A diplomat's wife in Mexico

by Edith O'Shaughnessy

I am feeling very fit, after a good night’s rest; the air envelops me like a luminous wrap, and the sun is softly penetrating.

The arms and ammunition are not yet delivered. Nothing was done in N.’s absence, of course. He didn’t want them, anyway; of what use are they in civilian hands?...

The War Ministry is just off the Zocalo, in one side of the great, square building of the Palacio Nacional. From where I am sitting I see the soft, pink towers of the cathedral, in their lacy outlines. On the left is the Museo Nacional—a beautiful old building of the pink, tezontle stone the Spaniards used to such effect in their buildings. It contains all the Aztec treasures still remaining after centuries of destruction, and has a cozy, sun-warmed patio where the sacrificial altars and the larger pieces are grouped. Most of them were found in the very site of the cathedral, which replaced the teocalli of the Aztecs—the first thing the Spaniards destroyed, to rear on its site the beautiful cathedral. I am surrounded by an increasing crowd of beggars, drawn by a few indiscreet centavos given to an old Indian woman, who too loudly blessed me; cries of “Niña, por el amor de Dios!” and “Niña, por la Santa Madre de Dios!” make me feel that I would better move on. The name of God is invoked so unceasingly by the beggars here that the word pordiosero (for-Godsaker, beggar,) has passed into the language.

At Home, before Lunch.

N. came out of Guerra, having met in the corridor the immensely tall Colonel Cardenas, the best shot in Mexico. He is supposed to know just how Madero’s mortal coil was hustled off. He was in command of the squad transporting him and Pino Suarez from the Palacio to the Penitenciaría when they were shot. We then went to the third side of the Palacio Nacional, where the zapadores barracks is, to see how the officer of the Twenty-ninth, who went down with us to Vera Cruz, is getting on. It was very interesting, at twelve o’clock, to watch the various persons who bring food into the barracks. The guards search them all—men, women, and children—by passing their hands down their sides. The prettier young women get pinches or pokes anywhere the guard happens to fancy bestowing them, and they all give little squeals and jumps, sometimes annoyed, sometimes pleased. They bring in great baskets of tortillas, enchiladas, frijoles, fruits, etc. The men in the barracks are absolutely dependent on them for food, as there is no other army supply. Another guard kept off troublesome, too solicitous small boys with a bit of twisted twine, flicking them, with a stinging sound, about the legs. I found it most amusing. Finally the young captain himself came out to thank us and to tell us he was almost well—with an expectant look on his pale face. He wants N. to have him made a major. Why not, when every officer seems to have been promoted—a clever trick of Huerta’s. He has made several extra grades at the top to give himself room. He will need space for manœuvers of an army largely composed of higher officers. He is going to get the interior loan of fifty millions, with the guarantee of the Paris loan.... The Austro-Hungarian minister has just come to ask me to go out to San Angel with him, so adieu.

March 25th.

We have just had a beautiful motor-drive out to San Angel Inn, talking politics and scenery. The volcanoes had great lengths of clouds, thrown like twisted scarfs, about their dazzling heads.

Kanya de Kanya was with Count Aerenthal during his four years in Vienna, as Minister for Foreign Affairs, and during that time made copious notes relating to the burning questions of the Near East, which will, of course, throw light on the big international issues of that period. He is hoping for a quiet time out here, to get them in order, though he can’t publish them until a lot more water has flowed under the Austro-Hungarian mill.

I got home in time to sit with Aunt Laura awhile before dressing for dinner, for which I was expecting Hohler. The meal was somewhat unquiet. One of the newspaper men called up to say that Torreon had fallen, and gave a few convincing details, such as that of Velasco’s life being spared. The fifty-million-dollar loan receded into the dim distance. We immediately pictured to ourselves the pillaging, ravishing hordes of Villa—the “human tiger,” as some of our newspapers mildly put it—falling down upon Mexico City, the peaceful. Nelson ordered the motor, and he and Hohler went out, as soon as dinner was over, to get some news at the War Department. A big fight, we know, is going on. As I write, brother is killing and mutilating brother, in the fertile laguna district, and horrors unspeakable are taking place. Velasco is said to be honest and capable, and he has money and ammunition.

General Maure, who left for the front a few days ago, wouldn’t start until he had money enough for two months for his men. He also is supposed to be honest, and if he does feed his men, instead of putting the money in some bank in the States (if they would all feed their men, instead of asking worn, empty-stomached men to do the work), he may, perhaps, proceed toward victory. The corruption of the officers is what nullifies the work of the army, and Huerta says he is powerless against it. Any man he might court-martial is sure of the support of the United States. In order to remain faithful the troops only ask enough food to keep life in their bodies during the campaign. The picture of starving troops, locked in box-cars during the night, to prevent their deserting, and then being called on to fight when they are let out in the morning, makes one fairly sick. A free hand at loot and a full stomach on food belonging to somebody else are naturally irresistible when the chance comes.