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.
Yesterday I had tea with Madame B. She was looking very handsome, lying among her costly blue-ribboned laces. The baby, born ten days ago, looks like a miniature “conqueror,” with its severe Spanish features and glossy black hair. Madame B.’s father, who is one of the wealthiest hacendados, spoke with Huerta for the first time several weeks ago at the Jockey Club. The President asked him, “How are matters in Morelos?” (The Zapatista country where they have immense sugar haciendas.) Don. L. answered, “You are killing us with your demands for contributions.” Huerta grew rather excited. “You do nothing for the country,” he declared, “neither you nor your sons.” Don L. answered, “I have lost one and a half millions in the past year.” “Lucky man to have it to lose,” commented Huerta, grimly. “Great sugar crops are now ready for harvesting, but I can get no men,” Don L. went on; “they are all in the army. Give me men and I will give you contributions.”
Huerta immediately sent the men needed, the sugar is being harvested, and Don L. feels convinced that Huerta is doing what he can; but his daughter, who told me all this, added, with a smile and flash of white teeth, “Pardon me; but what can we do with your Mr. Wilson on our backs?”