The story of Saint Stanislaus Kostka
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William T. Kane, S.J. >> The story of Saint Stanislaus Kostka
CHAPTER VII
THE TEST OF COURAGE
Paul was the worst at this teasing; nor did it stop at mere teasing.
He was not a really bad fellow, but he was selfish, set upon having
his own will in everything, and had a very quick and fierce temper.
Stanislaus' quiet refusal to join in the noisy revels of himself and
his companions, his unaffected piety, his long hours of prayer, were
things he could not understand. They seemed a sort of standing
rebuke to him, and they constantly nettled him. Of course he sought
reasons to justify himself, as we all do when we are in the wrong.
When they were alone, he and Bilinski fell to scolding Stanislaus.
"You shame us!" Paul would cry. "You do not act like a nobleman,
but like some boorish peasant."
Then Stanislaus would be troubled. He knew he was in the right. He
simply could not stand the free ways and freer speech of Paul and
his companions. But how could he justify himself? How could he
defend his own position without at least seeming to attack his
brother's? And that last he would never do. S6metimes he tried to
smooth matters over by saying:
"We take different ways, Paul. I do not condemn yours. Why not let
me alone in mine?"
But oftenest he could only smile and say nothing. And whether he
answered or kept silence, Paul was sure to grow more irritated. Then
Bilinski tried to exert his authority.
"Your father gave you into my charge," he would say. "I order you to
act like the rest of us and not make yourself odd and shame us by
your conduct."
But Stanislaus knew well enough what were the limits of Bilinski's
authority and he was not at all the sort of boy to be easily bullied
by a mere assumption of authority that did not exist.
The result always was that Stanislaus continued to do what his own
conscience urged him to do, and that Bilinski and Paul felt helpless
in the face of his quiet, fearless persistence. And that made them
the more vexed with him. They nicknamed him "The Jesuit," they
mimicked him, they sneered at him. He had a pretty hot temper
himself, but he kept himself well in hand, and was always kind and
pleasant with these cross-grained comrades. He was not the least bit
afraid. Whenever he thought that speaking would do any good, he
spoke up without hesitation. Many a time, when Paul taunted him
with acting in a way to bring discredit upon his name, he answered:
"No man shames his name by trying to please God. As for what men
may think or say, that does not matter much. Do you think we shall
bother much about that in eternity?"
There were two cousins of theirs who often stayed with the Kostkas;
one of them was also called Stanislaus, the other, who afterwards
rose to high rank in his native country, was named Rozrarewski.
These sided with Paul and did their best to help him in making
Stanislaus' life miserable.
It was not long before Paul went on from words to blows. One day
Stanislaus quietly tried to answer some of Paul's sneers. Paul
sprang at him in a rage and, striking out savagely, knocked him
down. Bilinski interfered, and when he had drawn off Paul, proceeded
to scold Stanislaus as being the cause of all the trouble. Such
meanness and injustice must have made the boy's blood boil. But he
mastered himself and said nothing.
That afternoon Paul was going out riding. He could not find his spurs.
"Take mine," said Stanislaus, pleasantly, as if nothing had happened.
And Paul took them, a little ashamed, saying to himself:
"He's a decent little beggar, after all - if only he weren't so
insufferably pious!"
But Paul, though he might be touched for the moment by his brother's
readiness to forgive, continued to grow even more irritated with
him. Many and many a time he struck Stanislaus; and often, after
knocking him down, kicked him and then tramped on him. And Bilinski
always took the same line, trying to make peace by blaming
everything on Stanislaus.
Now Stanislaus was very nearly Paul's equal in size, and easily his
match in strength. He lived simply and frugally, kept himself in
condition, did not over-eat and over-drink as Paul did. He could,
without much difficulty, have met Paul's brutality in kind, and very
likely have given him a good beating. And he knew well enough that
if he did so, Paul would let him alone. For when was there ever a
bully who was not also a coward?
And you may be sure he felt like doing it. He was in the right, and
knew he was. He was high-spirited and utterly without fear. And yet
he never even defended himself. lie let Paul bully him and beat him.
He endured to have himself looked upon as a coward - although you
may observe that all the time he did not budge an inch from the line
of conduct he had chosen. And why? Well, for a lot of reasons.
In the first place, he kept saying to himself, "What difference
does it make for eternity? Then, he knew his own high temper and he
would not let himself go, for fear he should commit a sin - and he
hated sin with all his soul.
And then he recalled what our Lord had suffered for him, and he
said:
"If you will give me the courage to stand it, I'll be glad, Lord, to
suffer this much for You."
And that last was the reason why, in the midst of this real
persecution, he never lost his cheerfulness. More than that, he
never missed a chance to do Paul and his friends a good turn. He said:
"When men were treating our Lord worst, even killing Him, that was
when He was opening heaven for them. And I'm sure He would like me
to be kind as He was kind to those who treated Him meanly."
He did what he could to avoid annoying Paul. He kept out of
everybody's way when he wanted to pray. He used to wait at night
till the others were asleep, for they all slept in one great room
together, and then slip out of bed and on to his knees. Sometimes
his cousins, thinking it a great joke, would pretend to stumble over
him in the half-dark, and kick him as hard as they could.
And this went on for two years. He could have stopped the whole
matter with no trouble at all, by simply writing to his father. But
he never so much as hinted to any one at home of the way Paul and
Bilinski and his cousins treated him. He was as plucky as he was
gentle and forgiving. Although, for good reasons, he would not
quarrel, he had the tenacity of a bull-dog, he held on to the hard
purpose he had formed and nothing could beat him off.
And that is the very highest sort of courage, the courage that
endures, that has no show or heroics about it. Again I say, if he
had done all this, put up with all this, to gain riches, to make a
name for himself, the world would understand and would praise him
tremendously. It is his motive that leaves the world cold, it is the
source and reason of his courage that the world cannot understand.
Yet he was not obstinate and pig-headed, bound to do as he wished
just because he wished it. No, he was very sensible and did
everything with reason. He would not stop saying his prayers when
Bilinski and Paul objected, he would not join in gay dinners and
drinking-bouts and gambling, he would not sit and smile at shady
stories or smutty wit. He would no? do anything his conscience
forbade. But he was most ready to do anything else they wanted.
For instance, he had been used to give his rich clothes away to the
poor, and dress very simply. Bilinski and Paul insisted on his
dressing as became his rank, and he yielded readily. Bilinski
wanted him to take dancing lessons, and he took them, and learned to
dance very well. He was not keen about any of these things, because
he reckoned they would not count for much in eternity. But neither
was he foolish, nor a fanatic, nor one who saw evil where no evil
was. He was simply a level-headed boy, who figured out the business
of life clearly and convincingly, and who had the courage of a hero
in living up to his convictions.
CHAPTER VIII
IN DANGER OF DEATH
Two years of loneliness; when his brother and his cousins and his
tutor, who should have been his comrades, were his persecutors; two
years in which he was always under a strain, always having to
control his anger, to be patient and sweet-tempered amidst a
thousand vexations; two years, moreover, in which the bodily
exercise he was used to, and which he needed as every growing boy
needs it, was cut down to a minimum; two such years would have
broken the health even of a grown, strong man. And Stanislaus was
not a grown, strong man, but a boy of sixteen. It is remarkable
that he should have held out so long. It shows what courage and
goodness and trust in God can do. But finally, towards the end of
November, 1566, his body and brain could stand it no longer. He
fell sick, with fever.
He was not a baby. He did not complain, or even tell any one that
he felt unwell. He kept to his feet for weeks, trying to go on as
usual with his work and his prayers. The feast of Saint Barbara, who
had been the patroness of the boys' sodality in Vienna, was drawing
near. Stanislaus prepared for it with particular care and devotion.
Saint Barbara was the patroness of a happy death and her clients
always besought of her the special grace of receiving the Holy
Viaticum when dying.
December 4th, the feast of the Saint, came and passed. Stanislaus
grew weaker, his fever increased. About the middle of the month he
had to keep his bed, and his condition quickly became serious. Then
Bilinski and Paul forgot their anger against the boy. They called in
the best physicians of the city, they spared no pains or expense.
The servants, who had always loved this gentle master, were all
kindness and attention. But despite the efforts of all, Stanislaus
became steadily worse.
He was entirely at peace, not at all afraid. Yet he felt that death
was coming near. He prayed whole hours, smiling gladly in talk with
our Lord, with the Blessed Virgin, with his guardian angel. He was
ready, even eager, to go home. The evil spirit wondered at this boy
of sixteen, who had fought him off so bravely through his life and
who was dying now so fearlessly.
One day, when his people and even the servants had left him for a
little while, Stanislaus saw an enormous black dog with glaring eyes
and hideous foaming jaws rush across the room toward his bed. The
door was closed. It was impossible for the beast to have entered
the room in any ordinary way. Stanislaus had no notion how it could
have come there. But if he was frightened for the moment, he did
not lose his wits. With an effort, he sat up in bed and made the
sign of the cross. "In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost!"
he cried aloud. Instantly the huge, snarling dog fell to the floor
with a thud as if struck by a sword. But after a few moments he
sprang up again, and first circling the room, came crouching to the
bed, howling as no mortal dog could howl, making ready to spring at
the sick boy. Again Stanislaus made the sign of the cross. Again the
terrible dog was stricken to the floor. A third time he came, only
to be beaten back in the same way. And then, standing with bristling
hair and horrible cries in the middle of the room, he vanished from
sight. Stanislaus fell back on the bed, fearfully exhausted, and
with tears in his eyes thanked God for his deliverance.
The shock of this dreadful incident prostrated him. He failed more
and more. The doctors, coming several times a day, shook their
heads in despair.
"We can do no more," they said, "the end is now only a question of
time."
For seven days and nights Bilinski sat by his bed, snatching only a
few hours' sleep now and then, for he feared that Stanislaus might
die any moment.
Yet in all this long time they had brought no priest to the dying
boy. Every day he begged them earnestly that he might receive the
Holy Viaticum. But they lied to him. Bilinski said:
"You will soon be well. The doctors will cure you. Don't think of
death or go frightening yourself."
"I am not afraid," said Stanislaus. "But I know I am dying. Do not
let me die without Holy Communion."
But Bilinski still put him off, and tried to tease him jokingly with
charges of cowardice.
The fact was, Bilinski and Paul were afraid of their Lutheran
landlord, the Senator Kimberker. His anti-Catholic prejudice was
intense. They feared he might put them, sick boy and all, out of his
house, if they dared to bring a priest and the Blessed Sacrament
into it.
That was a hard trial for Stanislaus. But he met it as he had met
every difficulty, bravely, hopefully, cheerfully. He remembered
Saint Barbara, of whom he had asked 'the grace of not dying without
the Holy Viaticum. He renewed his prayers for her intercession. He
laid his whole case with confidence before God, and with confidence
waited.
Bilinski still sat by his bed, watching anxiously. The day passed,
the light failed, darkness and night came on. Stanislaus all the
time had lain quiet, his face smiling as ever, his lips moving in
prayer. Suddenly he turned to Bilinski, radiant, glowing with joy.
"Kneel down, kneel down!" he said, in a clear but low voice. "Two
angels of God are bringing the Blessed Sacrament, and with them
comes Saint Barbara!"
Then, worn out though he was by his long sickness, Stanislaus raised
himself, knelt on the bed, and struck his breast as he three times
repeated:
"Lord, I am not worthy!"
Then he raised his face, and opening his lips received his
sacramental Lord. Bilinski looked on with awe and almost terror,
unable to say a word. Stanislaus, when he had received the Blessed
Sacrament, lay down again in bed and began his thanksgiving.
He was more than ever ready for death now. But still death held off.
All the next day he passed in quiet. The doctors said:
"Now is the end. He may die at any moment."
But he was not to die yet. Toward evening our Lady herself came to
him, carrying in her arms the Infant Jesus. The sick boy looked up
in wonder and delight. There was his Mother, smiling at him, and in
her arms the laughing Infant. The divine Child stretched out His
little hands to Stanislaus, and Stanislaus, sitting up in his bed,
took Him into his arms.
What passed in his soul then, what joy filled his heart, we cannot
know until we shall come to heaven and taste for ourselves of that
joy.
And the Blessed Virgin and the Child Jesus spoke to him and
comforted him. But Stanislaus was too overcome to say anything.
Only tears streamed down from his eyes as he pressed the Infant
Savior to his breast.
Our Lady said to him:
"You must end your days in the Society that bears my Son's name.
You must be a Jesuit."
But so soon as he had taken the Infant into his arms, Stanislaus felt
that the fever left him, his strength came back, the blood coursed
through his body with a new sense of vigor and vitality.
Then our Lady received her Child back from his hands, smiled at him
and blessed him, and so vanished from his sight.
Stanislaus called for his clothes, dressed and got up. Bilinski and
Paul and the doctors were astounded.
"It cannot be!" they cried.
"But you see that it is," said Stanislaus. "I am as well as ever.
Our Lady and the little Jesus came and cured me. And now I must go
to the church and thank them."
Nor did the fever return. He was entirely recovered.
The house in which this occurred is now a sanctuary, and in the room
in which Stanislaus had received such favors from God an altar
stands, and above it a statue of the Saint.
CHAPTER IX
VOCATION
When our Lady came to cure Stanislaus, she told him absolutely that
he must become a Jesuit. That was not the first idea Stanislaus had
had of his vocation. Even some months before his illness he had
felt himself drawn to enter the Society of Jesus. But now, all
doubts removed, he made a vow in thanksgiving to obey our Lady's
command.
He went to his confessor, the Jesuit Father Doni, and told him of
the vision of the Blessed Virgin and her order to become a Jesuit.
Father Doni believed him readily enough, but he said:
"I can do nothing myself in the matter. You must go to the
Provincial, for only he can admit you. But I am afraid there will
be difficulties."
Stanislaus was not merely afraid, he was quite certain, there would
be difficulties. However, he assured Father Doni:
"Even if there be no end of difficulties, still I shall be a Jesuit.
Since our Lady has commanded me, she will find a way."
The Provincial, Father Laurence Maggi, received Stanislaus kindly,
of course, yet with anything but encouragement. There had been
trouble for the Society shortly before, though in another place,
because of some novices admitted without their parents' consent. The
Provincial did not wish to risk having a like disturbance brought
about his own ears.
"But the Blessed Virgin will take care of the whole business,
Father," said Stanislaus. "She will quiet any opposition my father
may make."
Well, the Provincial was willing to believe that too. But he knew
that God wants us to use our own common sense and not to act rashly
and then rely upon Him, or upon our Lady's intercession with Him, to
get us out of scrapes. So he had to give the only answer which
prudence could give, to all Stanislaus' petitions.
"You must either get your father's permission, or you must wait
until you are of age and your own master."
Now, Stanislaus was quite certain his father would not hear for a
moment of his becoming a Jesuit. On the other hand, he did not want
to wait four or five years until he should come of age. He had that
peculiar courage, which many people cannot understand at all, the
courage to be afraid. He was very much afraid, afraid to trifle with
God's grace, afraid lest if he did not take the favor now when it
was offered him, it might not be offered another time.
He thought of another means of persuading the Provincial. The
Apostolic Legate of Pope Saint Pius V to the court of the Emperor at
Vienna was Cardinal Commendoni. This Cardinal had been Nuncio, and
afterwards Legate, to Poland, and had come from Poland only a year
or so before. He was well acquainted with the Lord John Kostka and
with Stanislaus. When he came to Vienna, Paul and Stanislaus had
visited him, and Stanislaus had made the Cardinal, as he did most
people, his friend.
So he went to Cardinal Commendoni. He figured hopefully that, as
the Cardinal was the Pope's representative, he could easily impose
his will on the Jesuit Provincial; and of course he would do so as
his friend.
Commendoni welcomed the boy, listened to him attentively, marvelled
at his unaffected goodness and at the heavenly favors shown him.
Stanislaus told him of the distressing obstinacy of the Provincial.
"But how about your father?" the Cardinal asked.
"Oh, my father is more hopeless than the Provincial," Stanislaus
answered. "If I so much as mentioned the matter to him, he would
bring me back to Poland, and I should have no chance at all."
As Commendoni knew the Lord John pretty well, he said nothing to
that. But he thought to himself that Stanislaus was fairly accurate
in his forecast.
After a moment's thought, he said:
"You certainly have a right to follow your vocation. God's will
comes before even your father's. But it is not going to be easy.
However, I shall speak to the Father Provincial, and do what I can."
Stanislaus went away with good hopes. He was to return in a few days
to hear the result of Commendoni's plea. But when he came back to
the Cardinal, he found only another disappointment. The Provincial
not merely was as stubborn as ever, he had even won the Cardinal to
his way of thinking. It was too risky to admit him, it was
altogether unwise.
Most boys might have given up after that. Stanislaus did not give
up. He was quite sure of what God wanted, and difficulties simply
did not count. lie was called to be a Jesuit, and a Jesuit he would
be. If he could not gain admission into the Society in Vienna, well,
he would try elsewhere.
But even with his mind fairly made up, he sought more guidance. A
young Portuguese Jesuit, Father Antoni, had lately come to Vienna as
preacher to the Empress Maria. Every one was talking about his
ability, his prudence, his zeal. Stanislaus went to him, and laid
his troubles before him.
Father Antoni took some little time to think it all over, then
decided very definitely. He called Stanislaus to him.
"Do you understand," he asked, "what it will mean to go away, to
leave your people, to live in a strange country?"
Stanislaus said, yes, he understood perfectly.
"And that you are closing the door on your return, that in no case
will you ever be received again at Kostkov?"
Yes, Stanislaus knew that too.
"And that you will have to go an immense journey on foot, with
plenty of hardships; to find at the end of it a life that is not
easy, to live at the beck and call of another, to do menial work, to
endure humiliations, to sacrifice everything that the world holds.
dear?"
Stanislaus smiled at him. He had reckoned it all out, he had "counted
the cost" long before, he was ready.
Then, in God's name, go! " said Father Antonie "And may God be with
you in all. I'll give you letters to Father Canisius, the Provincial
in Augsburg, and to Father Francis Borgia, the General, who is in
Rome."
Then Stanislaus was happy. At last he was in a fair way to obey the
command of God, which our Lady herself had brought him. Father
Antoni spoke with him longer, pointed out in detail many of the
difficulties that awaited him, gave him counsel for the road. Then
he went to write the letters of introduction, and Stanislaus went
back to Paul and Bilinski and their blows and sneers, to get ready
for his tramp.
CHAPTER X
THE RUNAWAY
He was going to run away. But he was not going to sneak away. He
was just as kind and forgiving to Paul as he had always been. He
bore him no ill-will for his three years of abuse, now that he had
determined upon a course of action, which would free him from a
continuance of it. He had often felt angry over Paul's treatment of
him, but he had kept down his anger under his vigorous will.
But now he made up his mind that Paul would receive something of a
shock the next time he had resort to his now almost habitual
amusement of beating his younger brother. Meantime, he bought a
peasant's tunic and a pair of rough shoes that would be serviceable
for his long march.
It was not long before something or other Stanislaus did or said
woke Paul's easily aroused rage. He began with oaths, of which he
seemed to possess a pretty stock. He worked himself up into greater
and greater heat of temper - a substitute for courage with many
people. Finally he sprang at Stanislaus. Formerly, on such
occasions Stanislaus was so busy holding his own temper in check
that he could do little else, he stood almost like a statue. But
this time Paul felt there was something wrong. Stanislaus was
looking straight at him. When he leaped to strike him, Stanislaus
quietly and skillfully thrust him aside. Paul stumbled, staggered,
recovered himself. But when he looked again, fear took hold of him.
He was afraid of what he saw in Stanislaus' eyes. The younger boy
spoke quietly, coolly.
"That will be about enough," he said; "I've put up with your
cowardice and brutality for three years. I'll stand it no longer.
Since I cannot have peace here, well,. I'll look for it somewhere
else. You can answer to our father, and tell him how it happened."
Paul was still frightened. The situation was extremely novel to him.
The turning of the worm! What would happen next! He was afraid at
first that Stanislaus was going to give him his long-due payment,
and he had no stomach to face the reckoning. He had not noticed
before how wiry and strong Stanislaus looked. But when he saw that
the boy made no movement, only spoke in that quiet voice, he plucked
up a little courage. He began to bluster and swear.
"You'll go away, will you?" he cried. "What the devil do I care? Go,
and be hanged to you!" - that was the gist of it, only a trifle more
ornamental.
"Don't forget! " said Stanislaus. " Send word to father. I'm
certainly going away."
Paul was waxing eloquent again, but Stanislaus turned on his heel
and walked away. Nor did the bullying big brother venture to follow
him. He contented himself with calling him hard names which he could
not hear, and muttering savagely to himself for some time. But,
naturally, he did not believe at all that Stanislaus was really
going to run away9 He looked upon the words as an empty threat.
And so it was all over. Stanislaus sighed a sigh of relief. There
was nothing ahead of him now save the road to Augsburg. He said his
prayers tranquilly and went to bed.
Morning came, or the dawn that precedes the morning. Stanislaus got
up, selected his finest suit of clothes, and dressed. His first care
was to write the letter for Paul and his father. This he put between
the leaves of a book.
The servants, of course, even in the primitive housekeeping of the
Kostkas, slept in another room than the big common apartment of
their masters. Stanislaus went to the bed of one of them, named
Pacifici, who was rather particularly devoted to him, and who
afterwards became a Franciscan. He shook Pacifici and woke him. The
servant rubbed his eyes sleepily, then gazed in astonishment at the
brilliant figure standing in the half-light beside his bed. What was
the Lord Stanislaus doing, dressed in this unusual finery, at such
an unearthly hour!