to-day.”
I said, “Good heavens!Whatcommemoration?” I knew nothing of it, and was only interested to see what sort of a showing the troops would make!
I write no more. I feel verytristewith the sight of that poor, bleeding head before my eyes and the memory of the impact of that body against the motor.
The poor man is still alive, but is going to die. The curious thing about the fatality (which is the only word for it) is that the man had just come from Querétaro, where he had sold a house for 4,200 pesos, which he had on him, and which were subsequently stolen from him at thepolicía. I noticed that when he was put on the stretcher his hand for a moment convulsively pressed his belt. I suppose moving him brought a momentary consciousness, and he thought weakly of his all. Doubtless he was the onlypeladoin town that had that oranyamount on him. The chauffeur is in jail, and, after all, Kanya will have a lot of trouble before the matter has been arranged.
The comic journals of this week have just appeared. All take a shot at Mr. Wilson for his recognition of Peru.Multicolorhas him, with a smile, handing theReconocimientoto Peru—a handsome young woman, representingla Revolución—while with the other hand he tears the map of Mexico from the wall.
The other day Nelson had a most interesting talk with Huerta. He said he realized that the existence of any government in Mexico without the good-will of the United States was difficult, if not impossible; and that he was deeply distressed that they did not take intoaccount the manifold difficulties under which he was laboring. It was at this interview that N. arranged the question of getting in arms. Huerta pointed out that all the requests N. had made him on behalf of the United States had been granted, and that the entire Federal army had been ordered to give special consideration to Americans. He said that he did not desire to criticize the government of the United States, but did wish to point out that if it defeats him in pacifying the country it will be forced into the difficult and thankless task of armed intervention. He continued that, on looking at the Mexican situation, one must not lose sight of the fact that Mexico is an Indian country (mentioning the difficultieswehad had with our Indians); that the Indian population here had been oppressed by the Spaniards and the landowning classes for centuries; that during the régime of Porfirio Diaz they had conceived the desire for material betterment, but were given no chance (the chances being for the few); that under the régime of Madero the revolutionary habit became general, as the sequel of unfulfillable promises. Also that the present task in Mexico was not to establish a democracy, but to establish order. He did not criticize the rebels of the north, but said they would never, in the event of victory, be able to establish a government in Mexico, and that one of their first acts would be to turn against the United States. From Maximilian to Huerta they have all known our friendship is essential.
The Benton case is going to make an untold amount of trouble, and the Mexican problem again comes into sight from the international point. A life is worth a life, perhaps, before God; but down here the murder of a wealthy British subject is of more account than that of some poor American or a thousand Mexicans. The best and most-to-be-believed version of Villa’s shooting of him is that,on Benton’s expostulating with him about the confiscation of his property in Chihuahua, he was shot, then and there. That is the reason they have been unwilling to let his wife have the body, which shows bullet-wounds in thewrong places. Villa claims he was shot after a court-martial had declared him guilty of an attempt on his, Villa’s life. You can imagine a wealthy Britisher attempting Villa’s life! All any foreigner up there wants is to be let alone. Whatever the true history may be, there is intense indignation on the frontier. Sir Cecil Spring-Rice has made formal protestations to the State Department. The English press is aroused, and it was told us by one correspondent that Sir Edward Grey will be called on to answer questions in Parliament. The fat is, at last, in the fire.
Dr. Ryan returned yesterday, more or less discouraged with his Washington trip. Everything for the rebels. Mr. Lind is so fascinated by them that I understand he is counseling direct financial aid—a loan. He hasn’t perceived the shape and color of events here, but has become obsessed by the idea of getting rid of Huerta. That and his hallucination about Villa cover the whole situation for him. What is to be done afterward if Huerta is squeezed out? That is what we all want to know—the afterward. One long vista of bloodshed and heartbreak and devastation presents itself.
Elim has gone to his first and, I hope, hislastbull-fight, with Dr. Ryan. He has clamored so to go that I finally yielded. I feel rather uncertain about it. There was a verychicdinner at von Hintze’s last night, for Sir Lionel, who leaves on Wednesday. I feel awfully sorry for him, but this Benton matter may be a justification, to a certain extent. He says he is only to be gone sixweeks—butquién sabe?Hohler has arrived—a good friend of ours. His are safe hands in which to leave matters.
Nelson is busy getting one of the American correspondents out of that terrible Belem. He has been put in there with all those vermin-covered people, with their typhoid and other germs, and must have had some bad hours.
Just a line this morning. Am getting ready for my American bridge party, with prizes, this afternoon. I have some lovely large Ravell photographs in good old frames.
Last night Patchin, the very agreeable youngTribunecorrespondent, came for dinner; we had the usual political conversation afterward. Clarence Hay read a poem of his (which I will later inclose) on the murder of young Gen. Gabriel Hernandez, last July, by Enrique Zepeda, then governor of the Federal district. Zepeda is called a “nephew” of Huerta, but is supposed to be his son. Zepeda gave a supper to which N. was invited; at the last moment, press of work made him unable to assist. The gods were with him that time, for, after the supper, at midnight, Zepeda, very muchallumé, went to thePenitenciaríawhere General Hernandez was imprisoned, took him out into thepatio, and shot him dead. His men then burned the body, over which they were thoughtful enough to first pour kerosene. Zepeda was put in jail for eight months, and is just out. When he isn’t intoxicated he is almost “American” in his ideas, it appears.
Last night we went to the station to see Sir Lionel off. I thought the cheers that went up as the train moved out of the station were for him, but it seems theywere for some departing bull-fighters, who are always first in the hearts of their countrymen. It appears that Sir Lionel is carrying with him documents, plans, maps, etc., with a collection of fully authenticated horrors committed by the rebels in their campaign. He may not get an opportunity of laying them before President Wilson, but he will enjoy showing them to Sir Cecil Spring-Rice.
Yesterday, from the governor’s palace in Chihuahua, Villa gave forth a statement about the killing of Benton. He was seated on a throne-like chair on a raised dais, in almost regal style, his followers surrounding him and doing him homage. The gubernatorial palace is fitted up with the greatest luxury, the houses of the wealthiest residents of the town having been sacked for the purpose. Consider the picture of that untutored, bloody-handed brigand, surrounded by his spoils and his “courtiers.” He has never heard how “uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,” but he will doubtless have some practical experience of it. He has contradicted himself repeatedly in his statements about the killing of Benton. The body, bearing its mute testimony of being riddled with bullets by a firing-squad, lies under a heap of refuse.