Produced by David McClamrock
POPE PIUS THE TENTH
BY
F. A. [FRANCES ALICE] FORBES
LONDON
BURNS OATES & WASHBOURNE LTD.
PUBLISHERS TO THE HOLY SEE
1954
[Transcriber's note: First published 1918; second edition 1919; third
edition 1924; fourth edition entitled _Pope Saint Pius the Tenth_,
unchanged in content except for anonymous postscript referring to
canonization of Pope Pius X (omitted here), 1954]
NIHIL OBSTAT: PATRICIVS MORRIS, S.T.D., L.S.S.
CENSOR DEPUTATUS
IMPRIMATUR: E. MORROGH BERNARD
VICARIVS GENERALIS
WESTMONASTERII: DIE XI MARTII MCMLIV
CONTENTS
Chapter
I. CHILD AND STUDENT
II. CURATE AND PARISH PRIEST
III. CANON AND BISHOP
IV. PATRIARCH OF VENICE
V. THE PAPAL ELECTION
VI. THE AIMS OF PIUS X
VII. PIUS X AND FRANCE
VIII. THE POPE OF THE EUCHARIST
IX. PIUS X AND MODERNISM
X. PIUS X AND THE PRIESTHOOD
XI. THE POPE OF THE SUFFERING
XII. THE POPE OF PEACE
I
CHILD AND STUDENT
In the village of Riese in the Venetian plains was born on the 2nd of
June, 1835, a child who was destined to leave his mark on the world's
history.
Giuseppe[*] Melchior Sarto was the eldest of the eight surviving
children of Giovanni Battista Sarto, the municipal messenger and
postman of Riese, and his wife Margherita. They were poor people, and
it was difficult sometimes to make both ends meet. The daily fare was
hard and scanty, and the future pope was clothed, as an Italian
biographer puts it, "as God willed." But both Giovanni Battista and
his wife came of a hard-working, God-fearing stock, who could endure
manfully and suffer patiently, and who taught their children to do
the same.
[*] Joseph, Beppo, Beppino, Bepi and Beppe are all diminutives of the
same name. "Sarto" is the English "Taylor."
Little Bepi was remarkable both for his intelligence and for his
restless activity. The village schoolmaster, who at once singled him
out as a pupil worth cultivating, was, we are told, not infrequently
obliged to use means more persuasive than agreeable to calm his
vivacity. Indeed, the seraphic element in Bepi seems to have been
considerably leavened by that of the human boy. "That little rascal!"
exclaimed an old inhabitant of Riese when he heard of Cardinal
Sarto's elevation to the papacy, "Many a cherry of mine has found its
way down his throat!"
It was not long before Bepi had mastered the rudiments of reading and
writing, which were all that the village school could offer. He
became an efficient server at Mass, and such was his influence over
his companions that at the age of ten he was appointed leader of the
somewhat unruly band of acolytes who served in the village church.
The young master of ceremonies proved himself perfectly equal to the
occasion. There was such a serene good temper and such a merry wit
behind the somewhat drastic methods of Bepi that his authority was
irresistible and unquestioned.
To most boys who serve daily at the altar the thought of the priestly
life will sooner or later suggest itself; to some it comes as an
overwhelming call. Giuseppe's vocation seems to have grown up with
him, to have been, from his earliest years, the very centre of his
life. About half a mile beyond Riese stands a chapel dedicated to the
Blessed Virgin, containing a statue known as the Madonna delle
Cendrole. Here young Bepi loved to come and pray, pouring out his
joys and sorrows at the feet of the Mother of Christ, and perhaps she
was the first confidant of his desire to consecrate his life to God.
Certainly this sanctuary was especially dear to him in after-life, as
one round which clung the happiest memories of his childhood.
At twelve years old the boy made his first communion. Did he think
the time was long in coming, and was it the memory of the desire of
his own childish heart that moved him in after years to shorten the
time of waiting for the children of the Catholic world?
Anything that tended to the knowledge of God seemed to have an
irresistible fascination for Bepi. Never was he known to miss the
classes where the parish priest, Don Tito Fusarini, and his curate,
Don Luigi Orazio, taught Christian doctrine to the children of the
parish. So quick was his intelligence and so remarkable his aptitude
that Don Luigi, who at the time was teaching Latin to his own younger
brother, took Bepi also as pupil. The boy's progress soon convinced
his tutor that he had the makings of a scholar, and the two priests
determined to prepare him for the grammar school at Castelfranco.
Distant about four miles from Riese, Castelfranco, with its medieval
and romantic atmosphere, its ancient fortress and picturesquely
crowded market-place, is not the least attractive of the old Venetian
cities. Here, in 1447, was born Giorgione, and here, in the beautiful
old cathedral, is to be seen one of his most famous Madonnas. On
either side of the Virgin Mother, seated on a throne with the Divine
Child in her arms, stand St. Francis of Assisi, and St. Liberalis,
the patron saint of Treviso, a young knight in armour. Many a time
must the boy Giuseppe have slipped into the quiet cathedral to pray
before the Madonna. Did he ask for the strength of the warrior and
the humility of the friar, to be loving like the Christ and pure like
His Mother? Those who knew him in after-life could bear witness that
these gifts were his.
Day after day, in all weathers, the boy tramped the four miles into
Castelfranco, his shoes slung over his shoulder, and a piece of bread
or a lump of polenta in his pocket. In the fourth and last year of
Giuseppe's school life he was joined by his brother Angelo, and as
the financial affairs of their father had slightly improved, the two
brothers were promoted to a rather ramshackle donkey-cart.
The day's work was far from over when the lads came home from school.
There was plenty to be done in the house and outside it. Both the cow
and the donkey must be attended to; there was work in the garden and
work in the fields. It was Bepi's delight to help his mother in the
care of the house, and to look after his baby brothers and sisters,
that she might have a little sorely needed rest. His merry nature and
thoughtful unselfishness made him a general favourite, while the
younger members of the family looked up to him almost as much as to
their parents.
From the beginning of his first year at Castelfranco Giuseppe Sarto
had shown himself a hard-working and brilliant pupil, qualities which
do not always go together, At the end of his fourth year, in the
examinations held at the diocesan seminary of Treviso, he came out
first in every subject. The two priests of Riese were justly proud of
their scholar, and dreamed of great things in the future. Education,
however, costs money; and the Sarto family were not only poor, but
had eight children to provide for. That Bepi had a vocation to the
priesthood was evident to everyone who had had to do with him. The
next step was obviously the seminary; but who was to pay the
expenses? The stipend of an Italian parish priest leaves no margin
for such undertakings. Don Tito Fusarini therefore went to Canon
Casagrande, prefect of studies at the seminary, who had examined the
boys of Castelfranco; he would surely interest himself in the
brilliant youngster who had passed with honour in every subject.
Now it happened that the patriarch of Venice, Cardinal Jacopo Monico,
was himself the son of a peasant, and a child of that very village of
Riese. Distinguished no less for his love of letters than for his
zeal for religion, it belonged to him to name the few students who
were entitled to a free scholarship at the seminary of Padua. That
his heart would be touched at the thought of his young fellow
townsman, like himself a child of the people, and unable to continue
his priestly education for lack of means, was a likely surmise. Don
Tito applied to Canon Casagrande, begging him to plead Giuseppe's
cause with the patriarch, a request which met with a prompt and
hearty assent.
At Riese all was suspense and hope. The postman was a man of firm
faith, whose trust in God had never failed him; Margherita prayed
unceasingly. As to Bepi his whole future lay in the balance; the
dearest hopes of his heart depended on the patriarch's answer. At
last the letter arrived. Canon Casagrande announced to Don Fusarini
that Giuseppe Sarto had been proposed and accepted as a student at
the seminary of Padua, and that the patriarch had himself written to
the bishop of the diocese recommending young Sarto to his care.
Giuseppe's joy was not unmixed with sorrow at the thought of leaving
for the first time the humble village home with all its dear
associations. In the dusk of an early November morning the
fifteen-year-old boy packed his few belongings into the country cart,
in those days the only means of conveyance for the poor, and, bravely
choking back the tears that could hardly be repressed, bade farewell
to his family.
If the medieval charm of Castelfranco had influenced the young
student so profoundly, there was enough and to spare in the city of
Padua to satisfy his love of beauty. Famous throughout the world is
the basilica of Il Santo, built in the thirteenth century, and
dedicated in honour of the great St. Antony. Sculptures by Donatello,
bas-reliefs by Lombardi and pictures by Mantegna, Veronese and Giotto
adorn its walls. The cathedral, partly destroyed in the twelfth
century, was rebuilt by Michelangelo. The university, founded in the
thirteenth century, and counting among its students such men as
Vittorino da Feltre, the great educator, and Giovanni da Ravenna, the
friend of Petrarch, was famous throughout the Middle Ages for its
schools of medicine and of law.
The seminary, founded in 1577 and greatly enlarged a century later,
boasts a handsome church and a noble library rich in precious
manuscripts. It was probably the first library that Bepi had seen,
certainly the first of which he had had the freedom, and one can
imagine the delight of the young student as he wandered through its
lofty halls, and realized that its treasures were henceforward part
of the endowment of the new life that was now his.
The intelligence and cheery good-humour of Giuseppe, joined to the
charm of manner that seems to have been his from childhood, soon made
him a general favourite both with boys and masters. "His mind is
quick," wrote one of the latter to Don Pietro Jacuzzi, who had
succeeded Don Orazio as curate of Riese and was a firm friend of
Bepi's, "his will strong and mature, his industry remarkable." The
somewhat strict discipline of the seminary presented no difficulties
to a boy who had all his life been accustomed to self-denial; a
willing and intelligent submission to authority was indeed a
characteristic of Giuseppe Sarto throughout his life. "In order to
command," he was to say hereafter as pope, "it is necessary to have
learned to obey."
At the end of his first year at Padua, Giuseppe was first in all his
classes. The home-coming to Riese was an unclouded joy, both to the
young seminarist and to his family. The holidays were spent in the
company of the friends of his childhood in the country that he loved.
To Don Jacuzzi and Don Fusarini he was as a beloved son, and much of
his time was spent either at the presbytery or in long rambles with
the good curate. Neither could studies be altogether neglected,
although it was holiday time; and the autumn days passed quickly
enough.
Back again at Padua, Giuseppe set to work vigorously, without a
presentiment of the sorrow that was so soon to overcloud his
happiness. In the month of May his father died after a few days'
illness, leaving his wife and large family in very straitened
circumstances. The thought of the struggle which his mother was
waging against poverty lay like a weight upon Giuseppe's heart. He
was the eldest of the family and would have come to her assistance,
but not for worlds would the good Margherita have allowed her son to
give up his priestly career. She was full of courage, and the other
boys were growing up; they would soon be able to help to support the
family. A second grief followed upon the first. Don Tito Fusarini,
who had been like a second father to Bepi, and whose failing health
had caused him for some time past to rely more and more upon the
devotedness of his curate, was at last obliged to give up his work at
Riese.
Don Pietro Jacuzzi, who succeeded him as rector, had been, from the
day of his arrival in the village, Giuseppe's firm friend and chief
adviser in all his boyish difficulties. The lad looked up to him as
the model of everything that a priest should be, and corresponded
with him continually from Padua. To him he owed the love and the
knowledge of music that was to prove so valuable in after years, for
had he not assisted at the transformation that had taken place in the
village choir under the able tuition of Don Pietro? He had been
witness, too, of the rector's unselfish and untiring devotion to his
priestly duties which had won him the love and reverence of his
parishioners; but within a year Giuseppe was to lose this second
friend also. Don Pietro was transferred to Vascon, to the grief of
the people of Riese.
When Giuseppe came home for the autumn holidays in 1853 the fullness
of his loss became clear to him; Riese was hardly Riese without Don
Tito and Don Pietro. The new parish priest, whose somewhat morose
character formed a striking contrast to the genial kindliness of his
two predecessors, was not popular. He did not like sick calls in the
night, and told his parishioners so plainly from the pulpit. But
sickness and death have a knack of not considering the convenience of
the parish priest, or indeed of anybody else; and of this the
inhabitants of Riese were fully aware.
By his very position as a church student Giuseppe was bound to be on
friendly terms with the presbytery. On the other hand, mixing as he
did with the people of the place, he could not avoid hearing some
severe criticisms of their pastor. While forced to admit to himself
that the methods of the new arrival were a little singular, the boy's
loyal and upright nature forbade him to discuss matters with his
friends. In this difficult and awkward position the lad of seventeen
showed a tact and discernment which would have been admirable in a
man of experience, "These holidays have been perfectly miserable," he
wrote to Don Jacuzzi, who had learnt from other correspondents how
things were going on; "I shut myself up in the house as much as I can
and try when visiting the members of my family to keep off dangerous
subjects."
"No greater grief than to remember days
Of joy when sorrow is at hand,"
he quotes, for he knew his Dante well. "Even the singing has gone
down. I long for my little room at the seminary and the quiet life of
study."
In 1856 Giuseppe distinguished himself more than ever, He had now
only two years more to spend at the seminary. His brilliant successes
as a student left him modest and humble as before, whilst his cheery
kindliness and sympathy made him a powerful influence for good
amongst his young companions. Such was the trust reposed in him by
his superiors that he had for long been prefect of discipline in the
general study room. "My masters call me '_Giubilato_'," he wrote to
Don Pietro. "I wish I could do more to show my gratitude for their
kindness." Nevertheless he greatly appreciated the private room
allotted to him during his last two years at Padua. "Here I read and
work," he wrote to the same dear friend, "and prepare myself for the
life of solitude and study that will be mine as a priest." His
favourite studies were the Bible and the Fathers of the Church. The
pastoral letters and papal encyclicals of later years bear witness to
the fact that this predilection lasted throughout his life.
His knowledge and love of music had obtained for him the direction of
the seminary choir. "I have worked so hard at the music for the feast
of St. Aloysius," he wrote in the June of 1857, "that I am fairly
dried up."
On the 27th of February of the same year he was ordained subdeacon in
the cathedral of Treviso, and on the feast of the Sacred Heart went
to Riese to preach. "Last Sunday I went to Riese to give a little
discourse on the Sacred Heart," he writes to Don Pietro. He does not
mention that the little discourse was so striking and so eloquent
that the enthusiasm of the congregation knew no bounds.
At the end of August, 1858, Giuseppe Sarto's seminary life was over.
As he was only twenty-three, and the canonical age for ordination is
twenty-four, the Bishop of Treviso wrote to Rome to obtain a
dispensation. The young cleric had finished his last year as he had
finished his first, with honours in every subject. The record of his
triumphal progress is still to be seen in the books of the seminary
of Padua, the professors united in praising the qualities of his
character no less than those of his intellect. In September the
dispensation arrived, and with it the day so long desired, when
Giuseppe Sarto was to be for ever consecrated to the service of God.
The Bishop of Treviso was then at Castelfranco, and it was here that
the ordination was to take place.
An autumn mist lay like a veil over the familiar landscape as the
young man drove along the road which led from Riese to Castelfranco.
The horse trotted swiftly, yet the way had never seemed so long. How
often had he tramped it in the old days through dust and mud and
snow, barefoot to save the shoes that were such a heavy item of
expense in the Sarto family. And it was the thought of the day which
at last had dawned, a day that seemed then so far away and so
impossible, which had been the inspiration and the strength of that
life of hardships, making everything easy to bear. The supreme
happiness that now possessed him blotted out all the past. The first
glimpse of the ivied walls of Castelfranco made his heart beat almost
to suffocation. "To-day I shall be a priest," was the one thought
that possessed him; and when, a little later, he knelt at the altar
of the cathedral where he had so often prayed as a child, to receive
the sacred laying-on of hands, it seemed to him as if earth had
nothing more to give.
On the following day the newly-made priest sang his first Mass in the
parish church of Riese. Who shall describe the joy of his mother as
that beloved voice, clear and resonant as it remained even to old
age, yet tremulous with the joy and fear of the moment, pronounced
the words of the great Mystery? The Mass ended, the congregation
flocked to kiss the hands of the young priest whom they had known and
loved from childhood--hands that had touched to-day for the first
time the Body of the Lord. To say that it was a feast day in Riese
but feebly expresses the general jubilation.
A few days later Don Giuseppe received a letter announcing his
destination. The Bishop of Treviso had appointed him curate to Don
Antonio Costantini, the parish priest of Tombolo.
II
CURATE AND PARISH PRIEST
The village of Tombolo, in the province of Padua and the diocese of
Treviso, is surrounded by hilly and well-wooded country, watered by
the tributary streams of the Brenta. The parish church, St. Andrew's,
stands in the centre of the little township. Tombolo boasts of no
commercial industries; it is a pastoral country, and the greater part
of the population is occupied in dairy farming and the rearing of
cattle. The people have clearly marked characteristics; strong and
robust in build, hardened to sun, rain, and wind, rough-voiced and
somewhat ungentle in manner, they have, nevertheless, good hearts and
are in their own way religious.
But the Tombolani have one vice--or had when Don Giuseppe became;
their curate. They swore systematically and profusely at everything,
at each other, and at the world at large. "No offence is intended to
Almighty God," they explained ingenuously to the horrified young
priest. "He certainly understands. Just go to market, and try to sell
your beasts and your grain with a 'please' and a 'thank you,' and you
will see what you will get!"
There may have been some truth in this; and intention, no doubt, goes
a long way; but the argument did not satisfy Don Giuseppe. For the
moment he dropped the subject, but he had not done with it.
The rector of the parish, Don Antonio Costantini, was habitually
ailing. Devoted to his people and wholly desirous to do them good,
his ill-health was a constant impediment. He had many tastes in
common with his curate, notably the love of music and of biblical and
patristic studies. He soon learnt to look upon Don Giuseppe as a son,
and highly appreciated his good qualities.
"They have sent me a young man as curate," he wrote to a friend,
"with orders to form him to the duties of a parish priest. I assure
you it is likely to be the other way about. He is so zealous, so full
of common sense and other precious gifts that I could find much to
learn from him. Some day he will wear the mitre--of that I am
certain--and afterwards? Who knows?"
The good rector nevertheless did his best to fulfil his commission.
"Don Bepi," he would say to his young curate, "I did not quite like
this or that in your last sermon." When the church was empty he would
make Don Bepi go into the pulpit and preach, criticizing and
commenting the while both on matter and method; comments well worth
having, for Don Antonio was a man of wide learning and an excellent
theologian. Meanwhile Don Bepi, whose sermons were already becoming
famous throughout the countryside for their zeal and eloquence, would
listen humbly and promise to try to do better.
The income of the young curate was next to nothing, for Tombolo was a
very poor parish; but he had not been used to luxury. He had planned
his priestly life before his ordination, and was busy carrying out
the scheme. To study deeply in order to fit himself more fully for
preaching; to do as much good as was possible in the confessional and
in the pulpit; to help his people both materially and morally, to
visit the sick, to succour the poor and to instruct the
ignorant--such was the programme, and with all the vigour of his soul
he threw himself into the work.
The widowed niece of Don Antonio who kept house for her uncle used to
see a light burning in the window of Don Giuseppe's poor lodging the
last thing at night and the first thing in the morning.
"Do you never go to bed, Don Bepi?" she asked at breakfast one day,
for the curate took his meals at the rectory.
Don Bepi laughed. "I study a good deal," he replied. He confessed
later that he slept for four hours, and found it quite sufficient for
his needs.
"He was as thin as a rake," said the good lady when pressed in
after-life for reminiscences, "for he scarcely ate enough to keep
body and soul together, and was never off his feet."
In the morning he would often ring the church bell for Mass, in order
not to disturb the sacristan. Then he would go to fetch Don Antonio,
having prepared for him all that was needed. Sometimes he would find
his chief unwell and unable to rise.
"What is the matter?" he would ask in his cheery way--"another bad
night?"
"I am afraid I cannot get up," would be the plaintive answer.
"Don't try to; stay quiet, and do not worry yourself I will see to
everything," the cheery voice would continue.
"But you have already one sermon to preach to-day, my Bepi."
"What of that? I will preach two."
During the days of sickness Don Giuseppe, as well as doing double
duty, would himself nurse the poor invalid. How he managed it was
known to himself alone.
He had not forgotten--there was no chance of forgetting--the
deplorable language of his parishioners. The curate mixed with them
as much as he could, making friends especially with the young men and
the boys. He interested himself in their work and in their play,
treating them with such a spirit of friendly comradeship that they
would crowd to talk to him whenever he appeared. One day some of them
lamented that they could neither read nor write.
"Let us start a night school," proposed Don Bepi, "and I will teach
you."
"It would be too difficult," objected another; "some of us know a
little, some less, and others nothing at all."
"What of that?" replied the priest. "We will have two classes-those
who know something, and those who know nothing. We will get the
schoolmaster to take the upper class, and I will teach the alphabet."
"Why shouldn't he teach the alphabet?" protested a loyal admirer of
Don Giuseppe.
Bepi laughed. "The alphabet is hard work," he answered, "I had rather
keep it."
"But we can't take up your time like that for nothing," declared
another. "What can we do for you in return?"
"Stop swearing," answered Bepi promptly, "and I shall then be more
than repaid."
The school of singing made rapid progress in his hands. Don Antonio,
who, like his curate, was an ardent lover of Gregorian music, warmly
seconded all his efforts. The somewhat unmelodious, if extremely
powerful, vocalization of the village choir became quiet and
prayerful under his tuition. If one of the acolytes showed signs of a
vocation to the priesthood, Don Giuseppe would teach him privately
until he knew enough to go up for examination at the diocesan
seminary.
On one point Don Antonio and his curate could never agree. Everything
that could be saved out of Don Giuseppe's tiny income went straight
to the poor. They knew it, and when he went to preach in a
neighbouring village would lie in wait for him as he returned with
his modest fee in his pocket. It sometimes happened that when he
reached home not a penny would be left, and Don Antonio would
remonstrate.
"It is not fair to your mother, Bepi," he would say; "you should
think of her."
"God will provide for my mother," was the answer; "these poor souls
were in greater need than she."
Invitations to preach in other parishes became more frequent. What he
said was always simple, but it was full of teaching and went straight
to the heart. The young priest had, moreover, a natural eloquence and
a sonorous and beautiful voice. It was so evident that he spoke from
the fullness of a soul on fire with the love of God that his
enthusiasm was catching, and his sermons bore fruit. It happened on
one occasion that a priest who had been invited to preach on a
feast-day in the neighbouring village of Galliera was prevented at
the last moment from coming. There was consternation at the
presbytery. What was to be done?
"Leave it to me," said Don Carlo Carminati, curate of Galliera and a
friend of Don Giuseppe; "I promise you it will be all right," and
jumping into the presbytery pony-cart he took the road to Tombolo.
It was a Sunday afternoon and the hour of the children's catechism
class. Don Giuseppe was at the church door, about to enter.
"Stop, stop," cried Don Carlo, "I want to speak to you." Don Giuseppe
turned.
"You must come and preach at Galliera," said Don Carlo; "our preacher
has fallen through."
"What are you thinking of?" exclaimed Don Giuseppe. "I cannot
improvise in the pulpit!" and he turned once more to go into the
church.
"You have got to come, your rector says so, and there is not a minute
to lose," replied his friend; and, laying hold of the still
expostulating Don Giuseppe, he packed him into the pony-cart, bowed
to Don Antonio who stood smiling at the scene, and whipped up his
steed. Arrived at Galliera, Don Carlo conducted his victim to an
empty room, provided him with pencil and paper and left him. An hour
later, having been set at liberty by his triumphant fellow-curate,
Don Giuseppe vested and entered the church. The sermon that followed
was so eloquent and so appropriate to the occasion that what had
threatened to be a calamity became a cause for rejoicing. "Did not I
tell you?" exclaimed Don Carlo.
Don Giuseppe's energy was boundless, and to him no labour was amiss.
"Work," he used to say, "is man's chief duty on earth." When the
presbytery cook fell ill, he both nursed him and took his place; for
in his eyes any kind of work was a thing to draw men nearer to the
Christ who was "poor and in labours from His youth."
Whether it was preaching, teaching, playing with the village
children, visiting the sick, helping the dying, hearing confessions,
catechizing the young or studying theology, it was all the same to
him--work for the Master, and as such ennobling and honourable.
So the time passed, until Don Giuseppe had been eight years at
Tombolo. Much as Don Antonio loved and appreciated his curate, or
rather because of this very love and appreciation, it distressed him
to think that his talents should have no wider sphere than a little
country parish. He spoke of this one day to one of the canons of
Treviso. The two curates of Galliera who were present joined
enthusiastically in the praise of their friend. The canon became
thoughtful.
"Do you think he could preach in the cathedral of Padua for the feast
of St. Antony?" he asked after a moment of reflection.
"Most certainly, Monsignor," was the answer.
"Well," continued the canon, "if you will be responsible for his
accepting, I will see to it that he is asked."
The feast-day sermon was naturally a topic of much interest in Padua.
"Who is to preach?" was the question on everybody's lips on the
morning of the great day.
"Don Giuseppe Sarto, a young priest who is curate of Tombolo," was
the reply.
Now it was customary on the feast of St. Antony to ask a preacher of
some distinction to occupy the cathedral pulpit.
"The curate of Tombolo!" was the apprehensive comment. "Oh dear! A
country curate from an out-of-the-way village!" The cathedral was
crowded for the high Mass. When the slight young figure of Don
Giuseppe mounted the pulpit stairs there was a gasp of astonishment,
which gave place to an expectant silence.
"His intelligence and culture were no less remarkable than his
eloquence," wrote one of the congregation to a friend. "His imagery
was beautiful, his style perfect." The sermon lasted over an hour,
and no one thought it too long.
In the May of 1867 Don Giuseppe was appointed rector of Salzano. A
wail of lamentation arose from the little parish where he had worked
so faithfully for nearly ten years. "He was our father, our brother,
our friend, and our comfort," cried the Tombolani. In the heart of
Don Antonio grief for his loss contended with joy at the thought that
the merits of his beloved Don Bepi had been recognized at last.
Salzano is a small country town in the province of Venetia. It has a
handsome church with a graceful campanile and a somewhat imposing
presbytery. The country is fertile, and the people, who are wholly
given to agriculture, are quiet, steady and hard-working. The new
rector arrived on a Saturday evening in July. At Mass the next
morning, in spite of the heat, the church was crowded, for the
inhabitants of the neighbouring villages had assembled in force to
hear the sermon of the newly appointed _parroco_.
The result was a delightful surprise. "What was the bishop thinking
of," they asked one another when Mass was over, "to leave a man like
that buried all these years at a place like Tombolo?"
As for Don Giuseppe, he set to work at once to visit his people. His
frank simplicity, his understanding sympathy and zeal for their
welfare gained their hearts at once. As at Tombolo, he gave special
attention to the instruction of children; and, not content with this,
inaugurated classes in Christian doctrine for the adults. "Most of
the evil in the world," he would often say, "comes from a want of the
knowledge of God and of His truth."
In spite of the large parish and the handsome rectory, Don Giuseppe's
habits were as frugal as ever. There was more to give to the poor,
that was all. His sister Rosina kept house for him.
"Bepi," she said one day, "there is nothing for dinner."
"Not even a couple of eggs?"
A couple of eggs there were, and on these they dined.
But there was always a welcome at the rectory and a share of anything
that was going for any old friend who dropped in. Don Carlo came one
evening for a visit, and found Don Giuseppe in the kitchen playing
games with some little children. They were sent home with a promise
that the game should be continued on another occasion, and Don Carlo
was pressed to stay. The next morning he was accosted by Rosina.
"Don Carlo, you are an old friend, and a very kind one," she began
hesitatingly; "there is a man coming to-morrow who sells shirting."
"Really?" answered Don Carlo, rather at a loss to connect the
statements.
"Yesterday my brother got a little money," continued Rosina, "and he
has hardly a shirt to his back. Now if you were to try to persuade
him to buy some shirting, I think he perhaps would do it. Will you do
your best?"
Don Carlo promised, and took the first opportunity of broaching the
subject.
"Nonsense, nonsense," was the answer, "there is no necessity at all,"
and the plea was cut short.
But Don Carlo was not so easily beaten; he knew the sunny nature of
his friend, and determined to have recourse to strategy. On the
arrival of the pedlar, he examined his materials, selected what he
considered suitable, and set to work, after the manner of his
country, to bargain. Having agreed on what he considered a fair
price, he ordered the required length to be cut off, and turned to
Don Giuseppe who had been innocently watching the transaction. "So
many yards at such and such a price," he declared. "Pay up, Don
Giuseppe!"
The rector was disgusted; but there was nothing to be done but to
obey. The bargain had been made and the shirting cut off. "Even _you_
come here and plot to betray me," he complained.
As for Rosina, her delight knew no bounds. "God bless the day you
came, Don Carlo," she said, meeting him outside the door. "If you had
not been here to-day, to-morrow there would have been neither money
nor linen!"
Salzano was a large parish, and the rector had to keep a conveyance.
It was not much to look at, but it did hard service, being at the
disposal of everybody who appealed to the well-known charity of its
owner. The horse came home one day with both knees badly damaged.
"I am very sorry," pleaded the borrower, "an accident . . . ."
Don Giuseppe swallowed hard. "Never mind, never mind," he said; "it
is all right."
One day--there had been a bad harvest that year, and there was much
poverty in the parish--the rector asked a friend who was in easy
circumstances to sell the horse for him. "You have so many relations
with money," he pleaded.
The horse having been disposed of, it was then suggested that the
same friend might also sell the carriage.
"I don't think I shall succeed," he remarked doubtfully, "for you
must allow that it is not in the best condition." His fears were too
true; no purchaser was found, and the carriage remained in the
presbytery stable at the disposal of anyone who possessed a horse
without a vehicle.
In 1873 there was a serious outbreak of cholera. The people of
Salzano knew little of hygiene and less of sanitation; it was hard to
make them take the most necessary precautions. Don Giuseppe was
everything at once: doctor, nurse and sanitary inspector, as well as
parish priest. Not only were there the sick and the dying to be
tended, but the living to be heartened and consoled. "If it had not
been for our dear Don Giuseppe," said an old man in later days, "I
should have died of fear and sorrow during those dreadful times."
Some of the people took it into their heads that the medicines and
remedies ordered by the doctor were intended to put them quickly out
of their pain, and would not take them unless they were administered
by the priest's own hand.
For fear of infection, the dead had to be buried by night, and no one
was allowed to attend the funeral. Anxious lest in the fear and the
haste of the moment due honour should not be paid to these victims of
the epidemic, Don Giuseppe was always there to see that all was done
as it should be. Not only did he say the prayers and carry out the
rites prescribed by the Church, but would take his place as coffin
bearer, and even helped to dig the graves. Sorrow at the heartrending
scenes he had to witness, added to these incessant labours by night
and by day, would have ruined a less robust constitution than his. It
is small wonder that Don Carlo Carminati, coming to visit him soon
afterwards, was horrified at his appearance.
"You are ill!" he exclaimed.
"You think so?" was the quiet answer.
"He _is_ ill," interposed Rosina vehemently, "but what can you
expect? He is everybody's servant, he never spares himself. He has
not only given away the food from his own mouth, but his night's
rest. Look at him, nothing but skin and bone!"
"Your sister is right, you are doing too much. Remember that the
pitcher can go to the well once too often; and when it is quite worn
out, it will break."
"You are becoming quite an orator," commented Don Giuseppe with a
smile.
Don Carlo was a man of action. He wrote to Don Antonio Costantini
telling him that their dear Giuseppe was killing himself, and begging
him to give a hint to the diocesan authorities. The hint was duly
conveyed and duly taken. The bishop wrote to the rector of Salzano,
ordering him to take more care of himself; but this was an art which
Don Giuseppe had never studied, and he did not know how to begin. He
continued to devote himself body and soul to his flock, leaving
himself to the care of God.
With Don Giuseppe the service of Christ in His poor went hand in hand
with the service of Christ at the altar. During his ministry at
Salzano the parish church was greatly improved and beautified. He got
together a choir of young men and boys and taught them to sing the
stately Gregorian music that he loved for its devout and prayerful
spirit. Even those who knew the stark poverty of the rector's private
life did not always understand how the means could be obtained to
carry out the plans he had at heart.
"But how will you get the money?" they would sometimes ask.
"God will provide," was the quiet answer, given with the serene faith
characteristic of the strong.
III
CANON AND BISHOP
In the early spring of the year 1875 the chancellor of the diocese of
Treviso was removed to Fossalunga. A canon's stall was also vacant,
while the seminary was in need of a spiritual director. It was the
general opinion that if these three offices could be held by one
holy, wise and purposeful man, it would be an excellent thing for all
parties concerned.
"I have it!" said Bishop Zinelli, "Don Giuseppe Sarto is the very man
we need."
No sooner said than done. The rector of Salzano was named chancellor
and residential canon of the cathedral of Treviso, and appointed
spiritual director of the seminary. The bishop had not forgotten the
warnings of Don Giuseppe's friends. By this arrangement the newly
appointed canon would reside at the seminary, where the care of his
health would not be left entirely in his own hands. He would,
moreover, preside at the professors' table, and therefore would be
unable to indulge his tendency to starve so as to feed the poor.
The news was received with mixed feelings by the people of Salzano.
Joy that their beloved father should receive such a mark of honour
struggled hard with their grief at losing him. It comforted them a
little, they said, to think that his precious gifts, instead of being
spent on Salzano alone, would now find full scope in a diocese that
counted two hundred and ten parishes.
It was not until the autumn of the same year that Don Giuseppe bade
farewell to his sorrowing parishioners, and, taking possession of his
stall, sang the first vespers of Advent Sunday in the cathedral of
Treviso. Like all the other professors of the seminary, Canon Sarto
had three small rooms set apart for his use. From the windows he
could look across the neatly-kept garden to where the quiet waters of
the Sile, flowing by the ivy-coloured walls, widened out into little
lakes amongst the thickets of poplar and plane trees that lay beyond.
The rector of the seminary was Don Giuseppe's old friend Pietro
Jacuzzi, and there were in the college 160 lay students and 54
aspirants to the priesthood. "I well remember Monsignor Sarto's first
instruction," said one of the latter in after years. "'You are
expecting to find in me,' he began, 'a man of profound learning and
of wide experience in spiritual matters, a master in asceticism and
doctrine. You will be disappointed, for I am none of these things. I
am only a poor country parish-priest. But I am here by God's
will--therefore you must bear with me.' I have forgotten the
instruction," added the narrator, "but the preamble I shall never
forget."
A regular course of instruction and meditation was begun at once, and
immediately won the attention of the students. The lucid simplicity
with which Monsignor Sarto spoke carried the minds of his hearers
straight into the heart of the truth which they were considering. The
students were never tired, never puzzled, his conferences being
eminently practical and within the grasp of his audience. His aim was
to inculcate real solid piety which would endure throughout the
troubles and temptations of life. It is not everybody who has the art
of appealing to the young: it was one in which Monsignor Sarto
excelled. Even in his familiar talks, full of merriment and sympathy,
there was always something helpful and uplifting. Personal
cleanliness, not as a rule the most prominent characteristic of
southern nations, was a thing on which he laid particular stress.
Gentle and kind as he was to all weakness and suffering, he could be
stern enough when it was necessary, and his reproofs were seldom
forgotten. If any of the students fell sick, he would nurse them with
a mother's tenderness; and to those of the seminarists who were the
sons of poor parents he gave material as well as moral help.
It happened that one of these students was in great distress by
reason of a family difficulty. His father, a poor working man, was in
urgent need of a few pounds, and there was no means of obtaining the
sum. He confided his trouble to one of his companions, who asked him
why he did not go to Monsignor Sarto and tell him all about it. The
advice was taken, and he knocked at the familiar door. Monsignor
Sarto was seated at his table reading. "What can I do for you?" he
asked kindly.
The young man, who found it difficult to put his trouble into words,
stammered out the whole story, Monsignor Sarto listening with
compassion. "I am so sorry," he said when the tale was ended, "but I
have only a few lire, nothing like the sum you require." The poor
student broke down completely, for his last hope was gone.
"Come, come; cheer up!" cried the good canon, greatly distressed;
"come to me to-morrow, and if I cannot give you all, I may be able to
give you part of the money."
Next morning the seminarist returned.
"Well?" said Monsignor Sarto.
"Well?" answered the student nervously.
"Do you really think," continued the canon, "that I can manufacture
banknotes?" Then, seeing the young man's distress, he added hastily:
"Come come, my son, I was only joking, I have got the money," and,
opening a little drawer, he took out the required sum.
"You will soon be a priest," he continued, "and when you can do so
without inconvenience, you must give it back to me, for you see I
have had to borrow it myself."
The winters were sometimes bitterly cold at Treviso, and the house
was unwarmed. The needy students would often find warm clothing
provided for them by the same charitable hand. A tradesman of Treviso
certified that he received many orders from Monsignor Sarto for warm
cloaks, with strict injunction to keep the matter secret. That the
canon had seldom more than a few lire in his possession was not
surprising.
It was a labour of love to him to prepare the little boys for their
first communion. The vice-rector begged that this task might be left
to those of the staff who had more time to spare.
"It is my duty," was the answer. "Am I not their spiritual father?"
In order to obtain the necessary time Monsignor Sarto deprived
himself of the evening walk which was his only recreation after a day
of hard work; and, assembling his lively little band of neophytes in
the church, he would hold them spellbound.
His kindness and quick sympathy made him as popular with the staff.
Laying aside the cares of his office together with the big bundle of
papers that accompanied him everywhere, he set himself to make the
time spent in the refectory as refreshing for the minds as it was for
the bodies of his colleagues. The amusing stories told by him and the
interesting discussions he set afoot were long remembered, as was his
sly teasing of certain professors. These were not the moments, he
held, for discussing serious questions; anyone who mentioned the word
logic, for instance, was obliged to make amends by telling an
interesting or useful story. When Monsignor Sarto's place was empty,
everything fell flat.
He still kept up his old habit of working during part of the night.
His neighbour in the seminary would often hear him moving in his room
long after everyone else had retired to rest. "Go to bed, Monsignor,"
he would sometimes call out. "He works ill who works too long."
"Quite true, quite true, Don Francesco," would come the answer; "put
that into practice. Go to bed and sleep well." It was past midnight
before Monsignor Sarto's light went out, and he was up again by four
o'clock.
In 1879 Bishop Zinelli died, and Monsignor Sarto was elected vicar
capitular to administer the diocese while the see remained vacant. He
announced his nomination in characteristic words.
"Called by the votes of my colleagues to administer the diocese of
Treviso in place of him who for so many years has ruled it with such
wisdom, prudence and zeal, I must frankly confess that I have
accepted this heavy burden, not only because I feel assured that they
will help me in my task, but because I know the spirit of the clergy.
That you will earnestly co-operate with me in upholding the most
precious prerogatives of the priesthood I have no doubt. I ask you,
therefore, to remember the words of the Apostle: 'Walk carefully,
that our ministry be not blamed'; let our actions be such that our
enemies shall find nothing in us worthy of reproach. You are full of
zeal for souls: seek to win them rather by love than by fear. The
supreme wish of our Lord for His own was that they should love one
another, and this wish found its fulfilment in apostolic times, when
the Christians were one heart and one soul in Christ. A priest's life
is a continual warfare against evil, which cannot fail to raise up
powerful enemies. In order that they may not prevail against us, let
us be united in charity amongst ourselves; thus we shall be
invincible and strong as a rock."
Monsignor Sarto administered the diocese for less than a year, but in
this short time he accomplished much. Although still spiritual
director of the seminary, he preached oftener in public, his sermons
invariably rousing enthusiasm. In the February of 1880 he was
relieved of this office on the nomination as bishop of Monsignor
Callegari, who was to find in his chancellor a devoted and faithful
friend. The new bishop, however, was destined to remain but a short
time at Treviso. In 1882 he was promoted to Padua, Monsignor
Apollonio succeeding him at Treviso.
In September, 1884, Monsignor Apollonio, who had been making the
pastoral visit of his diocese, returned home rather unexpectedly, and
Monsignor Sarto was not a little surprised at being summoned somewhat
mysteriously to the bishop's private oratory. "Let us kneel before
the Blessed Sacrament," said Monsignor Apollonio gravely, "and pray
about a matter which concerns us both intimately." Still more
astonished, Monsignor Sarto knelt, and the two prelates prayed for a
moment in silence. Then the bishop rose, and, handing a letter to his
companion, bade him read it. Thus did Monsignor Sarto learn his
nomination to the bishopric of Mantua.
The strong man who all his life long had welcomed hardship and
suffering with a cheery smile, wept like a child. He was, he
declared, utterly incapable, quite unworthy of such a trust. The
bishop, who knew better, but whose heart was touched at the sight of
his friend's distress, comforted him as best he could. "It is God's
will," he said; "trust in His help." Convinced, however, in his own
mind that Pope Leo XIII was wholly mistaken in his judgment of him,
Monsignor Sarto wrote to Rome to profess his incapacity and
worthlessness. His arguments were not accepted.