A diplomat's wife in Mexico

by Edith O'Shaughnessy

The fact is, nobody believes we really will intervene. The chances that we shall depart on a war-ship instead of by the Ward Line are very good, the “d” in this instance making all the difference. I shall hate to leave this palpitating, prismatic sort of life; but it isn’t the moment to have personal feelings of any sort.

Driving back this evening toward a beautiful, clear, red sunset, up the Plateros between the rows of autos and carriages full of handsomely dressed people, the men standing along the edge of the pavement as they do in Rome on the Corso, it seemed impossible that I was looking at a people over whom a great national humiliation was hanging. The crowds become more and more Mexican every day, with fewer American faces.

We lunched to-day with the Iturbides. Everything was done in the best of style—with beautiful old silver and porcelain. He is a descendant of the Emperor Augustin Iturbide of tragic history, and a charming and very clever young man who would adorn any society. Señor Bernal, with his Christus head, its extreme regularity chiseled in pale, ivory tones, sat on my other side. They all seemed to fear that in view of the, to them, inexplicable attitude of the United States, the end in Mexico would be the long-dreaded intervention in some form. Not a man who was at the table, however, really occupies himself with politics. They all have handsome houses in town, but they live for the most part on their haciendas, which they work on the paternal plan, the only plan as yet productive of results here and which we in the United States don’t at all understand, not being able to put ourselves into another nation’s shoes. The actual political business here is left to the educated middle class, whose members, instead of being pillars of society, form the stratum from which the professional politician and embryo revolutionist always spring—the licenciados, sometimes called the curse of Mexico, and other men of the civil professions, generally venal to a degree. The peon is faithful when he has no power and the aristocrat is noble; but no country is secure whose best elements are the extremes.

I am not, however, pessimistic as to the future of the real Latin-American typified by this middle stratum, generally mestizo. He always forms the active part of the population, and in his hands seems to lie the future of the country. The Spaniard as typified by the aristocratic classes is apt to hold himself aloof and will always do so. The Indian, except in the isolated case of some individual possessing genius, sure to present himself from time to time, has not the qualities to form the dominant element. It is, therefore, reserved for this crossing of Spaniard and native to finally embody and present the real national characteristics.

A rumor is out to-night that, as the present banking act relative to certain reserves of gold and silver doesn’t suit Huerta, he has decided to do away with it, and we are to stand firmly (?) on paper. Shades of Limantour!

This afternoon I bought several beautiful old inlaid frames. These last words tell of one of the greatest pleasures in Mexico—prowling around for antiques. Almost every one coming down here gets the fever and spends hours turning over junk, in an almost delirious way, in the hope of unearthing treasure. In spite of the fact that for almost fifty years Mexico has been drained by the traveler, and again and again devastated by civil strife, there still remain endless lovely things, testifying to the wealth and taste of the old Spanish days.

November 6th.

The statement in the Mexican Herald that Mr. Lind had confirmed the report of an ultimatum and the probable failure of negotiations is simply astounding. Turn the light of publicity on Huerta and he is as wary as some wild animal who comes into contact with man for the second time. Whatever he may have been contemplating, these special negotiations are now dead and buried.

There was a big dinner at the Belgian Legation to-night; everything beautifully done, as usual. I sat opposite my host, between von H. and Sir L. Wore the flowered black velvet chiffon, and that black aigrette with the Pocahontas effect in my hair; von H. wanted to know why this delicate Indian tribute. There was no political conversation, as, with the exception of the C.’s, von H., and ourselves, only handsome, well-dressed, and bejeweled members of the Mexican smart set were present. May is nothing if not exclusive, with a perfect flair for the chicheria. His handsome wife is in Paris.

My drawing-room is filled with the beautiful pink geraniums that grow thick on the walls of the Embassy gardens and balconies. Juan, the gardener, who, like all Aztecs, understands flowers, brings them in every other morning, cutting them most effectively with very long stems and many leaves.