Hart Crane
In 1932, Hart Crane traveled to Mexico on a Guggenheim Fellowship, intending to write a history of Mexico in verse that, ultimately, he’d barely have time to begin. Below, Crane writes to high-school friend Bill Wright, describing his experience at “the yearly festival (fiesta) of Tepoxtéco, the ancient Aztec god of pulque.”
TO WILLIAM H. WRIGHT
September 21, 1931, Mixcoac
Dear Bill:
How are thing going? I hear the heat continues up north. But you must have had a pleasant trip though the Adirondacks any way. 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. It knew it couldn’t help but happen.
I felt awfully diffident about leaving the US, 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 8 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 pueblas, 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 a dense tropical foliage and veritable hanging gardens–with cascades and waterfalls galore. The descent begins about 3 miles from El Pargue 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 Tepoxtéco, 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 the 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 the “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 local mythology. Meanwhile, if you can possibly imagine such a night, the lightening flickered over the eastern horizon while a crescent moon fell to 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 play stopped, we asked the “elders” to a stall in the town market and served with 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 [am] sorry to say I didn’t wake until five. But it was 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 the 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 priests and conquerors, that how many hundreds of times had been beaten to propitiate the god Tepoxtéco, the patron and protector of these people. A large wooden cylinder, exquisitely carved and showing a figure with an 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 town 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 more exhausting to the muscles of the forearm; but I have the pleasure of pleasing them so that they almost embraced me. They did, in fact, several of them—put their arms around my shoulders and walk back and forth the whole length of the roof, when at the astronomical hour six the whole place seemed to go bad in the refulgence of full day. It is something to hear bells rung, but it is inestimable 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 a stool in the Cathedral. On the climb back to the station we visited the ancient temple. It still has fragments of remarkable relief ad 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.
Heavens, what a long letter! But there isn’t much more to say right now. Except I hope I won’t be called back to “civilization” any too soon!
My love to Margaret [Wright] and warmest greetings to your parents.
Affectionately, Hart.
+