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XII A TOWN OF MODERN
MIRACLES ON one side of a
narrow valley among the foothills of the Pyrenees in southern France,
rises a
great ragged precipice. It faces to the north, and the sunshine never
warms it,
and its shadow serves to deepen the natural gloom of a narrow cavern
that
reaches back into the base of the cliff. Fifty years ago the herders
from the
town of Lourdes, not far distant, fed their pigs here on the banks of
the swift
mountain river Gave, which hurries noisily through the ravine; and when
a
sudden shower caught the herders unawares they drove the swine to the
cave, and
crouched in its shelter to wait till the rain passed. The aspect
of the
place has altered since then. It would be sacrilege now to put the
cavern to
such plebeian uses; for in 1858 a little shepherdess, Bernadette
Soubirous,
had a series of visions at this spot the fame of which has served to
make
Lourdes one of the most notable places of pilgrimage in the world. The town
is old,
and in feudal days its situation gave it considerable importance. Its
castle,
perched then as now on a lofty and almost inaccessible rock where seven
valleys
meet, was the key to all the mountain district lying to the south, and
Lourdes
was the scene of many a fierce combat and long siege in the old wars
with the
English. But changes in methods of warfare and, especially, the advent
of
railroads made the town and the ancient castle no longer of
consequence. The
currents of life flowed in other channels, and this region of big hills
and
rude mountain ridges became one of quiet and stagnation. When
Bernadette was
born in 1844, Lourdes was apparently destined to an existence of
unending commonplace.
The inhabitants were pious, law-abiding, and contented, but at the same
time
were ignorant and unenterprising. Most of Bernadette's childhood was
spent a
few miles from Lourdes, at Bartres in the home of a foster-mother.
Bartres was
a little village of four hundred inhabitants, very secluded and far
from any
frequented highway. Its few houses and small church reposed in a green
hollow
with wooded slopes about and a clear rivulet went always singing
through the
lowlands. The house of Bernadette's foster-parents stood solitary at
the end of
the village. It was like that of any ordinary peasant, low and damp,
with
floors of flagstone and a roof of thatch. As soon as
Bernadette was large enough she was put to tending sheep, and season
after
season she spent her days watching her flock on the lonely hillsides.
She was
very thin and always suffering from a nervous asthma which stifled her
in bad
weather. At the age of eleven she could neither read nor write and was
infantile and backward. She had great trouble in learning her rosary,
but, once
acquired, she repeated it all day long as she followed her grazing
sheep. Her
foster-mother had a brother who was a priest. He occasionally visited
the
family, and in the winter evenings, by the blaze of the home fire, he
sometimes read marvellous stories to the household — stories of saints,
angels,
and heroes, of prodigious adventures, and of all kinds of strange and
supernatural events. The books from which the priest read had pictures
in them,
and at these Bernadette was fond of looking. They were mostly of a
religious
nature — God enthroned in all his glory, scenes from the life of
Christ, and
representations of the Virgin Mary. But the book read most of all in
that
Bartres home was the Bible. Bernadette's foster-father, the only member
of the
household who knew how to read, had an old copy that had been in the
family
over one hundred years, and it was yellow and grimy with time and use.
Every
evening he would take a pin, pass it at random between the leaves, open
the
book where the pin had chanced to enter and begin reading at the top of
the right-hand
page. The
inhabitants of
the region were all simple-minded and superstitious, and Bernadette was
like
the rest. The whole countryside was peopled with mysteries — with trees
which
sang, stones from which blood flowed, and crossroads where if you
failed to
pray promptly a seven-horned beast was likely to appear and carry you
off to
perdition. Bernadette's especial terror was a certain tower of the
vicinity
which she never would pass after sundown because it was said to be
haunted by
the fiend. When
Bernadette was
fourteen she began to plan for her first communion, and applied herself
to
learning her catechism at the church. She never had received any
schooling, and
her progress was so slow that her parents were displeased, and took her
home
with them that she might continue her studies with more diligence. The
Soubirous family were very poor and lived in one of the humblest and
narrowest
streets of the town. They had a single room on the ground floor at the
end of a
dark passage, and here dwelt father, mother, and five children. In that
wretched, gloomy room they did their housework, ate, and slept. Bernadette
had been
in Lourdes only two or three weeks when one chilly February morning the
mother
told her to go down to the borders of the Gave and pick up some wood,
that she
might have fuel with which to cook the dinner. A younger sister and a
girl from
one of the neighbor's accompanied Bernadette, and the three together,
hugging
their ragged wraps about them to keep out the cold, went down to the
stream.
They had been there after wood too often to find it plentiful, but they
gradually filled their arms with fragments until, following along the
banks,
they came to the great rocks a half mile from the village, rising
sombrely
almost from the verge of the stream. It was now noon, and the Angelus rang from the parish church. At its sound, Bernadette, who had lagged behind the other girls, felt a great agitation within her, and her ears were filled with such a tempestuous roar that she fancied a hurricane had descended from the mountains and was about to overwhelm her. But the trees were motionless and the air quiet. Then she glanced toward the rocks and was half blinded by a great light which gathered against the side of the cliff where an aperture like a rude oval window sank into the crag just above the gloomy mouth of a cavern running back a rod or two under the base of the precipice. Bernadette fell on her knees in her fright, but kept her eyes fixed on the niche above the cavern. Little by little in the light she discerned a white form, and she trembled lest this figure should be the devil. To protect herself against the possible evil nature of the apparition she began to tell her beads, and then the light slowly faded, and she hastened to join her companions. LOURDES CASTLE To her
surprise
they had observed nothing unusual, and when. her interrogations aroused
their
curiosity, and they began in turn to question her, she was confused
and
troubled, and did not reply. But as they walked back to the village
with their
arms full of broken sticks, the questioning continued, and at length
she said
she had seen something white. That was interesting, and ' her
companions on
reaching home repeated the tale to their intimates, and it soon ran
through the
neighborhood. Bernadette's father and mother were much displeased with
this
childish nonsense, as they called it, and told her to keep away from
the rocks
by the Gave in future. However,
the
curiosity of the townfolk was such that, come Sunday, nothing would do
but the
girl must go to the spot again, armed with a bottle of holy water, to
ascertain
whether or not it was the devil she had to deal with. Just as before,
she saw
the dazzling light, and in the light the figure, which this time became
more
clearly defined, smiled on her, and showed no fear of the holy water.
As soon
as the figure vanished, the townspeople crowded around Bernadette,
eager to
learn what it was she had seen. At first she replied hesitatingly and
vaguely,
but when she was pressed she said the figure was that of a lady, and
she wore a
long veil which covered her head and fell to her feet. Her robe was of
the
purest white, her sash blue like the sky, and on each of her bare feet
bloomed
a golden rose. The
following
Thursday Bernadette went for the third time to the riverside, and on
this
occasion the radiant figure requested that she should come there every
noon for
fifteen days. Friday and Saturday the Lady bowed and smiled but did not
speak.
On Sunday, however, she wept and said to Bernadette, "Pray for
sinners." Monday she
failed
to appear, but Tuesday she again shone forth from the dark niche above
the
grotto, and confided to Bernadette a secret which concerned the girl
alone,
and which she was commanded never to divulge. On that day, too, the
Lady said,
"Go tell the priests they must build a chapel here." Wednesday
the Lady
frequently murmured the word, "Penitence—penitence!" and the child
repeated the word after her, kissing the earth. Thursday
the Lady
said, " Go and drink and wash at the spring, and eat of the grass that
is
beside it." This
command
Bernadette did not understand, for she knew of no spring near. But when
she
searched and went within the cavern, a cold fountain of water began to
bubble
forth from the rock at the touch of her hand. The Lady
for a
second time failed to appear on Friday; but was shining in the usual
place on
the six days following. She repeated her commands, and Bernadette
humbly
listened and told her beads, and each time when the apparition vanished
kissed
the earth and on her knees sought the spring in the grotto, there to
drink and
wash. On the last of the six days the Lady requested more pressingly
than
before that a chapel might be built, and she promised that multitudes
should
resort to it from all nations. It was three weeks later that the
apparition
next shone from the cavity above the grotto. This time the Lady clasped
her
hands, turned her eyes toward heaven, and said, "I am the Immaculate
Conception." Twice more
she
appeared, at somewhat long intervals, the final time being July 16,
when she
bade Bernadette farewell. This
series of
apparitions, eighteen in all, caused intense excitement at Lourdes from
the
very beginning. Every one was curious to set eyes on the scene of the
mystery,
and at times many thousands were looking on while the little
shepherdess,
kneeling before the dark precipice, saw that glorified figure. The
multitude
beheld only Bernadette's ecstasy. For them there was no light, no
figure, no
sound of voice. They turned their eyes toward the shadowed crag, and as
far as
they could discern, it was the same it always had been; and then they
looked at
the rapt countenance of the girl, and they could not agree whether her
vision
was a reality or not. Some believed and some doubted. All sorts of
stories were
in circulation. It was remembered that a shepherd had spoken of that
very cliff
and prophesied that great things would take place there. On the other
hand, an
old woman of Lourdes said she had seen a toad's foot in Bernadette's
eye, and
that she was simply a witch. When the
miraculous
spring appeared in the cavern, many drank of the water, and certain
ones who
had been grievously sick announced themselves cured through its agency.
From
that time forth the common people had no question but that the Blessed
Virgin,
in compassion for suffering humanity, had come to earth there at
Lourdes and
given the vicinity of the grotto, with its spring, supernatural powers
to heal.
Bernadette had an almost wholly sympathetic audience in her later
visions. To
the assembled onlookers she was a saint, and they kissed her garments.
When
she knelt before the grotto with a lighted taper in her right hand and
her
rosary in her left the crowd broke into sobs, and a frenzy of
lamentation and
prayer arose. At first
it was the
populace only who accepted the truth of Bernadette's visions. The
clergy held
aloof for months, while the civil authorities made every effort to put
down the
excitement by force. To the officials Bernadette was either a liar or a
lunatic, and they threatened her with imprisonment. The commissary of
police
had her before him as soon as the story of her early visions began to
attract
general attention, and he did his best to catch her tripping, but her
story
never varied. Afterward she had to appear before the judges of a local
tribunal, who endeavored in vain to wring a retraction from the child.
Finally
two doctors examined her and pronounced her case one of nervous
trouble and
diseased imagination. On the strength of this the authorities would
have sent
her to a hospital, but they feared the public exasperation. Things
grew worse
instead of better, and at last the prefect had the approaches to the
grotto
occupied by the militia. The cave had been decorated with vases of
flowers;
money and various trinkets had been thrown into it; and some quarrymen,
inspired by the contagious religious enthusiasm, had, without
remuneration, cut
a reservoir to receive the miraculous water, and had cleared a path
under the
hillside. The
prefect felt
the time had come to take decided action and root out the whole
superstition.
He would remove the offerings from the grotto and build a palisade
across the
front to keep the deluded mobs away. It took him half a day to find any
one
willing to let him have a cart on which to carry off the accumulation
of
offerings. Two hours later the person of whom he hired the cart fell
from a
loft and was seriously injured, while the next day a man who lent him
an ax had
one of his feet crushed by the fall of a block of stone. The Lord was
plainly
on the side of the people, but for some reason or other the commissary
escaped
unscathed. Amid jeers and hisses he took away the pots of flowers, the
tapers
that were burning, and the bits of money and the silver hearts which
lay on
the sand. Then the
palisades
were put up. But the people, hungering for healing, found ways to pass
the
guards and to get over or through the palings, and the prohibition of
the
authorities only aroused anger and spread the fame of the place wider.
The
names of trespassers were taken, and soon a woful procession of the
lame and
sick came before the justice of the peace to answer for their defiance
of the
law. It seemed to them that the officials had no pity for human
wretchedness.
One day, a whole band of poverty-stricken and ailing folk went to the
mayor,
knelt in his courtyard, and implored him with sobs to allow the grotto
to be
reopened. A mother held out toward him her child, barely alive — would
he let
the little one die in her arms when there was a spring so near, which
had saved
the children of other mothers? A blind man called attention to his
eyes, and
there were others who showed unsightly sores, maimed arms, crippled
legs. But
the mayor was unable to promise anything, and the crowd withdrew,
weeping and
rebellious. The
struggle went
on for nearly half a year, and the people grew more and more restive.
It was
rumored that whole villages intended to come down from the hills and
"deliver God," as they termed it. The parish priest, at the time of
the visions, did not hesitate to express his scepticism of their
genuineness,
and he and the rest of the clergy of the region ignored, as long as
they could,
the whole affair; but in the end they succumbed to the popular will,
and gave
their sanction to the truth of all that the people believed. Then the
civil
authorities retracted, the palisades were removed, and everybody was
allowed
free access to the grotto. Immediately afterward the surrounding land
was
purchased by the bishop of the district, and the Church began its work
at
Lourdes. As miracles multiplied, and money flowed in more and more from
all
parts of Christendom, the scope of the work enlarged, until to-day the
property
at Lourdes is strikingly imposing and immensely profitable. On ordinary occasions, I think the first thing the visitor to Lourdes remarks is the vast concourse of hotel omnibuses in waiting at the station. A tenth of the number would have sufficed for all the business there was doing the day of my arrival, but if I had come at the time of one of the great pilgrimages, every vehicle would have had its load, and even then the crowd would not have begun to be accommodated. The scenery amid which the town is placed is wild and impressive. Everywhere are big hills that roll and tumble, and sometimes lift into stony mountain heights, while in the far south can be seen the white-peaked Pyrenees, marking the dividing line between France and Spain. On a rugged steep, rising out of the midst of the Lourdes valley, sits the old castle, looking down from its rocky eyry with a fine sense of watchfulness and impregnability. In the depths below is the river Gave, always foaming and hurrying along its tortuous course, and beside the stream, at its more accessible points, you are sure to see groups of women busy with their washing. They prefer the early morning hours for the work, but even in the heat of midday some of them are still there, scrubbing away on their knees at the edge of the torrent. When a woman finishes her task, she packs up the wet clothes in a basket which she carries off home poised on her head. That seemed to be the common method of carrying heavy burdens in Lourdes. ONE OF THE TOWN'S-WOMEN Close
under the
castle crag stands the gray old parish church on the borders of the
market-place, whence the crooked, narrow ways of the old town go
straggling off
in all directions. The life of the old town appeared sleepy and
ancient. Homes
were humble, methods of work antiquated, and heavy outdoor tasks fell
to the
lot of the women to a degree unusual even for France. I noticed, for
instance,
two of the women following after a heavy municipal garbage cart and
shovelling
into it the heaps of street refuse. Immediately
outside
the old town to the east is open farming country. When I went for a
walk in
that direction one morning, I found the peasantry busy cutting the
grass with
their broad-bladed scythes and spreading that which had lain in swaths
or
tumbles since the day before. Others were working in the fields of
Indian corn.
Corn-fields were common in many sections of the south of France, and
they had
such an American flavor that they made me homesick. But there was
nothing
American about the farm folk who labored in them. Here at Lourdes the
men
looked like Spaniards, and the sunburned women with colored kerchiefs
over
their heads might have been Italians. In cultivating between the rows
of corn a
plough was used that was about as aboriginal an instrument as could be
devised.
A pointed spade took the place of a ploughshare, and this was attached
to the
lesser branch of a crotched stick, while the longer branch served as a
neap.
The plough was usually drawn by a yolk of little cows, and it was a
very common
custom in that part of the country to make cows do all the work that
generally
falls to the lot of oxen. I suppose the farmers think it economical to
have
workers and milkers combined in one animal, but it must tell on the
milk both
in quantity and quality. Except for the labor exacted of them the cows
seemed
to be treated with consideration, and they had light blankets on their
backs
and fringes of string were draped across their faces to keep the flies
from
their eyes. Sometimes when attached to carts in the hay-fields the cows
were
further protected from insect pests and from the glare of the sun by a
forkful
of hay placed on their heads. An
interesting
peculiarity of the roadside houses was the custom of building the barns
with
one gable open. There was then no occasion to drive inside with loads
of hay or
grain. Everything could be pitched in from without; and if the building
was
judiciously placed so that the opening faced away from the prevailing
winds and
storms the arrangement was not a bad one, even if the barn did look
half finished.
I doubt, however, if an open gable would do in New England. Our
prevailing
winds come from too many different directions. On all the
roads
around Lourdes are frequent tall wooden crosses, and you see other
crosses on
the adjacent mountain tops, but they are most numerous on a steep,
rocky hill
that rises just outside the town borders. This hill is known as a
Calvary, and
the path which climbs with short turns up its incline has a cross at
every
angle until you reach the summit, where there is one greater than any
of the
others, bearing a figure of Christ. From the Calvary the view commands
all the
region around. On a hill across the valley stands the castle, with old
Lourdes
lying at the foot of its guardian cliff. Lower and nearer, is new
Lourdes, full
of big hotels and lodging-houses, rows and rows of souvenir shops, and,
a little
more retiring, convents, hospitals, and other buildings of a religious
nature.
The souvenir shops are a curious feature of the town. There are great
numbers
of them existing side by side through whole streets, most of them only
one
story high and open to the sidewalk, so that the merchants can pounce
on you
with their urgent appeals to buy if you so much as glance at their
wares. The
pious knickknacks in which they deal are much the same in the different
shops —
chaplets in skeins and in heaps and at all prices, Blessed Virgins
great and
small, in metal, wood, ivory, and plaster, scapularies, devotional
pictures,
medals, rings, brooches, and bracelets ornamented with stars and
crosses and
sacred figures, purses, paper-weights, even snuff-boxes and wooden
pipes from
which beam the figure of Our Lady of Lourdes. Unfortunately most of
these
things are either crude or ugly. In front
of the
town of hotels and shops is a long esplanade or public park laid out
beside the
Gave, and at its far end are the three churches of Our Lady built by
the
contributions of the faithful. The
churches make
an odd group, for they are not three distinct buildings, but are
imposed one
above another. The lowest is the Church of the Rosary; its form that of
a heavy
squat dome; the next is the Crypt cut in the solid rock; and finally,
above all
rises the Basilica with its slender and very lofty spire. No effort has
been
spared to make the buildings splendid without and within, especially
the
Basilica, which is most prominent. Its high, narrow interior is rich
and full
of color, and is particularly noticeable by reason of the immense
numbers of
banners and votive offerings that adorn the walls. They are everywhere
— hung
from the vaulted roof, against the pillars, and in the side chapels;
there are
banners of silk, satin, and velvet, often beautifully embroidered, and
there
are jewels, crosses, bridal wreaths, and thousands of gold and silver
hearts.
All empires and kingdoms of the earth are represented. From the
Basilica
colossal gradient ways, one on either side, reach down in the form of a
horseshoe to the level of the esplanade. They make the Basilica look
like some
great creature of stone with long forelegs extended and holding the
lower
church in their grasp. Under the cliff on which the upper church stands
is the
grotto. To reach it you pass beneath one of the arches of the gradient
way,
walk a short distance along a fine, tree-lined avenue skirting the
Gave, and
there it is before you — a low, wedge-shaped aperture no larger than a
room in
an ordinary dwelling-house. The rocks do not look at all
extraordinary,
masses of ivy trail down the face of the crag, the breezes come and go,
and all
the functions of nature seem to be pursuing the same course they would
anywhere
else. Yet, with its worshippers, and the spell of its strange history,
and its
adaptation by man to the uses of a holy shrine, the spot is very
impressive. What
catches the
eye first is the statue of the Virgin in a dark niche above the cavern,
a white
figure with a blue sash, and on her feet golden roses, exactly as the
apparition has been described by Bernadette. Next you observe that
under the
roof of the cavern is hung a vast array of crutches and body supports
of all
kinds; and the people to whom these belonged have come here cripples
and gone
away restored and sound. The whole space before the grotto is smoothly
paved,
and the river's bed has been pushed back from its old course so that
there is
room for the gathering of a great number of people. A high
iron fence
has been put up across the front of the grotto, with an opening at one
side for
entrance, and one at the other side for exit. The interior contains a
few
chairs, a small altar, and an organ, and it has the look of a miniature
underground chapel. Its most pronounced feature is its scores and
scores of
lighted candles. They are of all sizes up to monsters seven or eight
inches
through, and six feet high. Tapers of this caliber cost ten dollars or
more and
burn for a month; but there are candles to suit all purses, and you can
get
very little ones that will burn three hours for a penny. I believe such
are not
supposed to make so efficacious an appeal to Heaven as the ten-dollar
ones,
though much depends on the accompanying faith and fervency of the
donator. The
heat of the wavering flames keeps the tallow dripping, and the wind
makes the
grease trickling from the tops of the tapers cool in fantastic shreds.
The
grotto would overflow with tallow after a time if the drippings were
not
cleaned up and carted off. A man in an apron had charge of this work,
and he
kept an old broom and an iron scraper handy just back of the entrance
gate. He
had not the air of sanctity one would expect in a person so closely
associated
with the shrine, and his manner as he went about his scraping and
brushing
showed as little concern in his surroundings as if he had been digging
ditches. The candles burn continuously, day and night, all through the
year.
Even when the icy tempests of the dark winter nights are whitening the
valley,
and lashing the great trees by the stream side, the candles in the
grotto flare
and flicker just the same. The deep stain of soot on the cavern walls
testifies
to the numbers that are burned. As I
glanced about
the grotto I observed that the wall in one place looked like polished
black
marble. This smooth, shining patch was just beneath the cavity where
the Virgin
appeared, and the secret of its polish was that there the pilgrims rub
the
chaplets and the medals they wish to consecrate, and there millions of
lips
have kissed the cold, grimy rock. Another
curious
thing which one cannot help remarking is a recess in one corner of the
cave
half full of letters deposited in it or thrown through the grotto
railing by
devotees who have some request to make of the Lady of Lourdes. There is
nothing
for which they do not ask — health, prosperity, triumph in a lawsuit,
that a
marriage may be effected or an enemy be brought to grief. Some are
angry in
tone and upbraid the Virgin for not granting the writer's prayers. The
letters
are opened by the priests, who take charge of any money they may
contain and
then leave them in the recess to get such answer as they may from the
Blessed
Virgin. Nothing is
to be
seen of the miraculous spring. It is in the floor of the grotto covered
with an
iron door, and the water from it is conducted by pipes to faucets
outside, and
to the baths in a low line of buildings at the foot of the cliff near
by. The
flow is usually small, and a cistern has been made in which the water
collects
during the night. Otherwise the supply would sometimes fall short.
After
copious rainfalls the spring acts just as other springs would—increases
in
volume, and it occasionally bursts bounds and floods the grotto floor.
The
water is very cold, and I found it excellent to drink on a hot day, but
it gave
me the chills to think of bathing in it. Even the fathers of the grotto
admit
that to certain patients the sudden shock of cold is dangerous, and
they either
refuse the baths to such or warn them that they bathe at their own
risk. I saw no
marvellous
manifestation while I was at Lourdes, yet the scene before the grotto
was
always strangely interesting in spite of its uneventful quiet. The spot
was
away from all the noise of the town, and the people who gathered there
were for
the most part silent, reverential, and intensely in earnest. They drank
of the
water, many washed their hands, and some pulled up their sleeves and
bathed
their arms with the flow from this fount of life. Often they filled
bottles or
cans to carry home with them for their own further use or for the cure
of
relatives or friends. Immediately
in
front of the grotto were several rows of settees, and this was the
favorite
gathering-place of devotees, though some liked better the dusk of the
grotto
interior, and others sat afar off on a continuous seat which was part
of a
stone parapet skirting the Gave. Among the most constant of the
concourse
before the cavern during my stay were a priest and his old mother, in
whom I
took a special interest because they had arrived at Lourdes on the
train which
brought me, travelling in the same apartment. The priest had a dreadful
hacking
cough, and it was for his welfare, not the old mother's, that they had
come. He
was a cold, hard-featured man, but he looked gritty, and was plainly
determined
to fight his ill health to the bitter end — and how the mother loved
him! Every
time the cough caught in his throat the tears came to the old woman's
weak
eyes, and she bowed forward and looked at the image of the Virgin
standing in
the niche of the dark crag before her in heartfelt supplication. So
they sat,
hour after hour, he in the black robes of his order,
she in the black garments of an old woman, thinking, hoping, praying. Some of
the
worshippers fell on their knees to beseech the intervention of Heaven
in
behalf of themselves or their loved ones. Usually they knelt far up in
front,
sometimes grasping the bars of the fence, before the grotto, sometimes
a little
farther back, with arms extended and eyes on the mute marble figure in
the rock
above. Once in a while there were those who humbled themselves to a
still
greater degree, and bowed down and kissed the paving. The people were
of all
sorts, those ill in body and those ill in mind; and a portion of those
who
sought the Virgin’s help had no troubles other than the feebleness of
age. Once while I sat looking on a young man of the bourgeois class, accompanied by his wife and little girl, approached the grotto. The mother with some difficulty induced the little one to courtesy to the statue of Our Lady, then left her in the care of the father while she went to kneel near the entrance of the grotto. The child toddled about for a few moments, and then in some way tripped and fell so that her head struck the paving with a good deal of violence. She broke into a loud wail of pain and fright, the mother jumped to her feet and ran to the spot, the father caught up the little girl in his arms, and every one in the audience was in a tremor of regret and sympathy. At once humanity was full of compassion, and all hearts were stirred; but the white figure and the grotto with all their supernatural powers of healing were untouched and gave no sign. A great bump rose on the child’s forehead, and the parents kissed her and tried to comfort her, and they let the water of the fountain flow on the hurt, and then they laid on wet handkerchiefs and went away. A BARN WITH AN OPEN GABLE The
child’s sobs
grew faint in the distance, and quiet again brooded over the place.
There stood
the silent white figure in its niche, there was the dark grotto under
the high,
vine-draped cliff, the little flames were eating down into the tallow
on the
candle tops, the water tinkled from the brass faucets, the leaves
rustled on
the great trees, and wavering shadows contested with the burning
sunshine on
the stone paving. A human atom had been hurt, but there was no visible
indication that it made a particle of difference to either deity or
nature. That
marvellous
cures are made at Lourdes is beyond question, but that these are due
to the
miraculous power of the place, and not primarily to some wholly
natural mental
or physical change in the persons cured, is not so clear. Every one to
be
treated in the baths comes provided with a certificate from a doctor,
frequently from several doctors. If a cure takes place, the cured one
goes to
the verification office not far from the baths, the certificate is
examined,
and the patient’s past condition is compared with the present to see
if the
benefit is real. But was the patient’s physician correct in his
diagnosis, is
the cure permanent, and is there any assurance that the Lourdes
examiners are
infallible or even disinterested? Of the
alleged
cures I will only mention one that was related to me by a friend who
personally
knew about the circumstances. It is an American case — that of a
Philadelphia
boy who had never walked. One of his legs was shrivelled, and he was
always
wheeled about in a little cart. As he grew, the only change was to get
a larger
cart from time to time. His parents spent all their money seeing
doctors and
trying cures. Finally they lost hope. Then the boy’s godmother
suggested they should
take him to Lourdes. The father scoffed at the idea. He did not believe
in
present-day miracles — it was all nonsense. See what the doctors had
said.
Besides, he had no money. Then the
godmother
offered to pay all expenses. Nevertheless, nothing would have been done
had not
the boy himself become interested and begged to go. So they made the
long
journey. His was not a case of coming out of the bath wholly restored
at once,
but he began from the first to improve, and in a short time he could
walk like
other boys. The shrivelled leg did not become quite as large as the
other, but
it was serviceable, and the miracle, if not perfect in its details, was
sufficiently wonderful. To the sceptical the flaw in it lies in the
fact that
the boy was himself so eager to try the cure. He believed, and he made
an
effort to use his limbs such as he had never made before. However,
whether the
grotto has supernatural power or not, most of suffering humanity is
always
eager to grasp at possible restoration independent of logic or of
science, and
is ready to pursue a phantom if it is a last chance. Lourdes has waxed
great
and famous through this inherent tendency of human nature, and pilgrims
will
continue to flock to it until some new spot with power still more
miraculous
shall draw them elsewhere. The most
notable of
the large pilgrimages that are coming to Lourdes throughout the summer,
is the
National Pilgrimage of France. It starts from all quarters of the
republic, at
a date in August appointed beforehand. From thirty to fifty thousand
are transported
yearly, and probably fully a thousand of these are ill past recovery.
Several
trains go from Paris alone, to make an uninterrupted journey of
twenty-two
hours. The sick are provided with pillows and mattresses, and friends
and nuns
are present to wait on them, but the trains are much crowded, and there
is a
good deal of discomfort. The pilgrimage arrives at Lourdes in great
confusion,
and confusion and intense excitement are rife all through the half
week’s stay.
There are gatherings by day and by night; new cures incite to fresh
ardor;
prayers unnumbered ascend; the suppliants drink the water, bathe, burn
tapers,
and then they go home — a few benefited, but the many disappointed. From two hundred to five hundred thousand pilgrims visit Lourdes every year — and what became of the little shepherdess whose visions are the source of all this coming and going? Soon after the time of the apparitions she left her home to become the charge of the Sisters of Nevers, who had a convent in Lourdes, and who cared for the poor in the town asylum. The convent afforded some protection, though not a very effective one, from public inquisitiveness, and there Bernadette made her first communion, and was with difficulty taught to read and write. She continued to suffer with asthma, and, as the miraculous water of the grotto failed to be of any benefit in her case, she was taken to some baths in the mountains, but she returned unrelieved. She helped in sundry petty duties, and always had a piece of needlework, knitting, or embroidery in hand when her ill health was not such as to keep her in bed, as it often did for weeks at a time. She had fine eyes, clear and childlike, but her other features were very ordinary — puny, unobtrusive, and dull. She never had intimate friends or companions, and seemed attracted most by children. With the little ones at the asylum where the sisters ministered, she was happy and even quietly gay; and the children returned her affection, and liked to embrace her, and to have her look on while they played. Her piety continued keen, yet was neither ecstatic nor in any way overwrought. She had no more visions, and never of her own accord spoke of those eighteen apparitions of her childhood. When questioned about them she answered briefly, and then sought to change the conversation. The crowds that flocked to see and pay reverence to Bernadette were a source of annoyance and fatigue. Often she grew faint with repeating her story. No day passed without its stream of visitors. Ladies of high rank fell on their knees before her, kissed her gown, and would have liked to carry a piece away as a relic. They tried to buy her chaplet. Many hoped she would perform a miracle for their benefit. Children were brought that she might lay her hands on them, and she was consulted in cases of illness, and attempts were made to purchase her influence with the Virgin. But she did not wish money, and sometimes in a passion, when it was forced on her, she threw it on the floor. THE GROTTO It was a
hard life,
and at the age of twenty-two she was taken away to central France, to
the
convent of St. Gildard in Nevers. Yet there, too, she was pursued by
the
irresistible desire to obtain favors from her saintly person. People
believed
they would become lucky just by gazing on her; or if they could, on
the sly,
rub some medal against her dress, that suited their purpose better
still. She
wept with weariness. “Why do they torment me like this?” she said.
“What more
is there in me than in others?” As she
grew older,
her illness became more and more pronounced, and, when not confined to
her bed,
she spent long days in an easy-chair, her only diversion the recitation
of her
rosary, or the reading some pious author. She was very little, the
smallest of
the convent sisters, and she was very thin, and her face long and
hollow. When
well she showed a childish liveliness that won the love of her
associates, but
her sufferings sometimes made her cross-grained and even rough. After
her
little displays of temper she repented with remorse, and hastened to
ask pardon
of every one, in great fear that she would surely be damned for her
unholy
conduct. Her
infirmities
increased until, in her last days, she could only drag herself from
chair to
chair. As her nervousness and asthma grew more aggravated she had
spasms of
coughing that left her pitifully weak and exhausted. She again tried
the
Lourdes water, but, as before, without gain. “Heaven is at the end,”
she
sobbed, “but how long the end is coming!” On Easter Monday in the year 1879, she was seized with a fit of shivering, and with hallucinations in which she saw the devil prowling about and jeering at her. In great fright she cried out to him to be off. Death brought its welcome relief the latter part of the same week, and for the three days following multitudes came for a last look on her face. Even in death there was no solitude, and the crowd brought medals, chaplets, and pictures to rub against her garments, hoping for one more favor. Now her body rests at St. Gildard beneath a stone slab in a little chapel, amid the shadowy silence of the old trees of the convent garden. She has peace at last. |