PART FOUR Mexico (1931-1932)

“Time, like a serpent, down her shoulder, dark,
And space, an eaglet’s wing laid on her hair.”

The serpent isn’t hard to locate, and you’ll see the rather dim outlines of the fore part of an eagle just below where I have indicated in the margin. This blacksmith aroused considerable conjecture by his midnight absences, until someone followed his lantern down to this rock where he was busy night after night on this frieze. I think it has a real aesthetic value, like other primitive sculpture—and I’m planning an expedition to the rock as soon as the snow melts a little.

The blacksmith’s character must have been rather Blakeian, for he also carved his own tombstone—a lion couchant beside a lamb and a figure of a man walking. And imagine the surprise of his survivors when on the occasion of his obsequies his own voice pronounced his own funeral sermon from the disk of a phonograph! Well, I guess Sherwood Anderson didn’t quite scoop up all the characters of Winesburg!

My father and his wife have just left for a vacation in Havana, with extensive notes in their pocket from me as to what French wines to order, where to go, etc. Mrs. Crane #3 has never seen palms and sparkling waters and was deservedly rife with expectations. It’s the first real vacation either of them have had for several years and they will forget business for the time being, I certainly hope, and have a splendid time. They certainly have my affectionate wishes.

I’m going into town this afternoon for dinner with the Rychtariks, with a Bloch quartet this evening. Altogether I’m feeling much better, Sam, despite certain restrictions—which, however, may be good for me for a while. Nothing has been found yet in the way of work, but the tension on that subject has fortunately been temporarily somewhat relaxed. —/—/

Dear Lorna: —/—/ As nothing more has been said about photography, I guess I’m to be spared the useless apprenticeship to the village baby tickler; instead I’ve been hammering, waxing, rubbing, painting and repairing—odd jobs—around the place, and work which is rather amusing. Once a week I generally go into Cleveland and spend some hours with my old friends, the Rychtariks (a Prague painter and his wife whom you must have heard me mention) who really “belong”—and are about the only people in this district that I enjoy seeing. I can be more or less myself with them, and that’s a great relief after the unmitigated rigor of the parental regime. (Poetry or anything like that is an offense to mention here, as something belonging in the category with “youthful errors,” “wild oats,” et cetera, and the “reform” that has been inaugurated has brought me back to just that pleasantly vegetable state of mind that can read Coolidge’s daily advice without a tremor of protest.) My father, you can visualize his type, is “enjoying” the depression, or at least his incessant howls about it. Despite the losses personally involved, I think he will actually be disappointed if matters improve in less than five years. From his standpoint at any rate, anything that disproved his doleful prediction would prove a calamity. His great reiteration being that every one has been spending too much money. He is willing to admit, however, that it hasn’t been spent on candy! (which is among the luxuries, too, if I am not mistaken). All of which makes very stimulating conversation, of course, especially when you are obliged to agree on each and every occasion and reiteration, ad infinitum....

The possibility of a Guggenheim keeps me restive. That failing, I may hike back east in March anyway. Too prolonged a stay here at my present age isn’t sensible, whatever the alternatives may be right now, and however generously my father might feel.

You’ve been awfully generous in writing. Sounds as though your winter were being rather pleasant after all. — — — — Partying seems to continue unabated as well as discussions of Communism. But Eda Lou Walton writes me that nobody is writing anything. Certainly I’m not either. Some reading, however. No wonder F—— liked The Story of San Michele so much; it’s almost as full of dog sentiment as she is. But in some ways a marvelous book. A friend of mine on Fortune, Russell Davenport, has written a good book, Through Traffic, on a combined business and love theme. I’ll send it to you to keep for me and read. I’ve just gotten around to read Jurgen! Always resented the pow-wow about it, but rather like it. Dos Passos’ 42nd Parallel is good—as far as it goes. But Dos has yet to create a full portrait. What did you think of Mumford’s series of leaders in the Tribune, just concluded? I find myself agreeing pretty thoroughly with him. —/—/

Dear Waldo: —/—/ These are bewildering times for everyone, I suppose. I can’t muster much of anything to say to anyone. I seem to have lost the faculty to even feel tension. A bad sign, I’m sure. When they all get it decided, Capitalism or Communism, then I’ll probably be able to resume a few intensities; meanwhile there seems to be no sap in anything. I’d love to fight for—almost anything, but there seems to be no longer any real resistance. Maybe I’m only a disappointed romantic, after all. Or perhaps I’ve made too many affable compromises. I hope to discover the fault, whatever it is, before long.

Since you seem to have retired completely from any journalistic appearances I’m completely ignorant of your current opinions or reactions. Do write me soon and tell me what you’re engaged in. And such of your plans as you care to divulge. I’d like to have heard your recent lecture mentioning The Bridge, as I gather. Present day America seems a long way off from the destiny I fancied when I wrote that poem. In some ways Spengler must have been right.

On the water wagon two months now.... If abstinence is clarifying to the vision, as they claim, then give me back the blindness of my will. It needs a fresh baptism.

Dear Mr. Moe: My appointment as a Fellow of the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation is appreciated greatly, not only as a welcome opportunity to continue my creative endeavors, but also as a distinguished honor conferred upon me as a poet. In accepting this Fellowship for 1931-32 I feel a stimulating sense of pride and gratitude. Needless to say, this evidence of trust in my abilities and character, alone and quite apart from my instinctive response to such good fortune, would prompt me to my utmost efforts to justify such confidence as the liberal terms and the generous conditions of the Fellowship imply. I fully subscribe to all these conditions as detailed in your announcement,—not, however, without realizing that I am assuming some serious responsibilities.

As I am at present among the vast horde of the unemployed—and with nothing of consequence to detain me, I should like to situate myself definitely as soon as possible in a favorable environment for constructive work and study. It will therefore be most gratifying to hear from you regarding the propriety and feasibility of taking up my projected foreign residence at an early date. To be specific, I should like to sail for France by the middle part of April, provided such proposal meets the unreserved approval of the Trustees of the Foundation. A statement from a local physician regarding my state of health will be sent you very shortly. —/—/

Dear Lotte & Ricardo: I am to sail to Mexico (damn the gendarmes!) next Saturday. The change [in Guggenheim Fellowship plans] was made without any trouble and I am too happy at change to a really (for me) creative locality to be anything but pregnant.

Have been having too wonderful a time to breathe—and it still goes on. Will write you more when I know my permanent address. First a week in Mexico City with my old and wonderful friend, Katherine Anne Porter (whom you will notice also was awarded)—and then on to some country location. —/—/

Dear Sambo: Got here last night (I always seem to arrive in cities on Sat. nights) and have just had a Sunday dinner a la Mexicano. I begin to feel at home here already, despite my complete ignorance of the language. But kindly people and generous faces have a way of compensating for one’s lack of palabra. The peons are the marvel of the place, just as Lawrence said. So lovable, and although picturesque, not in any way consciously so. What faces, and the suffering in them—but so little evidence of bitterness.

We had one evening in Havana, and one night in Vera Cruz on the way, the latter not to be repeated if I can help it. I had better than usual luck by meeting on the second day out the great Dr. Hans Zinsser, of Harvard, who is probably the world’s greatest bacteriologist. And what a man besides! He arrived along with me last night with letters from the state and war departments and a half dozen rats in the hold loaded with the deadly typhus. He is to conduct some local experiments and then return to Harvard in two weeks, leaving his assistant, Dr. Maximiliano Castaneda here for 3 more months to complete the experiment. Castaneda, being a native Mexican and very much a gentleman, has and will continue to do all kinds of favors for me—and one thing is assured: I shall not lack proper attendance here if I ever get sick. “Max” as I call him, knows everyone from the president down.

Zinsser, a product of Heidelberg, the Sorbonne, Pasteur Institute and other places besides American Universities, knows and has more interesting ideas about literature than almost anyone I have ever met. What conversations we had!—He’s about 51, bandy legged from riding fast horses, looks about 40 at most, writes damn good poetry (which he claims he’d rather do than excel as he does in the scientific world) and in carelessness and largesse is a thoroughbred if I ever saw one.... But I could write ten books about him and his incredible adventures in the war and in various parts of the world. Next year he’s going to Abyssinia to fight hook worm and other complaints. Well—and what is the best of it—I guess I’ve made a friend who will be a perennial stimulus to the best that I can do.

The ride up from Vera Cruz was marvelous, not alone the scenery, but the country people all along the way who swarmed around the train selling fruits, cakes, tortillas, serapes, canes, flowers, pulque, beer and what have you! One rides up, up along incredible ledges over valleys filled with tropical vegetation, waterfalls, etc., for about 5 hours. Then in front of Orizaba everything suddenly begins to change. This is the great plateau that in some ways seems even more splendid. Very austere—and with the mountains rising in the distance on each side, here and there the feudal walls of some old rancho—and the burros and brown natives jogging along dry roads. How I wish you were here to witness it. But you will come sometime. I know. —/—/

DEAR KATHERINE ANNE: HAVE GONE TO THE MANCERA [65] UNTIL THE FIRST. EXCUSE MY WAKEFULNESS PLEASE.

P.S. NO. HAVEN’T BEEN BUSY WITH “LOVERS.” JUST YEOWLS AND FLEAS. LYSOL ISN’T NECESSARY IN THE BATHTUB. HAVEN’T GOT “ANYTHING” YET. —/—/

Dear Katherine Anne: This is as near as I dare come to you today. Shame and chagrin overwhelm me. I hope you can sometime forgive.

Darling Katherine Anne: I’m too jittery to write a straight sentence but am coming out of my recent messiness with at least as much consistency as total abstinence can offer.

Your two notes were so kind and gave me so much more cheer than I deserve that I’m overcome all over again. God bless you!!! I’ve got myself in a fix with a hell of [a] bill at the Mancera—but I’ll get out of it somehow. My father is sending me some money—meanwhile Hazel Cazes is going to advance some.

This house is a love—and I’m glad to know that it won’t be ruined for me now by any absence on your part—and — — — —. The recent cyclone is my last—at least for a year. Love and a thousand thanks.

When I get D.T.’s again I’ll just take it out on police.... They’ll have at least a cell for me—or a straitjacket.

Dear Malcolm: —/—/ Don’t expect much more from me about Mexico for awhile. Maybe it’s the altitude (which is a tremendous strain at times), maybe my favorite drink, Tequila; maybe my b——s and the beautiful people; or maybe just the flowers that I’m growing or fostering in my garden ... but it’s all too good, so far, to be true. I’ve been too preoccupied, so far, with furnishing, from every little nail, griddle, bowl and pillow, to look around much outside the fascinating city markets and streets and bars. No chance to stretch pennies—just to spend them. Ran out long ago on my Guggenheim installment. But a house just can’t be lived in without a few essentials. And the main “standard American” essentials in Mexico cost like hell.

Lorna [Dietz] will have to relay to you the more complete details of my house, should such matters interest you. I found, by advice, that singly mozos weren’t apt to be much good. Pulque sprees three times a day, and the evenings never certain. Besides I needed a woman to cook. Consequently I have a delightful hide and seek combination—of both functions (page Mormon be sneezed BUnson) besides a new installation of electric lights with just enough “glim”—not to say Klim—to be pleasant.

Moisés [Sáenz] has been swell to me. His innate Aztec refinement; his quiet daring; his generosity (one should avoid an et cetera in such exceptional cases!) has made me love him very much. He was very instrumental in my accidental possession of a real decoration: an ancient silver pony bridle (bells and all!) from the period of the Conquest, about my neck in a photo taken by Katherine Anne [Porter]—you shall soon see, like it,—believe it, or not!

I have a quilty, besides a guilty conscience! Haven’t yet even written to Waldo [Frank], whose letters gave me a wonderful send-off with certain writers here. But Latin American manners, I have discovered, are rather baffling. Great dinners are planned, but never come off! If Katherine Anne couldn’t explain it all away with references to certain previous experiences of her own, I’d feel quite crushed. As it is, I don’t mind in the least. Because ... Mexico has incredibly fine native painters. (You should see the new Diegos [Rivera] in the Palace!) But all her pretenders to poesy have just read about orchids in Baudelaire, apparently. I have my most pleasant literary moments with an Irish revolutionary, red haired friend of Liam O’Flaherty, shot (and not missed) seventeen times in one conflict and another; the most quietly sincere and appreciative person, in many ways, whom I’ve ever met. It’s a big regret that he’s Dublin bound again after three years from home, in a few weeks. Ernest O’Malley by name. And we drink a lot together—look at frescos—and agree! —/—/

Dear Waldo: It seems to require much more determination to write a letter, so far, than to fuss around in my flower garden that skirts three sides of the house I have taken here in Mixcoac for a year. My long-suppressed passion for a few plants and a “philosopher’s walk,” however, is far from being the sole reason for my neglectfulness of you. The novelty and turmoil incident to the first few weeks; then locating a house; then furnishing it with the indispensables, from broom to teakettle, from mop to mattress; then “breaking in” a native couple to cook and sweep—all with my limited native vocabulary! Well, it’s been a good deal to have undertaken, freshly lifted, as I am, to this high altitude.

Despite this delay in getting down to work, I haven’t any regrets. You may remember that I spoke of establishing a headquarters as soon as possible on my arrival. I’ve had to squirm for money temporarily, but corresponding later savings and the creative advantages of having a place of my own—really for the first time in my life—ought to justify my action.

As for Mexico—I’m not frothing over quite so much as I did for awhile, but I’m still so fascinated and impressed by the people that I want to stay much longer than one year, if I can manage to. You were right, it’s a sick country; and God knows if it ever has been, or will be otherwise. I doubt if I will ever be able to fathom the Indian really. It may be a dangerous quest, also. I’m pretty sure it is, in fact. But humanity is so unmechanized here still, so immediate and really dignified (I’m speaking of the Indians, peons, country people—not the average mestizo) that it is giving me an entirely fresh perspective. And whether immediately creative or not, more profound than Europe gave me.... This is truly “another world.” There isn’t much use for the present in describing my reactions beyond saying that I find them all expressed in my emphatic agreement with nearly everything said by Anita Brenner in her Idols Behind Altars which I’ve just finished reading. It would take me, I imagine, a long residence here to be able to contradict any of her statements, besides which I am so sympathetic to her attitude, reactions and general thesis as not to care to court divergencies of opinion.

A few days after my arrival I took a taxi and delivered the letters of introduction that you so generously provided. I immediately heard from Leon Felipe [Camino], and a few days later had an audience with Estrada. The former I saw a couple of times later—and was introduced to a flock of writers, doctors, etc., one afternoon at the Café Colon. Camino seemed very cordial, but suddenly “dropped” me. Latin-Americans, I’ve been told (and now I know) have a way of inviting you out on some specific day, and then “letting you down” most beautifully—without notice or subsequent apology or explanation. I’ve got so that I take it quite for granted, and if any other more tempting occasion offers itself in the meantime, I, too, humor my whim.

Estrada gave me two de luxe volumes of his poetry in response to the copy of The Bridge (Paris edition) I brought up to him. I can’t read Spanish well enough yet to even attempt his books, nor any other “Mexican” poetry; but off-hand I’ve more spontaneous respect for him than for Camino, who, as soon as he heard I was about to call on Estrada, began to ridicule both the man and his work in high glee. What makes me rather indifferent to all of them is the fact that not one of them is really interested one iota in expressing anything indigenous; rather they are busy aping (as though it could be done in Spanish!) Paul Valéry, Eliot,—or more intensely, the Parnassians of 35 years ago. And they are all “bored”—or at least pleased to point the reference. Estrada spoke very warmly of you, and after what some of the others said, I should consider him a real friend of yours. In contrast to their general directions and preoccupations, however, I still (to date, at any rate) harbor the illusion that there is a soil, a mythology, a people and a spirit here that are capable of unique and magnificent utterance.

Moisés Sáenz, who has had me out to his place at Taxco, and who has treated me as hospitably and generously as anyone I ever remember, has the same conviction. And he says that Casanova, whom I have merely met, has a more natural attitude than the typical Mexican litterateur. I hope to see more of Casanova later; he’s been ill most of the time since I got here. I’ve not yet had a reply from Montéllano. Camino asked to do some translations from White Bldgs for Contemporaneos. I gave him the book—and offered assistance. But since he found me out of the stiff black round-shouldered “elegance”—in fact in my usual household white sailor pants and shirt—he hasn’t been heard from—by mail or otherwise. One must appear in veritable Wall Street gear to impress the Mexican hidalgo!

He said that he was translating your new Latin Am. book, as I remember. Will you tell me something about its publication date, etc.—since I can’t get any reply from Camino? And now, how about your new work, your novel? And your plans for this summer, etc.? I hope you are having a smooth road toward some really individual expression. Hope you’ll approve of my reference to you in the enclosed interview, from Excelsior. El Universal was also very kindly. Their feature writer, Rafael Valle, is a very decent and intelligent and constant friend of mine. — — — —

Katherine Anne Porter and I are neighbors here in Mixcoac. You really ought to get hold of her book Flowering Judas. The title story, and another called “María Concepción,” are very profound comments on Mexico.

Dear Mr. Zabel: The post (for books, etc. 2nd class) is apt to be very slow to Mexico,—at any rate unreliable. If this be not too great an impediment to either my reception or return of review books from Poetry—then let me ask for the two books suggested by you for review in your very kind letter of June 11th.

Further, I realize that my facilities for adequate reviewing of books are somewhat restricted here, there being no library handy for consultation on recent or even near-recent works on American poetry, etc. But if you are willing to take the risk—then so am I. And if you find the resultant estimates too biased or unfounded, you certainly need be under no compulsion to print them.

Didn’t Roy Helton compile an anthology, or rather a study interspersed with very good quotations, on Negro folk songs, spirituals, etc.? I suppose the jacket of his book will contain whatever reference to his earlier works are notable. But if not, please give me some word about the above.

Allow me to thank you and Miss Monroe for the copy of Poetry recently received. I hope, and very earnestly, that I shall soon have something worthy to submit to you. Since leaving the pattern of The Bridge the “new freedom” (call it rather a new restriction) has left me, at least momentarily, rather speechless. I’m too attached to the consciousness of my own land to write “tourist sketches” elsewhere. Mexico is well enough. But I’d rather be in my favorite corner of Connecticut. The first requirement of a scholarship, however, is to leave the U.S.A. It doesn’t matter much whither. It wouldn’t so much matter if the entire outside world didn’t positively hate us Americans so much. To create in such an atmosphere isn’t so easy however!

Dear Selden Rodman: —/—/ I hope you will not forsake the Muse, or her pursuit. For in the light of your “Departure” it seems to me, you ought certainly to write that “Unwritten Poem” mentioned in the subtitle; for there are lines and passages in its “Prologue” that I like immensely. I hope I can mention a few points without offense; the first six stanzas, I think, present the longest solid stretch of sustained intention, some of the rest seeming to me diffuse in patches, or at least susceptible of condensation. But when I speak of condensation I am presumably alluding as much to my own craze or weakness for that characteristic. For I’ve carried that element to the extreme point of unintelligibility more than once, as I well know. Here are a few of my favorite lines anyway:

I must leave, said the traveler, everything behind me:
The place that watched when no one else was by

The worth of life is the single shrill protesting
Voice; come near, listen but do not learn, he said.

What has the flashing train in a gorge at midnight
Carried from peace that a million years withstood?

Then there seems (to me) a rather blank or vague piling of lines until one comes to the splendidly concentrated lines beginning:

Yes, for the ink, etc., and continuing for 16 lines of real intensity that reminds me in the best sense of Rimbaud. And although you are still a long way from the ending, I can’t so far see that between there and the final stanza you gain much more than a few implications and the statement of a few opinions (which statements, etc., don’t seem to rise to the same level as the passages that I’ve already mentioned as being so good). Please take my opinions as lightly as thistle down, however, as I’m a cripple already to my own fetishes in style, and probably as blind as a bat in any broad sense of criticism. Beyond that, I’ll have to blame you, as you asked me for my opinion on that poem.

Hale’s article on the Future of the Novel is the only other thing in this number I’ve had time to read. Hale rather frightens me: he’s so declamatory and so sure. He must be a good sort to talk with; at least I’d like the chance sometimes. I agree so much with some of his statements, his keenness on the scent of such men as Thomas Wolfe, whose Look Homeward, Angel was one of the real experiences of life. But I imagine that some of Hale’s very laudable intensity will have to take a less declamatory form of expression if he wants to exert the influence as a critic which is really his due. I don’t mean that this involves any compromises, either.

Are you taking up some special studies in Europe? I hope you have such intentions; for without such anchorage, I found that Europe had a very debilitating effect on me. Not that I could have been so privileged as to have had that chance, since I have never had a day in school beyond my junior year in high school; but the case is considerably different with you.

You mentioned MacLeish and the Conquistador poem in The Yale Review. I wish I had bought the copy of that—the one I hastily glanced at in Brentano’s basement months and months ago! I hope that he is well along with the rest of that poem, so fine was the opening. MacLeish has a more flexible literary genius than anyone writing in America today, and he’ll probably be the most noteworthy poet of our times. His sensibility isn’t as prodigal and startling as Cummings’; but then, Cummings will never take the trouble to prune anything or discipline his genius. —/—/

Dear Katherine Anne: My apologies are becoming so mechanical as (through repetition) to savour of the most negligible insincerity. So I have to leave most of this to your judgment of the potency and malfeasance of an overdose of tequila.

Let Theodora [66] know—if I have any chance of talking with you and explaining. Otherwise I’ll know that you don’t want to be molested even to that point of endurance.

I spent the night in jail—as Theodora has probably told you. That was, in its way, sufficient punishment. Besides having made a fool of myself in Town.... However I was arrested for nothing more than challenging the taxi driver for an excessive rate. But if it hadn’t been for waiting for you—hour on hour, and trying to keep food warm, cream sweet, and my damnable disposition—don’t suppose I’d have yelled out at you so horribly en route to doom!

I don’t ask you to forgive. Because that’s probably past hope. But since Peggy [Baird] will be here in a few days—I’d rather, for her sake as well as mine, that she didn’t step into a truly Greenwich Village scene.

Dear Bill: —/—/ I’m very glad that you spoke about the check I sent you early in April. I couldn’t figure it out any other way than that you had waited until the following month before turning it in; and if that wasn’t exactly the case I still can’t understand why it was returned as invalid. For my account, at least until the last of May, stood well in excess of the amount of your check. I was on the point of writing you an inquiry about all this when I was called north. The check enclosed, however, will not be at all questionable. I’m very sorry you’ve had to wait so long, and let me repeat my profound thanks to you for your very generous help.

As to my father’s business; certain branches and departments of it (that is, several of its corporate entities in which he had controlling interest) will undoubtedly be carried on. Inventories are now in progress, statements regarding the net estate, etc., are in preparation; and as yet it is, of course, impossible to know exactly what course will be taken. Mrs. Crane was left with the authorization of deciding practically everything. Which was right and proper, since I have never taken any active part in any branch of my father’s concerns. I am left in reasonably secure circumstances, at least for a few years, however, and if I so choose I can probably pursue my own literary studies with a somewhat free-er mind than formerly.

It is a real consolation to me now that I made the long stay here with my father that I did last winter. As you already know, our relations for many years, had been somewhat confused by general family disturbances which were most unfortunate and which resulted in a great many misunderstandings. Father and I had recently got acquainted all over again. It made both of us very much happier. And if my father had to go thus early in life—I’m very grateful that at least I am left with a fuller appreciation of his fine qualities and of his genuine love for me than might have been possible without the course of some recent events. I can say that his character and the impress of it that I lately received will be a real inspiration to me. That is the finest kind of bequest that one can leave, I’m sure. —/—/

Dearest Lorna: To begin with the same subject which you did in your last—and to continue with what has been almost an obsession with me for the last month—I want to say a few words about Katherine Anne Porter. Not that I can possibly give even the outline of the whole queer situation, but since she has done so much announcing, just a hint at the circumstances.

Katherine Anne’s disposition, as I knew her initially in NY was considerably different than I found it to be since — — — — in Mexico. —/—/ Katherine Anne was quite lovely to me on more than one occasion, and since I have always liked her a lot, it was hard to relinquish her company.

The continuance, however,—and this is the only way I can put it—resulted in some very strained situations and outbreaks on my part—generally at times when I had had too much to drink. Since I have no very clear recollection of everything said during those times I presume I must have been pretty awful. Everything had been going very smoothly for some time, however; Katherine Anne frequently dropping into my place for afternoon chats, beer, etc., when the apparently decisive moment occurred.

I had asked them both to have dinner with me on a certain day at my house. It was well understood, etc. I made extensive preparations—and was left to keep things warm the entire afternoon, nipping at a bottle of tequila meanwhile, and going through the usual fretful crescendo of sentiments that such conduct incurs. Toward evening, having fed most of the natives in the vicinity and being rather upset, I went to town, where more drinks were downed. But in an argument with the taxi driver at my gate later in the evening I challenged him to arbitration at the local police station. Result: a night in jail; for feeling is so high against Americans in Mexico since the recent Oklahoma affair, that any pretext is sufficient to embarrass one.

K.A.’s place is just around the corner from the house I took, so on the way to the station I passed her gate. She and — — — — happened to be within speaking distance. I remember having announced my predicament and of having said, in anger at her response to the dinner engagement, “Katherine Anne, I have my opinion of you.” I was furious, of course, and I still have no reason for doubting that — — — — simply devised that insult deliberately. I haven’t seen Katherine Anne since, nor has she ever offered the slightest explanation of her absence. She told a mutual friend that I said something particularly outrageous to her that evening at the gate; but what it may have been beyond what I have just mentioned I don’t know. I wrote her a very humble apology a few days later, but there was no response.

It’s all very sad and disagreeable. But one imputation I won’t stand for. That is the obvious and usual one: that my presence in the neighborhood was responsible for a break or discontinuance of Katherine Anne’s creative work. —/—/ I’m tired of being made into a bogey or ogre rampant in Mexico and tearing the flesh of delicate ladies. I’m also tired of a certain rather southern type of female vanity. And that’s about all I ever want to say about Katherine Anne again personally.

My father was buried last Saturday. Mrs. Crane, despite the fact that the delay was really a great strain on her endurance, insisted on awaiting my arrival, which wasn’t until late Friday, as I couldn’t get airplane reservations beyond Albuquerque. She was so grief-stricken that I’ve been worried about her. I’m more impressed by her sincerity and dignity than I can tell you, however, and her feelings toward me make me feel that I have a real home whenever I want to claim it here with her. She had a room and bath all ready for me—and it’s to be regarded as permanently mine.

I’m glad that I’ve already been able to be of some help to her in matters of the estate. It will be some time before all inventories are taken of various departments of my father’s business and I’ll certainly be here beyond the time of your trip west, in August. You must plan on stopping over at least a day. You really ought to see this country place, for I think it’s worth more than a passing glance. And above and beyond such considerations, I have a great yen to look you over, as you might guess. Certainly you can “make it,” and I’m sure that a day’s break in that long trip would be refreshing. Let me know.

My father’s will left very modest provisions for me, but they are as good as an annual Guggenheim, anyway, and that is all I really require. Quite properly, Mrs. Crane was left with the direction of most of his property and concerns—along with two other executors. The chocolate business will probably be discontinued, as it should have been anyway, as soon as one or two expensive leases can be disposed of. I may or may not take a hand in the picture business—but probably not. Nothing can be definitely decided until we know more about the total status of the estate.

As I just wrote Bill [Brown]—who surprised me by writing a very thoughtful note—I’m increasingly glad that I had those three months with my father last winter. The enormous advance in mutual understanding and affection that was achieved has left me with a better and truer picture of my father than I had ever had before. It’s good to remember, too, that he was unusually contented and optimistic during the last few months, about his business and all other concerns. And when he went he had no more than a passing flash of recognition of the event before complete unconsciousness supervened. —/—/

Dear Sam: —/—/ I have had the pleasure to meet a young archeologist from Wisconsin, who is studying in the University here and who thinks he has discovered a buried Aztec pyramid right in the vicinity of my house. Yesterday we took pick and shovel and worked our heads off digging into the side of a small hill, itself on a vast elevation overlooking the entire valley of Anahuac. Except for a few flocks of goats and sheep the entire neighborhood has been abandoned since the Conquest. A marvelous stillness and grassy perfume pervade the district; one sees the two great volcanoes in the distance and a part of the horizon glazed by Lake Texcoco, seemingly below which floats, as in a dream, the City of Mexico. It was an arduous and rich afternoon. I have a lame back today, but also some very interesting chips and pieces of the true Aztec pottery picked up here and there on the surface and from our little excavation. The experience is haunting, melancholy too. But such “first hand” contact beats the more artificial contacts that museums proffer. We also ran across one of those incredibly sharp fragments of obsidian, part of a knife blade used either to carve stone and other materials or human flesh. It is still a mystery as to how they cut obsidian—but this shard was perfectly edged and graded as though it had been as conformable as wood. —/—/

Dear Bill: — — — — Vera Cruz was a hissing cauldron when I got there; in fact the last two days on the boat were Turkish baths. But once here on the plateau—I went back to my nightly blankets and recovered quickly. The aforesaid port has had a pretty little hurricane since my debarkation. I knew it couldn’t help but happen.

I felt awfully diffident about leaving the U.S., but I’m beginning to be entirely glad that I came back here after all. In the first place there was no settling down this time to be accomplished. I found my house in good order, the servants joyful to see me, and my garden a perfect miracle of growth and colorful profusion. I could begin “living” right away without a moment in a hotel, a blanket or kitchen implement to buy—having spent about three months in such preoccupations on my previous visit. The rainy season is lasting unusually long, but it keeps all the verdure so miraculously green that the countryside will hold its colors all the longer into the long months of drowth to come.

During the mere two weeks since my return I’ve already had the most interesting adventure that I think I ever remember. I came back with the resolution to get out more into the smaller cities and pueblos, to get as thoroughly acquainted with the native Indian population as possible. So when I met a young archeologist from Wisconsin who asked me to go along with him on a five days’ trip to Tepoztlan I didn’t linger. Though two books and a dozen articles have been written about Tepoztlan (see Stuart Chase’s Mexico and Carleton Beals’ Mexican Maze) it has never been invaded by tourists. And isn’t likely to be, either, for some time. As there is nothing remotely resembling a hotel or lodging house in the place I went prepared to sleep on the floor of the Monastery. One can sleep soundly almost anywhere and be thankful for the limited diet of beans and tortillas if one has spent the whole day walking, scrambling over dizzy crags or hunting fragments of old Aztec idols, of which the surrounding cornfields of Tepoztlan are full.

The town is practically surrounded by cliffs as high as 800 feet, basalt ledges with a perilous sheer drop sometimes of 300 feet, covered with dense tropical foliage and veritable hanging gardens—with cascades and waterfalls galore. The descent begins about 3 miles from El Parque where the train leaves one—about 4 hours from Mixcoac.

(Distances in linear miles are so deceptive here, since mountainous country necessitates such inclines and devious windings. One can watch the engine from the rear most of the way.)

But I’m not going to give an exhaustive description of the town as you can read that, and better formulated too in Chase’s book, which everyone seems to be reading now anyway. The most exciting feature of our trip and visit was the rare luck of arriving on the eve of the yearly festival (fiesta) of Tepozteco, the ancient Aztec god of pulque, whose temple, partially ruined by the Spaniards and recent revolutions, still hangs on one of the perilous cliffs confronting the town.

Only a small fraction of the populace (they are all pure unadulterated Aztec) took part or even attended this ceremony; but we found those that did, largely elderly, the finest and kindliest of all the lovely people of the place. Aside from those who had climbed up to spend the night in watch at the temple, there were only about twenty-five. These, divided into several groups around lanterns (of all places!) on the roof of the Cathedral and Monastery which dominates the town, made a wonderful sight with their dark faces, white “pyjama” suits and enormous white hats. A drummer and a flute player standing facing the dark temple on the heights, alternated their barbaric service at ten minute intervals with loud ringing of all the church bells by the sextons of the church. Two voices, still in conflict here in Mexico, the idol’s and the Cross. Yet there really did not seem to be a real conflict that amazing night. Nearly all of these “elders” I have been describing go to mass!

And so kindly and interested in explaining the old myths of their gods to us! Fortunately my archeologist friend speaks perfect Spanish—besides knowing some Aztec and some local mythology. Meanwhile, if you can possibly imagine such a night, the lightning flickered over the eastern horizon while a crescent moon fell into the west. And between the two a trillion stars glittered overhead! It was truly the Land of Oz, with the high valley walls in the Wizard’s circle. Rockets were sent whizzing up—to be answered by other rockets far up and over from the lofty temple. After nine, when the playing stopped, we asked the “elders” to a stall in the town market and served them each with a glass of tequila. We were invited to join them again at 3 A.M. atop the church again, for the conclusion of the watch.

I’m sorry to say I didn’t awake until five. But it was still pitch dark. And to hear those weird notes of drum and fife in the dark valley, refreshed as we were with sleep, it was even more compelling. We rushed from the baker’s house (where we had found a bamboo bed and exquisite hospitality) over the rough stone streets into the church yard, stumbling up the dark corridors and narrow stairs of the monastery just as a faint light emerged over the eastern break in the cliffs. There was the same bundle of elders welcoming us and serving us delicious coffee, all the hotter for a generous infusion of pulque, straight pulque alcohol in each cup.

But most enthralling of all was the addition of another drum—this being the ancient Aztec drum, pre-Conquest and guarded year after year from the destruction of the priests and conquerors, that how many hundreds of times had been beaten to propitiate the god, Tepozteco, the patron and protector of these people. A large wooden cylinder, exquisitely carved and showing a figure with animal head, upright, and walking through thick woods,—it lay horizontally on the floor of the roof, resounding to two heavily padded drum sticks before the folded knees of one of the Indians. The people at the temple had played it up there the night before, and now someone had brought it down to be played to the rising sun in the valley.

Suddenly, as it was getting lighter and lighter and excitement was growing more and more intense, one of the Indians who had been playing it put the drum sticks into my hands and nodded toward the amazing instrument. It seemed too good to be true, really, that I, who had expected to be thrown off the roof when I entered the evening before, should now be invited to actually participate. And actually I did! I not only beat the exact rhythm with all due accents, which they had been keeping up for hours; I even worked in an elaboration, based on the lighter tattoo of the more modern drum of the evening before. This, with such ponderous sticks, was exhausting to the muscles of the forearm; but I had the pleasure of pleasing them so that they almost embraced me. They did, in fact, several of them—put their arms around our shoulders and walk back and forth the whole length of the roof, when at the astronomical hour of six the whole place seemed to go mad in the refulgence of full day. It is something to hear bells rung, but it is inestimably better to see the sextons wield the hammers, swinging on them with the full weight of their entire bodies like frantic acrobats—while a whole bevy of rockets shower into such a vocal sunrise!

Well, after that there was the whole series of tableaus and performances incident to the Mexican Independence Day celebration (Sept. 15-16-17) in which everybody took part. But of that another time. You can see how I am enthusiastic about Tepoztlan. I went bathing in mountain streams with a young Indian, gorged on beans and tortillas, found idols in the surrounding cornfields and finally, the morning I was leaving, met the Vicar at stool in the Cathedral. On the climb back to the station we visited the ancient temple. It still has fragments of remarkable relief and is staunchly and beautifully constructed. I may go back to Tepoztlan for two weeks in October. I never left a town feeling so mellow and in such pleasant relations with everybody in the place. —/—/

Dear Malcolm: —/—/ Yes, Peggy [Baird] must have been pretty close to danger for awhile judging by what she said about her symptoms. She stayed in bed for a week or so, but went to Puebla over last weekend and looked very well this morning when I called. I think she’s to keep pretty quiet, however, if relapses aren’t to be expected. Bill Spratling wired me to bring her along with me to Taxco tomorrow for a few days, and I think she’s planning on joining me since I’ve had no word to the contrary this afternoon. She was going to ask her doctor about it.... —/—/

As Bill [Brown] has probably told you, the Katherine Anne [Porter] upset accounted for my more than diffidence about seeing most of our mutual friends when I passed through NY. Sometime I may say more about it, but I’m sick of the subject just now; and since Mexico is proving to be so much more pleasant and absorbing to me during this second sojourn, I don’t want to stir up any more unneighborly dust here in Mixcoac this evening than matches a pleasant mood.

—/—/ I’m glad to be of any help I can to Peggy, love her as always, and enjoy her company (and we see quite a lot of each other) immensely. Old friends are a God-send anywhere! Especially when they’re as good sports as Peggy is.... She’s pretty fragile, but I think she’s happy here, possibly more so than anywhere else right now. —/—/

Your letter this morning—and now the books. Putnam is more surprising and magnificent than ever! Am glad to have such a challenge of a review.

Dear Bill: Please tell Malcolm that his article on the Munson-Josephson “debate” has delayed my dinner by two hours of sore sides! “Old Nick” (Jamaica) Rum may have contributed a little to some pleasant distress, but I still owe a debt.... I wish I had the two previous articles of the series at hand; can’t you get Betty to sort them out and send them to me?

From cock-crow to sunset, here in Mixcoac, my life is extremely jolly. And then beyond.... How I wish you and Sue [Jenkins] were here sometimes! Guitars and corridas galore. Even I am learning how to sing! One thing I can’t seem to get around to do—and that’s the reviews I contracted to do for Poetry. Have you seen Putnam’s new book of poems, The Five Seasons? I’ve got to “do” that, and it’s almost too big a job.

PS—Allen’s note on Milton was one of the best things in modern criticism I expect to anticipate!

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! —/—/

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.

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.

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.

—/—/ 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!

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. —/—/

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. —/—/

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.