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.