LADY RANDOLPH CHURCHILL(Photograph by Hoppé)
LADY RANDOLPH CHURCHILL
(Photograph by Hoppé)
She wrote, as Mrs. George Cornwallis West, thememories of “Lady Randolph Churchill” ... no one had more material, or more right to present it. Hurled into the midst of a political centre from the moment of her first marriage, she continued to the end the friend of every Prime Minister and every Cabinet Minister; a friend of kings, artists, writers, musicians, a dominating influence and a leader of thought and taste in a cosmopolitan as well as English society.
I prefer to think of her forever at rest, beautiful and brilliant and wonderful to the end.
Saturday, July 2, 1921.Mexico City.
This morning we went to see the Cathedral. It sounds banal enough but one must see cathedrals! Outside it is very beautiful and imposing, and forms a whole side of the square.
It was completed in 1525 and represented the Mother Church of Spain. Almost on the same site stood the ancient Aztec Teocali of Tlaloc-huitzilopochtli, the great pagan sanctuary, in fact, the Cathedral was built to a great extent out of the same stones. Effacing the Cathedral from my mind, I visualize the great pyramidal Teocali with its five stories each receding above the other, and its flights of steps leading from terrace to terrace, on the summit was the great jasper sacrificial stone. Before the altar stood a colossal figure of Huitzilopochtli, the war god and the deity. Hereburned the undying fires, which meant as much to the Aztecs as did the Vestal flame to ancient Rome.
It is amazing to recall that as late as 1486 the dedication of the Great Teocali was celebrated by human sacrifices to the extent of 20,000. One of the most dramatic episodes in the World’s History must have been the battle between the soldiers led by Cortez and those of Montezuma, a thousand combatants fought on this aerial summit in full view of the whole city. The battle raged for three hours and many of the combatants here were hurled from the height, Cortez himself narrowly escaping this fate. The victorious Spaniards rushed at the God Huitzil, and with shouts of triumph dragged him from his niche and tumbled him over the edge to the horror of the onlooking Aztecs. Thus ended Paganism and Christianity was established. In the place of the great Teocali, the Spaniards built a Cathedral. As a substitute for human sacrifices, they introduced the Inquisition. Instead of Huitzil, Christ in crude plaster, gaudily painted, with imitation blood, and a bevy of life-sized Saints and Angels, some of them kneeling on billows of plaster clouds, surrounded by bleeding hearts (imitation) and sham flowers, now reign supreme. This is the setting in which we found ourselves on entering and by chance we happened upon a wedding ceremony! The organ was abominable and the singing. All the poorwomen with their babies had followed in after the bride to witness this ever appealing ceremony! Most of the babies were dressed in a rather bright crude pink, the worst possible color for a dark yellow baby! Dick, who had never seen a wedding before, asked me in an awestruck whisper as the bridal party stood in a row at the top of the aisle: “Is she marrying the woman next to her?”
“No, the man....”
“Did you marry Daddy like that?”
“Yes—”
and then incredulously: “Dressed like that—?”
“Yes....”
He sidled up to me, and then asked shyly:
“Think you’ll ever marry again?”
“No—”
“I’d like to see you like that,—wish I’d seen you marry Daddy.”
If I’d told him a second marriage isn’t privileged to wear white, he probably would realize it wasn’t worth doing!
At midday I received the visit of the sister and niece of Mr. N. to whom I had delivered a letter of introduction. It is rather fun knowing real Mexicans and getting their point of view. I didn’t tell them and they didn’t seem to know that I had only met their kinsman once and I wondered whatthey did think. In the afternoon they fetched me for a drive, the car was owned and driven by the fiancé of the girl. We drove out into the country and were caught in the fiercest rain-storm. The car had only a hood and I had only a cape. One was frozen to the marrow. They took me to tea at the Reforma Club at Chapultepec, a tennis club organized chiefly by the English Colony. It looked truly English, and the cold and the damp made one feel as though in England. The English women whom I did not meet but looked at, seemed to be of that type that is neither interesting nor decorative.—One or two Mexican girls I was introduced to, as “my uncle’s friend....” It seems to me I might be explained to strangers in various ways, but “my uncle’s friend” is a fame that is new to me.
Sunday, July 3, 1921.Mexico City.
The 4th of July was celebrated today. I suppose on account of its being Sunday. There was a garden fête at a place called “Tivoli.” The President was supposed to come; but of course he did not, nor ever intended to, for as long as the U. S. will not recognize his government, he will not recognize the U. S. national holiday. Mr. Summerlin and Colonel Miller and all the high-hatted and uniformed diplomats of various nations were waiting to receive him. Instead, the press kodaks hadto comfort themselves with the belated but smiling Minister Pani of Foreign Affairs! With great ceremony they paraded round the ground in procession and the band played every conceivable Sousa March. I never realized how utterly unendurable civilized American music is ... I mean, not to include the jazz and the coon music, which has great character and charm. But there are things like “Yankee-Doodle” that just make one curl up. With a fictitious attempt at gaiety, I watched this celebration of the defeat of England. Dick enjoyed it, he bought bags of confetti, and realized for the first time the full joy of being able to throw handfulls of something straight in a person’s face. It was a lovely game.
Monday, July 4, 1921.Mexico City.
My Mexican acquaintances, mother and daughter, took me to tea with some friends of theirs, who lived in a really lovely house, almost palatial. The daughter of the house was intelligent and spoke perfect English. I had a long talk with her and learnt something of the Mexican aristocracy’s view point: She said that decent and honest people in Mexico try to keep out of politics, and not to meet the politicians or the Generals. Otherwise they are persecuted by whatever Government follows for having even been friends with the Government that has been overthrown. The politiciansof whatever regime have always been self-interested. Their object is to make as much as they can while their Government lasts. Against this there is no remedy. If the President tried to enforce rigorous measures against graft, etc., he would be turned upon and rent asunder. Referring to General Obregon, she said he was pretty well acknowledged by every one to be honest and purposeful, the best out of 15,000,000 people, but “thieves” as she expressed it helped him to become President, and he dare not get rid of them for that reason, “I suppose he is in honor bound to stand by them,” I said—“Not at all.” She contradicted, “but if he dismisses them they would plot against him.... His only way is to kill them.” (I felt I was probing this skin-deep civilization!!).
Everyone seems to live in great uncertainty. “In the Revolution” (I did not understand which of the many!) people’s houses and farms and motors, etc., were taken away from them. A few of them have been inadequately paid for since, and some farms have been returned to their owners, but in such a dilapidated condition as to make them almost hopeless.
“If anything happened to General Obregon, things would be far worse ... there would be chaos....” I was told. A Revolution is impossible unless the Indians are with it. They are very easily led, and always side with the richest General.I was told a good deal more, but it represented the average bourgeois point of view,—so ready to criticize, so inaccurate in its details.
Tuesday, July 5, 1921.Mexico City.
Today is Review day. It happens once a month. First the Firemen with a band marched down the Passo de La Reforma, past our Hotel. Then some soldiers and finally quantities of police. They were all smartened up, clean and white-spatted for the occasion. I rushed forward to photograph them, which seemed to amuse them, and one officer on horseback purposely made his horse rear for my benefit. People in the street seemed not to take the slightest interest, only a few loafers or foreigners looked on, and the usual crowd of women fruit sellers, who sold pulque (the national drink, made from the juice of cactus) to the men when they halted. The streets are conspicuous at all times by their absence of well dressed or prosperous looking people. Except for some business men, the people look nearly as dilapidated as those in Moscow. The shop windows contain the ugliest clothes. I wonder what the Mexican woman does when she wants a new dress.
This afternoon, Dick not being well enough to walk, we drove to Chapultepec Park. By lucky chance the driver spoke English. He told us we could see parts of the Castle, and drove us up to theHill summit. We wandered around rather stupidly, there was no guide, and rumor has it that one can only see the Castle if one has a special letter from one’s consul. Presently two young men appeared, officials apparently, and they watched us and seemed to take an interest. Of course, in the end, although they could speak nothing but Spanish, we were carrying on some kind of understanding. They took us from terrace to terrace, higher and higher, until finally we were in a fountained flower garden on the roof. They gathered bunches of roses and carnations, pansies and violets for us, insisted on photographing us with our own kodaks and finally took us up the spiral stairs to the topmost tower, where the view of the town below and the plain and the mountains all round us was staggering. They smiled with satisfaction at our delight. On the way down we were shown some rooms and here our incoherent friends linked us on to a guide, who was showing some Americans over the Castle. I hear that Obregon prefers to live in a cottage adjoining, and small wonder: The Castle inside is as ugly as it is possible to be. The Chinese room, presented by the Chinese Emperor to President Diaz, is terrible. Only one bed room, I think it was Maximilian’s Queen’s, had some quite nice “Bulle” wardrobes. Pointed out as of special interest was a sitting room, all done up in pink: “For Miss Root....” I am ashamed of my ignorancein not knowing anything about this lady or her part in Mexican History.
I really felt speechless over the ugliness of the interior. There is nothing to recommend Chapultepec Castle except its position and its view. The imitation Pompeian decoration on the terrace walls are as bad as the “Mexican Work” which decorates the banquet room. The entrance gates, with bronze soldiers on the pillars are enough to warn one of what is in store, where decoration is concerned. However, it was well worth the time to see the view and we spent a charming afternoon, thanks to our unknown friends. In the evening I was discovered by the Press! Interviewers and photographers recalled early days in New York. But I mean to leave Mexico City—climate means more to me than anything else in the World. I cannot feel lonely or ill if I am in a place of flowers and sun. Such places exist quite near, we are wasting our precious days in the cold grayness of Mexico City. We came with only tropical clothes and it is the rainy season! I want to go away. I am only waiting for Dick to get well.
Wednesday, July 6, 1921.Mexico City.
At 10 A.M. we went to Guadalupe by tram car. It took about twenty minutes. The Church, another of those magnificent edifices erected by the Spaniards, dates back to the 16th Century, andwas in fact built about ten years after the Conquest of Mexico. This “Shrine of the Virgin” is the “Mecca” of the Mexicans. It is the centre every year of great festivals, and is supposed to be endowed with miraculous powers. The superstitious Indian regards this divine Virgin as a manifestation of the primitive “diosa” (Goddess) they once worshipped, and on December 12th of every year they celebrate their “Fiesta” in their own way, unhampered by priests. At the big entrance door, as I went in, a beggar was sitting. He looked like a sculptured “Goya” carved in walnut wood. Emaciated, old, expressionless, immovable with an out-stretched wizened hand and a bandage round his brow, he looked the picture of passive misery. I photographed him. Outside the Church was a whole encampment of natives selling the usual cheap rosaries, medals and holy cakes, called “Gondites of the Virgin” (Little fat ones of the Virgin).
We were the only tourists and the whole town seemed to be under canvas, selling fruits, knick-knacks and pottery—There seemed to be a world of sellers and nobody buying.
The Chapel of the Well is another building that can rival any in Latin Europe. It is exquisite with its domes of blue and yellow tiles. But we should have come here on a fiesta or a Sunday and seen the fervent Indian crowds. On an ordinary day there is not much movement.
Thursday, July 7, 1921.Mexico City.
A lovely sunshiny morning (one has learned to appreciate that!), and we boarded a tram at the Zocolo and went to Zochimilco. It took an hour. We went as fast as a train across long straight stretches of plain. A big barefooted Indian insisted on talking to me, rapidly and at great length, in spite of my repeated “non entiendo.” Perhaps he thought I was only pretending not to understand, which is true, for I gathered he belonged to Zochimilco, owned a boat on the “lago” and wished to be our cicerone! As I knew nothing about him and dislike persistency, I turned a cold shoulder upon him.
Our tram took us across the plain and close up to the mountain feet. Arrived at the region of lakes and floating islands and with no one to turn to for information, the only strangers among a world of Indians, I humbly followed the persistent guide. He had an ugly but kindly face, and such a clean white smock that it gave us confidence in him. We followed him for some way along a narrow cobbled way, where wide eyed Indian girls wrapped around in blue shawls, looked at us curiously. After a while I stopped dead, and intimated that I wanted to find the lakes. Our guide looked hurt, even uglier for a moment, and I understood him to assure us he was “secure”—and that we need have no anxiety. A blind man, young, bare-legged,his head held high as all blind men do, came tapping after us with his stick. They always give me the creeps. I want to run in a panic, when I hear the tap-tap. He stopped when the church bell sounded and taking his hat off, he recited rapid prayers. I wonder if he was very philosophical about his blindness, or what his mental attitude could be towards his God. At this juncture however, we arrived at a canal, and our guide led us through a door-way into the courtyard of a house by the water side. Around the fountain some women were cleaning meat. I prepared my kodak, but everyone melted away, and an old grey-haired hag shrieked at me! A big man loomed into the background. He looked half-bred, rather negroid, and had a severe questioning expression. I made a bolt for the boat! This was a species of punt, with poles garlanded, and an awning overhead, made of a faded Mexican flag. It was crude and picturesque. In a moment we were under way and being punted noiselessly, along the canal which joins the lakes. The small poplar-like trees that were reflected avenues in the water, reminded me of Holland. The islands were all luxuriant with flowers, there seemed to be acres of carnations, mixed with pansies and chrysanthemums. In the water grew a lovely “aquatic lily,” as our guide called it. I have never seen one like it. The flower was mauve and like a small rhododendron.There were yellow water lilies as well, and arum lilies on the water’s edge. As we passed under a weeping willow, an irridescent humming bird flew out. I had never dreamed of seeing one outside of the Natural History Museum. The vision of it crowned my day.
I lay lazily on the slanting prow of the punt, the sun burnt down on my back, and I wondered whether one would be content to live all one’s days in a boat drifting along somnolently in the sun. Dick more active, with an improvised paddle, thought he was making the boat go. Narrow canoes slipped past us, full to the brim with scarlet carnations. Our guide proved to be efficient and friendly. He took us to a restaurant on an island, where we had an unedible luncheon, which we shared with about eight famished dogs. Our table was under an arbor on a bridge at the junction of three streams. Nearby we landed, and were shown an electric plant which never interests me, and a garden that was enchanting but more Dutch than ever. Trees were clipped into bird shapes, and some climbing monkeys. The place was dense with strange sad looking Indians, who were digging out a canal. We lingered on the lakes until nearly four o’clock, and then our guide, devoted to the end, insisted we should visit the village church. The doors were wide open, but from the brilliant sun outside ones eyes had to accustomthemselves to the dimness within. There were a few Indian women kneeling on the wooden floor, and some sort of chant was going on. One woman was intoning in a shrill flat metallic voice. The crudest painted figures of the Christ dressed in white muslin “shorts” edged with lace; face and body covered with blood; hair black and matted: legs emaciated and contorted, stared out at us from every corner. Dick suddenly exclaimed in a terrified whisper “Imustgo—I’ve got to go—” and made for the sunlight at full speed with resonant steps. I followed him, and out in the court yard was a rickety Crucifix with human legbones tied crossways on it. Louise commented, and Dick quick to overhear, asked: “Are they real bones...? What is a Crucifix? What is it for...? Why...? Tell me about Christ, please tell me, tell me about Christ,” and as we waited on a seat in the Public Garden, for the tramway, Dick insisted upon hearing the whole story of Christ. He says his prayers to God, and the two have no connection in his mind. And now I realize what Dick’s first and earliest impression of Christ will be, it is indelible,...
Sunday, July 10, 1921.—Mexico City.
I have at last found a friend. She is an English woman, married to a Mexican. I met her in England, but never realized she lived in Mexico.Great was my surprise and pleasure, when she made a sign of life to me. Through her I have come in touch with the English and American Colony. They are very nice to me, and anxious to help me to see all there is to see. My Anglo-Mexican friends had a picnic lunch for me today, at their place in Tocubaya just outside the City. It is called “The Molino” and is the oldest mill in America, North or South. They hold the titles of the estate from the first Viceroy.
Now they no longer live there. The house is deserted and unfurnished, the chapel bereft of its old carved pews. The granaries are empty, one is a hollow shell, the result of a fire. Only in the garden are there signs of renaissance. This is the result of Revolution. Two thousand men and 1500 horses were billeted there for five months, at the time when Obregon came into power. From all descriptions, they destroyed everything and took what they did not destroy. The trees were cut down. Even the Church pews were stacked onto a cart and left when the soldiers left. “The best Obusson Chair” in which the Colonel used to sit, and to which he had become attached was piled onto the top of the coke cart! Listening to all this, I felt I might be hearing the complaint of people against the Bolsheviks! It is a point of view that I do not often hear, and it interests me as all points of view do. For awhile my sympathy was withthese landowners. Their suffering sounded so futile and this form of destruction helps none. The working man does not gain by it. Nothing is arrived at except an unrest, a lack of confidence, an apprehension for the future, and a resignation of despair on the part of property owners. Some one gains: Presumably the individual who loots.—I asked, “What was your ambition and your aim, before all this happened...?” and the answer was: “The ambition of every decent Mexican, to make a lot of money and go and live abroad.” Precisely what the Russian bourgeois did. And how, I asked, does Mexico expect to put her house in order, if the ambition of every decent Mexican is to live outside his country...?
The Conways were among those invited to this rather sumptuous picnic, which was served elaborately under the pergola in the garden. The Conways are English and he is at the head of the electric light and tramway company. The workshops have been on strike for sometime, and now the tramway personnel threaten to come out in sympathy, on Thursday next. Yesterday there was a demonstration of tramway workers, and they deposited a red flag on Mr. Conway’s doorstep! The situation is an anxious one, and keeps him overworked. He arrived late for lunch from a Government conference, and had to leave again almost immediately after.
While the rest of the party played poker, I rocked in a perfectly good hammock, and Dick sailed his boat in a 23 ft. deep swimming tank. The sun came out fitfully, and the day was cold.
The weather I am assured is “unusual”.... On the way home we passed a trolley car full of men. It was at a standstill and there seemed to be a good-humored dispute going on, between one of the men in the trolley and another who was attempting to board it. The man in the trolley threatened the other by brandishing an iron bar. The other disregarding him continued his efforts to climb. With a resounding blow, which we could hear above the sound of our motor, the iron bar smote the man on the temple, so that he dropped, stunned to the ground. A woman screamed and ran to pick him up. But he picked himself up, and two small rocks at the same time. Our car turned a corner, and the sequel was lost to view.
“They hold life very lightly,” Mrs. Conway said with indifference. She has lived here for some years.
Wednesday, July 13, 1921.
Mrs. Conway fetched me in the morning and we went to the National Museum. I was in search of the War God Huitzil, the one that Cortez threw down from the height of the Teocali after the greatfight. Mr. Terry’s guide book says it is in the Museum, but I could find it nowhere. Upon inquiry one person said it was in a Convent, another that it was built into the walls of the Cathedral, a third that it was among the foundations of the National Palace! But if I failed in discovering my god, the accumulation of Gods and of sculptured stone contained in that small gallery in the National Museum was a revelation. The moment I walked in I was amazed. This is work that rivets one’s attention. The people who created these things have the right to a very important place in art. The Aztec calendar stone one knows well, it has been so often reproduced, but the reliefs on the sacrificial stones, are equally wonderful,—almost pure Assyrian in feeling.
The great flat screenlike stone, representing the goddess of the Moon, is full of design, beauty and terror. They demanded much, these Gods, and I imagine they were served more out of fear than of love. Theirs was a jealous god, and a god of vengeance. There was Chauticalli, the crouching tiger, demanding the votive offering of human hearts, for which he carries a cup sunk in his own back.
Of all the gods, Chac-Mosl, the Lord of Life, brought from Yucatan, is the one that is least barbaric. Almost it might be the work of a modern archaic sculptor. But through everything thereruns a note of deep tragedy, of awful distress. The people who worshipped Soxhipili, the Goddess of Spring and Flowers, who lifts up a pained and tearstained face to heaven,—are the same people who today worship the bloodstained painted plaster figure of Christ. They are still idolaters, but they call it Christ today, and their souls react to all the pain, and all the blood, and all the horror, that centuries ago was carved in stone, and stained with the blood of human hearts. Going to that Museum, seeing, even without understanding, has opened up to me a whole new interest in the Mexican people. Not lightly can the world dismiss as brigands descendants of a civilization that produced such sculpture. What was this civilization? The America of the United States has no such ancestry, no such relics.
And who are these people of today, called Mexican Indians, whose great dignity and impassivity and melancholy remind one of the Russian peasant? Is it explained in either case by centuries of oppression? Perhaps I will understand a little later on, but at present I am lost in the mysticism of it.
At six o’clock, Madame Malbran, the wife of the Argentine Minister and Madame de Bonilla, took me to a reception given by the Pani’s. He is the Minister for Foreign Affairs. After my morning spent with the gods, and the atmosphere ofAztec culture, it was a strange contrast to go to this centre of political modernism. The party might have been in Paris or Rome. It was a perfectly cosmopolitan gathering, and one heard every language around one. To the accompaniment of a jazz-band we danced in two big empty rooms, the walls of which were covered with pictures. I had already heard a good deal of discussion and comment about Alberto Pani’s collection of Old Masters, but whatever people may say, and whatever they may be, they are extremely attractive pictures collected by some one with a cultured eye. Here I met a very charming cosmopolitan Mexican called the Marquis de Guadalupe. He had other names, but they were beyond my intelligence. Guadalupe, I can remember because I’ve been to the Cathedral of...! He talked like an Englishman and said he had been educated at Stonyhurst. He asked me if I had seen any Mexican sports,—one of which is called “Haripego” ... he told me he did it himself and described it to me: As far as I could make out wild Mexicans on wild horses pursue a wild bull, catch it by the tail, and throw it! My informant with sleek grey hair, and immaculately civilized clothes, looked like anything but a wild Mexican. He assured me he was one, however, in everything but appearance. He then went up to Pani and asked if they could get up a show for me. There was some discussion in Spanish,there was nothing to do, I understood, but to buy “a few wild horses and some bulls” ... that’s all ...! and Pani, turning to me, said I had “but to command!” So I commanded with all possible entreaty and was promised that it should be arranged as soon as possible for next week. I also expressed a wish to climb up Popocatapetl, and Pani invited me to lunch on Saturday to meet someone who will make it possible for me. Thus encouraged I rushed back to the Hotel to find Mrs. Conway with an American from Monterey, waiting to take me out to dinner. Afterwards we went and watched a game of Peloto—. This is the Spanish name for “ball”—It was a wonderful game, a species of squash rackets. The players wear long narrow basket sheafs in which they miraculously catch the ball, hardly ever missing it. A miss counts a score for the opponent. The curious scoop shape of the basket (I thought for the first moment that they were hollowed elephant tusks!) enables them to hurl the ball from a great distance and with great force. It is extremely beautiful to watch and is the fastest ball game in the world. All the while a tremendous lot of betting goes on, and the bookies in their red caps make a maddening din shouting the odds. The onlookers, who are more gamblers than sportsmen, are full of denunciatory exclamations over bad play and seldom, if ever, appreciative of any particular good stroke. Played withoutany professional betting it would be a very sporting game, as well as a very highly scientific one.
Friday, July 15, 1921.Mexico City.
Mr. Conway having last night at midnight settled his tramway strike to his satisfaction, we started off at 9 A.M. in his car, with a friend of his and made for the Pyramids of San Juan Teotihuacan. It was very cold at the start and by the time we got to San Cristobal the sun was out and we stopped to photograph the monument to Morelos, the Mexican revolutionary patriot. He is buried here, opposite his house. The monument, which is thoroughly modern, simple and forceful, resembles some of the new Russian revolutionary sculpture. Further on we stopped again and looked at a church. It stands alone in a wind-swept plain which had once been flooded. The floods had raised the earth about twelve feet above the original surface, so the carvings of the beautiful archway were low down on the ground instead of being high up. It had been an old Monastery, and the cloisters had just recently been excavated. It is amazing the way one comes upon a perfect gem of Spanish Renaissance architecture, in the wilds among fields of cactus. Sometimes there is not even a village in the vicinity. The inside of thechurch, with its rather Moorish vaulted roof and its Italian frescoed walls would have been very lovely, but for the usual additions that characterize either the Spanish or the Mexican Romanism, of which I have already complained. The one illumination to this gloom was the quantities of song birds inside the church that flew about the roof and among the altars, fanning the noses of the melancholy Saints, whilst their songs reverberated through the echoing building. Outside the door, an iridescent humming-bird was sucking honey from a wild flower. Among the loose stones of the old cemetery wall, we picked up a small terra-cotta Aztec head of an ape. Beyond this place we got hopelessly lost for some time and wandered through villages of which the roads seemed all alike. These villages are built of adobe or mud bricks, and the houses are square, flat roofed and windowless. They probably have been this way ever since Aztec times. The people we saw were pure Indian, without any drop of Spanish blood. There seems to be a great deal of lameness and blindness, especially the latter, owing to the prevalence of disease among the parents. Infant mortality in Mexico, is, I am told on reliable authority, higher than that of any other country in the world. But to continue ... our lost way was extremely interesting. Sometimes our road lay hemmed in on either side by high impenetrablehedges, formed by the organ cactus, which the Indians plant to wall in their gardens or farm yards. Hardly any of the road was road at all, it was either rock or stream, on a tract among the plantations of the pulque cactus. The car was an 8-cylinder Cadillac. It seemed to take anything competently and uncomplainingly. Never have I seen an owner so fatalistic, or a driver so calm under adversity. I felt wemustturn over sometimes, but we did not, nor did we stick in the mud, nor did the streams drown the machine, nor did the springs break, nor did we puncture! When Mr. Conway pointed in a direction and said to the chauffeur: “That is where we want to go ...” we went quite regardless of whether there was a road or not. “Is that a road?” I asked once or twice, and was told it was! When nearly at our destination, and having taken three hours instead of two, we had a final delay: In a lane we met three galloping soldiers, who signalled to us to stop. We were made to draw up onto the grassy roadside and there we stood for half an hour, while at least eighteen, if not twenty, guns went by, drawn by their mule teams of six each. It was very picturesque, the men riding the teams shouted and urged and beat their mules, trumpeters galloped by, officers stood escort by our car while they passed. The soldiers were dressed in coarse white linen uniforms, and white leggings and hats, with red cord and tassels on their shoulders.They looked rather dilapidated individually, but very picturesque collectively. I did not dare photograph them, as it might have been a troop movement. The papers this morning are full of the insurrection of the troops under Gen. Herrera near Tampico in the state of Vera Cruz, Huasteca District, and there seems to be something in the air ... who knows, trouble again perhaps? But no one troubles.
At last we arrived in the wonderful valley. It seemed completely deserted except for the workmen who are digging the excavations, and some big eyed barefooted silent children who watched us. Instantly on arrival we climbed up to the top of the pyramid of the Sun. Its base measurement is said to be that of the Pyramids of Egypt, but it is not so high, nor so pointed. It has been flattened out on the top, for the sacrifices. The human bodies, after their hearts were cut out, were simply thrown over the edge, and there are supposed to have been men stationed on each platform below, to pitchfork them on and over down to the next until finally at the bottom, they were collected by those to whom they proudly belonged, and taken away, ... it having been a great honor to be sacrificed.
The view from the summit was awesome. Great mountain peaks dwarfed us, and a little way beyond stood the pyramid of the Moon, and the“Road of the Dead” with its small sentinel Teocalis all along the way, leading from the “Moon” past us, to the distant so-called Citadel. We lunched nearby in a great natural cave, which had long zigzagging steps that led down into it, and made one feel rather theatrical and Ali-Babaish! After luncheon we went to this “Citadel,” where the new excavations and restorations are taking place. No one is allowed to go near it, and little is known about it as yet. The discoveries are going on apace, and promise to be among the most dramatically interesting in the American Continent. I suppose some day the world will awaken to the wonders here, and will give it their attention instead of constantly re-treading the well worn paths of archaeological Europe and Egypt.
Sheltered, hidden, protected behind an Aztec Teocali, there has just been revealed another of infinitely earlier date of which little, if anything, is as yet surmised. To date, four tiers of sculptured walls have been unearthed and in between these terraces straight up from the base to the as yet uncovered summit, are wide steep stone steps, the side slopes of which are punctuated by enormous dragon heads. These same heads, slightly varied, stood out from the wall of the four terraces, one above the other, from a low relief background. The eyes of the great stone dragon-heads are set with obsidian, a black volcanic glass which thedistrict produces. There are signs of color on these sculptures. The whole thing is barbaric, and overwhelmingly effective. It suggested to my mind something very definitely Chinese. It was a great privilege to be able to see this new discovery and to be allowed to take photographs. We were told by an official to whom Mr. Conway gave his name, that we might climb anywhere, and take what photographs we pleased. This, after our first reception by an officious but dutiful underling, who forbade us to do anything we wanted to do, was a heaven sent relief!
Around us in a gigantic square, walls, and steps and Teocalis were being restored. The centre may prove to have been a gigantic arena, that was what the space and its shape suggested to me, but all conjecture in this place is futile. No one knows ... it is no good asking or seeking or imagining. It is the great mystery of the World’s History. Perhaps if the fanatical first Spanish Viceroy had not burnt all the Indian records something might be known. As it is, unless something is revealed, we shall continue in ignorance. A little feeling of pride came over me, as I viewed these monuments from the top of the Teocali, and realized that sculpture had survived where painting, and life, and race, and history and tradition even had faded away. Almost one might dare to say that sculpture that is monumental is immortal.
Saturday, July 16, 1921.Mexico City.
Alberto Pani gave a luncheon for me, which proved unexpectedly pleasant. We were three women and seven men, among whom was José Vasconselos, the Rector of the University, a very brilliant man for whom the Government has created a portfolio; Enciso, the Guardian of Ancient Buildings; Martinez, the head of the Academia of Belles Artes, Mantenegro, a painter of great distinction. I sat between my host, whom I find understanding and easy to talk to and on my other side a man called Dr. Atl. His name isn’t really Atl at all, but as he is called that and was introduced to me under that name he may as well remain Atl. He is the man who was especially asked to meet me, to tell me about Popocatapetl. He has been up to the crater a great many times. In fact the love and the obsession of his life is said to be the great White Mountain! He was explained to me as being a painter, a poet, a Bolshevik, a Bohemian.... He certainly has individuality, and was not a bit surprised when I told him he was a Russian type, and that in fact he talks French as the Russians I have known talked it. He knew it, but denied any Russian blood.... Anyway to my great delight, he says it is perfectly possible to do the ascent at this, the rainy season. So many people have been telling me that it was an impossibility! He promisesto take me next week.9With my host I had an interesting talk, about things here, as well as in Russia. He asked me what my impression was of Lenin, and I told him.... We discussed opinions very openly, and at the end of it I asked him, laughingly: “Am I a Bolshevik ...?” and he said “No,—you areune femme intelligente, with good judgment!” Above all we talked about Mexico and I think he was pleased by my enthusiasm and my interest. I amused them all, by telling them (to illustrate the prevailing ignorance of Mexico) that my “in-laws” had had a conference on the matter of my having dared to risk Dick’s life by bringing him to Mexico, as a result of which they had decided that on my return to England, Dick should be removed from my custody. An excellent reason, as they pointed out, for not returning to England, but remaining in Mexico! “All the same,” Pani admitted, “we have had terrible times here, when really one only went out at the risk of one’s life, and the outside world hears only of our upheavals.” He said laughingly that Popocatapetl was very emblematical of Mexico.... “We are a volcanic country, ready at any moment to erupt.” I like their sense of humor about themselves. When I said I wanted to meet General Villa, they alllaughed, and said “Well, if you want to meet Mexican Generals, your time will be well taken up, there are about six thousand of them!”
Sunday, July 17, 1921.Mexico City.
Spent the day with Mr. Niven at Atcapazalco about half an hour out by tram, and a couple of miles from the tramway. It was real “wilds” with here and there an Indian village. Mr. Niven works indefatigably. All during the week his workmen prepare the ground for him and dig the trenches, and on Sundays he comes out himself, with a small pickaxe and goes over the ground. He has done this for twenty-seven years, and a great many things in the National Museum are of his discovery and presentation. There are three civilizations buried in layers, and because nothing is known of them, they are called the Aztec (three feet below the ground), the pre-Aztec and the primitives. The principal and most valuable of the layers is the middle one. Unfortunately, ours was not as productive a Sunday as it should have been, for Mr. Niven allowed a Mrs. Gould to turn Saturday into Sunday and she had all the benefit of the week’s digging, and unearthed a little Xochipili (The Goddess of Spring and Flowers). Nevertheless the soil yielded up innumerable little terra-cotta heads of Egyptian design, and incense burners, and obsidian knives. At the last, he came uponthe wall of a building, it was an outer wall, and he had great hopes of what it might contain, but the hour was then late, and a thunder storm threatening and we had to abandon the pursuit. One learns patience at this job.
Tuesday, July 19, 1921.Mexico City.
The National Museum is only open in the morning, but Mr. Niven and Professor (of Archaeology) Mena, opened it for me, and spent the afternoon explaining things to me. It is a place in which one might spend to advantage every day for two months. It contains a wealth of revelation. Even the countries that contain Mexican collections can have no idea of Mexican primitive culture. Onemustsee the collection in this Museum.
I had just been given a small jade god, which I recognized at once as being infinitely old and beautiful. Professor Mena knew all about it at once. It is a “stone of virtue” (Piedra Divertua) and belongs to the Mixteca civilization, two thousand years ago. It is beautifully carved and I love it dearly. (Had it a small pointed beard, it would look like Trotzky!) I did not exaggerate the impression of my former superficial visit to the Museum. If I was struck by it then, I was overwhelmed by it today. The more one looks themore one discovers of beauty. The best things are masterpieces, and two or three of the reliefs are as beautiful and as well carved and drawn, as any of the most famous works of art in the world. I say this with perfect confidence. Egyptian and Assyrian influence with classic Greek designs and a tremendous suggestion of Chinese, makes one perfectly bewildered as to origin and tradition. Upstairs among the smaller things there were objects of such finished beauty that I was silenced even as to expression of appreciation. I wonder if I am an unusually ignorant person, or whether I have made a great discovery. I am under the impression that the world in general does not know much about things Mexican.
Sometimes, I am afraid to trust my own judgment, ... since I discovered Shakespeare. It was long after my maturity, and I happened to chance upon “Midsummer Night’s Dream.” I could not put it down until I had finished it, and then, so thrilled was I, that I rushed to my family and told them all about it. Perhaps my discovery of Mexico is another of the world’s Shakespeares, which everyone already knows about except me. But so enthused am I, and delighted, that I would like to take Mexico to England, or else bring England to Mexico.... When I find something interesting I want to share it.... Russia was a thing to live, this is a thing to see. Not many of my friends wouldhave cared to live as I loved living, in Russia. But heaps of people would appreciate the things that are beautiful to see here in Mexico.
No news from Dr. Atl about Popocatapetl but rumor says it is in eruption. Message through Mr. Malbran, the Argentine Minister, from President Obregon, inviting me to Chapultepec Castle Sunday night at 9:00 P.M. Message from Mr. de la Huerta, the Minister of Finance, saying that he has heard and read of the mondaine society by whom I am being entertained, and that he suggests that in three days, if I am tired of these people, I go to see him and he will show me “the other side of Mexico” ... invitation definite for Monday afternoon next.
Sunday, July 24, 1921.Mexico City.
Mr. Conway fetched me and Dick in his car at 9:00 A.M. and we drove out to Tipositlan. It is about 40 kilometers away. It had been raining all night and the roads were desperately slippery. We had to climb up a small mountain and the road was not really a road, but a muddy torrent. The car stuck. Dick delighted, he got out and climbed the mountain side and picked wild flowers. To my surprise it did in time get out of the mire and we climbed to the top, closely followed by a huge motor-lorry. When we had descended the hill on the other side onto the flat road, the lorry tried torace us, with the result that the driver was very nearly jolted off the seat and the man next to the driver did actually fall off! Such is the condition of the roads just outside the city area.
Arrived finally at Tepositlan we rambled all over the church, the convent and the patios. It used to be a Jesuit Monastery; they were planted there in order to educate and influence the Indian children. They have within the last few years been expelled, leaving behind them a really beautiful monument of church art. I have not seen anything more beautiful in Italy. The façade of the church, the carvings, the towers and domes, the surrounding wall, the avenue of cypress, the gnarled olive trees, complete an exquisite exterior. Within there is a church that is gold! Gold! Gold! but the gold is on carved wood and the gold is old gold, so that what must have once been dazzling and vulgar, is now mellow and beautiful. Then there are little inner chapels that are gems of beauty, and a patio, sun-bathed, and full of orange trees in fruit, cloister surrounded. The whole thing was an endless labyrinth of real beauty.
We retired to the garden of Don Trinidad, a picturesque farmer, who set a table for us to lunch under the largest fig tree I have ever seen, our dessert being overhead, reachable by standing on a chair! Always wherever one looks, whether in town or in country, there is the background ofmountain ranges that meets the eye. After lunch we climbed to the topmost belfry.
I got home just in time to have a short rest, and then Mr. Malbran fetched me in his car and took me to Chapultepec Castle, which, by the way, is much prettier at night, lit up. We drove straight up to the front door,—no sentries attempted to stop us. It was like a deserted country house, and even with the front door wide open, there was no one about, and Mr. Malbran had to walk outside, to a guard or someone, and request that our arrival be announced. We waited for about ten minutes in a small Council Chamber on the right of the entrance, and then voices were heard. Mr. Malbran said “Here he is”—and I recognized at once, coming towards us, the one-armed General, whose face the newspapers have made familiar. He invited us to go upstairs to one of the reception rooms, and he led the way to a room where the chairs were covered with overalls, and stood all in a solemn row, except a tapestry sofa and centrepiece presented by Napoleon III, I suppose to Maximilian, and set in light yellow wood, and perfectly hideous.
We three sat in this formal unlived-in room, and Mr. Malbran proceeded to be our interpreter for about an hour. Whenever I was being interpreted to the President, I had the chance of watching his face. His hair is thick and black, hisrather flowing moustache tinged with grey. His face is round and fresh complexioned, he is powerfully built, but too stout. His right arm is cut off above the elbow, and every now and then he moves the stump, which gives the impression of a bird trying to use a broken wing. We had a fine battle of wits, which through an interpreter became so clear and acute that we all of us had finally to laugh over it. Talking through an interpreter is as bad as talking to a deaf person through an ear trumpet. I said I had come with the hopes of doing his portrait, that I regarded myself as an historian, and it was my idea to try and represent the people of my own day,—whatever country they belong to, so long as they have accomplished something.
The President replied that he had not yet accomplished the things for which he represented the Mexican people, and that he felt too modest at present to allow himself to be done. There was only one thing he minded, and that was ridicule. “My people will think I am competing with the Venus of Milo!” he said, shaking his stump. He would not refuse me, however, and suggested merely a postponement of three years, to enable him in that space of time to “make good.”...
I said that success was not necessary to a man’s greatness. That I had done Asquith, who had not brought England through the war, and WinstonChurchill, who is not yet Prime Minister, and Lenin, who has not yet brought the Russian experiment to a triumph, and Marconi who admitted to me himself that he had not yet completed the invention that was to make him most famous! But that these are all nevertheless historical men. I explained that Mexico ought to be represented in my world collection, and that I understood he, General Obregon, was the best and the most representative man of the 15,000,000 people of Mexico! The President laughed, he said “If I am the best, what must you think of the others?” He said that if I were less famous and therefore his sitting to me less conspicuous, he might consent, but that he was not a worthy subjectyetfor so distinguished an artist, but that he would work during the three years to come with a new zeal. Knowing the prize in view!
I swept his compliments aside by asking him to help me to be a more distinguished artist by having the honor to do him!
He laughed, and said that he had had many dangerous moments in his life, but never had he felt nearer to defeat than at this moment, and defeat by a woman...! To which I repeated that I had been told the President was a man of force, but I had no idea he had such force.
When this was translated, he seemed slightly embarrassed, and I went on, revelling in his discomfiture:“Lenin said it was extremely tiresome of me to want to do him, but that after all, I had comesucha long way to do it! Now Mexico is just as far as Moscow, and are you going to allow it to be said that the Bolsheviks are more chivalrous and more cultured? Of course, he knew, and I knew, and he knew that I knew that there is no comparison between himself and Lenin. The one is bound to live in the world’s history....” He said desperately “I will be delighted to see you whenever you care to see me. I play cards and billiards and ride horse back, and will do any of these things with you if you wish....” He then went on to explain that Mexico had had so many Presidents in the last few years, some of them, men of ability, but others, men of no consequence.... He did not wish to be classified in this latter category, so that when I had done his bust, it should turn out to be of some one of no importance.... He had certain definite work he wished to accomplish, work for which the Mexican people had elected him their representative, and he must try and accomplish that work before he had a right to assume any attitude that might be mistaken by his people as being a satisfaction with himself. I said that I understood his point of view but deplored it! We then went on to talk about Mexico, and my appreciation of all there was to see, and he said that I was not to be allowed to go away before the Centenary celebration(September 15th) and that I should represent “Modern Europe” at the Centenary! “Modern” indeed! but I do not see myself living until September without work!
He left the room for a moment to give an order, explaining he had sent for a reproduction of himself that Madame Obregon had presented to him, and that he would like to show me. Presently two small children came in: “These are the reproductions of me!” he said, laughingly ... the boy about 4 years old was certainly like him. The little girl, rather frail and white, less so. I wondered at those small children not being in bed, it must have been nearly ten o’clock. No wonder they looked pale!
The President then took us upstairs to another large uninhabited reception room, to show us a picture done from photographs by a Spanish artist! The picture had its face to the wall, and when turned round by two attendants, for our inspection, it was obviously just what a picture would be like done from photographs! I felt it had better go back with its face to the wall. I also thought of Colonel Miller, the U. S. Military Attaché, who informed me sometime ago, that visiting a pottery he found that a workman had modelled from photographs an “excellent and most clever likeness of Obregon.”... He paid the workman two pesos for it and intended to “present it” to the President. Done from photographs, for two pesos.How can one compete? I cannot help smiling as I recall the three distinguished portrait painters, who, on hearing I was coming to Mexico, bade me cable to them if there was any work to do, so that they might come immediately. To switch off from this train of thought I asked, if I were not indiscreet in doing so, what the President’s impression was of the condition of Russia from the reports of his representatives whom he had sent there three months ago. He explained that the representatives had not yet returned, but one was to arrive in about sixty days. Meanwhile they have orders not to send communications by mail. His own private opinion was that every movement has something good as well as bad in it. He thought the result of the Russians having been so long oppressed, was that they were now like birds let out of a cage, and not knowing quite what to do with their freedom.... I thought to myself, this is the most non-committal opinion I have ever heard expressed! and I marvelled at the unhesitating readiness of the man, who is really a soldier, yet talks like a diplomat! My impression was of a man of no culture and little education. His face shows no trace of thought or even anxiety, he is quick, cautious and strong-minded. I asked him before I left, whether his disinclination to be modelled by me was influenced by the fact that I had done Lenin and Trotzky. He said most emphatically that thiswas not the case, and that he was far too independent a man to entertain such small ideas. He seemed really rather worried lest I should think him discourteous, and he begged me to tell him what he could do for me, as he would like to be my best friend in Mexico,—would I come and see him whenever I liked without any pretext being necessary and if I could not produce an interpreter, he would. “But in three years ...” he said, “I shall speak French!” “and ... I Spanish,” I said. He picked me flowers from the roof garden, took my arm and helped me upstairs and expressed in every outward way his desire to be friendly. He said to me, as I was leaving: “You must know in your heart that I am right ...” and of course I do know it. I have already said it. Obregon has not yet done anything to immortalize his name in History ... he may ‘go’ tomorrow, and another take his place ... I said to him, “Well, do somethingquicklyto justify my doing your bust!”
Meanwhile let us “wait and see” what he is going to do!
Monday, July 25, 1921.Mexico City.
I see in the newspaper that Einstein has returned to Germany. His criticism of the United States is quoted in theMexican Post. He abuses them after all their hospitality, he laughs at their adulation. He says the men are the lapdogs ofthe women.... I suppose the American man’s attitude towards woman is about as extreme in one direction as the German’s attitude is extreme in another. As a woman I can only say, “Thank God for the American man.” I suppose the word ‘Hausfrau’ is almost an international word. It describes a certain type of woman, and it is a German type. The German man has made her so. Einstein may well scoff at the position of woman in the States. To him the chivalry of the American man is not easily understood. As for American people’s enthusiasm over the Einstein theory, “which they did not understand,” that is probably why they enthused, which they otherwise might not.
This evening at five,—Mr. Malbran called for me, and drove me to the Ministry of Finance, to keep our appointment with de la Huerta. The familiar view of a busy Government office recalled Moscow. We passed through two rooms in which people were waiting, and I waited only about three minutes in a third room full of men. The realization that all these people were waiting to see him made me rather anxious, but we were shown in almost immediately to the Minister’s great big reposeful room. We were joined by a young man, his English interpreter, and all four of us sitting round in a circle, conversation began, rather formally. The feeling was: “Wellnow you’re here, say something,” and through an interpreter I am shy to begin. Mr. Malbran also makes me nervous! This feeling of restraint, however, only lasted for a few minutes. When we had acquitted ourselves of mutual compliments, telling each other that we had heard so much about the other, and how interested we were in meeting one another, I said that I had so many things that I wanted to talk to him about, and so many questions I wanted to ask. He replied in a most gracious manner, that I had but to ask anything I liked, without reserve. So I broke the ice by asking rather flippantly, why the Government didn’t make use of all the young men who were selling bananas and mangoes in the streets, and put them to work on making roads. I said there were such beautiful places to see and so hard to get to. He took my question more seriously than I had anticipated. He said that the economic position of the country had to be straightened out first, and that meanwhile all the important things were held up. “If only,” he said, “England would recognize us and help to stabilize us, instead of creating this wall around us, we might get out onto our feet.” I told him that his words sounded like an echo of Moscow, and he said, “Russia is more fortunate than we, for she has her recognition now and we have not.”
The subject of Russia just broke down any remainingformalities or restraint. We were, as one might say, “off.” He asked me pointblank did I think the majority in Russia were better off since the new system. I looked at Mr. Malbran, the polished diplomat, who was following this discussion with attention. “At the risk of Mr. Malbran thinking me a Bolshevik, (and we all laughed) I confess that in my humble opinion, the majority are better off, that is to say, the working people have more. They certainly have no less.”
“If those are your views,” de la Huerta said,“can you explain an alleged interview with you, in a Mexican paper, in which you are quoted as saying that, ‘Communism in Russia has completely broken down.’” I denied having made any such statement, and not being able to read Spanish, that was the first I had heard of it. He asked if I had heard in Russia any opinions expressed about Mexico. I was sorry to have to admit that I had not. No one at that time associated me in the least with anything but England, and as I did not understand Russian, I lost much that I might have learned from overhearing.
“And what do you think of Mexico, and of the present Government?” he asked. I said rather humbly, that it was perfectly bewildering, and that I did not understand it. But I knew some of the details of their labor laws which were extremelyliberal, and I admired very much. “And what do you think of the contrast between our palaces and our poor—?” he asked me. I said I hadn’t seen many palaces....
“But you have anyway seen Pani’s, and Malbran’s!” he said laughing.
“Yes, but your climate is kind, and your poor do not look so wretched, as for instance in England.”
“Come with me some day ... I will show you,” he offered.
I said that anything he could show me would be greatly appreciated. He promised to snatch an hour or two next Thursday at three. “And when you have seen some of the misery of these people, you will wonder why some of us have not given our lives to ameliorate their lot.”
I said, “the first thing that should be done here—is Hygiene”.
The Minister agreed, “And next is education.” He agreed again but added: “All that depends on the economic position of the country.”
I said, “You have your soil full of richness, your country is richer than almost any other country, why do not you Mexicans get up and possess it, instead of allowing the foreigner to come in and exploit it?”
“Understand ...” he answered, “that after years of oppression, when we were, as it were, a nation of slaves, we gained our liberty, and before we knewwhat use to make of it, the experienced foreigner came to show us and he took things into his own hands. Today it complicates our machinery beyond words.”
Conversation began to be a mix-up of Spanish, French and English. When the Minister’s interpreter failed in his English, Malbran came to the rescue in French. The Minister understood enough English to prompt in the translations, and I understood enough Spanish to get the spirit of his meaning.
“It must be a wonderful thing,” I said, “to be in a position of power, and to be able to help in the uplift of the workers.”
He said he had devoted twenty years of his life to this task, at the risk of being abused and misunderstood. He told us of his organization of a labor representation within the Government as early as 1916, before Russia ever began her revolution. He said it had been hard work, and things had not gone as they should go, they had been wrongly organized. The revolutions that had occurred one after another in Mexico had not helped the masses.
“Revolution,” he said, “is composed of three factors. The first is propaganda,—the second is armed force and the third is evolution; and we began unfortunately with armed force, the propaganda followed and the evolution was only partial.”
We discussed the difference between proletariat and democracy, he quoted Lenin, who believes in the one, but he believes in the other. He rather deplored the fact that the Third Internationale had broken away from democracy. I cannot quote the discussion, it was too long and too intricate, and I would risk to misquote. But he spoke with an earnestness and a keenness that even interpretation did not spoil. He said that he did all he could, and all he dared to do, to further the cause of the laboring masses, but he was handicapped, out of loyalty to his President and a desire not to compromise his country, by going too far in the world movement. But he insisted several times upon the fact that there would be no real amelioration of suffering in the world, until people had generally realized their duty towards their fellows, of helping and sharing. I said I did not know why I interested myself in the destiny of the “proletaire” but that I could not help it, and that it was a subject that always roused me.
The Minister, with visionary eyes, said almost passionately, “Sometimes I feel like a woman with a great love in her heart, that she longs to tell but has to suppress because of the conventions of the world that surround her, and which force her, almost nun-like, to preserve in silence,” and it sounded beautiful in Spanish.
Malbran, whom he had referred to as “our conservativefriend!” had become interested, and towards the end he ceased to be interpreter and joined in the discussion.
I thought of all the people in all the rooms who were patiently and impatiently waiting to see their Minister of Finance, who was engaged in Socialist arguments with this strange party! At the end, I said I felt I had drunk deep of clear pure water! and he said chivalrously that it had been a great pleasure to him to have opportunity of once in awhile “letting himself go....”
He repeated his promise about fetching me Thursday, to see.... He did not precisely definewhat.
We got down into the street, and found the car, and drove away with a strange sense of excitement and stimulation, at least I did, and as for Malbran, who had been rather silent on our way there, he was now quite expansive. We talked animatedly all the way back to the Geneva Hotel, where he dropped me. We discussed the psychology of de la Huerta, I said I would hate to be disillusioned, but that my instinct told me the man had all the passion and the sincerity of the Russians I had known in Moscow. We agreed that if de la Huerta had been imprisoned for years by a Czarist regime, he would be as fanatical and as ready to give his life for the cause, as volcanic and ruthless as any of the Russian Revolutionaries. Of the few people Ihave met so far in Mexico, de la Huerta is by far the most interesting.
Wednesday, July 27, 1921.Mexico City.
When I returned from riding at midday, it was to find Pani’s car waiting for me, and the information that four times people had called to take me to the “Haripeyo” that was taking place at the bull ring since 11 o’clock. I hurriedly changed my clothes, cursing fate, that I had not been told of this in time. Arrived there I was welcomed by Pani, and Malbran. There were quite a lot of people, but I didn’t know who they were. I regretted not having had the chance of asking my friends. In the ring there were about a dozen men on horseback, and one of them I recognized as my friend Guadalupe. He looked extremely picturesque in his leather clothes and huge brimmed white hat embroidered in gold. The game seemed to be to chase a wild horse and lassoo it. Dick was wildly excited. He shouted: “That’s good!” at the top of his voice when the pony was violently thrown to the ground. It may have been a wild horse, but a tame horse fed on oats is wilder. This animal looked unkempt, moth-eaten, and dazed, I suppose from fright. It must be a rotten game for the horse, to be tripped up when he’s galloping full speed. They would lassoo his front legs together and then his back legs so that the animal lay on the ground helpless,then a man would straddle it, and the horse would rise to his feet with the man on his back. They did the same with a bull, having previously pursued it, caught it by the tail, given the tail a twist round the man’s leg, which just threw the galloping bull with a thud to the ground. Almost the best feat was performed by a rider who pursued the wild horse, caught it by the mane and jumped from his own horse on the back of the wild one, as they galloped side by side. They are wonderful riders these Mexicans. They can sit anything and cannot be shaken off! But I would like to see them on a powerful big horse with an English saddle.
Dick and I spent the afternoon in the garden of the American Embassy. There is a little round clear blue-tiled pond full of goldfish, and Dick paddled and played and was completely happy. I asked Mr. Summerlin for news, as I get nothing to read but theMexican Post. But he was full of mystery and told me nothing about anything. When people get a suspicion that one may be writing, they became terribly secretive. I remember a time when I used to hear state secrets, and people used to talk about things in front of me as if I were perfectly idiotic and negligible.
Today I asked Mr. Summerlin: “Is recognition any nearer...?” He shrugged his shoulders in true diplomatic fashion—it told me nothing. That he was very busy and finally called away on urgentmatters, was all I learnt. We might be on the eve of war for all I know! The people one meets are supremely indifferent to everything. The newspapers record certain rebellions in various parts, no one even reads them. Even the Tampico Oil ‘hold up’ is now a thing of the past, the papers hardly mention it at all, nor the oil wells that are on fire; it is as if the Mexican nation was so blasé with excitements that nothing any longer can stir their interest.
Thursday, July 28, 1921.Mexico City.
Punctually at 3 o’clock, and true to his word, de la Huerta fetched me in his car. Mr. Malbran was of the party, and as also Mr. Rubio, the good-looking young man who interprets for him. To my great joy he told the chauffeur to drive to El Disirto. It is one of the places I want to see. If the expedition was meant to show me the poverty of Mexico, one did not have to go far, the outskirts of the town are as sordid, dirty, and miserable as can be. But out in the open road, (and a beautiful road it was) we met almost a procession of Indians, one behind the other, walking into the town with their loads. These loads consist chiefly of terra-cotta pots and cooking utensils, piled up, in and around a wooden case, the whole weight of which is carried by a strap round the forehead. Thus, barefooted and bent double, heads strainingforward against the weight, muscles of their necks swollen, lips sometimes blue, and bulging eyes focussed on the ground immediately in front, the Indian man, woman and boy will walk twelve kilometres. De la Huerta, pointing to some Indians on burros, said: “Those are the privileged classes.”
“How are you going to better the conditions of these people?” I asked....
“Caramba!” he exclaimed with a gesture of perplexity, and this needed no interpretation.
“What is your motive in showing me ‘La misere’ of Mexico...?”
He said: “Your bourgeois friends have shown you what they had to show,” and he referred laughingly to yesterday’s Haripeyo and the description in the newspapers of the smart people present. “Each of us shows you his own side...”. He went on to tell me that in olden days, the poverty and distress was hidden from visitors as much as possible, but that times had changed, and to-day everything was open for anyone who wished to investigate. “It is good that foreigners should see what we made our Revolution for.” I was a little bit perplexed, and remarked: “But how has it helped, if the people are still in this condition?”
He explained that things were slowly progressing, that the development was from the coast towards the centre, he said proudly, that the Stateof Sonora, of which he is Governor (elected by a tremendous majority) has no such conditions, and he expressed the desire that I might see his State—“But these people” and he waved towards the patient procession, remarking as he did so upon the expression of suffering in their faces—“these people are better off even than they were. In the days of Porfirio Diaz they worked as they are worked today, but they worked for an employer. They were whipped to work. They were slaves. They had even to marry according to their employers’ selection. Today they are doing the work for themselves, they do it of free choice, and whatever small gain they make, it is theirs.”
I quoted what a friend had told me, that the Indians would rather sell bananas in the gutter, than own a bit of land and have to cultivate it. De la Huerta’s face took a savage expression: “Try and take away a piece of land from the Indian who owns it and see what happens ...” he said.
Under the thirty years peaceful reign of Porfirio Diaz, a handful of people prospered, a propertied class and a rich leisured class sprang up, “But the working people were as you see them here on the road. Are you surprised they rose in revolt?”
I told him that Russia seemed to be concentrating all her propaganda on the next generation, and that the obsession of the moment was education. De la Huerta said in reply, that after he becameGovernor of Sonora, he increased the schools from eighty to four hundred and twenty-seven in one year. The man is evidently full of ideas and ideals, but he has not a free hand. He referred to the criticism of the world, and said it was necessary to show what effort and what aims there were. I told him that what was far more convincing than seeing conditions was meeting people. Of himself, for instance, I had heard great criticism, from a certain class. But it was only necessary to meet him to see that he was a sincere idealist, and not in the least as the world described him. De la Huerta turned to the mobile-faced Malbran, and said: “There! Let your diplomatic mind take in all this....” I said laughingly, that I thought the Argentine Minister would make a very excellent Ambassador to Russia, when his time was up in Mexico, but the others said his initiation had only just begun, and he would not be ready for quite a while!