A diplomat's wife in Mexico

by Edith O'Shaughnessy

Now one hundred and ten of them are lodged in the famous Penitenciaría, whither Madero was going on his last journey. N. was out until two o’clock in the morning, with the Spanish minister (dean of the diplomatic corps), going first to the Foreign Office to try to obtain guarantees for the lives of the imprisoned Deputies, and afterward to the Penitenciaría, where they were shown a list of eighty-four, and given assurances that they would not suffer. It looked a bit black for the remaining twenty-six. The clerks spent the rest of the night here, getting the despatches off to Washington.

Huerta appears to care very little whom he shoots. He has small sentiment about human life (his own, or anybody’s else), but he is a strong and astute man; and if he could get a few white blackbirds, in the shape of patriots, to work with him, and if the United States were not on his back, he might eventually bring peace to his country.

I am not yet reaccustomed to the extreme beauty of the Mexican morning; a dazzling, many-colored light that would dim the spectrum is filtering into my room, as I write, glorifying every object and corner. I have had the covers taken off the pink furniture; a rose-colored coverlet and cushions are on my chaise-longue, and the glow is indescribable.

You will have seen that the Chambers are convened for the fifteenth of November, but in spite of preparations for legislation, a warlike something is in the air. Squads of soldiers are passing the Embassy, with much playing of the beautiful national hymn. They handle their brass very well, and their military music would be good anywhere.

In Washington they are taking the news of the coup d’état with their coffee....

I have not yet seen von Hintze,[1] though he came early yesterday, bringing a gift of fortifying liqueur, “for the altitude,” and some flowers; and I went with Elim to the Legation, later on. I understand that he looks at the situation rather en noir. But he is somewhat of a bear on Mexican matters, anyway, his first experience, on arriving three years ago, being the horrid Covadonga murders.... A certain natural exclusiveness and aloofness are among his special attributes, and his psychology is somewhat mysterious, even to his friends; but he is immensely clever and charming, of the world, and very sympathetic—really a cher colleague!

N. has just left the house in frock-coat and top-hat, the chiefs of mission having been summoned to the Foreign Office, where they will hear the official reason of the coup d’état. I shall be most interested in the explanation, which will probably be some adroit Latin-American arrangement of facts. One has a feeling of being at school, here, and constantly learning something new to the Anglo-Saxon mentality.

Now I must hie me down-stairs and tackle a few of my “affairs of the interior.” The house is so big that, even with the many servants now in it, it doesn’t seem “manned,” and bells are answered very intermittently. One or more of the servants can always be found at the gates of the garden, greeting the passers-by—a little Indian habit, and incurable. What I need is a European maître d’hôtel to thunder at them from his Aryan heights as the Wilsons had. There are some good Aztec specimens left over from their administration, whom I shall keep on—Aurora, a big, very handsome Indian maid, from the Apam valley; Maria, the head washerwoman, with fine, delicate hands, like a queen; and a few others. Neither cook nor butler. Berthe is busy unpacking and pressing; everything was wrinkled by the damp, penetrating heat of the sea-trip.

The Embassy has two gendarmes to watch the gate, instead of the usual one given to legations—nice, old Francisco, who has been in the service of the United States for twelve years, and a handsome new one—Manuel. The auto stands before the gate all day long. Jesus, the chauffeur, seems very good—a fine-featured, lithe-bodied, quick-witted young Indian. Though married, he is, I hear, much sought after by the other sex. Elim always goes out with me, and loves sitting on the front seat with his dog, a melancholy Irish terrier sent by Mr. Armstead from Guanajuato.

Exchange is now very low. One hundred dollars equals two hundred and eighty Mexican dollars. Very nice for those supplied from abroad, but killing to these people, and with the sure prospect of getting worse. The price of articles has gone up by leaps and bounds—not native foods so much, but all articles of import. I hear the auto-horn and must stop. Will be very much interested to hear the official wherefor of the coup d’état.