Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 132.djvu/130

124 I stood looking in astonishment at this new conception of the Virgin. I had seen many statues of the mother of Jesus but till now I had seen no statue of the mother of the Redeemer.

It was the Virgin Mary overwhelmed by a sense of the dignity of her own offspring, — the child whom she had borne, — both God and man. It was the Virgin Mary face to face with the great mystery with which she was associated, with the sword piercing her own soul as she contemplated her son's fate and her own agony. It was a Virgin Mary whose woman's feelings made her shrink from the unknown, and made her for a moment oblivious of her divine mission, as she gazed into the darkness of the future, and beheld the great dim cross making ready for our redemption — the Virgin with a mother's instincts stirring in her heart, as she thought of the coming sacrifice of her beloved son.

It was not the usual Virgin, calmly glorious in a sweet consciousness of her divine maternity — it was a sad and troubled woman laden with cares and fears, the true type of peasant womanhood.

I was absorbed in the suggestions of this work, when the priest, who had been joking with my friend, came up and stood beside me.

"Well, monsieur," he said, "and what is your opinion?"

I could not answer him immediately. He began to examine it more closely.

"Why, what's the reason," he cried out, "that you have given the Blessed Virgin such a dismal look, Jahona?"

"I am sorry, monsieur le recteur, if it does not please you; but when the infant Jesus was that age the Blessed Virgin was escaping from the massacre of the innocents, and was afraid of King Herod."

I had not thought of this, which gave the statue a new charm of historical verity. The priest however did not see it so.

"What matter for that?" he said. "You ought to have made her smile, as she always does in pictures. Was not the Virgin a mother above everything?"

"Yes – mater dolorosa," murmured Jahona, with a peculiar smile.

"And the child Jesus," said the priest. "One can't see what his face is like, all muffled up in that way. Why didn't you let us see his face, Jahona?"

"Because I did not know how to make the face of the Son of God."

The priest shrugged his shoulders; then looking at the statue he resumed, —

"Well! luckily the house-painters are coming to paint our church in a month or two. A little paint will do wonders for your statue. We'll dress the Blessed Virgin in bright colors, and make her smile in spite of the massacre of the innocents!"

He laughed at his own wit, which he seemed to consider capital; and after directing Jahona to get it done as soon as possible, went away.

We staid on, talking with the artist, who showed us several half-finished carvings. We were just leaving when my eyes fell on a great lot of thick oak planks which I had noticed when I first came in, and which seemed to be intended for some kind of building or carpentry.

"What are those?" I asked Jahona.

He hesitated a little, and replied, —

"Part of a windmill."

"What! you build windmills too?" I exclaimed.

"He wants to build one for himself," said my friend, laughing. "Jahona wants to transform his dovecote into a windmill. There are not enough mills in this neighborhood to supply the wants of the inhabitants. Jahona is quite right in thinking that if he could build one he might make it very profitable. Unhappily time and money have been wanting thus far, though he began his mill long ago."

"Seven years ago this month, monsieur, said Jahona, "seven years ago!"

"Have you made much progress?"

His face assumed its saddest look, as he answered slowly, —

"I finished it all last year. I had nothing to get except the millstones. But the winter was very severe. There was no work, and fuel is scarce in this neighborhood. My good wife burnt up some of my mill to warm the poor little ones who were crying with cold. I had to begin all over again."

"You were not discouraged?"

"No, — if it should take another seven years, I mean to have my windmill. Long as the road is between Quimper and Commana, a child may walk it, just by putting one little foot — step after step — before the other."

"Have you never had any wish to leave your native place?" I said. "You might find that in some of the cities your genius, if recognized, might make you rich much sooner than here."

He shook his head.

"Money is seldom found where people go to look for it," he said quietly. "Good luck is where God means it to be found. The happy lark picks up her little grain