I imagine that Mr. Lind will soon be realizing the futility of an indefinite stay on Mexican soil. There are no results—and I rate him a man used to results.
II
Sanctuary to Bonilla—Sir Lionel and Lady Carden—Carranza—Mexican servants—First reception at the American Embassy—Huerta receives the Diplomatic Corps—Election Day and a few surprises.
October 13th.
Manuel Bonilla, a former Maderista, Minister of Ways and Communications (known sometimes as “Highways and Buyways”), now Senator from Sinaloa, has just come, begging asylum. They are out to kill him. He greatly resembles the people who are after him. Of course we have had a room made ready for him, and he can stay quietly in it until a chance offers for getting out of the country. His room, by the way, contains the bed that Mrs. —— refused when she was shown over the Embassy, saying, “What! Sleep in the bed of a murderess?” The murderess being dear, gentle, pretty Mrs. Wilson, my late chefesse, and the murdered ones, I suppose, being Madero and Pino Suarez!
President Wilson has now sent a message to the provisional government, entirely disapproving of the act of dissolving Congress, saying that any violence offered any Deputy will be looked on as an offense against the United States, and that, furthermore, the United States will not recognize any President elected after any such proceedings. N. has just gone to the Foreign Office to deliver himself of the news. Moheno is a large, stout, curly-haired Indian from Chiapas, with a bit of something dark thrown in. He suggests a general effect of Italian tenor, but he is clever—perhaps “cute” is a better word. These unfortunate people are between the devil and the deep sea—i. e., between their own lawlessness and us.
The Cardens had their first reception to-day. The Legation is a new, artistic, most comfortable house just off the Paseo—the sort of thing English diplomats find awaiting them everywhere. Sir L. was here for sixteen years as consul. He was the British government’s first representative after the Maximilian affair; so, though he has been absent many years, he finds himself en pays de connaissance. He is the handsome, perfectly groomed, tall, fresh-complexioned, white-mustached, unmistakable Briton. She is an agreeable American woman; but they both look pale and bloodless after many years of Habana and Guatemala. We are none of us at our rosiest under the palm and cactus. Sir L. has had thirty years of Latin-American diplomatic experience.
October 14th.
Proofs multiply of direct conspiracy of the Deputies against the provisional government. If you scratch a Maderista Deputy you are sure to find a revolutionary of some sort. The task of establishing peace seems well-nigh hopeless. Everywhere are treachery and venality. The note N. handed yesterday to the Foreign Office has not yet been answered, though Moheno refers to it in a press interview, saying that it had been presented to him by Chargé d’affaires O’Shaughnessy, “A gentleman of the most exquisite culture,” and that he must not be held responsible for the “intemperate language of his government,”—rather cocky! Though N. is handling the officials with all possible care, everybody thinks they are preparing a fiery answer for to-morrow. They are capable, at any moment, of sending an ultimatum to Washington themselves, and then the fat would be in the fire!
A heavenly warm sun is streaming in. These October mornings, after the rains have ceased, are the brightest jewels in Mexico’s crown of loveliness.