Chapter V: Part 5

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 poor women 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 what they 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 had to 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 politicians of 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 the Hill 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 ignorance in 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, and was 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 accustom themselves 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 “I _must_ go--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 with these 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 great fight. 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 there runs 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 of Aztec 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 without any 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 the church, 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 impenetrable hedges, 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 we _must_ turn 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 the district 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 promises to take me next week.[9] With 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 are _une 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 all laughed, 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 upon the 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. One _must_ see 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 the more 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 would have 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 to race 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 of mountain 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, his rather 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 Winston Churchill, 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 subject _yet_ for 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 come _such_ a 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!