Tempest Over Mexico

A Personal Chronicle

Rosa E King

• Verlag: Barakaldo Books
• Jahr: 2020
• ISBN:
  9781839746574
• Thema: Desarrollo personal
• Thema: Viajes

Here is a set of memoirs by an English lady, who went to the resort city of Cuernavaca in Morelos in 1905. After the death of her husband...by 1910 she had purchased a tourist hotel and catered to the Mexican leaders of the day who frequently resorted to the beautiful southern city.Soon there came on the horrors of the revolution which Mrs. King clearly shows to have been a clash between the fundamental rights of man and intolerable exploitation by a class themselves most attractive as friends and acquaintances. The leader of the south, Zapata, is frankly ranked only after Hidalgo and Juarez in the social emancipation of Mexico. His personal foibles are not mentioned but the significance of his movement is constantly emphasized...There is no effort to portray the causes behind the political moves of the day. In fact, all politics are so carefully avoided that even the famous last trip of Madero to Cuernavaca is left with a queerly inadequate explanation. The high point of the narrative is the two chapters devoted to the siege of the southern city and the three covering its evacuation and the tragic journey of the people to Toluca. This account is stark and so unreal as to leave the reader almost skeptical were it not for a force and detail and a local description that bear the stamp of fact. Throughout, the author's theme is: "The Zapatistas were not an army; they were a people in arms". Though the immediate results were ruin, death, and destruction, the writer firmly believes the revolution justified and that "strong nations the world over have been built on the ruins of a just revolt".Now, thirty years later, the author, broken in health and with property gone, has retired to live in her beloved Cuernavaca, sincerely loving the humble and the great of her adopted country.In short: A book of memoirs by a competent observer; and withal one that is intensely interesting both to layman and scholar.-W. H. CALLCOTT

 

CHAPTER I

I FIRST came to Cuernavaca in 1905, in the days when only a cobblestone trail and a primitive railway with wood-burning engines led over the range of mountains that separates the Valley of Morelos, where Cuernavaca lies, from the Valley of Mexico. I came with my husband from our home in Mexico City, eager to see the beauty and richness of this famous valley which, for a thousand years, had been deeply loved and fiercely coveted. Our heads were full of gay plans. My husband vowed we should ride on burros across the ravines or barrancas to the village of San Anton, where we should find the Indian potters working with the same designs that Hernán Cortez saw four hundred years ago. “How funny our long British legs will look, dangling down the sides of the poor little donkeys!” I thought. Burros, luckily, are stronger than they look....My husband said, “We will hire the old stagecoach that was used by the Emperor Maximilian and his lovely consort Carlota”; and we grew romantic over the vision of ourselves driving in the track of those royal lovers through a flowering countryside.

Unhappily for our expectations, we had come at the end of the dry season. The vegetation was burnt and the whole valley obscured by clouds of choking dust. We did not stay long in Cuernavaca.

Two years later, however, I found myself once more on the train that puffed up the mountains. This time I was a woman alone, with my way to make, and two young children waiting in Mexico City, depending on me. I was coming to Cuernavaca to start a little business if I could—coming there not from choice, but because Cuernavaca was the only town accessible from Mexico City, where my friends and relatives lived.

As I felt the train pull harder up the peak, excitement rose in me in spite of myself. Not expectantly as before, but intently, I waited for the moment when we should cross the range. We were ten thousand feet high; clouds were all about us, feathery, white, isolating us completely from everything past and to come. Then suddenly we slipped out of the clouds and I saw below me the Valley of Morelos, lovelier than I had ever dreamed. The rains had come and torn away the curtains of dust, and everywhere was living green. There was such life in that valley that I could almost see the maize and sugar cane pushing up through the fertile earth. Men were working in the fields and great herds of cattle were grazing. The enormous buildings on the great estates or haciendas had a kind of feudal air, built not for the years but for the centuries. In the heart of the valley, white-walled Cuernavaca glistened like a jewel beyond the wild barranca that protects it.

The train wound down through the quiet Indian villages that dot the foothills—clusters of thatch roofed huts ablaze with bougainvillea, by little streams where women were washing. Everywhere the awkward stalks of banana trees swayed lazily in the breeze. A dark-skinned mother, her baby cradled on her back in the long blue scarf, the rebozo, that was knotted across her breast, walked close to the train; and the dignity of her bearing reminded me that here in these villages were to be found the true blue bloods of the nation. These Indians, aloof from the mixed bloods of the cities, were the descendants of the old Tlahuicas, who, masked with the heads of wolves and jaguars and armed only with sticks and arrows and slings, had for months defended their capital against Cortez and his swarming allies. I had heard that the Tlahuicas had never been dislodged from some of their mountain fastnesses, and as I looked back at the rugged range I could well believe it; and I felt that Cortez was a man indeed to dare that descent into hostile country.

And then I saw, above the clouds, the snow-touched peaks of the two volcanoes, the Mount That Smokes and the Sleeping Woman, and never had I seen beauty that moved me as theirs did. Ixtaccihuatl, the Sleeping Woman, shimmered like a woman of marble, or a dead woman in her white shroud, lying with her head pillowed as on a couch. Beside and above her rose the spurred cone of Popocatepetl, who, the Indians say, loved her and killed her in his jealousy, and to this day vomits forth ashes, stone, and fire as warning not to come too near her. Looking that morning on those high and tragic peaks, a feeling of the great spans in which time was measured here came over me, and my own troubles seemed like a drop of water falling in the vastness of space.

I forgot that I was coming to Cuernavaca because I had to, and the zest for new places stirred in my blood. I had a fleeting remembrance of another arrival, in my earliest childhood—at Cape Town, after a three months’ voyage around South Africa, when we had been becalmed for weeks: I and my four brothers and sisters, with our noses pressed to the rail as the sailing vessel glided to the dock; behind us, our boy and girl parents, a string of nursemaids, and a mountain of baggage. We always traveled in this way, and we traveled all the time.

In those days, the days of Porfirio Diaz, railway stations were always built well outside the towns to leave room for the town to grow. As there was only one train a day to Cuernavaca there was much rivalry among the eight or ten cab drivers, who scrambled good-naturedly for fares. I climbed after my valises into the old-fashioned, high-wheeled victoria the porter selected for me, the driver jumped on the box, and we were off at a gallop—lickety-split, downhill, my knees bumping against the valises. Beside and behind us clattered the other cabs; the daily race was on. My driver stood up and cracked his whip; our mules went like mad, the carriage lurching around the steep curves till I thought we should lose a wheel. Into town we thundered, bunched for the finish, scraping through the narrow streets with such a clatter on the cobblestones that windows flew open and heads craned out. Ahead was the little green plaza, the heart of every Mexican town, but our mules seemed bound for the next valley. Not so, however; they bunched their haunches, dug their hoofs in the ground, and skidded to a standstill; the carriage bumped once, mightily, and stopped. We had arrived, and on the cool deep verandah of the old inn Bella Vista the proprietor was waiting to greet me and show me to my room. I was charmed with the place, the thick, 400-year-old walls and flower-filled patio, the sleepy square outside, and the glorious view of the volcanoes from my windows.

After the long midday meal I set out to re-explore Cuernavaca, the town that was going to be my home, and it hardly seemed the same place I had visited before. That first time, through the dust, I had looked only at the blind, flat walls of the houses, built flush with the narrow pavement, offering nothing to the passer-by but massive wooden portals, barred windows, and the glare of plaster walls, dazzlingly white, yellow, or faintly pink and blue in the sun. But now I peeped through half-open doorways into the cool green patios and gardens the flat houses enclosed, and knew that these houses were homes and lovely.

In the Indian market the venders were squatting beside their rows of red earthenware jars and pyramids of plums and mangoes. “Que va a llevar, Señora?” (What will you have?) they singsonged as I passed. Beyond rose the “stately palace” Cortez built. This massive structure, strong as a fortress, still served for the government offices, but four centuries had laid soft colorings of yellow, brown, and gray on the stone and mellowed its grimness. Cortez set his palace on the high ground, just at the point where the valley suddenly deepens a hundred feet or more by a swift descent into a vast barranca, miles in extent, carved out by the mountain torrents that rush down in the rainy season. Here the handful of Spaniards were safe from surprise attack, and here they might stand on the galleries and gloat over the wealth of the conquered valley—the maize, the cattle, and the shining sugar cane that, more than anything else, made Morelos rich.

I climbed to the famous back corridor where, years later, I was to hear Mr. Elihu Root, speaking at a banquet given in his honor, say that never in all his travels had he seen anything more beautiful than the view across the valley from where he stood, with the grand old volcanoes looking down on Cuernavaca and the surrounding villages; and that Cortez must have been a man of marvelously good taste to have chosen such a spot to build his palace. But I thought that afternoon that it must have been a relief to the grim conquistador, who held the valley only by unrelaxing vigilance, to look sometimes past the fat lands below him, across to the mountains. For I thought that this man who had no reverence for a civilization must have had a love of space and elbowroom.

Across the roofs of the houses I saw the twin towers of the Cathedral, built as early as the palace, by the monks and priests who came with the Spanish soldiers to convert the people they conquered; and I laid a course toward them. When I reached the Cathedral yard I found numbers of people scurrying about in spite of the heat, filled with the rustling, soft-voiced excitement of the Indian. Some were trailing streamers of bright-colored paper and others bent over a pile of fireworks stacked in one corner. The activity seemed to be centring not about the Cathedral itself, but about a smaller church within the enclosure. I approached a serene-faced young Indian mother who sat in the shade against a wall, nursing her baby. “Fiesta?” I ventured hopefully. It was one of the few words of Spanish I knew.

“Si, Señora.” Her face lit up. She broke into a voluble explanation, of which all I understood was “a las cinco” (at five o’clock). “I shall come back,” I promised myself. Meanwhile, I remembered, the Borda Gardens were across the way, where I could rest.

An Indian boy swung open the heavy portal in the high wall that shuts the gardens from the outer world, and I passed inside, into an Old-World park. The Borda Gardens had been laid out in the eighteenth century in the Italian style, with all formality, but in this semi-tropical climate vine and tree had budded and spread with a sweet indifference to artificial restraint, so that the maze of paths threaded a tangle of greenery through which gleamed the water of the two lakes and the showering drops of the fountains that bubbled in unexpected glades.

I sank down on the steps by the pergola and pushed off my hat and, leaning my head against a pillar, watched the play of the light on the water. In those days I knew little of Borda, the man who built the gardens. They were to me the place where Maximilian and Carlota had once lived during their brief reign in Mexico. Being young and unhappy myself, my thoughts dwelt on that handsome young couple, in love with each other, rowing over the small lakes, or bathing by the pergola, or resting perhaps where I sat. Here in these gardens, I remembered, Maximilian had been ready to sign the papers of abdication that would have saved his life, when Carlota, too ambitious for him, intervened....

My watch said a quarter to five. Refreshed by this pleasant spell of melancholy, I rose and wandered back to the church. The fiesta was now well under way, and it was clear that this must be the day appointed for the annual blessing of animals and birds, for great numbers of people were flocking from all directions, bringing their fowls and livestock with them.

 

 

All the beasts were there, both great and small: horses decorated with gold and silver stars, gay ribbons tied to their manes and tails; cows, donkeys, goats (of the least bucking variety), gayly dressed and ready for the blessing—each fowl with ribbons on its poor little legs. All kinds of birds were there, and parrots painted every color but their own, enraged, screeching and screaming at one another, trying to find out what had happened to them, looking more blighted than blest. Funniest of all were the guinea pigs in cages, giving a touch of composure and non-resistance to the occasion, although the very high walls enclosing both church and patio made escape impossible for man or beast.

The old church bell clanged five. The church door opened, the priest came out. A mad rush was made for him by men, women, and children, each dragging some department of the menagerie behind. But the zoo had been kept tethered too long; the rush was too impetuous. Whether it was an untrained goat that insisted on leading the attack, I do not know, but over went the priest, holy water and all. It was safe to say, however, that each animal was blest by at least a few drops, thus warding off or curing, for one year, all animal infirmities.

Laughing with the townspeople, I knew that I could be content in Cuernavaca. I said to myself, “Here I shall bring my children and make my home, where all is peace and beauty, and nothing has ever changed or ever will.”

CHAPTER II

THE next afternoon I went over to see the place that had been suggested for the tearoom I planned to start. I had put off the moment as long as I could.

At that time there was no place in Cuernavaca, or indeed in Mexico City, where one might stop in the afternoon for a cup of tea and a pleasant chat. It had seemed to me that since there were thriving colonies of English and Americans in Cuernavaca, and a small but steady stream of tourists, there must be a need for such a place, which I could fill. But now that I was actually on my way to the proposed location, I was not so sure. Perhaps the original taste for tea had been entirely supplanted by the taste for coffee, chocolate, cognac. Then too, I had never worked before; and there was no basis for the optimistic hope which had sustained me thus far, that necessity would uncover in me a latent flair for business. The knack of getting seemed to have passed out of our family with my great-grandfather, who made a fortune in the tea plantations of Ceylon. The rest of us had all been rather gifted spenders, and I myself had been brought up on a continually decreasing scale of luxury which had now reached bottom.

The agent, walking along beside me, explained the advantages of the house to which he was taking me; in good condition, on a main street, just off the Zócalo or plaza, where a sign could be hung in easy view of all the newcomers who arrived with the station mules. I put on a knowing, competent look, but my knees were shaking, and I wondered if my passion for independence was making a fool of me again.

We came to the house, and it was all the agent had said: well situated, in good condition, and so forth. It was not bad-looking—a one-story structure like most of the houses in Cuernavaca, with iron grilles outside its long windows. Part of it had been used as a grocery store and, although the proprietor had left, the groceries had not been moved.

I don’t know what I had expected—certainly not the dainty tearoom I planned to open ready-made and waiting for me; but the sight of shelves of tinned and bottled foods, sacks of beans, and a few wilted vegetables knocked the last bit of courage out of me. I mumbled something to the agent, who left, and stood staring at the rows of sardines, prunes, and olives that seemed to grow higher and higher before my eyes; and finally I sat down on a soap box and wept.

I was still weeping on the soap box when an American woman I had known in Mexico City, and who happened to be in Cuernavaca, came in to look for me. She took me by the shoulders and shook me soundly.

“I’m ashamed of you,” she told me. “A grown woman, with two children to look after, sitting there and crying like a baby. Afraid to work!”

I braced up then, and the two of us discussed practical ways of putting the house in order. Once the groceries were out, I f...

Inhaltsverzeichnis

• Title page
• DEDICATION
• ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
• ILLUSTRATIONS
• PROLOGUE
• CHAPTER I
• CHAPTER II
• CHAPTER III
• CHAPTER IV
• CHAPTER V
• CHAPTER VI
• CHAPTER VII
• CHAPTER VIII
• CHAPTER IX
• CHAPTER X
• CHAPTER XI
• CHAPTER XII
• CHAPTER XIII
• CHAPTER XIV
• CHAPTER XV
• CHAPTER XVI
• CHAPTER XVII
• CHAPTER XVIII
• CHAPTER XIX
• CHAPTER XX
• CHAPTER XXI
• EPILOGUE