Part 9

N. had been driving with the President for an hour before lunch, and had asked him for the release of three Americans, long imprisoned here. Huerta assured him that they should all be set free, whether guilty or not, just to please him; and at six o’clock this evening the first instalment arrived at the Embassy, delivered into N.’s hands by two Federal officers. And so the work goes on. Huerta is very _prime-sautier_. Once before when N. had asked for the punishment of some soldiers, convicted of deeds of violence against some Americans, he responded promptly: “Who are they? Where are they? They shall all be killed!” N. protested, aghast at the possibly innocent untried sheep suffering with the guilty goats. Anything, however, to please N. in particular and the United States in general. There is really nothing that the United States couldn’t do with Huerta if they would. All concessions, all claims, pending through decades, could be satisfactorily adjusted. As it is, Huerta keeps on at his own gait, not allowing himself to be rushed or hustled by the more definite energy of the _Republica del Norte_, playing the game of masterly inaction and scoring, for the time being, on Washington. After all, you don’t get any “forwarder” by waving copies of the constitution in a dictator’s face. He ignores his relations with the United States, never mentioned us in his speech to Congress, and probably put the ultimatum into the waste-paper basket. I am beginning to think that, in the elegant phrasing of my native land, he is “some” dictator! The New York _Sun_ speaks admiringly of the way in which he continues to treat Mr. O’Shaughnessy with a friendly and delicate consideration.

_December 20th._

Red Cross all the morning. It is wonderful, the stoicism of the Indian, where pain, hard pain, is concerned. A rather amusing incident occurred to-day. I asked a man who had had his hand shot off if it were a “Zapatista,” “Constitucionalista,” or “Huertista” deed. He raised the other paw to his forehead, answering with great exactitude, “No, señora, Vasquista.” I thought the Vasquista movement had long since died the usual unnatural death.

I see that the new Austrian minister to Mexico has arrived in the United States _en route_ for his post, and the new Italian minister arrives at Vera Cruz to-morrow, after a wait of three weeks at Havana, for “_our_ health,” not his. As is the custom, some one from the protocol has gone to meet him and bring him up to the city. The European Powers evidently mean to carry out their program independent of “watchful waiting.” It will be rather hard on our government when two more representatives of great nations present their credentials to the “Dictator.”

People say it is a pity that Huerta did not, on assuming power, declare formally that he would have a dictatorship for two years, until such time as the country was pacified, leaving out entirely any question of elections. However, that is “hindsight.” Apropos of Villa, I see one of the United States papers chirps: “Is a new sun rising in Mexico?” I have seen several rise and set on the reddest horizon imaginable, in my short Mexican day. As a butcher Villa cannot possibly be surpassed. But “who loves the sword shall perish by the sword,” is always true here. I spent the morning at the Red Cross, washing and bandaging dirty, forlorn Aztecs. This year they have the beds made according to our ideas. Last year they used the blankets next the body and the sheet on top--it “looked better.”

Calls and card-leaving all the afternoon, with Mme. Lefaivre, fortunately. We generally do the “bores and chores” together, chatting between addresses. Now it is half past nine. I am looking over one of Gamboa’s books. He was Minister for Foreign Affairs last August when Mr. Lind arrived, and drafted the famous and entirely creditable answer to “Mr. Confidential Agent.” He is sometimes called the Zola of Mexico.

_December 21st._

Just home from Mass. I go to the Sagrado Corazon near by, built mostly with money given by the _muy piadoso_ Lascurain, a man of the highest integrity and large personal fortune. For a long time he was Minister for Foreign Affairs, and for twenty minutes (as I wrote you), President, between Madero and Huerta.

I am now writing, veiled and gloved, waiting for the picnickers to assemble here. About ten or twelve of us are going to Mme. Bonilla’s lovely garden in Tacubaya.

_Evening._

We had a peaceful _dia de campo_ in the old garden, the strange Mexican magic making beautiful things more beautiful and transfiguring all that is ordinary. Mme. B., an Englishwoman and, incidentally, a _cordon bleu_, was sitting under a yellow rose-bush when we got there--looking very attractive in white lace and beating up the sort of sauce you make yourself, if you can, or go without, in Mexico. We partook of an excellent combined luncheon--we all brought something--under an arbor of honeysuckle and roses, with true Mexican lack of hurry. Afterward we strolled over the near hillside in its garb of maguey and pepper trees. The volcanoes looked inexpressibly white and beautiful in their aloofness from our troubles, though the hills at their base are the stamping-grounds of hordes of Zapatistas, and often the smoke of fires indicates their exact whereabouts. With true Anglo-Saxon disregard of native warnings, we sat for a long time under a large pepper-tree, _arbol de Peru_, which, the Indians say, gives headache, unable to take our eyes from the soft outline of the city, swimming in the warm afternoon light. Countless domes and church spires were cut softly into the haze, the lake of Texcoco was a plaque of silver far beyond, and above all were the matchless volcanoes. To complete the first plan of the picture, an old Indian, a _tlachiquero_, was quietly drawing the juice from some near-by maguey plants, after the fashion of centuries, with a sort of gourd-like instrument which he worked by sucking in some primitive but practical fashion. It looks to the uninitiated as if the Indian were drinking it, but its final destination is a pigskin slung athwart his back. After tea in the garden, on which a mystical blue light had fallen, we motored home in the quickly falling dusk, the thin, chilly air penetrating us like a knife.

Advices have come that the rebels are again attacking Tampico. They evidently got what they wanted at the last attack--four cartloads of dynamite and lots of rolling stock, and are in a position to give a tidy bit of testimony as to the value of the Constitutionalist principles.

Zapata had a narrow escape the day before yesterday. He was surprised by Federals at Nenapepa, as he and his followers were sitting around their camp-fire. He barely escaped in the skirmish, leaving behind him his precious hat, a big, black, Charro hat, wide-brimmed and pointed crown, loaded with silver trimmings. It was brought to town by Colonel Gutierrez, greatly chagrined because he could not also bring what had been _under_ the hat. The image of Zapata on his charger, dashing through fields of maguey, up and down _barrancas_, is very characteristic of the brigand life so much the thing in Mexico just now.

The new loan of 20,000,000 pesos has been underwritten by a lot of foreign bankers, principally French, I think, though some in New York are supposed to be “involved.” It will keep things going for another couple of months or so, and then the “sorrows of Huerta” will begin again. As it is, he can continue for that length of time to play with the kindergarten class at Washington. A nice cable came from Mr. Bryan saying that the State Department was much gratified at N.’s being able to procure the release of the American prisoners I mentioned.

_December 24th._

The banks here have been given legal holidays from the 22d of this month to the 2d of January. That is _one_ way of solving the banking problem. It is supposed to be for the safeguarding of the depositors, who, however, are crowding the streets leading to the closed banks, wild to get _out_ what they put _in_, to confide it to the more trust-inspiring stocking.

To-day is Huerta’s saint’s day, _Sanctus Victorianus_. There was a reception of the gentlemen of the Diplomatic Corps at the Palace. The doyen made an address dealing in safe but pleasant generalities, and Huerta replied, protesting that he had but one idea, the pacification of Mexico. The German minister is away to investigate the murder of one of his nationals.

I again visited the tuberculosis hospital this morning and was interested to see patients risen from the dead, so to speak, and walking once more with the living. The climate here is ideal for cures. I took some Christmas packages to the Red Cross, then went to the Alameda. On three sides of the Park the Christmas booths are set out--_puestos_, they are called. The Indians bring their beautiful and fragile potteries from long distances, and endless varieties of baskets and toys, and last, but not least, their relatives, so that family life in all its details can be studied. They are selling, cooking, dressing, saying rosaries, examining little black heads for the ever-present visitants--a familiar Mexican occupation at all seasons. The smell of Christmas trees and greens, banked along the street, mingles with odors of peanuts and peppers, _enchiladas_, and all sorts of pungent foods.

The _cohetes_ are going off as I write. They are noisy crackers, making sounds like rifle-fire. Their use is an old custom that is observed for the nine days before Christmas; but in these troublous days one is led to think rather of pistols than of the advent of the “Son of Peace.”

A very nice letter came from Admiral Cradock, saying that he has just got back to Vera Cruz from the Tampico fray, the sojourn enlivened by some “good tarpon-fishing.” He will not be able to return here for Christmas, as he intended, but hopes we will soon run down to Vera Cruz and be dined and saluted by him on the _Suffolk_.

There are a thousand things to do about Christmas. We trimmed the tree last night and it is locked away in the big _salon_, presumably safe from infant eyes.

FOOTNOTE:

[7] Live-oak--Mexican cypress.

IX

Christmas--The strangling of a country--de la Barra--The “_mañana_ game”--Spanish in five phrases--Señora Huerta’s great diamond--The peon’s desperate situation in a land torn by revolutions.

LA NOCHE BUENA, _Christmas, 1913_.

These Christmas hours I have been dwelling on memories of my precious brother on his bed of pain throughout these days last year, his _Tod und Verklärung_.... But I would call no one back, once through “the door.”

* * * * *

The tree was a great success--though in the morning, when Feliz was hanging the last festoons of green about the room, he crashed down, step-ladder and all, on the side where the toys were piled. There had to be swift runnings down-town to repair the damage. I was so annoyed that I didn’t even ask if he were hurt, and he seemed too aghast at the occurrence to feel any pain. It was very pleasant to have the small remnant of the faithful under one roof. The children played with their toys and we grown-ups exchanged our little offerings and greetings and everything seemed very cozy and safe--just as if we weren’t “riding a revolution.”

Clarence Hay brought N. a bottle of cognac, inscribed: “Nelson from Victoriano,” and a like-sized bottle of grape-juice: “Nelson from W. J. B.” I leave you to guess which we opened.

After the departure of the families, a few of the lone ones stayed--Seeger, Clarence H., Ryan--and we talked until a late hour of the strange adventures we are all living through in this land of endless possibilities.

To-day, after Mass, we drove to the beautiful little Automobile Club, where Seeger gave a luncheon for us, the Tozzers, Clarence Hay, and the Evans. The club is built in the new part of the Park, on the edge of one of the little artificial lakes made when Limantour laid out the Park as it now is. We sat on the terrace toward the high hill of the castle, which breaks the round horizon of the magic hills. The air was soft, yet bright, the moss-hung old ahuehuetes, symbols of grief and mourning, had joyous, burnished, filmy outlines, and the volcanoes were flinging white clouds about their lovely heads. It was one of God’s own days--as days here usually are.

_December 26th._

I am sending you a few _Heralds_, with their Christmas(?) head-lines: “Vera Cruz Rebels Suffer Defeat in Fierce Fight”; “Rebels Ordered to Execute All Prisoners”; “Town of Tapono Burnt to Ground by Federals”; “Only Twelve Killed when Military Train Dynamited”; “Fierce Fighting at Concepcion del Oro.” They make one feel that “watchful waiting” in Washington bids fair to be _woeful_ waiting south of the Rio Grande.

Elim was worn out by the Christmas festivities and was dreadfully naughty. The season of _piñatas_ is on, and he has a great number of invitations--unfortunately. At the _piñatas_ a large, grotesque head and figure, dressed in tissue-paper and tinsel, depending from the ceiling, is the center of attention. The dress conceals a huge, but fragile, earthern jar (_olla_) filled with nuts, fruits, candies, and small toys. Each child is blindfolded and allowed to have a whack at it with a big stick. When it is finally broken the contents spill everywhere and are scrambled for. It seems a messy sort of game, but it is time-hallowed here.

I sent Mr. Lind a telegram yesterday: “Affectionate greetings; best wishes.” He might as well, or better, be in Minneapolis. Nobody ever speaks of him and Vera Cruz is like the grave as far as the government here is concerned. Mexico is going to her downfall, and it seems as if she must be nearly there. It is very sad to us, who are on the ground. I never witnessed, before, the strangling of a country, and it is a horrible sight. The new Chilian _chargé_ came in a day or two ago: he has been in Central America for twenty years, and says this is his thirty-second revolution.

I caught sight of Mr. Creel-Terrazas in his carriage, yesterday. His face was sunk and ashen, and he was huddled up in one corner of the coupé, changed indeed from the hale, rosy, white-haired man of a few weeks ago. He and his family have lost everything at the hands of the rebels. The family owned nearly the whole of Chihuahua, and though stories--probably true--are told of how, generations ago, they came into possession of the vast property, driving the Indians from their holdings into the desert, it does not change the present fact that they are ruined, and the country with them; the “judgment” upon them, if judgment it be, involving countless others.

The whole question up there seems to reduce itself very simply to a matter of grabbing from those in possession by those desirous of possession. We are all waiting for the inevitable falling out of Carranza and Villa. The hero in any Mexican drama is never more than a few months removed from being the villain. The actors alone change; never the horrid plot of blood, treachery, and devastation.

You saw that de la Barra actually reached Tokio. I was sure he would, having a way of finishing what he begins. Five sets of ambassadors have been appointed to set out for Japan to return the nation’s thanks for the special embassy sent to the splendid 1910 _Centenario_--that apogee of Mexico’s national and international life. The last two were the murdered Gustavo Madero, who couldn’t tear himself away because of the golden harvests to be reaped at home; and Felix Diaz, because of his political aspirations.

You remember de la Barra, from Paris, an agreeable, adroit man of the world, who proved himself, during the five months that he was President _ad interim_, a very good tight-rope walker on a decidedly slack rope. The country was still enjoying the Diaz prestige, and he found himself pretty generally acceptable to both the old and the new régime. He has always been very catholic. He became, later, rather a source of anxiety to Madero, who feared his popularity, though his success at the time was largely a matter of allowing all really important questions to stand over for his successor. Looking back on it all now, I see him in a very favorable light: a careful, hard-working, skilful politician, with a taste for peace and order which is not always inherent in the Mexican breast, and a safe man to fall back on to conduct the affairs of his country with dignity. When in doubt, “take” de la Barra.

The _mañana_ (to-morrow) game is the best played down here; it is never actually subversive; and, as exemplified by Huerta’s attitude _vis-à-vis_ the United States, it is very effective against a nation that wants things done, and done at once. I find that the Mexicans are constantly studying us, which is more than we do in regard to them. They look upon us as something immensely powerful, that is able and, perhaps, if displeased, willing, to crush them. They are infinitely more subtle than we, and their efforts tend more to keeping out of our clutches than to imitating us. Our institutions, all our ways of procedure, are endlessly wearisome to them, and correspond to nothing they consider profitable and agreeable. _Suum cuique_.

I have discovered that there are five Spanish phrases quite sufficient for all uses, in the length and breadth of this fair land: “_Mañana_” (“to-morrow”). “_Quién sabe?_” (“who knows?”). “_No hay_” (“there isn’t any”). “_No le hace_” (“it doesn’t matter”). “_Ya se fué_” (“he has gone”). This last I add as, whenever any one tries to get hold of anybody, “_Ya se fué_” is the answer. I have given this small but complete phrase-book to many, who find it meets almost any situation or exigency.

No news from Mr. Lind for some time. Doubtless Christmas, as spent on the Mexican coast, alternating damp heat and north winds, is a poor affair compared with the _tannenbaums_ and skating and general cheer of _both_ his Fatherlands. Some Western editor suggests that, on his return, he will be in a position to publish a “comprehensive blank book” on the Mexican situation. I have broken many a lance for him; but when one of the foreign ministers said to me yesterday, “your Scandinavian friend is anti-Latin, anti-British and anti-Catholic,” I could but retire from the field of battle.

Elim is always followed by his two dogs--Micko, the melancholy Irish terrier, and Juanita. The white bull pup becomes more destructive and demonstrative every day. Yesterday when she seemed not quite her awful self one of the servants suggested hanging a string of lemons around her neck. I remember having seen disconsolate dogs wearing necklaces of lemons, but thought children had placed them there. It appears, however, that such a necklace is in high favor among the Indians as a cure for distemper.

I hear that the government intends to lease the Tehuantepec Railroad to Pearson’s Oil Company for twenty-five years, for 25,000,000 pesos. Huerta is depicted in one of the papers as knocking at the European pawnshop with the Isthmus under his arm.

_December 29th._

I inclose a delightful letter from Mrs. J. W. Foster, who always keeps so apace with events. Of course the Fosters read the Mexican news with interest and understanding, as they were here during the years Diaz was trying to establish himself in spite of the Mexican people, and not in spite of _us_ as well, fortunately for Diaz and them....

I send a cartoon from _Novedades_, representing Huerta paralyzed. One nurse asks the other how he is, and she answers: “No change. He can’t move yet.”

[Illustration: PARALYZED

“HOW IS HE?”

“NO CHANGE, HE CAN’T MOVE YET.”]

Well, some one has got to “move” if this country and all national and foreign interests are to be saved. I cannot see that a new revolutionary party in the north, whose sole virtue, up to now, is that it is “agin” the government, can do it. Besides which it represents only another pack of hungry wolves to be let loose upon the country. I hear that Carranza has a brother, Jesus, who possesses the family vice of greed to a great degree, and is about to “operate” on the Isthmus. There are predictions that it will look as though the locusts had been over it, if he really gets a “chance.”

Four clerks are sleeping in the house, and the work is going on apace. Cambiaggo, the new Italian minister, was received yesterday with all honors emphasized. Oh, that _Fata Morgana_ of recognition! The Belgian minister has got his leave and has just been here to say good-by. He has already the European eye so familiar to those left behind. He has had a very cordial telegram from a big banker in New York, and wondered if the banker expected to put him up. I said, “If you are met by an automobile and servants in New York, you can be pretty sure you are to stay with him; otherwise you’d better rough it at the Ritz.”

Various ideas are advanced by diplomats here as to the possibility of some arrangement being made through a third party, some one of the great Powers; ... some way by which the elections could really be held, and Huerta, if really elected, allowed to remain. N. can’t do it, nor Mr. Lind, nor any American. The national pride on both sides is too compromised to admit of anything but a third power stepping in and “doing the trick.”

There is talk of a big English loan, guaranteed by the customs, at the same time allowing a certain amount of these to be freed--a couple of millions of pesos a month for the expenses of the government. There is a general twitching of international fingers, a longing to remedy our bungling. May, with his face toward Europe, sees everything rose-colored. He predicts that we shall be here until the next elections, the first Sunday in July. There is a great deal of speculation as to Huerta’s personal fortune, but no one knows whether he is rich or poor. His new house in San Cosme is, I hear, a cheap affair. Mme. Huerta wore, when she received, one large, very magnificent diamond depending from her throat. But why shouldn’t she have it?

_Evening._

No political excitements these last days; only a monotonous and horrid record of grab by the temporarily strong from the always weak. A “good deed” in Chihuahua is one that transfers any valuable property to a rebel. Those palatial residences, the homes of prosperity and wealth for generations, have all changed hands during the last three weeks, which, however, does not mean that the much-talked-of _peon_ has benefited in the slightest degree. It simply means that a few men, some of whom can neither read nor write, now hold what used to be in the possession of a few men who _could_ read and write. The land in Mexico has always been in the hands of a few thousand individuals, and the _peon_ is always exploited, no matter what the battle-cry. A kind paternalism on the part of some of the upper class _hacendados_, who leave him more or less to the mercies of the Spanish _administrador_, has been his best fate.