I thought of the 1911 anniversary of the Grito de Dolores—that night of the 16th of September when I stood on the middle balcony of the Palacio, with de la Barra and Madero, when the former was still President ad interim, and the latter was hoping all things. There we looked down on fifty or sixty thousand upturned faces, while the celebrated Campana de la Independencia (Independence bell) rang above our heads, followed by the great bells from the illuminated towers of the cathedral. The present is nearer the past in Mexico than anywhere else.[10] As we came home we were snapshotted a dozen times by the disconsolate correspondents who had not been invited to the Palace to “assist” at the parade. Coming up “Plateros,” Nelson saw Huerta’s automobile outside of “El Globo” restaurant, and left me, to go in to speak to him.
This morning the big banana-tree in the front garden was released from its winter wrappings, if one can call these cloudless days winter. The most wonderful banners of purest, palest yellow are gently waving against the perfect sky. I am now waiting for Hohler to come to lunch. Sir Lionel went off (during a tremendous norte), in the battle-ship Essex, which is taking him to Galveston. His country is treating him almost to the honors we give fleeing Maderistas.
Villa has not yet given up the body of Benton. If there is much more delay it will not be able to bear testimony to the truth. Unfortunately, a Federal officer, it is rumored, has hanged an American citizen, Vergara, at Piedras Negras. His pardon, sent from headquarters, came too late. Huerta will probably make an example of the hasty officer, if the deed has really been committed. We heard this morning that Carranza is going to make short work of O’Shaughnessy when he gets here. When!
I had a very interesting conversation with Hohler, who is thoroughly sincere and trustworthy, and able to look at things as they are. We sat long over our coffee, talking of the international web, of which Mexico is now so uncertain and frail a mesh. He intends to do what he can for his nationals. He is without fear, in a practical, unnervous way.
The reverse of the medal is that he is a tireless collector and connoisseur of beautiful things, and what he doesn’t get, the Belgian minister does. Between them, there is very little left for anybody else.
February 27th.
Villa is still refusing to deliver up the body of Benton, even at the risk of offending the United States. Huerta expects Villa to hang himself with his own rope. He says he is a tonto, violent, undisciplined, and can’t do what he ought. The rumors that he is refusing to receive orders from Carranza are taking more explicit shape. He says that Carranza has never once put himself in danger; that he (Villa) has done all; that he receives commands from no one. He has repeatedly and vainly been asked to go to confer with Carranza, and we now hear that the mountain of all constitutional virtues is going to Mohammed. The deadly wine of success is mounting to Villa’s head. He now has wealth to the extent of some millions of pesos. The Torreon and Chihuahua confiscations were enormous, not counting what he and his followers have taken in all the small towns looted. He has not the sense to perceive in what difficulties his killing of Benton has placed the people who are anxious to be his friends. He evidently thinks that a man who cannot write or read must “make his mark” in other ways.
Our Gatling-guns, with ammunition, are arriving to-day in Vera Cruz, by the Ward Line steamer. They are to be got up here under the head of Embassy supplies—stationery, and the like. Huerta knows they are, but wants the thing done in a manner that he can wink at. The “stationery” will weigh tons.
February 28th.
Elim had his curls shockingly cut this morning, but his bang has been left. He is as proud as a puppy with two tails. The “crime” was committed by a soft-speaking Haitian barber, who won’t get another chance at my only child. Elim knows nothing of death and dissolution; has been calling “Mima,” all over the house, and has just dashed into the drawing-room, where I am writing, to ask for a trumpet. He is so clever about music that I am almost tempted to sacrifice every one in the house and get him one. He will soon be playing the national air.