rumble across a sea of darkness—the endless plains of the Landes which
the night submerged. For ten minutes already not a sound ought to have
been heard in the carriage, one and all ought to have been sleeping or
suffering uncomplainingly. However, a mutiny broke out.
“Oh! Sister!” exclaimed Marie, whose eyes were sparkling, “allow us
just another short quarter of an hour! We have got to the most
interesting part.”
Ten, twenty voices took up the cry: “Oh yes, Sister, please do let us
have another short quarter of an hour!”
They all wished to hear the continuation, burning with as much
curiosity as though they had not known the story, so captivated were
they by the touches of compassionate human feeling which Pierre
introduced into his narrative. Their glances never left him, all their
heads were stretched towards him, fantastically illumined by the
flickering light of the lamps. And it was not only the sick who
displayed this interest; the ten women occupying the compartment at the
far end of the carriage had also become impassioned, and, happy at not
missing a single word, turned their poor ugly faces now beautified by
naive faith.
“No, I cannot!” Sister Hyacinthe at first declared; “the rules are very
strict—you must be silent.”
However, she weakened, she herself feeling so interested in the tale
that she could detect her heart beating under her stomacher. Then Marie
again repeated her request in an entreating tone; whilst her father, M.
de Guersaint, who had listened like one hugely amused, declared that
they would all fall ill if the story were not continued. And thereupon,
seeing Madame de Jonquiere smile with an indulgent air, Sister
Hyacinthe ended by consenting.
“Well, then,” said she, “I will allow you another short quarter of an
hour; but only a short quarter of an hour, mind. That is understood, is
it not? For I should otherwise be in fault.”
Pierre had waited quietly without attempting to intervene. And he
resumed his narrative in the same penetrating voice as before, a voice
in which his own doubts were softened by pity for those who suffer and
who hope.
The scene of the story was now transferred to Lourdes, to the Rue des
Petits Fosses, a narrow, tortuous, mournful street taking a downward
course between humble houses and roughly plastered dead walls. The
Soubirous family occupied a single room on the ground floor of one of
these sorry habitations, a room at the end of a dark passage, in which
seven persons were huddled together, the father, the mother, and five
children. You could scarcely see in the chamber; from the tiny, damp
inner courtyard of the house there came but a greenish light. And in
that room they slept, all of a heap; and there also they ate, when they
had bread. For some time past, the father, a miller by trade, could
only with difficulty obtain work as a journeyman. And it was from that
dark hole, that lowly wretchedness, that Bernadette, the elder girl,
with Marie, her sister, and Jeanne, a little friend of the
neighbourhood, went out to pick up dead wood, on the cold February
Thursday already spoken of.
Then the beautiful tale was unfolded at length; how the three girls
followed the bank of the Gave from the other side of the castle, and
how they ended by finding themselves on the Ile du Chalet in front of
the rock of Massabielle, from which they were only separated by the
narrow stream diverted from the Gave, and used for working the mill of
Savy. It was a wild spot, whither the common herdsman often brought the
pigs of the neighbourhood, which, when showers suddenly came on, would
take shelter under this rock of Massabielle, at whose base there was a
kind of grotto of no great depth, blocked at the entrance by eglantine
and brambles. The girls found dead wood very scarce that day, but at
last on seeing on the other side of the stream quite a gleaning of
branches deposited there by the torrent, Marie and Jeanne crossed over
through the water; whilst Bernadette, more delicate than they were, a
trifle young-ladyfied, perhaps, remained on the bank lamenting, and not
daring to wet her feet. She was suffering slightly from humour in the
head, and her mother had expressly bidden her to wrap herself in her
/capulet/,* a large white
/capulet/ which contrasted vividly with her old black woollen dress.
/When she
found that her companions would not help her, she resignedly made up
her mind to take off her /sabots/, and pull down her stockings. It was
then about noon, the three strokes of the Angelus rang out from the
parish church, rising into the broad calm winter sky, which was
somewhat veiled by fine fleecy clouds. And it was then that a great
agitation arose within her, resounding in her ears with such a
tempestuous roar that she fancied a hurricane had descended from the
mountains, and was passing over her. But she looked at the trees and
was stupefied, for not a leaf was stirring. Then she thought that she
had been mistaken, and was about to pick up her /sabots/, when again
the great gust swept through her; but, this time, the disturbance in
her ears reached her eyes, she no longer saw the trees, but was dazzled
by a whiteness, a kind of bright light which seemed to her to settle
itself against the rock, in a narrow, lofty slit above the Grotto, not
unlike an ogival window of a cathedral. In her fright she fell upon her
knees. What could it be, /mon Dieu/? Sometimes, during bad weather,
when her asthma oppressed her more than usual, she spent very bad
nights, incessantly dreaming dreams which were often painful, and whose
stifling effect she retained on awaking, even when she had ceased to
remember anything. Flames would surround her, the sun would flash
before her face. Had she dreamt in that fashion during the previous
night? Was this the continuation of some forgotten dream? However,
little by little a form became outlined, she believed that she could
distinguish a figure which the vivid light rendered intensely white. In
her fear lest it should be the devil, for her mind was haunted by tales
of witchcraft, she began to tell her beads. And when the light had
slowly faded away, and she had crossed the canal and joined Marie and
Jeanne, she was surprised to find that neither of them had seen
anything whilst they were picking up the wood in front of the Grotto.
On their way back to Lourdes the three girls talked together. So she,
Bernadette, had seen something then? What was it? At first, feeling
uneasy, and somewhat ashamed, she would not answer; but at last she
said that she had seen something white.
* This is a kind of hood, more generally known among the Bearnese
peasantry as a /sarot/. Whilst forming a coif it also completely covers
the back and shoulders.—Trans.
From this the rumours started and grew. The Soubirouses, on being made
acquainted with the circumstance, evinced much displeasure at such
childish nonsense, and told their daughter that she was not to return
to the rock of Massabielle. All the children of the neighbourhood,
however, were already repeating the tale, and when Sunday came the
parents had to give way, and allow Bernadette to betake herself to the
Grotto with a bottle of holy water to ascertain if it were really the
devil whom one had to deal with. She then again beheld the light, the
figure became more clearly defined, and smiled upon her, evincing no
fear whatever of the holy water. And, on the ensuing Thursday, she once
more returned to the spot accompanied by several persons, and then for
the first time the radiant lady assumed sufficient corporality to
speak, and say to her: “Do me the kindness to come here for fifteen
days.”
Thus, little by little, the lady had assumed a precise appearance. The
something clad in white had become indeed a lady more beautiful than a
queen, of a kind such as is only seen in pictures. At first, in
presence of the questions with which all the neighbours plied her from
morning till evening, Bernadette had hesitated, disturbed, perhaps, by
scruples of conscience. But then, as though prompted by the very
interrogatories to which she was subjected, she seemed to perceive the
figure which she had beheld, more plainly, so that it definitely
assumed life, with lines and hues from which the child, in her
after-descriptions, never departed. The lady’s eyes were blue and very
mild, her mouth was rosy and smiling, the oval of her face expressed
both the grace of youth and of maternity. Below the veil covering her
head and falling to her heels, only a glimpse was caught of her
admirable fair hair, which was slightly curled. Her robe, which was of
dazzling whiteness, must have been of some material unknown on earth,
some material woven of the sun’s rays. Her sash, of the same hue as the
heavens, was fastened loosely about her, its long ends streaming
downwards, with the light airiness of morning. Her chaplet, wound about
her right arm, had beads of a milky whiteness, whilst the links and the
cross were of gold. And on her bare feet, on her adorable feet of
virgin snow, flowered two golden roses, the mystic roses of this divine
mother’s immaculate flesh.
Where was it that Bernadette had seen this Blessed Virgin, of such
traditionally simple composition, unadorned by a single jewel, having
but the primitive grace imagined by the painters of a people in its
childhood? In which illustrated book belonging to her foster-mother’s
brother, the good priest, who read such attractive stories, had she
beheld this Virgin? Or in what picture, or what statuette, or what
stained-glass window of the painted and gilded church where she had
spent so many evenings whilst growing up? And whence, above all things,
had come those golden roses poised on the Virgin’s feet, that piously
imagined florescence of woman’s flesh—from what romance of chivalry,
from what story told after catechism by the Abbe Ader, from what
unconscious dream indulged in under the shady foliage of Bartres,
whilst ever and ever repeating that haunting Angelic Salutation?
Pierre’s voice had acquired a yet more feeling tone, for if he did not
say all these things to the simple-minded folks who were listening to
him, still the human explanation of all these prodigies which the
feeling of doubt in the depths of his being strove to supply, imparted
to his narrative a quiver of sympathetic, fraternal love. He loved
Bernadette the better for the great charm of her hallucination—that
lady of such gracious access, such perfect amiability, such politeness
in appearing and disappearing so appropriately. At first the great
light would show itself, then the vision took form, came and went,
leant forward, moved about, floating imperceptibly, with ethereal
lightness; and when it vanished the glow lingered for yet another
moment, and then disappeared like a star fading away. No lady in this
world could have such a white and rosy face, with a beauty so akin to
that of the Virgins on the picture-cards given to children at their
first communions. And it was strange that the eglantine of the Grotto
did not even hurt her adorable bare feet blooming with golden flowers.
Pierre, however, at once proceeded to recount the other apparitions.
The fourth and fifth occurred on the Friday and the Saturday; but the
Lady, who shone so brightly and who had not yet told her name,
contented herself on these occasions with smiling and saluting without
pronouncing a word. On the Sunday, however, she wept, and said to
Bernadette, “Pray for sinners.” On the Monday, to the child’s great
grief, she did not appear, wishing, no doubt, to try her. But on the
Tuesday she confided to her a secret which concerned her (the girl)
alone, a secret which she was never to divulge*; and then she at last
told her what mission it was that she entrusted to her: “Go and tell
the priests,” she said, “that they must build a chapel here.” On the
Wednesday she frequently murmured the word “Penitence! penitence!
penitence!” which the child repeated, afterwards kissing the earth. On
the Thursday the Lady said to her: “Go, and drink, and wash at the
spring, and eat of the grass that is beside it,” words which the
Visionary ended by understanding, when in the depths of the Grotto a
source suddenly sprang up beneath her fingers. And this was the miracle
of the enchanted fountain.
* In a like way, it will be remembered, the apparition at La Salette
confided a secret to Melanie and Maximin (see /ante/, note). There can
be little doubt that Bernadette was acquainted with the story of the
miracle of La Salette.—Trans.
Then the second week ran its course. The lady did not appear on the
Friday, but was punctual on the five following days, repeating her
commands and gazing with a smile at the humble girl whom she had chosen
to do her bidding, and who, on her side, duly told her beads at each
apparition, kissed the earth, and repaired on her knees to the source,
there to drink and wash. At last, on Thursday, March 4, the last day of
these mystical assignations, the Lady requested more pressingly than
before that a chapel might be erected in order that the nations might
come thither in procession from all parts of the earth. So far,
however, in reply to all Bernadette’s appeals, she had refused to say
who she was; and it was only three weeks later, on Thursday, March 25,
that, joining her hands together, and raising her eyes to Heaven, she
said: “I am the Immaculate Conception.” On two other occasions, at
somewhat long intervals, April 7 and July l6, she again appeared: the
first time to perform the miracle of the lighted taper, that taper
above which the child, plunged in ecstasy, for a long time
unconsciously left her hand, without burning it; and the second time to
bid Bernadette farewell, to favour her with a last smile, and a last
inclination of the head full of charming politeness. This made eighteen
apparitions all told; and never again did the Lady show herself.
Whilst Pierre went on with his beautiful, marvellous story, so soothing
to the wretched, he evoked for himself a vision of that pitiable,
lovable Bernadette, whose sufferings had flowered so wonderfully. As a
doctor had roughly expressed it, this girl of fourteen, at a critical
period of her life, already ravaged, too, by asthma, was, after all,
simply an exceptional victim of hysteria, afflicted with a degenerate
heredity and lapsing into infancy. If there were no violent crises in
her case, if there were no stiffening of the muscles during her
attacks, if she retained a precise recollection of her dreams, the
reason was that her case was peculiar to herself, and she added, so to
say, a new and very curious form to all the forms of hysteria known at
the time. Miracles only begin when things cannot be explained; and
science, so far, knows and can explain so little, so infinitely do the
phenomena of disease vary according to the nature of the patient! But
how many shepherdesses there had been before Bernadette who had seen
the Virgin in a similar way, amidst all the same childish nonsense! Was
it not always the same story, the Lady clad in light, the secret
confided, the spring bursting forth, the mission which had to be
fulfilled, the miracles whose enchantments would convert the masses?
And was not the personal appearance of the Virgin always in accordance
with a poor child’s dreams—akin to some coloured figure in a missal, an
ideal compounded of traditional beauty, gentleness, and politeness. And
the same dreams showed themselves in the naivete of the means which
were to be employed and of the object which was to be attained—the
deliverance of nations, the building of churches, the processional
pilgrimages of the faithful! Then, too, all the words which fell from
Heaven resembled one another, calls for penitence, promises of help;
and in this respect, in Bernadette’s case the only new feature was that
most extraordinary declaration: “I am the Immaculate Conception,” which
burst forth—very usefully—as the recognition by the Blessed Virgin
herself of the dogma promulgated by the Court of Rome but three years
previously! It was not the Immaculate Virgin who appeared: no, it was
the Immaculate Conception, the abstraction itself, the thing, the
dogma, so that one might well ask oneself if really the Virgin had
spoken in such a fashion. As for the other words, it was possible that
Bernadette had heard them somewhere and stored them up in some
unconscious nook of her memory. But these—“I am the Immaculate
Conception”—whence had they come as though expressly to fortify a
dogma—still bitterly discussed—with such prodigious support as the
direct testimony of the Mother conceived without sin? At this thought,
Pierre, who was convinced of Bernadette’s absolute good faith, who
refused to believe that she had been the instrument of a fraud, began
to waver, deeply agitated, feeling his belief in truth totter within
him.
The apparitions, however, had caused intense emotion at Lourdes; crowds
flocked to the spot, miracles began, and those inevitable persecutions
broke out which ensure the triumph of new religions. Abbe Peyramale,
the parish priest of Lourdes, an extremely honest man, with an upright,
vigorous mind, was able in all truth to declare that he did not know
this child, that she had not yet been seen at catechism. Where was the
pressure, then, where the lesson learnt by heart? There was nothing but
those years of childhood spent at Bartres, the first teachings of Abbe
Ader, conversations possibly, religious ceremonies in honour of the
recently proclaimed dogma, or simply the gift of one of those
commemorative medals which had been scattered in profusion. Never did
Abbe Ader reappear upon the scene, he who had predicted the mission of
the future Visionary. He was destined to remain apart from Bernadette
and her future career, he who, the first, had seen her little soul
blossom in his pious hands. And yet all the unknown forces that had
sprung from that sequestered village, from that nook of greenery where
superstition and poverty of intelligence prevailed, were still making
themselves felt, disturbing the brains of men, disseminating the
contagion of the mysterious. It was remembered that a shepherd of
Argeles, speaking of the rock of Massabielle, had prophesied that great
things would take place there. Other children, moreover, now fell in
ecstasy with their eyes dilated and their limbs quivering with
convulsions, but these only saw the devil. A whirlwind of madness
seemed to be passing over the region. An old lady of Lourdes declared
that Bernadette was simply a witch and that she had herself seen the
toad’s foot in her eye. But for the others, for the thousands of
pilgrims who hastened to the spot, she was a saint, and they kissed her
garments. Sobs burst forth and frenzy seemed to seize upon the souls of
the beholders, when she fell upon her knees before the Grotto, a
lighted taper in her right hand, whilst with the left she told the
beads of her rosary. She became very pale and quite beautiful,
transfigured, so to say. Her features gently ascended in her face,
lengthened into an expression of extraordinary beatitude, whilst her
eyes filled with light, and her lips parted as though she were speaking
words which could not be heard. And it was quite certain that she had
no will of her own left her, penetrated as she was by a dream,
possessed by it to such a point in the confined, exclusive sphere in
which she lived, that she continued dreaming it even when awake, and
thus accepted it as the only indisputable reality, prepared to testify
to it even at the cost of her blood, repeating it over and over again,
obstinately, stubbornly clinging to it, and never varying in the
details she gave. She did not lie, for she did not know, could not and
would not desire anything apart from it.
Forgetful of the flight of time, Pierre was now sketching a charming
picture of old Lourdes, that pious little town, slumbering at the foot
of the Pyrenees. The castle, perched on a rock at the point of
intersection of the seven valleys of Lavedan, had formerly been the key
of the mountain districts. But, in Bernadette’s time, it had become a
mere dismantled, ruined pile, at the entrance of a road leading
nowhere. Modern life found its march stayed by a formidable rampart of
lofty, snow-capped peaks, and only the trans-Pyrenean railway—had it
been constructed—could have established an active circulation of social
life in that sequestered nook where human existence stagnated like dead
water. Forgotten, therefore, Lourdes remained slumbering, happy and
sluggish amidst its old-time peacefulness, with its narrow,
pebble-paved streets and its bleak houses with dressings of marble. The
old roofs were still all massed on the eastern side of the castle; the
Rue de la Grotte, then called the Rue du Bois, was but a deserted and
often impassable road; no houses stretched down to the Gave as now, and
the scum-laden waters rolled through a perfect solitude of pollard
willows and tall grass. On week-days but few people passed across the
Place du Marcadal, such as housewives hastening on errands, and petty
cits airing their leisure hours; and you had to wait till Sundays or
fair days to find the inhabitants rigged out in their best clothes and
assembled on the Champ Commun, in company with the crowd of graziers
who had come down from the distant tablelands with their cattle. During
the season when people resort to the Pyrenean-waters, the passage of
the visitors to Cauterets and Bagneres also brought some animation;
/diligences/ passed through the town twice a day, but they came from
Pau by a wretched road, and had to ford the Lapaca, which often
overflowed its banks. Then climbing the steep ascent of the Rue Basse,
they skirted the terrace of the church, which was shaded by large elms.
And what soft peacefulness prevailed in and around that old
semi-Spanish church, full of ancient carvings, columns, screens, and
statues, peopled with visionary patches of gilding and painted flesh,
which time had mellowed and which you faintly discerned as by the light
of mystical lamps! The whole population came there to worship, to fill
their eyes with the dream of the mysterious. There were no unbelievers,
the inhabitants of Lourdes were a people of primitive faith; each
corporation marched behind the banner of its saint, brotherhoods of all
kinds united the entire town, on festival mornings, in one large
Christian family. And, as with some exquisite flower that has grown in
the soil of its choice, great purity of life reigned there. There was
not even a resort of debauchery for young men to wreck their lives, and
the girls, one and all, grew up with the perfume and beauty of
innocence, under the eyes of the Blessed Virgin, Tower of Ivory and
Seat of Wisdom.
And how well one could understand that Bernadette, born in that holy
soil, should flower in it, like one of nature’s roses budding in the
wayside bushes! She was indeed the very florescence of that region of
ancient belief and rectitude; she would certainly not have sprouted
elsewhere; she could only appear and develop there, amidst that belated
race, amidst the slumberous peacefulness of a childlike people, under
the moral discipline of religion. And what intense love at once burst
forth all around her! What blind confidence was displayed in her
mission, what immense consolation and hope came to human hearts on the
very morrow of the first miracles! A long cry of relief had greeted the
cure of old Bourriette recovering his sight, and of little Justin
Bouhohorts coming to life again in the icy water of the spring. At
last, then, the Blessed Virgin was intervening in favour of those who
despaired, forcing that unkind mother, Nature, to be just and
charitable. This was divine omnipotence returning to reign on earth,
sweeping the laws of the world aside in order to work the happiness of
the suffering and the poor. The miracles multiplied, blazed forth, from
day to day more and more extraordinary, like unimpeachable proof of
Bernadette’s veracity. And she was, indeed, the rose of the divine
garden, whose deeds shed perfume, the rose who beholds all the other
flowers of grace and salvation spring into being around her.