Citizen Obregon
"I met Obregon two days before he fled from Mexico City, declaring himself in open rebellion against the authority of President Carranza..."
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From Mexico in Revolution by Vicente Blasco Ibáñez, 1920.
I met Obregon two days before he fled from Mexico City, declaring himself in open rebellion against the authority of President Carranza.
At the time of my arrival in Mexico Obregon was campaigning for his election in distant States of the republic. Several friends of mine, who are enthusiastic followers of the General, were anxious to have me meet and hear their idol. “As soon as Obregon comes back," they said, “we'll arrange a luncheon or dinner so that you two men may meet and know each other.”
As a matter of fact, Obregon did not return; he was forcibly brought back to the capital by Carranza, who decided to try him for complicity with the rebels who had been in arms for some time against the Government. This was an effective means of putting an end to the campaign of insults and threats that Obregon had been conducting in various States.
The forcible return of Obregon to Mexico City caused great excitement among the people of the capital and stirred their curiosity even more.
''What next?" they asked. ''Will the old man have courage enough to send Obregon to jail and put him out of the running in that way? Will Obregon start a revolution to preserve his personal liberty?"
And when many were asking themselves these questions with a certain anxiety, fearing the consequences of a final break between the master Carranza and his old pupil Obregon, my Obregonista friends came to notify me that they had arranged my interview with their hero.
"The General expects you to take luncheon with him to-morrow,” they told me.
Luncheon with the National Hero
I had insisted that the luncheon take place in a public restaurant, in full view of everybody, to avoid the possibility of false interpretations. If the luncheon were given in a private house to many people it might seem that I had a certain predilection for Obregon. There was no reason whatever why I should figure as a Carranzista or an Obregonista. My wishes were more than amply fulfilled. The luncheon was held in the Bac, the most centrally located restaurant in the capital. To make it even less secret, it was decided to have it in the main dining room, near the orchestra platform, rather than in a private room.
Obregon was at that time a personage in disgrace. It was true that he might rise again at any moment, but it was equally possible that he might be down for the full count. He had enthusiastic friends, but he had also against him ''old man" Carranza, an enemy of tenacious hatreds and indomitable energy. The mysterious hour when public opinion shakes off its inertia and swings unexpectedly to one side or the other had not yet struck. The timid were still holding aloof; the crafty were making their calculations, but had not yet succeeded in dispelling their own doubts.
Obregon was still an unknown quantity. If you sided with him you might climb to a position in the Cabinet, but you also might walk to a place in front of the firing squad. The shrewd ones were waiting for the atmosphere to clear a little, and Obregon could count only on his personal following, the friends who had been faithful to him through thick and thin. The men who watch the trend of events from a point of vantage and eagerly await the psychological moment to rush to the succor of the sure winner had not yet heard the call.
The Disconcerting Obregon
When I entered the restaurant I saw Obregon sitting at a table with a friend to whom he was explaining the fine points of a cocktail which the General himself had invented. The reader must not jump at conclusions and infer that Obregon is a drunkard because I found him so engaged. I believe he drinks very little. During the luncheon he took beer in preference to wine, and on several occasions he called for water. But as a warrior who has lived in the open air, suffering the rigor of inclement weather and spending whole nights without sleep, he likes to take a casual drink from time to time to tune up his nervous system.
It would be equally erroneous to imagine him as a Mexican chieftain of the type which we so frequently see in the movies and vaudevilles — a copper-colored personage with slanting eyes and thick, stiff hair, sharp as an awl; in short, an Indian dressed up like a comic-opera General. Obregon is nothing of the sort; he is white, so positively white that it is difficult to conceive his having a single drop of Indian blood in his veins. He is so distinctively Spanish that he could walk in the streets of Madrid without any one guessing that he hailed from the American hemisphere.
''My grandparents came from Spain," he told me. ''I don't know from which province. Other people bother their heads a great deal about their ancestors. They imagine they come from noble stock and claim descent from Spanish Dukes and Marquises. I know only that my people came from Spain. They must have been poor folk driven to emigrate by sheer hunger."
The personage began to reveal himself. Obregon is a man who is always trying to amaze his hearer, now with explosions of pride, now with strokes of unexpected humility. The important thing for him is to be disconcerting, to say something that his listeners are not expecting to hear.
Close-Up of the Idol
He is still young — not quite 40. He has a strong and exuberant constitution. You can see at once that the man is brimming over with vitality. A slight varicosis has colored his cheeks with a number of slender, red veins, which give a reddish tint to his complexion. His enemy Don Venustiano suffers also from varicosis of the face, but his nose is the only feature that shows it prominently. It is furrowed by a series of red, blue and green veins that remind you of the wavy lines on a hydrographic map. All aggressive men have a more or less close resemblance to birds and animals of prey. Some are thin and sharp beaked, like hawks. Others have the mane and the arrogance of the lion. A few are lithe and mysterious, like the tiger. Obregon, with his short, thick neck, broad shoulders and small, sharp eyes, which on occasion emit fierce glints, reminds you of a wild boar.
Obregon is single and lives the life of a soldier, attended by one aid, an ex-ranchman who is even rougher than he. As Obregon has only one arm, and, consequently, cannot devote more than one hand to the care of his person, the “hero of Celaya” — as he is frequently called — is rather slovenly in appearance. In his military uniform he may look better. The man I met wore a dirty and much-worn Panama hat, baggy trousers and a shabby coat, one of whose sleeves hung empty, showing that the arm had been amputated near the shoulder.
Obregon's apparent contempt for all personal adornment is characteristic of the man. Another reason for his carelessness in matters of dress is his desire to flatter the Mexican populace, who consider that his slovenly garb brings him closer to them.
The missing arm enables the people to recognize Obregon at a distance. They greet him enthusiastically whenever they see him. Obregon is the conqueror of Pancho Villa; he is the man who broke up the military power that came near placing that old cattle rustler in the Presidential chair of the republic.
Villa, Defeated, Almost Forgotten
Villa is almost forgotten in Mexico. He is talked about more in the United States than in his own country. A few years ago he was "The General" among all Generals, and many even spoke enthusiastically of his military talent, seeing in him the man who would take it upon himself to exterminate any foreigner daring to invade the soil of the nation. Now he is nothing but a bandit and people avoid all reference to him. He will continue to make trouble, but his star has surely set. Obregon defeated him in ten bloody skirmishes, misnamed battles, and this was sufficient to make Obregon the hero of the hour. Moreover, Pancho Villa has escaped bodily injury; he has all his limbs. With insolent good luck he has kept out of the way of bullets. Obregon, on the contrary, has only one arm, thus adding to his heroic record the sympathy that the martyr arouses.
I sat down and the luncheon began, a luncheon that started at noon and lasted until 4.
Don Venustiano, always suspicious, as is natural in the head of a nation where every one is likely to darse la vuelta — to betray — and no one knows with certainty who is his friend and who is his enemy, spoke to me a few days later about this luncheon. I was the one to broach the subject. I told him frankly that I had lunched with one of his enemies.
''I know," he replied. ''But what the devil did you have to talk about that it took you four whole hours?"
And he scrutinized my eyes as though he were trying to read my thoughts.
Obregon's Debut in Chick-peas
In reality Obregon had nothing interesting to tell me. But he is such a character! It is so agreeable to sit and listen hours and hours to his animated, lively and picturesque conversation, which is more Spanish than Mexican.
He had selected the table near the orchestra so that he could give orders to the musicians. He was anxious to show me that he was not an ignorant soldier and that he loved music — Mexican music, of course, for other kinds of music mean little to him. And while the orchestra played the "Jarabe," the "Cielito" and the “Mananitas" — Mexican national airs — Obregon talked and talked, swallowing meanwhile pieces of food that he had an attendant cut for him, as he can use only one hand.
The General is invincible in conversation. I can talk a great deal myself, but I was forced to withdraw before his onslaught, as thoroughly defeated as Pancho Villa himself. I listened.
He told me the story of his youth. He is sure that he was born to be the first everywhere. He does not say so himself, but he helps you to suspect it with modest insinuations. In Sonora he was a trader in garbanzos — chick-peas — and although he made rather small profits, he is sure that he would have become eventually the first merchant in Mexico — a great millionaire.
“You see, the revolution spoiled all that for me. I then became a soldier and I rose to be a General.”
What he neglected to add was that, in spite of his General's commission, he remained in business just the same, and his enemies affirm that he has realized his ambition to become a millionaire. He has a monopoly at present of all the chick-pea trade in Mexico. The peas are exported to Spain, where garbanzos, as they are called, are an article of common consumption. The same enemies assert that all the farmers in Mexico are obliged to sell their garbanzos to Obregon, at a price which he himself fixes. That is the advantage of being a hero and of losing an arm in defense of the Constitution.
"All of Us Thieves, More or Less"
However, I shall not dwell on what Obregon's enemies say about him. The General went on talking about himself. He has a line of risque stories which he tells with a brutal frankness smacking of the camp and the bivouac. They helped me to understand the popularity of the man. He talks that way with everybody, with the women of the street, with the workingmen he meets, with the peasants in the country, and those simple people swell with pride at being treated with such familiarity and at hearing such amusing stories from a national hero, the conqueror of Celaya, a former Minister of War, and a man who has only one arm!
''They have probably told you that I am a bit of a thief."
Taken somewhat aback, I looked around in surprise to make sure it was really Obregon who had said that, and that he had said it to me. I hesitated, not knowing really what answer to make.
"Yes,” he insisted. “You have heard that story without a doubt. All of us are thieves, more or less, down here."
"Why, General," I said, with a gesture of protest, "I never pay any attention to gossip! All lies, I am sure."
But Obregon ignored what I was saying, and continued:
"The point is, however, I have only one, hand, while the others have two. That's why people prefer me. I can't steal so much or so fast."
A burst of laughter! Obregon saluted his own witticism with the reserved hilarity of a cynical boy, while his two friends who were with us paid tribute to the hero's jest with endless boisterousness.
He Is an Author, Too
Since the General had already forgotten his jokes and stories and had now to speak with the seriousness befitting a Chief Executive, he gradually and imperceptibly passed from oratory to literature. The General became a “colleague" of mine, a man of letters. He has written a book telling the story of his campaigns. That has been the custom of all victorious warriors since the time of Julius Caesar. Why should he not also indulge in a set of “Commentaries"?
He promised to send me a copy of his book. But to forestall the chance that his difficulties with Carranza might prevent him from keeping the promise, he went on to give me an idea of the book in advance.
He said that he expressed himself simply and with modesty. Of course his battles could not be compared with those of the European war....“I also realize that I am only an amateur in the military business, a civilian, forced to take up arms — Citizen Obregon promoted to be a General: and doubtless I had strokes of sheer luck!"
I was listening to Obregon with real affection. I was regarding him as the most attractive and most able man among all the Mexican Generals made by the national upheaval. But suddenly the wind changed. Men never get really to know each other. Obregon began to twirl his sharp-pointed, upturning mustache, and smiling in pride at his own modesty, he lay back on his divan.
"When I was Minister of War, at a banquet at the President's house one day, the Dutch representative, who was a military man, came up to me and said, 'General, from what branch of the service did you come — artillery, cavalry?’ In view of my victories he thought I must be a professional soldier. Imagine his astonishment when I told him I had been a chick-pea dealer in Sonora! He refused to believe it."
His Threats Not "Celestial Music"
Obregon spoke to me about a friend of his, a newspaper man, some of whose articles were worthy of admiration. "He is ill," said the General, ''and practically dying. He has been in bed for several months. He would be delighted if you would pay him a visit."
The General and I agreed to go together. “I am going to see the silver mines at Pachuca to-morrow," I said. ''I shall be away two days."
"When you come back I shall still be here," said the General. “All that talk about the old man's prosecuting me and putting me in jail is just celestial music (Mexican for 'hot air'). We shall see each other. I'll give you my book and we'll go and see my friend."
When I got back the General had disappeared. He had fled from the city not to re- turn till just now, when he comes back as a conqueror.
Obregon did well to get away when he did. The threats of "the old man" were not music. A few hours later Carranza would have had him locked up.
Carranza told me so himself the last time I saw him.
Blasco Ibáñez, Vicente. Mexico in Revolution. E.P. Dutton & Company, 1920.
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