Part 17

Last night we received the news that Nelson’s father was indeed approaching his mortal end. This morning, at seven o’clock, after a sleepless night of “vanishings and finalities,” I went down-stairs in answer to a telephone call from Mr. Jennings, of the Hearst newspapers--who is always very nice about everything--to say that he had passed away peacefully at half past six. You know the days of death--how strained, how busy, how exhausting. The first thing I did was to go to Father Reis, at San Lorenzo, the San Sylvester of Mexico, and arrange for a requiem Mass on Saturday next, the 7th, to which we will invite the Cabinet, the _Corps Diplomatique_, and friends. Now I am at home again, in the mourning garments I wore for my precious brother.

_March 4th. Evening._

The house seems very quiet to-night. No more looking for telegrams. He is lying on his death-bed, looking very handsome, I know. The fatigue of the busy, aching day is on me. Many people have been here to-day to tender their sympathies. Hohler, the last, came in for tea after seeing Nelson, and has just gone.

Now the pouch is closed and everybody and everything has departed. Elim is lying on the floor in front of my little electric stove. The chords so strongly moved by the passing of my beloved brother are vibrating again, not alone because of death and parting, but because of life and the imperfections of its relationships. Nelson has accepted his father’s death, has pulled himself together, and is going on with his work, of which there is more than sufficient.

How true it is that men follow their destinies rather than their interests; a something innate and unalterable drives each one along. _Genio y figura hasta la sepultura_--a Spanish saying to the effect that mind, temperament, inclination, are unchanged by the circumstances of life, even to the grave.

_March 5th._

As I was reading last night, waiting for dinner to be served, a visitant, rather than a visitor, appeared in my drawing-room _incognito_--a simple “Mr. Johnson,” eager, intrepid, dynamic, efficient, unshaven!...

Young Terrazas, the son of the former great man of Chihuahua, of whom I wrote you when first he was captured by Villa at the taking of Chihuahua, several months ago, has not yet been released, and Villa threatens to execute him to-morrow if the half-million of ransom money is not forthcoming. The father has raised, half the sum, with the greatest difficulty, but, fearing some trick (and he has every reason for distrust), he won’t give the money till he receives his son. It appears the son has been horribly treated, several times hung up until he was nearly dead, then taken down and beaten. Young Hyde, of the _Mexican Herald_, said yesterday, apropos of like matters, that he had seen a man brought last night to Mexico City who had been tortured by the rebels; the soles of his feet were sliced off, his ears and tongue were gone, and there were other and nameless mutilations, but the victim was still living. The only difference between the rebels and the Federals is that the former have _carte blanche_ to torture, loot, and kill, and the Federals _must_ behave, to a certain extent, whether they want to or not. It is their existence that is at stake. Huerta, though he may not be troubled with scruples or morals other than those that expediency dictates, has his prestige before the world to uphold, and is sagacious enough to realize its value. The rebels go to pieces as soon as there is any question of government or order. Villa is without doubt a wonderful bandit, if bandits are what the United States are after. I see by the newspapers that Mr. Bryan is begging the Foreign Relations Committee to keep the Mexican situation off the floor of Congress....

One by one, the Mexicans to whom we have given asylum and safe-conducts to Vera Cruz, upon receiving their word of honor not to intrigue against the government, break that word and go over to the rebels. We have just seen the name of Dr. Silva (formerly governor of Michoacan, whom we had convoyed to Vera Cruz) as one of the somewhat tardy commission appointed by Carranza to investigate the murder of Benton.

We are aghast at the resignation of Mr. John Bassett Moore as counselor to the State Department. He is learned, perfectly understanding, and very experienced in a practical way about Latin-American affairs.

Yesterday the Minister for Foreign Affairs came to present his condolences to Nelson, and also to protest against the bringing up to the Embassy of our Gatling-guns and ammunition, which are still in the customs at Vera Cruz. There are seventy cases--and _not_ featherweights. He fell over the threshold, as he entered, and was picked up by Nelson and the butler. (It was his first visit. I don’t know if he is superstitious.) Huerta, as you may remember, in the famous bedchamber conversation at Chapultepec, had told Nelson he could get in all the guns he wanted, but to do it quietly. It is now all over the country and is making a row among Mexicans. In these days of grief and agitation, N. has happened to have an unusual amount of official work.

I have been busy all day with the list for to-morrow’s requiem Mass, and it is almost finished. My little Shorn Locks has gone up-stairs, and I am resting myself by writing these lines to you.

_March 7th._

We are waiting to start for the church. You will know all the thoughts and memories that fill my heart--that descent from fog-enveloped hills into the cold, gray town to lay away my precious brother. Now I am about to start through this shimmering, wondrous morning to the black-hung church. In the end it is all the same.

_March 9th._

I have not written since Saturday morning, before starting to the requiem Mass. I have been so busy seeing people and attending to hundreds of cards, telegrams, and notes. Huerta did not appear at the church, as people thought he might do. Instead, Portillo y Rojas, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, sat by us. All was beautiful and sad. Afterward we went into the sacristy to receive the condolences of our friends, as is the custom here. Though _he_ had never trod the threshold of our Mexican dwelling, it still seemed inexpressibly empty as we returned to it. I was glad of the heaped-up desk and the living decisions awaiting N.

Huerta was very nice on seeing him to-day, called him “_hijo_” (“son”), gave him an affectionate _abrazo_, and all his sympathy. Subsequently, Nelson had a long talk with him in a little private room of the Café Colon, that Huerta approached from the back entrance. Huerta is broad in his ideas and very careful as to any remarks about the United States, in Nelson’s presence. He always speaks of President Wilson as _Su Excelencia, el Señor Presidente Wilson_; there are no diatribes of any kind. The thing that has really got on his nerves is our keeping his 4,000 soldiers at Fort Bliss and expecting him to pay for them. He says Mexico is not at war with the United States; that the rebels are allowed to go and come as they please, and even to organize on the frontier. Why this discrimination? He says that our government thinks he is a bandit, like Villa, but that if Washington would be just it would see that he keeps his mouth shut, does his work as well as he can in the face of the terrible injustice done him, and asks nothing of any one except to be let alone; that he could have had the power in Mexico long before he took it. He repeated that many a person of influence had urged him to put an end to the disastrous Madero administration; that he is not in politics for personal ends; that his wants are few, his habits those of an old soldier. He always insists that he did not kill Madero....

As for that, one can talk for hours and hours with all sorts of people without finding any direct evidence of any direct participation by Huerta in the death of Madero. I have come to think it an inexcusable and fatal negligence on his part, incidental to the excitement and preoccupation of those tragic days. He was astute enough to have realized that Madero dead would be even more embarrassing to him than living, and should have insisted on asylum for him where alone it was to be had. There is, however, at times a strange suspension of mental processes in Mexico; with everything possible and yet nothing appearing probable, nobody ever foresees any situation.

I had a long call yesterday from Rincon Gaillardo, Marqués de Guadalupe, the smart, youngish general. Besides his military work, he is doing something that all the members of the upper class should co-operate in--_i. e._, helping to amalgamate the classes. His father, Duca de Regla and “Grand d’Espagne,” was the first man in society here to receive Diaz when he came to power. In fact, in his house Diaz met Doña Carmen. He told me that Diaz wasn’t then, by any means, the kind of man he is now, after thirty years of power and knowledge.

Last night, at midnight, Nelson, who had gone to sleep early, was called down-stairs by urgent telephone messages, to hear that the Texas Rangers had dashed over the border to Sabinas Hidalgo to recover the body of the pseudo-American cattle-rustler, Vergara. Whether the report is true is not known, but of course it is an act that would be resented by all classes here, and every class really hates us.

Villa, not being able to get the full amount of the ransom out of Terrazas _père_, has decided not to execute the son, but to take him with him when he besieges Torreon, and to place him wherever the bullets are thickest. The mad dance of death goes on, and I feel as if we were the fiddlers. Mr. Lind has so idealized the rebels in the north that he has come to think them capable of all the civic virtues, and he is obsessed by the old tradition of north beating south whenever there is an issue. His deduction is not borne out by facts, as in Mexico it is the south that has produced the greatest number of great men--“the governmental minds”; the south has come nearer to loving peace; the south has shown the greatest degree of prosperity and advancement. Vera Cruz is the poorest possible vantage-ground for a study of conditions; it is a clearing-house for malcontents of all kinds, mostly rebels, fleeing from the consequences of _some_ act against _some_ authority. My heart is heavy at the grim fatality that has permitted our policy to be shaped _from there_.

A dust-storm this afternoon, with all the color gone out of the air, and a few thick drops of cold rain. I left cards for an hour or two, then came home. I am glad to be here in my comfortable home, though I can’t help a shiver as I think of the horrors sanctioned, even encouraged, by us on every side. B. said once that the policy of the United States in lifting the embargo was to really give Mexicans a taste of civil war! There were some chirpings from Carranza the other day, to the effect that “I understand Villa, and Villa understands me.” Doubtless this is true; but they say that after their rare meetings the old gentleman has to go to bed for several days.

I have just been reading an article by Mr. Creelman on Lind. He has caught the spirit of Vera Cruz and described exactly Mr. Lind and his _ambiente_ there. He speaks of him as “Mr. Wilson’s cloistered agent.” “In a small, dark room with a red-tiled floor, opening on a shabby Mexican courtyard,” he adds, “in the rear of the American Consulate in Vera Cruz, sits John Lind, the personal representative of the President of the United States, as he has sat for seven months, smilingly watching and waiting, while Mexico and her 15,000,000 men, women, and children have moved to ruin.” It makes me “creepy,” it is so true!

_March 10th, 5_ P.M.

I am back from saying good-by to dear Madame Lefaivre; she starts off to-night with swollen foot and leg, and I am very much fearing the long voyage for her. With her usual good nature she had had her paint-box unpacked and was sitting on a trunk, putting some restoring touches to a Madonna of most uncertain value, just discovered by the German consul-general. The Lefaivres have a _pied-à-terre_ in Paris, with beautiful things inherited from Madame Lefaivre’s father. Lefaivre has decided to go, if the heavens fall, and, as we laughingly told him, if his wife falls, too, for that matter. I besought him to delay, for political reasons, but the long sojourn is on his nerves, and he has a bad throat. I am sorry to see them go, on my own account--such good friends. I am writing this, expecting Hohler and a woman special correspondent for tea. Burnside tells me she has been in many storm-centers and is bright and discreet.

_March 11th._

N. is pretty hot about the arms which are in the customs here in Mexico City. The officials keep him running from one to the other; they don’t really want us to have them, though the French, German, English, and Japanese legations have long since been well stocked. I came down-stairs to hunt for literature, about four o’clock this morning, and heard the “Pretorian guard” in the parterre, laughing and joking, as guards in all ages have done. There are unlimited cigarettes and limited _pulque_ to make their watch easy.

_Later._

We hear that Mr. Lind is having parleyings with the Zapatistas! If he is going to dream this dream and pass it on to his friends in Washington, they will all have the most awful nightmare ever visited on dreamers. Zapata has been the terror of every President--Diaz, de la Barra, Madero, and Huerta--for nearly five years. His crimes and depredations are committed under the banner of “Land for the People,” and there has been a certain consistency about his proceedings, always “agin the government”; but that he has, after these years of bloodshed, rapine, and loot, rendered conditions more tolerable for any except the rapers and looters, is most debatable. I once saw some _living_ remains brought to the Red Cross after one of his acts at Tres Marias, about fifty kilometers from here. A train was attacked, looted, oil was poured on the passengers, and the train was set on fire. The doctors who went to the station to get the remains out of the train say the sight was unforgetable. The name Zapata has now become a symbol of brigandage, and many operate under it. No general sent into Morelos has ever brought order. For instance, one was sent to Michoacan with two thousand cavalry, to put down a small force of several hundred brigands; though he had the grazing free, he charged the government 50 centavos per horse! It became a vicious, but profitable, circle, as you can well see.

There has been a great break in exchange. The peso, which was two to one when we first came to Mexico, and lately has been three to one, or nearly that, broke Saturday, and went to four and a half to the gold dollar. Various explanations. Huerta has been threatening to found a bank of his own if the bankers did not do something for him. Some say that the bankers brought on the break in exchange to scare him, and others that Huerta proposed establishing a bank of his own to scare them! Anyway, exchange broke. During his conversation with the bankers, apropos of the loans they were loath to give him, Huerta is said to have jocularly remarked that there were trees enough in Chapultepec Park to hang them all on without crowding. Those old cypresses have witnessed a good deal, but a consignment of indigenous and foreign bankers hanging with the long, gray moss from their branches would have savored of novelty.

A gusty day on this usually wind-still plateau. The pale yellow streamers of the banana-tree are torn to tatters, but one must forgive an occasional vagary in this climate, unsurpassed in its steady beauty, and which has the further recommendation that one can count on wearing one’s winter clothes in summer, and one’s summer clothes in winter....

Disorder here has been most prejudicial to French interests. Since Maximilian’s time, especially, they have had the habit of investments in Mexico. Now billions of francs are unproductive. It will be a fine bill poor old Uncle Sam will get from _la belle_ France!

_7.30._

My callers are all gone, and Elim is playing bull-fight with a red-velvet square from one of the tables, talking Spanish to himself and making every gesture of his game true to life. I am thankful the bull-fight season is over. No more doleful-faced servants of a Sunday, heartbroken, like children, because they are not swelling the gay throng passing the Embassy to the Ring, and making me feel like a wretch because they aren’t _all_ there.

Nelson went down to try to look at his guns, presumably at the customs. At least, he is as near as that, with ears full of promises.

A telegram from Aunt L. says she starts up from the Hot Country in a day or two. I am having the lovely corner room next mine made ready for her.

_March 14th._

We learn that the guns and ammunition supposed to be got in _quietly_, as Embassy stores, bore on the invoice the name of the colonel in charge at the Springfield arsenal. Hence these tears! They are now reposing in a deserted church near the military station, outside the city. There would have been no trouble had they been sent as Nelson requested. Now endless runnings are necessary.

My house is overrun with children. They tell me it looks like an orphanage, at the back. Such nice, little, bright-eyed Aztecs. In this stricken land how can I deny shelter and food to little children who are, so to speak, washed up at my door? The cook has three, the washerwoman two, and the chambermaid is going to present us with another. _La recherche de la paternité_ shows the responsible person to have been our quiet, trusty messenger, Pablo. I will deduct ten pesos a month from his wages for six months--a salutary _proclama_ to everybody else of my sentiments. I will send her to the hospital, and she will soon be back. The washerwoman has just borrowed ten dollars to change her lodgings, as the _leva_ are after her husband. I sometimes feel like one of the early friars. Nothing that is Indian is foreign to me.

Last night Dr. Ryan was telling us, after dinner (Patchin, who is returning to New York, also was here), of the killing of Gustavo Madero, of which he was an eye-witness and concerning whose death so many versions are current. Shortly after one o’clock, on going back to the Ciudadela, where Felix Diaz was quartered, to attend to wounded who had been brought in, Ryan encountered Madero being brought out with a guard of twelve men. Diaz didn’t want him there, saying he was not his prisoner, but Huerta’s. Madero was gesticulating in a hysterical manner and waving his arms in the air. As Ryan afterward learned, he was offering the guards money if they would see him safely out of town. His nerve seemed suddenly to leave him and he began to run, whereupon one of the guards fired, hitting him in the eye as he turned his head to look behind him. The other eye was glass. This gave rise afterward to stories that his eyes had been gouged out. On his continuing to run, the whole guard fired at him, and he fell, riddled with bullets. Ryan afterward examined the body and found ten or twelve wounds. It all took place in the little park before the Ciudadela. This is the authentic account, and at least we know that Huerta was in no way responsible for _his_ death. Doubtless had Gustavo kept his nerve, instead of trying to run, he would be alive to-day. He was an awful bounder, but had qualities of vitality, intellect, and a certain animal magnetism. His is the famous remark that “out of a family of clever men, the only fool was chosen for President.” He wasn’t more than thirty-five or thirty-six, and _loved_ life. He had a power of quick repartee, a glancing eye, and hands seeking treasure. Well, that is all over, but it remains part of the unalterable history of Mexico. Poor, revolution-ridden Mexico! Everybody here has been one kind, generally two kinds, of revolutionist. Huerta served under Diaz, was gotten rid of, and served under Madero, whom he got rid of. Orozco was the friend of Madero against Diaz, then against Madero under Huerta, and so it goes. The history of almost every public man shows like changes of banner, and as for revolution _fomenters_, the United States have certainly played a consistent and persistent rôle for three years, outdone by no individual or faction _here_.

I shall never forget my first experience of Latin-American revolutions. It was a beautiful May afternoon, now nearly three years ago, when a howling mob of several thousands went through the streets, shouting “Death to Diaz!” finally collecting in the _Zocalo_ under the windows of the apartment in the Palacio Nacional, where Diaz was lying with a badly ulcerated tooth and jaw. Two days later, in the wee, small hours, the once-feared, adored, all-powerful, great man of Mexico, with the immediate members of his family, was smuggled on board a train secretly provided by Mr. Brown, under the escort of Huerta, and was taken to Vera Cruz. From there he embarked on the _Ypiranga_, to join other kings in exile, having said good-by, probably forever, to the land of his triumphs and glories. It was touch and go with _him_ during those days, and he had created modern Mexico out of blood and chaos.

When Madero is put out--in the almost automatic fashion by which governments are overthrown in Latin America--we refuse to recognize the man who, by armed force, put him out, as he himself got in. Put a revolution in the slot and out comes a President. We isolate Huerta; we cut him off completely from the help of other nations; we destroy his credit; we tell him he _must_ go, because we tolerate no man coming to power through bloodshed. Huerta, it appears, was amusing but unquotable about the recognition of Peru, saying in part that both he and Benavides were military leaders, and that both executed a _coup d’état_ resulting in the overthrow of the existing government. In Peru the _révolution du palais_ cost the lives of eight functionaries, among them the Ministers of War and Marine, the exile of President Billinghurst, and ended in the setting up of a junta government. As for the Peruvians themselves, they are said to have had the vertigo, they were recognized so suddenly--and so unexpectedly.