The foreign Powers used to think that, though extremely annoying, our Monroe doctrine was respectable. Now they seem inclined to think it is an excuse for monopolizing the New World for our own benefit. We may come into Mexico with glory. Can we get out with credit and not too high a bill? A letter from General Wisser (you remember him, from Berlin) came just now, written “In Camp, Texas City.” It had taken a little matter of two months to get here. It is not impossible I may welcome him to Mexico City.
December 9th.
The aftermath of that reception at Chapultepec has begun to come in. Among many letters, one from an ex-army officer says he would have “thrown the wine into Huerta’s face.” All the newspapers mention the incident, but with the empire tottering we saw no reason to unduly precipitate matters by boycotting Mme. Huerta’s reception, nor for being morose and brutal when there. I wonder what would have happened if any of the various fools, writing to protest, had been running matters?
One of the New York newspapers prints a long editorial headed “O’Shaughnessy,” saying President Wilson is fortunate in having had the services of Mr. O’S. during the diplomatic negotiations with Mexico. It presents the matter as I would like, and winds up by saying that the history of Mexican-American diplomacy, to be complete, would need more than one chapter headed “O’Shaughnessy.”
The dinner for Colonel and Mrs. Hayes was rather amusing, though the food was horrid and everything was cold except the champagne. After dinner the visit of two potential Presidents of Mexico (they are always being drawn to the Embassy like steel to the magnet of recognition) gave a decided touch of local color to the scene. A large, handsome, alert man, of the flashy type—Zerafino Dominguez—came first. His battle-cry and banner is “Land for the landless, and men for the men-less lands”—a good, sound, agricultural cry with everything in it, if it could only come true. “El apostol del maiz,” as he sometimes is called, is a wealthy landowner and scientific farmer, who contends that Mexico needs more corn rather than more politics—and never was a truer word spoken. He has within the last few days, however, given up his presidential pretensions to a friend who came in later, with the same desire of the moth for the star.
The shape of the friend’s head, however—narrow across the forehead and terminating in a high peak—would prevent his getting any votes from me. The pale young son of the hearty Dominguez was also there. I offered them cigarettes and copitas; the latter they did not accept. Burnside said it was to prove they hadn’t the weaknesses of Huerta. I thought they might be afraid to drink, remembering afterward that none of us had offered to partake with them of the possibly poisoned draught. They sang the praises of the great and beautiful Estados Unidos del Norte till we were quite embarrassed. Incidentally “ze American womans” came in for a share of admiration. I wonder shall we be giving Huerta asylum some day?
December 11th.
Yesterday I was too busy to write; spent the morning at the Red Cross, and then had luncheon at Coyoacan, at Mrs. Beck’s charming old house. Coyoacan is the most interesting, as well as livable, of all the suburbs, with its beautiful gardens and massive live-oaks shading the streets. Cortés made Coyoacan his stamping-ground, and one lovely old Spanish edifice after the other recalls his romantic history.
From here he launched his final assault against Mexico City; here poor, noble Guauhtémoc (I have an old print representing him with his feet in boiling water and an expression of complete detachment on his face) was tortured, in vain, to make him reveal the hiding-place of Montezuma’s treasure. After leaving Mrs. B.’s, Mrs. Kilvert and I went for a stroll in the garden of the celebrated Casa de Alvarado, built by him, of the famous leap. An old servidor of Mrs. Nuttall’s, to whom the house now belongs, opened the gate for us, with a welcoming smile. We passed through the patio, in one corner of which is the old well (with a dark history connected with the murder of the wife of one of the Conquerors), out into the garden with its melancholy and mysterious charm. The possession of the house is supposed to bring bad luck to the possessors, and sudden and violent death has happened to a dweller there even in my time. Roses and heliotrope and the brilliant drapeaux Espagnoles, with their streaks of red and yellow, were running riot, and a eucalyptus-tree drooped over all. In this magic land, even a few months of neglect will transform the best-kept garden into some enchanted close of story.
As I was getting out of the auto in front of the Embassy, I found sitting on the curb a pitiful family of five—four children of from seven years to eighteen months, and the mother, who was about to have another child. The father had been taken by the press-gang in the morning, and they were in the streets. I gave the woman some money, and one of the maids brought out bread and cake, and a bundle of garments for the children. Such bright-eyed little girls, real misery not having pinched them yet. I speak of them because they typify thousands of cases. A hand on his shoulder, and the father is gone forever! Such acts, occurring daily, estrange possible sympathy for the government. The woman will return to me when the money is spent.