[In the following essay, Houck discusses González Martinez's life and personality.]

The title, Mexico's best-loved poet, which once belonged to Amado Nervo—and still does in a sense—may fittingly be applied to Enrique González Martínez. Certainly, as among living poets, the epithet would be given him by acclaim. Of Mexico's brilliant modern galaxy of poets, beginning with Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera, there remains only one of the major luminaries, González Martínez, conceded generally to be the greatest of them all. Hence the intellectuals prize him as the glory of modern Mexican letters and all who know him, of whatever class, esteem and love him as a man.

After many years of intense work as physician, politician, journalist, diplomat, teacher, and poet, González Martínez now lives a quiet life, occupying a modest government position as consejero of the Banco Nacional Agrícola, enjoying his family and his friends, his books and his creative work. In his beautiful home in Colonia del Valle, he lives with his son Hector and his family and with his grandson Enriquito, the son of Enrique González Rojo, who died May 9, 1939. Enriquito, at his grandfather's request, bears the name Enrique González Martínez. In the capital live also the poet's sister and his daughter with their families. The death of the poet's wife, doña Luisa Rojo de González Martínez, on April 8, 1935, and that of his elder son, the only one of the children to follow in his father's footsteps as a poet, were crushing blows, to which González Martínez has given noble expression in verse. Since these blows, the poet's friends have drawn even closer to him to give him the consolation of their warm affection.

In his study, opening upon the sala with its hand-carved furniture, reminiscent of his seven years in Spain, the poet spends much of his time. The four walls are lined with low bookcases that house a magnificent library, culled from the world's choicest literature. On the walls hang photographs and sketches of his literary friends and compeers, some of them no longer living: Gutiérrez Nájera, Rubén Darío, Luis G. Urbina, Amado Nervo, Enrique DiezCanedo, Asaña, Eugenio d'Ors, and many others.

The predominant impression made by González Martínez' personality is that of serenity. He seems a man who has met and conquered all of life's difficulties, obstacles, sorrows, doubts, and restlessness. He appears to live in an atmosphere of tranquillity, of "triste alegría," as someone has said. One is reminded of his own words: "Yo voy alegremente por donde va la vida" and of those other lovely verses:

Dolor, si por acaso a llamar a mi puerta

llegas, sé bienvenido; de par en par abierta
  la dejé para que entres …

No turbar el silencio de la vida,
  ésa es la ley … Y sosegadamente
  llorar, si hay que llorar, como la fuente
  escondida.

Yet González Martínez is genial, at times jovial. His conversation is interspersed with sparkling jests and with choice anecdotes from his rich experience. His speech is rapid—atropellado, he says that Amado Nervo called it—and his hands are seldom at rest. The three gestures which Moreno Villa classifies as typically Mexican are frequently used by him. The "overtones" of which Luisa Luisi speaks as characteristic of his poetry are felt in all his words. Even a simple greeting has harmonics of genuine interest and kindness, enveloping the whole personality of the one addressed. This poet so in love with "mi amigo el silencio," so fond of contemplation, turns from his intense inner life to give himself completely and utterly to the external world, to the pleasures of the senses, and to the intimate joys of friendship. May this warm, human quality be due in part to his seventeen years of medical practice? Certainly something of the kind physician still remains in his solicitous attention to the individual. His friends refer to him affectionately as "el doctor." He says that he loved the profession of medicine. During all those years he was writing poetry surreptitiously, publishing it in newspapers and journals distant from Guadalajara and Sinaloa, for fear his patients would lose faith in him as a doctor. He tells with enjoyment how one of them mentioned having read a good poem "by a man of the same name as yours." Even then he did not confess to his pecadillo. Though poetry, years ago, over-shadowed and crowded out medicine, there is still in Enrique González Martínez something of the sympathetic family doctor—"el doctor," par excellence.

Youthfulness is part and parcel of Dr. González Martínez' personality. An Argentine critic has said of him as a poet: "Ni se cansa ni se envejece: se transforma." Perhaps the same could be said of him as a man. He himself has said, though not with the same intent: "Cada día me cambia en otro hombre." It is not only that the poet does not look his sixty-nine years: he does not impress one as an elderly man by his conversation, his interests, or his outlook on life. He is still looking forward. He seems specially at home with and responsive to young people. The university students who have recently launched Tierra Nueva have found in him a kind and interested adviser; his study door is always open to them.

Another quality that endears the poet to his friends and makes him a charming companion is his delightful humor. On one occasion when a friend, knowing his dislike for adulation, was repeating the extravagant praise of a rather frothy person, González Martínez exclaimed with a jovial laugh: "You know sweets are not good for diabetics!" In the home of Valle Arizpe—one of the show-places of Mexico, with its antiques worth millions of pesos—he asked the host jocularly: "What day was it, Artemio, that you invited me to bring my grandchildren to play in your house?"

The warmth of the poet's personality is evident in the smallest details of life. Recently the family of one of his friends lost by death their faithful old nana who had cared for two generations of children. The burial was scarcely over before "el doctor" came to offer his pésame. This humble, ignorant Indian woman was honored in death by the greatest living poet of Spanish America, an J that with simple naturalness. It would never have occurred to González Martínez to do otherwise.

Though no longer in the teaching profession, González Matínez is still a teacher. For the past five years he has been giving weekly lectures on Wednesday evenings to a group of his friends and admirers. The nucleus is made up of old friends from Guadalajara, who like to be assured of seeing "el doctor" at least once a week. Some of the Spanish colony attend, often students from one institution or another or American teachers and scholars visiting in Mexico. For a time the meetings were held in the home of Sr. Salvador Martin del Campo; at present they are in the home of Sr. Ignacio Helguera. The length of time that these lectures have continued speaks for their charming quality. In leisurely fashion the lecturer has carried his listeners through Spanish and Mexican literature, being now occupied with seventeenth-century French literature. With a few brief notes before him, to which he seldom refers, González Martínez evokes the life, character, and spirit of the authors, relating them one to another and to other periods and countries. His kindly humor and his deep human understanding enable him to present each author as a living person. Indeed one would say that he is speaking of intimate, well-loved friends, whose weaknesses and foibles do not dim his affection for them.

On the poet's latest saint's day, April 13, 1940, the group gave him a surprise party after the "class," to which a large number of friends were invited. Prominent musicians provided a program, some laudatory verses in Latin were read by a youthful poet, the guest of honor was presented with a handsome briefcase, and supper was served in the dining room. El día del maestro, May 15, gave the group another opportunity to entertain the poet-teacher. This time the program was of popular character. Professor Vaqueiro Foster of the Conservatorio Nacional, who is making a study of the folk music of Mexico, brought his huapango to provide hilarity. The rustic musicians were in their best form, as they were on the eve of leaving for New York to take part in the concerts of Mexican music given in connection with the exhibition, "Twenty Centuries of Mexican Art." That morning Sr. Vaqueiro Foster had explained to the "orchestra" the occasion of their playing and had read them some poems of González Martínez. One of them, the youngest and most spirited, had composed some verses in his rude style, interweaving the titles of the poems he had heard.

The reading of the jingles by Sr. Vaqueiro Foster won for the rude jongleur hearty applause and a cordial congratulatory handshake from the poet.

The affection and esteem in which González Martínez is held by the public was illustrated by a small incident on the occasion of the homenaje offered him by the Universidad Autónoma de México, on April 16, 1940. After the ceremony was over and the poet had gone with his family and a few friends to a Spanish churrería to partake of the traditional chocolate y churros, González Martínez drew from his pocket an object, which he passed around the table, telling the following story. As he was coming out of the University building after the program, a young man, probably a university student, stepped from the shadows, saying: "Doctor, I want to give you a token of my esteem and affection. I am giving you the thing dearest to me among all my possessions." It was a small Mickey Mouse. What story lay behind the pathetic, almost ludicrous incident? One of the men present recalled that his own most treasured possession was a toy of his little daughter who had died. Perhaps the Mickey Mouse held some tender association. Possibly the poet appreciated this little gift for its unusualness, even more than he did the warm, sincere expressions of scholars and students who had spoken at the homenaje.

Whoever wishes to know González Martínez the man, needs only to study his works, for he is his poetry and his poetry is he. This trite saying, applicable to most poets, is true in a special sense of González Martínez and finds explicit corroboration in his own words. Luisa Luisi, in an address on González Martínez delivered before the Argentine Women's Club, July 23, 1923—an address which the poet considers an excellent analysis of his work up to that point—closed with a similar idea, supporting it by the following poem of González Martínez, "Para un libro":

Quiero con mano firme y aliento puro,
  escribir estos versos para un libro futuro:

Este libro es mi vida … No teme la mirada
  aviesa de los hombres; no hay en sus hojas nada
  que no sea la frágil urdimbre de otras vidas:
  ímpetus y fervores, flaquezas y caídas.
  La frase salta a veces palpitante y desnuda;
  otras, con el ropaje del símbolo se escuda
  de viles suspicacias. Aquél a quien extrañe
  este pudor del símbolo, que no lo desentrañe.
  Este libró no enseña, no conforta, ni guía,
  y la inquietud que esconde es solamente mía;
  mas en mis versos flota, diafanidad o arcano,
  la vida que es de todos. Quien lea no se asombre
  de hallar en mis poemas la integridad de un hombre
  sin nada que no sea profundamente humano.