MRS. NELSON O’SHAUGHNESSY

A DIPLOMAT’S WIFE
IN MEXICO

BY
EDITH O’SHAUGHNESSY
[MRS. NELSON O’SHAUGHNESSY]

Letters from the American Embassy at Mexico
City, covering the dramatic period between
October 8th, 1913, and the breaking off of diplomatic
relations on April 23rd, 1914, together
with an account of the occupation of Vera Cruz

ILLUSTRATED

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON

A Diplomat’s Wife in Mexico

Copyright, 1916, by Harper & Brothers
Printed in the United States of America
Published June, 1916
H-Q

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

FOREWORD

Though the events recorded in these letters are known to all the world, they may, perhaps, take on another significance seen through the eyes of one who has loved Mexico for her beauty and wept for the disasters that have overtaken her.

The time has not yet come for a full history of the events leading to the breaking off of diplomatic relations, but after much pondering I have decided to publish these letters. They were written to my mother, day by day, after a habit of long years, to console both her and me for separation, and without any thought of publication. In spite of necessary omissions they may throw some light on the difficulties of the Mexican situation, which we have made our own, and which every American wishes to see solved in a way that will testify to the persistence of those qualities that made us great.

Victoriano Huerta, the central figure of these letters, is dead, and many with him; but the tragedy of the nation still goes on. So above all thought of party or personal expediency, and because of vital issues yet to be decided, I offer this simple chronicle. The Mexican book is still open, the pages just turned are crumpled and ensanguined. New and momentous chapters for us and for Mexico are being written and I should be forever regretful had courage failed me to write my little share.

It is two years ago to-day that diplomatic relations were broken off between the two republics. It is more than two years since the Constitutionalists under Villa and Carranza have had our full moral and material support. The results have been a punitive expedition sent into Mexico to capture Villa, and very uncertain and unsatisfactory relations with the hostile de facto government under Carranza. As for beautiful Mexico—her industries are dead, her lands laid waste, her sons and daughters are in exile, or starving in the “treasure-house of the world.” What I here give forth—and the giving is not easy—I offer only with a trembling hope of service.

Edith Coues O’Shaughnessy.

The Plaza,
New York, April 23, 1916.

A DIPLOMAT’S WIFE IN
MEXICO

A DIPLOMAT’S WIFE IN
MEXICO

I

Arrival at Vera Cruz—Mr. Lind—Visits to the battle-ships—We reach Mexico City—Huerta’s second coup d’état—A six-hour Reception at the Chinese Legation. An all-afternoon hunt for the Dictator.

Mexico City, October 8, 1913.

Precious Mother,—You will have seen by the cable flashes in your Paris Herald that Elim and I arrived at Vera Cruz yesterday, safe and sound, and departed the same evening for the heights in the presidential car, put at N.’s disposal the night before, for the trip from Mexico City and back.

It was a long day. Everybody was up at dawn, walking about the deck or hanging over the sides of the ship, all a bit restless at the thought of the Mexican uncertainties which we were so soon to share. About six o’clock we began to distinguish the spires of Vera Cruz—the peak of Orizaba, rivaling the loveliest pictures of Fujiyama, showing its opal head above a bank of dark, sultry clouds. A hot, gray sea was breaking over the reefs at the mouth of the harbor, and the same lonely palms stood on the Isla de los Sacrificios. As we passed between the two gray battle-ships just outside the harbor, I could not help a little shudder at the note of warning they struck. The dock was crowded with the well-remembered, picturesque, white-clad Indians, with high-peaked hats, who suggested immediately the changeless mystery of Mexico.

Fortunately, the weather being overcast, the intense heat was a little modified, though it was no day to set off looks or clothes; every one’s face and garments were gray and limp. N. arrived just as we were getting up to the docks, his train having been late. His face was the last we discovered among various officials coming and going during the irksome pulling in of the Espagne. As you know, we had been separated for eight months. I was the first passenger to leave the ship, and as we had no customs formalities we passed quickly through the damp, boiler-like shed where the little tricks of the aduana (the customs) were about to be performed on hot and excited voyagers. Then we got into a rickety cab, its back flap flying to the breeze, and drove across the sandy, scrubby stretch to the Hotel Terminus, where the Linds are living. The fascinating little pink houses with their coquettish green balconies were as of yore, but the tropical glint and glitter seemed gone from everything under the hot, gray sky.

The Hotel Terminus is the same old horror of flies, fleas, and general shiftlessness, though the broad, high corridor up-stairs, giving on to the sleeping-rooms, was fairly clean. We were finally shown into a large room, where Mrs. Lind was waiting. After our greetings I sank into a rocking-chair, and a big electric fan, in conjunction with the breeze from the window looking toward the sea, somewhat restored my energy.

In a few minutes Mr. Lind appeared, in shirt-sleeves and a panama fan. (I suppose he wore other articles, but these are what I remember.) I was greatly struck by him. He is evidently a man of many natural abilities and much magnetism—tall, gaunt, sandy-haired, unmistakably Scandinavian, with the blue, blue eyes of the Norsemen set under level brows. I imagine fire behind that northern façade. The conversation opened with conciliatory and smiling remarks, after the manner of experts in any situation, meeting for the first time. I found him very agreeable. There was even something Lincolnesque in his look and bearing, but his entry on the Mexican stage was certainly abrupt, and the setting completely unfamiliar, so some very natural barking of the shins has been the result. Looking at him, I couldn’t help thinking of “the pouring of new wine into old bottles” and all the rest of the scriptural text.

The Linds, who have a handsome house in Minneapolis and another “on the lake,” are accepting things as they find them, with an air of “all for the good of the United States and the chastising of Mexico.” But all the same, it is a hardship to inhabit the Terminus and then to tramp three times a day through the broiling streets to another hotel for very questionable food.

The Hotel Diligencias, where we lunched, is deeper in the town, has fewer flies, is a little cleaner, and is very much hotter. Once away from the sea breeze you might as well be in Hades as in Vera Cruz on a day like yesterday. The Diligencias is the hotel whereon De Chambrun hangs the famous story of his wife’s maid going back for something that had been forgotten, and finding that the servants had whisked the sheets off the beds and were ironing them out on the floor for the next comers—sans autre forme de procès! We had a pleasant lunch, with the familiar menu of Huachinango, pollo y arroz, alligator pears and tepid ice-cream, consumed to the accompaniment of suppositions regarding Mexican politics. Then we plunged into the deserted, burning street (all decent folk were at the business of the siesta) and back to the Hotel Terminus, feeling much the worse for wear.

At four o’clock Lieutenant Courts came to conduct us to the flag-ship Louisiana, and we asked Hohler, the British chargé who was in Vera Cruz awaiting the arrival of Sir Lionel and Lady Carden, to go with us. Admiral Fletcher and his officers were waiting for Nelson at the gangway and the band was playing the beloved air as we went up. We were there about an hour, which seemed all too short, sitting on the spotless deck, where a delightful breeze was blowing. The time passed in eager conversation about the situation with Admiral Fletcher, a charming and clever man, with dark, earnest eyes and serious, intent expression, all set off by the most immaculate white attire. Champagne was poured, healths were drunk, and Elim was taken over the ship, departing with one of the junior officers, after a glance at me betokening the magnitude of the adventure. We left, after warm handshakings and good wishes, N. receiving his eleven salutes as we went away. The tears came to my eyes. “Oh, land of mine!” I thought. “Oh, brotherhood!” But Elim asked, in a frightened tone, “Why are they shooting at papa?”

We then went over to the New Hampshire to call on Captain Oliver. More health-drinking and stirring of friendly feelings. Pictures of the Holy Father and prelates I have known gave a familiar note to Captain Oliver’s quarters. Then, in the wondrous tropical dusk, the little launch steamed quickly back to town, where we had just time to gather up our belongings and maid at the Terminus and descend to the station beneath. Mr. Lind stood waving farewell as we steamed out, and I must say I am quite taken by him!

Our train, preceded by a military train, was most luxurious. None of “the comforts of home” was lacking, from the full American bill of fare to the white-coated colored porters—all at poor, bankrupt Huerta’s expense. It made me eat abstemiously and sit lightly!

We had a quiet night, rising swiftly up those enchanting slopes, a warm, perfumed, exotic air coming in at the window. At dawn, with a catching of the breath, I looked out and saw once again those two matchless, rose-colored peaks—Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl, looking tranquilly down on the beauteous plateau, indifferent to man’s disorders.

A VIEW OF POPOCATEPETL AND IZTACCIHUATL

At Mexico City Captain Burnside and the Embassy staff were at the station to meet us, and in a moment I found myself once again driving through the familiar, vivid streets, the changeless, silent Indians coming and going about their simple affairs. The Embassy is a huge house—a gray-stone, battlemented, castle-on-the-Rhine effect—which, fortunately, had been put on a possible living basis for the Linds by a kindly administration. It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good. The Linds were here only ten days, and I think it very improbable that they will ever return. He is a man of good sense, and there is, as in most establishments, room for many men but only for one maîtresse de maison.

Now I must be up and doing. I want to pull the furniture about, down-stairs, and make myself a setting of some sort. There are several packing-boxes containing the accumulation of our first Mexican bout—books, vases, cushions, and the like. Fortunately, the comfortable green leather library set of Mr. Henry Lane Wilson, together with handsome rugs and bookcases, were also bought for the “confidential agent”; and I shall use them in my drawing-room, instead of a rather uncomfortable French set upholstered in pink. The bedrooms are already fully and handsomely furnished with the Wilsons’ things.

Dear Mme. Lefaivre came last night, and we had lunch at the Legation to-day. Such an affectionate welcome from her warmest of hearts! Many persons have called and cards and flowers were coming in all day.

P. S. Yesterday, Torreon fell into the hands of the rebels, and many atrocities were committed against Spanish subjects. The Spanish minister is in a great state of excitement. This is a severe blow to Huerta. He is supposed to suppress the revolution. If he doesn’t, he loses his raison d’être—perhaps, also, his head.

MRS. ELLIOTT COUES
(Mother of Mrs. O’Shaughnessy)

ELIM

October 11th.

Last night Huerta accomplished his second coup d’état; he is getting very skilful. He surrounded the Chamber of Deputies while the honorable gentlemen were in session, conspiring against their constitution. He had them arrested as they came out into the hall, and I understand there was quite a stampede from the Chamber itself when they got wind of the fact that something was wrong. He accuses them of obstructing his policy of pacification by every low and unpatriotic means at their command, and these are numerous.

Now one hundred and ten of them are lodged in the famous Penitenciaría, whither Madero was going on his last journey. N. was out until two o’clock in the morning, with the Spanish minister (dean of the diplomatic corps), going first to the Foreign Office to try to obtain guarantees for the lives of the imprisoned Deputies, and afterward to the Penitenciaría, where they were shown a list of eighty-four, and given assurances that they would not suffer. It looked a bit black for the remaining twenty-six. The clerks spent the rest of the night here, getting the despatches off to Washington.

Huerta appears to care very little whom he shoots. He has small sentiment about human life (his own, or anybody’s else), but he is a strong and astute man; and if he could get a few white blackbirds, in the shape of patriots, to work with him, and if the United States were not on his back, he might eventually bring peace to his country.

I am not yet reaccustomed to the extreme beauty of the Mexican morning; a dazzling, many-colored light that would dim the spectrum is filtering into my room, as I write, glorifying every object and corner. I have had the covers taken off the pink furniture; a rose-colored coverlet and cushions are on my chaise-longue, and the glow is indescribable.

You will have seen that the Chambers are convened for the fifteenth of November, but in spite of preparations for legislation, a warlike something is in the air. Squads of soldiers are passing the Embassy, with much playing of the beautiful national hymn. They handle their brass very well, and their military music would be good anywhere.

In Washington they are taking the news of the coup d’état with their coffee....

I have not yet seen von Hintze,[1] though he came early yesterday, bringing a gift of fortifying liqueur, “for the altitude,” and some flowers; and I went with Elim to the Legation, later on. I understand that he looks at the situation rather en noir. But he is somewhat of a bear on Mexican matters, anyway, his first experience, on arriving three years ago, being the horrid Covadonga murders.... A certain natural exclusiveness and aloofness are among his special attributes, and his psychology is somewhat mysterious, even to his friends; but he is immensely clever and charming, of the world, and very sympathetic—really a cher colleague!

N. has just left the house in frock-coat and top-hat, the chiefs of mission having been summoned to the Foreign Office, where they will hear the official reason of the coup d’état. I shall be most interested in the explanation, which will probably be some adroit Latin-American arrangement of facts. One has a feeling of being at school, here, and constantly learning something new to the Anglo-Saxon mentality.

Now I must hie me down-stairs and tackle a few of my “affairs of the interior.” The house is so big that, even with the many servants now in it, it doesn’t seem “manned,” and bells are answered very intermittently. One or more of the servants can always be found at the gates of the garden, greeting the passers-by—a little Indian habit, and incurable. What I need is a European maître d’hôtel to thunder at them from his Aryan heights as the Wilsons had. There are some good Aztec specimens left over from their administration, whom I shall keep on—Aurora, a big, very handsome Indian maid, from the Apam valley; Maria, the head washerwoman, with fine, delicate hands, like a queen; and a few others. Neither cook nor butler. Berthe is busy unpacking and pressing; everything was wrinkled by the damp, penetrating heat of the sea-trip.

The Embassy has two gendarmes to watch the gate, instead of the usual one given to legations—nice, old Francisco, who has been in the service of the United States for twelve years, and a handsome new one—Manuel. The auto stands before the gate all day long. Jesus, the chauffeur, seems very good—a fine-featured, lithe-bodied, quick-witted young Indian. Though married, he is, I hear, much sought after by the other sex. Elim always goes out with me, and loves sitting on the front seat with his dog, a melancholy Irish terrier sent by Mr. Armstead from Guanajuato.

Exchange is now very low. One hundred dollars equals two hundred and eighty Mexican dollars. Very nice for those supplied from abroad, but killing to these people, and with the sure prospect of getting worse. The price of articles has gone up by leaps and bounds—not native foods so much, but all articles of import. I hear the auto-horn and must stop. Will be very much interested to hear the official wherefor of the coup d’état.

October 12th, Evening.

Well, the Diplomatic Corps, in uniform, was received at the Foreign Office with much unction, by the large, stout Moheno, Minister of Foreign Affairs, of whom more another time. He insisted principally on the great efforts General Huerta was making to restore peace, and the equally great obstructions placed in his way, saying that since the opening of Congress these obstructions had been particularly in evidence, handicapping him at every step. He added that, though the act of dissolving Congress was unconstitutional, Mexico must be compared to an ill man needing an immediate operation; and that the government was confronted by the dilemma formulated by Gambetta (they do love to find a European simile for their situation)—“Yield or resign!” which, in this case, would have been tantamount to national dissolution. The crux of the speech is, however, that the elections are to be held this month.

Sir Lionel presented his letters of credence yesterday, thus putting the hall-mark of his government upon Huerta. It appears there was quite a love-feast; Huerta, of course, was immensely pleased at the proof of recognition at the delicate moment of his birth and first struggling cry as a dictator.

Since the imprisonment of the Deputies there has been a constant stream of their mothers and wives and daughters coming to the Embassy for help, though, of course, we can do nothing; little, plain, black-dressed, black-eyed women or high-chested, thick-lipped, diamond-ear-ringed ones, inclining to magenta or old gold; mostly, as far as I can see, Maderista in their tendencies. Two of the little, plain, black type who were here late last night, said they went every day to visit Madero’s grave! They fear the Deputies will be shot, but I hardly think shrewd old Huerta will go to any unnecessary lengths with the very cold eye of the world upon him. Keeping them locked up, where they can’t vote, or disqualifying them, is all that he wants. It is true that they have never missed an opportunity in the Chamber to put a spoke in his wheel, and he got bored with the continual “block.” He didn’t arrest members of the Catholic party who, for the most part, had been trying to sustain order through him; they are, after all is said and done, the conservative, peace-wishing element in Mexico.

The Senate he simply dissolved. They have not been giving him so much trouble. One of the heads of the Catholic party came to see N. yesterday, to talk over the opportuneness of their putting up any one as candidate for President—a tentative conversation, on his part. Men of his class, unfortunately for Mexico, rarely identify themselves with political life, and were entirely invisible during the Madero régime. The Clerical party has very little money, and feels the battle unequal and the outcome most uncertain. N. was, of course, non-committal in the matter, which he said was not in his province; but he added that there was no reason for the party to neglect to make some kind of representation, any more than for the others to do so. Huerta is, of course, thoroughly anti-Clerical.

Yesterday was the first anniversary of the independence of China; it may be because it is so far away, but they seem to have had their revolution with very little sound of breakage. There was a reception at the Chinese Legation during the generous hours of 4 to 10. I went at about 5. I got up to go four times, and each time the chargé d’affaires caught me at the door and said, “You have been absent eight years—no, I mean eight months—and I can’t let you go.” I finally ran the blockade at 7.30, promising some insistent Oriental near the outer door that I would return. All the diplomats were there. I found von Hintze, like a visitant from another world, sitting, inscrutable, by the handsome, buxom wife of the Guatemalan minister. She was in black lace over orange silk, making my white tailor suit seem very severe. Stalewski, the Russian minister, was standing near, waiting for his tea. Sir L. and Lady C. came in at 6 o’clock only, then Madame Lefaivre—the Occidental diplomats naturally gravitating toward one another. Finally, at 7, when the rooms down-stairs were packed like sardine-boxes, we were directed up-stairs, where a handsome “champagne lunch” was served. It was after this that I made my escape. The wife of the chargé, and some other Oriental ladies, in appalling Western costumes, stood in close formation near the door from start to finish, wearing an unfading Oriental smile.

N. spent the afternoon hunting for the Dictator, having been unable to track him down since the famous coup. He hopes to induce him to clemency regarding the Deputies. Huerta has a very effective way of dropping out of a situation—just subtracting himself and reappearing when events have moved on. He preserves, according to his edict of the 11th, the full powers vested in the executive, adding generously the powers of Gobernación (Interior), Hacienda (Treasury), and War, though only for the time absolutely necessary for the re-establishment of the legislative power. By the powers of Gobernación he has declared invalid the exemption of Deputies from arrest and makes them subject to the jurisdiction of the tribunals if found guilty of any offense or crime; most of the Deputies are only getting what they deserve. There is certainly reason to complain of their lack of public spirit; there seems little or no available material here from which to build a self-governing state, and a dictator (or intervention) is what they need. Juarez took the fear of hell away from them some fifty years ago; Madero took the respect for the supremo gobierno (supreme power) as typified by the strong hand of Diaz. There seems nothing left to hold them—those fifteen millions, with their sixty-three dialects and their thousand idiosyncrasies of race and climate.

Huerta has a handsome, quiet-faced wife and eleven children. These and a rented house (he has never lived at Chapultepec or at the Palace) are, up to now, his only apparent worldly possessions. I doubt whether he has the inclination or takes the time for an undue amount of grafting. He is, from what I hear, very canny in the matter of human equations and seems full of vitality and a sort of tireless, Indian perseverance. They say that the more he drinks the clearer his brain becomes.

Nine Spaniards that were killed in Torreon the other day, on refusing to give up their goods and money, had their execution preceded by such gentle rites as digging their own graves. Villa has declared no quarter to Spaniards; they must get out of his Mexico, bag and baggage, and he intends to see that the Church leaves with them.

On all sides are praises of N.’s handling of the many complicated questions coming up, and his being persona grata with all parties. It is known that though in the carrying out of difficult orders from Washington there is an absolute point-blankness, in their own affairs the Mexicans can count on tact, courtesy, and any service compatible with his position.

I imagine that Mr. Lind will soon be realizing the futility of an indefinite stay on Mexican soil. There are no results—and I rate him a man used to results.

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.

October 13th.

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 late chefesse, and the murdered ones, I suppose, 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 a better 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 himself en 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.

October 14th.

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 by Chargé d’affaires O’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 to Washington 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 the North 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 from Le Temps, in to-day’s Imparcial, 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. Intervention is a 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 the gendarmes and 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 great luxury. 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.

October 14th.

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; we must 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.

Later.

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 Cabinet meetings 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.

October 16th.

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, I suppose, 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 provisional character, 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.

October 17th.

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 higher latitude, 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 can scent 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 the Gran Nación del Norte in 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 the chers collègues veil 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.

October 22nd.

Yesterday I had my first reception. About fifty people came—the chers collègues and 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 the coup de grâce to 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 quite clearly 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, if their curiosity permits.

The import duties are raised 50 per cent. from the twenty-eighth of October. But it will, fortunately, bear less heavily on the frijoles- and banana-eating part of the population than on those who want breakfast-foods and pâté 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 her pueblo, 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 French Inspecteur des Finances of the Banco Nacional. They have a handsome house in the Paseo, an excellent French chef, 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, and tertulias[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 for mi 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 his own mother! Pues quién sabe?

October 24th.

Yesterday at noon, Huerta, surrounded by his entire Cabinet, received the Diplomatic Corps, and, though there 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 a copita[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 the Palacio. A pièce 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 for another fausse 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.

October 25th.

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.

Tuesday, 28th.

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.

The chers collègues prophesy 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—the guajolote, 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-fed guajolote that has not gone to damnation!

The food question is difficult here, anyway, and personally I 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. The chirimoya has a custard-like taste—the chico 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.

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.

October 29th.

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 the patio. Up-stairs a dreadful sight was presented by the overturned cots, the broken medicine-bottles, and last, but not least, the human horrors.

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 threw him 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.

October 30th.

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 the Hertha were there, giving rise to uncomplicated jokes about “Hertha” and “Huerta.” Of course conversation about la situación twisted 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.

October 31st.

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, and he has many lovely works of art. The table was a mass of small, yellow chrysanthemums in a beautiful, old English porcelain surtout de table, having a yellow fond; the food was the triumph of a French chef over 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 French Inspecteur 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 furnished salons of 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, where el gobierno is 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 Paris clothes 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 million gachupines, mestizos, foreigners of various sorts. Huerta once told N. that the gachupines had 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 seats en sombra (in the shade), the people get a boleto 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 I really miss. A tent of a night I know—but the tea hour comes every day!

November 2nd.

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! No tempora mutantur here.

November 3rd.

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?

November 4th.

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, via Vera 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.

November 5th.

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 paper El Mañana did 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 of bridge 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 the Palacio, 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 falls back with a rattling sound. It is all a bit macabre, 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 the patio of the church itself.

The Alameda is a handsome park in the very middle of the town, and marks the site of the old Aztec tianguiz, or market-place. Fountains and flowers abound, and it is lavishly planted with beautiful eucalyptus and palms; an excellent band plays daily. The pajarera (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 the popular 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 any ilustrado who 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 the 30th 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 we in 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—the licenciados, 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, generally mestizo. 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 civil strife, there still remain endless lovely things, testifying to the wealth and taste of the old Spanish days.

November 6th.

The statement in the Mexican Herald that 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 the second time. 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 perfect flair for the chicheria. 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—the New Hampshire and the Louisiana—guarding the entrance to the channel when we arrived a month ago. Is the plot thickening?

IV

The “Abrazo”—Arrival of Mr. Lind—Delicate negotiations in progress—Luncheon at the German Legation—Excitement about the bull-fight—Junk-hunting—Americans in prison—Another “big game” hunt.

November 7th.

The newspaper with the announcement that Mr. Lind had left Vera Cruz last night for Mexico City was brought up on my breakfast tray. I have had two rooms made ready for him, moving rugs and desks and furniture about, robbing Peter to pay Paul, as one does in an incompletely furnished house. He will be welcome, and I hope comfortable, as long as he sees fit to stay. I bear the memory of something magnetic, something disarming of criticism, in his clear, straight gaze, blue viking eye, his kindly smile, and his tall, spare figure, clothed, not dressed. He won’t find it easy here and I don’t think any Mexican official sporting the oak of the protocol will receive him unless he is accompanied by N.—a sort of political, Siamese-twin effect, and of a superfluity.

Later.

When I got down-stairs Mr. Lind was in N.’s study. To greet him I had to get through a swarm of newspaper men clustering like bees around the honey-pot of “copy.” I presented him, so to speak, with the keys of the borough, and retreated to my own bailiwick to order luncheon for one o’clock. The whole town is whispering and wondering what it all will mean. Huerta remains silent. It appears that he and his generals are now willing to make headway against the rebels. Why not before? A hundred years ago “dips” were sent to Constantinople to learn a thing or two they hadn’t known before. Now, I think, Mexico is as good a school for the study of other points of view.

Mr. Lind makes no secret of his conviction of the hostile intentions of England in the Mexican situation; but I have difficulty in thinking that to save her interests here, big though they be, England would ever do anything to jeopardize our friendship. In last week’s Multicolor there was a picture of the White House, with England, Germany, and France in the act of painting it green. Poner verde is to insult.

Huerta feels that he has the support of many foreign powers, especially of England. Sir L., by presenting his credentials the morning after the coup d’état, stiffened him up considerably.

November 8th.

We have been busy these past two days. Mr. L. is a delightful guest, easy and simple. He goes to-morrow, but I am pressing him to return for Thanksgiving—if we are here. People smile when I speak of a Thanksgiving reception. Three weeks is a long cry in Mexico City, in these days.

N. finally ran Huerta down yesterday in the El Globo café. He received the usual affectionate abrazo,[4] and they had a copita together, but Huerta never mentioned Lind any more than if he were non-existent, and shied off at the remotest hint of “business.” Instead, he asked N., “How about the girls?” (“Y las muchachas?”) a phrase often used for opening or closing a conversation, in these climes, much as we would ask about the weather. It has no bearing on whatever subject may be in hand.

The new elections are to be held on the 23d of this month. Huerta plays with the government in Washington in a truly Machiavellian way. They want his resignation, but for the moment there is no recognized government in whose hands to place such a resignation. After the 23d, if the elections bear fruit, he will find some other reasons for remaining. If it were not for the fact that might is always right, the Administration would be as the kindergarten class, in regard to this clever, involved, astute old Indian. “They say” he is getting rich, but there are no apparent signs. I don’t think his mentality is that of the money-loving order, though possibly his principles would not prevent his making himself comfortable if he put his mind to it. He is now, however, so under the domination of his idée fixe—pacification—in spite of the difficulties within and without, that I doubt if he is taking an undue interest in personal enrichment.

November 9th.

This morning I began the day by telephoning von Hintze to come for lunch, as Mr. Lind wanted to see him informally. Then I went to the house of the Chilian chargé, who died yesterday. He was laid out in the center of the little dining-room, the electric bell from the hanging lamp, which he must often have pressed while eating, dangling over his poor, dead face. There is a quite particular sadness about the passing away of diplomats in lands distant from their own, their little span spun among the polite, but the unrelated and uncaring. I stayed for a rosary and litany, the priest, his pretty, childless wife, and myself, alone in the room. Great hangings of purple bougainvillæa, the glory of Mexico, darkened the window. May he rest in peace.

There was interesting conversation at lunch, only we four being present. Mr. Lind repeated to von Hintze what he has, curiously enough, said to many people here—his opinion that the crux of the matter was the Anglo-American relations, and that the United States would never allow the dominance of British interests to the injury of American or Mexican ones; von Hintze, though he listened attentively, was non-committal and most diplomatic in his answers. It is always of absorbing interest to Germans to hear of possible difficulties between England and other nations, and vice versa, too, for that matter. A light springs into the eye; and I dare say von Hintze made a report to his home government on returning to the Legation. He told Mr. Lind he thought we had not sufficiently respected the amour propre of the Mexicans; that we were wrong in trying threats when what they needed was skilful coaxing. Mr. Lind volunteered the surprising statement that it didn’t suit us to have the elections held, anyway, as there would be concessions granted and laws passed that would render the Mexican situation difficult for us for fifty years. I really felt quite embarrassed.

The Vera Cruz elections amused Mr. Lind considerably, the “urn” being a common pasteboard shoe-box with a slit in it. This objet de vertu he had actually seen with his own eyes.

The town is wild over the bull-fight this Sunday afternoon. Belmonte, el fenomeno, just arrived from Spain, twenty-one years old, is the object of all affections. Political matters are quite in abeyance. There was a scarcely subdued excitement among the servants as the gay throng passed the Embassy en route for the Ring, and considerable dejection this evening because all hadn’t been able to stampede the house and hie them to the fray. They are like children; any disappointment seems the end of everything. A continual cloud of dust wrapped us about, stirred up by the thousands passing in motor, carriage, or on foot. During my first Mexican sojourn I went to two bull-fights, but didn’t acquire the taste. De Chambrun told me one had to go six times running, after which one couldn’t be kept away!

I saw Belmonte driving yesterday, the crowds cheering wildly. His expression of pride, yet condescension, distinguished him as much as his clothes. He wore the usual flat black hat, showing his tiny pigtail, a wide-frilled shirt under a tight jacket which didn’t pretend to meet the still tighter trousers, and he was covered with jewelry—doubtless votive offerings from adoring friends. And to-night he may be dead!

Burnside and Ensign H., of the Louisiana, who accompanied Lind as body-guard, return with him to Vera Cruz. The Embassy is to engage a compartment for him in the evening, but he will go in the morning. Just as well to be prepared against “accidents.”

November 11th.

We lunch at the German Legation to-day, with Mr. Lind. He hasn’t any clothes, but as he doesn’t work along those lines I suppose it doesn’t matter. There is no question of the tailor making this man.

A heavenly, transforming sun, for which I am giving thanks, shines in at my windows. I am going out to do some “junking” with Lady C. With exchange three for one, every now and then some one does unearth something for nothing. The Belgian minister, who has money and flair, makes the most astounding finds. He got for a song what seems to be an authentic enamel of Diane de Poitiers, in its original frame—a relic of the glories of the viceroys.

Something that developed in a conversation with Mr. Lind has been making me a bit thoughtful, and more than a little uneasy. He has the idea, perhaps the plan, of facilitating the rebel advance by raising the embargo, and I am afraid he will be recommending it to Washington. We had been sitting, talking, after dinner, shivering in the big room over a diminutive electric stove, when he first tentatively suggested such action. I exclaimed: “Oh, Mr. Lind! You can’t mean that! It would be opening a Pandora box of troubles here.” Seeing how aghast I was, he changed the subject. But I cannot get it out of my head. The Mexican book is rolled out like a scroll before him; can it be that he is not going to read it? Any measures tending to undermine the central authority here, imperfect though it be, can only bring calamity. I witnessed that at first hand in the disastrous overturning of the Diaz rule and the installation of the ineffective Madero régime. I think Madero was more surprised than any one that, after having taken so much trouble to help him in, we took so little to keep him in. The diplomats are forever insisting that Diaz’s situation in 1877 was analogous to Huerta’s now, and that after a decently permissible delay of ten months, or whatever it was, we recognized him. So why not Huerta? He, at least, is in possession of the very delicate machinery of Mexican government, and has shown some understanding of how to keep it going.

Later.

The lunch at the German Legation was most interesting. Lind, Rabago, the Belgian minister, and ourselves were the guests. Rabago doesn’t speak a word of English, and Mr. Lind not a word of Spanish, so there was a rather scattered conversation. Everybody smiled with exceeding amiability—all to show how safe we felt on the thin ice. The colleagues are always very polite, but none of them is really with us as regards our policy. Standing with von Hintze by the window for a few minutes after lunch, I used the word intervention, and von Hintze said something about the unpreparedness of the United States for war. This, though true, I could not accept unchallenged from a foreigner. I answered that if war were declared, we would have a million men at the recruiting offices between sunrise and sunset. It sounded patriotic and terrifying, but it was rendered rather ineffective by his reply, “Men, yes, but not soldiers. Soldiers are not made between sunrise and sunset.” He added something about the apparent divergence in public opinion in the States, and threw a bit of Milton at me in the shape of “not everybody thinks they serve who only stand and wait.” Ignoring this quotation from the blind bard, I said that whatever the divergence of public opinion might be before war, the nation would be as one man with the President after any declaration. I also told him we did not regard the Mexican situation so much as a military situation as a police and administrative job, which we were unwilling to undertake. I then made my adieux, leaving the “junta” in full swing, the Belgian minister’s agile tongue doing wonders of interpretation between Lind and Rabago. The result of the palaver, however, as I heard afterward from the various persons who took part, was nil.

Mr. Lind keeps me on the qui vive by predictions of a rupture in the next few days. He is naturally becoming impatient and would like things to come to a head. I have not drawn a peaceful breath since landing.

Runs on the banks to draw out silver in exchange for paper have complicated matters. When I went this morning to the Banco Internacional I saw people standing at the paying-teller’s desk, with big canvas bags in which to carry off silver. Since the law to coin more silver has been passed, I should say that each patriot intends to do his best to line his own cloud with that material.

November 12th.

A telegram came from Washington last night. Rupture of diplomatic relations unless Huerta accedes to our demands. N. has taken it to the Foreign Office, to Rabago and to Garza Aldape, to prove to them that, though they may not believe it, we are ready to take strenuous measures. It is all more like being on a volcano than near one. Neither the Mexican nation, nor any other, for that matter, believes we are ready and able to go to war; which, of course, isn’t true, as we may be called upon to show. War is not, to my mind, anyway, the greatest of evils in the life of a nation. Too much prosperity is a thousand times worse; and certainly anarchy, as exemplified here, is infinitely more disastrous. We ourselves were “conceived in wars, born in battle, and sustained in blood.”

We hope the Louisiana went to Tuxpan last night, and that she will shell out the rebels there who are in full enjoyment of destruction of life and property. It would give them all a salutary scare. There are huge English oil interests there. The owners are all worried about their property and generally a bit fretful at the uncertainty. Will we protect their interests or will we allow them to? Our government gave warning that it would not consider concessions granted during the Huerta régime as binding on the Mexicans. It makes one rub one’s eyes.

Later.

Things Mexican seem approaching their inevitable end. At three o’clock to-day N. showed Rabago the telegram from Washington about the probable breaking off of diplomatic relations. He turned pale and said he would arrange an interview with the President for six o’clock. At six o’clock N., accompanied by Mr. Lind, presented himself at the Palace. Neither President nor secretary was there. Rabago finally telephoned from some unknown place that he was looking for Huerta, but could not find him. Some one suggested that he might at that time be closeted with the only “foreigners” he considered really worth knowing—Hennessy and Martell.

Mr. Lind came for a moment to the drawing-room to tell me that he leaves to-night at 8.15. He thinks we will be following him before Saturday—this being Wednesday. The continual sparring for time on the part of the government and a persistently invisible President have got on his nerves. He hopes, by his sudden departure, to bring things to a climax, but climaxes, as we of the north understand them, are hard to bring about in Latin America. The one thing not wanted is definite action. Mr. Lind said, in a convincing manner, as he departed, that he would arrange for rooms for us in Vera Cruz. He knows it is N.’s right to conduct any business connected with the breaking off of relations, which he seems sure will be decided on at Washington, and he realizes that N. has borne the heat and burden of the Mexican day. He seems more understanding of us than of the situation, alas! I said Godspeed to him with tears in my eyes. Vague fears of impending calamity press upon me. How is this mysterious and extraordinary people fitted to meet the impending catastrophe—this burning of the forest to get the tiger?

An American citizen, Krauss, has been put without trial in the Prison of Santiago, where he has come down with pneumonia. N. has sent a doctor to him with d’Antin, who has been for years legal adviser and translator to the Embassy, and is almost, if not quite, a Mexican. They found the American in a long, narrow corridor, with eighty or ninety persons lying or sitting about; there was scarcely stepping-room, and the air was horrible; there were few peons among the prisoners, who were mostly men of education—political suspects. One aspect of a dictatorship!

Garza de la Cadena, the man I wrote you about (who seized the priest at the altar and threw him into the street in Gomez Palacio), was shot yesterday, by his own rebels, for some treachery—a well-deserved fate. He was taken out at dawn near Parral, placed against an adobe wall, and riddled with bullets.

This morning I was reading of the breaking off of our relations with Spain in 1898. Most interesting, and possibly to the point. History has a way of repeating itself with changes of names only. I wonder will the day come when N.’s name and Algara’s figure as did General Woodford’s and Polo de Bernabé’s? Various horrors take place here, but no one fact, it seems to me, can equal the dwindling of the population of the “green isle of Cuba” (indescribably beautiful as one steams along its shores), which dropped from 1,600,000 to 1,000,000 in ten months—mostly through hunger. Mothers died with babes at their breasts; weak, tottering children dug the graves of their parents. Good God! How could it ever have happened so near to us? However, they are all safe—“con Dios.”

Now we take a hurried dinner, at which Mr. Lind, Captain B., and Ensign H. had been expected, and then N. goes “big-game hunting” again. It bids fair to be a busy night.

V

Uncertain days—The friendly offices of diplomats—A side-light on executions—Mexican street cries—Garza Aldape resigns—First official Reception at Chapultepec Castle—The jewels of Cortés.

November 13th.

The President was not trackable last night, though N. kept up the search until a late or, rather, an early hour. It certainly is an efficient, if not satisfactory, way of giving answer—just to subtract yourself from the situation.

N. will not present himself at the convening of Congress on Saturday, the 15th. His absence will make a big hole in the Corps Diplomatique.

Several reporters were here early this morning to say they had positive information that Huerta had fled the country. But Mexico City as a rumor factory is unexcelled, and one no longer gets excited over the on dits. Moreover, nothing, probably, is further from Huerta’s mind than flight. From it all emerged one kernel of truth: Mr. Lind had left for Vera Cruz without satisfaction of any kind.

The Belgian minister came in yesterday just as Mr. Lind was leaving. He begged him not to go, to refrain from any brusque action calculated to precipitate a rupture that might be avoided. But I can’t see that any one’s coming or going makes any difference. The abyss is calling the Mexicans and they will fall into it when and how they please.

I have gone so far as to tell Berthe to pack my clothes. The things in the drawing-rooms I will leave—and lose if necessary. It would create a panic if any one came in and saw the rooms dismantled. No one can tell what is really impending. The American editor who remarked that what we take for an Aztec Swan Song is generally only another yelp of defiance is about right.

The five days’ siege of Chihuahua was ended yesterday by a Federal victory. The rebels lost about nine hundred men. The corpses of the latter were very well dressed, many wearing silk underclothing, the result of the looting of Torreon, which the rebels took several weeks ago. The Chihuahua victory will probably strengthen the provisional government if anything can. The generals, including Orozco, who fought against Madero, have been promoted.

Night before last the train on the Inter-oceanic between Mexico City and Vera Cruz was held up by rebel bandits for two hours. Everybody was robbed and terrorized. The rebels had in some way got news of the large export of bullion on the train. There was so much that they could not have carried it off, even if they hadn’t been frightened in the midst of their raid by a hastily summoned detachment of Federals. If we depart I don’t care to chaperon silver bars to the port. And N. says he would like Huerta to sit on the seat with him all the way down.

I wonder if the government will be so huffed at the non-appearance of the American representative on Saturday that the Sabbath will see us on the way, with our passports? Probably men may come and men may go (vide Mr. Lind), coldness and threats may be tried on them, and they will continue to let everything go till the United States is actually debarking troops at the ports and pouring them over the frontier. Masterly inaction with a vengeance.

I have an idea that Washington is not in accord with Mr. Lind’s impatience to end the situation by a rupture of diplomatic relationship. Once broken off, we would be faced by an urgent situation, demanding immediate action. Perhaps it is true that we are not efficiently ready for intervention, besides not wanting it. As long as N. stays the wheels will be oiled.

November 14th.

Last night the atmosphere cleared—for a while, at least. Congress will not be convened to-morrow, which puts quite a different aspect on things. If it had been held, Mexico would have been the only country, by the way, able to display a triplicate set of Congressmen, i. e., those in jail, those elected since the coup d’état, and the last new ones.

Sir L. called yesterday to offer his services. Great Britain knows she must be in accord with us. Many other colleagues also called, fearing some trouble when it was understood that N. was not to attend the opening and that the United States proposed to declare null and void any act of the Congress. Quite a flutter among the expectant concessionaires Belges! It all had a very salutary effect. There is no use in any of the Powers trying to “rush” the United States, no matter what their interests on the Western Hemisphere.

Later.

President Wilson has decided to delay the announcement of his new Mexican policy. Incidentally, I told Berthe to unpack. Well, we will all be quiet until something else turns up. Hundreds of dollars’ worth of cables went out from the Embassy yesterday, N. dictating for hours and the clerks coding. Several of them are sleeping at the Embassy, anyway—so much night work that they are needed on the ground.

I am giving this letter to M. Bourgeois, the French consul-general, leaving on the Espagne, next week. He is an agreeable man of the world, who has just been assigned to Tientsin.

Evening, 10 o’clock.

Matters very serious. N. is to deliver to-night what is practically an ultimatum. He called up Manuel Garza Aldape, Minister of Gobernación (Interior), and arranged for an interview with him at his house at nine o’clock. Then he rang up the ministers he needs as witnesses, to accompany him there.

Von Hintze arrived first. When he had read the paper here in the drawing-room he said, after a silence, “This means war.” (Some one had intimated such a possibility on Wednesday last, to Garza Aldape, and he had answered, quietly, “It is war.”) Von Hintze went on to say: “Huerta’s personal position is desperate. Whether he fights the rebels in the north or the United States, it is disaster for him. Only, I fancy, he has less to lose in the way of prestige if he chooses the United States. His nation will make some show of rallying around him in this latter case.” Von Hintze is persuaded that we are not ready for war, practically or psychologically. He kept repeating to N.: “But have you represented to your government what all this will eventually lead to?” N. answered “Washington is justly tired of the situation. For six months our government has urged and threatened and coaxed. It doesn’t want any more useless explanations. It is too late.”

However, until the note is in Huerta’s hands it is not official. So I still hope. Garza Aldape is one of the best of the ministers.

I went with von Hintze and N. to the big front door and watched the motor disappear in the darkness. Delicious odors from the geraniums and heliotrope in the garden enveloped the house, but after a moment I came back, feeling very still. The idea of American blood watering the desert of Chihuahua grips my heart. I can see those dry, prickly cactus stubs sticking up in the sand. No water anywhere! During the Madero revolution a couple of hundred Mexicans died there of thirst, and they knew their country. I kept looking about my comfortable drawing-room, with its easy-chairs and photographs, books and bowls of flowers, and saying to myself: “So that is the way wars are made.” This putting of another’s house in order is getting on my nerves.

The telephone has been ringing constantly. The journalists have had indications from Washington that something is impending.

Saturday, November 15th.

N. came in last night at half past twelve, after a three hours’ conference with Aldape. He is to see him again at ten this morning. They say that the presence of Mr. Lind gives publicity to every step, that their national dignity is constantly imperiled, and that it is impossible to negotiate under such conditions. Aldape also said that Huerta flies into such a rage whenever Lind’s name is mentioned that conversation becomes impossible.

Later.

Things are very strenuous to-day. N. saw Garza Aldape at ten. He said he had passed a sleepless night, after their conference, and had not yet presented the ultimatum to Huerta. N. asked him if he were afraid to do so, and he answered, quite simply, “Yes.” N. told him he would return at three o’clock, and if by that time the note had not been presented through the regular channels, he would do it himself.

The outlook is very gloomy. Carranza in the north has refused the offices of W. B. Hale as mediator, saying, “No foreign nation can be permitted to interfere in the interior matters of Mexico.” If Carranza says that, certainly Huerta cannot say less. So there we are. Though nothing was further from his purpose, Mr. Lind has absolutely knocked any possible negotiations on the head by the noise and publicity of his arrival in the city of Montezuma and Huerta. The Latin-American may know that you know his affairs, and know that you know he knows you know; but he does not want and will not stand publicity.

This morning I went out “junking” at the Thieves’ Market with Lady C. It seemed to us that all the rusty keys in the world, together with all the locks, door-knobs, candlesticks, spurs, and family chromos were on exhibition. We were just leaving when my eye fell on a beautiful old blue-and-white Talavera jar, its metal top and old Spanish lock intact. After considerable haggling I ended by giving the shifty-eyed Indian more than he had ever dreamed of getting, and much less than the thing was worth. Drugs, sweetmeats, and valuables of various kinds used to be kept in these jars. Greatly encouraged, I dragged Lady C. to the Monte de Piedad. All foreigners as well as natives frequent it, hoping, in vain, to get a pearl necklace for what one would pay for a string of beads elsewhere. One of the monthly remates, or auctions, was going on, and the elbowing crowd of peons and well-dressed people, together with the familiar Aztec smell, made us feel it was no place for us. The diamonds and pearls here are mostly very poor, and the great chunks of emeralds with their thousand imperfections are more decorative than valuable. The fine jewels of the wealthy class have come mostly from Europe, though shrewd buyers are on the lookout for possible finds in the constant turnover of human possessions. There are beautiful opals to be had in Mexico, but you know I wouldn’t touch one, and the turquoise has been mined from time immemorial. The museums everywhere are full of them as talismans and congratulatory gifts, to say nothing of the curio-shops.

Cortés, it appears, was very fond of jewels, and was always smartly dressed in fine linen and dark colors, with one handsome ornament. When he went back to Spain he set all the women crazy by the jewels he took with him. Emeralds, turquoises, gold ornaments, and panaches of plumes of the quetzal (bird of paradise) cunningly sewn with pearls and emeralds, after the Aztec fashion, were distributed with a lavish hand. The presents for his second wife were so splendid that the queen became quite jealous, though he had made her wonderful offerings. It is hinted that this was the beginning of his disfavor at court.

November 17th.

Yesterday, which began so threateningly, ended without catastrophe. On opening the morning newspaper, I saw that Garza Aldape had resigned. He finally presented the American note to Huerta, with the result that he also presented his own demission and leaves almost immediately for Vera Cruz, to sail on the Espagne for Paris, where, it is rumored, he will be minister in place of de la Barra. Anyway, it is his exit from Huertista politics. He is a gentleman and a man of understanding. The way Huerta has of dispersing his Cabinet is most unfortunate.

Yesterday there was another little luncheon at Tlalpam. We sat in the beautiful, half-neglected garden till half past four among a riot of flowers in full bloom, callas, violets, roses, geraniums, and heliotrope on every side. The two white, distant volcanoes crowned as ever the matchless beauty of the scene about us.

What the diplomats are fearing in the event of N.’s withdrawal is the interregnum after our departure and before the American troops could get here. They foresee pillaging of the city and massacre of the inhabitants; as their natural protectors, the Federal troops, would be otherwise occupied, fighting “the enemy”—i. e., us! They always say Washington would be held responsible in such an event, by the whole world, but this thought does not seem to comfort them much. The ineradicable idea among all foreigners is that we are playing a policy of exhaustion and ruin in Mexico by non-recognition, so that we will have little or no difficulty when we are ready to grab. One can talk oneself hoarse, explain, embellish, uphold the President’s policy—it makes no difference: “It is like that.”

We came home after I had shown myself with Elim at the Country Club on our way in. People are in a panic here, but no one has heard anything from me except that I expect to receive on Thanksgiving Day from four to eight. The telephones are being rung all day by distracted fathers and husbands, not knowing what to do. They cannot leave their daily bread. They are not men who have bank accounts in New York or in any other town, and to them leaving means ruin. They come with white, harassed faces. “Is it true that the Embassy is to be closed to-night?” “What do you advise?” “It is ruin if I leave.” “Can’t we count on any protection?” are a few of the questions asked.

Dr. Ryan, the young physician who did such good work during the Decena Tragica last February, is here again. He has been in the north these last months, where he saw horrid things and witnessed many executions. He says the victims don’t seem to care for their own lives or for any one’s else. They will stand up and look at the guns of the firing-squad, with big round eyes, like those of deer, and then fall over.

As I write I hear the sad cry of the tamale-women, two high notes, and a minor drop. All Mexican street cries are sad. The scissors-grinder’s cry is beautiful—and melancholy to tears.

I was startled as I watched the faces of some conscripts marching to the station to-day. On so many was impressed something desperate and despairing. They have a fear of displacement, which generally means catastrophe and eternal separation from their loved ones. They often have to be tied in the transport wagons. There is no system about conscription here—the press-gang takes any likely-looking person. Fathers of families, only sons of widows, as well as the unattached, are enrolled, besides women to cook and grind in the powder-mills. Sometimes a few dozen school-children parade the streets with guns, escorted by their teachers. Unripe food for cannon, these infants—but looking so proud. These are all details, but indicative of the situation.

November 18th.

To-morrow Huerta and his señora are to receive at Chapultepec, the first time they will have made use of the official presidential dwelling. They are moving from the rented house in the Calle Liverpool to one of their own, a simple enough affair in the Mexican style, one story with a patio, in an unfashionable quarter.

As we are still “accredited,” I think we ought to go, there being no reason why we should offer to Señora Huerta the disrespect of staying away.

When we arrived in Mexico, beautiful Doña Carmen Diaz was presiding; then came Señora de la Barra, newly married, sweet-faced, and smiling; followed by Señora Madero, earnest, pious, passionate. Now Señora Huerta is the “first lady”—all in two years and a half. The dynasties have a way of telescoping in these climes.

The invitation to the opening of Congress to-morrow has just come in—exactly as if the United States had not decided that no such Congress should be convened and its acts be considered null and void.

Elim told me to-day that all the children he plays with have gone away—“afraid of the revolution,” he added, in a matter-of-fact voice. He expects to die with me if “war” does come, and is quite satisfied with his fate.

The details of Garza Aldape’s demission have come in. His resignation was accepted by Huerta in the friendliest manner. He concluded the conversation, however, by telling Aldape the Espagne was sailing on Monday, and that he had better leave on Sunday morning, so as to be sure not to miss it. This being late Saturday evening, Garza Aldape demurred, saying his family had no trunks. The President assured him that he himself would see that he got all he needed. Subsequently he sent Aldape a number of large and handsome receptacles. Madame G. A. received a hand-bag with luxurious fittings, and 20,000 francs oro in it! The “old man” has a royal manner of doing things on some occasions; and then again he becomes the Indian, inscrutable, unfathomable to us, and violent and high-handed to his own people—whom he knows so very well.

The reception at Chapultepec, yesterday, was most interesting. As we drove through the Avenida de los Insurgentes up the Paseo toward the “Hill of the Grasshopper” the windows of the castle were a blaze of light high up against the darkening sky.

On our last visit to Chapultepec,[5] Madero and Pino Suarez were there, and shades of the murdered ones began to accost me as I appeared on the terrace. One of the glittering presidential aides, however, sprang to give me his arm, and in a moment I was passing into the familiar Salon de Embajadores, to find Señora Huerta installed on the equally familiar gilt-and-pink brocaded sofa placed across the farther end. She has been a very handsome woman, with fine eyes and brow, and has now a quiet, dignified, and rather serious expression. She was dressed in a tight-fitting princess gown of red velvet, with white satin guimp and black glacé kid gloves. She has had thirteen children, most of whom seemed to be present on this, their first appearance in an official setting. The daughters, married and unmarried, and their friends receiving with them, made quite a gathering in themselves. As I looked around, after saluting Señora Huerta, the big room seemed almost entirely filled with small, thick-busted women, with black hair parted on one side over low, heavy brows, and held down by passementerie bandeaux; well-slippered, very tiny feet, were much in evidence. None of the “aristocrats” were there, but el Cuerpo, was out in full force.

The President came at about six o’clock, walking quickly into the room as the national air was played, and we all arose. It was the first time I had seen him. N. presented me, and we three stood talking, in the middle of the room, while everybody watched “America and Mexico.”

Huerta is a short, broad-shouldered man of strong Indian type, with an expression at once serious, amiable, and penetrating; he has restless, vigilant eyes, screened behind large glasses, and shows no signs of the much-talked-of alcoholism. Instead, he looked like a total abstainer. I was much impressed by a certain underlying force whose momentum may carry him to recognition—now the great end of all.

I felt myself a bit “quivery” at the thought of the war-cloud hanging over these people, and of how the man dominating the assembly took his life in his hands at his every appearance, and was apparently resolved to die rather than cede one iota to my country. After the usual greetings, “a los pies de Vd. señora” (“at your feet, señora”), etc., he remarked, with a smile, that he was sorry I should find things still a little strained on my return, but that he hoped for a way out of the very natural difficulties. I answered rather ambiguously, so far as he is concerned, that I loved Mexico and didn’t want to leave it. I felt my eyes fill over the potentialities of the situation, whereupon he answered, as any gentleman, anywhere in the world, might have done, that now that la señora had returned things might be arranged! After this he gave his arm to Madame Ortega, wife of the Guatemalan minister, the ranking wife of the Spanish minister being ill, and Madame Lefaivre not yet arrived. Señor Ortega gave me his arm, and we all filed out into the long, narrow gallery, la Vitrina, overlooking the city and the wondrous valley, where an elaborate tea was served. The President reached across the narrow table to me to touch my glass of champagne, as the usual saludes were beginning, and I found he was drinking to the health of the “Gran Nación del Norte.” Could I do less than answer “Viva Mexico”?

After tea, music—the photograph fiends taking magnesium snap-shots of Señora Huerta and the dark-browed beauties clustering around, with an incidental head or arm of some near-by diplomat. Madame Ortega then got up to say good-by, and after making our adieux we passed out on to the beautiful flower- and palm-planted terrace. Again, in the dim light the memory of Madero and Pino Suarez assailed me rather reproachfully. It was a curious presentment of human destinies, played out on the stage of the mysterious valley of Anahuac, which seems often a strange astral emanation of a world, rather than actual hills and plains. A mysterious correspondence between things seen and unseen is always making itself felt, and now, in this space between two destinies, I felt more than ever the fathomlessness of events. Other “kings” were dead, and this one could not “long live.”

Afterward we played bridge at Madame Simon’s with the chicheria there assembled. It seemed very banal. All the guests, however, turned their handsome faces and rustled their handsome clothes as I entered, and in a detached sort of way asked how it had all gone off—this, the first official reception of their President.

To-day Congress opens, and N. does not attend. I am glad, in the interests of the dove of peace, that we went to the reception yesterday. The officials will realize there is nothing personal in to-day’s absence.

Last night there was a pleasant dinner at the Cardens’, who are now settled at the comfortable Legation. They are very nice to us, but I feel that Sir L. is naturally much chagrined at the unmeritedly adverse press comments he has had in the United States. We all shivered in our evening dresses, in spite of the rare joy of an open fire in the long drawing-room. There is a thin, penetrating, unsparing sort of chill in these November evenings, in houses meant only for warm weather. I should have enjoyed wearing my motor coat instead of the gray-and-silver Worth dress.

The British cruiser squadron under Admiral Cradock sailed last night for Vera Cruz, which is packed to overflowing with people from here. The prices, “twelve hours east and a mile and a half down,” are fabulous. One woman, so her husband told me, pays ten dollars a day at the Diligencias for a room separated only by a curtain from an electric pump, which goes day and night.

Villa has made a formal declaration that, owing to Carranza’s inactivity, he assumes the leadership of the rebellion, which is the first, but very significant, hint of two parties in the north: Huerta is very pleased, it appears, and is looking forward to seeing them eat each other up like the proverbial lions of the desert. A few “lost illusions” will doubtless stalk the Washington streets and knock at a door or two.

Well, another Sabbath has passed and we are still here. Burnside is up from Vera Cruz. He says we can’t back down, and war seems inevitable. It will take the United States one hundred years to make Mexico into what we call a civilized country, during which process most of its magnetic charm will go. The Spanish imprint left in the wonderful frame of Mexico is among the beauties of the universe. Every pink belfry against every blue hill reminds one of it; every fine old façade, unexpectedly met as one turns a quiet street corner; in fact, all the beauty in Mexico except that of the natural world—is the Spaniards’ and the Indians’. Poor Indians!

I have been reading accounts of the deportation of the Yaquis from Sonora to Yucatan, the wordless horrors of the march, the separation of families. I can’t go into it now; it is one of the long-existent abuses that Madero, at first, was eager to abate. Volumes could be written about it. Another crying shame is the condition of the prisons. Belem, here in town, is an old building erected toward the end of the seventeenth century, and used as an asylum of some kind ever since. Much flotsam and jetsam has been washed up at its doors, though I don’t know that the word “washed” is in any sense suitable. When one thinks that a few hundred pesos’ of bichloride of lime and some formaldehyde gas would clean up the vermin-infested corners and check the typhus epidemics, one can scarcely refrain from taking the stuff there oneself. It seems so simple, but it is all bound up so inextricably with the general laisser-aller of the nation. No one is in Belem three days without contracting an itching skin disease, and a large proportion of the prisoners there, as well as at Santiago, near by, are political, journalists, lawyers, et al., who are used to some measure of cleanliness. The Penitenciaría is their show prison, built on modern principles, and compares favorably with the best in the United States.

Yesterday we lunched with the Ösi-Sanz. He is an agreeable, clever, musical Hungarian, married to a handsome young Mexican, widow of an Iturbide. In their charming rooms are many Maximilian souvenirs that he has ferreted out here; big portraits of the emperor and Carlota look down from the blue walls of the very artistic salon, and a large copy of the picture of the deputation headed by Estrada, which went to Miramar to offer Maximilian the imperial and fatal crown. Vitrines are filled with Napoleon and Maximilian porcelain, and they have some beautiful old Chinese vases. In the viceregal days these were much prized, being brought up from the Pacific coast on the backs of Indian runners. Afterward, we had bridge at the Corcuera-Pimentels—another smart young Mexican ménage. Their house, too, is charming, full of choice things, beautifully and sparingly placed; the rooms would be lovely anywhere. Then home, where I looked over that depressing book, Barbarous Mexico.

In Huerta’s speech before Congress on the 20th, he makes use of the famous words of Napoleon—“The law is not violated if the country be saved.” We all wondered how he fished it up!

There is a cartoon reproduced in The Literary Digest, which I am sending you. In it Uncle Sam is saying to President Wilson, “It’s no use, Woody; you can’t pet a porcupine,” the porcupine being Huerta, in the background, sitting near a bit of cactus. Some London papers call Huerta the “Mexican Cromwell.” His speech, putting patriotism and morality above expediency, evidently made a hit.

VI

“Decisive word” from Washington—A passing scare—Conscription’s terrors—Thanksgiving—The rebel advance—Sir Christopher Cradock—Huerta’s hospitable waste-paper basket.

November 28th.

An exciting day. The long-looked-for “decisive” word came from Washington this morning, to be communicated this evening to every embassy and legation in Europe. By to-night all the foreign representatives here and the press will be informed. It states that we will not recede one step from our position; that Huerta and all his supporters must go; that we will isolate him, starve him out financially, morally, and physically; that revolution and assassination may come to an end in Latin America; that we will protect our interests and the interests of all foreigners, and that peace must be made in Mexico, or that we will make it ourselves! It is the argumentum ad hominem certainly, and we can only wait to see what acrobatic feats to avoid the blow will be performed by Huerta. The language is unmistakable and could only be used because the military force necessary is behind it and ready.

November 29th.

Well, the scare of yesterday has passed.... Now the Foreign Office here can do more masterly ignoring!

Last month, on the 25th, Huerta signed a decree increasing the army to 150,000; the work of conscription has been going on at a great rate. After the bull-fight on Sunday seven hundred unfortunates were seized, doubtless never to see their families again. Once far from Mexico City, they are not bright about getting back. At a big fire a few days ago nearly a thousand were taken, many women among them, who are put to work in the powder-mills. A friend told me this morning that the father, mother, two brothers, and the sister of one of her servants were taken last week. They scarcely dare, any of them, to go out after dark. Posting a letter may mean, literally, going to the cannon’s mouth.

In “junking” the other day I found an interesting old print of the taking of Chapultepec by the Americans, September, 1847, which I have fitted into a nice old frame. I am keeping it up-stairs. I went to the Red Cross this morning for the first time since my return. They all greeted me most cordially and said N. was “muy amigo de Mexico” (“very much a friend of Mexico”). I shall take Wednesdays and Saturdays for my service.

To-morrow is Thanksgiving. I am receiving for the Colony and such of the chers collègues as care to help wave the Stars and Stripes. It will be a sort of census of how many Americans are really left in town. Their number is fast dwindling.

Yesterday was a busy day. I went to mass at San Lorenzo, where the nice American rector gave a very good Thanksgiving sermon. I rarely go there, except on some such occasion. It is far from the Embassy, and, though once in the best residential part of the city, it is now invaded by a squalid Indian and mestizo class. With the exception of San Lorenzo, which is very clean (the American church, as it is called), the churches in that quarter strike a most forlorn note, with their silent belfries and dirt and general shabbiness.

About two hundred came to the reception yesterday, and I only wish all had come. I really enjoyed shaking those friendly hands. The times are uncertain, and ruin for many is probable at any moment. The rooms were filled with flowers; I had a nice buffet and a good, heady punch. Elim was dressed in immaculate white. He made one shining appearance, and then reappeared ten minutes later, his radiance dimmed, having been sprinkled accidentally by the nice Indian gardener. He was reclad, but some over-enthusiastic compatriot gave him a glass of punch, and the rest of the afternoon I seemed to see little legs and feet in the air. The chefs de mission all came also, but of course it was an American day, the beloved flag flying high and catching the brilliant light in a most inspiring way.

Clarence Hay (John Hay’s son) is down here with Professor Tozzer and his bride, for archæological work. They first appeared on the horizon yesterday, the atmosphere of a less harassed world still hanging around them, and were most welcome. Tozzer is professor of archæology at Harvard and has mapped out work here until May, in connection with the Museo Nacional. The Toltec and Aztec treasures still hidden in the earth would repay any labor.

We fly up and down the Paseo constantly. I think there is the fastest and most reckless motor-driving in the world in Mexico, but some divinity is sleepless and there are few accidents. Jesus, our chauffeur, is a gem of good looks, neatness, willingness, competency, and skill. When he is told to come back for us at half past eleven, when we are dining out, and he has been on the go all day, he not only says “good,” but “very good,” with a flash of white teeth and dark eyes. The rest of the servants are so-so. If I thought we were going to stay I should change the first man. He ought to be the last, as he is not only a fool, but an unwilling one. As it is he who is supposed to stand between me and the world, I am often maddened by him. He is Indian, with a dash of Japanese, not a successful mixture in his case, though he is supposed to be honest.

November 29th.

I haven’t taken a census of the inhabitants of the house. Several of the women, I know, have children living with them, but a little unknown face appeared at a door yesterday, and was snatched back by some unidentified hand. They don’t produce them all at once, but gradually.

We had a white bull-terrier given us seven weeks old, Juanita by name. It has threatened to rain dogs here since it became known that we wanted one, but I have avoided all but two since returning. Elim looks sweet playing with her, two little milk-white young things. But Juanita’s stock is low. She tries her teeth on anything that is light-colored and soft, especially hats, and faces now stiffen at her approach.

A bit of a domestic upheaval this morning. The Indian butler with the dash of Japanese has been dismissed, or, rather, has dismissed himself. His was a case of total inefficiency and bad temper. I gave him a recommendation, for, poor fellow, he had seen his best days under the Stars and Stripes. The press-gang will get him, and he will doubtless soon be on the way to the north. I am to have a new butler on Monday.

Later.

I have just been going over the map with Captain Burnside, and we have been tracing the slow and sure advance of the rebels. They are down as far as San Luis Potosí, not more than fourteen hours from here. They manage to isolate the Federal detachments, one after the other, cutting the railroad lines in front and in the rear. There is a good deal of that northern march where one can go a hundred kilometers without finding a drop of water.

I was reading Mme. Calderon de la Barca’s letters—1840-1842—last night. She was the Scotch wife of the first Spanish minister after the Mexican independence, and her descriptions of political conditions would fit to-day exactly, even the names of some of the generals repeating themselves. She speaks of “the plan of the Federals,” “the political regeneration of the Republic,” “evils now arrived at such a height that the endeavors of a few men no longer suffice,” “a long discussion in Congress to-day on the granting of extraordinary powers to the President,” “a possible sacking of the city.”... Our history here. She goes on to say that they (the brigands) are the growth of civil war. Sometimes in the guise of insurgents taking an active part in the independence, they have independently laid waste the country. As expellers of the Spaniards these armed bands infested the roads between Vera Cruz and the capital, ruined all commerce, and without any particular inquiry into political opinions robbed and murdered in all directions. And she tells the bon mot of a certain Mexican: “Some years ago we gave forth cries—gritos (referring to the Grito de Dolores of Hidalgo). That was in the infancy of our independence. Now we begin to pronounce, pronunciamos (a pronunciamiento is a revolution). Heaven only knows when we shall be old enough to speak plainly, so that people may know what we mean.”

December 2d.

I go in the afternoon to a charity sale at Mrs. Adams’s, for the “Lady Cowdray Nursery Home.” Mr. A. is the Cowdray representative of the huge oil interests in Mexico. It sometimes looks as if this whole situation could be summed up in the one word, “oil.” Mexico is so endlessly, so tragically rich in the things that the world covets. Certainly oil is the crux of the Anglo-American situation. All the modern battle-ships will be burning oil instead of coal—clean, smokeless, no more of the horrors of stoking—and for England to have practically an unlimited oil-fount in Mexico means much to her.

We had a pleasant dinner last night here—Clarence Hay, Mr. and Mrs. Tozzer, and Mr. Seeger; the dinner itself only so-so. Mr. Seeger’s suggestion that the guajolote had been plied with grape-juice rather than with something more inspiring was borne out by the bird’s toughness, and there were strange, unexplained intervals. However I impressed upon C. H. that I was giving him this splendid fiesta because his father had signed N.’s first commission (to Copenhagen), and the time passed merrily. There are other things you can do at dinner besides eating, if you are put to it.

I inclose a long clipping, most interesting, from Mr. Foster’s Diplomatic Memoirs. He was minister here for some years—1873-1880, I think. His relations, too, of conditions at that time seem a replica of these in our time: “The railroad trains always contained one or more cars loaded with armed soldiers. The Hacendados did not venture off their estates without an armed guard and the richest of them lived in the cities for safety. Everybody armed to the teeth when traveling and the bullion-trains coming from the mines were always heavily protected by guards.” Mr. Foster sets forth the actions of the United States in delaying recognition of Diaz when he assumed the Presidency, and tells of the various moments in which we were on the brink of war with Mexico. In 1875, Congress conferred on Diaz “extraordinary faculties,” the effect of which was to suspend the legislative power and make him a dictator.

N. paid over the Pius Fund, yesterday—the indemnity of 45,000 pesos that Mexico is forced to pay yearly to the Catholic Church in California for confiscation of its property about one hundred years ago. It was the first decision of the Hague Tribunal. Archbishop Riordan, when consulted about the manner of paying it, telegraphed to Mr. Bryan that he left it in N.’s hands to be disposed of as if it were his own. N.’s policy has been to get the various foreign powers to appeal to us for protection of their citizens, thus tacitly acknowledging our “Monroe” right to handle questions that came up. So far France, Germany, Spain, and Japan have done so.

December 3d.

Yesterday, at four o’clock, Sir Lionel and Sir Christopher Cradock were announced. When I went down-stairs, a few minutes later, I found my drawing-room a blaze of afternoon sun, setting off to perfection twice six feet or more of Royal British navy—Sir Christopher and his aide, Cavendish, resplendent in full uniform. They had just come from calling on Huerta in state, at the Palace. I was really dazzled for the first moment. Sir Christopher is a singularly handsome man, regular of feature, and of distinguished bearing. His aide, equally tall and slender, a younger silhouette of himself, was standing by his side. Britannia resplendens! Sir Christopher was evidently very interested in seeing, at first hand, the situation he is to “observe” from the vantage of Vera Cruz. After a lively half-hour he was borne off by Sir L. for visits at the legations, and comparative darkness fell upon the room. As we are all dining at the German Legation, where there is a gala dinner for him and the captain of the Bremen and his staff, we merely said au revoir.

December 4th.