Evening
We had a peaceful dia de campo in the old garden, the strange Mexican magic making beautiful things more beautiful and transfiguring all that is ordinary. Mme. B., an Englishwoman and, incidentally, a cordon bleu, was sitting under a yellow rose-bush when we got there—looking very attractive in white lace and beating up the sort of sauce you make yourself, if you can, or go without, in Mexico. We partook of an excellent combined luncheon—we all brought something—under an arbor of honeysuckle and roses, with true Mexican lack of hurry. Afterward we strolled over the near hillside in its garb of maguey and pepper trees. The volcanoes looked inexpressibly white and beautiful in their aloofness from our troubles, though the hills at their base are the stamping-grounds of hordes of Zapatistas, and often the smoke of fires indicates their exact whereabouts. With true Anglo-Saxon disregard of native warnings, we sat for a long time under a large pepper-tree, arbol de Peru, which, the Indians say, gives headache, unable to take our eyes from the soft outline of the city, swimming in the warm afternoon light. Countless domes and church spires were cut softly into the haze, the lake of Texcoco was a plaque of silver far beyond, and above all were the matchless volcanoes. To complete the first plan of the picture, an old Indian, a tlachiquero, was quietly drawing the juice from some near-by maguey plants, after the fashion of centuries, with a sort of gourd-like instrument which he worked by sucking in some primitive but practical fashion. It looks to the uninitiated as if the Indian were drinking it, but its final destination is a pigskin slung athwart his back. After tea in the garden, on which a mystical blue light had fallen, we motored home in the quickly falling dusk, the thin, chilly air penetrating us like a knife.
Advices have come that the rebels are again attacking Tampico. They evidently got what they wanted at the last attack—four cartloads of dynamite and lots of rolling stock, and are in a position to give a tidy bit of testimony as to the value of the Constitutionalist principles.
Zapata had a narrow escape the day before yesterday. He was surprised by Federals at Nenapepa, as he and his followers were sitting around their camp-fire. He barely escaped in the skirmish, leaving behind him his precious hat, a big, black, Charro hat, wide-brimmed and pointed crown, loaded with silver trimmings. It was brought to town by Colonel Gutierrez, greatly chagrined because he could not also bring what had been under the hat. The image of Zapata on his charger, dashing through fields of maguey, up and down barrancas, is very characteristic of the brigand life so much the thing in Mexico just now.
The new loan of 20,000,000 pesos has been underwritten by a lot of foreign bankers, principally French, I think, though some in New York are supposed to be “involved.” It will keep things going for another couple of months or so, and then the “sorrows of Huerta” will begin again. As it is, he can continue for that length of time to play with the kindergarten class at Washington. A nice cable came from Mr. Bryan saying that the State Department was much gratified at N.’s being able to procure the release of the American prisoners I mentioned.