I can say is that, if so, it is surely as wonderful as any miracle, that
the Church should have hit upon a secret that the scientists have
missed. But is there not a simpler way of accounting for it? For read
and consider the human evidence as regards Bernadette--her age, her
simplicity, her appearance of ecstasy. She said that she saw this Lady
eighteen times; on one of these occasions, in the presence of
bystanders. She was bidden, she said, to go to the water. She turned to
go down to the Gave, but was recalled and bidden to dig in the earth of
the Grotto. She did so, and a little muddy water appeared where no soul
in the village knew that there was water. Hour by hour this water waxed
in volume; to-day it pours out in an endless stream, is conducted
through the _piscines_; and it is after washing in this water that
bodies are healed in a fashion for which "science cannot account."
Perhaps it cannot. Perhaps it is not intended. But there are things
besides science, and one of them is religion. Is not the evidence
tolerably strong? Or is it a series of coincidences that the child had
an hallucination, devised some trick with the water, and that this water
happens to be an occasion of healing people declared incurable by known
means?
What is the good of these miracles? If so many are cured, why are not
all? Are the _miracules_ especially distinguished for piety? Is it
to be expected that unbelievers will be convinced? Is it claimed that the
evidence is irresistible? Let us go back to the Gospels. It used to be
said by doubters that the "miraculous element" must have been added
later by the piety of the disciples, because all the world knew now that
"miracles" did not happen. That _a priori_ argument is surely
silenced by Lourdes. "Miracles" in that sense undoubtedly do happen, if
present-day evidence is worth anything whatever. What, then, is the
Christian theory?
It is this. Our Blessed Lord appears to have worked miracles of such a
nature that their significance was not, historically speaking,
absolutely evident to those who, for other reasons, did not "believe in
Him." It is known how some asked for a "sign from heaven" and were
refused it; how He Himself said that even if one rose from the dead,
they would not believe; yet, further, how He begged them to believe Him
even for His work's sake, if for nothing else. We know, finally, how,
when confronted with one particular miracle, His enemies cried out that
it must have been done by diabolical agency.
Very good, then. It would seem that the miracles of Our Lord were of a
nature that strongly disposed to belief those that witnessed them, and
helped vastly in the confirmation of the faith of those who already
believed; but that miracles, as such, cannot absolutely compel the
belief of those who for moral reasons refuse it. If they could, faith
would cease to be faith.
Now, this seems precisely the state of affairs at Lourdes. Even
unbelieving scientists are bound to admit that science at present cannot
account for the facts, which is surely the modern equivalent for the
Beelzebub theory. We have seen, too, how severely scientific persons
such as Dr. Boissarie and Dr. Cox--if they will permit me to quote their
names--knowing as well as anyone what medicine and surgery and hypnotism
and suggestion can and cannot do, corroborate this evidence, and see in
the facts a simple illustration of the truth of that Catholic Faith
which they both hold and practise.
Is not the parallel a fair one? What more, then, do the adversaries
want? There is no arguing with people who say that, since there is
nothing but Nature, no process can be other than natural. There is no
sign, even from heaven, that could break down the intellectual prejudice
of such people. If they saw Jesus Christ Himself in glory, they could
always say that "at present science cannot account for the phenomenon of
a luminous body apparently seated upon a throne, but no doubt it will do
so in the course of time." If they saw a dead and corrupting man rise
from the grave, they could always argue that he could not have been dead
and corrupting, or he could not have risen from the grave. Nothing but
the Last Judgment could convince such persons. Even when the trumpet
sounds, I believe that some of them, when they have recovered from their
first astonishment, will make remarks about aural phenomena.
But for the rest of us, who believe in God and His Son and the Mother of
God on quite other grounds--because our intellect is satisfied, our
heart kindled, our will braced by the belief; and because without that
belief all life falls into chaos, and human evidence is nullified, and
all noble motive and emotion cease--for us, who have received the gift
of faith, in however small a measure, Lourdes is enough. Christ and His
Mother are with us. Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, to-day, and for
ever. Is not that, after all, the simplest theory?
V.
After _dejeuner_ I set out again to find the Scottish priest, who hoped
to be able to take me to a certain window in the Rosary Church, where
only a few were admitted, from which we might view the procession and
the Blessing of the Sick. But we were disappointed; and, after a certain
amount of scheming, we managed to get a position at the back of the
crowd on the top of the church steps. I was able to climb up a few
inches above the others, and secured a very tolerable view of the whole
scene.
The crowd was beyond describing. Here about us was a vast concourse of
men; and as far as the eye could reach down the huge oval, and far away
beyond the crowned statue, and on either side back to the Bureau on the
left, and on the slopes on the right, stretched an inconceivable
pavement of heads. Above us, too, on every terrace and step, back to the
doors of the great basilica, we knew very well, was one seething,
singing mob. A great space was kept open on the level ground beneath
us--I should say one hundred by two hundred yards in area--and the
inside fringe of this was composed of the sick, in litters, in chairs,
standing, sitting, lying and kneeling. It was at the farther end that
the procession would enter.
After perhaps half an hour's waiting, during which one incessant gust of
singing rolled this way and that through the crowd, the leaders of the
procession appeared far away--little white or black figures, small as
dolls--and the singing became general. But as the endless files rolled
out, the singing ceased, and a moment later a priest, standing solitary
in the great space began to pray aloud in a voice like a silver trumpet.
I have never heard such passion in my life. I began to watch presently,
almost mechanically, the little group beneath the _ombrellino_, in white
and gold, and the movements of the monstrance blessing the sick; but
again and again my eyes wandered back to the little figure in the midst,
and I cried out with the crowd, sentence after sentence, following that
passionate voice:
"_Seigneur, nous vous adorons!_"
"_Seigneur,_" came the huge response, "_nous vous adorons!_"
"_Seigneur, nous vous aimons!_" cried the priest.
"_Seigneur, nous vous aimons!_" answered the people.
"_Sauvez-nous, Jesus; nous perissons!_"
"_Sauvez-nous, Jesus; nous perissons!_"
"_Jesus, Fils de Marie, ayez pitie de nous!_"
"_Jesus, Fils de Marie, ayez pitie de nous!_"
Then with a surge rose up the plainsong melody.
"_Parce, Domine!_" sang the people. "_Parce populo tuo! Ne in aeternum
irascaris nobis._"
Again:
"_Gloria Patri et Filio et Spiritui Sancto._"
"_Sicut erat in principio et nunc et semper, et in saecula saeculorum.
Amen._"
Then again the single voice and the multitudinous answer:
"_Vous etes la Resurrection et la Vie!_"
And then an adjuration to her whom He gave to be our Mother.
"_Mere du Sauveur, priez pour nous!_"
"_Salut des Infirmes, priez pour nous!_"
Then once more the singing; then the cry, more touching than all:
"_Seigneur, guerissez nos malades!_"
"_Seigneur, guerissez nos malades!_"
Then the kindling shout that brought the blood to ten thousand faces:
"_Hosanna! Hosanna au Fils de David!_" (I shook to hear it).
"_Hosanna!_" cried the priest, rising from his knees with arms flung
wide.
"_Hosanna!_" roared the people, swift as an echo.
"_Hosanna! Hosanna!_" crashed out again and again, like great
artillery.
Yet there was no movement among those piteous prostrate lines. The
Bishop, the _ombrellino_ over him, passed on slowly round the circle;
and the people cried to Him whom he bore, as they cried two thousand
years ago on the road to the city of David. Surely He will be pitiful
upon this day--the Jubilee Year of His Mother's graciousness, the octave
of her assumption to sit with Him on His throne!
"_Mere du Sauveur, priez pour nous!_"
"_Jesus, vous etes mon Seigneur et mon Dieu!_"
Yet there was no movement.
If ever "suggestion" could work a miracle, it must work it now. "We
expect the miracles during the procession to-morrow and on Sunday," a
priest had said to me on the previous day. And there I stood, one of a
hundred thousand, confident in expectation, thrilled by that voice,
nothing doubting or fearing; there were the sick beneath me, answering
weakly and wildly to the crying of the priest; and yet there was no
movement, no sudden leap of a sick man from his bed as Jesus went by, no
vibrating scream of joy--"_Je suis gueri! Je suis gueri!_"--no
tumultuous rush to the place, and the roar of the _Magnificat_, as we
had been led to expect.
The end was coming near now. The monstrance had reached the image once
again, and was advancing down the middle. The voice of the priest grew
more passionate still, as he tossed his arms and cried for mercy
"_Jesus, ayez pitie de nous!--ayez pitie[Transcriber's Note: original
had "pitie"] de nous!_"
And the people, frantic with ardour and desire, answered him in a voice
of thunder:
"_Ayez pitie de nous!--ayez pitie de nous!_"
And now up the steps came the grave group to where Jesus would at least
bless His own, though He would not heal them; and the priest in the
midst, with one last cry, gave glory to Him who must be served through
whatever misery:
"_Hosanna! Hosanna au Fils de David!_"
Surely that must touch the Sacred Heart! Will not His Mother say one
word?
"_Hosanna! Hosanna au Fils de David!_"
"_Hosanna!_" cried the priest.
"_Hosanna!_" cried the people.
"_Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna!..._"
One articulate roar of disappointed praise, and then--_Tantum ergo
Sacramentum!_ rose in its solemnity.
When Benediction was over, I went back to the Bureau; but there was
little to be seen there. No, there were no miracles to-day, I was
told--or hardly one. Perhaps one in the morning. It was not known.
Several Bishops were there again, listening to the talk of the doctors,
and the description of certain cases on previous days. Pere Salvator,
the Capuchin, was there again; as also the tall bearded Assumptionist
Father of whom I have spoken. But there was not a great deal of interest
or excitement. I had the pleasure of talking a while with the Bishop of
Tarbes, who introduced me again to the Capuchin, and retold his story.
But I was a little unhappy. The miracle was that I was not more so. I
had expected so much: I had seen nothing.
I talked to Dr. Cox also before leaving.
"No," he told me, "there is hardly one miracle to-day. We are doubtful,
too, about that leg that was seven centimetres too short."
"And is it true that Mademoiselle Bardou is not cured?" (A doctor had
been giving us certain evidence a few minutes before).
"I am afraid so. It was probably a case of intense subjective
excitement. But it may be an amelioration. We do not know yet. The real
work of investigating comes afterwards."
How arbitrary it all seemed, I thought, as I walked home to dinner. That
morning, on my way from the Bureau, I had seen a great company of white
banners moving together; and, on inquiry, had found that these were the
_miracules_ chiefly of previous years--about three hundred and fifty in
number.[6] They formed a considerably large procession. I had looked at
their faces: there were many more women than men (as there were upon
Calvary). But as I watched them I could not conceive upon what principle
the Supernatural had suddenly descended on this and not on that. "Two
men in one bed.... Two women grinding at the mill.... One is taken and
the other left." Here were persons of all ages--from six to eighty, I
should guess--of all characters, ranks, experiences; of both sexes. Some
were religious, some grocers, some of the nobility, a retired soldier or
two, and so on. They were not distinguished for holiness, it seemed. I
had heard heartbreaking little stories of the ten lepers over again--one
grateful, nine selfish. One or two of the girls, I heard, had had their
heads turned by flattery and congratulation; they had begun to give
themselves airs.
And, now again, here was this day, this almost obvious occasion. It was
the Jubilee Year; everything was about on a double scale. And nothing
had happened! Further, five of the sick had actually died at Lourdes
during their first night there. To come so far and to die!
On what principle, then, did God act? Then I suddenly understood, not
God's principles, but my own; and I went home both ashamed and
comforted.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] The official numbers of those at the afternoon procession were 341.
VI.
I said a midnight Mass that night in the same chapel of the Rosary
Church as on the previous morning. Again the crush was terrific. On the
steps of the church I saw a friar hearing a confession; and on entering
I found High Mass proceeding in the body of the church itself, with a
congregation so large and so worn-out that many were sleeping in
constrained attitudes among the seats. In fact, I was informed, since
the sleeping accommodation of Lourdes could not possibly provide for so
large a pilgrimage, there were many hundreds, at least, who slept where
they could--on the steps of churches, under trees and rocks, and by the
banks of the river.
I was served at my Mass by a Scottish priest, immediately afterwards I
served his at the same altar. While vesting, I noticed a priest at the
high altar of this little chapel reading out acts of prayer, to which
the congregation responded; and learned that two persons who had been
received into the Church on that day were to make their First Communion.
As midnight struck, simultaneously from the seven altars came seven
voices:
"_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen._"
Once more, on returning home and going to bed a little after one o'clock
in the morning, the last sound that I heard was of the "_Gloria Patri_"
being sung by other pilgrims also returning to their lodging.
After coffee, a few hours later, I went down again to the square. It was
Sunday, and a Pontifical High Mass was being sung on the steps of the
Rosary Church. As usual, the crowd filled the square, and I could hardly
penetrate for a while beyond the fringe; but it was a new experience to
hear that vast congregation in the open air responding with one giant
voice to the plain-song of the Mass. It was astonishing what expression
showed itself in the singing. The _Sanctus_ was one of the most
impressive peals of worship and adoration that I have ever heard. At the
close of the Mass, all the bishops present near the altar--I counted six
or seven--turned and gave the blessing simultaneously. On the two great
curves that led up to the basilica were grouped the white banners of the
_miracules_.
Soon after arriving at the Bureau a very strange and quiet little
incident happened. A woman with a yellowish face, to which the colour
was slowly returning, came in and sat down to give her evidence. She
declared to us that during the procession yesterday she had been cured
of a tumour on the liver. She had suddenly experienced an overwhelming
sense of relief, and had walked home completely restored to health. On
being asked why she did not present herself at the Bureau, she answered
that she did not think of it: she had just gone home. I have not yet
heard whether this was a true cure or not; all I can say at present is I
was as much impressed by her simple and natural bearing, her entire
self-possession, and the absence of excitement, as by anything I saw at
Lourdes. I cannot conceive such a woman suffering from an illusion.
A few minutes later Dr. Cox called to me, and writing on a card, handed
it to me, telling me it would admit me to the _piscines_ for a bath. I
had asked for this previously; but had been told it was not certain,
owing to the crush of patients, whether it could be granted. I set out
immediately to the _piscines_.
There are, as I have said, three compartments in the building called the
_piscines_. That on the left is for women; in the middle, for children
and for those who do not undergo complete immersion; on the right, for
men. It was into this last, then, that I went, when I had forced my way
through the crowd, and passed the open court where the priests prayed.
It was a little paved place like a chapel, with a curtain hung
immediately before the door. When I had passed this, I saw at the
farther end, three or four yards away, was a deepish trough, wide and
long enough to hold one person. Steps went down on either side of it,
for the attendants. Immediately above the bath, on the wall, was a
statue of Our Lady; and beneath it a placard of prayers, large enough to
be read at a little distance.
There were about half a dozen people in the place--two or three priests
and three or four patients. One of the priests, I was relieved to see,
was the Scotsman whose Mass I had served the previous midnight. He was
in his soutane, with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He gave me my
directions, and while I made ready I watched the patients. There was one
lame man, just beside me, beginning to dress; two tiny boys, and a young
man who touched me more than I can say. He was standing by the head of
the bath, holding a basin in one hand and a little image of our Lady in
the other, and was splashing water ingeniously with his fingers into his
eyes; these were horribly inflamed, and I could see that he was blind. I
cannot describe the passion with which he did this, seeming to stare all
the while towards the image he held, and whispering out prayers in a
quick undertone--hoping, no doubt, that his first sight would be the
image of his Mother. Then I looked at the boys. One of them had horribly
prolonged and thin legs; I could not see what was wrong with the other,
except that he looked ill and worn out. Close beside me, on the wet,
muddy paving, lay an indescribable bandage that had been unrolled from
the lame man's leg.
When my turn came, I went wrapped in a soaking apron, down a step or so
into the water; and then, with a priest holding either hand, lay down at
full length so that my head only emerged. That water had better not be
described. It is enough to say that people suffering from most of the
diseases known to man had bathed in it without ceasing for at least five
or six hours. Yet I can say, with entire sincerity, that I did not have
even the faintest physical repulsion, though commonly I hate dirt at
least as much as sin. It is said, too, that never in the history of
Lourdes has there been one case of disease traceable to infection from
the baths. The water was cold, but not unpleasantly. I lay there, I
suppose, about one minute, while the two priests and myself repeated off
the placard the prayers inscribed there. These were, for the most part,
petitions to Mary to pray. "_O Marie,_" they ended, "_concue sans peche,
priez pour nous qui avons recours a vous!_"
As I dressed again after the bath, I had one more sight of the young
man. He was being led out by a kindly attendant, but his face was all
distorted with crying, and from his blind eyes ran down a stream of
terrible tears. It is unnecessary to say that I said a "Hail Mary" for
his soul at least.
As soon as I was ready, I went out and sat down for a while among the
recently bathed, and began to remind myself why _I_ had bathed.
Certainly I was not suffering from anything except a negligible ailment
or two. Neither did I do it out of curiosity, because I could have seen
without difficulty all the details without descending into that
appalling trough. I suppose it was just an act of devotion. Here was
water with a history behind it; water that was as undoubtedly used by
Almighty God for giving benefits to man as was the clay laid upon blind
eyes long ago near Siloe, or the water of Bethesda itself. And it is a
natural instinct to come as close as possible to things used by the
heavenly powers. I was extraordinarily glad I had bathed, and I have
been equally glad ever since. I am afraid it is of no use as evidence to
say that until I came to Lourdes I was tired out, body and mind; and
that since my return I have been unusually robust. Yet that is a fact,
and I leave it there.
As I sat there a procession went past to the Grotto, and I walked to
the railings to look at it. I do not know at all what it was all about,
but it was as impressive as all things are in Lourdes. The _miracules_
came first with their banners--file after file of them--then a number of
prelates, then _brancardiers_ with their shoulder-harness, then nuns,
then more _brancardiers_. I think perhaps they may have been taking a
recent _miracule_ to give thanks; for when I arrived presently at the
Bureau again, I heard that, after all, several appeared to have been
cured at the procession on the previous day.
I was sitting in the hall of the hotel a few minutes later when I heard
the roar of the _Magnificat_ from the street, and ran out to see what
was forward. As I came to the door, the heart of the procession went by.
A group of _brancardiers_ formed an irregular square, holding cords to
keep back the crowd; and in the middle walked a group of three, followed
by an empty litter. The three were a white-haired man on this side, a
stalwart _brancardier_ on the other, and between them a girl with a
radiant face, singing with all her heart. She had been carried down from
her lodging that morning to the _piscines_; she was returning on her own
feet, by the power of Him who said to the lame man, "Take up thy bed and
go into thy house." I followed them a little way, then I went back to
the hotel.
VII.
In the afternoon we went down to meet a priest who had promised a place
to one of our party in the window of which I have spoken before. But the
crowd was so great that we could not find him, so presently we dispersed
as best we could. Two other priests and myself went completely round the
outside of the churches, in order, if possible, to join in the
procession, since to cross the square was a simple impossibility. In the
terrible crush near the Bureau, I became separated from the others, and
fought my way back, and into the Bureau, as the best place open to me
now for seeing the Blessing of the Sick.
It was now at last that I had my supreme wish. Within a minute or two of
my coming to look through the window, the Blessed Sacrament entered the
reserved space among the countless litters. The crowd between me and the
open space was simply one pack of heads; but I could observe the
movements of what was going forward by the white top of the _ombrellino_
as it passed slowly down the farther side of the square.
The crowd was very still, answering as before the passionate voice in
the midst; but watching, watching, as I watched. Beside me sat Dr. Cox,
and our Rosaries were in our hands. The white spot moved on and on, and
all else was motionless. I knew that beyond it lay the sick. "Lord, if
it be possible--if it be possible! Nevertheless, not my will but Thine
be done." It had reached now the end of the first line.
"_Seigneur, guerissez nos malades!_" cried the priest.
"_Seigneur, guerissez nos malades!_" answered the people.
"_Vous etes mon Seigneur et mon Dieu!_"
And then on a sudden it came.
Overhead lay the quiet summer air, charged with the Supernatural as a
cloud with thunder--electric, vibrating with power. Here beneath lay
souls thirsting for its touch of fire--patient, desirous, infinitely
pathetic; and in the midst that Power, incarnate for us men and our
salvation. Then it descended, swift and mighty.