Chapter XXIV: Part FOUR: Mexico (2)

Dear Charlotte & Richard: --/--/ Then there have been two rather extensive visits to Taxco, pictures of which you’ve seen. David Siqueiros, whom I consider to be the greatest of contemporary Mexican painters, is living out there. He’s painted a portrait of me that is astounding. When photographs are made I’ll have to send you one, and for heaven’s sake don’t lose it, whether you like it or not. I don’t know yet how I’m going to get the original up north. Siqueiros is the one who painted the picture of that train flying along, that we took particular notice of in the Carnegie exhibit at the Art Amusement last spring. Remember? But that wasn’t a fair example of his vast power and scope at all. He’s fundamentally a mural painter, and even his smaller paintings have a tremendous _scale_. I bought a small water color of his, a Mexican boy’s head, which you will be quite wild about. I’ve never seen anything of Gauguin’s which was better. Indeed the two have a certain plastic quality in common as well as the use of heavy pigments. Siqueiros, however, is always _most_ Mexican and himself. The very soil of Mexico seems spread on his canvasses.

The last two days have been important on the native Indian calendar: the Day of the Dead. All over the country, and right here in this metropolitan city, you will find the cemeteries full of dark-skinned men and women, whole families in fact, sitting on tombstones day and night holding lighted candles to the spirits of the dead. They bring their food and drink with them. Far from being sad, it’s very merry. They drink and eat much--and it all ends up by setting off firecrackers made in the image of Judas. You must remember some of the amazing skeleton toys and paper and clay skulls that we saw at that Mexican exhibition. Well, they are for sale everywhere right now--and such a variety of other beautiful trays, crockery, serapes, toys, etc., from all the provinces as would drive you wild. A certain park in the city is set apart for the _puestas_, or booths, that form this special market. A walk through there beats the excitement of any museum I’ve ever been in. --/--/

I’ve had some nice parties here in my house. I know more people than I did before, and as far as space goes I might have sixty here at a time. My servant plays the guitar and sings beautifully. Mexicans are always bursting into song and strum away for hours. When I have a party it’s easy to get him to bring in two or three of his friends, equally gifted, and the result is such music, my friends, as would make your feet dance and your eyes shine brightly all the night! The results were a little too lively, in fact, one day last week when I gave a party to two American boys who are touring down here in a big Lincoln car. One of them suddenly climbed up on my roof, drawing the ladder after him, and began pelting tiles down into the courtyard of my neighbor. I nearly had heart failure before we got him down, since my neighbor is a crack shot, and the provocations for shooting are much less here in Mexico than anywhere I know. The kid had just drunk about a quart of _tequila_, so of course it was only partly due to his response to the music! --/--/

375: TO SOLOMON GRUNBERG

(Postcard)

[_Mixcoac_] [_November 10, 1931_]

Haven’t heard since that long letter I wrote you. And wonder if you got it. Mail is sometimes opened here and not forwarded. I never know. If I’m tampered with any more I intend to object, to the Secretary of State who is a poet and knows me.

376: TO PEGGY BAIRD

[_Mixcoac_] _Nov. 13th_

Dear Peggy: I don’t think you need bother to consider me a friend any more.

377: TO PEGGY BAIRD

[_Mixcoac_] _Thursday [ca. Nov. 14]_

Dear Peggy: I don’t know why I felt impelled to write you that gracious note of yesterday, except perhaps on account of the heeby-jeebies--and the fact that when I called with Daniel[67] in the morning I was refused admittance.

Of course, if you really feel that strongly about it, for whatever causes I don’t know, then we’ll have to remain apart. Please let me contradict that note of yesterday, anyway.

378: TO SAMUEL LOVEMAN

_Mixcoac, DF_ _Nov. 17th_

Dear Sam: --/--/ I haven’t been any too well lately. First a week’s spell of the grippe--then lately a kind of half relapse, bad cold, back ache, etc. All this in spite of heavenly weather, but not, I’m afraid, despite a strenuous program of dancing, _tequila_ and amor. I’m on the water wagon for awhile.... Meanwhile my house is in considerable tumult. David Siqueiros (who is certainly the greatest painter in Mexico) arrived Sunday night from his house in Taxco, with his wife and doctors--so deathly ill from malaria that he had to be carried into the house. No really expert medical attention being available in a town so small as Taxco--and after 8 days of mounting fever--there was nothing to do but rush to Mexico City. He contracted it during a long trip through the _tierra caliente_, or “hot country” which is the wild jungleland of Mexico near Acapulco along the Pacific coast. It is a marvelous trip, but very strenuous and dangerous, through native villages where a tax collector has never dared venture, and where the people wear the same Aztec costume that Cortez found them in, there being several towns entirely of Negroes (escaped slaves) who wear nothing but the slender loin cloths of Africa and who shoot with bow and arrows. It seems incredible, but Mexico is more vast than you can ever realize by looking at a map and more various in its population than any country on earth. Layer on layer of various races and cultures scattered in the million gorges and valleys which make the scenery so plastic and superb. Siqueiros is going to pull through all right, but I shall probably have him here with me for a couple of months. Malaria takes a long time. I’m glad to be of help in such a crisis, however, and since I had three rooms which I never used the house really isn’t crowded.

I bought two fine paintings of S. which I hope someday you will see. I guess I wrote you that he painted a portrait of me (about 4 by 2-1/2 ft) which is causing much favorable comment. Besides which I have a splendid watercolor of an Indian boy’s head. You have never seen anything better by Gauguin, which, however, doesn’t describe the originality and authenticity of these works. Then I have about a dozen small watercolors, mostly landscapes, painted by Mexican children none of whom are older than eight--these for about 20¢ apiece!

Of course the Siqueiros works cost me _considerably_, so much, in fact, that I’ve been worried about making ends meet until my next quarterly from the Guggenheims falls due Jan. 1st. For what was my great shock after buying them to be notified that none of the income that I had been assured of from the estate would be paid, and would continue unpaid indefinitely! This meant that the paintings had to be paid for out of the Guggenheim allowance--and in consequence I’m stranded excepting for a few dollars remaining in my personal N.Y. account--until January 1st. And it will be hard to cash personal checks hereabouts. And if business doesn’t pick up before next May it probably means that I can’t continue to stay in Mexico for awhile longer, as I had hoped to do.

Those masks that you bought last fall are undoubtedly Mexican. Even the neo-Greek mask that puzzled me so. I am sure about them all being Mexican because I’ve seen dozens in private collections and museums here that have the same variety of stylizations. There is a great tradition of masks here, and while those of yours may not be extremely old they are decidedly not new nor sold around in the shops here, and are really valuable. You have to go out to some of the most remote settlements to get that sort, and they’re seldom to be bought because of their religious significance.

I haven’t been able to resist buying some other things like serapes, giant hats, embroideries, lacquer trays and Guadalajara pottery. You’ve never seen such beautiful arts and crafts as the Indian element here has perpetuated. Wm. Spratling’s collection at Taxco is one of the best, and when his book comes out, called _Little Mexico_ (Cape & Smith), for heaven’s sake read it. Its illustrations are many and will give you more detail than I could squeeze into twenty letters.

This letter is becoming ungodly long--and I haven’t been able to tell one fragment of all there is to tell. I’m not upset about the Eastman and Mencken notices. There _was_ a quite serviceable editorial in _The New Republic_ on the former a couple of weeks back. And if it provides something for Burke and Cowley to write about--then so much the better. They’re bound to be fairly loyal to my _style_, even if not to my “personality.” It is even more consoling that a few people like yourself maintain a constancy to both.

379: TO HIS STEPMOTHER

[_Mixcoac_] _Nov. 23rd_

--/--/ Last Friday the situation [Siqueiros’ visit] got so on my nerves that I bolted for Tepoztlan. It proved to be the best of all remedies. Long strenuous walks over rocks and mountains with my pack on my back, pleasant encounters with some of the natives who remembered me from my former visit, and baths in nearby streams--there’s really nothing like getting out in the wilds occasionally to clear one’s head. I was invited to a very sociable weekend party at a lovely house in Taxco, but I preferred to be absolutely alone for a change. Deciding to walk from Tepoztlan to Cuernavaca Sunday I got lost on a false trail through a dense forest and stumbled about, not knowing where on earth I was for hours. Thirsty!!! and blistered feet!!! Finally I came upon the railroad track, miles from where I should have been, but was so glad to find something _definite_ that I walked the ties for about four hours more until I came [to] a small station outside Cuernavaca, a filling station for locomotives. And there wasn’t much water left in the tank for future trains when I got through drinking there, I can tell you. I didn’t attempt any further exploits, but took the next train through to Mexico [City]. I must have walked about 35 miles at least that day. But I’ve felt swell ever since. Next time, however, I won’t carry so much in my pack!

380: TO EDA LOU WALTON

_Mixcoac, D.F._ _Nov. 27th ’31_

Dear Eda Lou: I’m very glad to hear that you are applying for a Guggenheim. You certainly deserve it and would make splendid use of it. Mr. Moe, the Secretary, has sent me a copy of your proposed program (this being part of the usual routine regarding references) and I shall be greatly disappointed if you do not have a chance to carry it out. Naturally my response to Moe will be very warm in your favor. However slight your hopes may be there is evidence that at least you are being considered seriously.

These are dull times for poetry, even as Mr. Mencken says, and I must admit that with all my present salutary circumstances my impulses in that direction are surprisingly low. A beautiful environment and economic security are far from compensating for a world of chaotic values and frightful spiritual depression. And I can’t derive any satisfaction in the spinning out of mere personal moods and attitudes.

Meanwhile, I am, however,--or at least I feel I am--penetrating to a new kind of world in the psychology of the Indians, hereabouts, though it hasn’t taken on any real outline as yet. Everyone says that it takes a long time to make an adjustment here. The infinite variety of climate, vegetation, and the distraction of a new language as well as thousands of fascinating sights and speculations, all combine to uproot one and hold one in a strange suspension. At least I feel that I am living fully and absorbing a great deal, whatever else. And that, I suppose, is a considerably better state to be in than the dubious tenure some office job would provide, if such indeed were even accessible! I like Mexico and the Mexicans (Indians) so much that I’d like to remain here permanently. I’m even thinking of attempting some work like teaching (English Lit.) in one of the many private colleges if I can locate such work before my Guggenheim fellowship expires. --/--/

381: TO ----

_Mixcoac, D.F._ _Nov. 30th_

Dear ----: The nature of the Mexican Indian, as Lawrence said, isn’t exactly “sunny,” but he is more stirred by the moon, if you get what I mean, than any type I’ve ever known. The fluttering gait and the powder puff are unheard of here, but that doesn’t matter in the least. Ambidexterity is all in the fullest masculine tradition. I assure you from many trials and observations. The pure Indian type is decidedly the most beautiful animal imaginable, including the Polynesian--to which he often bears a close resemblance. And the various depths of rich coffee brown, always so clear and silken smooth, are anything but Negroid. Add to that--voices whose particular pitch will make the welkin ring--and you have a rather tempting setting for an odd evening. Even Lawrence, with all his “blood-fear” of them, couldn’t resist some lavish descriptions of their fine proportions.

--/--/ I have a project of a poetic drama on Cortes and Montezuma, but the more I see the more I realize how intricate the subject is--and how much longer it is going to take me than I anticipated. --/--/

382: TO HIS STEPMOTHER

[_Mixcoac_] _December 12th, ’31_

Dear Bess: There is a distinct smell of powder in the air this evening. But that isn’t all! Rockets are whizzing up sporadically for miles around, and the sound of church bells far and near, has been incessant since dawn. All of which is to say that this is an important day in the Mexican calendar--nothing less, in fact, than the annual Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe, the particular Patroness of all Mexicans. This year’s celebration is all the more extravagant, as she is reputed to have “appeared” here (before a humble peon named Juan Diego) just four hundred years ago today.

For weeks the influx of Indians and pilgrims of all types from all the provinces and tribes of Mexico has been in progress. It is probably no exaggeration to say that there are two hundred thousand extra souls, pious and near-pious, who have flocked here to continue the _fiesta_ until New Year’s. But today--all of them, including the majority of Mexico City’s population of one million--went to the little town of Guadalupe Hidalgo, practically a suburb now, of Mexico City, where a great cathedral has been erected near the spot where the Virgin is reputed to have made her first appearance.

I engaged a cab the night before, and got up at four this morning to get an early start, arriving before the Cathedral just at dawn. Even then one couldn’t elbow one’s way into the church without waiting in line for an hour. I gave that up, having come more to see some of the native Indian dances that take place here and there throughout the town--some, in fact, right in front of the cathedral. The whole business is simply indescribable without ten reams of paper; but suffice to say that the dances were wonderful. Certain people are picked from each district or tribe for their marked ability--and there is quite a rivalry between districts in the excellence of their performance. There are from 24 to 45 in a group, generally in circular formation, with banners, guitars which they play as they sway and turn, and elaborate pantaloons, skirts, feather crests, etc. Death and the Devil weave in and out among them--and other masked figures, like wild boars and old man-of-the-mountain.

I pushed and prodded from one group to the other, until by 9:30 I was ready to come home; and did. I had taken Daniel along, and was glad of it, since I just missed causing a riot by attempting to photograph some of the dancers in action, which is, it seems, forbidden. The dancing is all very serious and very set and formal; it generally derives from very ancient tribal rites. It isn’t any sort of Mardi-Gras mood at all that the Indians express, despite the flamboyant colors of their costumes.

Well, when I consider that the Indians, all of those, at least, that I saw--had been dancing the same measure for practically all the night before--continued all day after I left and WILL continue on the same schedule for practically two weeks more--and ALL for the sake of a ritual and _not a cent of money_--I must say I admire their devotion to custom and tradition. The figure of the Virgin of Guadalupe miraculously unites the teachings of the early Catholic missionaries with many survivals of the old Indian myths and pagan cults. She is a typical Mexican product, a strange blend of Christian and pagan strains. What a country and people! The most illogical and baffling on earth; but how appealing! I enclose the authoritative portrait of this Virgin, who, I think, is quite beautiful. She is really the Goddess of the Mexican masses, and you will find her image or picture everywhere, even when you can’t see it--as for instance, inside the hat bands of wide _sombreros_. It is rare to escape the sight of her--on a postcard or stencil above the windshield facing half the taxi drivers of Mexico. For protection and good luck! I think I shall have to “wear” her around with me for awhile--likewise for “Protection and good luck” against the wiles and extortions of some of those same drivers!

I haven’t heard from you in a long while--no answer yet to my last. But I’m not complaining. I know the season, the other trials--and how filled your time is. Thank you very much, by the way, for having arranged the money payment for me through the Chase bank. It saved me many pesos on the “exchange.” I won’t need to bother you again this month--nor next. Matters go more smoothly with me as I get myself more acclimated to Mexico, its habits and the peculiar strain of the high altitude here. I’m feeling very well, and am even accused of getting fat.

As Christmas draws near I think much of the Season’s loss in all it can give to you and me this year. Christmas always probes the deepest memories, and the fondest; and I know what you will be thinking about this Christmas, and how apt it will be to make the hearth seem cold. I know your fortitude also, Bess,--and your natural, spontaneous response to all that is good and enduring. And I’m sure, therefore, that surrounded as you are by the loyalty and love of those whose names need no particular mention, you’ll still find many reasons for gratitude and even a bit of seasonal merriment. --/--/

1932

383: TO PEGGY BAIRD

[_Mixcoac_] _January 6th_

Dearest Peggy: I hope you got the $75. I sent yesterday afternoon. I went first to the Mancera where I ate like a horse; then rushed to the bank in time to get all I wanted. Daniel I found as drunk as usual when I got home, but he did manage to get me a hot bath before eight, after which I really began to enjoy my weariness. Slept fairly well--waking to find old Mizzentop flaunting the colors still in valiant dreams of you.

M---- was here, besides the family box of goodies and about a million letters. I’ll just never catch up, I’m sure. M., as I expected, is as settled as ever.... I can foresee a number of needs, or rather uses for him in the next fortnight.

Lesley [Simpson] is coming to lunch with me at the Mancera this noon. All things considered, I am hoping that he, rather than anyone else, will want to take over the house. For one thing it would mean that I could trust _all_ my belongings to the premises--and be freer than ever to move about as I took a notion to. I wouldn’t lose any more money in the end than storage costs and transportation otherwise necessitated.

I’m in such a hectic rush this morning that I can’t do more than remind you that you already know the depth of my love for you. The ride back yesterday was psychologically so strange and new a meditation to me that it seemed almost like sheer delirium. When I get more of the pressure of events eased and a moment for a little personal thinking, I’ll write you a more decent expression of my gratitude. I’m dying now to be off to Acapulco with you in two weeks time, and almost every moment must be bent to that end.

I’ll see Mary [Doherty] today or tomorrow about your clothes. Has Malcolm replied yet? Let me know when to write him if he hasn’t. DAMN that Putnam review! Of all times, now, to sharpen the critical blade! But that’s what I get for procrastinating. Mexico [City] doesn’t look any more tempting and reassuring than I expected. It’s cold, bloody cold, of course, too.

I’m expecting a letter from you tomorrow, and often afterwards, dear Twidget! Apply yourself well; don’t forget the toilet paper, the water wagon, your typewriter, nor your Hart. -- -- -- --

384: TO MALCOLM COWLEY

_Mixcoac, DF_ _January 9th, 1932_

Dear Malcolm: I’ve just returned Maddow’s poems to him with a brief note of appreciation, tempered by some objections to his chaotic structural tendencies, etc. It’s hard to say much against a person who has so obviously experienced one’s own temper and angle of vision. Furthermore, I suspect that he is no more obscure to me (at his _worst_) than I have been to hundreds of others. But what the hell! I don’t pretend to excuse myself for a lot of things. He has power and original vision, though--if he’s got the conscience and brains to channel them....

Peggy and I had the pleasantest Christmas and New Years together that I remember for ages. Peggy’s usual mixed crowd appeared for the former date; but I stayed long enough to enjoy a week alone with her. Taxco is so extremely beautiful--and the townsfolk still so affable--that whatever one has to say about the Yankee occupation (and that ultimately seals its doom) it’s still one of the pleasantest places to be. Peggy has probably written you about encounters with Brett, Bynner, King, et al. Lewd limericks were shouted from the rooftops--your collection being more than ever in demand. A mad crowd, though. -- -- -- --

I enjoyed your attack on Munson very much--that is, the initial broadside that appeared in _The N.R._ But having read answers and replies since then in _Contempo_, I’ve lived to regret those later readings--from both sides of the battle line. Of course it was a great mistake for Munson to have replied at all. No dignity could be saved that way--and in the end it put you, too, into a rather apologetic position. Your advantage rests--not chiefly, but partially--in the fact that you initiated the fracas--and in a journal of vastly greater circulation and weight than that little receptacle on Chapel Hill. Now people are beginning to accuse you of being a successful politician. But I hardly agree with that; I think that greater conquests are necessary for that title, even though Mr. Boyd lay flaccid under the same swipe. --/--/

385: TO PEGGY BAIRD

[_Mixcoac_] [_January?_]

Dearest: In case I don’t get off tomorrow morning for Taxco--and hence anticipate this letter by kisses and much contentment--I want you at least to know that it won’t be long before we are together again, for I shall be with you certainly before Sunday.

Your letter of this morning makes me ache for you. Why is it you love me so? I don’t deserve it. I’m just a careening idiot, with a talent for humor at times, and for insult and desecration at others. But I can, and must say that your love is very precious to me. For one thing it seems to give me an assurance that I thought long buried. You can give me many things besides--if time proves me fit to receive them: the independence of my mind and soul again, and perhaps a real wholeness to my body.

Do you remember me saying that I would _not_ fall in love with you, or with anyone again? But I find that though I like to perpetuate that statement, I have really overruled it in a thousand thoughts and emotions.

(The period on that last sentence was accompanied by a convulsion under the table from Palomo. Rather horrible, in fact. I roused M----, we called a policeman; but though the dog has resumed all the appearances of his normality--we’ve relegated him to the shedroom in back of the kitchen. Rabies are common here, so M---- says, and I shouldn’t wonder if we’ll have to shoot the “dove.”)

Since there seems to be such a slight chance of renting the house, and since I really can’t welsh on Eyler Simpson (who is equally responsible, since he signed the lease with me) by just walking out--I’ve decided to pay the $70. odd dollars difference by just keeping it--wherever else I spend my time during the next three months. The family will just have to fork up a loan or something for me, and I feel sure they will. I’m going to try and avoid spoiling my remaining time in Mexico; and much more worry about the house and my few items of possession would succeed in doing so. Don’t you think I’m right?

Besides, M---- will be in on weekends, and will watch over the servant’s care of things, and forward my mail wherever I am. I want you to go to Acapulco with me--and after that I’m going to spend some time up in Michoacan, Morelia, Lake Chapala, etc. I may end up in Jalapa (which is very near Vera Cruz) but by that time I rather expect you’ll be with me. I feel serene and happy in your love today, mad dogs and convulsions notwithstanding!

386: TO ----

_Mexico, D.F._ [_January 15_]

Dear ----: --/--/ Your Christmas gift was a great surprise--and an inspiration. Lawrence never wrote a greater story, nor one which provoked less divided feelings. It was a great revelation to me, and I shall read “The Man Who Died” more than once again. In all honesty--it has more to tell me--at least in my present state of mind--than any book in the Bible. It was originally published by the same people in Paris who brought out my _Bridge_--under the title of, “The Escaped Cock”; but I never happened to have read it before. I remember that they had a terrible time with the customs, getting it into this country--and largely on account of that title! Imagine! --/--/

387: TO SOLOMON GRUNBERG

_Mixcoac, D.F., Mexico_ _Feb. 8th, ’32_

Dear Mony: As usual, I’m ignoring all the questions of your last letter.... Don’t know how long I’m going to remain here, etc. Hate it and love it alternately, but am not, as you surmise, in a constant Bacchic state. Not by any means. However, I happen to be in something approximating it at this present moment, since I’ve got to work on the first impressive poem I’ve started on in the last two years.[68] I feel the old confidence again; and you may know what that means to one of my stripe!

The servants are all asleep--and I’m in that pleasant state of beginning all over again. Especially as I’m in love again--and as never quite before. Love is always much more important than locality; and this is the newest adventure I ever had. I won’t say much more than that I seem to have broken ranks with my much advertised “brotherhood”--and a woman whom I have known for years--suddenly seems to “have claimed her own.” I can’t say that I’m sorry. It has given me new perspectives, and after many tears and groans--something of a reason for living.

So much for “Mexico.” I’m not able to write tourist sketches any more. They take too long--and are only the more incomplete. I’ve lots to tell you about all that some other day. And they needn’t be the less stirring for a little delay. Meantime let me say that you are one of the few heroes I know. I love your steadfastness and uncompromising attitude, Mony. Have we the patience to endure? I say YES! -/-/

388: TO PEGGY BAIRD

[_Mixcoac_] _Feb. 10th_

Dearest: _So_ glad to hear from you this morning! I have been up late for the past two nights, writing countless letters--and with a little tequila (a very little!) walking back and forth the length of the room to the tune of the records that we enjoyed so together. I haven’t really seen anyone since you left; even M---- hasn’t shown up for 48 hours again. The version of the beginning of “The Broken Tower” that I sent you early this morning is probably to be changed a good deal yet. But you seemed to hanker for it--and so I let ‘er fly.

I could be doing a lot these days, since I feel so much like working, if the tension were less, around here. Sr. Daniel Hernandez is morose and very threatening indeed, despite the fact that I haven’t even reprimanded him for his recent drunkenness. Lisa is scared to death of him, and warns me that there may be all kinds of trouble in store if I fire him, since he knows about half the Police in Mixcoac, knows I have no firearms on the place, etc. Well, neither can I bring myself to endure his insolence and complete disregard of services much more. Sr. Lepine, my landlord, is going to try to corner and talk to him this afternoon, but Daniel won’t be around at the time, as Lepine, who called this morning when D. was out, told his wife the hour when he’d return this afternoon.

Oh Hell! I say. I’m getting so damned tired of the whole problem. Lisa thinks she won’t dare remain after Daniel leaves on account of his probably exposing her political affiliations. If you can’t find someone from Taxco I shall probably be left here a perfect prisoner--without even a telephone, and afraid to leave the place a minute. Well, don’t see how I’m going to get any work done _this_ afternoon, nor probably tomorrow. Damned outrageous, I think. Daniel will probably come lurching in about 8 tonight and begin to flirt a knife and pistol about. Such a quiet life in this pretty retreat!

It’s too bad you have to move so preemptorily--on the exact 15th. But those scorpions worry me--especially their generous numbers. That house will always attract them--being so on the side of a hill. I miss you a lot, dear. Somehow we have such a lot to talk about together. I am getting more and more serious and dignified day by day--getting maybe back into myself--as well as into you.

389: TO PEGGY BAIRD

[_Mixcoac_] _Feb 11th_

Dearest: I was so tremulous and distracted with the domestic situation as described yesterday to you, that last night I went on a mild tare with Lisa here in the salon. I finally came to the decision of packing up and leaving for the States within a week; there just didn’t seem to be any other way of proceeding. I certainly felt fed up! Lepine didn’t come round until this morning, and if he hadn’t offered me a new servant who he swears is reliable, I think I should be sending you the telegram I typed out last night, announcing my departure.

Lepine is sending me an old man he has known for 14 years, the most honest soul, he declares, he has ever met. Lisa will stay, she says, and cook. The combination will be perfect, and will result in little more expense than I have been under right along. Lepine says that Daniel has been wanting to work for “the general” for some time. I think they will leave within a few days--and without umbrage. Certainly they have no reason to resent my simple objection to constant drunkenness. Daniel came home stewed again last night, after working all day at “the general’s.” But I was too gay with Lisa and tequila and dancing--and my secret resolution to pull out, to mind very much. I have a notion that this rearrangement will be satisfactory. Certainly I’m lucky to have Lisa here--so intelligent, generous, neat and efficient in a thousand ways. She doesn’t ask for anything but her board and keep, but I shall try to induce her into some sort of salary.

These photographs, I think, are perfectly splendid. I especially love those of you with the goat! And you _ought_ to like the one of me. Remember, I was looking at you--and the expression seems to bespeak a lot of love and happiness. And what a scrumptious and monumental pose that is of Lisa’s! Siqueiros really ought to see it.

Of course I’m anxious about your plans after leaving Natalia’s. You know you’re welcome--more than that, my dear, to make this your future headquarters. I miss you _mucho, mucho, mucho_! But I don’t think that either of us ought to urge the other into anything but the most spontaneous and mutually liberal arrangements. I am bound to you more than I ever dreamed of being, and in the most pleasant and deep way. I think I have wandered back to some of my early idealism, and in the proper sort of way--without any arbitrary forcing or conscious reckoning. You’re a great little “rouser,” my dear! -- -- -- --

390: To Peggy Baird

[_Mixcoac_] _Feb 13th_

Dear Peggy: I just can’t make up my mind to go traveling or even visiting until I get through some real work here in Mixcoac. Somehow, it seems to me that the time is ripe even though circumstances are difficult; and if I can’t do any better I think I’ll just try to let the domestic situation here “ride” as best possible--so long as there is no pistol twirling. The place seems to run itself fairly smoothly with Daniel away until 7-8-or-9 at night, and for the moment, at least, relations are back again on a fairly friendly basis. I’m doing my best not to think or worry too much about it. Certainly I shall avoid any rows in the future. And it’s lucky--if I do finally dismiss Daniel--that he can immediately go to work at a place such as the “general’s,” where he has said for some time he wanted to remove, anyway. Under such conditions I don’t see how he can possibly harbor much resentment.

I had a very enjoyable lunch and afternoon yesterday with Lesley and Marion [Simpson]. She’s fundamentally very likable, I think. But I should imagine that Lesley would welcome a little warmer company. He seems more than satisfied, however, and is looking even better than usual. In the morning I had been to the glass factory with Anita [Brenner]. A very gratifying experience. I couldn’t resist buying a half dozen wine glasses, of a smoky rose-purple transparency that set one dreaming even when empty. Then some exquisite hand-woven textiles (table and pillow covers, cotton) in the afternoon from Davis’s--made in Oaxaca, and quite unique. I almost bought myself a turquoise and silver ring; but Lesley and Marion dragged me out in time. It’s dangerous for me to hang around town very long.

The strangest rumors circulate about Natalie’s house. She seems to have written someone, I forgot whom, that she hasn’t sold it at all, and doesn’t intend to. Then Davis, who seems to hear everything, reports to me that “the Kings are leaving Taxco and intend to settle somewhere up in northern New York.” I had to smile at this, recognizing the source, etc. But I didn’t know that the plan had ripened to such a decided and public extent as yet. If they aren’t coming in until Tuesday I wish they would wire me to that effect by noon on Monday. I’ll expect them overnight Monday otherwise. I want to have provisions on hand, too, and fresh at the proper time.

I’m going to make a stab again at the Putnam review this afternoon. I’m feeling shabbier and shabbier about my delay.... Must send up _something_ anyway. And maybe later I’ll catch up the creative thread of my poem again. After all I’ve been through lately, it just doesn’t seem to exist any more.

So glad to hear you’ve finished your story! Where do you intend sending it? Lots of love, dear! -- -- -- --

391: TO PEGGY BAIRD

[_Mixcoac_] _Feb 16th_

Dearest: I was in the mood for swearing last night that I wouldn’t write you for at least a week. My blast at the Kings, I felt, needed some very definite and concrete “substantiation”--such as a long, glum silence; which I hoped might worry you. But, really, I find daily communication with you quite irresistible. Especially when your reciprocation is so regular and--need I say? charming. And then, besides, the entire household has been in such a perfectly delightful mood all day,--I can’t really be sad or important.

True to my word last night, I got very lit. Daniel had come home that way anyhow, and I took the opportunity to talk to him about sobriety--meanwhile pouring him glass after glass of the Tenampa I’d bought for the Kings. The more he drank the more he talked of “his” or “our” Pegguié--accent on the penult;--but you will be able to pronounce that without the acquaintance of Quintilian anyway, I’m sure. You’re very popular around here, and I’m sure that if you care to come and stay with me for awhile you will be regarded as the pet of the place--since Elise and Conrada both dote on you--as well as myself. M---- just isn’t around for days and days any more.

Daniel is not drunk tonight; rather he appeared at 6 PM with a large bush of _buena de noche_, from the _jardine del general_, as well as a large bouquet of heliotrope. Judge what the sala smells like with a large bunch of tuberoses also, which I purchased yesterday in honor of the Kings! Some times I think this house is the nicest place in the world. It certainly could be--in a not ambitious way. My temperamental reversals of opinion regarding Mexico are a joke. I now regard myself as a confirmed idiot who can’t make up his mind about anything whatever any more.

I can’t yet figger how Tommy [Robert Thompson] could say we looked like “two waifs” sitting on a strange doorstep. Yes, that letter was distinctly below his usual level. Got a fine long letter from Peggy Robson yesterday, which hints at the same relations with -- -- -- --that you mentioned. Well, well, and _como no_! She also said that Malcolm (in long underwear) and Waldo left together in the same truck for the scene of action. Perhaps common suffering will weld a friendship there, after all. By the way, I don’t believe a thing of your wagon wagon, water wagon story. Especially with Luz around, who Lisa says is a great little tanker. I have my own ideas about the sobriety of those nights of yours in such company, and how “lonely” they are. Just as long as you don’t let your right hand know what your left hand doeth, as they say. I’ll keep the same code, at least with my index finger. --/--/

392: TO PEGGY BAIRD

[_Mixcoac_] [_Feb?_]

Dearest Peggy: Everything is very much at loose ends again since Daniel appeared dead drunk again yesterday afternoon--and I had to spend the rest of the day and evening cogitating and recogitating just what was to be done about it. I’m very near firing him (the case seems to be hopeless, and I just can’t stand being “run” by servants to such an extent). Also, I’ve lost a lot of confidence in him since Lisa has discovered that he has my watch and fob in his cabin, which Conrada unwittingly showed her the other day. Whether Filemon took it or not in the first place makes very little difference....

So, will you squint around--and ask Bill [Spratling] also to keep an open eye for a mozo for me there in Taxco. There are plenty of honest youngsters there who are known to be honest and would welcome the idea of coming to Mexico for a few months. Lisa (and everybody else) says that you’re sure to pick a thief no matter who you hire here in Mexico. I would never have a peaceful moment with one of them around; whereas a boy from Taxco [would] behave differently, especially if his family could be referred to there. I don’t say send anyone at present, but I wish you would be ready to immediately if I should wire you to one of these days. Maria Luisa’s brother (not the goblin midget), or Raphael, I’m sure, would be glad to come. Cleaning and gardening and errands--you know the slight requirements. I would pay them 10-15 pesos a month with board. I’m hoping to keep Lisa as cook, but she isn’t enough by herself on account of having to remain constantly with her child. She’s done more spontaneous cleaning around the place in the last two days than I can tell you. Ask Bill to find out if Santiago is satisfied at the Taxqueno. When I last talked to him he was very keen to come to Mexico--at almost any cost. If I should wire for immediate action I’m sure you wouldn’t mind advancing the bus and taxi fare, would you? You know this house simply cannot be left alone a minute. And I don’t see how I can possibly stand it much longer in its present equivocal state.

I worked late on my poem[69] last night despite all the disturbance, and willy-nilly shall get some work accomplished, at least correspondence, today. The enclosed was delivered by a man from Taxco last evening, and I think it’s the money from Leslie that failed of being enclosed in his letter to you of yesterday. M---- absent another night! --/--/

Clinton [King] wrote me a long letter of apology--which was more than sufficient. I haven’t much ground to stand on myself when it comes to drunken outbreaks and melodramatic abuse of my friends, so it makes it very easy indeed for me to forgive and forget. They are two very decent and lovable people and I’m glad they like me enough to speak as they do. If Clinton ever bombs and bombards me again in the same manner I’ll know better how to take it. I’m looking forward to some pleasant times together when they come to Town. Please convince them of my affection and hope of seeing them. --/--/

Don’t forget about my servant problem, dear. You know it’s yours in a way, too. I want things to be smoother than before on your next “visit” to Mixcoac, besides which I want to get my mind free for work as soon as possible. I’m really in extraordinarily good condition and do hope you also feel more settled and industrious.

I hope to send you more of the poem in a few days.

393: TO HIS STEPMOTHER

_Mixcoac, DF_ _Feb. 17th, 1932_

Dear Bess: --/--/ I get so aggravated at times that I swear I’ll pack up and leave for the States on the first available boat. Then the next clear and glorious morning comes around, with fresh flowers in the garden, good coffee on the stove--and the renewed vision that sleep brings.... Then I change my mind all over again. For I know that as soon as I go back I’ll regret it--and long and long for Mexico again. Not that I plan on staying here forever; but for the time being the business situation in the States is zero. There’s nothing I can really do there. And although I have found that living here is far from being as cheap as it’s cracked up to be, it _is_ less, on the whole, and when one learns--and how long it takes!--to wade around and learn one’s depth and altitude--one can make a good deal of a lame proposition. At least Mexico affords me time and space. I’m not so giddy as I once was about _all_ its features; but a very pleasant residue remains. And I’m just getting to know it well enough to get down to work on my poetry and other creative work.

Bess, you certainly have given a demonstration of real heroism in handling the factory rent problem as you have. I sense a certain amount of weariness in your letter; and I can well understand the causes and the justifications. The sheer day-to-day strain of management, complicated as it is, I know to be a burden--a real cross to bear. You’re one of the finest people I’ve ever met or expect to meet I’ve always been so glad that Father found someone at last who really took the pains to understand him; because he was certainly a difficult person to comprehend. He had many faults, too. I only regret that I was so late in realizing his many virtues. [The rest of this letter is lost.]

394: TO SAMUEL LOVEMAN

_Mixcoac, DF_ _March 10th, 1932_

Dear Sambo: --/--/ Rather amazing things have happened to me since Xmas. Peggy Cowley [Baird], whom you certainly remember as Malcolm’s wife, and who is -- -- -- -- here in Mexico, is mainly responsible. You may have heard that we are now living together, and I must admit that I find conjugal life, however unofficial, a great consolation to a loneliness that had about eaten me up. Maybe I am fulfilling some of your theories and predictions. --/--/

Just about 20 more days before my scholarship is officially terminated. But I have my doubts about coming back before six months, and maybe not that soon. I can’t hope to find any interesting work in the States for some time, meanwhile the estate has guaranteed me at least a portion of the yearly allowance left me by my father, which will go farther here than in the north. Besides I’m just getting to work on a few things--and Peggy and I enjoy Mexico more than ever, being together.

How I wish you could step into our house here some afternoon! Week by week I’ve collected more and more beautiful Mexican serapes, leather work, pottery, embroideries, lacquers, etc. Fresh bunches of lilies, tuberoses, violets, nasturtiums, etc., every day from the garden. The white iris is just coming out, too. When my lease on this house expires--6 weeks from now--we’re going to do more traveling. There are at least twenty wonderful towns and places I haven’t yet visited. Last week we went to Puebla. I only visited 2 of its 365 churches and chapels (one for every day of the year) and what gold and decorations and carvings I saw defies description. We came back laden down with gorgeous pottery and serapes, etc., from the superb market there. --/--/

395: TO SOLOMON GRUNBERG

_Mixcoac, D.F._ _March 20th ’32_

Dear Mony: What a fine, understanding and spirited letter that was from you! Proving not only your friendship again but the clean and heroic attitude you hold toward life also.... Not that I have ever doubted either one, but fresh reassertions of that kind are always highly gratifying. --/--/

Peggy and I are still very happy together here. -- -- -- -- We’ve known each other for nearly 12 years, intimately--but never dreamed, of course, of our present happy relationship. How permanent that will be is far from settled; but we have learned to enjoy the present moment without too much romanticizing--which I think is wisdom.

Wish you could see--and smell--all the delicious flowers that surround our house: calla lilies, freesia, roses, calendulas, white iris, violets, cannas, a dozen colors of geraniums, pansies, feverfew, candy tuft, morning glories, etc. The days are getting warmer and all the deciduous trees are back again in fresh leaf. My fellowship is about terminated, but I expect to stay on here for several months longer if the income from my father’s estate seems to warrant. Am even thinking of making my permanent home here. Mexico gets into your veins. Beautiful people, manners, scenery, speech and climate.

The poem (“Broken Tower”) has undergone considerable change and extension since the version I sent you. I’m so glad that you liked it. I’m not sending any more of it to you, however, until it’s quite finished.

There is a small group of quite interesting compatriots here which gathers occasionally at one or the other of our houses--most of whom are Guggenheim fellows like myself. Carleton Beals and wife; Anita Brenner; Marsden Hartley, the painter, who has just arrived and who is wildly enthusiastic; Lesley Simpson (University of California) and wife; Pierre & Caroline Durieux, head of General Motors here; Wm. Spratling, whose book _Little Mexico_ (just out) you ought to read, etc. Plenty of good company, in fact, for one like myself who doesn’t care for a great many people.

A way, way back you asked me a question about what I thought of _Moby Dick_. It has passages, I admit, of seeming innuendo that seem to block the action. But on third or fourth reading I’ve found that some of those very passages are much to be valued in themselves--minor and subsidiary forms that augment the final climacteric quite a bit. No work as tremendous and tragic as _Moby Dick_ can be expected to build up its ultimate tension and impact without manipulating our time sense to a great extent. Even the suspense of the usual mystery story utilizes that device. In _Moby Dick_ the whale is a metaphysical image of the Universe, and every detail of his habits and anatomy has its importance in swelling his proportions to the cosmic rôle he plays. You may find other objections to the book in mind, but I’ve assumed the above to be among them, at least, as I among others that I know, found the same fault at first. --/--/

396: TO CARESSE CROSBY

_Mixcoac, D.F._ _March 31st, 1932_

Dear Caresse: --/--/ As I have not been near that Bank, c/o which you wrote me, for months and months until yesterday, your message and gift remained in complete limbo! Judge my surprise and pleasure at what appeared--practically from limbo!

The poems for Harry [Crosby] are an everlasting litany of chivalry and love. The whole collection achieves a power in repose, a renunciation-plus, that is very rare. I hope you are writing more and more, Caresse; for the sheer vision of your nature deserves an ever branching extension and expression. You really come up to the great themes of Love and Tragedy, as very few women can, at least in words.

My Guggenheim Fellowship terminates today. But I am remaining a while longer in Mexico on the modest income afforded me from my father’s estate, since his death last July. At that time I came North for two months, but was very glad to get back here again as soon as possible. Mexico with its volcanoes, endless ranges, countless flowers, dances, villages, lovely brown-skinned Indians with simple courtesies, and constant sunlight--it enthralls me more than any other spot I’ve ever known. It _is_ and isn’t an easy place to live. Altogether more strange to us than even the orient.... But it would take volumes to even hint at all I have seen and felt. Have rung bells and beaten pre-Conquistadorial drums in firelit circles at ancient ceremonies, while rockets went zooming up into the dawn over Tepoztlan; have picked up obsidian arrows and terra-cotta idols from the furrows of corn-fields in far valleys; bathed with creatures more beautiful than the inhabitants of Bali in mountain streams and been in the friendliest jails that ever man got thrown in. There is never an end to dancing, singing, rockets and the rather lurking and suave dangers that gives the same edge to life here that the mountains give to the horizon. Harry would have adored it--past expression--and I am sure you would. I should like to stay indefinitely.