November 8th
We have been busy these past two days. Mr. L. is a delightful guest, easy and simple. He goes to-morrow, but I am pressing him to return for Thanksgiving—if we are here. People smile when I speak of a Thanksgiving reception. Three weeks is a long cry in Mexico City, in these days.
N. finally ran Huerta down yesterday in the El Globo café. He received the usual affectionate abrazo,4 and they had a copita together, but Huerta never mentioned Lind any more than if he were non-existent, and shied off at the remotest hint of “business.” Instead, he asked N., “How about the girls?” (“Y las muchachas?”) a phrase often used for opening or closing a conversation, in these climes, much as we would ask about the weather. It has no bearing on whatever subject may be in hand.
The new elections are to be held on the 23d of this month. Huerta plays with the government in Washington in a truly Machiavellian way. They want his resignation, but for the moment there is no recognized government in whose hands to place such a resignation. After the 23d, if the elections bear fruit, he will find some other reasons for remaining. If it were not for the fact that might is always right, the Administration would be as the kindergarten class, in regard to this clever, involved, astute old Indian. “They say” he is getting rich, but there are no apparent signs. I don’t think his mentality is that of the money-loving order, though possibly his principles would not prevent his making himself comfortable if he put his mind to it. He is now, however, so under the domination of his idée fixe—pacification—in spite of the difficulties within and without, that I doubt if he is taking an undue interest in personal enrichment.