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.
Monday, March 2, 2026
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.
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