Things do move. I came down from Aunt Laura’s room to find Lieutenant Rowan in the hall, just off the train from Vera Cruz, after a delayed, dusty trip. You can imagine he got a warm welcome. Nelson came in just then, and a few minutes later, as we were still standing in the front hall, Portillo y Rojas appeared at the door, looking, we instantly thought, much happier. He was wearing his green, gold-embroidered sash, the insignia of military rank that Huerta has imposed rather than bestowed on all Cabinet officers, who are thus under military discipline and obedience to him as generalissimo. They objected to wearing full military uniform, compromising on the sash. Rojas also wore a smile—I don’t know whether it was for me or for the situation. He had come to tell Nelson that the salutes would be given on his, N.’s, written word of honor that they would be returned. He has been an hour and a half in Nelson’s private room drawing up a document—a protocol (il y va de sa propre tête)—and he is doing it with the painstaking care of a man who has everything at stake. Nelson himself is pretty foxy, and has to look out for his skin. Well, “all’s well that ends well.” If we get through this the next incident will mean war. I hope at Washington they will appreciate some of the difficulties N. has to meet, and act accordingly. However, “call no man happy until his death.” I hear the click of the big iron gate swinging to after the exit of Lopez Portillo y Rojas.
I am fairly tired out and shall now proceed to draw the drapery of my couch about me and lie down—I hope to pleasanter dreams than those of last night. How glad I am that I haven’t confided my son or my jewels to various terror-stricken acquaintances who have levanted two hundred and fifty miles east and eight thousand feet down. It hasn’t come yet; all, after everything is said and done, hangs on the life of that astute and patient old Cori Indian, whose years of our Lord are fifty-nine, and who, whatever his sins, were they blacker than night, is legally President of Mexico. Chase legality out of Latin America and where are you? After him anarchy, chaos, and finally intervention—the biggest police job ever undertaken in the Western Hemisphere, however one may feel like belittling it from a military standpoint. I have thought all these days of the probable head-lines of the newspapers and hoped my precious mother was not worrying about her distant ones. Good night, and then again good night. “God’s in His heaven; all’s well with us.”
April 19th. 11.30 P.M.
The last of the continuous line of plenipotentiaries, chargés d’affaires, railroad men, laymen of all kinds, have gone. Washington refused Nelson’s signature to the protocol drawn up by Portillo y Rojas and sent for approval. Huerta then refused categorically to give the salutes. So it is intervention. At 4.30 I went down-stairs for tea, as usual, to find Adatchi and Eyguesparsse there. Eyguesparsse, as you know, married the sister of General Rincon Gaillardo. He says that Huerta will resist to the end; his esprit militaire is entirely opposed to the esprit universitaire of Wilson. “Ils ne pourront jamais se comprendre.” Huerta said to Rincon Gaillardo that intervention would be a work of five years, and productive of the greatest trouble to the United States. Huerta’s stand is incroyable, unglaublich unbelievable, incredibile—what you will. Each representative who called exclaimed the same thing in his special tongue as he greeted me. Hohler was very quiet, and really very sad at the happenings. He has been a faithful friend through everything. Sir Lionel gets here to-morrow or the next day. Kanya, Letellier, and Clarence Hay stayed for dinner. Hohler came back again in the evening, also von Hintze, who does not think the war vote will go with a rush through Congress to-morrow, and quotes the case of Polk. He said it took three months for him to persuade Congress to vote the money and men for the 1846 war. I can’t verify this. He and von Papen left at eleven. Nelson, Rowan, and I came up-stairs, all a bit fagged. To-morrow will be a full day. I long ago promised the American women here that if and when I thought the break was impending I would let them know. I think it has steadied their situation here that I haven’t “lit out” from time to time. But what of the hundreds—no, thousands—all over this fair land whose possible fate is scarcely to be looked in the face? The “Old Man” has some idea other than despair and fatigue or impatience. He is working on a plan, probably hoping for a chance to play his trump card—the unification of all Mexicans to repel the invaders,—which would take the trick anywhere but in Mexico. We are going to get some more gendarmes for the Embassy. I feel very calm and deeply interested. It is a big moment, and Nelson has been unremitting in his endeavors.
The Foreign Office here has given the press a statement of two thousand words to-night, which will bring forth dismay and horror in the morning. I can’t feel the personal danger of the situation. I am sorry dear Dr. Ryan is away. I sent him yesterday, in care of the consul at Saltillo, the prearranged word, “101,” which meant that, whenever, wherever, he got it, he was to return immediately. At last hearing, the more prudent von Papen, who decided to return to Mexico City, saw him start from Saltillo with his medical supplies and four mules, to try to get to Torreon over a desert stretch.
Von Papen, who had a most uncertain trip, says the only way to prevent the continual destruction of the railways is the establishment of the blockhouse system now planned by the Federal government.
2.30 A.M.
I can’t sleep. National and personal potentialities are surging through my brain. Three stalwart railroad men came to the Embassy this evening. They brought reports of a plan for the massacre of Americans in the street to-night, but, strange and wonderful thing, a heavy rain is falling. It is my only experience of a midnight rain in Mexico, except that which fell upon the mobs crying “Death to Diaz,” nearly three years ago. As all Mexicans hate to get wet, rain is as potent as shell-fire in clearing the streets, and I don’t think there will be any trouble. Providence seems to keep an occasional unnatural shower on hand for Mexican crises.
N.’s secret-service man reappeared upon the scene yesterday, probably by the President’s orders. This works two ways. It protects N., and incidentally proves to Huerta that N. is not intriguing against him.
Had this war been induced by a great incident or for a great principle, I could bear it. But because the details of a salute could not be decided upon we give ourselves, and inflict on others, the horrors of war. Mr. Bryan, so the Herald playfully remarks to-day, must have been surprised and disappointed. The “salutes were always so cheerfully returned at Chautauqua.” It is no situation for amateurs. The longer I live the more respect I have for technical training. Every Foreign Office in Europe or any other continent keeps experts for just such cases. I may become an interventionist, but after Huerta. He has proved himself vastly superior, in executive ability, to any man Mexico has produced since Diaz, in spite of his lack of balance and his surprising childishness, following upon strange subtleties, and he would have sold his soul to please the United States to the point of recognition. In that small, soft hand (doubtless bloody, too) were possibilities of a renewal of prosperity, after the dreams of Madero that he himself could never have clothed in reality. The reassociation of the government with the conservative elements might have given some guarantee of peace, at least during Huerta’s life, and any man’s life is a long time in an Indian or Latin republic.