Autobiography

20. Summer, 1930

In the summer of 1930 I experienced the power of the Cross. But first I must narrate my Good Friday for you.

The period extending from Passion Sunday to the Feast of the Most Holy Trinity has always been for me a beloved and longed-for time. Not even Christmas possesses the power of this period for my soul. I have ever been a little lover of the Crucified, it must be remembered, and the time commemorating the Passion holds an attraction for me unsurpassed by anything else.

After this period, which concludes for me with the Feast of the Ascension, comes Pentecost. Another of my favorite feast days. The Holy Spirit! Love! Light! Fire! Oh, how I love this Third Person of the Most Holy Trinity! My day would strike me as bereft of light if I did not begin it with Veni Sancte Spiritus! And even during the day, if anything bothers or disturbs me or proves obscure, I turn to the Paraclete with the trust of a child towards the Sage who knows all. I always find the novena of the Holy Spirit to be full of a supernatural delight and joy which culminate by touching a very intense light on the morning of Pentecost.

Most Catholics make a serious mistake by too frequently forgetting the First and Third Persons of the Most Holy Trinity. Even when making the sign of the Cross, many say, “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,” but they in fact think only of the Son. The obtuseness of our nature is so deep that very few are able to conceive of what is spirit alone and thus direct themselves towards the Son, the only one endowed with a body.

Devout people associate sacramental Communion with spiritual communion. But they do not even imagine—and on hearing it are almost horrified, as if by blasphemy—that one can—indeed, that it is a right and proper gesture of love to—embrace our Father in heaven with continual acts of respectful affection and receive spiritual “Confirmations” renewing in us the infusion of the seven divine gifts, of which we are always in such need.

Personally, I have continually sought to remedy this gap of the majority. Since I entered the light of Christ, I have always tried to make reparation for this lack of devotion to the First and Third Persons of the Holy Triad.

It is not always granted to us to say the “Our Father” with the tranquillity and reflection such a sublime prayer requires to be real prayer. Quite often the very habit of saying it causes it to be repeated mechanically. And when the soul is absent, what is prayer good for? For nothing. The automatic mumbling of distracted lips remains. But when from the depths of our spirit there dart like arrows short invocations, ardent, if only concise, confessions of love, how the Most High must rejoice and respond with blessings of infinite power! “O my Father”; “Father, I love You”; “Father, look at Your creature”; “Father, I entrust myself to You.” O brief, burning prayers which, when addressed to the Creator in the way we, his creatures, remember Him, what merit you acquire and how many graces you obtain for us! When in weeping or in joy, in fervor or aridity, in security or disturbance, or in the hours in which an event makes us doubt about the road to follow we elevate a sigh of love and desire to the septiform Spirit, as to a sun lighting up our day, oh, how He responds, descending with his treasures of light, charity, wisdom, and fortitude!

I had also accustomed my little daughters of the Circle to this very blessed elevation of the mind to the Father and to the Holy Spirit. But I very much doubt that they have remained faithful to it.

To come back to the subject, I shall tell you, then, how the period from Passion Sunday to the Feast of the Most Holy Trinity was a great period for me. It is. Holy Week has, moreover, always moved my heart, even in the stormiest times. A God’s dying for us, and in that fashion, was such a sublime thing for me that I felt my soul thawing out after every frost; in the sad periods of youth and thereafter, I felt the deepest emotion invading my soul with an ocean of flames.

On account of my mother’s ideas, I have never been able to attend peacefully the functions for Holy Week. When these days approach, Mother has always become more impossible than ever, and to avoid scenes contrasting with the solemnity, consummate diplomacy must be used.... It is not of much help, but does some good.... I thus had to be satisfied with daily Communion and fleeting visits to church, stealing the minutes by means of dashes that kept me breathless when I went out to do the shopping. It is comfortable to be church-goers when no one is an obstacle to our devotion. But what merit will be reserved for those who must challenge the wrath of others and resort to a thousand acts of holy wiliness to be able to go to the House of God?

During Holy Week 1930, I was even more inflamed than usual with a spirit of love and reparation. Having the opportunity, thanks to the Circle, to go out more frequently, I darted into church like a little fish that has escaped from the net. The large figure of Christ Crucified on the altar seemed to be looking at me with eyes more imploring than ever.

That Christ! I shall never see it again. But in heaven I shall find again all the tears—changed into jewels—I have shed over his chest and his pierced hands when I could find him laid in the Archbishop’s chapel in the periods when a statue was placed on the main altar. I caressed him, wiped away the dust soiling his face, hands, and feet, kissed him, and bathed him with tears. It did not seem real that I could touch him like that! He no longer appeared to me to be inanimate wood, but a living, throbbing body, and as such I asked him a thousand tender questions in my weeping: “Poor Jesus! Do these nails, these thorns, and these bruises hurt You so much? Oh, how I would like to remove them at any cost!”

This is the divine foolishness of love! Some may regard it as sentimentalism. But it is not. When someone is loved absolutely, such words are always uttered, and with real conviction. Doesn’t the mother by the cradle of her crying child eat her heart out with the longing to remove his pain by taking it upon herself and use sweet words which are never ridiculous, though childlike? Doesn’t the loving wife with the utmost tenderness bend over her sick husband, fretting over not being able to relieve his suffering and show him the affection of a mother, in addition to that of a spouse, with words like those used alongside a cradle? And why should Jesus not be loved with the same anxious tenderness with which a husband or a child is loved? At least with the same tenderness. But He must really be loved with much, much more tenderness. Why should the caresses given to a Crucifix or a Sacred Heart be viewed and regarded as sentimentalism? The Saint of Lisieux certainly does not provoke laughter when plucking the petals off her roses and turning each petal into an instrument to caress her Lord! Those rose petals strewn over Him were the emblem of her life, whose petals were plucked in a holocaust of love. Not sentimentalism, but loving madness corroborated by the reality of the holocaust.

Neither were my caresses for Christ Crucified, my tears, and my words the ridiculous emotions of a silly woman, sentimental and hysterical. They were real, vigorous needs of my heart, which was now immolating itself to be like unto its God.

Oh, I understand quite well the immense weeping of the Magdalene, her, shall we say, paroxysmal crises of love and pain. It was definitely not hysteria. It was the incandescence of love. I belonged and belong to the ardent, penitent ranks of the Magdalene, and to take Jesus from the cross I would agree—not just metaphorically, but in reality—to be nailed in his place.

Do you think my suffering suffices? No. It is enormous! To such an extent that without a special grace of God my being could not stand it, and my heart would split in agony. But it is not enough. For me, Maria of the Cross, a soul belonging to Christ, it is not enough. And even if God increases it, it will never, ever be enough for me. Because the sufferings of my Savior were infinite, and I would like mine to be so....

I don’t know if any of the priests ever noticed my embracing the Crucifix. I don’t think so because—I erected a barricade of chairs against the two doors and always kept my very sharp ears pricked up. I did not want to be discovered. “When you pray, go to your private room, shut yourself in, and so pray to your Father, who is in that secret place, and your Father, who sees all that is done in secret, will reward you.” But the bad part was that when Jesus was on the altar—then tears ran down my cheeks. Fortunately, they were always moments when the church was empty.... So only the elderly parish priest discovered me sometimes. But I was not too ashamed in front of him. He already knew quite a bit about me.

And we come to Good Friday.

It was the only time I went to the ceremony of the “Three Hours of Agony”—and it nearly killed me. Father, Mother, and I had gone. An unprecedented case in the annals of my family. Mother had consented to my wish. A fine young woman was also with us.

At eleven o’clock I had wept copiously at the foot of the altar, contemplating my Jesus and the divine Mother, with her wounded heart. But I did not feel bad. I ate almost nothing, for when I cry, I can no longer eat.

So we went to church. We were seated nearly under the pulpit. At the eleventh word, I began to feel quite ill. A suffering never before experienced until that moment—a terrible suffering. I had my first attack of angina pectoris precisely on Good Friday, in the hours of Jesus’ agony.

If one recalls that a physician of antiquity who managed to identify this malady and the sufferings and dangers it brings—but without finding a treatment—described it as a “pause in life in which one undergoes death,” one can grasp how terrible it is. Only one who has experienced that piercing anguish of agony, cramps, suffocation, and collapse can know what it is really like. And I experienced it for the first time on Good Friday. Jesus in agony, Maria of Jesus in agony. I really thought I was dying. One could not go out on account of the throng, and, moreover, you cannot walk at that time...! I practically had to get undressed in the church because everything which is tight-fitting increases the suffering.

But I was not afraid. I felt that Jesus was lifting me up onto the cross.... I had begged Him so for the past five years to accept me as a victim.... The blessed time of divine consent had come, and on a day and at an hour which were so full of significance.

You may say, “But you had also felt ill the year before.” Oh, it was entirely different! That had seemed to be virtually the beginning of a stroke due to bad circulation. A notable influx of blood into my neck and head, intense dizziness, and that was all. This was spasmodic pain, an icy sweat, an agony, properly speaking. It was a gift of the dying Jesus to his little victim.

When the crisis was over, I returned to normal. I was just extremely tired. But after a sound sleep I no longer felt even the weariness.

Summer came. That year the usual family that came every summer and with whom we were on friendly terms did not come back to us. We were negotiating with another acquaintance of ours, but at the last minute he could not come. We were thus left without anyone.

At the end of June a woman we knew asked us if we would put up one man alone, a doctor, who wanted a very tranquil house, not belonging to lower-class people, where he could eat and sleep well and in peace. He would be renting for two or three months. But this doctor wanted permission to bring along with him a young man who was his protégé and would often be his guest; he would be providing consultations in a room at certain hours of the day.

Consultation—a word meaning many things. Medical and legal consultation is provided, as well as consultation on the art of cultivating—onions. It suffices to be a doctor in agriculture.

We accepted because it was very convenient and not so laborious. A single person to be served, for the—consultant lodged elsewhere, was what was needed for me.

On July 1 the—consultant started coming. A discreet young man, in appearance, and a good fellow, morally. He settled in the room I am now in, then a parlor, and did not want me to take down a little picture of Christ Crucified before which I would pray. He said he had a great deal of faith and wished to keep that religious painting in his consultation room. That was fine. He caused no trouble. He went in and out calmly, respectfully, and silently.

On July 4 the doctor arrived. A very distinguished personage. We later understood that he was also quite cultured and extremely rich. He liked everything and at once decided to remain for three months. The first day he said he would eat out to give us time to find eggs, which he was very accustomed to, and arrange for fish, since one of the meals had to be fish on account of his uricaemia. He saw the piano and asked me if I would allow him to use it. He played and sang very well. I replied that he certainly could.

The next day official room and board began. After the midday meal the doctor had gone up to his room, or, rather, to the little room where the piano was, to rest. I had gone to the kitchen to wash up. Mother was with me and Father was sleeping in his room. Everything was silent at that very hot hour.

All of a sudden I felt strangely ill. Not a physical illness. No, it was a nonphysical malaise, for there was no pain at all, but the physical as well disturbed me. I cannot explain.

I went out to the courtyard to breathe, as it seemed to be that the air in the house had all at once become mephitic. That’s it—maybe this is the best description of the feeling: tainted air. But even in the courtyard it was the same. Indeed, unseen hands seemed to be pressing down upon my chest and blocking up my nostrils. Mother felt nothing.

With difficulty I went back into the house. With difficulty, for something was pushing me away from the house. I wanted to go up to the second floor to take the cardiotonic I used when I was in pain. I climbed the stairs. As far as the first small landing everything went fine. But when I began the ascent up the second flight, I became aware of a force pushing me backwards, as if to keep me from going up. I really sensed there were two hands, quite large and powerful, which were pressing against my chest, pushing me back quite vigorously. By struggling and holding on to the railing very tightly, I managed to go up. When I reached the second floor, the sensation became frightful in front of the closed door of the little room. What took place in me then? I don’t know. As I penetrated into our bedroom, I understood, as if I were seeing it with my own eyes, that in that little room, from which no sound emerged, spiritism was being practiced.

I believe I belong to the group of intrepid persons. Except for earthquakes and popular uprisings, nothing makes me afraid—contagious diseases, sufferings, or animals. I keep myself at a respectful distance from cats, not because I don’t like them, but because they leap at my eyes. I don’t know what they see in my eyes. I observe that when he can, the cat hurls himself at me and thus keep away from this feline. I flee snakes because they make me shudder. I love all the other creatures, including mice, in the face of which the members of my sex shriek so. I am not afraid of lightning or winds. But I am dreadfully afraid of spiritism, as I am afraid of all that is mysterious.

At school the Sisters often said, “Just imagine how lovely it would be if an angel, Our Lady, or Jesus appeared!” And I was quick to say, “No, for goodness’ sake! I would jump out of the window!” Why? Because of fear of God? No, out of fear that the Spirit of Evil would robe himself in those appearances to deceive us. If I were told, “You will get better if you let yourself be treated by a magnetist or by one of those who practice magic and occult sciences,” I would refuse—as I have refused—healing out of fear that a little fragment of a devil would remain upon me.

When in 1921 I was struggling with Mother over Mario, my mother went to an occultist. I don’t know what they cooked up.... He sent me a talisman, which I took great care not to wear. But just receiving it, just going to that half-devil (to me, some people are close relations of the devil), brought me what it did. But my mother believes in certain things and is not afraid of the devil, in whom she half believes and half disbelieves....

The fact is that I understood that spiritism was being practiced. How did I understand? Heaven knows! I understood, and that’s that. Once back on the ground floor, I told Mother, and with rare boldness I said that either that man was finished or I would go. I was talking it over when the—consultant came downstairs. He seemed rather drained. He said goodbye and went out. “Then he was upstairs with the doctor,” I said. “Just fine!”

The next morning I found an announcement with pretty lettering on the front door; it was signed “Mustafa - Chiromancer - Occultist,” etc. Goodness gracious! He was a consultant in those sciences? I got furious. So furious that I expressed my rage to Mother, who informed the doctor that if he wished to remain as a bather, he certainly could, but that he should move out at once if he wanted to devote himself to certain things. Our house was not suitable for this purpose. There was a real squabble. Then the doctor agreed, saying he would tell his protégé to go elsewhere. He, the doctor, would remain.

Two or three days passed. The chiromancer still came, in search of money from his protector, but they no longer locked themselves in together, and he had cleared out his—consulting room.

On the fourth day there was that sensation again. But this time I combatted it dutifully. I stopped whatever it was I was doing, armed myself with the Crucifix, and said, “Now, Lord, is the moment to show me the power of this sign. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, I ask You to prevent the devil from acting in my house,” and I concluded with the prayer of St. Edmund: “Jesus Christ, King of the Jews.”

I no longer felt that lack of air and after a while saw the medium (let us call him by his proper name) coming downstairs. He was very upset. He came into the dining room and spoke at great length to persuade us that he was a fine young man—religious, God-fearing, and so on—and that spiritism is not opposed to God, for, on the contrary, whoever practices it believes in the hereafter and provides an occasion for disembodied souls to come and bring us the supreme voices, etc. I was silent.

Then the medium addressed me specifically: “You know, I am not a possessed man. Just imagine [his way of speaking was Florentine], I carry with me the lumen Christi [whatever that meant to him], and it is wrong for you not to want me. I came here quite willingly because I wanted to do you good [?]. But you are turning me out....”

“I am not turning anyone out,” I replied. “If it is true that you are a friend of Jesus, you shouldn’t feel uneasy with me.”

“That’s right, but I do. You always go to church!”

“But precisely for this reason you really ought to feel just fine here. Whoever is with Christ does not fear Christ!”

“But I tell you that you disturb me.”

“Don’t come any more, and good night.”

And the conversation ended there.

After a short while the doctor appeared. Frowning and surly. He planted himself in front of me and eyed me from top to toe. I looked at him questioningly.

In the evening—it was Sunday—while the doctor was having dinner, he said, “I must leave because the young lady doesn’t want us. Don’t you realize that you nearly caused Mustafa’s death today?”

“I did? And how could I when I didn’t even know he was here?”

“Yes, you did. It was you. He was in a trance and suddenly fell into catalepsy on me. When he came to, he said the spirit Gabriel [?], on fleeing in terror, had left him lifeless. Only after half an hour had he returned, and Mustafa came to his senses.”

Just fine, I thought. If even you don’t want to stop, I’ll make you stop myself. Praying downstairs with my cross in my hands.

The outcome was that two days later Mustafa went to Rimini with his more or less Gabrielish spirits. The doctor stayed, for he said he had to stay. And until the night of August 17 everything went well.

But that night, between one and two o’clock, while I was sleeping like a baby, I was suddenly awakened by that familiar sensation of hands pressing down on my chest to drive me away and of fetid air. I suffered greatly and said to Mother (I slept with her), “The doctor is up to something.”

I suffered and struggled so much that in the morning, while I was out doing the shopping, I nearly died of a heart attack. When I returned home, my face was so pale that the doctor, who, aside from his spiritism, was a good man, took pity on me. But I refused his pity and asked, “What did you do last night?” He lowered his head and confessed that he had conjured up the famous Gabriel.

Draw your own conclusions, Father. I’ll just state that I’m convinced that the power of the Name of Jesus and the Cross impeded the demoniacal activity; I say I’m convinced that spiritism is demoniacal (it made me suffer too much—if it had come from God, as those two asserted, it would not have tortured me); I affirm that the devil did not want me in the house and tried to push me away, not on my account, but because of Him who was in me; I tell you that I am convinced that in this event there is certainly a hidden reason known only to God; I affirm that it was not without fruit, for three months later the doctor had changed his mind about many things, to the point of wishing to be reunited to God while renouncing everything else; I tell you, finally, that I am totally convinced that much of what I afterwards suffered was done out of revenge by the devil, whom I had prostrated with the Name of Jesus.

My malady was until then clear in its symptoms and, though serious, did not bring with it those agonies of the entire body which came later, similar to those which someone whose nerve fasciculi are contorted by a cruel hand must experience. From that time on the symptoms became altered, mixed, and entangled with those of new, mysterious maladies no one ever managed to understand. And to these was added a raging of temptations which also doubled me over.... I had never undergone so much, never arrived at that point! The darkest hours of my youth were rosy alongside those suffered in these nine years of illness. I have been bedridden for nine years as of today. Only for the past month have I felt free from the demoniacal siege, which I mentioned to no one, for today people do not believe in the devil, who has made me suffer so much!

I defeated the devil in the summer of 1930, but he has taken revenge in exorbitant fashion.... But I’ll speak about this when the time comes.

And what should I say now? I’ll say only what is said on Good Friday while adoring the Cross: “O lovely, shining tree, adorned with the King’s purple.... O blessed Cross.... O Cross, our only hope, hail...!”