Our English being far from remarkable, our conversation must have been accompanied by energetic gestures which probably led Dos Passos to the impression that we were fanatical devotees of Mark Twain.
Taking along our letter, we went to call on Witter Bynner. On the streets of Santa Fe one is likely to see Indians of the Pueblo tribe who had come from their village to sell a rug or a bowl. Indians come also to the museum, where their bows and thin aquarelle drawings, which portray war dances with remarkable faithfulness, are bought. Costumes, decora-lions, and the arms are reproduced with scientific conscientiousness, and these aquarelles can serve as texts in studying Indian culture.
Mr. Witter Bynner lives in a house filled from its foundation to its roof with Indian rugs, Indian ware, and silver decoration. It is a real museum.
When the American poet read Dos Passos' letter, his face became transfigured with a joyous smile.
"Dos writes me," he said, "that you are crazy about Mark Twain."
We exchanged glances.
"That's wonderful," said the poet. "I myself was very friendly with Twain. I have a pleasant surprise for you. Twain at one time gave me his photograph with a dedication written in verse. It is a very rare thing — verses by Mark Twain. You as his passionate devotees will find them interesting reading."
He dragged us up a stairway the walls of which were hung with photographs of American and non-American writers. We conscientiously looked at a portrait of Twain and listened to the versified dedication.
We spent an interesting evening with Mr. Bynner and learned from him precisely where we should go on the morrow to look for Indians.
Mr. Bynner told us that in Santa Fe, located in the centre of three ancient civilizations—Indian, Spanish, and Mexican—live many writers, artists, and poets. They fled there from contemporary America. But America fled after them. Following the poets and the artists, millionaires rushed into Santa Fe. They built villas and likewise breathed the atmosphere of ancient civilizations, having previously stocked up on contemporary dollars.
Here also lived McCormick, the famous industrialist, who had many enterprises in old Russia. He had, of course, lost all those enterprises. Not long ago he journeyed to the Soviet Union as a tourist, spent eleven days there and upon returning lectured in Santa Fe about his journey, talking mostly about "Intourist," because in such a short period of time he did not learn anything else.
"So many millionaires have already gathered here," said Witter Bynner, "that it is time to migrate to some other place. But then they will follow there too. There is no escaping them."
23 Meeting the Indians
WITTER BYNNER advised us to go to the city of Taos, two miles from which is a large Indian village of the Pueblo tribe.
We left Santa Fe and the Hotel Montezuma with its hissing radiator. By morning it had hissed the temperature of our room up to eighty-six degrees above zero, so we greedily inhaled the fresh air as we raced over the mountain road.
We drove along the Rio Grande, which was a small green river here, and after a few score miles we found ourselves in an Indian village of San Ildefonso. This splendid Spanish name hid no Catholic missions, no important prelates, no young people of pure Castilian blood. A small square was surrounded by adobe houses. Protruding from the ground at each house were small cupola-shaped structures. These were ovens, hearths. In the middle of the square stood a tremendous woman. Two thick braids, which fell over her fat bosom, were intertwined with red and green woollen threads. In her fleshy ears were holes for ear-rings.
When we asked her about the Indian, Agapito Pina, with whom Mr. Bynner advised us to get acquainted, we discovered that this woman was Agapito Pina, and that he was not at all a woman but a fat Indian with a woman's figure.
Agapito Pina proved to be a gay fellow and very sociable. He asked us into his home, which was clean and looked like a Ukrainian hut.
It was a grey winter day. Suddenly it began to snow, and soon everything was white, including the remarkable cupola-shaped ovens, the few barren trees that looked like smoke turned to stone, and all of this poor peasant's square. In a small hearth of Agapito's home blazed one log of wood, which stood on a slant. An old dried-out Indian woman sat on her haunches before the fire. She was Agapito Pina's mother. She was eighty-three years old, but she was only half-grey. Agapito himself was sixty years old, but there was not a single grey hair in his head. The old woman accepted the cigarette we offered her and smoked with pleasure. Agapito also took a cigarette, but he put it away in his pocket, evidently for his beloved mamma.
Presently Agapito began to sing an Indian song, beating time with his foot. The room was small. Agapito danced quite close to us. He looked into our eyes and, having finished one song, immediately began another. On the clay step lay photographs of Indians performing military dances. It began to smell of extortion, as in Naples or Pompeii.
However, having finished his song and dance, Agapito Pina did not at all ask for money, did not attempt to press any photographs on us. It appeared that he simply wanted to please his guests. We were happy to be reassured that, after all, this was not Naples, but an Indian reservation, and that our redskin brothers regarded tourists without that commercial passion with which their white-faced brothers invest this business.
On the clean walls of the room hung bunches of multi-coloured cornstalks. In the corners stood the beautifully embroidered ceremonial moccasins of our host.
The occupation of the village was agriculture. Every person was entitled to an acre of land. Agapito did not know about the existence of Europe and of oceans. True, one Indian of his acquaintance had told him not long ago that there was a city called New York somewhere in the world.
He came out into the square to see us off. Thick snowflakes fell on his dark straight hair.
The road lay between red pumice mountains with flat decapitated tops. Their colour was remarkably like the colour of Agapito Pina's skin, a subdued red, a darkened, ancient red. The redness of Indian skin is unique. It is the colour of their porous cliffs, the colour of their autumnal nature. Their very nature is redskin.
The day was raw, tearful, autumn and winter at the same time. At first the snow fell, then rain drizzled, and finally, toward the end of the day, a fog moved in." The headlights gleamed dimly. We met almost no automobiles. We were alone in the midst of the threatening Indian nature. Far below, interminably but rather quietly, the Rio Grande roared.
Having reached Taos, we stopped in the grey and blue camp of Captain O'Hay. The tall captain took the keys and led the way to our cabin.
He was really a captain and had served in the American army. He had forsaken the service because he was sick of it. Here in Taos he liked it. Business was good. Eight months out of the year his camp was full. The captain and his wife were never bored. Every day new people stop at the camp, people from all parts of the country, and in the evening, when there is time to talk, an interesting person can be found to talk to.
"It is better to be the owner of a camp than a captain in the army," said Captain O'Hay, opening the door, "and life along the highway is more interesting than in a large city."
The captain maintained his establishment in an exemplary fashion. The walls of the neat rooms were decorated in red and blue Indian ornaments. Here stood low soft beds. At the fat little stove were neatly piled pieces of firewood and a little pail of coal. From the pail stuck fire-tongs so that the traveller would not have to take the coal with his hands and soil himself. In the small kitchen stood a gas stove with two ovens.