I have at last found a friend. She is an English woman, married to a
Mexican. I met her in England, but never realized she lived in Mexico.
Great was my surprise and pleasure, when she made a sign of life to me.
Through her I have come in touch with the English and American Colony.
They are very nice to me, and anxious to help me to see all there is to
see. My Anglo-Mexican friends had a picnic lunch for me today, at their
place in Tocubaya just outside the City. It is called “The Molino” and
is the oldest mill in America, North or South. They hold the titles of
the estate from the first Viceroy.
Now they no longer live there. The house is deserted and unfurnished,
the chapel bereft of its old carved pews. The granaries are empty, one
is a hollow shell, the result of a fire. Only in the garden are there
signs of renaissance. This is the result of Revolution. Two thousand
men and 1500 horses were billeted there for five months, at the time
when Obregon came into power. From all descriptions, they destroyed
everything and took what they did not destroy. The trees were cut
down. Even the Church pews were stacked onto a cart and left when the
soldiers left. “The best Obusson Chair” in which the Colonel used to
sit, and to which he had become attached was piled onto the top of
the coke cart! Listening to all this, I felt I might be hearing the
complaint of people against the Bolsheviks! It is a point of view that
I do not often hear, and it interests me as all points of view do. For
awhile my sympathy was with these landowners. Their suffering sounded
so futile and this form of destruction helps none. The working man
does not gain by it. Nothing is arrived at except an unrest, a lack
of confidence, an apprehension for the future, and a resignation of
despair on the part of property owners. Some one gains: Presumably the
individual who loots.--I asked, “What was your ambition and your aim,
before all this happened...?” and the answer was: “The ambition of
every decent Mexican, to make a lot of money and go and live abroad.”
Precisely what the Russian bourgeois did. And how, I asked, does Mexico
expect to put her house in order, if the ambition of every decent
Mexican is to live outside his country...?
The Conways were among those invited to this rather sumptuous picnic,
which was served elaborately under the pergola in the garden. The
Conways are English and he is at the head of the electric light and
tramway company. The workshops have been on strike for sometime, and
now the tramway personnel threaten to come out in sympathy, on Thursday
next. Yesterday there was a demonstration of tramway workers, and they
deposited a red flag on Mr. Conway’s doorstep! The situation is an
anxious one, and keeps him overworked. He arrived late for lunch from a
Government conference, and had to leave again almost immediately after.
While the rest of the party played poker, I rocked in a perfectly good
hammock, and Dick sailed his boat in a 23 ft. deep swimming tank. The
sun came out fitfully, and the day was cold.
The weather I am assured is “unusual”.... On the way home we passed a
trolley car full of men. It was at a standstill and there seemed to be
a good-humored dispute going on, between one of the men in the trolley
and another who was attempting to board it. The man in the trolley
threatened the other by brandishing an iron bar. The other disregarding
him continued his efforts to climb. With a resounding blow, which we
could hear above the sound of our motor, the iron bar smote the man on
the temple, so that he dropped, stunned to the ground. A woman screamed
and ran to pick him up. But he picked himself up, and two small rocks
at the same time. Our car turned a corner, and the sequel was lost to
view.
“They hold life very lightly,” Mrs. Conway said with indifference. She
has lived here for some years.