‘But Mexico has no soul,’ said Kate. ‘She’s swallowed the stone of despair, as the hymn says.’
‘Ah! You think so? I think not. The soul is also a thing you make, like a pattern in a blanket. It is very nice while all the wools are rolling their different threads and different colours, and the pattern is being made. But once it is finished—then finished it has no interest any more. Mexico hasn’t started to weave the pattern of her soul. Or she is only just starting: with Ramón. Don’t you believe in Ramón?’
Kate hesitated before she answered.
‘Ramón, yes! I do! But whether it’s any good trying here in Mexico, as he is trying—’ she said slowly.
‘He is in Mexico. He tries here. Why should not you?’
‘I?’
‘Yes! You! Ramón doesn’t believe in womanless gods, he says. Why should you not be th
