The Wailing Woman: "La Llorona," a Legend of Mexico

The Argonaut, 10 March 1888

It was three o'clock in the morning. The bells of the cathedral and the palace, far away, struck the hour, as we traversed a lonely, silent street toward the suburbs of Mexico.¹ We had been keeping vigil with a wounded man, a compatriot of mine, and had overstayed our watch, for he was frantic with delirium, and we feared to transfer him to the care of the inexperienced and rather careless persons who should succeed us.

We walked on briskly, for it was long hours past the time when coaches and tram-cars had ceased plying. We were in San Cosme, and in front of the great, massive structure which the wife of ex-Marshal Bazaine has claimed from the government as an imperial gift to her traitorous husband.² The façade of this edifice curves in such fashion as to form an offset or alcove on the street, and before we reached it, I fancied I saw a woman's figure stealing along in its denser shadow, and I felt a thrill of compassion for her, as one of the poor children of the night. She was not to be seen when we came near the spot, but a moment later a piercing cry rang out near us—a long-drawn wail of suffering and horror.

I grasped the arm of my comrade. "Some woman is in distress—we must go to her rescue. We are both armed, thank heaven!"

But he threw his arm about me, and forced me forward at a quick pace that was almost a run; and so unexpected was the move that I had been pushed along some rods³ ere I could offer resistance.

"Come on! come on!" he whispered hoarsely, as I shook myself free from his clasp, "we must hasten! We must go on quickly!"

"I would not have believed you could desert a fellow-creature in trouble!" I cried with indignation, "and beyond all, a woman. It is not like you, Federico." For I had seen his courage tried by venomous serpents in tierra caliente,⁴ and in encounters with highwaymen in the Sierras, and I had heard of his coolness and daring in a combat with Apaches in Northern Chihuahua.⁵

"Hush! hush!" he answered, panting. "You know not of what you speak. We abandon no mortal woman—the voice you hear is the cry of La Llorona. Look yonder at the sereno!"

We were near one of the points where a watchman stands all night in the middle of the thoroughfare, and, following my companion's gesture, I saw the officer, fallen upon his knees in the circle of light cast by his lantern; the great capuchin hood of his cape was pulled over his head, and every line of his figure betokened abject fear and horror. There was something uncanny in the sight, for the policemen of Mexico are not impressionable material. And through the silent, empty street those dreadful cries still went ringing wildly, surely sufficient motive for such a display of terror. The sound seemed to float away, and down a by-street toward the equestrian statue of Charles IV.,⁶ growing fainter and fainter in the distance.

"Let us go," said my companion; "yes, I am materialista,⁷ and I sneer at spiritualism, and ghosts, and phantoms ; but, nevertheless, I think there is not a man or woman in Mexico who would not tremble at the voice of Luisa La Llorona."

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In the year of our Lord 1584, Luisa Haro was called the most beautiful girl in Mexico, and the most modest. Her father had brought her from Spain when she was ten years old, and, dying four years later, had left her utterly without kindred, so far as was known to herself or her neighbors. She was a clever needlewoman, and a maker of artificial flowers, and her skill found ready employment for churchly uses, notwithstanding the enormous quantity of such work done in the convents. She had her little home-nest in a lonely callejuela, or by-street...