VII
When one travels through Mexico one is amazed to discover that the Mexicans do not appear a cut-throat lot.
The great masses of Indian and semi-Indian population appear quiet, simple, peaceable folk. Now and then, after the tequila has flowed freely, some of them may beat their wives or cut their neighbors’ throats, but this is not their regular pastime. In fact, most Old-Timers in the country deny that crime is any more frequent there than at home.
Why then, the traveler always asks himself, can these people not elect a president without bloodshed?
One finds the answer by observing their politeness.
This politeness is extremely personal. The man who talked for half an hour to the ticket agent, keeping forty other persons waiting while he asked after all the members of the other man’s family, is a case in point. So are the two acquaintances—familiar to every one who has lived in Mexico—who meet upon a narrow sidewalk, embrace demonstratively, and stand there for another half hour, enjoying one another’s professions of love and admiration to such an extent that they force all other pedestrians to step out into the gutter.
It is a personal politeness which must be rigidly observed, no matter how much inconvenience it may cause the general public. One finds it everywhere in Mexican life—and this discussion might be extended to apply to the life of the neighboring countries given to revolution. It permeates business, where salesmanship follows the methods—now comparatively obsolete at home—of concentrating upon favorably impressing the buyer rather than demonstrating the superior merits of one’s goods. And when applied to politics, it becomes the good old principle of “What’s the constitution among friends?”
Mexican loyalty is an extremely personal loyalty. The Mexican may love his home, and the immediate land upon which he resides, but he has no conception of patriotism. He uses the phrase for oratorical purposes, but the idea is vague. He would rally to his country’s flag to fight a foreign invader, but beyond that, he has no devotion to his republic, or to the ideals and principles—whatever they may be—for which Mexico stands. He knows only loyalty to certain leaders. His political parties do not go by the name of Liberal or Conservative, Republican or Democrat, but by the name of the candidate. The Mexican is always an Obregonista, or a Villista or a Carranzista or a Huertista.
Once in office, the successful politician practices the spoils system, which is not unknown in our own republic, but which reaches a far higher point of efficiency in Mexico. Into office come all his personal friends. They have spent their money to elect him. Now they must reimburse themselves. Graft, fairly common in other lands, is an art in these countries. Scarcely a sum of money ever changes hands in the course of government operations without shrinking at least slightly. Political office is the quick, sure road to financial success. No one knows how soon a term may end, wherefore every one makes hay while the sun shines, for to-morrow it may rain bullets. Should one administration reach the end of its term—and Mexico’s latest constitution limits a president to one term—the old principle of personal courtesy to a friend continues. The retiring president names his own successor, whose election—since his troops control the polls—he can definitely guarantee.
The Mexican believes in this loyalty to friends. He expects the successful politician to give all the plums to his supporters, regardless of their abilities for the several posts. Not placing a high value upon honesty, except verbally, he takes it for granted that most of them will rob the people. He understands that they are loath to relinquish office. And in his heart, he would condemn the president as disloyal if he did not stuff the ballot boxes in favor of a chosen successor. His indignation is not aroused at such proceedings. He would do the same things himself if he were in power. But if he happens to be a rival politician, without power, and with no prospect of gaining it except by forcibly dislodging the other fellow, he affects great indignation. He whispers to the peon his horror at the prevailing misgovernment. “These villains,” he says, “are robbing you!” And he rises in arms, followed by the peon, to save Mexico from its unpatriotic despoilers.
As a matter of fact, it is only a comparatively small part of the population that follows. The great bulk of the Mexican people are peaceable; they are tired of revolution; they have lost faith in new leaders; they prefer to remain neutral, and to cheer diplomatically for whoever proves the victor. The revolutionary army is recruited like the federal army from the unemployed, from those who have tired of working and hope to obtain political office themselves, from young boys who are thrilled by the prospect of carrying a gun, and from a certain lawless element that welcomes the possibility of loot and rape.
Should the revolution prove abortive, the Government generals quickly suppress it. A few of its leaders are hanged, a few soldiers executed; the rest of the rebels slip away quietly, hide their weapons, and return innocently to their work. Should the revolution prove successful, the Government generals forget their loyalty to the President; they jump quickly to the other side, taking with them their ignorant troops—who are never quite sure whom they are fighting, anyway—and fight valiantly, as always, to save Mexico. The President flees. The revolutionists hold a banquet at the Palace, where they make flowery speeches about their patriotism. They conduct an election, make one of their number president, and accept his appointments to office. And there they remain, until another revolution throws them out, or until a squabble starts among themselves as to which shall next succeed to the presidency.
The American reading public always condemns the revolutionist. It can not seem to grasp the fact that elections are never honest in Mexico; that whoever controls the polls is the man elected; that Mexico has never had a constitutional president who did not first capture the Palace by force of arms; that revolution consequently is the only course whereby there can be a change of parties. Usually the revolution is justifiable. But invariably it brings to office another man who, like the man at the ticket window, is more considerate of his personal friends than of the general public.
The Mexicans are not a cut-throat lot. They are merely too courteous.