Yesterday was a busy day. I went to mass at San Lorenzo, where the nice American rector gave a very good Thanksgiving sermon. I rarely go there, except on some such occasion. It is far from the Embassy, and, though once in the best residential part of the city, it is now invaded by a squalid Indian and mestizo class. With the exception of San Lorenzo, which is very clean (the American church, as it is called), the churches in that quarter strike a most forlorn note, with their silent belfries and dirt and general shabbiness.
About two hundred came to the reception yesterday, and I only wish all had come. I really enjoyed shaking those friendly hands. The times are uncertain, and ruin for many is probable at any moment. The rooms were filled with flowers; I had a nice buffet and a good, heady punch. Elim was dressed in immaculate white. He made one shining appearance, and then reappeared ten minutes later, his radiance dimmed, having been sprinkled accidentally by the nice Indian gardener. He was reclad, but some over-enthusiastic compatriot gave him a glass of punch, and the rest of the afternoon I seemed to see little legs and feet in the air. The chefs de mission all came also, but of course it was an American day, the beloved flag flying high and catching the brilliant light in a most inspiring way.
Clarence Hay (John Hay’s son) is down here with Professor Tozzer and his bride, for archæological work. They first appeared on the horizon yesterday, the atmosphere of a less harassed world still hanging around them, and were most welcome. Tozzer is professor of archæology at Harvard and has mapped out work here until May, in connection with the Museo Nacional. The Toltec and Aztec treasures still hidden in the earth would repay any labor.
We fly up and down the Paseo constantly. I think there is the fastest and most reckless motor-driving in the world in Mexico, but some divinity is sleepless and there are few accidents. Jesus, our chauffeur, is a gem of good looks, neatness, willingness, competency, and skill. When he is told to come back for us at half past eleven, when we are dining out, and he has been on the go all day, he not only says “good,” but “very good,” with a flash of white teeth and dark eyes. The rest of the servants are so-so. If I thought we were going to stay I should change the first man. He ought to be the last, as he is not only a fool, but an unwilling one. As it is he who is supposed to stand between me and the world, I am often maddened by him. He is Indian, with a dash of Japanese, not a successful mixture in his case, though he is supposed to be honest.
November 29th.
I haven’t taken a census of the inhabitants of the house. Several of the women, I know, have children living with them, but a little unknown face appeared at a door yesterday, and was snatched back by some unidentified hand. They don’t produce them all at once, but gradually.
We had a white bull-terrier given us seven weeks old, Juanita by name. It has threatened to rain dogs here since it became known that we wanted one, but I have avoided all but two since returning. Elim looks sweet playing with her, two little milk-white young things. But Juanita’s stock is low. She tries her teeth on anything that is light-colored and soft, especially hats, and faces now stiffen at her approach.
A bit of a domestic upheaval this morning. The Indian butler with the dash of Japanese has been dismissed, or, rather, has dismissed himself. His was a case of total inefficiency and bad temper. I gave him a recommendation, for, poor fellow, he had seen his best days under the Stars and Stripes. The press-gang will get him, and he will doubtless soon be on the way to the north. I am to have a new butler on Monday.