The story of Saint Stanislaus Kostka
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William T. Kane, S.J. >> The story of Saint Stanislaus Kostka
And when their letters came, there was high wrath in Kostkov. The
Lord John raved and swore. He blamed everybody, but most of all
Stanislaus and the tricky Jesuits who, he said, were back of the
whole scheme. He wrote to Cardinal Osius that he would not rest
until he had broken up the Jesuit college in Pultowa and driven
every schemer of them out of Poland. As for Stanislaus, he would
follow him across the world, if need were, and drag him back to
Kostkov in chains.
He was a great lord, the Lord John. He loved his second son,
Stanislaus, most dearly, and he loved dearly the honor of his house,
which he thought that son had stained by hi& conduct. A son of his
in beggar's garb, tramping the highways of Europe, begging his bread
from door to door! It nearly broke his heart.
He had princely blood in his veins, he was a Senator of Poland, he
might even become a king. His dearest hopes were in Stanislaus, his
second son. Paul, the eldest, was wild and unsteady. And though
there were two other sons and a daughter, none gave such promise as
Stanislaus. So that the Lord John looked chiefly to him to carry on
the great name and make it more glorious still. No wonder he raged!
Stanislaus had figured all that out beforehand. It hurt him too,
hurt terribly. But what can one do when God calls? God had made all
the Kostkas, given them name and rank. God was the Lord of Lords. It
was heart-breaking to Stanislaus to leave his father in anger. Yet
he trusted that since that was God's will - well, God would find a
way to bring peace out of all this trouble. He put all his fears and
heartache away from him, and went out to do what God wanted.
He had always done that, even when he was a little tad in the rough
castle at Kostkov. God had taught him, God had helped him
wonderfully. But more wonderful still to our eyes is the way the boy
listened to God's teaching and obeyed it.
We think things come easy to the saints. We read or hear of wonders
in their lives, which are evidently God's doing; and we say:
"Of course the saint was good and holy. But it was all done for him.
God made everything smooth. The saint was never in my boots for a minute."
And all the time we forget the things which the saint himself did,
the superb efforts he had to make.
So Stanislaus began to pray as soon as he well began to speak. Do
you think he would not sooner have kept on with his play? Do you
think he did not naturally hate the effort just as any boy naturally
hates effort?
He lived amongst rough men, men used to the ways of camps and the
speech of soldiers. Yet he not merely kept his own lips" clean, but
he shrank, as from a blow, from every coarse or indecent speech in
others. He did not go around correcting people. He was too sensible
for that. He was not a prig or a prude. But he knew, as we know,
that vile speech is hateful to God; and, as so many of us do not do,
he set his face against it.
Did that cost him no effort? Had he no human respect to fight
against? Think of how many times you may have grinned, cowardly, at
a gross remark or shady story of a comrade - because you were not
fighter enough to resent it! And then give this Stanislaus, who did
resent, credit for his stouter courage, his more manly spirit.
His biographers tell us that he was simply' free from temptations
against purity. That does not mean what many may think it means:
that he was physically unlike other boys, that he had no animal
desires, that he had nothing to fight against. It means that he was
such a magnificent fighter that he had won the battle almost from
the start. It means that he was not content, as so many of us are,
with merely pushing a temptation a little aside, and then looking
around in surprise to find it still there. He was like a skillful
boxer, who wards off every blow of his adversary, so that he goes
through the contest absolutely untouched. He watched, as we are too
lazy to watch; he kept out of danger, where we foolishly run into
it; he did not wait until temptation had set upon him and nearly
battered him down before he began to resist; he saw it coming afar
off, just as we can if we look out, and he met it with a rush that
sent it again beyond reach or even sight.
OF COURSE he was the same as other boys; OF COURSE he had the same
inclinations, the same promptings of the animal man; but with them
he had more daring, more force and energy of will to cooperate with
God's grace.
You always find it that way. The things the saints seem to do with
ease are terrifically hard things, huge battles, regular slugging
fights. The ease, if there be any, is not in the things they did,
but in the men who did them.
You have seen skilled pianists sit down at their instruments and run
off into brisk flowing music what looks like a hopeless jumble of
notes. You may have seen an artist sketch in, whilst chatting idly,
a swift, striking portrait. Well, all really good men are artists
too; artists in fighting. And Stanislaus was one of the cleverest
and strongest artists of the lot.
He began early, just as the musician Mozart did, just as the painter
Raffaele did; and he studied hard at his art, just as all great
artists have done. He began by saying his prayers well, not mere lip
prayers, but heart prayers. He began by getting on easy terms with
God, with our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament, with our Blessed Lady.
He learned to talk with them as we learn to talk with our fathers
and mothers. He told them his troubles, his plans. He talked
everything over with them. And it no more made him queer or stiff
or unpleasant than talking things over with your comrades or your
parents makes you queer or stiff or unpleasant. If you believe in
God, it is the most natural thing in the world to try to take Him
into your confidence.
Then it is easy to see how, as Stanislaus grew older, he liked to
pray, he liked to talk about God and our Lady. You see, he had
grown to know them. They were not remote, far away. They were as
near to him as his own folk. They were his own folk. And it is
easy to see how, keeping in God's sight all the time, he kept his
soul clean and his heart merry.
CHAPTER IV
OFF TO VIENNA
In this way Stanislaus went on until he was nearly fourteen years
old and his brother Paul was approaching fifteen. Then the Lord
John Kostka thought his boys had better continue their studies, not
at home, but at a regular school. He picked out John Bilinski, a
young man who had lately completed his college course, as tutor for
them. He gave them a couple of servants, mounted them all on good
horses, and sent them off six hundred miles or more on horseback to
Vienna.
You may be sure Stanislaus enjoyed the long ride. It would be
strange if he, a nobleman of the finest cavalry nation in the world,
were not a good horseman. He loved the smell of the open fields, he
loved the boisterous song of the mountain torrent. The hills and
the plains were his home, for the hills and the plains were nearer
to God than the houses of men.
In those days all travel was on foot or on horseback. The wealthy
and noble rode, the poor footed it. Great highways cut Europe from
end to end; though there were tracts in Stanislaus' country where
the roadway was only the broad steppe, where the grasses waved and
tossed like the sea, where men were few and their dwellings
scattered far apart.
They crossed great rivers, they climbed the foothills of the
Carpathian mountains. Many a night Paul and Stanislaus, with their
people, slept under the stars. Many a wild, rough border town they
passed. Many a great forest they penetrated, the home of the wild
boar and the aurochs.
And the tar burners in the forests looked up from under their matted
brows at the fair oval face of the Polish boy, and said:
"He is like a wild flower blown by the wind. He is like the violets
that laugh in spring at the sun."
And the shaggy fighting-men of the frontier villages watched him
ride through their streets, and thought:
"This is an angel. He looks toward heaven because he sees his
Brothers there."
They crossed themselves piously as he passed. And some of the light
and laughter of his face glowed 'for a moment in their dark lives,
as a gloomy glen in the forest is brightened up by a darting ray of
sunlight.
He was wonderful, but he was always a boy. He was glad to feel the
good horse under him, to grip the Tartar saddle with his knees, to
feel the air rush by his cheek.
Sometimes they met poor people staggering wearily afoot along the
road. Often Stanislaus checked his horse and lightly dismounted.
"Get up, get up, old father!" he would cry. "My legs are stiff from
the saddle. I want to walk."
And though a peasant might often be afraid to accept the favor from
a noble, or be surly and churlish, the folk never were so with
Stanislaus. Up climbed the old father into the saddle, and
Stanislaus stepped out by his side.
"God give your grace long years!" said the thankful old man.
"Long years!" cried Stanislaus. I want more than that. I want
eternity. I was born for greater things than long years."
And the old man would understand; for he was of the poor, and the
poor know more of this longing for heaven than do the rich. But he
looked almost with awe at this richly dressed noble boy who had
learned even now to value life so justly. Then it was easy for
Stanislaus to talk of heaven to the old man.
"Old father, in the barony of the Lord Jesus there is no poverty or
old age or weariness. Nor is there any difference of rank there as
here, for we shall all be great lords and castellans in heaven."
"Aye, but your grace will be a hetman surely in the army of the Lord
Jesus," said the old man.
"Who knows!" cried Stanislaus. "I should love that dearly. Though
the generals in His kingdom are not always from amongst the nobles.
It may be that you will be hetman, and I a common soldier. But it is
good to be even a common soldier with Him."
"I went against the Tartars in my youth," said the old man. "Perhaps
we shall have a campaign against that dog-brother Lucifer, and Saint
Michael and Saint Wenceslaus will lead us under the Lord Jesus; and
our Lady of Yasna Gora will look on when we come back victorious!"
And so they talked on until it was time to set the old man down, and
Stanislaus mounted again to catch up with his party, which had gone
ahead.
"With God!" cried the old man.
"With God!" echoed Stanislaus. 'And if you go to heaven before me,
father, do not forget to plead for me with the Lord Jesus and with
His Mother."
Then he clattered along the road, and shortly came up with Bilinski
and Paul.
Sometimes they came to districts infested by robbers, and waited to
join themselves to some larger party for protection. Sometimes they
made long stretches of many hours in the saddle, when the inns were
far apart and they could get no food on the road. Sometimes they
tarried a day or two in a little town to rest their horses.
But everywhere Stanislaus thought of God, and prayed, and when
occasion offered spoke of holy things as only he could speak.
Bilinski and Paul often laughed at him, for they were of a different
stamp. But he did not mind their ridicule, and he bore them no
grudge for it. And so, after. many days, they came at length to
Vienna, on July 26, 1564.
CHAPTER V
SCHOOL DAYS
Vienna WAS a great city, even in those days, since for a long time
it had been the residence of the Roman Emperors of the West. It was
a Catholic city, though even in 1564, little more than forty years
after Luther's revolt, the Lutherans in the city had begun to be
quite numerous.
The Society of Jesus had been founded in 1540, only ten years before
Stanislaus was born. But it had spread quickly. For some years now
there had been a Jesuit house in Vienna. In i56o, four years before
Stanislaus came to Vienna, the Emperor Ferdinand I had loaned to the
Viennese Jesuits a large house next to their own, which they might
use as a college. The Fathers built a connection between the two
houses, so that they became practically one. Here they received
boys from the city, from the country round about, even from Hungary
and far Poland. Here Stanislaus took up his residence.
It was a simpler, less formal sort of school than we perhaps are
accustomed to. The Fathers and the boys lived together, almost as
one big family. They ate together in one large dining hall. There
were always some of the Fathers with the boys in their games, as
well as in their studies. It was a very pleasant place, and a very
good place.
In those early days of Protestantism, Catholics, even Catholic boys,
felt that they were in a fighting situation. The attacks upon the
old faith woke new courage and devotion in those who remained
faithful to the Church of the ages. And so, filled with that spirit
of loyalty, that new earnestness which the times called forth, and
living under the example of the simple manly piety of their Jesuit
teachers, it is no wonder that the boys in the College of Vienna
were an unusually good set of boys.
They had their regular classes, in languages, mathematics, and such
science as the age knew. Latin was then the language of all educated
people in Europe, the language of courts, the common meeting ground
of all nations. Many a time, both in those days and later; a noble
proved his rank and saved himself from mischance by the mere fact
that he spoke Latin. It was not a dead language then, as it is now.
It was in current use. Greek was comparatively new in Western
schools. And though from their beginnings the Jesuits were famous
teachers, we can hardly suppose that in their new and small college
at Vienna the boys were much troubled by the speech of Plato and
Demosthenes.
Of their games it is hard to know much at this late day. Sword-play
and bouts of a soldierly sort were common enough. These boys were
almost all of noble birth; most of them perhaps looked for-ward to
the army for their profession. So they held mimic tournaments and
played games in which they hurled lances through suspended rings;
they shot with bows and arrows; and of course they had matches in
running, jumping and wrestling.
We know that Stanislaus did uncommonly well in the schools. He was
quick, had a good memory, and was too sensible to be lazy. And
though the writers of his life say nothing about it, we are quite
sure that he excelled in games and sports also. For one thing, he as
a general favorite, esteemed by all his fellows; and that must mean
that he was one with them in their play. For another, he was
naturally no dreamer or moper, but the jolliest, cheeriest sort of
boy. And finally, the boy who walked twelve hundred miles in a few
weeks must have been well accustomed to using his legs. Try thirty
miles a day on foot, day after day, you football players and
baseball players, you trained athletes, and say whether it is the
work of a weakling or of a boy who never played.
But it takes more than success in studies and in games to account
for his great popularity with the other college boys. Such success
may win a certain admiration and respect, but it does not of itself
win friends. And Stanislaus had pretty nearly every one for his
friend. To do that requires other gifts, gifts of character.
Everybody liked him, because he had such gifts. He was pious, but
not merely pious; much more than pious, he was good. That means he
was unselfish. There is only one way to make people really love
you, and that is to love them. That is what Stanislaus did; he loved
the people he lived with. He was naturally good hearted, and big
hearted. He had kept away from petty meannesses. He had fought
down his natural selfishness. He had learned not to be always
seeking his own little advantage, not to put himself forward for
praise, not to insist on his " rights," not to boast and carry a
high hand with his comrades, not to talk a lot about himself.
He had learned to forgive little offenses, and big ones, too, for
that matter. He knew all about how our Lord had suffered and put up
with things and forgiven those who hurt Him. And he loved our Lord
so much, was so much at home with Him, that almost without effort he
acted as our Lord would want him to act. He had plenty of spirit,
and a whole world of pluck and daring; but he was not quarrelsome.
Then he was as cheerful as sunshine, and he made every one else
cheerful. Why, the boys could not help loving a boy like him.
Sodalities were rare in those days; but the college boys of Vienna
had a sodality, devoted to the honor of our Lady, and under the
patronage of Saint Barbara. At their meetings; the sodalists in turn
had to address their companions, give a little talk about the
Blessed Virgin, or on some virtue, or the like.
Whenever Stanislaus' turn came, the boys were all expectation. He
was no older than most of them; indeed, younger perhaps. But he had
an older head. He had done more thinking than they, and a deal more
praying. He had no false shame or babyish timidity. If he had
anything to say, he was not afraid to say it. And he certainly had
something to say. It had come to be as easy for him to talk about
our Lady and heaven as for other boys to talk about their mothers at
home. He had treasured up stories of the Blessed Virgin's help, with
which Catholic Poland was filled. He spoke simply, unaffectedly, of
our Lady's love for us, of her power, her willingness to aid us. And
from him, though simply their school mate, the boys heard these
things eagerly. He seemed well privileged to speak, as indeed he was.
To talk about pious things, and do it acceptably, is a mighty hard
matter. You have to know how. And the first part of knowing how is
to be at home with pious things, to have thought about them, often
and long, to have woven them into your life as Stanislaus had done.
The trouble with us is that we live so far removed from thoughts of
God, of His Mother, that they never cease to be strange to us. We go
blunderingly about mention of them, or we lack the courage to speak
at all. But why should they be strange or remote? We are destined
to live forever in heaven, we are the daily recipients of God's
favors, we are sheltered, protected, every way by our Lady's loving
care.
The things that touch us most nearly are the things of the spiritual
world; they are the most thrillingly important; they are the only
really important things. We are not afraid to talk baseball, or
politics, or business. Why be afraid to talk of God's power, His
dominion over us, His love for us, our duties to Him, the helps He
gives us, the reward He holds out to us? There is only one answer:
we don't think enough about these things. There is only one remedy:
do thing about them, as Saint Stanislaus did.
CHAPTER VI
IN THE HOUSE OF KIMBERKER
The house which the Jesuits in Vienna used for their boarding
college was not theirs. It belonged to the Emperor Ferdinand I, who
had merely loaned it to them. Now the Emperor Ferdinand had died on
July 25, 1564, the day before Paul and Stanislaus came to Vienna.
The new Emperor, Maximilian II, left the house with the Jesuits for
a time; but in March, 1565, withdrew it from their use. Of course,
that meant the breaking up of the boarding-school. The Fathers still
had their own residence, and they could teach a small number of day
scholars. Many of their pupils went to their homes when they could
no longer live with the Jesuits. Those who remained had to take
lodgings elsewhere in the city.
It was decided that Paul and Stanislaus should be amongst the latter
number. At once Bilinski set out with the two to get a house. In
the Platz Kiemark, a fashionable quarter of the town, there was a
splendid mansion, belonging to a Lutheran noble, the Senator
Kimberker.
It took Paul's fancy immensely. On inquiry, they found that
Kimberker used less than half of the house, for it was a huge
building with many rooms, and that he was more than willing to rent
the unused rooms to the young Poles. Stanislaus felt a little ill
at ease over living with a Lutheran. But Bilinski and Paul pooh-
poohed at his fears, and had their own way in the matter.
So in a few days they moved in, and fitted up a couple of the vacant
rooms. Stanislaus was to live more than two years in this house,
two years filled with a great deal of annoyance and pain, and yet
blessed in wonderful ways. His difficulties began almost at once,
and they were no slight difficulties. Of course, he and Paul went
daily for classes to the Jesuits' house, and met daily the few boys
who continued their studies in Vienna. But the old companionship,
the old life of the boys in common, was gone. Only two or three of
his best friends remained, and these were scattered through the
city. He saw them for a little while after classes, he might now and
then go out with them on a holiday. But for the most part he was
thrown back upon the company of his tutor and his elder brother.
Both Paul and Bilinski liked a good time." They were far removed
from the authority of home. Bilinski, who was in charge, was only a
few years older than Paul; and whilst a good fellow in the main, was
little able, or perhaps little willing, to put much check upon him.
And Paul was a pretty gay blade. Rough, boisterous, wild in manner,
he picked companions like himself. Kimberker' 5 house soon became a
noisy place. There were dinners at which the wine went round very
freely, plenty of cards and dice, now and then brawling quarrels.
It did not suit Stanislaus at all. He was too much of a gentleman,
and too good, to act unpleasantly or resent the rough company that
Paul brought home. But he could not mix freely with them, he did
not like their talk or their manners, and he slipped quietly away
from their noisy gatherings as soon as he decently could.
And so he was left alone; and lonesomeness for a boy of fourteen is
a very unpleasant thing. He still did well in his classes, but he
was no book-worm. When he had done his duty in study, the books had
no further claim upon him, and no attraction in themselves. And yet
he kept up his wonderful brightness and cheeriness all the time; so
that Bilinski often wondered at him. And it was worth wondering at,
for there is nothing, as everybody knows, which sooner breaks down
one's spirits and brings on the blue devils than being left alone,
without friends and companionship.
How did he do it? The fact is, he refused to be alone. As his
friends in Vienna left him, he simply turned more to his friends in
heaven. And heaven came down to him. Any old vacant room in the
big, half-empty house was his chapel. And through the long, lonely
days, often through great part of the night, he prayed.
If you could have seen him pray! Imagine any good-hearted boy who
has been away from home for a long stretch, say a couple of years,
and who comes back and meets father, mother, brothers, sisters. He
may not say much, but he LOOKS a good deal, and he feels more than
any words can say. That is the way Stanislaus prayed. He just
turned to God and his Mother in heaven, with all his love in his
eyes and immense happiness in his heart. And if he spoke, or said
things to them in his mind, he could speak simply, like a little
child, because no one else would hear him and he would not need be
shy or bashful.
If you could have seen him pray, you would never think, as so many
do, that praying is a gloomy business. His face was lit up, his
eyes bright, his whole body spoke of peace and courage and joy. He
kept thinking so much about heaven that he seemed to live there in
advance. Everybody knows how, when the school year is nearly over
and vacations are at hand, there is a joyful atmosphere about the
days. Lessons do not seem so hard, though they really are just the
same old lessons. Classes seem to have more life and spirit in
them. Boys are in better temper. Every detail of work and play is
colored by expectation, as if the relief of vacation were already
foretasted. Stanislaus looked forward just that way to the Great
Vacation, to going Home forever. He knew that even the longest
life. ends soon, that all its difficulties and troubles pass away
and eternity begins; and he felt so light-hearted looking ahead to
that eternity that nothing happening here could sadden him - except
sin, and he kept away from that.
Paul and his boisterous fellows thought that Paul's younger brother
was a queer chap. But they liked him, just the same, because he was
always pleasant and smiling. He never said a word to them about
their conduct. But when they talked to him, he naturally spoke of
the things he was always thinking about. And they did not like
that. Such talk tended to stir up their consciences, even to
frighten them. And they did not want their con-sciences stirred up.
You can often see that. You may have noticed in yourself that, if
you are not living as you ought to live, any word about God or death
or heaven or our Blessed Lady irritates you, makes you feel horribly
uncomfortable. And so Stanislaus became a puzzle to them, because
they would not see. And little by little they left him alone, or
only spoke to him to tease him or make fun of him.