Autobiography

10. At Boarding School

In short, my father finally had to yield. I was sacrificed. On March 4, 1909, at nine in the morning, I left my home for boarding school.

I had never been away from home except for that month preparing for my First Communion. But on that occasion the distance from Voghera to Casteggio had been so small that I did not feel I was leaving home. And then I knew at the time that I was going there for a month, almost on vacation, to receive Jesus. Now I was being crushed under the verdict of being sent to boarding school—three hours away from home by train—for years and as a punishment.

There you have it: this cruelty made the event and the one responsible for it hateful to me. I was too intelligent not to understand the real truth of things and would have preferred to have that stated with sincerity to explain the reason for my sacrifice. My sacrifice was unjust because my uncle, not I, should have been sent away from home. But I would have been more resigned to it—not this way. Why tell me that I deserved punishment, that I deserved to be torn from my home, my father, when it was not true? Why did my mother not reflect on all the evil she could provoke with that lie and that injustice?

Until then I was afraid of my mother, but also felt esteem. Afterwards I no longer did because I saw her to be unjust and insincere. And, to be truthful, my esteem for my father was also shaken as a result, for he had not managed to impose himself and defend me.

I was very human, and human reactions were quite strong in me. Out of pride I left without weeping.

Ever since I was little I have thought that weeping, as the most intimate and profound thing we have, even more than love, should be lavished and shown only to those deserving to see us in our innermost depth. All the others, who do not love us with a perfect love, have no right to see our tears. I have thus wept only with my father, with God, and with a few others whom I esteem like Father and venerate like God.

I left, then, without weeping. Out of pride and disdain. That’s right: out of disdain. I felt that I was not loved, to such an extent that I was being sacrificed for a good-for-nothing. My heart thus closed with scorn. I did not weep. I felt I was breaking inside on seeing myself rejected, I, who was the daughter, subordinated to an unworthy brother, but I hardened myself and crossed my arms until it hurt to keep myself from going to clasp my mother by the neck and beg her to hold me to her heart.... And I was, of course, judged: unfeeling...!

At eleven we arrived at Monza, at the door of the large school of the Sisters of Charity of the Most Holy Child Mary, the sisters of Blessed Capitanio.

I precisely recall my suffering at that moment.... But I did not weep. I only cried out once loudly when I was taken from my mother.... And on seeing that my cry, which was really the cry of a heart that was breaking, elicited no response, I felt another bond snapping between my mother and myself and the door open between the one who begot me and gave me life without ever having understood me and myself sagging still further. She has never understood her child’s heart.

After that cry, silence. In the face of a fait accompli, I have never engaged in useless complaining. I harden myself and die in a silence that is more pernicious, more destructive than any explosion of pain.

The Sisters were numerous and very good. The school was beautiful, vast, luminous, abounding in sun-filled courtyards and drinking fountains, bright porticoes, and with a garden as big as the pine wood up to Marco Polo—lovely. To amuse me theyhad me wander about the whole house.

Meanwhile my companions finished the midday meal, and I was introduced to them. They were dear and good, but I, shy as I was, suffered greatly on seeing myself observed by so many people—150 children, 40 Sisters, and 40 lay members. I felt I was St. Bartholomew being flayed! I hid behind my Sister and responded in monosyllables and often with my head like a dunce. Oh, my schoolmates were really good in continuing to fondle me, unsocial as I was!

They entrusted me to three students. Isabella Gilardi was a merry blond, an only daughter, like me, who was to look after me like a little mother and did so with such love—poor Isa, who died so soon, in such distress, killed by the infidelity of her husband, who imposed having his lover in the house; she died so soon and in such despair over leaving her tender motherless children! The other was Lina Cocini, a peppercorn, black, thin, all motion and all tongue; not silent even if you padlocked her tongue, she was my companion in the same class. Poor Lina, who also died at age twenty-three, killed by fulminant peritonitis. I was her sincere friend by virtue of contrast: I was calm, and she was perpetual motion; I was silent, and she, chatty as a sparrow; I was reserved, and she, exuberant in her display. The third is still alive: Gina Ferrari, a devout angel.... And she was given to me as a companion in the refectory, in church, and in work class. Dear Gina, who never disobeyed in any respect to offer acts of mortification to Jesus!

But the other eighteen classmates were also good. The first year of senior high school was divided into technical and “internal” sections, for at my school then there was no teacher training, but only technical classes or the kind of general education—called “internal”—whose syllabus was a mixture of technical and subsidiary subjects suitable for giving young ladies from good families the culture needed for their state, but without any diploma at all.

They were in the period of quarterly exams, and I had mine the next day. They had had me get up at nine, three hours after the others, for the angelic Mother Superior did not like to frighten anyone with exaggerated discipline and adjusted us to the “Regulations” without coarse wrenching. In truth, at seven at the latest in winter and at six or even earlier in summer, I was always up and about at my house. But who would have thought that an only daughter could be treated in such military fashion?

The sister had helped me to get dressed, leaving me my frocks from home and even the red bow in my hair.... Then we went down to the Chapel.

I remember that I met the Assistant Superior for Studies. A little sister filled with life and equipped with blue eyeglasses.... This fact and the knowledge that she was responsible for studies and the mathematics teacher—my feared subject—made me tremble. However—the poor sister!—she was very good to me, no matter how much she always lamented that precisely in her subject alone I was totally incompetent...! She caressed me and called me a “fledgling.” This encouraged me a little.

We entered the Chapel. How lovely! Blue and gold, as I imagined heaven at that time. The Virgin of the Sacred Heart of

Jesus on the altar pallium. At her sides St. Modestine and St. Tarcisius, the two patrons, the child martyrs—beautiful. And then my beloved St. Joseph and the Sacred Heart. And flowers, flowers, flowers, and sun, and the garden, which was seen from the open windows, and the singing of birds....

Sister Francis had me pray and then asked me if I wished to see the body of St. Modestine the martyr laid to rest under the altar. Mindful of my dead Jesus, who lived on in my memory with the realism of His wounds, I declined the offer. I was afraid of seeing other wounds. Jesus’ were alright, but others, not at all. But Sister Francis reassured me. I in fact saw a handsome youth in wax, perfectly modeled, lying on a purple mattress, dressed as a young Roman, with sandals on his feet, his long robe bordered with Greek embroidery, the beautiful head resting on a pillow in an attitude of sweet abandonment, the ear of grain and bunch of grapes in one hand and the palm leaf in the other. He seemed to be sleeping, absorbed in a blessed dream. There was a little sign of the martyrdom undergone on his snow-white neck, in the place where the sword opened the vein, where life departed and glory entered.... This was my encounter with Modestine the young martyr of Christ.

When taken to the refectory, I ate nothing. I could not drink the milk on account of my stomach and thus remained without anything that morning. But the simple fact that no one scolded me made me content and satisfied.

We went into class. After being shown to my desk, I wrote my exam like all the rest. It was written French. I was already familiar with sentence construction, and the others were just beginners. It was a triumph, then, which gave me new confidence and made me smile joyfully. My classmates surrounded me with admiration, and the French Sister caressed me as a reward. Oh, a bit of joy really does you good!

The next day was the Italian examination. I still remember the topic: “Lovely is the snow falling from the sky, but if we recall those who suffer....”

The Sister teaching Italian was very young, still a postulant, from Venice. Pretty, with a Spaniard’s big eyes, a centerpiece of braids on her uncovered head, magnificent teeth, and good, cheerful, intelligent. I later discovered that she was a seraph on earth. Her name was Angela, and she was to become Sister Immaculate after taking the veil. The two names involved predestination, for she was always an angel, an earthly angel who continually flew up to the feet of God, and as pure as her name, with a purity which shone out from her whole being. When speaking of God, this seraph became utterly inflamed, like snow under a purple sunset.... The inner flames seemed to appear on the surface.... She died very young, with no real illness, but only a sudden faintness which destroyed her—healthy and strong as she was—in a few days and which the doctors were unable to define. And she died precisely on September 8, Feast of the Order of the Child Mary. Love took her, love plucked her, love extinguished her to bear her off to flower in Heaven.

My essay was judged to be a masterpiece. I knew I was strong in Italian, but the maximum grade obtained, a 10, greatly astonished me. And I was even more astonished at being publicly praised. I was not used to commendation. For the first time I saw that it was not true that “He who does his duty should not be praised,” as my mother would say. Here I had done my duty and was rewarded. This warmed my heart and gave me confidence in myself again.

Describing was my strong point; describing the snowfall had thus been quite easy for me. I have never loved the snow. It is white, but so ice-cold! I prefer the sun. It must be recalled that I was born in sunny lands and drew life from the sun when I was a poor pup abandoned among the furrows....

Even the part of the topic involving reflection—where all the others had failed miserably—had been easy for me. Observant as I was, on countless occasions I had noted the sufferings of the poor and unfortunate.... Melancholy by nature and having grown even more melancholy in my family’s way of life, I understood pain in all its manifestations. How often, with my nose pressed against the windowpanes, on my sad afternoons as a child alone, on my Sundays spoiled by family invective, I had noted through the veil of tears other misfortunes—different in form, but equally painful—amidst the whirling of the white flakes...!

Effortlessly and with slight merit—for the task had struck me as quite easy—I was thus proclaimed first in the class in Italian and French and in oral subjects.

In mathematics—I was faithful to my stupidity. When they made me, they must have forgotten to include in my brain the mathematics cell. It is an absolute void which has never been filled through either my efforts or those of others. I am utterly deficient when it comes to calculation.

But I don’t complain much about it. I think that Jesus, too, is like me. He is not a calculator either. If He had been and if He were, He would not be who He is. Rather, He is a poet, as his Gospel shows. He is an able diplomat—this is displayed by the Gospel as well. He is a Physician, a Teacher, a Friend, a Savior—everything, but not a calculator. And, like all noncalculators, He is generous beyond measure, merciful beyond measure, patient beyond measure, good beyond measure. And this gives me such hope.... With an idealist there is always good to be hoped for. With a mathematician, never. And if God were a mathematician ever intent upon precise calculations, who could hope to be saved? But Jesus is not a mathematician. He does not have science speak, but the heart; He does not reason with science, but with the heart; indeed, He reasons only with the science of the heart, and one who knows how to deal with Him from that angle obtains all from Him.

I also reason with the science of the heart; in both practical life and that of the spirit, I, too, am an idealist, generous, prodigal, never casting accounts of debits and credits. I give and give and give and care about nothing else. I trust my Savior, Brother, Friend, Teacher, and King and thus go forward, looking at Him alone....

But let us return to boarding school.

After ten days Father and Mother came to see me. It was my birthday, and Father had wanted to pay me a visit. When I was called to the visitors’ hall, I felt my heart pound.... For now the wound would finally be reopened—and it was just beginning to heal.

The Mother Superior, an excellent, maternal educator, with a sweet, equable character, who caused even the most unruly girls to obey, by way of love, was related to a friend of ours, a medical officer, one of the doctors who had decreed the dangerousness of my uncle (?!). A real dolt, I should say! But in part I ought to be grateful to him because at boarding school I was happy. Not grateful for having taken me away from Father in the final period of his mental integrity. But I’ll say more further on...! The Superior, then, who had already grasped my steel, called me aside and asked for my “word of honor that I would not cry.” A child’s word of honor! Some people will laugh on hearing this. But the Mother Superior had understood who I was, what fiber my self was made of, and she treated me as an adult person.

Before giving my word, I reflected for a moment—and then I gave it simply and firmly and was faithful to it. I have always done so in life. I have reflected before beginning or promising something. But when my conscience told me, “You may promise; you may commence,” I gave my word to myself or others, according to the circumstances, and I have always respected it until finishing what was to be done. With virility, honesty, holiness. For it is also holiness to be faithful to the promises we make to ourselves, our neighbors, or God.

I thus went into the hall, spoke with my parents, and—however much I wept inside with all my tears as a daughter—I showed myself to be serene. I accompanied them to the door with a smile like the most veteran boarder.

Afterwards—ah! Afterwards I went to cry in the only place where we students were really alone, an unpoetic but secret place like no other. I have always wept there within, for not even in church did I feel so alone as in that extrahuman corner.... In church there was always a sister, a lay member, or classmate, and I have always been very reserved about my suffering.

I have never liked to be pitied for my suffering either. I think that to beg for comfort, to go whimpering to every living soul, lacks dignity and is proof of moral infantilism and invariably of pain which is not excessive. For true, supreme pain is decorous in its manifestations. It knows quite well that no human word is capable of removing its arrow from our hearts.... Only God, pouring his comforts from Heaven upon the poor creature twisting under the stab of real pain, can introduce a superhuman sedative into the burning wound. Not man. Indeed, most men obtain just the opposite of what was desired and intended. By their words—probably not suggested by a true inner light of understanding and love—and their very display of affection—very often untimely and exaggerated—they irritate and excite instead of healing and soothing.

By a special God-given grace, some possess the secret of consoling. But the ranks of these true consolers of their brothers and sisters are so scanty, so scanty...! They are found among the true saints on earth and among those who have wept and suffered much, without becoming sour under the action of pain, which sometimes occurs in the ones who are less good. Yes, for pain, life’s teacher, improves the best, who recognize its countenance and comprehend what a regal chrism suffering is and what the spring is from which this chrism issues forth, but it makes the less good harsher, more rebellious, and more selfish.

There are many aphorisms to define man, but I think one of the most exact is that which says, “Tell me how you suffer, how you are able to suffer, show me what reactions pain arouses in you, and I will tell you what kind of man you are.”

Yes, religion, patriotic love, daughterly love, the love of spouses, maternal love, social virtues—everything shows itself in its true nature under the reaction of pain.

The true believer kisses the cross in tears and clasps it to his heart, saying, “Thank you, Lord, for having me suffer and thus making me similar to You.”

The true patriot suffers in virile fashion out of love for his country, and the more this country occasions him pain, the more he loves it and serves it with a perfect love.

The son who really deserves that name loves and suffers most for those from whom he has received life and sacrifices himself most for them in a humble, grand holocaust of respect, affection, without caring if his parents are worthy of that affection, without taking into account their faults, which he sees, but does not judge and, above all, does not punish, for in his true love he finds the secret of all forgiveness, that is, of all forbearance.

The wife or husband who is really a consort for the other, forming one single flesh, joined by God, in a bond which force and human events cannot and must not dissolve, knows how to find in this love—blossoming in an hour of mutual faith and wounded by the other’s offense, but still unfading on the part of the real spouse—the strength to respond with goodness to the other’s wickedness, with faithfulness to the other’s indifference, with virtue to the other’s nonvirtue, with dedication to the other’s selfishness, with forgiveness to all the offenses of the other, who tramples on the sacred, eternal bond of the sacrament and of love.

Doesn’t the mother or father really worthy of that name love the son wringing tears of blood from the parental heart because he is sick in body or devastated in soul more than all the rest? What sacrifices, what sums of love are devoted to contending with physical death for a son or wresting him from moral death! If it is true that a healthy, handsome, and good son who is a source of pride for his parents gives a sense of calm, trust, and repose, it is also true that all industry, thought, and sacrifice is all the more meritorious when the soul feels that it is useless, expended and lavished upon the son who most causes pain.

I have made a long digression. But I feel you understand me. You are one of the few possessing the intellectual gift—much greater than normal intelligence—of understanding hearts.

I know nothing of your life, Father, but I have the impression that you have not had an infancy, childhood, and youth devoid of tears. You know how to understand one who suffers too well not to have suffered yourself. I would otherwise have to think that God, with his infinite capacity to know and love, is so present in you that your human personality, remaining limited in intellectual capacity, is abrogated, superseded, and God acts, understands, works, and consoles in you in place of you.

But let us go back to my boarding school.

My Superior—she told me so many years later—drew from my faithfulness to the word I had given the very best omens concerning my moral and spiritual success, and from that moment loved me even more. She had grasped that “Valtortino,” though small, shy, morally common in appearance, and physically fragile, was, however, really of good stuff, made up of generosity, firmness, fortitude, and fidelity.

Yes, I have always possessed these virtues, like a bunch of flowers cultivated in me by God which I have picked and dispensed in all of life’s moments to my sisters and brothers. They are in me, held bound together by the golden cord of love. A great love for God and for my neighbor. The latter, always visible and manifesting itself; the former, for God, sometimes acting without my knowledge, through the constant interior work of the soul, which, since the moment it conceived Christ, by spiritual adherence to his loving desire, has never ceased to act and work in love. And my life as a schoolgirl became ever more organized and dear to me.

We rose at 6 a.m. on weekdays and at 7 on Sundays and holidays. At 6:30 or 7:30 we were in church for Holy Mass and prayers. At a quarter to eight there was breakfast, brief recreation, study of the lessons while strolling under the porticoes or in the immense hall of the Theater in the cold months. At a quarter to nine the hour-long classes began. At noon, lunch. From 1 p.m. to 1:45, recreation. Then each of us continued with her own occupations involving work, study, music, painting, and so forth until 4 p.m. At 4, a snack and recreation; then homework and lessons until 6:30. Evening prayers in church and the Eucharistic Benediction during novenas or in the months of May and June. Dinner at 7 p.m. Recreation from 7:30 to 8:30. Then, after the singing of Sub Tuum Praesidium before Mary Immaculate, the younger girls went to bed, and the older ones stayed up until 9:30 and even later in exam periods. And then to sleep.

On Thursday and Sunday there was a walk through the city or to the Park, according to the season. In the summer, every evening there was a stroll in the countryside amidst the fields filled with golden ears. During carnival, cinema and performances. Completely indoors were performances at other schools that invited us to their cultural events and concerts at the Milan Conservatory or other halls. In the spring, prize trips to Brianza and the lakes. From July 10 to October 10 vacations at home. Excellent, plentiful food, regular medical attention, central heating, joy, beauty, refinement, and goodness.

I was just fine there. I was at the boarding school from March 4, 1909 to February 23, 1913—five school years and four solar years. Solar not only because they lasted 365 days, but because of the truly “solar” happiness of that time. My classmates, all well loved in their families and many even spoilt, found that discipline quite severe and complained about it. I found that I had never felt discipline so little as I did there. I liked study, and it was beautiful to study there, for praise was a continual stimulus for those willing. I studied, then, with joy and merit and was always up-to-date. Order and obedience did not weigh me down, nor did good manners. I was always cited, therefore, as a model. In five years I was never punished.

I told you that from a very young age I acted correctly out of pride, so as not to have anything to apologize for. Secondly, I behaved well to content Father and avoid Mother’s punishments. But there, at my boarding school, I studied well and was a perfect student—I must say so, for it is true and I do not fear denials: my Sisters are still alive and can confirm my assertion—exclusively out of love. I had noted that the Sisters, these virgin mothers, truly rejoiced when the schoolgirls responded to their care, whereas they grew sad and suffered when, in spite of all their loving efforts, a girl remained indolent, undisciplined, and rebellious. I never wanted to sadden my Sisters, who loved me as my mother had not loved me and whom I loved with a gratitude which after thirty years of separation has not grown languid.

Sister Rose, the Assistant Superior for Studies, would say, “Those students the superiors have a great deal to complain about complain about the superiors.” It is a genuine truth. I, who always did my duty, have no reason to complain about my superiors, just as they have no reason to complain about me, and they show me so in every way.

My classmates, too, loved me and still love me. I always got on well with everyone, and even if I did not like certain obsessions of theirs and little acts of pride and selfishness, I always made allowances for them, trying to bring them to reason patiently so as to modify tendencies which were natural in them as rich, happy girls.... I was rich, but not happy; I knew the savor of weeping, and life thus offered me lights different from theirs.

How many confidences, little secrets, and secret aid I gave to these sisters of my soul...! By nature I possessed the difficult quality of silence. I knew how to listen, console, and keep silent. The boarding school is a little world. There is a bit of everything: all social classes, all characters, all contingencies—our own sorrows, joys, and hopes and those reflected in us from life outside. Everything is common in that little society: the pain striking one is shared by the others; deaths in the family, misfortunes, and disasters affecting one girl make all cry; joyful occasions, births, marriages causing one to rejoice bring gladness to the others.

And the Sisters as well have their affections and their crosses. Intimate ones, in the community, and external ones related to their homes, abandoned out of love for Jesus. Who are the fools who say the habit extinguishes affections? I have seen my Sisters suffer intensely in certain hours of torment.... In front of me, of whose understanding and prudence they were sure, my Sisters cried many tears. Sometimes they would take refuge in my little room for study—for I had a room all my own, for motives I shall state further on—and there they let their hearts overflow.... Poor, dear Sisters! I would let them weep, listen to what they told me, intuit what they did not say, pray that Jesus would console them, and, for my own part, give them my love. They would leave in better spirits.

I, too, would confide in them. Only a little, for I was very reserved, shy, and modest about my feelings. But the fact is we understood each other, even without very many words. My glance, the eagerness on my face, and the trembling of my voice said what I was ashamed to say.

I was loved very much. A natural correctness in judgment made it hard for my reflections to be mistaken. My Superior always told Mother: “Ah! Maria is a very sensible young lady. Nothing escapes her, and even we Sisters must watch out, for if we err she very politely points it out to us, and I must agree that she’s really right!”

My classmates also adored me and were proud of me on account of my intelligence. Much prouder than I was, for I felt I could not boast of this gift of God, but should only praise Him for it and use it for the benefit of my fellow students. All the letters to prelates and authorities, all the literary essays to be read at academies, and all the compositions imitating styles came out of this head of mine.... I felt like a silkworm spinning and spinning its sticky secret and weaving and weaving its masterpiece.... Without merit and without fatigue.

But this is all the human side. I am sorry to waste time talking about it, for the additional reason that I must state the good and the bad about myself. But you begged me to tell you the good and the bad. And I do.

But I shall now go into a subject which you will like better and which I prefer. First, though, I’ll tell you what I studied.

The first and second years were internal education. For the third, after my father’s illness, in the spring of 1910, my mother, who was then absolute mistress of everything, as there was not even the shadow of a will on the part of my dad, imposed her will, which is not to be discussed, and I had to do technical studies.

Mother wanted the subsidiary subjects and then teacher training, set on her ideal of the “daughter-teacher.” But the Sisters pointed out that I would have to leave boarding school and attend public schools as a private student and, in addition, since I was completely inept in drawing, I could not attend normal school. My mother then opted for the technical.

Nothing could be worse! Remember that my mathematical capacity had come to a standstill at fractions.... Like a stubborn mule, my brain had refused to go on with calculation. I understood nothing: arithmetic, geometry, and bookkeeping were a sterile torture. I came to feel ill from the effort to understand, but I grasped nothing. They seemed to me to be speaking in Japanese, African, Eskimo! Ask yourself if it was appropriate to talk of technical subjects! After all, I had no need of a job.... But if what was really sought was to place a piece of paper, a diploma, in my hand, it should at least have been in classical studies, where I managed quite well.

I begged and entreated in this regard. The Sisters begged and entreated. There was nothing to be done. My mother, faithful to her “My mind is made up,” was inexorable.

In a year I did the three technical subjects—and failed badly in my mathematics, geometry, and bookkeeping exams. Maximum grades in everything else.... I wasted away to the point of getting ill; I had destroyed myself with tears and aimless toil.... As always, my mother had placed herself athwart my life and ruined me.... And she has ruined me. And she spoiled a piece of my happy existence as a schoolgirl.... Heaven knows!

When, feeling quite ill, I went back to boarding school for the October exam the Sisters managed to have me do the entire classical program during the remaining months of education. And they succeeded. But what good did it do me? What was the use of that poor diploma marred by low grades in the three exact subjects? And what was the use of such exhausting study whereby in less than twenty months I went through the whole junior and senior high school curriculum? I had some inner satisfactions, but no benefit. And so? Well! Well! And always well!

That is why for the last two school years I had a room to myself for study where I worked and worked and worked twelve hours a day. On the other hand, they were hours of joy, for I dearly loved the literary subjects.

And now we shall speak of the spirit, of the life of the spirit.