The Lady’s Second Appearance—
The Feast of St. Anthony

The thirteenth of June approached. It was the day designated by the Lady for her second appearance to Lucia, Jacinta and Francisco, who waited eagerly and prayerfully—not to be reassured that what they had said of this marvellous Lady was true, but simply to see her again, to know her again, and to be embraced in that light of heaven that conducted her to earth. In the weeks since the first apparition, the news of the alleged phenomenon had spread through the parochial limits of Fatima, finding more credence in distant parishes than it enjoyed at home. Locally, it was considered a joke or, at best, a lively scandal.

But to all Portuguese Christians, the thirteenth of June was a distinguished date for a revered and traditional reason; it was the feast day of their great St. Anthony who, to the undisguised pain of so many Italians, was born in Lisbon, Portugal, rather than in Italy, seven centuries before. This is the same St. Anthony whom people of all nations, and sometimes of mixed beliefs, still petition to find lost wedding rings, bankbooks, car keys, relatives, or anything else that tends to get misplaced. To both the Portuguese and the Italians, St. Anthony is a kind of contemporary and benevolent uncle who never wearies of accomplishing the impossible.

Lucia’s mother knew all this. Having succeeded by no other means, she courted the hope that the festa of St. Anthony and its attendant pleasures would cause her daughter to forget this wilful nonsense of the Lady. She knew that the day would be glad, the bells would ring, and that all the traditional adornments of the feast, so precious to Lucia, would be repeated. Lucia’s sister, Maria dos Anjos, has told us of this:

Our mother knew well how Lucia loved the festa, and she hoped the whole story of the Cova da Iria would pass with it.

“It is a good thing that we are having St. Anthony tomorrow,” she said, “and we mustn’t say anything to Lucia about going to the Cova. We must talk of nothing but the festa so that by tomorrow she will have forgotten the other foolishness.”

We were very careful to do what our mother told us, but of all our plans and preparations, Lucia seemed to take little notice. Except that once in a while she would remind us, “Tomorrow I’m going to the Cova da Iria; that is what the Lady told us we must do.”

Thus St. Anthony, for all his goodness and the glamour of his day, could not compete with the Lady dressed in light. Jacinta and Francisco shared Lucia’s certainty their Lady would appear as she had promised. Less bedevilled at home than Lucia, they talked of nothing but the joy ahead of them. Their only sadness came from the refusal of their mother to journey with them to the Cova.

“But, Mama,” Jacinta insisted, “Our Lady will be there!”

“Well, I’m certainly not going there; and it isn’t true that she appears to you. Be sensible, child.” Olimpia Marto was not angrily impatient, but she was becoming more and more wearied of this same repeated and unbelievable story.

“She said she will come again, Mama, and she will.”

“You don’t want to go to St. Anthony?”

“St. Anthony’s no good.”

“What’s that?”

“We mean—well, the Lady is much, much nicer.” It was a little too much for Olimpia, who simply went on with her work.

The morning of June 13 was as summery and bright as St. Anthony himself might have ordered it. In the Marto house, Jacinta and Francisco were awake early. They had already made plans with Lucia to pasture the flocks as soon and as swiftly as possible, so that they would not be late for their date with the Lady at the Cova da Iria. They left the house, still munching their rapid breakfast of bread and cheese, and found Lucia already waiting.

“This morning,” Lucia explained, “we’ll take the sheep to Valinhos. It’s closest to hand, and the grass is very good just now.”

The flocks dined well on the grass of Valinhos, and as though to co-operate with the shining day and its great events, they went contentedly back to their corral. With most of the morning free, the children went home to dress in their finest Sunday clothes.

“Will you wait for us?” Jacinta asked Lucia.

“Well, not just now,” Lucia said and explained she had promised first to go to Fatima to meet some children who had made their first Communion with her. “But I will see you there, Jacinta, and we will then go to the Cova.”

Lucia dressed quickly, but with attention to detail. Standing in her new and unscuffed shoes, she carefully arranged her shawl at her shoulders and adjusted a dainty white kerchief on her head. Her mother, silently watching these embellishments, began to believe that they were in honour of the festa at Fatima; her inclination was to congratulate St. Anthony on another of his routine miracles; and when Lucia did go off in the direction of Fatima, Maria Rosa sighed her relief. Her daughter, after all, was just like the rest. Things would be normal again. There would be an end to the family’s shame.

But Lucia was dressed for another kind of festa. With her cousins, she believed that the Lady, perhaps more than St. Anthony, deserved the honour of their Sunday best. In Fatima she met the companions with whom she had made her first Communion, and began to exercise on them that effortless salesmanship which appears to have been part of her nature. Years later we were able to interview one of her companions of that day—a Senhora Leopoldina Reis, who told us this:

About fourteen of us who had made our first Communion with Lucia joined together and decided to go with her to the Cova da Iria. As usual, when Lucia proposed something, no one disagreed.

We were in a group, all ready to go, when Lucia’s brother, Antonio, came up to us and said, “Don’t go to the Cova, Lucia. If you promise not to, I’ll give you some money.” And Lucia looked back at him and said, “Money? I don’t care about the money. What I want is to see the Lady.” And we went on for about 300 feet, with Antonio still trying to stop us. He did not succeed, and while we continued on, I noticed Lucia becoming more serious and thoughtful all the while.