February 9th.
There was a pleasant luncheon at the Lefaivres’ for Kanya. They—the Lefaivres—are both worn out with their long Mexican sojourn, five years, and the heavy responsibilities entailed by the ever-increasing French material losses, and are planning to go on leave in March. They are good friends and I shall miss them greatly, but I have learned to be philosophic about partings. Life keeps filling up, like a miraculous pitcher.
The newspapers have been getting the details of the horrible disaster in the Cumbre tunnel in Chihuahua, a few days ago. A bandit chief, Castillo, set fire to it by running into it a burning lumber-train. A passenger-train came along, collided with the débris, and all that has been recovered is a few charred bones. It is near the frontier, and it is said that Villa allowed the rescue-party to have an escort of American soldiers. There were a number of American women and children on the train; but it is a momentous step—or may be—for American troops to get into Mexico. Castillo did the thing, it is said, to revenge himself on Villa. This latter is getting a taste of the responsibilities success entails. He has Chihuahua, and Juarez, and a long line of railway to protect, and I am sure he doesn’t find guerilla warfare a recommendable pastime, when it is directed against himself and his ambitions.
February 10th.
This morning we went over the magnificent Buen Tono cigarette-factories. Pugibet, who sold cigarettes in the street forty years ago, is the founder and millionaire owner. The factory is a model in all ways, and a testimony to his brains, energy, and initiative. He showed us over the vast place himself. In one of the rooms he had refrained from installing machinery, as it meant taking work from hundreds of women.
Oh, the deftness and skill of those beautiful Indian hands! Their motions were so quick that one hardly saw anything but the finished article. He loaded us with cigarettes and many souvenirs, and we drove home after a visit to the big church he had built near by. On arriving home, I found the words, “Papa,” “Mama,” “Elim,” and “Kuss,” written in white chalk, in high letters, on the entrance-door. I hated to have them removed.
N. has protested to the Foreign Office regarding the scurrilous language the Imparcial has used about the President, the Imparcial being a government organ. “Wicked Puritan with sorry horse teeth,” “Exotic and nauseous Carranzista pedagogue,” are samples of its style.
Evening.
I have had a stone for a heart all day, thinking of the horrors that are to be multiplied. Nelson went to see Gamboa this afternoon. Incidentally the raising of the embargo was mentioned, and Gamboa said he thought Huerta might declare war. Like all the rest, he is doubtless ready to desert the old man. Après moi le déluge and “the devil take the hindmost” are the sentiments governing people here. Mr. Jennings just rang up to ask if we had heard that the letter-bag of the Zapatistas had been seized. In it was a letter to President Wilson from Zapata, saying he upheld and was in perfect accord with his (Wilson’s) policy toward Huerta. A smile on the face of every one!
I went to the Garcia Pimentels’ at four o’clock, where we sewed till seven for the Red Cross. The women there were all wives or daughters of wealthy hacendados. They asked me if there was any news, and as usual, I answered, “Nothing new,” but I felt my eyes grow dim. This measure will strike them hard. The hacendados in this part of the country have made great sacrifices to co-operate with the Federal government (it is the only visible thing in the shape of government) in the hope of preserving their properties and helping toward peace.