Huerta answered with a gesture of indifference, “It must be,” adding, “no le hace” (“it doesn’t matter”).
I told him with a smile, which he quite understood, that it wasn’t much in the way of an exchange. (As we had taken seventeen million rounds of ammunition, and God knows how many guns and rifles in Vera Cruz, his haul at the Embassy did seem rather small!) He does not want us to go out by Guadalajara and Manzanillo, and, unless compelled to cut the line, he gives us his train to-morrow night to Vera Cruz, with a full escort, including three officers of high rank.
“I would go myself,” he said, “but I cannot leave. I hope to send my son in my place, if he returns from the north, as I expect.”
I was dreadfully keyed up, as you can imagine; I felt the tears gush to my eyes. He seemed to think it was fear that moved me, for he told me not to be anxious.
I said, “I am not weeping for myself, but for the tragedy of life.”
And, indeed, since seeing him I have been in a sea of sadness, personal and impersonal—impersonal because of the crushing destiny that can overtake a strong man and a country, and personal, because this many-colored, vibrant Mexican experience of mine is drawing to a close. Nothing can ever resemble it.
As we three stood there together he uttered, very quietly, his last word:
“I hold no rancor toward the American people, nor toward su Excelencia el Señor Presidente Wilson.” And, after a slight pause, he added, “He has not understood.”
It was the first and last time I ever heard him speak the President’s name. I gave him my hand as he stood with his other hand on Nelson’s shoulder, and knew that this was indeed the end. I think he realized that my heart was warm and my sympathies outrushing to beautiful, agonizing Mexico; for, as he stood at the door, he suddenly turned and made me a deep reverence. Then, taking N.’s arm, he went out into the starry, perfumed evening, and I turned back into the dwelling I was so soon to leave, with the sadness of life, like a hot point, deep in my heart. So is history written. So do circumstances and a man’s will seem to raise him up to great ends, and so does destiny crush him.... And we, who arrogated to ourselves vengeance for unproven deeds in a foreign land, was vengeance ours?
I left the Embassy staff alone at dinner and came up-stairs, to Aunt Laura. Again I was sick at the thought of leaving her, old, ill, and in troubles of many kinds. I will do what I can for her before I go; but oh, I am sad, very sad, to-night. Whatever else life may have in reserve for me, this last conversation with a strong man of another psychology than mine will remain engraven on my heart—his calm, his philosophy on the eve of a war he knows can only end in disaster for himself and his people. His many faults, his crimes, even, his desperate expedients to sustain himself, his non-fulfilments—all vanish. I know his spirit possesses something which will see him safely over the dark spaces and hours when they come.[16]