When we arrived in Mexico, beautiful Doña Carmen Diaz was presiding; then came Señora de la Barra, newly married, sweet-faced, and smiling; followed by Señora Madero, earnest, pious, passionate. Now Señora Huerta is the “first lady”—all in two years and a half. The dynasties have a way of telescoping in these climes.
The invitation to the opening of Congress to-morrow has just come in—exactly as if the United States had not decided that no such Congress should be convened and its acts be considered null and void.
Elim told me to-day that all the children he plays with have gone away—“afraid of the revolution,” he added, in a matter-of-fact voice. He expects to die with me if “war” does come, and is quite satisfied with his fate.
The details of Garza Aldape’s demission have come in. His resignation was accepted by Huerta in the friendliest manner. He concluded the conversation, however, by telling Aldape the Espagne was sailing on Monday, and that he had better leave on Sunday morning, so as to be sure not to miss it. This being late Saturday evening, Garza Aldape demurred, saying his family had no trunks. The President assured him that he himself would see that he got all he needed. Subsequently he sent Aldape a number of large and handsome receptacles. Madame G. A. received a hand-bag with luxurious fittings, and 20,000 francs oro in it! The “old man” has a royal manner of doing things on some occasions; and then again he becomes the Indian, inscrutable, unfathomable to us, and violent and high-handed to his own people—whom he knows so very well.
The reception at Chapultepec, yesterday, was most interesting. As we drove through the Avenida de los Insurgentes up the Paseo toward the “Hill of the Grasshopper” the windows of the castle were a blaze of light high up against the darkening sky.
On our last visit to Chapultepec,[5] Madero and Pino Suarez were there, and shades of the murdered ones began to accost me as I appeared on the terrace. One of the glittering presidential aides, however, sprang to give me his arm, and in a moment I was passing into the familiar Salon de Embajadores, to find Señora Huerta installed on the equally familiar gilt-and-pink brocaded sofa placed across the farther end. She has been a very handsome woman, with fine eyes and brow, and has now a quiet, dignified, and rather serious expression. She was dressed in a tight-fitting princess gown of red velvet, with white satin guimp and black glacé kid gloves. She has had thirteen children, most of whom seemed to be present on this, their first appearance in an official setting. The daughters, married and unmarried, and their friends receiving with them, made quite a gathering in themselves. As I looked around, after saluting Señora Huerta, the big room seemed almost entirely filled with small, thick-busted women, with black hair parted on one side over low, heavy brows, and held down by passementerie bandeaux; well-slippered, very tiny feet, were much in evidence. None of the “aristocrats” were there, but el Cuerpo, was out in full force.
The President came at about six o’clock, walking quickly into the room as the national air was played, and we all arose. It was the first time I had seen him. N. presented me, and we three stood talking, in the middle of the room, while everybody watched “America and Mexico.”
Huerta is a short, broad-shouldered man of strong Indian type, with an expression at once serious, amiable, and penetrating; he has restless, vigilant eyes, screened behind large glasses, and shows no signs of the much-talked-of alcoholism. Instead, he looked like a total abstainer. I was much impressed by a certain underlying force whose momentum may carry him to recognition—now the great end of all.
I felt myself a bit “quivery” at the thought of the war-cloud hanging over these people, and of how the man dominating the assembly took his life in his hands at his every appearance, and was apparently resolved to die rather than cede one iota to my country. After the usual greetings, “a los pies de Vd. señora” (“at your feet, señora”), etc., he remarked, with a smile, that he was sorry I should find things still a little strained on my return, but that he hoped for a way out of the very natural difficulties. I answered rather ambiguously, so far as he is concerned, that I loved Mexico and didn’t want to leave it. I felt my eyes fill over the potentialities of the situation, whereupon he answered, as any gentleman, anywhere in the world, might have done, that now that la señora had returned things might be arranged! After this he gave his arm to Madame Ortega, wife of the Guatemalan minister, the ranking wife of the Spanish minister being ill, and Madame Lefaivre not yet arrived. Señor Ortega gave me his arm, and we all filed out into the long, narrow gallery, la Vitrina, overlooking the city and the wondrous valley, where an elaborate tea was served. The President reached across the narrow table to me to touch my glass of champagne, as the usual saludes were beginning, and I found he was drinking to the health of the “Gran Nación del Norte.” Could I do less than answer “Viva Mexico”?
