THE BEGINNING AND END OF A MILITARY CAREER
I WAS ELEVEN when I entered the School of Fine Arts. The year before, I had done very little drawing. Between my first and second loves, I concentrated all my energies in making sketches of fortifications and plans of battle. I also drew up campaigns of military conquest and programs of government. I put myself in command of five thousand Russian troops, which I fabricated by gluing drawings of soldiers on cardboard in such a way that the little figures stood erect. I was not only the commander of this Russian army but of all Russia, the Tsar, his generals and ministers, and even the revolutionaries. I helped other boys I played with make similar armies of allies and enemies.
Carlos Macias, my cousin, now an engineer with the General Electric Company, was France, my ally. Manuel Macias, today a successful lawyer whose clients include all the old-regime Mexican families, was England. Auria Manon, the rich landlord's son, was Spain. Juan Macias was Germany. And Porfirio Aguirre, world-famous archeologist and authority on American culture, was Mexico.
When my father discovered the charts and programs I had drawn up, he seemed much impressed but said nothing. One evening, however, he came home apparently excited, and holding up a pile of my documents in his hands, he demanded to know where I had copied them from. I flew into a rage, and for the first and only time in my life, I insulted my father. Instead of becoming enraged, however, my father merely smiled.
Calming down, I asked him, "Why do you think I'm such a fool that I have to copy from anybody?"
My tone convinced him that the documents were original, and he told me to come with him. As I walked beside him into the street, I thought he was taking me to the dormitory of some school. I assumed that he disapproved of my preoccupation with military affairs, for which I had neglected my studies. But I was mistaken. The place he led me to was no school but an impressive, large building before which a soldier in full uniform was standing. In the room we entered were several fierce-looking, gray-haired men sitting behind a large table.
My father introduced me to them. "This is Diego de Rivera, my son. He is the author of the military and political documents you have examined, gentlemen."
The oldest of the men stood up. My father then said to me, "You have the honor to stand before General Don Pedro Hinojoso, Minister of War of the Republic of Mexico. All the other gentlemen are also heroes of Mexico, veterans of the wars of liberation against invaders and traitors."
One by one, each of the old men formally introduced himself. I felt the same thrill of pride I had felt when I had been invited to join the veteran fighters of Guanajuato. Having had military instruction in school where I had been appointed a group leader, I made the correct military response and stood at attention.
General Hinojoso said, "Can you give your word of honor, as the son of a veteran fighter and comrade-in-arms, that these documents originated with you?"
"My general," I replied, "I give you my word of honor that all these drawings and writings are completely mine."
Hearing this, all the men rose and General Hinojoso left his seat, came to where I was standing and embraced me.
"My son," he said, "I greet you as the youngest soldier of the Mexican Army'."
I was ashamed to feel a certain liquid forming in my eyes, but I saw the same thing happening in the eyes of the general, my father, and the others. I don't know whether it was I who suddenly became mature that night or whether all men, even generals, are really boys behind their adult masks.
Then my documents were spread out upon the table, and the generals began examining them and asking me questions. How much was actual enthusiasm, on their part and how much was the product of the cognac I saw on the table I cannot say, but they began to shower me with praise.
However, one very severe-looking man said, "My boy, you obviously have a native genius for strategy. But even more important is a knowledge of the organization of an army. Do you know anything about that?"
There was a large blackboard standing against the wall. In response, I walked over to it. "General," I said, "do me the honor of asking me whatever questions you wish on that subject. I will answer as well as I can."
Questions rained on me, my father joining in the examination. When the grilling was over, I could see that all doubts had disappeared.
Then General Hinojoso banged on the table. "Damn it, Diego," he shouted, "you're a born soldier. But that, my boy, places a great responsibility upon you. I hope, before you get too old and useless, you'll realize what a military fighter can do, not only for the liberty of Mexico but also for the liberty of all the people of the world. Damn it, boy, you were born in my home town, and now you must consider yourself one of my friends. You must know what being revolutionary means. After all, your father and your grandfather were revolutionaries. Don't fail, boy! A man may have the talent to make war, but he has the right to use it only for the freedom of mankind."
Then the old soldier coughed, stood up, gave the military salute, and left the room.
All next day I ran around to assure myself of the army commisssion I felt entitled to. Hinojoso, himself, gave me a paper requesting Congress to pass a law permitting the War Minister to make the necessary exceptions in order to induct me. I also obtained the President's endorsement of the petition. Before the day was over, I had secured passage of a law that would have enabled me to enter the Military Academy at the age of thirteen instead of eighteen. I was then only ten years old, but in the three years before I might enter the Academy, General Hinojoso offered to give me any help I asked for.
He said, however, that I was at liberty to prepare myself for my military career in any way I wished. If I desired, he would send me abroad, or I could study at home. I could even stay with him in his home.
"I have no sons or family," he said, when I came to his house to tell him about the passing of the law, "and I know your father would not object if you became my son as well as his. You have everything you need here to become a real technician in your chosen profession."
With grave solemnity, he conducted me to a library of thousands of books on bookshelves covering all the four walls.
I was a little disappointed to see only books; I had expected to be led into an arsenal.
After a while, the minister closed the door behind me and I was left standing alone in the middle of the vast library.
Looking around, I saw the model of a battleship in a corner of the room. I studied it carefully, marveling at its craftsmanship. I had never seen a model as finely detailed, with guns, hull, rigging, keel worked out with such perfection that my imagination could board it without trouble and sail off to all corners of the world. I stood transfixed until the general returned. It took all my strength of mind not to tell him that, rather than become a soldier, I now much preferred to be a sailor.
My response had been an esthetic one; the art of the ship-model builder had suddenly and completely blotted out my military interests. When my father came in later to discuss the curriculum of the military preparatory school he proposed to send me to, I was so repelled by the idea of the regimented life I would lead there that I literally ran out of the room and into the open air.
It was then, I think, I knew that whatever false roads I took afterwards, art was my destiny and would find me everywhere I went.