On returning from bridge at Madame Lefaivre’s, where I left de Soto losing with more than his usual melancholy distinction, I found the Japanese minister with the captain of the Idzuma, in full regimentals, come to call—but N. was out. The captain said he wanted to express especially and officially to N. his appreciation of all the courtesies he had received from Admiral Cowles, and the other officers of our ships at Manzanillo. He spoke French and English only fairly well, as they do. I was very cordial, of course, and said that in these difficult moments all must be friends, must stand by one another, and show mutual understanding of difficulties. As I looked at him I thought, for some reason, of the horrors suffered and the deeds of valor performed by his race in the Russo-Japanese War, without question or thought of individuals. He espied Iswolsky’s photograph and Adatchi showed him Demidoff’s picture, saying that Elim was his namesake. They never forget anything.
The officers had all been out to the celebrated pyramid of San Juan Teotihuacan to-day, with the Minister of Public Instruction. It is a fatiguing trip, but an excursion always arranged for strangers of distinction. (I made it with Madero, mounting those last great steps, exhausted and dripping, on his arm.) They, the Japanese, were going to the Jockey Club, where Moheno, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, is to give them a dinner. The government is so in debt to the various restaurants here that they couldn’t get credit for the dinner at Silvain’s, as first planned.
I met Lady Carden at bridge this afternoon. She feels badly at the way things have developed for her husband. He has been called to London “to report”; à la Henry Lane Wilson to Washington, I suppose. Hohler, who was chargé when we first came to Mexico, is already en route from England to take over the Legation during Sir Lionel’s absence—but I suppose Sir L. will never return. I told Lady Carden to give Sir Lionel my best regards, and added that it wasn’t, by any means, all beer and skittles at the Embassy.
Sir L. shouldn’t have tried, however, to “buck” the United States. All the representatives have become a bit more cautious as to how they approach “the policy,” since the unpleasant newspaper notoriety Sir Lionel and Paul May received. Lady Carden is not going, I am glad to say, and we are all making plans to console her for Sir L.’s absence.
January 31st.
Your cable “Love” received yesterday. I sent a cable, “Bene,” in answer. I have been thinking all day of those hours, many years ago, when my precious mother was lying with me, her first-born, in her arms.
N. is in receipt of a proclamation from revolutionary agents in Mexico City. The part referring to foreigners states that any protection given by them to Huerta or to his intimates will result in their immediate execution, and that no flag will be respected in such cases. It is one of those nice, little, confidence-inspiring documents which induce one to ponder on the Mexican situation, not as it might be or ought to be, but as it is. Its caption, “La revolución es revolución,” is completely expressive.
February 1st. Afternoon.
A few lines while waiting for tea and callers. This morning we made a wonderful run out the Toluca road with Seeger and Mr. and Madame Graux, our Belgian friends, Chemins de fer secondaires, as we call them. After Tacubaya the road rises high above the city, and for miles we motored along the heights, through stretches of dazzling white tepetate and pink tezontle, the buildingstones of the city from immemorial days. The road was fairly alive with Indians bringing in their wares, this Sunday morning. They came from Toluca, seventy kilometers distant, moving tirelessly over their roads with the quick, short Aztec trot, and bearing such loads of pottery, baskets, and wood, that nothing can be seen of them but their feet. This is also a Zapatista country, and we had provided ourselves with three pistols. High in the hills could be seen the smoke of camp-fires, Zapatistas or charcoal-burners. It was on this road that the son of the Minister of War, Blanquet, was held up about three weeks ago. His party was stripped and its members sent home as they were born, even that last possible covering, the floor-rug of the motor, being removed.
However, beyond being stopped at intervals by gendarmes, who tried, unsuccessfully, to make us leave our pistols at the jefetura of their little village, we were not interfered with. Our cry of Embajada Americana, though not over-popular now, had not lost all its potency. In spite of the dazzling sun it is very cold on the heights, and in the little village where we stopped to “water” our car a coughing, sneezing, sniffling crowd of half-naked, shivering Indians gathered around us, evidently suffering from one of those bronchial epidemics so prevalent in these thin, high atmospheres. I fear that our coppers, though acceptable, were not therapeutic, as, doubtless, they all rounded up at the nearest pulquería after our departure. We could not decide to turn lunch-ward, but kept on and on, until we had dipped into the Toluca Valley as far as the statue of Hidalgo, commemorating the spot where he met the viceregal forces in 1821. It always seems to me a sad spot, for when the Spaniards fell, with the exception of Diaz’s thirty years, the last stable government of Mexico also fell.