Mr. Bryan declines the kindly offices of The Hague—More Americans leave Mexico City—Lieutenant Rowan arrives—Guarding the Embassy—Elim keeps within call.
April 17th.
Washington will not take The Hague into consideration, and will not fire simultaneous salutes, which, of course, it would be childish for us to do, so the question is narrowed down to one point:—the Mexicans must salute our flag, and we engage ourselves to answer it. Many precedents for this are being cited by foreigners here. For instance, the celebrated case of the French consul in San Francisco, who was jailed for a few hours through a mistake. We made all reparation and engaged ourselves to fire twenty-one salutes to the first French ship that came into the harbor. Kanya tells me of an incident that transpired when he was chargé d’affaires at Cettinje, that was regulated by an exchange of salutes between the contending parties, in Antivari harbor.
I have had calls all afternoon—German, Belgian, Austrian, and Italian colleagues, Marie Simon, de Soto (looking more like a handsome contemporary of Velasquez than ever)—all, of course, talking about la situación. Now I am waiting dinner for Nelson, who has been out since four o’clock, trying to communicate the very courteous, but firm, answer of Washington cited above.
Later.
N. came in for dinner as the Burnsides, d’Antin, and McKenna were sitting with me at table. One of the numerous telephone calls proved to be from the Minister for Foreign Affairs, saying that he was leaving the Ministerio, and would be immediately at the Embassy. I had cognac and cigarettes placed in the drawing-room, and then everybody got out of the way. They are both in there now—9.45—and the fate of Mexico hangs in the balance, in that pleasant, high-ceilinged salon of mine, with the big vases of long-stemmed pink geraniums, and books, and photographs, and bibelots, and its deep, comfortable green leather chairs and sofa. I am writing this in one of the smaller rooms, with newspaper men running in and out, and the telephone ringing. To the journalistic demands Nelson has told the clerks to say “there is no change,” which, in spite of my excitement, or perhaps because of it, reminds me of the story recounted of a Russian Ambassador to London. His wife had the bad taste to die at the time of the great visit of the Czar to Queen Victoria. The Ambassador, who was above everything a diplomat, had the body put on ice in the cellar of the Embassy, and to all inquiries as to his wife’s health he replied, suavely: “Thank you; madame is in the same condition.”
11.30.
Back in the drawing-room, with the historic cognac, the equally historic cigarette ash, and the drawn-up chairs as mute witnesses that something has taken place. What will come of it all? Rocking the ship of state is an exciting business. I don’t understand Huerta’s attitude, unless he is whipped by the rebels, and knows it, and prefers defeat at the hands of a nobler foe.
Portillo y Rojas said the President felt that he had done all that he was called on to do as chief of the nation to expiate the Tampico incidents; that the sailors were put at liberty immediately, with an apology given by the jefe de la plaza—General Moreles Zaragoza—to Admiral Mayo; that since then the President himself had manifested regret and had ordered an investigation to punish the guilty party; that any nation in the world would have been satisfied by these proceedings, and that furthermore he agreed that the Mexican cannon might salute simultaneously with those of the Americans, which would fully show the good-will on both sides, and also let the neighboring peoples witness the happy termination of a difficulty that had never been serious. There is a Spanish proverb about having more fins than a fish, which certainly applies to this sauve and clever old Indian. He further sent expressions of great friendship for Nelson by the Minister, but said he couldn’t do this thing even for him, much as he desired to.
A moment ago a little blond-headed, blue-robed, sleepy angel appeared on the scene to ask when I was coming up-stairs. Perhaps, like the rest of us, Elim feels the disturbing electric currents in the air. He is now lying on the sofa, wrestling with sleep. He had been put to bed some hours before, rather unhappily. He kept pressing close to my dressing-table as I was getting ready for dinner, fingered every article on it, and asked me countless questions. These ranged from, “What does God eat?” to, “Why don’t women wear suspenders?” until I was frantic and had him removed in tears.