A diplomat's wife in Mexico

by Edith O'Shaughnessy

April 9th. Holy Thursday.

The churches are full to overflowing, these holy days. Men, women, and children, of all strata of society, are faithful in the discharge of their duties. In this city of peace, how contrasting the tales of sacrilege in the rebel territory! Five priests were killed and three held for ransom in Tamaulipas, last month; a convent was sacked and burned and the nuns were outraged; a cathedral was looted, the rebels getting off with the old Spanish gold and silver utensils. What kind of adults will develop out of the children to whom the desecration of churches and the outraging of women are ordinary sights; who, in tender years, see the streets red with blood, and property arbitrarily passing into the hands of those momentarily in power? The children seem the pity of it, and it is a bitter fruit the next generation will bear. Let him who can, take; and him who can, hold; is the device the Constitutionalists really fly.

In the old days, before the Laws of Reform, there used to be the most gorgeous religious processions; but even now, with all that splendor in abeyance, there remains something that is unsuppressed and unsuppressable. To-day the population has streamed in and out of the churches and visited the repositories (with their blaze of light and bankings of orange-trees, roses, and lilies, and countless varieties of beautiful palms), with all the ardor of the old days. No restrictions can prevent the Indian from being supremely picturesque at the slightest opportunity.

I went, as usual, to San Felipe, named after the Mexican saint who, in the sixteenth century, found martyrdom in Japan. It is just opposite the Jockey Club. Outside the zaguan, on the chairs generally placed on the pavement for the members, were sitting various males of the smart set. All, without exception (I think I could put my hand in the fire for them), had been to Mass; which, however, didn’t prevent their usual close scrutiny of the small, beautiful feet of the passing Mexican women; two and one-half C is the usual size of a Mexicana’s shoes.

This Casa de los Azujelos, where the Jockey Club has had its being for generations, is a most lovely old house. It is covered with beautiful blue-and-white Puebla tiles, appliquéd by an extravagant and æsthetic Mexican in the seventeenth century, and is perfectly preserved, in spite of the many kinds of revolucionarios who have surged up the Avenida San Francisco, which, with the Paseo, forms the thoroughfare between the Palacio and Chapultepec. The men of the club play high and there are stories of fabulous losses, as well as of occasional shootings to death. It is the chic, aristocratic club of Mexico, the last and inviolable retreat of husbands. Anybody who is any one belongs to it.[14]

A telegram from Dr. Ryan this morning reports: “The Federals have lost Torreon. Velasco, retreating, met Maure, Maass, and Hidalgo, at San Pedro; army reorganized, and it is now attacking Torreon, and will surely take it back.” He and von Papen got as far as Saltillo by rail. There, communications had been cut. There had been a big encounter at San Pedro de las Colonias, and I hope that even as I write faithful Ryan is proceeding with his work of mercy among the wounded.

There was a meeting at the Embassy to-day, to discuss ways and means of defense among the Americans if anything happens in the city. Von Hintze and von Papen have tried to do some organizing among their colony. The Japanese have long since had carte blanche from the government in the way of ammunition and marines from their ships at Manzanillo. Sir Christopher, some time ago, sent Lieutenant Strawbensie up from Vera Cruz, to teach the English colony a few rudiments—and the French have also had a naval officer here for several weeks.

Last night, it appears, the boat taking 480,000 pesos to the north coast to pay the troops was captured by rebels. “Juan and José” always come out at the little end of the horn. There are immense geographical difficulties in the way of transporting money to the army in the north, over mountain chains and deserts, besides the strategic difficulty of getting it to the proper place without the rebels or bandits seizing it. After that, there is the further possibility of the officers putting it in their own pockets. What wonder that “Juan and José” sell their rifles and ammunition or go over to the rebels, where looting is permitted and encouraged? They are always hungry, no matter what are the intentions and desires of the central government.

Telegrams from the north are very contradictory, and generally unfavorable to the government. The foreign correspondents were warned this morning, by a note from the Foreign Office (and it was to be the last warning), that they were not to send out false reports favorable to the rebels and redounding to the injury of both foreigners and Federals. They will get the famous “33” applied to them, if they don’t “walk Spanish.” No joking here now; much depends, psychologically, if not actually, on the issues at Torreon.

The clever editor of the Mexican Herald remarks, apropos of the Presidential message of last week: “Our idea of a smart thing for Carranza to do would be to read President Huerta’s message to Villa. The array of things a President has to worry about, besides war and confiscation, are enough to remove the glamour.”