The Miraculous Picture

Harper's New Monthly Magazine, December 1873.


The Miraculous Picture.*
A Monkish Legend.

[by S.S. Conant]

IN his cell Medardus lived, secluded
More than monks were wont their lives to keep;
Not a worldly care or wish intruded
On his waking thoughts or dreams in sleep;
For art, prayer, and praise claimed every thought,
And through all his dreams
Flashed the heavenly gleams
Which his hand to glorious pictures wrought.

Through his cell one night a glory streaming
Smote his awe-struck spirit with amaze--
Knew he not was he awake or dreaming--
By his side, all clad In heavenly rays,
Stood the virgin Mother and the Child;
With a look that said,
"Have no thought of dread,"
O'er the youth they bent, and gently smiled.

Many a picture had Medardus painted
Of the Virgin Mother and the Child;
Never had he won that beauty sainted,
Never from his canvas had they smiled,
As they stood beside his lowly bed.
Soon the vision bright
Faded from his sight
With a look and smile that banished dread.

Then at earliest dawn Medardus hasted
To the cloister chapel, where he wrought
Eager-hearted, food and drink untasted,
Lest the vision vanish from his thought
Ere it grew to life beneath his hand.
Round him, as it grows,
Wondering brothers close,
And in awe-struck silence gazing stand.

Lo, at eventide the task was ended,
And the vision lived for all men's eyes.
Had the Mother and the Child descended
In the very glory of the skies?
At her feet a form abject and fell,
In whose face, upturned,
Endless hatred burned--
Had he risen from the depths of hell?

But at midnight, with a sound of thunder,
And surrounded with a baleful light,
Burst the Prince of the black regions under
On the artist-monk's bewildered sight.
"Hast thou passed the brazen gates?" he roared,
"And beheld my face,
Verily to trace
Thus my lineaments by men abhorred?

"Hear me now!--If thou will paint me fairer,
I will give thee riches, power, and fame;
Thou in all delights shalt be a sharer;
Thy reward, whatever thou wilt name,
So thou paint me that men shall not shun me.
Look thou wisely choose!
If thou dar'st refuse,
By the deadly sin that has undone me,

"Thou shalt perish ere another morning,
And thy hated work shall with thee die!
Thou shalt have no other word of warning;
And though all the saints in heaven were nigh,
I will wreak my vengeance on thy head.
On thy lips my hand,
Like a burning brand,
Leaves this earnest of my purpose dread."

Like to one who in a swoon has sunken
Lay Medardus silent until morn;
>From that touch his lips all parched and shrunken,
And his heart with dread emotions torn;
But with earliest light the chapel sought,
And with cunning hand,
And high self-command,
All that day upon his picture wrought.

Groups of brothers kneel about the altar,
Cross themselves in fear, and mutter prayers,
While with hands that tremble not nor falter,
And with mien of one that greatly dares,
He reveals that vision of aifright:
There, abject and fell,
Lies the Prince of Hell
At the Virgin's feet. Hide, hide the sight!

Once again the narrow cell was gleaming
With a brightness never native here;
Knew he not were he awake or dreaming,
But the fear he felt was holy fear;
For the Virgin Mother and the Child,
O'er him gently bending,
Radiance transcending
Shed around him as they looked and smiled.

Still he lay as in a deep swoon sunken,
Or as one who breathes in haunted land,
Till she stooped, and on the mouth all shrunken
From the angered demon's burning hand
Laid her own lips, gracious and benign:
Never knew a kiss
Other man like this!
Healed the fierce pain of that touch malign!

Knew he not were he awake or dreaming
When the vision faded from his sight;
But a radiance through the chamber streaming
Made more bright than noonday all the night:
For a shining Cross above his head,
In mid-air suspended,
Whose clear light transcended
Fullest sunshine, banished fear and dread.

On the morrow, on the fated morrow,
Round the picture grouped the brotherhood;
And, as one who dreads some awful sorrow,
There, with folded arms, Medardus stood,
While the simple village people came
Trooping, young and old,
Eager to behold-
Rumor wide had spread the picture's fame.

Suddenly, with lightning and with thunder,
In a murky cloud of sulphurous smoke,
Cleaving earth and marble floor asunder,
On the crowd the Prince of Darkness broke.
At Medardus' feet a black abyss
Yawned, with smoke and flame,
Terrors without name,
Direful shriek, and moan, and serpent hiss.

Down that reeking, black, and loathsome chasm
Sank Medardus and his picture, hurled
(While through all there thrilled a terror-spasm)
By the demon to the under-world.
>From the pit up-echoed hideous laughter,
While the brotherhood,
Terror-stricken, stood
With the others, dumbly gazing after.

Then arose a weeping and a wailing,
But too deep for words their mute despair--
Hope and faith in that dark moment failing,
Not a voice was lifted up in prayer.
But while thus they stood with shrouded eyes,
From that chasm dark
Strains arise. Oh, hark
Can such a melody from hell arise?

Wondering, but assured, they gather nearer.
Through the air a heavenly fragrance floats,
Through the chasm light dawns clear and clearer,
Ever clearer the celestial notes.
Each with awe-struck expectation stands.
Lo, the picture, lo!
Can it thus be so?--
>From the canvas they have stretched their hands-

>From the canvas, gracious and benignant,
They, the Virgin Mother and the Child,
Took Medardus from the clutch malignant;
Him whose soul no evil had defiled
Laid they gently at his brothers' feet.
Then was weeping hushed,
While low music gushed
>From the air in heavenly cadence sweet.

Thus was fear and thus was sorrow banished;
Saved and praying, there Medardus lay;
But the picture from their eyes had vanished!
It was never more, old legends say,
Seen by mortal eye; and some relate
That, by angel hands
Borne to heaven, it stands
Just within the glorious golden gate.

Many a picture, since, Medardus painted
Of the Virgin Mother and the Child.
Never could he win that beauty sainted;
Never more upon his eyes they smiled,
Till one night they stood beside his bed,
And at dawn of day
There Medardus lay,
On his lips a smile--and he was dead.

* The student of German literature will perceive that this poem was
suggested by Theodore K6rner's Medardus, of which it Is, however, an
adaptation rather than a translation.