Two days, the Wednesday and Thursday passed away. This extraordinary event was never for a moment absent from the thoughts of Bernadette, and formed the constant subject of her conversations with her sister Marie, Jeanne and some other children. The remembrance of the celestial Vision in all its sweetness, was still in the depths of Bernadette’s soul. A passion—if we may use a word so often profaned to designate so pure a sentiment—had sprung up in the heart of the innocent little girl: the ardent desire of again seeing the incomparable Lady. The name of “Lady,” was the one she had given her in her rustic language. However, when any one asked her whether this Apparition bore any resemblance to any lady she might see in the street or in the church, to any one of those celebrated for their exceeding beauty throughout the country, she shook her head and smiled sweetly; “Nothing of all this gives you any idea of it,” she answered. “The beauty she possesses is not to be expressed by language.”
It was, therefore, her great desire to see her once more. The minds of the other children were divided between fear and curiosity.
Friday, March 6, 2026
Wednesday, March 4, 2026
Our Lady of Lourdes - First Book Part 11
The scene just recounted had lasted about a quarter of an hour: not that Bernadette was conscious of the exact lapse of time, but she was enabled to compute it by the fact of her having been able to recite the five decades of her chaplet.
Bernadette being completely restored to herself, finished taking off her shoes and stockings, and fording the little stream, rejoined her companions. Absorbed as she was with the thought of what she had just seen, she no longer feared the coldness of the water. All the childish faculties of the humble little girl were concentrated to the end of turning over and over again in her heart the remembrance of this unheard of vision.
Jeanne and Marie had observed her falling on her knees and engaged in prayer; but this, thank God, is not an event of rare occurrence among the children of the Mountain, and being occupied in their task, they had not paid any attention to the circumstance.
Bernadette being completely restored to herself, finished taking off her shoes and stockings, and fording the little stream, rejoined her companions. Absorbed as she was with the thought of what she had just seen, she no longer feared the coldness of the water. All the childish faculties of the humble little girl were concentrated to the end of turning over and over again in her heart the remembrance of this unheard of vision.
Jeanne and Marie had observed her falling on her knees and engaged in prayer; but this, thank God, is not an event of rare occurrence among the children of the Mountain, and being occupied in their task, they had not paid any attention to the circumstance.
Bernadette was surprised at the complete calmness of her sister and Jeanne, who having just then completed their work, had entered the Grotto and had commenced to play as if nothing extraordinary had taken place.
“Have you seen nothing?” asked she. They then remarked that she appeared agitated and excited.
“No,” they replied. “Have you seen anything?”
Whether the youthful Seer feared to profane what so entirely filled her mind, by repeating it, or wished to digest it in silence, or was restrained by some feeling of timidity, it is difficult to say; but she obeyed that seemingly instinctive necessity of humble minds to conceal, as if a treasure, the peculiar graces with which God has favored them.
“If you have seen nothing,” she rejoined, “I have nothing to tell you.”
The little fagots were soon arranged and the three girls started on their return to Lourdes.
Bernadette, however, had not been able to dissimulate the troubled state of her mind. While on the way home, Marie and Jeanne urged her to tell them what she had seen. The little shepherd-girl gave way to their entreaties, having previously exacted a promise of secrecy.
“I have seen,” she said, “something clothed in white;” and she described to them, in the best language she could, her marvelous vision.
“Now you know what I have seen,” she said at the termination of her narration; “but I beg of you not to say anything about it.”
Marie and Jeanne had no doubts on the subject. The soul, in its first purity and innocence, is naturally prone to belief, and doubt is not the fault of simple childhood. Beside, the touching and sincere accents of Bernadette, who was still agitated and deeply impressed by what she had seen, swayed them irresistibly. Marie and Jeanne did not doubt, but they were terrified. The children of the poor are always timid. This may be easily explained, from the fact that suffering reaches them from all quarters.
“It is, perhaps, something to do us harm,” they observed. “Do not let us go there again, Bernadette.”
The confidantes of the little shepherd-girl had scarcely reached home when they found themselves unable to keep the secret any longer. Marie related all the circumstances to her mother.
“It is all nonsense,” said the mother. “What is this your sister tells me?” she continued, interrogating Bernadette.
The latter re-commenced her narration and her mother shrugged her shoulders.
“You are deceived. It was nothing at all. You fancied you saw something and have seen nothing. It is mere folly and nonsense.”
Bernadette persisted in what she had said.
“At all events,” rejoined the mother, “do not go there any more. I forbid you to do so.”
This prohibition weighed heavily on the heart of Bernadette; for since the Apparition had vanished, it had been her greatest wish to see it again. However, she submitted and made no reply.
“Have you seen nothing?” asked she. They then remarked that she appeared agitated and excited.
“No,” they replied. “Have you seen anything?”
Whether the youthful Seer feared to profane what so entirely filled her mind, by repeating it, or wished to digest it in silence, or was restrained by some feeling of timidity, it is difficult to say; but she obeyed that seemingly instinctive necessity of humble minds to conceal, as if a treasure, the peculiar graces with which God has favored them.
“If you have seen nothing,” she rejoined, “I have nothing to tell you.”
The little fagots were soon arranged and the three girls started on their return to Lourdes.
Bernadette, however, had not been able to dissimulate the troubled state of her mind. While on the way home, Marie and Jeanne urged her to tell them what she had seen. The little shepherd-girl gave way to their entreaties, having previously exacted a promise of secrecy.
“I have seen,” she said, “something clothed in white;” and she described to them, in the best language she could, her marvelous vision.
“Now you know what I have seen,” she said at the termination of her narration; “but I beg of you not to say anything about it.”
Marie and Jeanne had no doubts on the subject. The soul, in its first purity and innocence, is naturally prone to belief, and doubt is not the fault of simple childhood. Beside, the touching and sincere accents of Bernadette, who was still agitated and deeply impressed by what she had seen, swayed them irresistibly. Marie and Jeanne did not doubt, but they were terrified. The children of the poor are always timid. This may be easily explained, from the fact that suffering reaches them from all quarters.
“It is, perhaps, something to do us harm,” they observed. “Do not let us go there again, Bernadette.”
The confidantes of the little shepherd-girl had scarcely reached home when they found themselves unable to keep the secret any longer. Marie related all the circumstances to her mother.
“It is all nonsense,” said the mother. “What is this your sister tells me?” she continued, interrogating Bernadette.
The latter re-commenced her narration and her mother shrugged her shoulders.
“You are deceived. It was nothing at all. You fancied you saw something and have seen nothing. It is mere folly and nonsense.”
Bernadette persisted in what she had said.
“At all events,” rejoined the mother, “do not go there any more. I forbid you to do so.”
This prohibition weighed heavily on the heart of Bernadette; for since the Apparition had vanished, it had been her greatest wish to see it again. However, she submitted and made no reply.
Monday, March 2, 2026
Our Lady of Lourdes - First Book Part 10
The child, in the first moment of astonishment, had seized her chaplet, and holding it between her fingers, wished to make the sign of the Cross and carry her hand to her bosom. But she trembled to such a degree that she had not the faculty of raising her arm; it fell powerless on her bended knees.
Nolite timere, “do not fear,” said Jesus to his disciples, when he came to them walking on the waves of the sea of Tiberias.
The fixed gaze, and the smile of the incomparable Virgin, seemed to say the same thing to the little, terrified shepherd-girl.
With a grave and sweet gesture, which had the air of an all-powerful benediction for earth and heaven, she herself made the sign of the Cross, as with the view of re-assuring the child. The hand of Bernadette, raising itself by degrees; as if invisibly lifted by Her who is called the Succor of Christians, made the sacred sign at the same moment.
Ego sum: nolite timere. “It is I, be not afraid,” said Jesus to his disciples.
The child was no longer afraid. Dazzled, fascinated, having nevertheless occasional doubts about herself, and rubbing her eyes, her gaze constantly attracted by this celestial apparition, she humbly recited her chaplet: “I believe in God: Hail, Mary, full of Grace—”
At the moment of her closing it by singing, “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost,” etc., etc., the Virgin, so radiant with light, all at once disappeared, and doubtless re-entered the eternal Heavens, the abode of the Holy Trinity.
Bernadette experienced the feeling of one descending or falling from a great height. She glanced around her. The Gave was pursuing its murmuring course over the pebbles and broken rocks; but its murmur seemed to her hoarser than before, the waters more sombre, the landscape dull, and the light of the sun even not so clear. Before her were extended the Rocks of Massabielle, beneath which her companions were busily occupied in gathering morsels of wood. Above the Grotto, the niche where the wild rose trailed its branches was always open; but nothing unwonted appeared about it. There remained in it no trace of the divine visit, and it was no longer the Gate of Heaven.
Nolite timere, “do not fear,” said Jesus to his disciples, when he came to them walking on the waves of the sea of Tiberias.
The fixed gaze, and the smile of the incomparable Virgin, seemed to say the same thing to the little, terrified shepherd-girl.
With a grave and sweet gesture, which had the air of an all-powerful benediction for earth and heaven, she herself made the sign of the Cross, as with the view of re-assuring the child. The hand of Bernadette, raising itself by degrees; as if invisibly lifted by Her who is called the Succor of Christians, made the sacred sign at the same moment.
Ego sum: nolite timere. “It is I, be not afraid,” said Jesus to his disciples.
The child was no longer afraid. Dazzled, fascinated, having nevertheless occasional doubts about herself, and rubbing her eyes, her gaze constantly attracted by this celestial apparition, she humbly recited her chaplet: “I believe in God: Hail, Mary, full of Grace—”
At the moment of her closing it by singing, “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost,” etc., etc., the Virgin, so radiant with light, all at once disappeared, and doubtless re-entered the eternal Heavens, the abode of the Holy Trinity.
Bernadette experienced the feeling of one descending or falling from a great height. She glanced around her. The Gave was pursuing its murmuring course over the pebbles and broken rocks; but its murmur seemed to her hoarser than before, the waters more sombre, the landscape dull, and the light of the sun even not so clear. Before her were extended the Rocks of Massabielle, beneath which her companions were busily occupied in gathering morsels of wood. Above the Grotto, the niche where the wild rose trailed its branches was always open; but nothing unwonted appeared about it. There remained in it no trace of the divine visit, and it was no longer the Gate of Heaven.
Our Lady of Lourdes - First Book Part 9
Above the Grotto, in front of which Marie and Jeanne, eagerly bending to the ground were picking up pieces of dead wood, in the rustic niche formed by the rock, a woman of incomparable splendor stood upright, in the midst of a superhuman brightness.
The ineffable light which floated around her neither pained nor distressed the eyes, as does the brilliancy of sunshine. Far from this being the case, this aureole, intense as a pencil of rays, and calm as a profundity of shade, invincibly attracted the gaze, which seemed to bathe itself in it and rest on it with exquisite delight! It was, like the morning star, light combined with coolness. There was, in addition to this, nothing vague or vaporous in the Apparition herself. She had not the transitory form of a fantastic vision, she was a living reality, a human body which the eye pronounced palpable, like the flesh of us all, and which only differed from an ordinary person by its aureole and its divine beauty.
She was of middle height. She appeared to be quite young, and had the grace of the age of twenty years. But, without losing aught of its tender delicacy, this lustre, so fleeting in time, had in her the stamp of eternity, Further, in her features so divinely marked, there were mingled in some sort, but without disturbing their harmony, the successive and distinct beauties of the four seasons of human life. The innocent candor of the Child, the absolute purity of the Virgin, the tender seriousness of the highest of Maternities, and Wisdom superior to that of all accumulated ages, were summed up and melted into each other, without injuring the effect of each in this marvelous countenance of youthful womanhood. To what can we compare it in this fallen world, where the rays of the beautiful are scattered, broken and tarnished, and where they never appear to us without some impure admixture? Any image, any comparison would be a degradation of this unutterable type. No majesty existing in the universe, no distinction of this world, no simplicity here below, could convey any idea of it or assist us to comprehend it better. It is not with earthly lamps that we can render visible, and, so to say, light up the stars of heaven.
Even the regularity and the ideal purity of these features, in which nothing clashed, shields them from any attempt at description. Need we however say, that the oval curve of the countenance was infinitely graceful; that the eyes were blue and so sweet that they seemed to melt the heart of every one upon whom they turned their gaze? The lips breathed forth divine goodness and kindness. The brow seemed to contain supreme wisdom, that is to say, the union of omniscience with boundless virtue.
Her garments of an unknown texture, and doubtless woven in the mysterious loom which furnishes attire for the lilies of the valley, were white as the stainless mountain snow, and more magnificent in their simplicity than the gorgeous robe of Solomon in all his glory. Her robe, long and training, falling in chaste folds around her, suffered her feet to appear reposing on the rock, and lightly pressing the branches of the wild rose which trailed there. On each of them in their virgin nudity there expanded the mystic rose of a bright, golden color.
In front, a girdle—blue as the heavens—was knotted half-way round her body and fell in two long bands reaching within a short distance of her feet. Behind, a white veil fixed around her head and enveloping in its ample folds, her shoulders and the upper part of her arms, descended as far as the hem of her robe.
She wore neither rings, nor necklace, nor diadem, nor jewels of any description; none of those ornaments with which human vanity has decorated itself in all ages. A chaplet, with beads as white as drops of milk strung on a chain of the golden hue of harvest, hung from her hands, which were fervently clasped. The beads of the chaplet glided one after the other through her fingers. The lips however of this Queen of Virgins, remained motionless. Instead of reciting the rosary, she was perhaps listening in her own heart to the eternal echo of the Angelic Salutation, and to the vast murmur of the invocations coming from the earth.
She was silent; but later her own words, and the miraculous events which we shall have to recount, plainly testified that She was the Immaculate Virgin, the most august and holy Mary, mother of God.
This marvelous apparition gazed on Bernadette, who, in the first shock of amazement, had, as we have already said, sunk down, and without assigning any reason to herself, had suddenly prostrated herself on her knees.
The ineffable light which floated around her neither pained nor distressed the eyes, as does the brilliancy of sunshine. Far from this being the case, this aureole, intense as a pencil of rays, and calm as a profundity of shade, invincibly attracted the gaze, which seemed to bathe itself in it and rest on it with exquisite delight! It was, like the morning star, light combined with coolness. There was, in addition to this, nothing vague or vaporous in the Apparition herself. She had not the transitory form of a fantastic vision, she was a living reality, a human body which the eye pronounced palpable, like the flesh of us all, and which only differed from an ordinary person by its aureole and its divine beauty.
She was of middle height. She appeared to be quite young, and had the grace of the age of twenty years. But, without losing aught of its tender delicacy, this lustre, so fleeting in time, had in her the stamp of eternity, Further, in her features so divinely marked, there were mingled in some sort, but without disturbing their harmony, the successive and distinct beauties of the four seasons of human life. The innocent candor of the Child, the absolute purity of the Virgin, the tender seriousness of the highest of Maternities, and Wisdom superior to that of all accumulated ages, were summed up and melted into each other, without injuring the effect of each in this marvelous countenance of youthful womanhood. To what can we compare it in this fallen world, where the rays of the beautiful are scattered, broken and tarnished, and where they never appear to us without some impure admixture? Any image, any comparison would be a degradation of this unutterable type. No majesty existing in the universe, no distinction of this world, no simplicity here below, could convey any idea of it or assist us to comprehend it better. It is not with earthly lamps that we can render visible, and, so to say, light up the stars of heaven.
Even the regularity and the ideal purity of these features, in which nothing clashed, shields them from any attempt at description. Need we however say, that the oval curve of the countenance was infinitely graceful; that the eyes were blue and so sweet that they seemed to melt the heart of every one upon whom they turned their gaze? The lips breathed forth divine goodness and kindness. The brow seemed to contain supreme wisdom, that is to say, the union of omniscience with boundless virtue.
Her garments of an unknown texture, and doubtless woven in the mysterious loom which furnishes attire for the lilies of the valley, were white as the stainless mountain snow, and more magnificent in their simplicity than the gorgeous robe of Solomon in all his glory. Her robe, long and training, falling in chaste folds around her, suffered her feet to appear reposing on the rock, and lightly pressing the branches of the wild rose which trailed there. On each of them in their virgin nudity there expanded the mystic rose of a bright, golden color.
In front, a girdle—blue as the heavens—was knotted half-way round her body and fell in two long bands reaching within a short distance of her feet. Behind, a white veil fixed around her head and enveloping in its ample folds, her shoulders and the upper part of her arms, descended as far as the hem of her robe.
She wore neither rings, nor necklace, nor diadem, nor jewels of any description; none of those ornaments with which human vanity has decorated itself in all ages. A chaplet, with beads as white as drops of milk strung on a chain of the golden hue of harvest, hung from her hands, which were fervently clasped. The beads of the chaplet glided one after the other through her fingers. The lips however of this Queen of Virgins, remained motionless. Instead of reciting the rosary, she was perhaps listening in her own heart to the eternal echo of the Angelic Salutation, and to the vast murmur of the invocations coming from the earth.
She was silent; but later her own words, and the miraculous events which we shall have to recount, plainly testified that She was the Immaculate Virgin, the most august and holy Mary, mother of God.
This marvelous apparition gazed on Bernadette, who, in the first shock of amazement, had, as we have already said, sunk down, and without assigning any reason to herself, had suddenly prostrated herself on her knees.
Sunday, March 1, 2026
Our Lady of Lourdes - First Book Part 8
She was engaged in taking off her first stocking when she heard around her as it were, the sound of a blast of wind, rising in the meadow-tract with an indescribable character of irresistible might.
She believed it to be a sudden hurricane, and turned herself round instinctively. To her great surprise, the poplars which border the Gave were perfectly motionless. Not the slightest breeze stirred their still branches.
“I must have been deceived,” she said to herself. As she thought again about this noise, she did not know what to believe.
She began once more to remove her shoes and stockings.
At this moment, the impetuous roaring of this unknown blast became audible afresh.
Bernadette raised her head, gazed in front of her, and uttered, or rather strove to utter, a loud cry, which was stifled in her throat. She shuddered in all her limbs, and confounded, dazzled, and crushed in a certain manner by what she saw before her, she sank down, bowed herself entirely to the earth and fell on both knees.
A truly unheard-of spectacle had just met her gaze. The narration of the child; the innumerable interrogations which a thousand sharp-sighted and inquisitive minds have put to her since that period; the precise and minute particularities into which so many intellects on the watch for discrepancies have forced her to descend, allow us to trace—with a hand as sure of each detail as of the general physiognomy—the wonderful and astounding portrait of the marvelous Being who appeared at that instant to the eyes of the terrified and transported Bernadette.
She believed it to be a sudden hurricane, and turned herself round instinctively. To her great surprise, the poplars which border the Gave were perfectly motionless. Not the slightest breeze stirred their still branches.
“I must have been deceived,” she said to herself. As she thought again about this noise, she did not know what to believe.
She began once more to remove her shoes and stockings.
At this moment, the impetuous roaring of this unknown blast became audible afresh.
Bernadette raised her head, gazed in front of her, and uttered, or rather strove to utter, a loud cry, which was stifled in her throat. She shuddered in all her limbs, and confounded, dazzled, and crushed in a certain manner by what she saw before her, she sank down, bowed herself entirely to the earth and fell on both knees.
A truly unheard-of spectacle had just met her gaze. The narration of the child; the innumerable interrogations which a thousand sharp-sighted and inquisitive minds have put to her since that period; the precise and minute particularities into which so many intellects on the watch for discrepancies have forced her to descend, allow us to trace—with a hand as sure of each detail as of the general physiognomy—the wonderful and astounding portrait of the marvelous Being who appeared at that instant to the eyes of the terrified and transported Bernadette.
Our Lady of Lourdes - First Book Part 7
The three girls, strolling in this manner, had reached the end of the Ile du Chalet, directly opposite the triple excavation forming the Grotto of Massabielle, which we have endeavored to describe. They were only separated from it by the course of the mill-stream, which was ordinarily very considerable, and which bathed the feet of the rocks.
Now, it happened that on that very day, the mill of Savy was undergoing repairs, and the water had been turned off as much as possible above. The canal was, consequently, very easy to cross, though not altogether dry, and the channel was exceedingly narrow.
Branches of dead wood fallen from the various wild trees and shrubs which grew in the fissures of the rock were thickly scattered over this lonely spot, which the accidental drainage of the canal rendered more easy of access at the moment than was usually the case.
Delighted with this fortunate discovery, and as active and diligent as Martha in the Gospel, Jeanne and Marie quickly took off their wooden sabots and forded the little stream.
“The water is very cold,” they observed, on reaching the opposite bank and putting on their sabots again.
It was the month of February, and these torrents from the mountain, freshly issuing from the eternal snows to which they owe their source, are usually of an icy temperature.
Bernadette less active or less eager, and being besides far from robust, was still on this side of the little stream. The idea of fording this feeble channel was quite embarrassing to her. She had also to take off her stockings, while Marie and Jeanne wore nothing but sabots; and, hearing the exclamation of her companions, she feared the coldness of the water.
“Throw two or three large stones into the middle of the stream,” she said to them, “so that I may pass over without wetting my feet.”
The two gleaners of wood were already arranging their little fagot and did not care to lose any time in suspending their operations.
“Do as we did,” answered Jeanne; “go in barefooted.”
Bernadette submitted, and leaning against a fragment of rock which was there, began to take off her shoes and stockings. It was about noon, and the Angelus might sound at any moment from all the towers of the Pyrenean villages.
Now, it happened that on that very day, the mill of Savy was undergoing repairs, and the water had been turned off as much as possible above. The canal was, consequently, very easy to cross, though not altogether dry, and the channel was exceedingly narrow.
Branches of dead wood fallen from the various wild trees and shrubs which grew in the fissures of the rock were thickly scattered over this lonely spot, which the accidental drainage of the canal rendered more easy of access at the moment than was usually the case.
Delighted with this fortunate discovery, and as active and diligent as Martha in the Gospel, Jeanne and Marie quickly took off their wooden sabots and forded the little stream.
“The water is very cold,” they observed, on reaching the opposite bank and putting on their sabots again.
It was the month of February, and these torrents from the mountain, freshly issuing from the eternal snows to which they owe their source, are usually of an icy temperature.
Bernadette less active or less eager, and being besides far from robust, was still on this side of the little stream. The idea of fording this feeble channel was quite embarrassing to her. She had also to take off her stockings, while Marie and Jeanne wore nothing but sabots; and, hearing the exclamation of her companions, she feared the coldness of the water.
“Throw two or three large stones into the middle of the stream,” she said to them, “so that I may pass over without wetting my feet.”
The two gleaners of wood were already arranging their little fagot and did not care to lose any time in suspending their operations.
“Do as we did,” answered Jeanne; “go in barefooted.”
Bernadette submitted, and leaning against a fragment of rock which was there, began to take off her shoes and stockings. It was about noon, and the Angelus might sound at any moment from all the towers of the Pyrenean villages.
Friday, February 27, 2026
Our Lady of Lourdes - First Book Part 6
The three children soon left the town behind them, and crossing the bridge, reached the left bank of the Gave. They passed by the mill of M. de Laffitte, and gaining the Ile du Chalet, sought here and there for small fragments of wood, in order to make a little faggot.
By degrees they descended the meadow, following the course of the Gave. The frail child, to whom the mother had hesitated in granting permission to leave the house, walked somewhat in the rear. Less fortunate than her two companions she had not yet found anything, and her apron was empty, while her sister and Jeanne were already furnished with a little load of chips and small branches.
Clad in a worn-out and patched black dress, her delicate visage framed in the white capulet which covered her head, and fell back on her shoulders, with coarse sabots on her feet, she displayed an innocent and rustic grace which charmed the heart even more than the eye.
She was short for her age. Although her childish features were somewhat tanned by the sun, they had lost nothing of their native delicacy. Her hair, black and soft, was almost concealed by her kerchief. Her brow, which was tolerably lofty, was marked by lines of incomparable purity. Under her well-arched eyebrows, her brown eyes—sweeter in her even than blue—possessed a calm and profound beauty, whose magnificent limpidity had never been troubled by any evil passion. It was the simple eye spoken of in the Gospel. The mouth, wonderfully expressive, served as the index of a soul in which habitual goodness and compassion for suffering of every kind held undisputed sway.
Her physiognomy was pleasing, owing to its sweetness and intelligence, and her whole person possessed an extraordinary attraction, which sensibly affected the most elevated regions of the soul. What then was this attraction. I was going to say this ascendancy, and this secret authority in this poor ignorant child clothed in rags. It was the greatest and the rarest thing in the world—the Majesty of Innocence.
We have not yet told her name. Her Patron was a great Doctor of the Church—whose genius sheltered itself more especially under the protection of the Mother of God—the author of the Memorare, “Remember, O most pious Virgin Mary,” the admirable Saint Bernard. However, in accordance with a custom which is not without its charm, the great name given to this humble peasant girl had taken a child-like and rustic form. The little girl bore a pretty name, graceful like herself—she was called Bernadette.
She followed her sister and her companion along the meadow by the mill and searched, but in vain, among the grass for some morsels of wood for the hearth at home.
Such must have been the appearance of Ruth, or of Naomi, going to glean in the fields of Boaz.
By degrees they descended the meadow, following the course of the Gave. The frail child, to whom the mother had hesitated in granting permission to leave the house, walked somewhat in the rear. Less fortunate than her two companions she had not yet found anything, and her apron was empty, while her sister and Jeanne were already furnished with a little load of chips and small branches.
Clad in a worn-out and patched black dress, her delicate visage framed in the white capulet which covered her head, and fell back on her shoulders, with coarse sabots on her feet, she displayed an innocent and rustic grace which charmed the heart even more than the eye.
She was short for her age. Although her childish features were somewhat tanned by the sun, they had lost nothing of their native delicacy. Her hair, black and soft, was almost concealed by her kerchief. Her brow, which was tolerably lofty, was marked by lines of incomparable purity. Under her well-arched eyebrows, her brown eyes—sweeter in her even than blue—possessed a calm and profound beauty, whose magnificent limpidity had never been troubled by any evil passion. It was the simple eye spoken of in the Gospel. The mouth, wonderfully expressive, served as the index of a soul in which habitual goodness and compassion for suffering of every kind held undisputed sway.
Her physiognomy was pleasing, owing to its sweetness and intelligence, and her whole person possessed an extraordinary attraction, which sensibly affected the most elevated regions of the soul. What then was this attraction. I was going to say this ascendancy, and this secret authority in this poor ignorant child clothed in rags. It was the greatest and the rarest thing in the world—the Majesty of Innocence.
We have not yet told her name. Her Patron was a great Doctor of the Church—whose genius sheltered itself more especially under the protection of the Mother of God—the author of the Memorare, “Remember, O most pious Virgin Mary,” the admirable Saint Bernard. However, in accordance with a custom which is not without its charm, the great name given to this humble peasant girl had taken a child-like and rustic form. The little girl bore a pretty name, graceful like herself—she was called Bernadette.
She followed her sister and her companion along the meadow by the mill and searched, but in vain, among the grass for some morsels of wood for the hearth at home.
Such must have been the appearance of Ruth, or of Naomi, going to glean in the fields of Boaz.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)