A Feast Day in the Country
The Violin
Hunting
When I said that holidays in the country were a time of danger, I was speaking for myself. A poor cleric will often find himself in grave danger without realising it. I learned this through experience.
One year I was invited to celebrate a feast day at the home of some relatives of mine. I did not want to go, but discovering that there was no cleric to serve in church, I yielded to the insistent invitations of one of my uncles and went.
When the sacred ceremonies, at which I served and sang, were over, we went to dinner. All went well till the wine began to go to the heads of some of the party. Then they began to use language which should not be tolerated by a cleric. I tried to protest but could not get the words out. Not knowing what to do, I decided to leave. I got up from the table, got my hat, and was ready to go; my uncle stopped me. At that moment, there was an outburst of even more objectionable language as someone began to insult all the others at table. In a flash, all was pandemonium. There were angry shouts and threats, backed up by the horrible racket of glasses, bottles, plates, spoons, forks, and then knives. In this extremity, I beat a hasty retreat. When I got home, from the bottom of my heart, I renewed the resolution, so often made before, to remain withdrawn if I wanted to avoid falling into sin.
A different kind of experience, nonetheless unpleasant, befell me at Croveglia, a district of Buttigliera. It was the feast of St Bartholomew. I was invited by another uncle to assist at the church services, to sing, and even to play the violin, which I had given up, though it was my favourite instrument.
The church services went very well. My uncle was in charge of the celebrations, and the dinner was at his house. So far, so good. Dinner over, the guests asked me to play something of a light nature for them. I refused.
At least, one of the musicians said, play along with me. I’ll take the lead, and you play the accompaniment.
I felt awful! I did not know how to get out of it. Taking up the violin, I played for a while. Then I heard the murmur of voices and the sound of a lot of dancing feet. I went to the window, and out in the courtyard was a crowd dancing happily to the sound of my violin. Words could not describe the anger that welled up in me at that moment. Turning on the dinner guests, I addressed them vehemently:
How is it, after I have so often spoken against public shows, that I should have become their promoter? It will never happen again.
I smashed the violin into a thousand pieces. I never wanted to use it again, though opportunities for doing so were not lacking at sacred ceremonies.
Another incident happened to me while I was hunting. During the summer, I used to go bird-nesting; in the autumn, I’d catch the birds with birdlime, use traps, or even shoot them.
One morning, I found myself running after a hare. From field to field, from vineyard to vineyard, up hill and down dale, I chased my quarry for several hours. Eventually I got near enough to take a shot at him. The poor animal, its ribs broken by the shot, rolled over, leaving me deeply upset at the sight of the poor creature in its death throes.
The gunshot brought some of my companions on the scene. While they were admiring the dead hare, I took a long look at myself. There I was in my shirt-sleeves, my cassock discarded, wearing an old straw hat that made me look like a smuggler. I realised I was more than two miles from home. I was quite mortified. I apologised to my companions for the bad example I had given them by throwing off my cassock. I went straight home, once more making a resolution to be done with every kind of hunting. This time, with the Lord’s help I was able to live up to my word. May God forgive me for that scandal.
These three incidents taught me a terrible lesson. Henceforward I resolved to be more reserved. I was convinced that he, who would give himself entirely to the Lord’s service, must cut himself off from worldly amusements. It is true that often they are not sinful; but it is certain that on account of conversation, of the manner of dressing, of speaking, and of acting, there is always some risk to virtue, especially to the most delicate virtue of chastity.
Louis Comollo’s Friendship
As long as God preserved the life of this incomparable companion, we were always very close to each other. During the holidays, we often corresponded and visited back and forth. In him I saw a holy youth, and I loved him for his rare virtue. He loved me for the help I gave him with his studies. When I was with him, I modelled myself on his conduct.
Once during the holidays, he came to spend a day with me. Just then, my relatives were in the fields for harvest. He asked me to check over a sermon he was to preach on the feast of the Assumption. Afterwards, he practised his delivery, accompanied by gestures. We talked with delight for hours. Suddenly we realised it was nearly dinner-time. There was nobody in the house but us. What were we to do?
Just a minute, said Comollo, I’ll light the fire. You get a pot ready and we’ll cook something.
Right you are, I replied, but first let’s catch a chicken in the yard. It’ll provide us with soup and dinner. That’s what mother would like us to do.
In no time we had our chicken. But which of us felt up to killing it? Neither of us. So as to come to the conclusion that we wanted, we decided that Comollo was to hold the bird down on a block, and I was to cut off its head with a sickle. The blow was struck, and the head dropped from the body. The two of us got squeamish and took off screaming.
We’re just childish, Comollo said after a while.
The Lord gave us the beasts of the earth for our use.
Why should we be so squeamish?
Without further difficulty we picked up the chicken, plucked it, cooked it, and had our dinner.
I would have gone to Cinzano to hear Comollo’s Assumption sermon, but I myself had to preach on the same theme at another venue. When I went the next day, I heard praise of his sermon from all sides. That day, the 16th August, was the feast of St Roch. It was popularly known as the Feast of the Kitchen because relatives and friends took occasion to invite their loved ones to enjoy some public entertainment.
Here something happened which showed the extent of my audacity. They waited for the preacher for that solemn occasion right up till the moment when he was to go to the pulpit, and he had not turned up. In an effort to help the provost of Cinzano out of his embarrassment, I did the rounds of the many priests present, begging and insisting that someone say a few words to the numerous people assembled in the church. There were no takers. Some even got annoyed by my repeated pleading and turned harshly on me:
You’re a fool, you know! It’s no joke to preach off the cuff on St Roch. Instead of pestering others, why don’t you do it yourself?
Those words brought applause from everyone. I was humiliated, my pride wounded.
I certainly wasn’t looking for this, I said, but as everyone else has refused, I accept.
The people in church sang a hymn to give me time to collect my thoughts. I had read the life of the saint. I recalled his story as I mounted the pulpit. I have always been told that the sermon I preached that day was the best I have ever given.
It was on this vacation and on this same occasion, in 1838, that my friend and I went walking together to the top of a hill, where we had a wonderful view of the meadows, fields, and vineyards below.
Look, Louis, I began to say to him, what a lean harvest there will be this year! The poor farmers! So much work for such poor returns. The hand of the Lord weighs heavily upon us,
Believe me, our sins have brought this on us. He replied.
I hope the Lord will give us better crops next year.
So do I.
I hope there will be good times for those who are here to enjoy them.
Come on, away with such gloomy thoughts. Let’s be patient for this year. Next year we’ll have a bumper grape harvest and we’ll make better wine.
You’ll drink it.
Perhaps you mean to keep drinking water as usual.
I’m looking forward to a much better wine.
What do you mean by that?
Never mind, never mind. The Lord knows what he’s doing.
That’s not what I asked.
I want to know what you mean by ‘I’m looking forward to better wine.’ Do you mean you’ll be in paradise?
Though I have no guarantee of going to heaven when I die, yet I have a well-grounded hope of it. For some time I’ve had such a burning desire to taste the happiness of the blessed that it seems impossible for my life to last much longer.
As Comollo spoke these words, his face glowed. He was bubbling with good health and looking forward to returning to the seminary.