Turin

ORATORY OF ST FRANCIS DE SALES PRESS

PROPERTY OF THE PUBLISHER

Table of Contents

To the Reader

Chapter I. A fortunate family

Chapter 2. Strange encounter

Chapter 3. The good maid

Chapter 4. The young girl’s rare gifts.

Chapter 5. Assisting a dying person.

Chapter 6. The priest and the waif.

Chapter 7. Who this poor girl was; her upbringing and education

Chapter 8. Ease and comfort.

hapter 9. Distress

Chapter 10. Her flight.

Chapter 11. The girl’s final activities

Chapter 12. Angelina’s death

Last Autumn, for reasons to do with the sacred ministry, I visited a place where they told me things about a young girl, things that seemed very interesting to me. Although she died at the beginning of this century, she is remembered amongst them as if she had only died last month. The parish priest of the place furnished me with a good number of details and amongst other things a copy of a manuscript the original of which is kept in the parish archives. From the details recounted and more so from the manuscript I have picked out what seems to me to be most interesting, enjoyable and important for our readers. I am a simple story teller, and it will be a great reward for me if someone reads it to their advantage, or at least shows understanding where I have not been able to satisfy. May God bless us all with his heavenly grace and grant us many years of happy life.

On the slopes of the Apennines, not so far from one of Italy’s main cities, about halfway through last century there lived a family that enjoyed all the happiness one could hope for on this poor earth.

Peter was the name of the head of this fortunate family. He was raised as a good Catholic, and thanks to his diligent and economic approach succeeded in improving his circumstances to the point where he was listed amongst the most wealthy inhabitants of the area.

But he was able to combine a frugal lifestyle with generous almsgiving.

“My business,” he would say “began doing well from the moment I made a personal rule never to send any beggar away empty-handed from my door.”

He attributed his prosperity to a field that he called the field of fortune but which the public called the field of the poor. It consisted of a handful of acres which Peter sowed with various kinds of beans. He cultivated it and looked after it until he could pick the crop, and then ceasing to look after it as his own it became the property of the poor who could freely take whatever they needed for life’s necessities from it. One can imagine the blessings and best wishes for continued abundance that everybody had for charitable Peter. When they met him on the road beggars would run to greet him and express their gratitude.

To provide shelter for the most abandoned, he kept a hay shed ready and well stocked with hay and some sheets for them to cover themselves with. In the evenings he would also go along in person to see that there were no problems, say their prayers with them and wish them a good night with some Christian thought for them to remember. “That you are poor,” he used tell them, “does not matter; that is not a vice; but see that you are not irreligious or evildoers.”

It occasionally happened that some of those whom he had taken in would not respond in a worthy way to the charity he had shown them and would disappear at night taking whatever they could steal. Therefore Peter closed the door of the hay shed each night and did not open it again until morning.

Peter had also learned music and Gregorian chant, or ‘canto fermo’ as it was known, and he enjoyed this a lot. As well as going to Vespers, Benediction, Sung Mass he had also collected a number of boys with good voices and steady character and had taught them to sing. So for the bigger Feast days the Masses were so majestic that they caused nearby villagers to be both envious and admiring.

The entire village had full confidence in Peter and he was never overlooked for the tasks that were usually entrusted to people who were honest and principled. He was head of the choir, treasurer for many charitable works, town councillor and had been mayor on several occasions.

The parish priest had a faithful parishioner in Peter and could count on him for any help and advice in the more confidential and important affairs. Everyone liked dealing with him because he did good for whoever he could and evil to no one. Therefore everyone willingly agreed to whatever he suggested.

Divine Providence saw that he had found a wife who, like him loved religion, economy, charity; so Cecchina (a version of Francesca) looked after all the domestic arrangements. She was in charge of food, clothing, the linen, discipline, the servants and the children’s upbringing, and they were the constant object of her care; she loved them as precious gifts from Heaven.

This was how things were with Peter’s family when something happened to disturb the peace. Cecchina was given strong and faithful assistance by a maid who helped her with her temporal affairs especially for the growing children. A faithful maid is a great help to a family, but a real treasure for the children whose upbringing and behaviour is largely in her hands. Now, the maid had become very ill and died a few days later.

Peter and Cecchina were as upset as they would have been had it been their own daughter. After the burial Peter told the rest of the very sad household: “The loss of Manetta, (the good maid’s name) has been a terrible misfortune; let us ask God to find us another who can be a new angel to look after our dear children.

Cecchina was attending Mass over those days whenever her duties allowed her to. But after Manetta’s death she saw that she was back in time to awaken the children. We should note that Peter’s home was about a kilometre from the village, and to reach the church Cecchina had to pass by the cemetery. She would never go past without a prayer for the people buried there, adding an Our Father, a Hail Mary and a Requiem in suffrage for the soul of their dear maid. One morning on her way to church, she stopped as usual at the cemetery and since there was a thick fog it was difficult to see who was passing by. At the gate to the cemetery she tried to kneel down on what seemed to her to be a mound.

“Hey” came a foreboding voice of protest as soon as she knelt down. “Hey! Mercy! Help!”

“Oh my God” Cecchina cried, hurriedly getting up and starting to run. But just as she got up this ghostly woman appeared, shouting, and running full tilt into her such that both of them fell backwards. Poor Cecchina no longer knew if she was on the ground or in the grave, but she leapt up and ran home shouting:

“Help, for God’s sake, help.” The half-dazed, unknown woman, also thinking she was being chased by a ghost, ran after her, she too yelling for help and mercy.

Peter was in the farmyard at that moment fixing the plough to the oxen, while the cowherd was carrying a sack of seed to be sown. Believing that some evildoer had insulted his wife, he grabbed a pitchfork; his helper took a shovel and as quick as a flash they ran to help his wife.

“What’s the matter” they shouted from a distance, as soon as they were in hearing distance. “I’m warning whoever’s coming - I’ll stick you with this fork, you ...”

“I’m being followed by a dead person” Cecchina yelled, “It’s running, calling my name, threatening me... it’s coming... it’s coming.”

“No need to fear the dead,” Peter replied, “if it’s running behind you it’s alive, not dead.”

While the good woman ran into the house ready to faint, and threw herself into a chair, Peter with his pitchfork and the cowherd with the shovel were tackling the feared spectre and had surrounded it, shouting:

“Stop or we’ll kill you.”

Imagine their surprise when instead of a dead person, or spectre or ghost they saw a young girl who was even more terrified than they were.

“Who are you?” Peter quickly asked her, “Who are you? Where do you come from? Why are you following honest people like this?”

“Please don’t harm me,” the girl replied, “I’m just a poor unhappy waif, a victim of misfortune.”

“But what do you want?”

“I’m asking you to save me.”

“From who?”

“From someone following me:”

“But no one’s following you - in fact you were following someone else.”

“Woe is me. Where am I? Where will I go? Who will give me advice.”

“Quickly, come back into the house, I’m afraid something will happen to you” his wife shouted at them, as soon as she had recovered and could offer a word.

Then Peter worked out that they were both the reason for frightening one another, and urged on by the desire to do good to all and evil to no one, he decided to bring the stranger into the house to calm his wife down and find out what this strange incident was all about.

“Cecchina,” he said “don’t be afraid; it is not a ghost, nor is it a dead person: it is a poor girl who is more frightened than you are. She needs to be settled down; look at her, poor girl, she’s half dead.”

“Who are you?” the wife asked her.

“I am a poor girl fleeing from misfortune.”

“Where did you come from?”

“I came from a city very far from here.”

“What were you doing at the cemetery?”

“I had walked almost the whole night, and as day broke I felt so tired that I lay down against a wall that I thought belonged to some building and fell asleep there. While I was sleeping it seemed like some murderers were following me and had caught up with me, so I awoke and started shouting. Oh poor me!”

“You weren’t to know that the building was the cemetery. I was going to Mass, and to say a prayer for my poor Manetta, I wanted to kneel down there, convinced that the hump was a mound of earth, so I ended up kneeling on top of you. I’m sorry I scared you so.”

“And how! It’s a wonder I didn’t die there and then.”

“But it’s enough to make you laugh” Peter said.

“Just like the theatre” added the cowherd who of course had never even been to the theatre or any kind of play.

Peter saw that the girl was given a little something to eat and at the same time asked her several questions to find out who she was but he got nothing from her, no document that would offer some guarantee that this strange mystery girl was a woman of good repute.

“Now” Peter said, “you’ve recovered, so head off on your business. I am off to do some ploughing that needs to be done.”

“If you don’t want to take me in as a hired hand, at least give me some good advice, point me to an honest employer where I can earn a crust and live without peril to my soul. God will reward the charity you show me.”

“If I could have some guarantee that you are a person of good repute it would be easy to find you a good employer, but an unknown woman, all on her own, without documents... I would not know where to direct you to.”

“I would like someone to take me if only on trial for a few days, and then through my hard work and with the Lord’s help I hope I can win their trust and establish my good name.”

“What kind of work can you do?”

“I have no particular trade but can do a bit of everything. I am healthy and strong and I believe I could adapt to any work in a short time.”

“Also hoeing?”

“With the Lord’s help, also hoeing.”

“With a woman’s hands like yours, using a hoe would be a real laugh.”

“I only want to try.”

Cecchina had been following this discussion with much interest and noting her courtesy, her correct language and more so the religious sentiments that peppered her speech she thought it might be worth giving her a try as a daily help.

“We have quite a few things to do in the garden,” she told her husband “we could give her a try and meanwhile see.”

“I am very hesitant to take someone in whom we don’t know; but if it pleases you, ok, but keep an eye on her so we don’t have a repeat performance of some earlier problems we’ve had.”

“What should we call you?” Peter concluded:

“I was always called Angelina.”

“Well, do what my wife tells you and then we will see.” Meanwhile he left with the plough and cart and went about his work.

The good wife left the lass to rest for a while, and both of them couldn’t stop talking or laughing about the fright they had had at the cemetery gate.

“Now” the mistress of the house said, “come into the garden where there are many things to be done and get started on what you know how to do and can do.”

And as if gardening was her profession, Angelina put on a white apron, took a small fork and began weeding a row of spinach, another of lettuce, uncovering then pulling out the couch grass and other noxious weeds from the legumes. Then she transplanted leeks, onions and cabbages; she picked beans, pumpkin and potatoes; then hoeing the ground that was free she sprinkled it with compost then resowed it with the kind of lettuce that keeps fresh and green during the cold winter. But she did it in such a correct and skilful way that one would have been amazed just watching her. That evening Peter asked about the girl and his wife promptly said:

“The girl is an excellent gardener; I watched her carefully from a window and she worked tirelessly all day. She dug, transplanted and sowed in such a way that our garden looks like new. But what I liked most was her devotion. Thinking that no one was watching her, when the midday bell rang she knelt down and with hands joined said the Angelus in a most recollected way, praying like this: ’My God, stay with me. You have helped me up until now! Complete your work! If this is the place where I can love and serve you all my life, inspire this good farmer to keep me with him.... She also said other things that I couldn’t understand but I think there is some mystery about this girl. We will find out everything gradually.”

“Let’s see how things go” Peter answered. “Meanwhile she can stay with us.”

The following day Peter came home at midday and found the lunch very much to his taste.

“What have you done, Cecchina? Why spend money for such a delicious dish... we only have things like this on very special solemnities.”

“I didn’t spend a cent,” his wife replied.

“So who made this excellent dish?”

“Angelina.”

“Angelina! But with what?”

“I don’t know. She can tell you herself.”

“It’s so simple,” Angelina said. “Some eggs, half a litre of curdled milk, a small pumpkin and some sugar was all I used in the cooking.”

“Good, very good” Peter said. “With a cook like this we could challenge the king’s kitchen. You are doing well” he told Angelina, “it seems you are able to work and your behaviour convinces me you are not a woman of ill repute, so we will keep you on; and unless things go wrong, who knows but you might be able to help raise our children, something that Manetta had to interrupt to go to Heaven.”

“I assure you you will not regret the kindness you have shown me. I will do what I can to work and measure up to your kindness. Nor will I cease praying for God’s mercy and that he will give you your just reward in good time.”

Within a few days Angelina became the wonder of Peter’s household. Her knowledge surprised everyone. She knew when to sow and when to reap. She spoke of the harvest, winnowing the wheat, binding the sheaves, manuring, pruning the vines, cutting back the leaves to the point where everyone would have thought she was an accomplished agronomist. And what we can say of her work in the house? With admirable self-confidence she cooked, set the table, made the beds, swept, did the milking, the curdling, the butter, the ricotta, the cheese, and finally the sewing, mending, ironing. She did all these things as if each of them was her special competence.

But her rare qualities were even more on display when Peter, assured of the treasure he had found in this new maid, entrusted his children to her. His hopes were not in vain. She began to sow the seeds of religious ideas in their hearts.

“Children,” she told them, “never forget that God is our Creator. We were nothing; He created us in his own image and created us to love and serve him faithfully in this life. And when we cease to live and our body goes to the grave, then the soul returns to the Creator to render account for its actions. What a great reward there will be in Heaven for those who do good on earth.”

She told them they would have a long life on earth if they were always obedient and respectful to their parents. She instructed them in the principal mysteries of the Faith then prepared them, a little at a time, to make the sign of the cross devoutly, say their daily prayers, receive the Sacraments of Confession, Confirmation and Communion.

She did this cheerfully, briefly, explaining things with many nice images and examples that she knew. So the children never grew bored with her teaching, in fact they enjoyed it and were always keen to spend a lot of time with their ’grandma’ as they called the girl.

Things like this could not be kept a secret. One day the parish priest walked as far as Peter’s house and had a chnace to talk with the new maid.

“My good girl,” he told her, “I have been happy to hear what they are saying about you. I know that you are working, teaching Peter’s children and other children in the neighbourhood. That makes me very happy, and I also believe you frequent the Sacraments, is that true.”

“Yes, Father. I can see that you have already found out about me, since I go to confession to you every week.”

“Good, well, carry on, and teach others what you do too, and you will have twice the merit. Now, I would like to draw up a register of all my parishioners and I need you to tell me your name, surname, family and where you come from; I don’t believe that should be a problem for you.”

“Father,” said Angelina looking upset, “I am just a poor girl, victim of a misfortune. Telling you who I am would only increase my problems and might even compromise your and my peace of mind.”

“But if I don’t put you on the register, I might be compromised before the law.”

“My name is Angelina. Write that down and the rest we can put off till another time.”

The parish priest, seeing her all in consternation, thought he would stop any further questioning but seek information about her from others. He spoke with Peter and his wife, asked the neighbours, but they all spoke of her good moral qualities and nothing more.

“I have often thought,” Cecchina said jokingly, “that this lass was Marietta resurrected but wiser, more virtuous and knowledgeable than she was before she died.”

They all laughed and the priest said: “We should respect this good girl’s secrets and her sensitivity. Let’s accept what is good, and perhaps we will discover just what we need to and no more.”

At that time, due to some political events, the French army had come to Italy. A regiment was stopping over in the town where Angelina was. When they left, some of the soldiers who were sick and unable to continue on their journey were recommended to Peter who had some spare room for them. He willingly took them in because there was no public hospital in the town. Despite all the help one of them got worse and very soon found himself in mortal danger. There was a slight problem for administering the Sacraments because French was virtually unknown amongst the locals and although the parish priest knew a bit from his reading, he had never really had occasion either to write it or speak it and was unable to enter into a conversation about something as important as the Sacraments were. It was then that our young girl showed yet more of her qualities. She was very good with the sick whenever there was an occasion. Up until then Angelina had held back somewhat, allowing the nurses to do the task they were paid for. But when she became aware of the danger the soldier was in, she put all human respect aside and began speaking French in an elegant and polished manner. The sick man was amazed along with others around, since none of them thought she was anything else but a poor serving girl. How embarrassed she was then to discover that the soldier was not a Catholic!

“I am a Lutheran” he responded when she offered him some advice, “and so I do not know what the Sacraments are.”

“But without the Sacraments you cannot be saved, because the Lord instituted them to save our souls.”

“Can’t I just be happy with my religion?”

“No, you cannot be happy with your beliefs because when you call yourself a Lutheran it means you are following Luther and not Jesus Christ any more.”

“But wasn’t Luther following the true religion?”

“Certainly not; before Luther nobody professed a belief like his. When Luther began preaching his beliefs they were a real novelty. He was preaching a new system of beliefs that was in fact contrary to faith in Christ.”

“To be honest I have never bothered much about religion. Nor can I hide a thought that has always bothered me a bit. I see that Catholics all agree in obeying the Pope and they all confess the same faith, so there is uniformity in teaching and discipline everywhere and through all time. But amongst us we interpret things as we like, accept or reject what we want. In our own city and I can say in our family we have some people who profess something very different to the others. Is it possible, I have said to myself often, that truth can reside in opinions that are opposite? If one necessarily must be wrong, how do we know which is the true one? Who could assure me of that? Now it seems that you have studied more than I have and if you judge that in order to be saved I need to be a Catholic then I am ready to obey.”

“Thank the Lord for inspiring this holy resolution. But your peace comes not from my word which could err at any time but from God’s promise that cannot err. There is one God, one Faith, one Baptism, amd therefore one Church of Jesus Christ. He appointed the Apostle Peter as Head of this Church; others succeeded Peter as the Vicar of J. C. right down to our own days. They have always condemned error and spread truthful ideas that were developed and preached by the Apostles. So beginning from the reigning Pontiff we go back from one Pope to another until Peter, until Jesus C., and if you compare the teaching of the Popes today with the teaching of the Popes in those times, you will find it unchanged as if there were only a single Pontiff. This assures us that we have the entire and complete teaching of the Gospel, all and each of the truths preached by the Apostles. On the contrary Lutherans have no head, and if you want to draw up a time line of Lutheran ministers you cannot go back further than Luther. This is where Lutheranism falls down, that there is no one who professed his teaching before him.”

“I accept what you say, but in my present state I can hardly take instructions. So what can I do to ensure my eternal salvation in some way.”

“Leave your religious needs to me. I am going, but to talk to our priest and he will see to everything.”

And in fact Angelina did go to the parish priest who, assured of Miret’s good dispositions, (that was the sick man’s name), asked her to take on the task of instructing him further in the Faith. The doctors said that the sick man was in danger of death so she got him to renounce his heresy and make a profession of the true faith. Then she gave him conditional baptism thinking that this Sacrament may have been administered but invalidly; he then made his confession, received viaticum, was anointed and then given the papal blessing. He gave up his soul peacefully on the evening of that day, kissing the crucifix and calling on the Lord’s mercy. These were his final words:

“Praise be the Lord’s great mercy. He gave me an angel of consolation to take me out of darkness and lead me to the light of truth. This is a great gift from the Lord. If all my fellow Lutherans could enjoy the consolation I feel at the moment they would all become Catholics. Blessed be God: may his infinite mercy save me and everyone in the world.”

To this point our young girl was considered a good Christian, a peasant lass of good will who loved her masters and spared no effort to do as much good as she could. Furthermore they saw in her a young girl with solid principles, and with an excellent memory for retaining the things she read. But when news got around that she spoke excellent French and had clearly been able to persuade Miret to become a Catholic, everyone was marvelling at the fact. The priest who had been present and had recommended the dying soldier’s soul, said to himself and then told others:

“There is a mystery hidden in this girl. Such profound and extensive learning is not to be found in someone who has not studied for a long time.”

One was saying it was revealed learning from the Lord; another that the girl was someone else really and that in expiation for her sins she had been condemned to being a peasant lass. And of course there were some who said she was a witch, while others believed she was an angel sent from Heaven.

Meanwhile the priest used every opportunity to gather the most edifying news he could about the girl,and the day came when he was able to do a little more in this regard. Angelina had become ill and it brought her to the brink of the grave. The parish priest gave her much good help and sometimes spent a lot of time with her comforting her through some of the most painful moments of her illness.

“Father” she said one day, “I think my life is coming to an end. You cane ease my fear of death if you promise to recommend me to the Lord at Mass after my death so that my soul can be freed from the pains of Purgatory.”

“I give my word that I will do that and also have people pray for you at the Church, but I would also like to ask a favour of you, one that I believe will be for the greater glory of God.”

“Ask whatever you want, Father. I will be happy to do something for you before dying.”

“Could you tell me about what happened to you before you came to Peter’s house?”

“Oh poor me! You are asking me something I cannot refuse but which I very much dislike doing, because in doing so it may cause me problems and not a few for you too. That will not help you in any way.”

“Let’s do it this way: you can write down all the details about yourself, where you come from and your family but without mentioning names of places or people; then you can give me everything written and sealed. I will keep it confidential and no one will see it until after your death.”

“In my present state I cannot write.”

“Then it is enough to promise you will do so if you recover.”

“If that’s the case then I promise and will do so.”

Divine Providence saw that the sick girl regained her former health and she wrote down some information which, although it does not give a complete picture, serves to let us know of her situation and her upbringing. All this was in fact written down, sealed and given to the parish priest who kept it sealed until after her death. We obtained a faithful copy from the parish priest who succeeded him, and it is from this that we have taken some things that help our purpose and add them in her to complete the story, so we can tell you about her final activity.

Angelina began speaking of herself this way:

I was born in the city of ... the capital; Angela was my baptismal name. After the King, my family held the next most important title and dignity. My father was very wealthy and his wealth meant he could spend four thousand scudi, more than twenty thousand francs a week. My mother and a nurse looked after me until I was eight. Then I was sent to a house of education to prepare me for my first Confession, Confirmation and holy Communion. It was my parents’ intention that I should live there for some weeks only but seeing that I liked being there they decided to leave me there so I could also study literature, something that would have been very difficult at home. Since I was being guided by pious, learned and prudent teachers I soon learned of the beauty of virtue and the value of learning, and I learned to read, write, speak correctly in both Italian and French. Cooking, mending, ironing, painting, playing the piano were things I liked and they all became very familiar to me. And amongst the things I learned were some elements of agronomy and botany. Every Thursday from ten and until twelve in the morning the girls were taken to a large garden attached to the place and things were explained to them - flowers and all the words for the parts of a flower; and the same was done for all the other plants. I recall that while the teacher was talking, one farmer was holding a hoe, one a spade and another a shovel. We had a small trowel; then they explained all the uses of these tools in Italian. They did the same thing with the wines. We had a long pergola as a model, and while one of the vintner’s was at work the teacher was explaining what was meant by words like ‘prune’, ‘cut the vine leaves’, ‘clean’, ‘harvest the grapes’, ‘decant the wine’, ‘bunch’, ‘grape’, ‘grape stalk’, ‘cask’, ‘tub’, ‘vat’, ‘steel band’, ‘wooden slats’, ‘keg’, ‘barrel’ and similar.
Another teacher likewise would give us practical exercises in cooking, the table, the bedroom. She would stand in a corner while the pupils set the table, or fixed up the beds; but for anything they picked up they would have to give the name clearly and loudly for everyone else to learn from. This way we became familiar with all the words of domestic items and this helped our knowledge of the language and was to the satisfaction of our families. But there were two things I didn’t like: going for walks and dancing. These were optional things so I could easily miss them. I would use the time to work in the garden and go back over practical things I had learned. But my real delight was to spend some hours in my room not only learning vocabulary but the proper way to make all kinds of soup, other dishes, sauces, special dishes, to the point where for holidays my teachers made me happy by asking me on my own to prepare the meals for lunch and supper. So I was learning these things as a hobby, but they became very handy when I came to Peter’s house. Out of charity but because he had so much work that I was able to do, he took me on as the maid. I likewise learned nursing at a place I used visit often to talk with or console the girls who were sick or do some little service for them. I still bitterly recall the time I spent with my best friend as she lay dying. She always wanted me at her bedside, and with religion and signs of kindness I did my best to lighten her agony. She left me a memento which I can never forget. “Angelina” she told me, her voice quavering, “dear Angelina, what a terrible moment death is for a wealthy person. Always remember what the Saviour said: ’It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to be saved’. You have much wealth at home, therefore..” She wanted to say something else, but she could no longer talk and soon breathed her last. “Oh my faithful friend, may God welcome you amongst the blessed in Heaven. You did not finish what you were saying, but I understood sufficiently and it will stay with me for the rest of my life”. After seven years of education my family called me back home to complete, as they said, my education, but in reality it was to stop me from becoming a nun, something they knew I was very much leaning towards becoming.

When I came back to the family, my father immediately wanted me to take dancing lessons, something I had always had great aversion for. I always used think it was a kind of madness when I saw men and women moving in unison to the sound of instruments, or gliding, turning, jumping to the chords, all excited, like they were haunted or something. Then the problems and all the opposition began.

My father wanted to make a lady of me, someone who could be the life of all genteel conversation; to the contrary I abhorred all kinds of vanity and luxury. My father took me to the theatre on one occasion, but only once; the language, the acting, the way they dressed were all incompatible with an upright Christian conscience. My concerns increased at the waste of money spent on useless and sometimes even harmful things. Forty servants for four people: me, my parents and my brother. We had two carriages each, one for summer, one for winter and a corresponding number of horses and coachmen; two doorkeepers, two porters, two majordomos, two teachers of etiquette, or, as they say, masters of ceremony. The rest were occupied in various domestic chores. So many servants, when a tenth of this number would have been enough.

Then chairs, floors, beds, silver and gold on the table - what a waste. It wasn’t that my father had no religion or that he didn’t treat friars and priests well whenever the occasion presented itself; indeed he enjoyed having some famous person dine with him, like a canon, parish priest or prelate; but that was always for human reasons, so he could talk about himself and be praised. If he was asked for some charity he would explain that he had many expenses, taxes, that income was going down and the like. Meanwhile he could find huge sums to put on evenings for friends, tackle long and expensive journeys, change and modernise all the house fittings every year, without mentioning the constant change, selling, buying of carriages, horses and all at enormous cost.

As for his almsgiving I never saw what the Gospel says: ’The left hand should not know what the right hand is doing’. It was quite the opposite. If they didn’t make deep bows, or offer public and repeated thanks, or if his offerings were not advertised, then that would be the last offering he made, mostly; he would not give a cent more, under the specious pretext that the person was ungrateful, while in reality it was because he had not sounded the trumpet to the four points of the compass. I felt I could say with the Saviour: ’They have already received their reward’. One day I asked my father how he understood the words of the Gospel: ’Give what you have in surplus to the poor’. He said this was just advice, not a command.

“It seems to me,” I added, that the word ‘Give’ is in the imperative and therefore a command, not just advice.”

He made no reply. Another time I asked him how he understood other words of the Gospel: ‘Woe to you who are rich; it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to be saved’.

“These things,” he said, “have to be studied, known, but don’t spend too much time on them otherwise you lose your peace of mind, in fact your brain might flip if you give too much thought to them.”

This response was like a flint setting fire to my concern.

“If something is true,” I said to myself, “Why not always consider it? Why is the world forgetting about it? Does that ‘woe to the rich’ mean that they will all be lost? Since it would be a miracle for a camel to fit through the eye of a needle, then maybe we need a miracle for a rich man to be saved? If it is so difficult for a rich man to be saved, would it not be better to put the Saviour’s advice into practice: ‘Sell what you own and give it to the poor?’ My father says that thinking seriously about these things might cause your brain to flip. But if just thinking about it causes such a terrible effect, what would be the misfortune of experiencing the consequences of the Saviour’s threat of eternal loss?”

Disturbed by the idea of the difficulties a rich person has in being saved, I went to see a well-respected ecclesiastic to receive instruction and comfort. The man of God told me these words should be interpreted in their true sense.

“The Saviour means to say” he said “that riches really are thorns and a constant source of danger to salvation because of the abuses that mostly come from them; useless expenditure, unnecessary trips, intemperance, balls, gambling, oppression of the weak, workers not properly paid, satisfaction of unworthy passions, legal squabbling, hatred, anger and revenge: these are the results for many of their wealth. Temporal goods are a great risk of perversion for them, and the Lord says to them: ’Woe to the rich; it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to be saved’.”

“But those who make good use of their wealth and use it to clothe the naked, feed the poor who are hungry, give the thirsty something to drink, provide shelter for pilgrims; those who without vainglory and ambition give what they have over to the poor, it is these, I say, who find a way to salvation through their wealth and can change wealth, which is a real thorn, into flowers for eternity. Believe me: when God gives someone temporal wealth, it is a grace but the grace is even greater when it gives someone the courage to use that wealth for the good.”

“Meanwhile,” the priest concluded, “you should not be worried about the wealth you have because you can do so much good with it and gain much merit for the next life. Just try to make good use of it. But I recommend two very important things. The first is not being too careful in calculating what you have left over. Some believe that by giving a tenth or a twentieth in alms leaves them the rest to use for their own pleasure. That is not the case. God says to give what we have left over to the poor without mentioning a tenth or a twentieth. Therefore we should only keep what we need and give the rest to the poor. Secondly, I recommend you never forget that we cannot take our wealth to the grave, and so whether we want to or not, out of love or by necessity, in life or in death, we have to leave everything behind. So it is better to detach ourselves from earthly things willingly and gain the merit and make good use of them in life, than to leave them behind out of necessity and without any merit at the moment of our death.”

Instead of quietening my conscience this simple and clear response only increased my worries. I was confirmed in my belief that wealth is a great danger and leads to perversion, and that it is very difficult to make good use of it.

Given my doubts I wanted to consult the works of a saint that my father had encouraged me to read often. It was St Jerome whom the Church has proclaimed as a great Doctor of the interpretation of holy Scripture. My father used tell me:

“I would like my children to be familiar with the letters of this great fellow citizen of ours. His eloquence, teaching, clarity have always made me enthusiastic.” So this was the teacher I wanted to consult.

He likewise recalled wealth here and there in his letters: thorns that prick, something that weighs a man down and keeps him bound to earth rather than Heaven. Things that blind the wise; objects of perversion; unfortunate things which a man uses to dig the pit of perversion for himself; something that feeds pride, vainglory and ambition; supports our wildest passions.

St Jerome wanted to give the example himself of what he thought about things of this world. He left his country, family, friends, disregarded the vast field of glory that lay ahead of him because of his extraordinary intellect; he chose to leave all behind to go and hide in the terrible desert of Calcide.

But what struck me most were the words with which he finished the life of St Paul the first hermit. After having spoken wonderfully of the actions of this glorious inhabitant of Thebes, he concluded thus:

At the end of this account allow me to ask the rich and powerful in this world who waste money building palaces of gold and marble and buy things without taking note of price or limits. Ask them what was lacking for this poor old man Paul? You wealthy people drink from jewelled cups, and Paul drinks from his cupped hands and satisfies his thirst. You wear clothes embroidered in gold and Paul was always happy with a poor tunic which even the least of your servants would not wear. Meanwhile Heaven was opened for this poor man and Hell is opened for you. He loved to go threadbare but looked after his cloak or the grace of Jesus Christ while you are dressed in silk and have lost the garment of Christ’s grace. Paul was buried in a pauper’s plot beneath the soil but he arose in glory while you are buried in exquisite marble decorated with gold and will rise to burn in flames. So! A pity on you and your wealth. Do not spend it on useless and vain things. Why dress the corpses of your dead in clothes of gold? Do not ambition and vanity cease with the grave? Perhaps the bodies of the rich will not rot if clothed in silk? All you who read these things remember to pray for me, Jerome the sinner.
I tell you in truth that if God gave me the choice I would rather choose Paul’s poor tunic with its merits than all the purple and kingdoms of this earth.

This was St Jerome.

This saint’s teaching and example only made my concerns increase and I was thrown into real consternation.

Then another sad event brought my worries to their peak. My dear mother, my support, who directed the temporal and moral affairs of the family, who was my guide, my everything, died after a brief illness.

One thing she said remained with me firmly.

When the priest gave her the crucifix to kiss she said:

“Here is our friend, our model, let us put all our trust in him. No one who trusted in him was left unaided.”

“How is it,” I said to myself, crying, “that Jesus Christ is our model; he died poor, naked on a hard cross, and his thirst was slaked with vinegar and myrrh! What a terrible comparison! In our home there is silver, gold, luxury; the best drinks are not dipped with a sponge but poured from crystal jugs or some other precious metal. What likeness is there between Christ our model and the one who should imitate him?”

Finally my dying mother spoke to me in these words:

“Angelina,” she said taking my hand and crying, “I will live no longer, and I hope to die in the Lord’s mercy; but remember that death is terrible for one who has enjoyed comforts that now have to be left behind out of necessity. If God calls you to some generous act, be generous and do it, and never forget that sacrifices made in this life are rewarded at the moment of death. Then will man reap the fruits of what he has sowed in life.”

These words alluded to the idea that my mother had often expressed in wanting me to go to a monastery and consecrate my life definitively to the Lord.

After my beloved mother’s death things in our family changed a lot. My brother, thanks to his marriage had almost doubled his wealth. And a modest allotment was even being prepared for me. My whole family spoke of the value of it for me. But I experienced great repugnance, and every day grew more and more keen to go off and hide in a Capuchin monastery that our family has some connections with.

My father wanted me to accept the fiancé he was offering me and forbade me severely of thinking of becoming a religious.

“If you go to a monastery,” he told me severely, “I will go and pull you out of there, dead or alive.”

And for his own particular reasons he wanted me away from the family and, forbidding me to go to a monastery, I was to choose marriage. He did everything himself as if I had already given full consent and had even fixed the time for the wedding. I found myself in the greatest of consternation.

“Who will advise me, who will give me direction in all my doubts?” I would say, wandering around my room. It was then that, almost mechanically, I ran and prostrated myself before a picture of the Blessed Virgin where my mother always knelt to say her prayers. Perhaps out of tiredness or worry, or perhaps just recalling her loss, I fainted. I don’t know if it was a dream then, or imagination but i saw my mother telling me severely:

“You can escape by running away.”

When I came to, I thought about that and decided on it.

But where could I go? Become a Capuchin nun? I would end up compromising all the good Sisters; who could foretell what my father might get up to?

When he was away from home for a few days I took that opportunity, and went to a rag collector, bought a maid’s clothing, replaced my own clothes with these and told the man to keep them with him until such time as I returned. Then hidden from others’ view by a large bonnet, and with a basket in my hand with some bread and fruit for the day I left to go wherever Divine providence would lead me.

I walked the entire day but when evening came I found myself in a sad situation. The night was dark and I had to walk along a deserted road with not even the shadow of anyone visible, nor any sign that any living being was in that area. Towards midnight, and unable to walk any further, I pulled of to the side of the road to sleep for a few minutes. I was already sitting down when I saw a light not far off. So keeping very quiet I approached, thinking I might find a friendly person and was all ready to open my mouth and ask for shelter for the evening when instead I saw eight men eating and drinking and cheerfully talking the robberies and murders they had committed the day before. I didn’t collapse, because God supported me, but I was terribly frightened. Walking on tip toe so I’d make no noise, I went back to the road I had been on and walked a few more hours until I could go on no longer. Then I decided to sit near a bush growing by the roadside. “What the ... .” It might have been a dog, a wolf or another animal lying in the bush, and he was as afraid of me as I was of him. His bark sounded more like a wolf’s howl and as he ran he cannoned into me and I fell to the ground. I was able to get up, walk a few steps but then I fell again as if I was dead. Without my knowing it, this happened near the gate to the cemetery. My tiredness and complete lack of strength completely overcame me and I just lay there till morning. I was dreaming about those men and how they were following me and had almost caught up with me when Peter’s wife came and knelt on top of me, thinking I was a mound at the edge of the cemetery.

Someone might ask what about my father. From news I received later I found out that as soon as he discovered I had gone he went off in a rage to the Sisters. When he didn’t find me there he was very upset and concerned about my lot until a friend told him:

“Why bother yourself? Your daughter through this action has rejected you as her father so she is no longer worthy of the family name.”

He quietened down at these words and addressed his efforts to carrying out a project he had in mind for some time and that had only been delayed by my presence in the family. My brother took things more kindly.

“If my sister,” he said, “wants to close herself in a monastery, then let her be. This is her pleasure”. So, happy to take over the wealth that had been apportioned for me, he had no further concern.

I had run away in order to detach myself from the world and get away from all the domestic comforts in which I saw a real danger of eternal loss. I wanted to work, do penance for my sins and thus ensure the salvation of my soul. I could not do that in a monastery, where I would not have been accepted unless I told them my circumstances; nor would any monasteries that I knew of be prepared to take me because of the serious difficulties they would have been exposed to. So I decided to flee as a unknown person and put my life entirely in God’s hands, in whom lies the fate of every man; not a hair of our head falls without his wanting or allowing it. God led me to Peter’s home that was my ark of salvation.

This was what Angelina had written.

Her life in Peter’s home was a constant series of good actions. Not knowing her high status everyone saw in her only a simple and hardworking maid. Whatever the task, whatever the work, it was done quickly and well. Her behaviour was a model for everyone. Never a word of vainglory came from her mouth, nothing that would deserve the least reproach.

Murmuring, criticism of others were things she forbade. “We have so many of our own matters to be worried about, why go and meddle in others’ affairs? She did good for whoever she could and evil to no one. This way she enjoyed everyone’s good will and they all vied to do what would please her.”

On Sundays she carried out her religious duties by attending Mass, the sermon and Benediction. The rest of the week she would tell edifying stories and do some reading with other serving girls which especially on Sundays and holy days they enjoyed. They liked gathering around her to listen to what she had to say and the pleasant tales she told them.

At first she would go to Confession every fortnight, then every week. If we make so much effort to keep our clothes clean, how much more should we do to keep our souls clean and wash them clean from the stain of our sins.

One day she heard a friend talking badly about confession, to which she replied simply:

“Take no notice of what the world says, but what God says. He told his ministers in the Gospel: ‘Whose sins you forgive they are forgiven; whose sins you retain they are retained’. With these words God gave confessors the faculty of remitting or not remitting, meaning forgiving or not forgiving sins according to the penitent’s dispositions. Besides, to know whether or not there is something which would prevent absolution it is necessary for sins to be told, therefore the need for external confession of sins, without which there is no forgiveness for sins committed after baptism.”

She often went to Communion and tried to go every Sunday and whenever her confessor advised it she would also go during the week. During the novenas for the major Solemnities she tried to go to Communion every day. It is true that this took up some time, but she would get up early in the morning, fulfil her practices of piety and be at work in time to fulfil her other duties. Peter was very happy with her and often told her not to worry if in order to attend to religious matters she need to put off or even omit some domestic chore.

“God has many ways” he told her “of rewarding what we do out of love for him.”

One day while she was coming from church a man whom the town thought was a wise man said:

“Poor Angelina why do you need to go to Communion so often and miss out on so much sleep?”

“I have great need,” she said. “God has told us to go often. The early Christians used go to Communion every day so why do we not do the same? If we feed our body every day that must soon go to the grave, why not have equal of not greater care for our soul that lives on in eternity.”

This way Angelina was the admiration of all and whoever wanted to point to a virtuous and charitable person would point to Peter’s maid.

She was venerated like an idol in her master’s house, and Peter regarded her as he would his own daughter, making her the mistress of the house to the extent that when it was necessary she could leave the house to look after the sick, teach catechism to poor girls, get them ready for their Confession and Communion. Angelina was like the queen of the town and in her own hearts was telling herself that God was rewarding her even too much in this present life.

But every mortal thing on this earth comes to an end. And even our maid was approaching the time when she would receive the reward for all her virtue. She saw her master’s family grow in number, virtue and wealth. Peter was by now of advanced age, and with a smile on his lips and the peace of the just in his heart he went to rest in the Lord’s embrace. Franceschina had preceded him shortly before. Angelina stood by them both with great affection in their final moments. She did not abandon them day or night until they had breathed their last. She wept for them after their death as though they had been her own parents, and as long as she lived she did not fail to pray for them morning and evening, saying the special prayers for the eternal repose of her masters’ souls. She always called them her benefactors.

Finally Angelina also had to leave this earthly exile to fly to the heavenly abode that had always been the constant object of her heart and her thinking. Her constant Christian way of living, her heroic detachment from comforts and the good things of this world, her constant practice of piety made her think of death as the desirable end of troubles in order to be able to enter into possession of true happiness.

Although by now more than seventy years of age she still had good health, the envy of all those younger than her, and she might have lived much longer had not a sad event contributed to cutting off that possibility.

It was the beginning of this century: political events had created turmoil throughout Europe and the Catholic religion had suffered much because of it. Churches were stripped or profaned, convents suppressed, monks dispersed, nuns thrown out of their cloisters, priests, bishops and cardinals persecuted and exiled, and the Supreme Pontiff himself, Pius VII, deposed and taken prisoner from country to country. These were all facts which give one some idea of the evils oppressing the world in 1810 the year Angelina died.

One morning she went off to Church as usual, made her Confession and Communion with unusual and even more fervent thanksgiving. Then she returned home and began work as she usually did. But at midday Peter’s eldest son came running into the house all upset.

“Angelina,” he said “a terrible tragedy has happened in the world: What will become of us?”

“What’s happened?” Angelina replied her voice trembling.

“Our Supreme Pontiff, Pius VII, the head of Christianity, successor of St Peter, Vicar of J. C. has been taken from Savona to France, and maybe even while I am speaking he has died.”

“O great God,” Angelina exclaimed “save your representative on earth. You are angry because of man’s sins! Take my poor life in expiation for so much iniquity, but save the head of the Church.”

Having said that she began to faint and sat down on a chair. She was quickly taken to bed, and they hurriedly called the priest to provide her with the comforts of religion. When he came, Angelina seemed dead, but a few moments later she revived a little, opened her eyes and said:

“Father, Help me.” she said with some difficulty. “Give me the holy Oils, the crucifix.” And when she had them she said in barely intelligible words: “My Jesus you were born, lived in poverty and died stripped on a cross. I left everything for you and now I place my soul in your hands.”

Then kissing the crucifix she smiled sweetly and with that her soul flew to the bosom of the Creator.

Thus ended the days of the poor girl from the Apennines. She would have sold what she had and given it to the poor, as the Saviour says, but she judged it better to put into practice the other counsel our Saviour gave to a young man who before following him wanted to go him and bury his father. ‘Leave the dead to bury the dead, and come follow me,’ the Lord said.

She was always very happy with the sacrifice she had made by abandoning all the world’s comforts.

“Had I remained at home,” she had written in her memoirs, “to sell my goods, my relatives would certainly have interfered with my plans. Then the pleasure of administering temporal things, the excessive praise the world gives to someone who does something outstanding, would have also caused me to change my plans or at least diminish the merits. I wanted to cut off those difficulties, taking no further heed of what is in the world and thus let the dead bury the dead.”

“The most wonderful day of my life” she said elsewhere “was when I fled from my father’s home. That was a serious act I would not advise others to do but for me it was the beginning of happiness and I can say that from then on I lived like someone living in an earthly paradise. If only the wealthy could enjoy the consolations one experiences from abandoning the things of this world, or in giving to the poor out of love for God, their hearts would certainly no longer be attached to this earth’s goods.”

It seems that God was pleased with the sacrifice that Angelina made of her life; shortly afterwards the Roman Pontiff, set free, left Fontainebleau and peacefully returned to his throne in Rome.

“Here” the parish priest told me, amongst other things “is where Angelina is buried. Some of her pupils or friends still living, often come with other younger girls to pray at her graveside; the town remembers her keenly as if she had only recently died and whenever we want to point to a perfect model of Christian living we recall the name of Angelina. In the parish memoirs and in public she is spoken of as the Waif from the Apennines.

With ecclesiastical permission.