We have been busy these past two days. Mr. L. is a delightful guest, easy and simple. He goes to-morrow, but I am pressing him to return for Thanksgiving—if we are here. People smile when I speak of a Thanksgiving reception. Three weeks is a long cry in Mexico City, in these days.
N. finally ran Huerta down yesterday in the El Globo café. He received the usual affectionate abrazo,[4] and they had a copita together, but Huerta never mentioned Lind any more than if he were non-existent, and shied off at the remotest hint of “business.” Instead, he asked N., “How about the girls?” (“Y las muchachas?”) a phrase often used for opening or closing a conversation, in these climes, much as we would ask about the weather. It has no bearing on whatever subject may be in hand.
The new elections are to be held on the 23d of this month. Huerta plays with the government in Washington in a truly Machiavellian way. They want his resignation, but for the moment there is no recognized government in whose hands to place such a resignation. After the 23d, if the elections bear fruit, he will find some other reasons for remaining. If it were not for the fact that might is always right, the Administration would be as the kindergarten class, in regard to this clever, involved, astute old Indian. “They say” he is getting rich, but there are no apparent signs. I don’t think his mentality is that of the money-loving order, though possibly his principles would not prevent his making himself comfortable if he put his mind to it. He is now, however, so under the domination of his idée fixe—pacification—in spite of the difficulties within and without, that I doubt if he is taking an undue interest in personal enrichment.
November 9th.
This morning I began the day by telephoning von Hintze to come for lunch, as Mr. Lind wanted to see him informally. Then I went to the house of the Chilian chargé, who died yesterday. He was laid out in the center of the little dining-room, the electric bell from the hanging lamp, which he must often have pressed while eating, dangling over his poor, dead face. There is a quite particular sadness about the passing away of diplomats in lands distant from their own, their little span spun among the polite, but the unrelated and uncaring. I stayed for a rosary and litany, the priest, his pretty, childless wife, and myself, alone in the room. Great hangings of purple bougainvillæa, the glory of Mexico, darkened the window. May he rest in peace.
There was interesting conversation at lunch, only we four being present. Mr. Lind repeated to von Hintze what he has, curiously enough, said to many people here—his opinion that the crux of the matter was the Anglo-American relations, and that the United States would never allow the dominance of British interests to the injury of American or Mexican ones; von Hintze, though he listened attentively, was non-committal and most diplomatic in his answers. It is always of absorbing interest to Germans to hear of possible difficulties between England and other nations, and vice versa, too, for that matter. A light springs into the eye; and I dare say von Hintze made a report to his home government on returning to the Legation. He told Mr. Lind he thought we had not sufficiently respected the amour propre of the Mexicans; that we were wrong in trying threats when what they needed was skilful coaxing. Mr. Lind volunteered the surprising statement that it didn’t suit us to have the elections held, anyway, as there would be concessions granted and laws passed that would render the Mexican situation difficult for us for fifty years. I really felt quite embarrassed.
The Vera Cruz elections amused Mr. Lind considerably, the “urn” being a common pasteboard shoe-box with a slit in it. This objet de vertu he had actually seen with his own eyes.
The town is wild over the bull-fight this Sunday afternoon. Belmonte, el fenomeno, just arrived from Spain, twenty-one years old, is the object of all affections. Political matters are quite in abeyance. There was a scarcely subdued excitement among the servants as the gay throng passed the Embassy en route for the Ring, and considerable dejection this evening because all hadn’t been able to stampede the house and hie them to the fray. They are like children; any disappointment seems the end of everything. A continual cloud of dust wrapped us about, stirred up by the thousands passing in motor, carriage, or on foot. During my first Mexican sojourn I went to two bull-fights, but didn’t acquire the taste. De Chambrun told me one had to go six times running, after which one couldn’t be kept away!
I saw Belmonte driving yesterday, the crowds cheering wildly. His expression of pride, yet condescension, distinguished him as much as his clothes. He wore the usual flat black hat, showing his tiny pigtail, a wide-frilled shirt under a tight jacket which didn’t pretend to meet the still tighter trousers, and he was covered with jewelry—doubtless votive offerings from adoring friends. And to-night he may be dead!
Burnside and Ensign H., of the Louisiana, who accompanied Lind as body-guard, return with him to Vera Cruz. The Embassy is to engage a compartment for him in the evening, but he will go in the morning. Just as well to be prepared against “accidents.”