Of all the gods, Chac-Mosl, the Lord of Life, brought from Yucatan, is the one that is least barbaric. Almost it might be the work of a modern archaic sculptor. But through everything there runs a note of deep tragedy, of awful distress. The people who worshipped Soxhipili, the Goddess of Spring and Flowers, who lifts up a pained and tearstained face to heaven,--are the same people who today worship the bloodstained painted plaster figure of Christ. They are still idolaters, but they call it Christ today, and their souls react to all the pain, and all the blood, and all the horror, that centuries ago was carved in stone, and stained with the blood of human hearts. Going to that Museum, seeing, even without understanding, has opened up to me a whole new interest in the Mexican people. Not lightly can the world dismiss as brigands descendants of a civilization that produced such sculpture. What was this civilization? The America of the United States has no such ancestry, no such relics. And who are these people of today, called Mexican Indians, whose great dignity and impassivity and melancholy remind one of the Russian peasant? Is it explained in either case by centuries of oppression? Perhaps I will understand a little later on, but at present I am lost in the mysticism of it. At six o’clock, Madame Malbran, the wife of the Argentine Minister and Madame de Bonilla, took me to a reception given by the Pani’s. He is the Minister for Foreign Affairs. After my morning spent with the gods, and the atmosphere of Aztec culture, it was a strange contrast to go to this centre of political modernism. The party might have been in Paris or Rome. It was a perfectly cosmopolitan gathering, and one heard every language around one. To the accompaniment of a jazz-band we danced in two big empty rooms, the walls of which were covered with pictures. I had already heard a good deal of discussion and comment about Alberto Pani’s collection of Old Masters, but whatever people may say, and whatever they may be, they are extremely attractive pictures collected by some one with a cultured eye. Here I met a very charming cosmopolitan Mexican called the Marquis de Guadalupe. He had other names, but they were beyond my intelligence. Guadalupe, I can remember because I’ve been to the Cathedral of...! He talked like an Englishman and said he had been educated at Stonyhurst. He asked me if I had seen any Mexican sports,--one of which is called “Haripego” ... he told me he did it himself and described it to me: As far as I could make out wild Mexicans on wild horses pursue a wild bull, catch it by the tail, and throw it! My informant with sleek grey hair, and immaculately civilized clothes, looked like anything but a wild Mexican. He assured me he was one, however, in everything but appearance. He then went up to Pani and asked if they could get up a show for me. There was some discussion in Spanish, there was nothing to do, I understood,