Fr Cafasso
Doubts
Dividing our Inheritance
School at Castelnuovo
Music
The Tailor
That year Divine Providence brought a new benefactor into my life. He was Fr Joseph Cafasso of Castelnuovo d’Asti.
It was the second Sunday of October, 1827, and the people of Murialdo were celebrating their patronal feast, the Motherhood of Mary. There was a great air of activity about the place; some were preparing the church, others engaged in family chores; some were playing games, others looking on.
One person I noticed was taking no part in the festivities. He was a slightly-built, bright-eyed cleric, kindly in appearance. He was leaning against the church door. Though I was only twelve years old, I was struck by his appearance and felt I would like to meet him. I went over and spoke to him.
Father, would you care to see what’s going on at our feast?
I’d like to act as your guide.
He kindly beckoned me closer. He asked me how old I was, what studies I had done, if I had made my First Holy Communion, how often I went to Confession, where I went to catechism, and so on. I was spellbound by his manner of speaking and answered all his questions without hesitation. To show my gratitude for his friendliness, I once more offered to show him round the various entertainments and novelties.
My dear friend, he replied, the entertainments of a priest are church ceremonies. The more devoutly they are celebrated, the more successful they are. Our pastimes are the practices of religion. These are ever new and therefore should be diligently attended. I’m only waiting for the church to open so I can go in.
I plucked up my courage to add to the discussion.
But Father, I suggested, though what you say is true, there’s a time for everything, a time to pray and a time to play.
He smiled. But I have never forgotten his parting words, which were his plan of action for his whole life:
A cleric gives himself to the Lord. Nothing in the world must be more important to him than the greater glory of God and the salvation of souls.
I was struck with admiration and longed to know the name of the cleric whose words and bearing so breathed the spirit of the Lord. I learned that he was the seminarian Joseph Cafasso, a student in his 1st year of theology. I already knew him by reputation as a model of virtue.
Fr Calosso’s death was a great loss to me. I wept inconsolably over my dead benefactor. I thought of him in my waking hours and dreamt of him when I was asleep. It affected me so badly that my mother feared for my health. She sent me for a while to my grandfather in Capriglio.
At this time I had another dream. In it I was sorely reproached for having put my hope in men and not in our good heavenly Father.
Meanwhile I thought a great deal about how to go ahead with my studies. I would see good priests working at their sacred ministry, but I could not strike up a close relationship with them. Often, on the road, I would meet our parish priest or his curate. I would greet them at a distance and bow to them as they passed. In their distant and courteous manner, they would return my greeting and go on their way. Often, I used to cry and say to myself and even to others, If I were a priest, I would act differently. I would approach the children, say some kind words to them, and give them good advice. How happy I would be if I could talk with my parish priest as I used to talk with Fr Calosso. Why shouldn’t it be so?
My mother, seeing how upset I was because of the obstacles in the way of my studies, and not having any hope of getting the consent of Anthony, who was now over twenty, thought about dividing our inheritance. There were serious difficulties, however, since Joseph and I were minors. Division of the property would be a complicated and costly business. Nevertheless she went ahead. My grandmother had died some years previously, so our family now consisted of my mother, Joseph, who did not want to be separated from me and me.
This division took a load off my mind and left me completely free to go ahead with my studies. However, it took some months to complete all the formalities of the law. It was around Christmas before I was able to enrol at the elementary school in Castelnuovo. It was 1828, and I was thirteen years old.
Since I had done my studies privately and was starting a public school with a new teacher, I faced some drawbacks. Practically, I had to begin my Italian grammar all over before I could start studying Latin.
For some time, I walked from home to school every day. But that was nearly impossible during the harsh winter; I had to make four trips back and forth, covering twelve and a half miles daily. I found lodgings with an upright man, a tailor, John Roberto; he had a taste for singing, especially plainchant. Since I had a good voice, I took up music wholeheartedly. In a few months, I could take the stage to accompany him with fair success.
Eager to use my free time, I took up tailoring. Before long I was able to make buttonholes and hems and sew simple and double seams. Later I learned how to cut out underwear, waistcoats, trousers, and coats. I like to think I became a master tailor.
In fact my landlord, seeing how I had taken to the trade, made me a good offer to get me to stay with him and carry on the business. I had other ambitions, however. I wanted to pursue my studies. While I tried my hand to keep myself busy, I never lost sight of my main objective.
That year some of my companions tried to tempt me into danger; they wanted to take me gambling during school time. When I said I had no money, they suggested stealing it from my landlord or even my mother. One of them, pressuring me, said,
My dear chap, it’s time you woke up. You must learn to live in the world. Putting your head in a sack gets you nowhere. Just get the money and you can have the same fun as the rest of us.
I well remember what my reply was:
I fail to understand what you’re getting at. Am I to believe you’re urging me to play truant and steal? But in your daily prayers, don’t you say, ‘The seventh commandment, You shall not steal’? Anyone who steals is a thief, and thieves come to a bad end. Besides, my mother loves me dearly, and if I need money for lawful purposes she gives it to me. I’ve never done anything without her permission, and I have no intention of starting to disobey her now. If your pals are doing that, they’re evil. And if they’re not doing it but recommending it to others, they’re scoundrels.
News of this episode got to the ears of my other companions, and no one else proposed to me anything wrong. My teacher heard of it as well and from then on was very kind to me. Even many of the boys’ relatives heard of it and urged their sons to associate with me. I was therefore in a position to choose my friends, who loved me and would listen to me like the boys of Murialdo.
Things were going well for me. But I was in for another upset. My teacher, Fr Virano, was made parish priest of Mondonio in the diocese of Asti. In April 1830 our beloved teacher went to take up his appointment. The man who replaced him could not keep order. In fact he almost scattered to the wind all that Fr Virano had taught in the preceding months.