Alfred Percival Maudslay

Square altar, Copan village

SQUARE ALTAR, COPAN VILLAGE.

It only needed one night’s experience to convince me that the cross draughts of our airy residence were not suited to our constitutions, and when on rising to make my toilet in the morning, the transparent nature of my dressing-room was borne in on me, my mind was made up, and I ordered the tent to be pitched without delay. Thenceforward we had a thoroughly comfortable bedroom. One end of the tent was left open for ventilation, but we were well sheltered from draughts, and furnished with good thick blankets as a protection against the sharp fall of temperature in the early morning. I only wish one could always secure the same conditions of climate, temperature, and fresh air, for it seemed to me ideal.

We had come to Copan to work, and, as the early morning hours are precious in these tropical climes, dawn always found the camp astir. Fires were soon lighted. As the sun rose Gorgonio would appear at the tent-door with two big bowls of hot coffee, pan-dulce, and bananas, and by 7 o’clock all were off to work: my husband provided with note-books, tape-measures, and drawing-board, followed by the mozos with machetes and scrubbing-brushes, ready for any labour—from clearing bush to scrubbing moss and lichens from the sculptures, preparatory to the moulding-operations, which Gorgonio carried out with such skill and patience. My duties lay mostly in the camp, and were purely housewifely in character, for, as no woman could be found in the neighbourhood who had any knowledge of housework or cooking, I had to do the work myself. The cooking was, of course, the most arduous part of the performance, but the housework occupied at least an hour in the morning. First, the blankets must be hung in the sun to keep them dry and free from insects, then the tent had to be swept out and cleaned of ants and occasional scorpions. Every few days we sent mozos into the hills around to bring in huge bundles of fresh sweet-smelling pine-needles, which were spread over the floor of the house as a carpet, and every morning this carpet had to be attended to. Then came the preparation of breakfast for three hungry persons, for our party was increased by the arrival from Coban of Mr. Erwin Dieseldorff, an enthusiastic archÆologist who had come to us on a visit, and had brought with him Gorgonio’s brother Carlos Lopez (an old assistant of my husband) and three Indian mozos.

The tiny kitchen and larder stood beneath the shade of a wide-spreading Ficus tree, and for convenience of serving the food, as well as to save me many steps, we placed the table close beside it. It was a charming dining-room in such a climate, for during the four weeks of our stay not a drop of rain fell to mar the comfort of our al fresco meals. The great Ficus gave us friendly shade from the noonday sun, and at supper-time the moon played hide-and-seek between its branches as they were gently swayed by a soft and balmy breeze.

We shared our dining-room with the birds, who came in flocks to feed on the Ficus and other fruit-bearing trees, and we were never weary of watching them at play amongst the branches overhead. At first the parrots and parroquets vastly outnumbered all the others, and appeared to have formed a settlement in the tree above our tent. These parrots were a boisterous family, who woke at dawn and began screaming and chattering whilst they performed round the branches all those gymnastic feats which I have thought were only devised in captivity to vary the monotony of cage-life; but the parroquets, who lived in the same tree, appeared to be quiet little creatures who nestled near to one another, whispering and cooing gently, until some sudden impulse would seize both parties, and they would dash off in the air, flashing circles of gold and red and green as the sun caught the glint of their plumage, and then return as suddenly to the shelter of the trees to chatter loudly over their exploits. An hour or so after sunrise the noise of the parrots ceased, but whether they flew away or hid themselves amongst the thick foliage I could never make out; certain it is that they disappeared until evening, when they again woke the echoes with their cries before settling for the night.

COPAN. STELA B.

About a week after our arrival, as the fruit ripened upon other trees, the birds greatly increased in numbers, and the air was filled with song and chattering throughout all but the noonday hours. The grey jays perched quite close to us when we were at work, turned their heads knowingly from side to side, and indulged in ribald remarks at our expense; and big toucans, with bright yellow breasts, flew clumsily from tree to tree, as though over-weighted by their great green-and-yellow bills. Sometimes an aurora, or yellow-breasted trogon, honoured us with a visit; less gorgeous in plumage than his relation the quetzal, he nevertheless possesses a fair share of beauty, and his dignity of deportment was imposing as for hours together he sat, almost motionless, solemnly contemplating us and our doings. Now and then the gurgling note of an oropendula rang through the grove, and this large cinnamon-coloured oriole, with yellow tail-feathers, would spend half an hour with us, flying from tree to tree and uttering his strange musical cry. The natives told me that there had been numbers of them about the ruins the previous year, as they then had a settlement close by in a tree overhanging the river, where their hanging nests had numbered over two hundred; but some ardent collector had cut off a branch with three or four nests attached to it, to carry home as a specimen, and the whole colony of birds had at once forsaken the tree and formed a new settlement some distance away. Our occasional visitor was doubtless one of the migrants who had ventured to come back to feed on the fruit-trees he had known of old.

I deeply regretted the disappearance of the colony, as it would have been delightful to watch the birds at one’s leisure. Only once during our journey did I get the chance of watching them, and that only for a short time. As a precaution against attack, the birds always select for their home a tree with a long clean stem standing out from the surrounding vegetation, and a certain smooth red-barked tree with rather thin foliage seems to be an especial favourite. The long bag-shaped nests, with an entrance at the top, are attached to the spreading branches, and swing freely in the breeze. During the nesting-season such a tree-top is a scene of much animation. The birds are continually flying off in all directions in search of food for their mates or families and returning home with their prizes. They seldom hover round the tree, but go straight away as though each had his own well-known hunting-ground. Some few of them will perch for a while on the branches near their nests, and one old bird always stands sentinel on the topmost branch, uttering every few moments his queer musical cry; but should any sign of danger be discerned—and they seem to be of a somewhat nervous temperament—the cry at once changes to a short sharp note, which quickly brings all the birds who are out foraging back to their homes. The sentinels are relieved from time to time, and one can often tell by a slight change in the voice when a new sentry has come on guard.

Flocks of noisy blackbirds we had always with us, and the “tap, tap, tap” of the red-headed woodpecker—“carpintero,” as the Spaniards call him—could be heard through the grove almost all day long. Now and then one could espy amongst the branches a beautiful mot-mot. It was a long time before I could be brought to believe that these birds really trimmed their two long tail-feathers with their own beaks into the fashionable shape, clearing the midrib for an inch or so bare of all plumes, and leaving the characteristic spatula-shaped expanse at the end; but since my return home I have had a good look at the interesting case in the hall of the Natural History Museum, and the untrimmed tail-feathers of the poor mot-mot who had injured his beak and could not cut his tail properly is quite convincing. How his neighbours must have laughed at him for being out of the fashion!

There was one bird whom I never caught sight of, and knew only by his sweet but unsatisfactory song. This song is charmingly musical as far as it goes, but then he never finishes it: just as it is becoming most interesting, he hesitates and stops about a third short of the keynote, waits a moment as though to consider what is wrong, then begins over again, only to stop with the same half-apologetic note, leaving one with the impression that he would like to finish his song, but has forgotten how it goes.

A pair of hoary-headed, disreputable-looking zopilotes hovered about the kitchen all day long, waiting for scraps and clamouring vociferously when a chicken lost his head. When night came the owls hooted at us from the lofty branches of the great ceiba trees, and the cry of the night-jar (or “Puhuyak,” as the natives call him) sounded through the wood. According to the Indian legend, the Puhuyak is one of the birds appointed to guard the gates of Xibalba, the place of departed spirits, which is thought to be situated somewhere near the banks of the Usumacinta. His fellow guardian is his relation the Whip-poor-Will, and sometimes they watch together, and at others take turn and turn about. Oddly enough, the cry of the Puhuyak sounds exactly like “Who are you?” and, chancing to awake in the stillness of the night, one would hear this question reiterated about every half-minute, without the ghost of an answer, until I used to think that if anything could add to the terror of finding one’s self at the gate of Xibalba it would be to hear the Puhuyak ask that irritating question with his casual unsympathetic manner and harsh voice.

What strikes one most in riding or walking through a tropical forest of Central America is the mixed nature of the vegetation. Between the low fringe of sea-coast, where the mangroves have full sway, and the lofty hill-tops, where the pines and oaks abound, one can nowhere give a name to the forest from the predominance of any particular tree. There are no mahogany forests and no cedar forests, although both species have many representatives. Perhaps the lightness or feathery nature of the seeds helps in their distribution; certainly I never saw a native forest tree with a number of seedlings growing up round it, as one may see in the case of a sycamore or horse-chestnut at home. This characteristic applies even to the small grove round the ruins at Copan; and although I had learnt to identify a few of the most noticeable trees, I could only find a few examples of each amongst the many trees around us, and to my untrained eye all the remainder appeared to differ from one another. The monarchs of the grove were two giant Ceibas, to whose beauty and grandeur I can do no justice with words. A tent might be pitched between the buttresses from which the mighty shaft of such a giant springs, and a regiment might camp beneath its branches. As the month of April is the middle of the dry season many of the trees were changing their leaves, and the process was most interesting to watch, and often very rapid in accomplishment. Some of the trees which were fully clothed, and showed no sign of change when we arrived, dropped all their leaves, stood for a few days bare, and then completely reclothed themselves during the few weeks we remained at the ruins. Others went through the process in distinct sections, and it gave a very odd appearance to a tree when some of its branches were covered with old foliage, some branches quite bare, and others bright with the fresh green or pink of newly unfolded leaves.

In one respect we were fortunate during our stay—there were no mosquitos; but garrapatas (ticks), coloradillos (minute harvest-bugs), fleas, and ants tried their best to spoil our tempers. The fleas in the house could be subdued by a plentiful supply of fresh pine-needles spread over the floor; garrapatas and coloradillos nothing can subdue. Personally, as a housekeeper, if I must award the palm for capacity to irritate, it shall go to the ants: they invaded every nook and corner, disputed the possession of every eatable thing, and bit or stung me violently whenever they got the chance. One night they besieged me in the tent, and attacked me so savagely that I was forced to cry for help. A “marching army,” as it is called, was making its way through the wood, and as our home lay in its path the soldiers had, in true military fashion, “occupied” it. My husband was at work developing photographs in the little dark room at the end of the house; he brushed the first few intruders away, but finally had to beat a retreat before the thousands which poured in on him, when he heard my cries and came to my assistance. Fortunately only a few stragglers and camp-followers troubled us in the tent, and as they had entered only by the guy-ropes which were made fast to the house-posts, we were able to close the path by dropping a little kerosene-oil on the cords. The main body of the army marched over and under and through the house. The dry thatch of the roof crackled and rustled as if on fire under the feet of this mighty host of minute crawling creatures, and its approach spread consternation through the rest of the insect world, and everything fled before the invaders. Our candles burnt without a flicker in the still night air, so that standing clear of the flank of the army we were able to watch its doings without any discomfort. I saw big beetles and cockroaches so bewildered with fright that they knew not which way to turn, and, as though paralysed, made no attempt to fly, but retreated backwards to the ends of the leaves of the thatch, their eyes glaring and their antennÆ stiff with horror at the fate which must overtake them. In half an hour the army had passed on and disappeared, leaving nothing eatable in the house, not even the films of the two newly developed photographs which had been left in the rack to dry. The natives, I am told, hail with joy the passage through their houses of a marching army, as it means a clean sweep of all centipedes, cockroaches, spiders, and scorpions.

Poisonous snakes are said to abound at Copan, but we were little troubled by them, as during the dry season they hide themselves away under stones and fallen trees. I saw one “tamagÁs” turned out of its cosy nest, which was lined with bits of dry moulding paper left by the Americans who were at work here last year. I also witnessed the death of a rattlesnake which had crossed the path just in front of me.

We saw no wild animals. Gorgonio, indeed, always insisted that there were “tigres en el monte”; and perhaps there were, but I was not likely to meet them, for my expeditions into the “monte” (more out of fear of ticks than of tigers) were limited to the paths which had been cut to the different monuments, and, so far as I know, our camp was never invaded by any animals more formidable than our own mules, who wandered as they liked over the whole enclosure, and of a night often browsed round the tent and woke us by kicking against the tent-ropes.

Our arrival at the ruins caused quite a flutter of excitement amongst the Copaneros, who seemed glad to vary the monotony of their lives by a stroll through the woods, to chat with Gorgonio and Carlos, and take a peep at our occupations. So it happened that hardly a day passed without bringing us visitors. Even the more distant villages sent contingents of sightseers; but these were more formal occasions, and our visitors, headed by the Alcalde of their village, entered the house in somewhat stately fashion, and seating themselves on the floor—chairs being scarce—would make polite speeches and ask what progress Don Alfredo was making with his work. These conversations would promise to be of interest, as our visitors always professed to know much about the monuments, and to appreciate the reason why foreigners took so much interest in them, until some stray remark showed that our minds were travelling on totally different planes of thought—theirs, I fear, being weighed down with an unmovable belief in buried treasure. Then the conversation would flag, and the pauses become longer, until we produced a brandy-bottle, when they all stood up and solemnly drank our health, and, that ceremony over, took leave of us with the same formal politeness and filed out of the door. But the greater number of our visitors were, I am sorry to say, ill and suffering persons who came seeking “remedios” for their complaints. We did what we could to help them, although most of their troubles were far beyond the reach of our simple remedies, but the belief in our skill was flattering and often really pathetic. They were genuinely grateful for the smallest relief we could afford them, and would always return to thank us, bringing gifts of chickens, eggs, or cigars. One poor woman told me that for nine years she had eagerly scanned the faces of visitors to the ruins, hoping that Don Alfredo might again be amongst them, for he had given her the only medicine which had ever done her any good. It seems that he had dosed her with calomel, which gave her temporary relief, and now, alas! we had not a grain of calomel with us. However, no remedy would have availed in her case—her malady had clearly passed beyond all hope of cure. As she was very poor, I engaged her nominally to do odd day’s work in the kitchen, but really to give her the benefit of our surplus food. She was curiously ignorant, even of such a simple matter as how to clean a saucepan; but her’s was such an uncomplaining gentle nature that I grew quite fond of her, and in return she showed me every little attention in her power, and never came without a few fresh eggs or a bundle of cigarettes or some other little present which she thought would give me pleasure.

I had one patient, a Coban Indian, who had come with Mr. Dieseldorff, who rewarded my efforts on his behalf not only by getting well of a bad wound in his foot, the result of a blow from a pickaxe, but also by resisting the temptation to apply a chili-pepper to the wound, which he assured me was a splendid remedy, as you could feel its effects at once. At first he was exceedingly cynical about my treatment, and regarded the carbolic acid lotion disdainfully, but to his credit be it said that as soon as he realized that his foot was really healing, although he did not feel the remedy, he became overwhelmingly grateful. Ever afterwards I was his “nanita,” or little mother, and he expressed his willingness to leave his wife and family and follow me to the end of the world.

Some men in the village relieved the monotony of their lives and added to our list of patients by quarrelling over a local beauty, and a messenger was sent in hot haste to the ruins to implore my husband to come and extract a bullet from the body of a man, as otherwise they despaired of saving his life. He found the house closely packed with the friends and relations of the wounded man, who crowded round his rough bed and sprawled over it, weeping and wailing and passing a bottle of aguardiente from hand to hand and giving frequent doses of the fiery spirit to the sufferer himself to keep up his courage. It was no easy work to turn all the relations out of the house and get rid of the rum-bottle; but at last it was accomplished, and then an examination showed that the bullet had passed round the ribs and lodged below the shoulder-blade, so that there was no immediate danger. My husband was able to raise the hopes of his patient, who had been driven to the depths of despair by the wailings and leave-takings of his friends, and left him for the night in charge of the Alcalde with assurances of a very speedy recovery, qualified by dire prophecies of his certain death if further recourse were had to the rum-bottle. Within a week, with the help of proper food and such care as we could ensure him, the fever and swelling had been reduced so that the position of the bullet could be easily detected, and the man was so comparatively well that he could be mounted on a quiet mule and sent off in charge of a friend to the doctor at Chiquimula, who successfully extracted the bullet. I was most thankful when the man was safely on his way, as I credited my husband with a secret desire to do a little amateur surgery.

I found the women of Copan really interesting; they are above the average in good looks, and, in spite of their want of cleanliness and their slovenly dress, their soft cooing voices and caressing manners make them personally attractive. The men look rather more tidy than the women, which is not to be wondered at, as they seem to spend most of the day lounging in hammocks, whilst the women do all the work of the village, fetch the water, and wash the clothes. The washing of clothes, indeed, goes on interminably, yet, except on a feast day, one never sees anyone in a clean garment; this is, perhaps, hardly to be wondered at when one considers the nature of their surroundings, for it must be difficult to keep one’s clothes clean for five minutes amid the dust and dirt of a native house. The Copaneros, like all Central-American half-castes, have a singular dread of bathing, although they look longingly at the cool stream running past their home; and, as general medical adviser, I was continually being asked, “Would bathing do me any harm?”

It was always a delightful moment for me when my household duties were over and I could join the workers in the great Plaza, where my husband, with a patience I never ceased to marvel at, was comparing the drawings made for the ‘Biologia’ with the original inscriptions, Mr. Dieseldorff would be clearing the debris from a stairway or tracing the line of a fallen wall, whilst Gorgonio, Carlos, and Caralampio were at work making paper moulds of the sculptured monoliths or heaping up great log-fires to dry the moulds already made.

I wish I could do justice to these imposing plazas, studded with strangely carved monuments and surrounded by lofty mounds and great stone stairways, moss-grown and hoary with age, broken by the twisted roots of giant trees, but very solemn and imposing in their decay. The huge mass of squared and faced building-stones, the profusion of sculptured ornament, boldly-carved human figures, strangely grotesque imps—half human and half animal,—elaborate scrolls, graceful and beautiful feather-work, the latter especially crisp and delicate in execution, all combined to make it difficult to believe that no metal tools were used by the ancient Indian workmen. Yet the fact remains that no implements other than stone axes and obsidian flakes have ever been found amongst the ruins, and this adds to the wonder and mystery which enshrouds them, so that one almost fears even to guess at the numbers of centuries or the thousands of busy hands and brains which, under such conditions, must have gone to the accomplishment of the work.

I was always conscious of a longing desire to witness some great ceremony at Copan, such as one’s imagination conjures up amid such surroundings, and the thought constantly recurred to me that possibly in the half-Christian, half-heathen rites of the Indian pilgrims and the strange dances they indulge in on certain festal occasions some echo might yet be caught of the ancient ceremonial.

The novelist has already tried his hand both on Ancient Mexico and Yucatan, and that class of theorizer who wants as little data as possible to interfere with his pet schemes has too long occupied the field. Surely here there is scope for the more chastened scientific imagination, and the time has come for the scientific world, the folk-lorists, palÆographers, and archÆologists, who have done so much to recover for us the ancient civilizations of the East, to turn their attention to these wonders of the Western world.