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Updated: June 3, 2025
Were I looking for inspiration to paint a Madonna I would turn my steps toward the Painted Desert, and there among the Indian people I would find my model. Indian mothers are real mothers. Their greatest passion is mother-love.
And with a deeper mother-love piercing through her childish pleasure, she bent over the infant; then took it up, awkwardly and comically enough, as though it were a toy she was afraid of breaking, and rocked it to and fro on her breast. Elspie started up. "Tak' tent, tak' tent! ye'll hurt it, maybe, the puir wee Oh, what was I gaun to say!"
We learned less from the cows, because we did not enter so far into their lives, working with them, suffering heat and cold, hunger and thirst, and almost deadly weariness with them; but none with natural charity could fail to sympathize with them in their love for their calves, and to feel that it in no way differed from the divine mother-love of a woman in thoughtful, self-sacrificing care; for they would brave every danger, giving their lives for their offspring.
How the actions of the cub reminded her of those of her own little one! And how she longed to clasp the small form in her arms! To feel it near her breast and to stroke its silky fur. The mother-love was strong in Myla and her loss still caused her untold agony.
I believe this with firm conviction, and I beg you not to throw away your chance of a woman's best heritage. Don't marry this man, or any man, until you can feel that even the great love you have given me is poor compared with that. Heaven knows I love you, child, and mother-love is stronger than daughter-love; but I could not love you so well or so worthly if I had not loved your father more."
Through this instinct of protection is the species preserved. In human beings mother-love is well flavored with pride, prejudice, jealousy and ambition. This is because the mother is a woman. And this is well God made it all, and did He not look upon His work and pronounce it good? The mother of Rembrandt knew that in Leyden there were men who painted beautiful pictures.
He felt a sort of strangeness in her fixed gaze, and with a certain timidity he put out his arm and laid it round her shoulder. Still she did not move. Then he slid up closer in the heather, and kissed her. His heart, which had seemed all frostbound for months, melted, and that hunger for love home-love, mother-love which was, perhaps, at the very bottom of his moody complex youth, found a voice.
That she, a gaunt, grim, brusque woman of fifty, could suddenly feel all the stifled mother-love within her spring up, that was preposterous, the vain imagining of a romancer. They worked together, these two, in Hedwig Vogel's studio, and Kitty strove to make up for her lack of talent by her abundance of patience. "Why did you decide to be a painter?" Fräulein Vogel asked her one day.
To Caterina, on the verge of womanhood, it came with the force of a prophetic vision, giving her sight of the tie between a queen and her people it was like the strong mother-love of a great woman all-embracing; the splendor of the pageant, the personal homage had no longer part in the exaltation of that great moment it was the real beneath it all that stirred her soul.
Truly is mother-love divine; for everything by human recognition called divine is summed up in that love; and every woman uttering and transmitting its highest expression is more than the mother of man: she is the Mater Dei.
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