Chapter XXIII: Part FOUR: Mexico (1)

(1931-1932)

1931

352: TO SOLOMON GRUNBERG

_Chagrin Falls, Ohio_ _Jan. 10_

Dear Mony: --/--/ I got terribly run down with the worry of it all--and since my father had expected me out here for the holidays anyway I felt I owed him the courtesy of complying, especially since he had been so generous with me for some time past. Since the Teagle (Standard Oil) article proved to be a flop there wasn’t much use in persisting longer--in the face of the bread lines.

This humiliation, severe for awhile, doesn’t seem to have ruined me, however, and in view of certain recoveries and gains in poise, I don’t seriously regret my move. My father, of course, expects me to remain in this locality permanently. I of course keep all contrary plans very much to myself, including the secret of a bank balance sufficient at least to my carfare east again, whenever my return seems advisable. But enough of such explanatory details!

I’m anxious to hear from you--and what your plans are, etc. This is dull enough around here to encourage a good deal of reading--which I am enjoying. Spinoza (Einstein’s grandpop) furnishes plenty of discipline. Cleveland has one of [the] best libraries in the country, admirably conducted and with shelves practically wide open.

No writing is being done yet--or even in prospect. Can’t fool myself that way, as you know. An old thing of mine from my West Indian days in a forthcoming issue of _The New Republic_ which you may like, however. -- -- -- --

353: TO SAMUEL LOVEMAN

[_Chagrin Falls_] _January 16th, 1931_

Dear Sam: The Bridge photos were a joyous surprise! I can’t have it from too many angles! And the roof portrait of yourself with all the chimney pots! You are as generous and thoughtful a friend as ever.

Nothing much happens hereabouts. I haven’t even seen Bill [Sommer] yet, but I have a line out. Did I tell you that I called on D---- B. one morning? That was almost three weeks ago. He looked haggard, his complexion splotched, and thoroughly miserable; though he made an effort to be as suave as possible, I’m sure, it was evident that he _was_ making an effort. I made no further than a general allusion to his illness and as no details were proffered I left him as ignorant in such respects as I had come. There seemed to be no way of arousing his interests to any extent. He’s evidently in a hell of a state, physically and mentally--a combination of both interacting, I suppose.

You’ll be interested in the story of the enclosed card, I’m sure. I chanced upon it just the other day in one of the local news stores. Then someone told me a few anecdotes concerning the local blacksmith, named Church, who died not so very long ago and was regarded as a most “peculiar” individual by most of the townspeople. What struck me in the first place was the obvious coincidence of a parallel use of symbols, the serpent and the eagle, with my lines on Pocahontas in _The Bridge_.

“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. --/--/

354: TO LORNA DIETZ

[_Chagrin Falls_] _Feb. 10th ’31_

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. --/--/

355: TO WALDO FRANK

_Chagrin Falls, Ohio_ _Feb. 19th_

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.

356: TO HENRY ALLEN MOE

_Chagrin Falls, Ohio_ _March 16, 1931_

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. --/--/

357: TO CHARLOTTE AND RICHARD RYCHTARIK

_New York, New York_ _March 30th_

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. --/--/

358: TO SAMUEL LOVEMAN

_México, D.F._ [_Mexico City_] _April 12, 1931_

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. --/--/

359: TO KATHERINE ANNE PORTER

[_Mixcoac_] [_April 28_]

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. --/--/

360: TO KATHERINE ANNE PORTER

[_Mixcoac_] [_April 30_]

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.

361: TO KATHERINE ANNE PORTER

[_Mixcoac_] [_May 1_]

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.

362: TO MALCOLM COWLEY

_Mixcoac, DF_ _June 2nd, 1931_

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! --/--/

363: TO WALDO FRANK

_Mixcoac, D.F._ _June 13th, 1931_

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.

364: TO MORTON DAUWEN ZABEL

_Mixcoac, D.F., Mexico_ _June 20th, 1931_

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!

365: TO SELDEN RODMAN

_Mixcoac, D.F._ _June 20th, 1931_

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. --/--/

366: TO KATHERINE ANNE PORTER

[_Mixcoac_] [_June 22_]

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.

367: TO WILLIAM WRIGHT

_Chagrin Falls, Ohio_ _July 15th, 1931_

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. --/--/

368: TO LORNA DIETZ

_Chagrin Falls, Ohio_ _July 15th, 1931_

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. --/--/

369: TO SAMUEL LOVEMAN

_Mixcoac, D.F._ _Sept. 11th, 1931_

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. --/--/

370: TO WILLIAM WRIGHT

_Mixcoac, D.F. Mexico_ _Sept. 21, 1931_

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. --/--/

371: TO MALCOLM COWLEY

_Mixcoac, D.F._ _Oct. 5th, 1931_

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. --/--/

372: TO MORTON DAUWEN ZABEL

(Postcard)

[_Mixcoac_] [_ca. October 10_]

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.

373: TO SLATER BROWN

[_Mixcoac_] _Oct. 22nd_

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.

“Old Nick” and Nicotine keep me too occupied.

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

374: TO CHARLOTTE AND RICHARD RYCHTARIK

[_Mixcoac_] _Nov. 4, 1931_