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.