February 4th
The newspapers have appalling head-lines about President Wilson. El Puritano, with his mask off, the avowed friend of bandits and assassins, is about the mildest sample.
Evening
Another full day. I had errands all the morning. In the afternoon, after being undecided as to whether I would shine by my absence or turn the full light of my American countenance on my Mexican friends, I decided to make calls. I found everybody in. I went first to Señora Gamboa, where I had to talk Spanish. Fortunately, they have a few very good antiques on which to hang conversation. Then I went to see the Evanses. They have bought a handsome old Mexican house which we are all interested in seeing them modernize without spoiling. After that I drove out to Tacubaya, and on the way out the broad calzada saw the leva at work. There were about twenty men hedged in by lines of soldiers, and two or three disconsolate-looking women.
Señora Escandon’s house is situated in the midst of one of the beautiful gardens for which Tacubaya is celebrated, inclosed by high walls over which run a riot of vines and flowers. I found her and her daughter, Señora Soriano, at home. The Spanish son-in-law is a mechanical genius and spends this revolutionary period peacefully constructing small, perfect models of war-ships and locomotives. I shall take Elim there when “the fleet” is on the little lake in the garden. The Escandons are people of immense wealth, agreeable and cultivated, but, like all their kind, aloof from politics. Their perfect and friendly courtesy made me more than a little sad.
Going home for a moment, I found Clarence Hay with Nelson at the gate, and drove him down-town. I enjoyed talking English and hearing it instead of speaking broken Spanish or listening to broken French. We browsed about in an antique-shop and did a little refreshing haggling. I stopped at Madame Simon’s on my way back, where I found Rincon Gaillardo, who is, among other things, chief of the rurales.
He had many interesting things to say about hunting for Zapatistas, which seems to be the biggest kind of “big-game” shooting. After descending unexpectedly upon sleeping villages the Zapatistas retreat to their mountain fastnesses. By the time word reaches the point where rurales are stationed, the worst has been done. The next day innocent-looking persons are begging for a centavo or working in the fields. They were the bandits of the night before! It needs a Hercules to clear this mountainous country of “the plague of brigandage.” A gun, a horse, and full power are naturally more attractive than a plow and a corn-field.
There are rumors of a student demonstration to-morrow—it is Constitution Day—when they propose to march the streets crying, “Death to Wilson!” Everybody was not only polite, but even affectionate in their greetings to me. Whatever they thought of yesterday’s raising of the embargo they kept to themselves or expressed when I was absent. Even Rincon Gaillardo, who is giving his all—time, money, brain—to the pacifying of the country under Huerta, maintained his exquisite calm.