Autobiography

5. Men Friends

An only child as I was, I had no one to play with in the family, and Mother never let me visit other families to play. I thus grew up without friends of my own age. My companions were only schoolmates. On walking out the door of the school, I would lose them until the following day.

But I had some “grown-up” friends, as I would say, meaning adults. And they were Father’s friends, almost all bachelors, who frequented our house to find there a reflection of the family surrounding their unmarried solitude.

All military men, of course. They were very good and loved me very much, and I loved them, although when I was out for a walk with Father and met them, I was pained to the depths of my heart over the spoiled stroll. Because for me it was marred, since I had to walk seriously in their midst, paying close attention so as not to bump into their long cavalry sabers or scratch my small legs against their spurs, and I had to listen to their grave talk of arms, tactics, ministerial decrees, the last session of the Chamber, preparations for the visit of the Sovereign of—of the President of the Republic of Andorra, for instance. All of which was as tedious as the fog for me. But I loved them, for I felt that they loved me and loved my dear Dad very much. Now I loved more than myself those who loved Father. Then there were Father’s superiors. The captains, majors, coronels.

Dad’s regiment, the Nineteenth Light Guides, was, like all cavalry regiments, full of titled and rich people, who, as rich or titled or both at the same time, had very fine thoroughbreds, purebred dogs, kids, even an Eritrean monkey. A real Noah’s ark in which I felt quite at ease, for between beasts and me—all beasts, except cats, which leap at my eyes as soon as they see me—there has always been a great, sympathetic friendship.

Now then, when on Sunday morning Father took me with him to Mass—after Grandmother’s death he took care of this—and later when he reported to the barracks, I was happy, and all those big, gallooned men were fathers to me. One would have a soldier bring me the latest litter to be caressed; another would take me to see the little colt born during the night and avidly seeking its mother’s teat, banging its head awkwardly; another would whistle to his magnificent Spanish greyhounds, which would rush over by leaps and bounds and lie down at my feet so I could caress their silky coats; another would hoist me onto the back of the minuscule donkey no bigger than a Great Dane; another would place sugar in my hand to give to his favorite horse; and then there were two Tibetan kids, totally white from their fleece down to the ground, very intelligent, which as soon as they saw or heard me, would come running with bleats to stick their pink little faces into my hand in search of salt. They were my passion.

Even that model of originality, the lieutenant colonel, loved me—a stiff Piedmontese of the oldest cisalpine nobility who expected to impose Piedmontese and be understood at once into the bargain, even by the Neapolitans, one of those beings placed in the world for the sanctification or damnation of their fellows, one of those officers for whom the first bullet of their privates is destined as soon as a war justifies death by firearms. A very rich and handsome man, he had not married because of the majorat law. And he had all the defects of all bachelors forced to be such. Yet he was good to me and displayed a self-restraint in his manner proper to a seminary prefect. Talmone Wafers were at once at the ready for me—“The only sweet which should be given to children,” he would say, and it was necessary to obey and eat the cigar-shaped ones, the walnuts, the exquisite chocolate canapés wrapped in crisp cornets. For me his phonograph was immediately available, one of the first, with the loveliest records. Indeed, when I was indisposed, he would send it to my house. For me his splendid stable was at once open, with his three quivering steeds: a lively scamp, and old Gina, a completely snow-white Arabian horse, his favorite when young and now blind, which he had retired and dragged around Italy with him with her padded box so she would not hurt herself bumping against the bare wood. Yes, for this man, who tormented his fellows, was most compassionate to beasts.... He also had a lame fox captured by him in the Campagna during a hunt. A fearful, wild, biting beast who loved no one but his master and me, a little bit.

Then the colonel was a saint. Piedmontese as well and noble, very noble, he was the opposite of the lieutenant colonel. One was the tempest; the other, the calm. One, the father of his soldiers, and the other, the tamer. But the two of them were equally good to me.

Then there were the soldiers. Of course, some, on hearing the word “soldiers,” think all of them are half delinquents and certainly dissolute. And they fail to reflect that the army is made up of the sons of Italians. I will not argue about the virtues of military men, and especially about certain virtues. But I must, in truth, state that over the course of many years in which I was in contact with them I never heard indecent words or conversations from their lips nor saw coarse acts. I have much more to complain about regarding women. But I shall say more about them later.

The soldiers were great and good lads to me, all happy to take me to see their horses, show me the—horrifying illustrated postcards received in the morning from their far-off girlfriends, and ask me to read and answer them. You will understand what a confidence and honor it was for me! I was “the genius, the assistant”...!

How happy they were when they could offer me fruit from their distant towns! How they endeavored to make me simple, ingenious toys, little figures for the Nativity Scene, small chairs, and a table which is now beside my bed and is dear to me because it reminds me of one of my favorite soldiers. From time to time they would come with the young sparrow which had fallen from its nest. They knew I was keen on little birds. Then in December they would bring me the loveliest hay, as fine as a woman’s hair and perfumed, for St. Lucy’s donkey. They assured me it was the Colonel’s hay—and on their word I grew tranquil, thinking that the little donkey of a saint could eat hay from the stable of the Colonel, our Colonel, for ours was to me a special colonel since he commanded the regiment with the colors of Holy Mary, white and sky blue.

I surely enjoyed myself more among the soldiers than in tedious society visits where the ladies speak of births, ailments, and so on and so forth, not thinking that tots always have their ears wide open, even if they appear not to, and that it would be proper to spare innocence certain premature disclosures. As it would be useful to spare the heart and the mind being formed certain—schools of backbiting and vacuousness which also fill the conversations in drawing rooms during the hours of “calls.”

As I have always hated them! Having become extremely shy as I grew up, it was a torment for me to be taken here and there and placed on display like a doll, under the severe gaze of Mother, who was worried because I seemed to be a fool and who did not grasp that the magic potion of my foolishness was in her glance, which terrified me.

Even the races through shops with Mother were not to my liking. I was bored to death running from a tailor’s workshop to a hat shop, with long stations (not precisely of the Cross) in front of fabric display windows, and so on and so forth. I preferred the strolls to the Park, to the Public Garden, and, even better, to Affori (pure countryside at that time). But Mother almost never went there. She constantly had some ailment or other, and this was all the more significant because she pays—has always paid—enormous attention to her “aches and pains.”

And so I would go out with Father. What lovely strolls! On sunny days in the open air. In the winter months in museums. How much my Dad knew! And then there were the bonus trips: to the lakes, Cremona, Mantova, Verona, Venice during the spring holidays, and Tuscany in the summer months. Then even Mother came along. I was happy in their midst.... But they were rare oases.... I shall amplify further on.

I had no other friends as a little girl, except for an old lady living in our building. Her name was Pace, and her husband was named Romeo. Their home was true peace. How they loved one another! On the ground floor they had a stationery shop, then run by the nephew, for they had never had children—their only cross. The prettiest decalcomanias were for me, and also the loveliest images and the shiniest covers for school books.

When the Milan Exposition took place, Pace, who never went out, for she said movement made her dizzy—“It gives me a queer sensation,” she would say—was spurred by her affection for me to go out and take me there, and then I was the little sage who instructed the good, simple old lady. Dear soul resembling my grandmother’s, I love you still.

I said I had no other friends. But I was mistaken. There was a poor little old woman who lived in the garret and who, between one—ancillary interregnum and another, came as a part-time maid. My mother helped her greatly and cared for her when she was seriously ill, for, I am glad to say, even my mother has her good sides. Poor Santina! Her husband was an old drunkard; her daughter, the only one remaining, who was then married and had several children, was wearing herself out as a laundress in the house in front of us. She loved her mother, but was also poor.

I would often go to the wretched, but very clean garret of Santa. In the daytime the drunkard was never there. And there I felt happy, for that clean little old woman reminded me of my grandmother. I would get into her arms.... And then play with her little granddaughter.

If I showed pride in not apologizing, I was, on the other hand, very partial to the humble. I have never disdained the poor, the common folk, the ignorant. At worst I have ever been bothered by my equals or superiors in wealth and condition if they are fusty and posers.

I was fond of poor Santa and her little granddaughter and was content if I could take her nice things. We played dolls with my toys, and Santina the granddaughter always wanted to do the cooking, certain that afterwards—the sumptuous meals prepared with fresh and dried fruit, sweets, chocolate would be eaten by her. I would have preferred to play mother. I have always had a maternal instinct and a desire for children.... Or play nurse. I have always had the nursing vocation as well. The family doctor would laugh admiringly in the face of the perfect bandages I applied to the heads, legs, and eyes of my numerous dolls, who had “all been wounded in the war, for the war had come,” as I would say. A sad and true premonition of the heart! But I would yield to little Santa’s wish and play kitchen.

Then I was fond of the maids. With my affectionate character always begging for caresses, more necessary for me than food itself, and—I must state, because you have entreated me to say both the good and the bad about myself—with my tranquil, uncapricious, humble temperament, I was greatly loved by the domestic servants and loved them very much.

In truth, Mother, who herself kept me pressed down like a blade of grass under a man’s foot, would have wanted me, though only a wee thing rising just a few centimeters off the ground, to put on airs of mastery and, of course, haughtiness. But I could not do so, both by nature and because, as a good observer, I had noted that while with my mother the staff behaved properly, it’s true—and I challenge anyone to do otherwise—but also slipped away as soon as they could, with Father, ever patient, jovial, without arrogance, a true father of the humble, things went quite differently, and my good father had to contrive to free himself from the excessive number of soldiers, who all wanted to be under him and who, after their stint of service, re-enlisted so as not to lose their superior. I noted the affectionate glances and spontaneous acts of affection springing from those simple hearts, which felt loved and obeyed wishes, not commands, for Father was so good that he never commanded, but was also so beloved that his slightest desire was not only translated into action as soon as he expressed it, but even guessed with the foreknowledge love provides. I wanted to be like Father. Through a daughter’s spirit of imitation, whereby everything the favorite parent does seems just fine, and because it was easy for me to be like Father, having the same heart, whereas—I could not at all have become like Mother.

I was thus good and affectionate with the maid, with the orderly, with everyone. I took refuge with them to obtain caresses and games.... Mother often went out for the hateful society calls, to which she frequently did not take me, to my immense joy, for I have already told you what a torment they were for me. I remained at home with the woman and the soldier. What lovely, peaceful hours! I have had some dear girls who, though marked by country simplicity, have had treasures of affection for me. The beautiful fairy tales, the legends of their towns, the little games which gladdened their young brothers and sisters at home were all set in motion to raise my spirits as well.

The soldiers were also my—valued surgeons for all my broken toys, the constructors of new toys, the collectors of branches and stonecrop for the nativity scene, the breeders of my little animals.

But, as I said previously, if I have nothing but good to say about the soldiers, as regards the maids, I must state that, out of the long procession I saw pass by, some left room for objections and could have done me a great deal of harm if Jesus had permitted it.

One taught me to steal. Exactly. She would wait for Mother to go out and then say, “Take this, take that, and give it to me. But don’t say anything.” There was nothing of value, for Mother kept and keeps everything under lock and key—some little skeins of thread, sweets, dried fruit, liqueurs. I don’t know what she did with them. The fact is she taught me to steal.

Another, out of sheer ignorance, delivered speeches on subjects not suitable for me which only my absolute innocence kept me from grasping in depth. I understood them later, when I was a grown-up woman and recalled those lectures.

I said “absolute innocence.” Yes, I was an innocent, though not a simpleton. I had a spirit of very keen observation from early childhood on, a tenacious memory. You may thus assume that I noted everything, catalogued everything, realized everything.

Very advanced at school for my age—consider that at age thirteen and a few months I finished complementary and technical studies together; later on I shall tell you why—I could not refrain from having familiarity with the Dictionary—and I assure you that I never left it in peace and that this and The Divine Comedy served as my school on the real animal of life. And yet—may God be blessed for it—I was never disturbed as a result. The nature of our animality unfolded all of its facets before me without my being upset by it. Discovering the reason for a physical law or an organ left me just as calm as when seeing a flower bloom.

I have recently read in the Life of Holy Mary which you gave me to read about how the Eternal always performed the miracle for the Virgin of concealing from her all that might have offended her virginal modesty. With me as well, the Goodness of Him Who, “because He has loved me with an eternal love,” continuously watches over me worked the miracle of extending over the dark parts of our human existence a veil of splendor rendering them pure, though impure, pleasant, though unpleasant, acceptable without shocks, even if, by being revealed brutally, they might have shaken my chaste innocence as a girl brought up without brothers and sisters, without little friends, alone in a family where my innocence was closely protected.

I recall an episode. It took place when I was at school and was already twelve. That year a—semi-revolution nearly occurred at my peaceful school, caused precisely by the disturbance of a girl who was then seventeen and the oldest sister in a veritable tribe of siblings.

We were reading The Betrothed, and there were about twenty of us in that class. Nothing happened to anyone else. But for that poor thing, a bit touched in the head, I think, the chapter on the Monza nun was a match thrown into a powder keg. She seemed possessed! She asked all of us if it could be true that children were born to us women and how this might happen. I don’t know how my companions replied. When questioned as the class oracle, I textually responded, “Why, of course! Doesn’t even the Hail Mary say so? What’s special about that? If Jesus was born of Mary, it is a sign that we are born to our mothers...!” And that was that.

I thought nothing else. Consider that I had to wait until long after my student days to be able to say that I was familiar with certain details, and, indeed, they became known to me only during this illness. A merit of mine? No, a grace freely given by the good God, in regard to which I must not boast, but only thank Him.

To go back to the chapter on the maids, however, I have always thought that if I had been Mother, I would have kept my daughter closer, closer with love, to prevent her from seeking conversations and instruction from poor creatures who are not always as they should be in prudence and morality in order to maintain contact with lives being formed.

How much tact is needed with children! And how good it would be to recall always “that their angels see God”! I have, however, noted little care in adults, especially among women. Conversations, newspapers, and books left within reach of children— when it would be good if they were not—performances, fashions, little concern about getting dressed in their presence. They see, hear, and reflect better than adults! I say it again.

In thinking of how I was attentive, I have always been scrupulously careful with the innocence of children whom circumstances have placed close to me. Even recently I had to impose myself upon the doctor, who in the presence of his three-year-old son wanted to examine me. “But he doesn’t understand a thing about it,” said the doctor, alluding to his son, playing with the figurines. “I refuse, just the same,” I replied.

No, God can reproach me for many things, but, on close scrutiny, I really feel he cannot demand an explanation of why I did this or that to the detriment of an innocent. And this certainty about not having injured anyone’s purity is also sweet and restful to my heart. No, now that I believe I am close to arriving at the eternal port or at the summit of my life, in looking at the road behind I really feel I can say, “I have not been the cause of anyone’s corruption.” If I have done wrong, I have done it to myself alone, and in such a way that not even its shadow appeared, and this was not out of anxiety over human esteem, but out of respect for the souls of others, which, whether of adults or children, the just or sinners, I have always respected as the work of God, considering that, as no mortal is completely holy (absolute holiness is God’s alone), so no mortal is completely a sinner. For this reason I have always taken care not to introduce other crumbs of wickedness into hearts or toss the first crumb into them if they are innocent hearts.

I was offended, wounded, bespattered with mud by the imprudence of others and had to get up again, obtain healing and cleansing by myself. Yes, by myself, for I have had no human help and, as you will see for yourself, the work of God in me was a work of seconding rather than imposing. A very slow labor, a penetration less perceptible than that of a microbe into a body. And it progressed no further because I responded to the first appeal.

I think of the avalanche, which is not formed if the first snowflake does not begin its whirling motion and if the entire mountainside does not join in. God and I have formed the avalanche. He was the first snowflake, to which I gave the first push.... And then, ever larger and swifter, the avalanche took shape, union, the descent which is ascent into the abyss of the Divinity, through the annihilation of the creature, who is reformed, being born to God for eternal life in love and in pain.