A diplomat's wife in Mexico

by Edith O'Shaughnessy

I am sending you a few Heralds, with their Christmas(?) head-lines: “Vera Cruz Rebels Suffer Defeat in Fierce Fight”; “Rebels Ordered to Execute All Prisoners”; “Town of Tapono Burnt to Ground by Federals”; “Only Twelve Killed when Military Train Dynamited”; “Fierce Fighting at Concepcion del Oro.” They make one feel that “watchful waiting” in Washington bids fair to be woeful waiting south of the Rio Grande.

Elim was worn out by the Christmas festivities and was dreadfully naughty. The season of piñatas is on, and he has a great number of invitations—unfortunately. At the piñatas a large, grotesque head and figure, dressed in tissue-paper and tinsel, depending from the ceiling, is the center of attention. The dress conceals a huge, but fragile, earthern jar (olla) filled with nuts, fruits, candies, and small toys. Each child is blindfolded and allowed to have a whack at it with a big stick. When it is finally broken the contents spill everywhere and are scrambled for. It seems a messy sort of game, but it is time-hallowed here.

I sent Mr. Lind a telegram yesterday: “Affectionate greetings; best wishes.” He might as well, or better, be in Minneapolis. Nobody ever speaks of him and Vera Cruz is like the grave as far as the government here is concerned. Mexico is going to her downfall, and it seems as if she must be nearly there. It is very sad to us, who are on the ground. I never witnessed, before, the strangling of a country, and it is a horrible sight. The new Chilian chargé came in a day or two ago: he has been in Central America for twenty years, and says this is his thirty-second revolution.

I caught sight of Mr. Creel-Terrazas in his carriage, yesterday. His face was sunk and ashen, and he was huddled up in one corner of the coupé, changed indeed from the hale, rosy, white-haired man of a few weeks ago. He and his family have lost everything at the hands of the rebels. The family owned nearly the whole of Chihuahua, and though stories—probably true—are told of how, generations ago, they came into possession of the vast property, driving the Indians from their holdings into the desert, it does not change the present fact that they are ruined, and the country with them; the “judgment” upon them, if judgment it be, involving countless others.

The whole question up there seems to reduce itself very simply to a matter of grabbing from those in possession by those desirous of possession. We are all waiting for the inevitable falling out of Carranza and Villa. The hero in any Mexican drama is never more than a few months removed from being the villain. The actors alone change; never the horrid plot of blood, treachery, and devastation.

You saw that de la Barra actually reached Tokio. I was sure he would, having a way of finishing what he begins. Five sets of ambassadors have been appointed to set out for Japan to return the nation’s thanks for the special embassy sent to the splendid 1910 Centenario—that apogee of Mexico’s national and international life. The last two were the murdered Gustavo Madero, who couldn’t tear himself away because of the golden harvests to be reaped at home; and Felix Diaz, because of his political aspirations.

You remember de la Barra, from Paris, an agreeable, adroit man of the world, who proved himself, during the five months that he was President ad interim, a very good tight-rope walker on a decidedly slack rope. The country was still enjoying the Diaz prestige, and he found himself pretty generally acceptable to both the old and the new régime. He has always been very catholic. He became, later, rather a source of anxiety to Madero, who feared his popularity, though his success at the time was largely a matter of allowing all really important questions to stand over for his successor. Looking back on it all now, I see him in a very favorable light: a careful, hard-working, skilful politician, with a taste for peace and order which is not always inherent in the Mexican breast, and a safe man to fall back on to conduct the affairs of his country with dignity. When in doubt, “take” de la Barra.

The mañana (to-morrow) game is the best played down here; it is never actually subversive; and, as exemplified by Huerta’s attitude vis-à-vis the United States, it is very effective against a nation that wants things done, and done at once. I find that the Mexicans are constantly studying us, which is more than we do in regard to them. They look upon us as something immensely powerful, that is able and, perhaps, if displeased, willing, to crush them. They are infinitely more subtle than we, and their efforts tend more to keeping out of our clutches than to imitating us. Our institutions, all our ways of procedure, are endlessly wearisome to them, and correspond to nothing they consider profitable and agreeable. Suum cuique.

I have discovered that there are five Spanish phrases quite sufficient for all uses, in the length and breadth of this fair land: “Mañana” (“to-morrow”). “Quién sabe?” (“who knows?”). “No hay” (“there isn’t any”). “No le hace” (“it doesn’t matter”). “Ya se fué” (“he has gone”). This last I add as, whenever any one tries to get hold of anybody, “Ya se fué” is the answer. I have given this small but complete phrase-book to many, who find it meets almost any situation or exigency.

No news from Mr. Lind for some time. Doubtless Christmas, as spent on the Mexican coast, alternating damp heat and north winds, is a poor affair compared with the tannenbaums and skating and general cheer of both his Fatherlands. Some Western editor suggests that, on his return, he will be in a position to publish a “comprehensive blank book” on the Mexican situation. I have broken many a lance for him; but when one of the foreign ministers said to me yesterday, “your Scandinavian friend is anti-Latin, anti-British and anti-Catholic,” I could but retire from the field of battle.