The story of Saint Stanislaus Kostka
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William T. Kane, S.J. >> The story of Saint Stanislaus Kostka
"Listen," said Stanislaus, "I am going out for the day. I have
received an invitation which I must accept. I am going now. If
Bilinski or the Lord Paul ask for me, tell them that."
"I will, your grace, I will," said Pacifici. But he was almost too
astonished to speak.
Stanislaus left the room and the house. He walked quickly to the
Jesuit church, where he heard Mass and received Holy Communion. At
Mass he met a young Hungarian, with whom he had been very intimate.
He beckoned him aside and whispered:
"Wait for me a minute. I just want to say a word to Father Antoni."
Then he hurried away, but was back shortly at his friend's side,
eyes dancing, lips smiling, hand outstretched.
"I have just bid Father Antoni good-by," he said, with a little
excitement. "I am running away. I am going to Augsburg' to ask
admission into the Society of Jesus. I told Paul yesterday that I
should not stay with him, and I have written a letter and put it in
a book. Do not tell any one what I tell you now. But after a few
days, please go and point out the letter to Paul."
His friend listened with wonder. Going away!' Going to Augsburg!
"But how?" he asked. "Not on foot?"
"On foot, to be sure," answered Stanislaus gayly. "Do you think I
have a horse secreted about me? Or could I take one of ours and wake
the house?"
"And you will be a Jesuit, and teach, and never ride a good horse
again, and give up your people and your place in the world!"
"I shall be a Jesuit, if I can," said Stanislaus. "As for what I
shall give up, well, I'd have to give it up when death came,
wouldn't I? And since God wants it, I'd sooner give it up now."
But he had not much time for talk. Day was growing; he must be off.
He got his friend's promise about the letter, bade him good-by
heartily and cheerily, and turned his face towards the Augsburg
road. What happened else that day we have already seen, and how Paul
and Bilinski followed him, and how he got away, and how he did walk,
bravely, gayly, in less than two weeks the four hundred miles to
Augsburg.
CHAPTER XI
AT DILLIGEN
It was well on in the afternoon of August 30th or 31st when
Stanislaus arrived at Augsburg. The town was strange to him. He had
to ask his way to the Jesuit house.
"I want to see Father Canisius," he told the porter at the door.
"I have a letter of introduction to him."
The porter was very sorry, but Father Canisius was not in Augsburg.
Stanislaus' heart fell. Not in Augsburg! His four hundred miles on
foot for nothing! It was a terrible disappointment.
"Wait a moment," said the porter, "until I call one of the Fathers."
As Stanislaus waited, he kept asking himself, "What shall I do? What
shall I do now?" And for a little while he could not think clearly.
He felt almost sick. But he was not the kind to be discouraged long,
and before the porter returned with the Father he had made up his mind.
"Since Canisius is not in Augsburg, well, I'll go to whatever place
he is in.
The Father who came was all regrets. Canisius had gone to
Dillingen. But would not Stanislaus come in, and at least rest a
few days before seeking him further? No, Stanislaus was going on -
at once.
"How far is it?" he asked. "And can you point me out the road?"
"It is about thirty-five miles," the Father answered. "But you
can't go on this evening. You must be dreadfully tired."
Yes, he was tired, but not so tired that he could not go to Dillingen.
It is only a little way, after all," he said, smiling as he always
smiled. But he stopped to eat something with the Jesuits, both
because he was hungry, and because it would be discourteous to
refuse all their kind offers.
One of the lay-brothers had to go on business to Dillingen, so he
hastened to accompany Stanislaus. It is from his testimony that we
know what happened on the way.
Before the sun had quite set, he was on the road once more. He
slept in a field that night. He was up early the next morning, and
stepped out bravely, fasting, and hoping for a chance to go to Holy
Communion.
The evening before, he had left Augsburg a good many miles behind.
A few miles more in the early morning brought him to a little
village. From some distance he saw the spire of its church. He
hastened his steps, lest Mass should be over before he reached the
place.
When he came to the church, he saw through its open door a scattered
little congregation at their prayers. He entered quickly, sank to
his knees, and dropping his face between his hands began to pray.
But somehow the place felt strange. After a bit he looked about him,
and saw with astonishment that he was in a Lutheran church. The
Lutheran heresy was still young and kept up many Catholic practices.
It was easy to be deceived.
He felt a little shocked. He had been preparing to receive Holy
Communion, and now he should have to go without. But as he looked
about, the church to his eyes glowed with light. Out of the light
came a troop of blessed angels and drew near to him. He was
frightened, delighted, all at once. Then he saw that one of the
angels bore with deep reverence the Blessed Sacrament, and that God
had granted his desire for Holy Communion. He received It with
quiet joy, but simply, humbly, for he knew that this miracle of Its
coming to him was as nothing to the miracle that there should be any
Blessed Sacrament at all. Since God had stooped to leave us His
Flesh and Blood, the manner in which He gave It was of quite
secondary importance.
It would have astounded us to be in his place in the little Lutheran
church that morning. We try to fancy how we should feel, if we too
saw a host of angels approach us. Yet every day we may avail
ourselves of that more wonderful miracle, before which even visions
of angels pale - the miracle of having God Himself for our Meat and
Drink.
That day brought him to Dillingen and Peter Canisius, the "Watch-dog
of Germany," as he was called, for his vigilance against heresy.
Canisius read the letter of Father Antoni, and listened to
Stanislaus' story. It was all quite wonderful. As the boy talked,
Canisius looked at him and studied him: not quite seventeen, lively,
handsome, full of spirit and daring, quick in speech, eager,
affectionate, pious.
You might call Canisius a man of war, an old veteran. His hair had
grown gray in battles of the soul, in fighting back heresy, in
strengthening weak hearts through that age of trial. He knew the
value of enthusiasm, but he knew its weakness, too.
"A very taking lad," he thought to himself. "He flashes like a
rapier. But will his metal stand hard use?"
It was the thought of common sense. He did not mistrust Stanislaus.
But, on the other hand, what did he know about him? He had not much
to go by as yet; only Antoni's letter, and the boy's engaging
presence. He would take no definite step about admitting Stanislaus
into the Society until he did know more.
"Yon want to be a Jesuit?" he said, with thoughtful brows. "When?"
It was on Stanislaus' tongue to say, "Now, at once." But he
hesitated a moment, and said instead, "As soon as you think fit."
You are a stranger to us, you know," Canisius went on, smiling a
little, but pleasantly. "And before we admit men amongst us, we
need to know that they have something more than a mere desire to
join us.. That takes time to find out. Are you willing to stop in
the college here for a while?"
Stanislaus answered promptly, "Of course I am."
"Not as a student," said Canisius. "But as a servant?"
"As anything you want," Stanislaus agreed.
"Well, come with me," Canisius said, and he led the way to the
kitchen.
"Here's a new cook," he said to the brother in charge. "At least,
he may have in him the makings of a cook. Can you give him
something to do?"
It was not a very encouraging reception, although it was not so bad
as it may sound, condensed as it is in these pages. Neither was it
meant to be encouraging. It was meant to test.
Stanislaus was as cheerful as a lark. He rolled up his sleeves,
smiled at the brother, and waited orders. The brother smiled back,
and said:
"First, I think you will have something to eat. Then we shall see
about work."
The Jesuit college at Dillingen, Saint Jerome's, was a big place and
numbered many students. Many students mean many cooks and servers at
table and servants about the house. Stanislaus took his place
amongst a score of such. He washed dishes, helped prepare food,
swept, scrubbed -whatever he was told to do. He ate with the
servants, took his recreations with them. And he went about it all
as simply and naturally as if he had been doing nothing else all his
life.
His jolliness and kindness won him friends on all sides, as they had
always done. He kept up his prayers, you may be sure; ran in to
visit our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament whenever he was free to do
so; made all he did into a prayer. And of course that irritated some
of the other servants, just as it had irritated his brother Paul.
And so he had no lack of teasing and petty insults. But he just
smiled his way through them and kept on.
He was perfectly happy, entirely confident that he was doing God's
will. As for the work, he chuckled to himself at the idea that
Canisius thought this a test! He would willingly do a thousand
times harder things than that for Almighty God. And after all, he
said, it really was not so hard. Many a better man than he had to
work much harder, at much more unpleasant tasks. And what would it
matter in eternity, if he scrubbed pots and pans and floors and
windows all his life? The only thing that mattered was to please
God, and just now this sort of work was what pleased God.
CHAPTER XII
THE ROAD TO ROME
Canisius kept Stanislaus at his work in the kitchen and about the
house for a couple of weeks. He noted his cheerfulness, his love of
prayer, his readiness to do any sort of work, and best of all, his
simplicity, his entire lack of pose. He saw that this Senator's son
made no virtue of taking on himself such lowly tasks, and he knew,
therefore, that he was really humble.
Then he called the boy to him. He said:
"If I admit you into the Society here, your father may still annoy
you. It is better you should go to Rome and become a novice there.
I shall give you a letter to the Father General, Francis Borgia. In
a few days two of ours are to go to Rome. You can go with them."
Stanislaus was delighted. He was come into quiet waters at last.
But Canisius spoke further:
"First, however, you must get some decent clothes. Your old tunic,"
he said, with a twinkle in his eye, "might do well enough for a
noble, but not for a future Jesuit."
So the college tailor made Stanislaus a simple, neat suit of
clothes. And about September 20th he set out for Rome. He went on
foot, of course; in the company of Jacopo Levanzio, a Genoese, and
Fabricius Reiner, of Liége.
They struck south through Bavaria to the Tyrolese Alps. By what pass
they crossed the Alps we do not know. But Stanislaus saw first from
afar the white peaks, with their everlasting snows, shining in the
sun. Then he went up and up, into cooler and rarer air, where one's
lungs expand and one's step is light and buoyant, but where one gets
tired more easily than in the plains. High up in the passes he felt
the cold of Winter, although it was as yet early Autumn.
Then he came down the southern slopes of the great mountain-wall
that locks in Italy, and with him came the headwaters of great
rivers. He came down through bare rocks, then through twisted
mountain-pines, then through green and lovely valleys, and so into
the plains of northern Italy. He saw the mountain torrents leap and
flash, and grow always bigger and stronger. He saw them slack their
speed and widen their beds in the upland valleys. He saw them grow
sluggish, tawny with mud, in the plain.
He saw the many spires of Milan's wonderful cathedral as they drew
near the city. And when they tarried there a little while for rest,
he saw the famous armor made there, hung up for show in little shop-
windows. He passed great cavalcades of nobles and soldiers, and
marvelled at their straight, slim rapiers, so different from the
heavy Polish saber. He heard Italian speech for the first time, and
tried to get at its meaning through his Latin.
But he and his companions had not over-much time for observing. They
were traveling pretty swiftly. From Dillingen to Rome is a matter of
about eight hundred miles. They left Dillingen September 20th; they
reached Rome October 25th. That figures out to an average of about
twenty-two miles each day. Then, if you remember that they had to
climb mountains the first part of the way, that there were delays
entering towns, delays of devotion when they came to great churches,
you can see that many a day they must have equaled or surpassed
Stanislaus' thirty miles a day from Vienna.
But it was pleasanter. for Stanislaus than his first great tramp.
Now he had two good companions, with whom he could speak easily and
familiarly of the things nearest his heart. He had none of the
uncertainty about the result of this journey which he had had about
his former journey. He found shelter and friendship in many Jesuit
houses on the way.
As the three went on they lightened the road with pious songs, they
heard Mass and received Holy Communion whenever occasion offered,
they knelt by many a wayside shrine, a crucifix, or statue of our
Lady, scattered everywhere through Catholic Italy.
It did not take the two Jesuits long to appreciate Stanislaus and
delight in his company. He was so light-hearted, so merry in all
the discomforts and hardships of the long road, so thoroughly and
simply good. They wondered at his physical endurance, at the ease
and buoyancy with which the lad of seventeen kept up that hard
march, day after day.
The grasses of the Campagna were brown and brittle, the trees sere
and yellow in the Autumn, when they came to the Eternal City, the
center of the world then as now. The saintly General Francis
Borgia, busy as he was with the cares of the widespread Society,
found time to welcome the three travelers, and to hear Stanislaus'
wonderful story in full.
And this time there was no hesitation or delay. Stanislaus entered
his name in the book containing the register of the novices, on
October 25, 1567. Three days later he received his cassock and
entered at once upon his noviceship.
There were so many novices in Rome then that no single house of the
Jesuits there could hold them all. So they were scattered through
three houses, each one spending a part of his two years' noviceship
successively in each house. Stanislaus went first to the Professed
House, then called Santa Maria della Strada, and afterward the site
of the famous Gesu, one of the notable churches of Rome. From there
he passed in time to the Roman College, then to the Noviciate proper
at Sant' Andrea.
The Society of Jesus was then in its early youth, in the midst of
that first brilliant charge against the ranks of heresy without, and
against the huge sluggish inertia so striking within the Church itself.
He was fellow-novice with Claude Acquaviva, son of the Duke of Atri,
and afterwards one of the greatest Generals of the Society, which he
ruled for thirty years. With him were also Claude's nephew, Rudolph
Acquaviva, who died a martyr; Torres, a great theologian; Prando,
the first philosopher at the University of Bologna; Fabio de' Fabii,
who traced his descent from the great Roman family of that name; the
Pole, Warscewiski, formerly ambassador to the Sultan and Secretary
of State in Poland, who first wrote a life of Stanislaus; and many
more, distinguished for birth, learning, holiness.
Most of these were a great deal older, too, than Stanislaus. Many
of them had already made their names familiar to men. Yet the boy
of seventeen, who came quietly and modestly amongst them, was
somehow soon looked up to by all. They felt the force of something
in him which made him their superior. Heaven was wonderfully near
him. He was not old-fashioned; he was always a boy, unconscious of
anything unusual in himself; not solemn nor impressive nor austere
in manner. All that he did, he did with perfect naturalness; for to
him the supernatural had become almost natural.
CHAPTER XIII
THE NOVICESHIP
Most of us, perhaps, think of the saints as men and women who
accomplished visibly great things. Saint Paul, Saint Augustine,
Saint Patrick, Saint Theresa, Saint Philip Neri, Saint Francis
Xavier: such names as these come first to our minds when we think of
"a saint." Yet the fact is that the greater number of saints are men
and women who never did anything that the world would consider great
or striking. Saint Joseph was of that sort. Even the Blessed Virgin
lived and died in obscurity, made no stir in the world.
Sanctity is measured not so much by what one does as by how one does
all things. Externally a saint may not differ at all from other
people. It is his soul that is different.
And so, a visitor to the Professed House in Rome in 1567, meeting
Stanislaus Kostka, would see a handsome, pleasant-looking Polish boy
of seventeen, with his sleeves rolled up above his elbows, with an
apron over his cassock, carrying wood for the kitchen fires, washing
dishes, serving at table, sweeping corridors and rooms.
He got up at half past four, or five o'clock, every morning. He
spent half an hour in meditation, in thinking over some incident in
our Lord's life or some great truth, as that death is near to each
of us, that this life is only the vestibule of eternity, that our
whole business in life is to do what God wants us to do, or the like.
After that came Mass and, once or twice a week, Holy Communion and
his thanksgiving. Then breakfast, taken in silence. He read in a
spiritual book for half an hour or so after breakfast, then went to
the kitchen or the dining hall or the scullery, where he set to work
under the orders of the cook.
In the course of the morning there might be a talk or instruction
from the priest in charge of the novices. There surely would be one
or more visits to the chapel. When the hour for dinner came,
Stanislaus probably served at table, taking his own meal later.
After dinner there was an hour for recreation, when the novices
walked and chatted in the garden or about the house.
The afternoon, like the morning, was taken up with lowly work, with
prayer, and a little reading or instruction. Toward evening, he
again spent half an hour in meditation. Then came the evening meal,
another hour of recreation, a little reading in preparation for next
morning's meditation, and examination of conscience as to how the
day had been spent, and then bed.
Two or three days a week, this routine was broken. Sometimes the
novices walked out into the country to a villa, where they had games
and ate their dinner. At other times they left their work to go
with one of the Fathers to some church or other, upon business.
It was a quiet, humble life, full of peace, near to God, hidden away
from men. In this life the novices had to continue for two years,
before they took upon themselves the obligation of vows, and before
they began the long studies that prepare a Jesuit for his work.
During those two years they tested their vocation, making sure that
God really called them to that life; and they tested their own wills
to see if they were ready to endure what such a life demanded of them.
Stanislaus did just what the other novices did, did nothing out of
the ordinary. Yet, of course, he was different from the others; he
was a saint. What was the difference? Just this: they did things
more or less well; he did things perfectly. If he prayed, he put his
whole mind and soul into his prayer. If he worked, he obeyed orders
absolutely, because in doing so he was obeying God.
There is in the Jesuit noviciate at Angers a series of paintings
portraying incidents in the life of Stanislaus. In one he is shown
carrying on his arm two or three bits of wood towards the kitchen.
Underneath is written, "He will err if he carry more."
The painting commemorates an occasion when Stanislaus and Claude
Acquaviva were put by the cook to carry wood and told to carry only
two or three pieces at a time. Acquaviva, when the two came to the
wood-pile, said laughingly:
"Does the cook think we are babies? Why, we can each carry twenty or
thirty of such little pieces of wood."
"To be sure we can," Stanislaus answered. "But do you think God
wants us to carry twenty or thirty pieces now? The cook said two or
three, and the cook just at present takes the place of God to
command us."
And so it was in everything. He studied singly to see what would
please God most, and no matter how trifling seemed the command he
did just that, with all his heart.
No one ever heard a sharp word from him, or saw him take offense at
anything, or act in the least way out of vanity or selfishness.
And, of course, he was entirely unconscious that he was different
from the rest. He knew he was trying to do his best in everything,
but he supposed every one else was doing the same. And with all his
earnestness and exactness, he was as simple and boyish as he had
ever been.
One day Cardinal Commendoni, the Legate to Vienna, and a great
friend of Stanislaus, came to Rome and hurried over to the Roman
College to call upon Stanislaus. Stanislaus, as soon as he heard of
his arrival, ran off to meet him just as he was, sleeves rolled up,
apron on, straight from the scullery - just as any boy would do.
He was in everything perfectly at ease; content in his little round
of little tasks; going ahead toward heaven without any show or
heroics. He was doing just exactly the little things that God wants
us to do, and he was entirely happy in so doing.
It is true he had never been really unhappy in his whole life.
People who keep close to God never are. They have hard things to
put up with; they may be poor, or fall sick, or lose their relatives
or friends by death; they may have to fight very strong temptations.
They feel all these things as keenly as others feel them. But they
do not become unhappy. We may say they have a world of their own to
live in, that their inmost lives are spent in that world, very
little touched by the changes and accidents of the outer world. They
see that there is an outer world, but they choose deliberately to
ignore it; they will not go into it.
You know that if you go down deep into the sea, as men go in
submarines, you find calm there always, even though a storm be
raging up above and the waves toss with angry violence. So if you
once get inside your life, under the surface, in the heart of life
where God is, you will find calm there also and a certain peace
which is as near as we can come to entire happiness in this world.
But though Stanislaus had learned this secret, and had therefore
always kept his soul merry, he was happiest of all during the time
of his noviceship. The very air around him breathed of God and
heaven. His life there was really an unbroken prayer. He was like
a swimmer who has been fighting his way through nasty, choppy,
little waves, going ahead surely, but with great difficulty, and who
comes at last into long, quiet, rolling swells, where his progress
is delightful, where he can make long, easy strokes and feel
pleasure in the very effort.
And as he was young and ardent, he was in danger of overdoing
things. Prayer, even when it is a joy, is always hard work for us
poor mortals. Stanislaus gave himself so heartily now to praying
that he ran risk of losing his strength and health. So his
superiors, being sensible men, stepped in and moderated his energy.
He was made to work more and pray less, told to be prudent, to
husband his strength for future work. And, of course, he did as he
was told.
But God had special designs on Stanislaus. He was never to use his
health and energy in work as a priest or teacher. Indeed, his work
was nearly over, though it had been so brief. He had no long career
before him on this earth; he was going home, and going soon.
CHAPTER XIV
GOING HOME
When Stanislaus had been a novice nine months, Peter Canisius came
one day to Rome on business. At this time Stanislaus was living in
the noviciate proper, Sant' Andrea on the Quirinal. Of course the
novices were all keen to see and hear the great Canisius, the man
who had done such superb work in Germany. And whatever curiosity
they had was satisfied, for Canisius came to the community at Sant'
Andrea and gave a little sermon or talk.
It was the first of August, the month always most dangerous to
health in Rome. Just for that reason, perhaps, the old Romans had
made the beginning of that month a time of feasting and boisterous
holiday. And an old proverb had come down, "Ferrare Agosto - Give
August a jolly welcome"
Canisius took this proverb for his text, but turned it to say, "Give
every month a jolly welcome, for it may be your last."