The Three Cities Trilogy: Lourdes, Volume 1Zola, Émile
Religion
The Three Cities Trilogy: Lourdes, Volume 1
Zola, Émile
Catholics -- Fiction; Christian pilgrims and pilgrimages -- Fiction; Clergy -- Fiction; Lourdes (France) -- Fiction
Then came the home of the Lagueses, where her cradle was still
preserved, a solitary, silent house, the last of the village. A meadow
planted with pear and apple trees, and only separated from the open
country by a narrow stream which one could jump across, stretched out
in front of the house. Inside the latter, a low and damp abode, there
were, on either side of the wooden stairway leading to the loft, but
two spacious rooms, flagged with stones, and each containing four or
five beds. The girls, who slept together, fell asleep at even, gazing
at the fine pictures affixed to the walls, whilst the big clock in its
pinewood case gravely struck the hours in the midst of the deep
silence.
Ah! those years at Bartres; in what sweet peacefulness did Bernadette
live them! Yet she grew up very thin, always in bad health, suffering
from a nervous asthma which stifled her in the least veering of the
wind; and on attaining her twelfth year she could neither read nor
write, nor speak otherwise than in dialect, having remained quite
infantile, behindhand in mind as in body. She was a very good little
girl, very gentle and well behaved, and but little different from other
children, except that instead of talking she preferred to listen.
Limited as was her intelligence, she often evinced much natural
common-sense, and at times was prompt in her /reparties/, with a kind
of simple gaiety which made one smile. It was only with infinite
trouble that she was taught her rosary, and when she knew it she seemed
bent on carrying her knowledge no further, but repeated it all day
long, so that whenever you met her with her lambs, she invariably had
her chaplet between her fingers, diligently telling each successive
“Pater” and “Ave.” For long, long hours she lived like this on the
grassy slopes of the hills, hidden away and haunted as it were amidst
the mysteries of the foliage, seeing nought of the world save the
crests of the distant mountains, which, for an instant, every now and
then, would soar aloft in the radiant light, as ethereal as the peaks
of dreamland.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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