I inclose a newspaper cutting about Bonilla, who was in hiding here. He is celebrated for his blunders—bonilladas, they are called. As a delicate expression of his thanks, on his arrival at Washington, he sent N. an open telegram announcing his safe arrival and ending with messages of gratitude neatly calculated to make trouble for his benefactor in both capitals.
I am finding myself very well off here, in the center of daily occurrences of vital interest. A full plate of life! One of its sweetnesses, doubtless, is that I don’t know how long it will last. My tea-service is the only thing I really miss. A tent of a night I know—but the tea hour comes every day!
November 2nd.
Last night came what is practically an ultimatum from Washington to Huerta. He is to get out, he, and all his friends, or—intervention. N. was at the palace until one o’clock in the morning. It is asking Huerta to commit political suicide, and he, unfortunately, does not feel so inclined. Also, he has a conviction that he is a sort of “Man of Destiny” who can bring peace to Mexico. N. tried to convince him of the complete impossibility of standing up against the United States, and urged him again and again to give way. I was troubled during the night by visions of intervention, further devastation of this beautiful land, and the precious blood of my own people.
I am reading a Spanish book on the war of 1847, published in 1848. The reasons why battles were lost sound immensely familiar—generals not coming up with reinforcements, or the commissary not materializing, or the troops deserting. It is all so like what we are reading now in the newspapers! No tempora mutantur here.
November 3rd.
If Huerta feels himself in his last ditch, with this threat of intervention, he may answer “que vengan.” The upper classes here seem to feel that it is what we intend and feel that if “’twere done, ’twere well ’twere done quickly,” before the country is ruined. The bitter pill will be sugar-coated by thoughts of the prosperity to follow. A—— came this morning, and, after a long conversation about Mexico’s troubles, cried: “Come in immediately and clear up this impossible situation, or leave us alone. Nothing is safe; nothing is sacred!” His large sugar interests are in the Zapatista country, and he is pretty well ruined by their destruction. If we come in, the military part is, perhaps, the least of it; a huge administrative job would follow—Cuba and the Philippines are mere child’s play to it.
A rather cryptic letter came from Mr. Lind this morning. We gather that he is thinking of leaving, as he feels that he can’t do anything! He has learned, as somebody said, enough Spanish to say nothing in it. I think, however, it is as difficult for the United States to withdraw him as it was embarrassing to send him. Also a letter came from Burnside, from Vera Cruz, telling of the war-ships and their positions in the harbor. He predicts a migration north for all of us, at an early date—but who knows?
November 4th.
More battle-ships are announced. We shall have, according to to-day’s paper, about 6,000 men at Vera Cruz. Box-cars are being sent to the frontier; it must all mean preparation for some definite stroke on the part of the United States. I feel that I am seeing life from a very big angle. In spite of the underlying excitement here, outwardly things take their usual course. Now we motor out to Tlalpam with the Belgian minister, to lunch at Percival’s. It is a wondrous, glistening day, and the swift run over the smooth, straight road toward the enchanting hills which form its near background will be pure joy. The mountains have a way of changing their aspect as one motors along, even with one’s eye on them. From being a breath, an emanation, they become blue, purple realities of matchless beauty—dark shadows pinned to them with spears of light.