We made our way, Mr. de Soto clearing a path for us, to the Capilla del Pocito. These waters are said to have gushed from under the feet of the Virgin as she appeared to Juan Diego. A la the fountain of Trevi, whoever drinks of it returns to Mexico. We didn’t drink, for various reasons unconnected with return. The Indians use it for healing purposes and a lively trade in brightly painted, earthen-ware bottles, in which to carry the water away, was going on about the chapel. The Indians come, sometimes a many days’ journey, on foot, of course, and when they arrive they bivouac all about the church as if they had reached “home.” What with babies crying, beggars begging—“por la Virgen,” “por la Santa Madre de Dios”—dogs yapping and venders hawking, the whole dominated by the acrid smell of the various pungent messes they roll up in their tortillas, it was, indeed, Indian life at its flood. They must have presented much the same scene when they gathered to receive instruction and baptism from the old friars.
The “Aztec wheels” (merry-go-rounds) and all kinds of games of chance, to which they are addicted, help to get the centavos out of the Indian pocket; but it is their greatest holiday, this journey to their “Virgen India de Tepeyac,” and they count no cost of fatigue and savings. I only hope the press-gang will abstain to-day from doing any of its deadly work of separating families. You remember I once did a novena out there with Señora Madero, praying for graces that Heaven did not grant.
In the afternoon we went to the Reforma Club, the British country club, where Sir Lionel and Lady Carden were to present the prizes for the contests. Señora Huerta, always dignified and quiet, sat between Lady C. and myself. She had a married daughter with her, high-chested and thick-lipped, clad in a changeable green-and-red surah silk and a hat with bedraggled pink feathers. Señora Huerta herself wore black velvet, with touches of white in the wrong places. She has, I imagine, natural taste in dress, but must first learn. She has seen much of life. So many children and a soldier husband always starting for some seat of war, and now at last President of “glorious, gory Mexico,” means that few of the human experiences are foreign to her. I must say I have a great esteem for her. The President was not well—el estómago. Of course every one jumps to the conclusion that he had been consorting too freely with his friends Martell and Hennessy. It isn’t given to him to have a simple indigestion! Afterward we left cards at the houses of various Lupes.
December 13th.
I feel ill at the news this morning. The Federals seem to have taken many positions from the horrible rebels; and the fratricidal war will take on a new strength without hope of issue on either side. I feel the cruelty and the uselessness of our policy more and more every day. The “fine idealism” does not prevent the inhabitants from being exterminated. Why don’t we come in? Or—hands off, and give Huerta a chance!
The Mexicans have never governed themselves, and there is no reason to suppose they can till a part of the eighty-six per cent. that can’t read have at least learned to spell out a few words. The much vaunted and pledged rights of man, voting and abiding by the results, are unknown and, as long as Mexico is Mexico, unknowable. So why lose time in that search for the impossible? The rebels seem to be able to take the towns, but not to hold them. Once in the various strategical positions they are in the same plight as the Federals; and so the see-saw continues, with no results except horrors beyond words. I am tempted to hope for intervention (unnecessary though it once was), no matter what the cost.
There are so many plays and puns and doggerels on the inviting name of O’Shaughnessy. One Shamus O’S. says he won’t admit the man in Mexico who bears the Frenchy name of chargé d’affaires to the family! However, why worry? The last viceroy bore the noble name of Juan O’Donoju! Another calls N. the man that put the “O” in Mexico. And they do love a head-line: “Hugged by Huerta”; or “Is it not better to be kissed than kicked when you deliver the periodical ultimatum?” Of such slender things fame is made.
December 14th.
My poor woman with the four children returned yesterday, having got to the end of the money I gave her a few days ago. They didn’t look quite as prosperous (?) as they did the first time I saw them. The mother asked for five dollars for a fruit license and two dollars to get the fruit. I gave it to her, whereupon she knelt down in the street, baby in arms, the three other little girls following suit, and asked for my blessing. When I put my hand on her head I felt the tears come to my eyes. I suddenly saw in one woman all the misfortunes of the women of this land, separation, destitution, ravishments,—all the horrors flesh is heir to.
In the evening we dined at the British Legation. Colonel Gage is most agreeable and brought a lot of outside news. Like all military visitors, I suppose he is hoping to happen on a “scrap.”