The President then took us upstairs to another large uninhabited reception room, to show us a picture done from photographs by a Spanish artist! The picture had its face to the wall, and when turned round by two attendants, for our inspection, it was obviously just what a picture would be like done from photographs! I felt it had better go back with its face to the wall. I also thought of Colonel Miller, the U. S. Military Attaché, who informed me sometime ago, that visiting a pottery he found that a workman had modelled from photographs an “excellent and most clever likeness of Obregon.”... He paid the workman two pesos for it and intended to “present it” to the President. Done from photographs, for two pesos. How can one compete? I cannot help smiling as I recall the three distinguished portrait painters, who, on hearing I was coming to Mexico, bade me cable to them if there was any work to do, so that they might come immediately. To switch off from this train of thought I asked, if I were not indiscreet in doing so, what the President’s impression was of the condition of Russia from the reports of his representatives whom he had sent there three months ago. He explained that the representatives had not yet returned, but one was to arrive in about sixty days. Meanwhile they have orders not to send communications by mail. His own private opinion was that every movement has something good as well as bad in it. He thought the result of the Russians having been so long oppressed, was that they were now like birds let out of a cage, and not knowing quite what to do with their freedom.... I thought to myself, this is the most non-committal opinion I have ever heard expressed! and I marvelled at the unhesitating readiness of the man, who is really a soldier, yet talks like a diplomat! My impression was of a man of no culture and little education. His face shows no trace of thought or even anxiety, he is quick, cautious and strong-minded. I asked him before I left, whether his disinclination to be modelled by me was influenced by the fact that I had done Lenin and Trotzky. He said most emphatically that this was not the case, and that he was far too independent a man to entertain such small ideas. He seemed really rather worried lest I should think him discourteous, and he begged me to tell him what he could do for me, as he would like to be my best friend in Mexico,—would I come and see him whenever I liked without any pretext being necessary and if I could not produce an interpreter, he would. “But in three years ...” he said, “I shall speak French!” “and ... I Spanish,” I said. He picked me flowers from the roof garden, took my arm and helped me upstairs and expressed in every outward way his desire to be friendly. He said to me, as I was leaving: “You must know in your heart that I am right ...” and of course I do know it. I have already said it. Obregon has not yet done anything to immortalize his name in History ... he may ‘go’ tomorrow, and another take his place ... I said to him, “Well, do something quickly to justify my doing your bust!”
Meanwhile let us “wait and see” what he is going to do!
Monday, July 25, 1921. Mexico City.
I see in the newspaper that Einstein has returned to Germany. His criticism of the United States is quoted in the Mexican Post. He abuses them after all their hospitality, he laughs at their adulation. He says the men are the lapdogs of the women.... I suppose the American man’s attitude towards woman is about as extreme in one direction as the German’s attitude is extreme in another. As a woman I can only say, “Thank God for the American man.” I suppose the word ‘Hausfrau’ is almost an international word. It describes a certain type of woman, and it is a German type. The German man has made her so. Einstein may well scoff at the position of woman in the States. To him the chivalry of the American man is not easily understood. As for American people’s enthusiasm over the Einstein theory, “which they did not understand,” that is probably why they enthused, which they otherwise might not.
This evening at five,—Mr. Malbran called for me, and drove me to the Ministry of Finance, to keep our appointment with de la Huerta. The familiar view of a busy Government office recalled Moscow. We passed through two rooms in which people were waiting, and I waited only about three minutes in a third room full of men. The realization that all these people were waiting to see him made me rather anxious, but we were shown in almost immediately to the Minister’s great big reposeful room. We were joined by a young man, his English interpreter, and all four of us sitting round in a circle, conversation began, rather formally. The feeling was: “Well now you’re here, say something,” and through an interpreter I am shy to begin. Mr. Malbran also makes me nervous! This feeling of restraint, however, only lasted for a few minutes. When we had acquitted ourselves of mutual compliments, telling each other that we had heard so much about the other, and how interested we were in meeting one another, I said that I had so many things that I wanted to talk to him about, and so many questions I wanted to ask. He replied in a most gracious manner, that I had but to ask anything I liked, without reserve. So I broke the ice by asking rather flippantly, why the Government didn’t make use of all the young men who were selling bananas and mangoes in the streets, and put them to work on making roads. I said there were such beautiful places to see and so hard to get to. He took my question more seriously than I had anticipated. He said that the economic position of the country had to be straightened out first, and that meanwhile all the important things were held up. “If only,” he said, “England would recognize us and help to stabilize us, instead of creating this wall around us, we might get out onto our feet.” I told him that his words sounded like an echo of Moscow, and he said, “Russia is more fortunate than we, for she has her recognition now and we have not.”
The subject of Russia just broke down any remaining formalities or restraint. We were, as one might say, “off.” He asked me pointblank did I think the majority in Russia were better off since the new system. I looked at Mr. Malbran, the polished diplomat, who was following this discussion with attention. “At the risk of Mr. Malbran thinking me a Bolshevik, (and we all laughed) I confess that in my humble opinion, the majority are better off, that is to say, the working people have more. They certainly have no less.”
“If those are your views,” de la Huerta said,“can you explain an alleged interview with you, in a Mexican paper, in which you are quoted as saying that, ‘Communism in Russia has completely broken down.’” I denied having made any such statement, and not being able to read Spanish, that was the first I had heard of it. He asked if I had heard in Russia any opinions expressed about Mexico. I was sorry to have to admit that I had not. No one at that time associated me in the least with anything but England, and as I did not understand Russian, I lost much that I might have learned from overhearing.
“And what do you think of Mexico, and of the present Government?” he asked. I said rather humbly, that it was perfectly bewildering, and that I did not understand it. But I knew some of the details of their labor laws which were extremely liberal, and I admired very much. “And what do you think of the contrast between our palaces and our poor—?” he asked me. I said I hadn’t seen many palaces....
“But you have anyway seen Pani’s, and Malbran’s!” he said laughing.
“Yes, but your climate is kind, and your poor do not look so wretched, as for instance in England.”