April 13th. Evening.
No news has come. I wonder what they did in Tampico at six o’clock. A very insistent note has come from the Foreign Office, recounting, I think for the first time, Mexico’s many grievances against us—troubles caused by the raising of the embargo and the consequent supplying of arms to the rebels; claiming the Federals’ right to conduct the fight at Tampico any way they see fit; saying that they will tolerate no interference in their national affairs, etc. We, having armed the rebels, can hardly take exception to the Federals’ defending themselves. They insist that the whaleboat of the Dolphin was on forbidden territory when the men were arrested, but the statement is not official. Washington is to-day either finding a way out of the affair or looking into the grim, cold eyes of intervention.
I had an Easter-egg hunt in the garden, for Elim, at which nine little darlings assisted. Then we had tea, with many flashes of Spanish wit. All the foreign children here prefer to speak Spanish. The mothers and other ladies left at six, after which the French military attaché, de Bertier, and Letellier, came in, and we talked Mexicana till eight. De Bertier said this was the second most interesting situation he had ever watched. The first was the beginning of the French power in Morocco—that clear flame of French civilization, at first trembling and uncertain, in the deserts and mountains of North Africa, but ever increasing, carried to the Arabs, a “race pure,” by a handful of brave and dashing soldiers, also of a “race pure.” He finds the problem much more complicated in Mexico, where a salade of races is involved.
April 14th. 2 P.M.
This morning, like so many mornings here, had its own special color. Nelson had not seen Huerta since the interview on Friday night, about the saluting of the flag. We drove out to Chapultepec, where, before the restaurant steps, the usual petit lever was being held—generals, Cabinet Ministers, and other officials. Nelson went over to the President, while the motor, with Clarence Hay and myself in it, retreated out of the blazing sun under the shade of some convenient and beautiful ahuehuetes. From afar we saw the President get out of his motor and Nelson go up to him; then both walked up the broad stairs of the restaurant. In a few minutes Ramon Corona, now chief of staff, walked quickly over to our motor.
“I come from the President to ask you to go to the fiesta militar in the Pereda cuartel,” he said. The President took Nelson in his motor, I following in ours, with Corona. Hay vanished from the somewhat complicated situation. I got to the barracks to find that we were the only foreigners, and I the only lady on the raised dais (where generals and Cabinet Ministers were even thicker than at Chapultepec), to watch the various exercises the well-trained gendarme corps gave for the President. They are for the moment without horses, the lack of which is a great problem here. We watched the various steps, drills, and exercises for a couple of hours with great interest, I sitting between Corona and charming young Eduardo Iturbide, the present governor of the Federal district. It is wonderful what those Indians did, having been gathered in only during the last month. I told one or two little stories of things I had seen in Berlin and Rome. You remember how the raw recruits used to pass Alsenstrasse on the way to those big barracks, just over the Spree—great, hulking, awkward, ignorant peasants who after six weeks could stand straight, look an officer in the eye, and answer “Yes” or “No” to a question. The Italian story was one once told me by a lieutenant who had been drilling some recruits back of the Pamfili-Doria Villa. After several weeks’ instruction, he asked a man, “Who lives over there?” pointing to the Vatican. “I don’t know,” was the answer. He called another man, who responded, promptly, “The Pope.” The officer, much encouraged, asked further, “What is his name?” “Victor Emmanuele,” was the unhappy response. This last story especially appealed to the officers. They told me their greatest difficulty is to get any kind of mental concentration from the Indians.
The exercises finally came to an end, with the Police Band—one of the finest I have ever heard—playing the waltz time of “Bachimba,” composed in honor of Huerta’s great victory when fighting for Madero against Orozco. Huerta gave me his arm and we went in to an elaborate collation—champagne, cold patés, and sweets—I sitting on the President’s right. Huerta then made a speech that seemed as if it might have come from the lips of Emperor William, on the necessity of discipline, and the great results therefrom to the country. He said that when the country was pacified the almost countless thousands of the army would, he hoped, return to the fields, the mines, the factories, stronger and better able to fight the battle of life for having been trained to obedience, concentration, and understanding. When the speech was over, and all the healths had been drunk (mine coming first!), the President gave the sign and I turned to leave. We were standing in the middle of the flower-laden horseshoe table, and I moved to go out by the side I had come in. He stopped me.
“No, señora,” he said, “never take the road back—always onward. Adelante.”
Repeating, “Adelante,” I took the indicated way. As we went down the steps and into the patio we found four cameras ready, about three yards in front of us! I felt that Huerta was rather surprised, and I myself stiffened up a bit, but—what could “a perfect lady” do? It was not the moment for me to flinch, so we stood there and let them do their worst. I could not show him the discourtesy of refusing to be photographed—but here, on the edge of war, it was a curious situation for us both. Well, the censura can sometimes be a friend; the photograph won’t be in every newspaper in the States to-morrow. If, in a few days, diplomatic relations are broken off, that will be an historic photograph.
The Old Man is always delightful in his courtesy and tact. As for his international attitude, it has been flawless. On all occasions where there has been any mistake made it has been made by others, not by him. His national political attitude has perhaps left “much to be desired,” though I scarcely feel like criticizing him in any way. He has held up, desperately and determinedly, the tattered fabric of this state and stands before the world without a single international obligation. Who has done anything for him? Betrayed at home and neglected or handicapped abroad, he bears this whole republic on his shoulders.