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.