If I’d told him a second marriage isn’t privileged to wear white, he probably would realize it wasn’t worth doing!
At midday I received the visit of the sister and niece of Mr. N. to whom I had delivered a letter of introduction. It is rather fun knowing real Mexicans and getting their point of view. I didn’t tell them and they didn’t seem to know that I had only met their kinsman once and I wondered what they did think. In the afternoon they fetched me for a drive, the car was owned and driven by the fiancé of the girl. We drove out into the country and were caught in the fiercest rain-storm. The car had only a hood and I had only a cape. One was frozen to the marrow. They took me to tea at the Reforma Club at Chapultepec, a tennis club organized chiefly by the English Colony. It looked truly English, and the cold and the damp made one feel as though in England. The English women whom I did not meet but looked at, seemed to be of that type that is neither interesting nor decorative.—One or two Mexican girls I was introduced to, as “my uncle’s friend....” It seems to me I might be explained to strangers in various ways, but “my uncle’s friend” is a fame that is new to me.
Sunday, July 3, 1921. Mexico City.
The 4th of July was celebrated today. I suppose on account of its being Sunday. There was a garden fête at a place called “Tivoli.” The President was supposed to come; but of course he did not, nor ever intended to, for as long as the U. S. will not recognize his government, he will not recognize the U. S. national holiday. Mr. Summerlin and Colonel Miller and all the high-hatted and uniformed diplomats of various nations were waiting to receive him. Instead, the press kodaks had to comfort themselves with the belated but smiling Minister Pani of Foreign Affairs! With great ceremony they paraded round the ground in procession and the band played every conceivable Sousa March. I never realized how utterly unendurable civilized American music is ... I mean, not to include the jazz and the coon music, which has great character and charm. But there are things like “Yankee-Doodle” that just make one curl up. With a fictitious attempt at gaiety, I watched this celebration of the defeat of England. Dick enjoyed it, he bought bags of confetti, and realized for the first time the full joy of being able to throw handfulls of something straight in a person’s face. It was a lovely game.
Monday, July 4, 1921. Mexico City.
My Mexican acquaintances, mother and daughter, took me to tea with some friends of theirs, who lived in a really lovely house, almost palatial. The daughter of the house was intelligent and spoke perfect English. I had a long talk with her and learnt something of the Mexican aristocracy’s view point: She said that decent and honest people in Mexico try to keep out of politics, and not to meet the politicians or the Generals. Otherwise they are persecuted by whatever Government follows for having even been friends with the Government that has been overthrown. The politicians of whatever regime have always been self-interested. Their object is to make as much as they can while their Government lasts. Against this there is no remedy. If the President tried to enforce rigorous measures against graft, etc., he would be turned upon and rent asunder. Referring to General Obregon, she said he was pretty well acknowledged by every one to be honest and purposeful, the best out of 15,000,000 people, but “thieves” as she expressed it helped him to become President, and he dare not get rid of them for that reason, “I suppose he is in honor bound to stand by them,” I said—“Not at all.” She contradicted, “but if he dismisses them they would plot against him.... His only way is to kill them.” (I felt I was probing this skin-deep civilization!!).
Everyone seems to live in great uncertainty. “In the Revolution” (I did not understand which of the many!) people’s houses and farms and motors, etc., were taken away from them. A few of them have been inadequately paid for since, and some farms have been returned to their owners, but in such a dilapidated condition as to make them almost hopeless.
“If anything happened to General Obregon, things would be far worse ... there would be chaos....” I was told. A Revolution is impossible unless the Indians are with it. They are very easily led, and always side with the richest General. I was told a good deal more, but it represented the average bourgeois point of view,—so ready to criticize, so inaccurate in its details.
Tuesday, July 5, 1921. Mexico City.
Today is Review day. It happens once a month. First the Firemen with a band marched down the Passo de La Reforma, past our Hotel. Then some soldiers and finally quantities of police. They were all smartened up, clean and white-spatted for the occasion. I rushed forward to photograph them, which seemed to amuse them, and one officer on horseback purposely made his horse rear for my benefit. People in the street seemed not to take the slightest interest, only a few loafers or foreigners looked on, and the usual crowd of women fruit sellers, who sold pulque (the national drink, made from the juice of cactus) to the men when they halted. The streets are conspicuous at all times by their absence of well dressed or prosperous looking people. Except for some business men, the people look nearly as dilapidated as those in Moscow. The shop windows contain the ugliest clothes. I wonder what the Mexican woman does when she wants a new dress.