SOME MEXICAN LEGENDS.
There is hardly a spot in Mexico that has not some romantic history
connected with it; and the tales are always so beautiful and full of
thrilling romance. I would like to live in Mexico some time, and devote
all my attention to gathering these interesting stories. I have given
samples of them in the history of Don Juan Manuel.
The Street of the Jewel is also connected with a story full of love and
its companion, despair. Here dwelled Gasper Villareal and his wife,
Violante Armejo. Gasper was a man of moderate means, but he had enough
to preserve his wife from labor. She was of wondrous beauty but quite
strange, she only cared to hide herself in her convent-like home. She
loved her husband, and he was as jealous as a Mexican can be.
One day a young noble, Diego de Fajardo, rode by the door, and, being
thirsty, he asked the mozo for a drink. Violante sat in the corridor,
looking upon the garden, and dreaming, doubtless, of her absent lord.
True to the instincts of her race, she ordered the mozo to take the
stranger a glass of wine. The servant did her bidding, explaining
to the young cavalier the reason of the change in his refreshments.
Diego de Fajardo felt that it would be churlish to ride away without
acknowledging the gracious hospitality. He tossed his bridle to the man
and passed into the garden.
Violante still sat in her hammock, garbed in spotless white, the
perfection of beauty, grace and innocence. The young _caballero_ had
not uttered his thanks until he had vowed to win Gasper Villareal's
lovely wife.
Day after day he watched the casa, waiting for an opportunity to find
the wife alone. At last fate favored him. It was near nightfall when he
saw the husband come forth, and, taking saddle, ride toward the city.
In a moment, eager and confident, he fell on his knees before Violante
and confessed his love.
She did not full into his arms, but she spurned him and with such anger
that he saw his conduct in its true light, and, repentant he arose from
his knees and left her. Violante started to her chamber to seek her
rosary and to cool her throbbing brow with the touch of holy water,
when her foot struck a sparkling object; it was a bracelet, with her
name, "Violante," in diamonds, close beside the coronet and arms of De
Fajardo.
As she stood her husband entered. Having to return for something, he
had been struck with horror to see a man rush from his gateway. There
stood his wife with the jewel in her hand, the evidence of her guilt.
Without a word he sunk his dagger in her breast. As she sunk lifeless
to the floor, he snatched the gleaming bracelet from her stiffening
fingers and left the house.
Diego do Fajardo was wakened in the morning by his mozo. Something had
happened and he was wanted to go out in the street to see if he could
understand it. Tremblingly he obeyed. On the pavement, Gasper Villareal
lay rigid, his garments soaked with his life's blood. Near the bronze
knocker of the massive door was a splendid diamond bracelet, suspended
on a blood-stained dagger.
In 1550 the lake of Texcoco overflowed, and almost submerged the City
of Mexico. Among the objects found drifting upon the water was a large
canvas, on which appeared a beautiful representation of the Virgin.
None could determine where it came from, so a chapel was built for it.
It is called "Our Lady of the Angels." For centuries it has received
the veneration of man.
Another inundation occurred in 1607, and all the chapel, except the
side holding the Virgin's picture, was washed away. Despite all the
storms the picture was said to be as bright as if just from the
painter's brush. A new chapel was built around this marvelous painting,
which stood until 1627, when another flood took it all away excepting
the one wall holding the Virgin's likeness. There, neglected and
unprotected, it stood as the storms had left it until 1745, when a
succession of public calamities drove the people to implore the succor
of the Virgin. A building was again erected around the uninjured
painting. Thus, until the present day, the people in need seek the
painting to pour forth their prayers at its feet.
El Desierto and its old Carmelite convent occupy the most charming
spot in Mexico. It is only fifteen miles from the capital, and the
way is along the most romantic and picturesque road a Southern clime
can produce. The forest that surrounds El Desierto is composed of the
largest trees in the valley, hardly excepting those of Chapultepec.
The convent was a group of massive buildings, domes and turrets, now
crumbling into decay. In 1625 the monks retreated to this wilderness
to mortify the flesh, and strange stories of their serio-jovial life,
their sparkling wines and romance of their hermit-like existence come
creeping down through centuries; the jolly monks are no more, and the
winds sigh through the mighty forest that has ridden romance, love and
tragedy from the world.
The conqueror, Cortez, not satisfied with robbing the grand old
Aztec king, Montezuma, of his land and life, also robbed him of his
daughter. The poor woman, after he deserted her, died in a convent,
leaving a daughter, the child of Cortez. This daughter of Cortez',
and granddaughter of Montezuma, was married very young to a Spanish
captain, Quinteros. There are now in Puebla descendants of that illegal
love.