A MAN

WITH

A HEART

OF GOLD

John Bosco

Translated by

Albert Carette, sdb

Original title: "Een man met een hart"

Don Bosco Centrale. B- 1150 Brussel 1998 Translated from the Dutch by Albert Carette, sdb 1999 With thanks to Michael Duggan, sdb for his assistance with the English translation

Nothing in this publication may be copied and/or distributed by means of print, photocopying, microfilm or whatever without the previous permission of the author.

I

Autumn 1834

Today has been quite hectic for me at school. Things have been simmering for sometime now. The storm had to break.

I already suspected that a pair of classmates had it in for my best friend Lewis and also for Tony another lad in our class. Lewis is rather shy and withdrawn. Quite different to me. I had a feeling that a group of bullies were about to let him have it. This gang finds their greatest pleasure in teasing and pestering others especially when a bit younger than themselves. This is particularly so when different age groups are in the same form.

It all began when Lewis first entered the classroom. The teacher wasn't there yet and some lads were pushing and shoving through the benches, showing off! It strikes me that their little game suggests they not taken their studies to heart.

Then a new lad came in who was looking quite frail and was, I should say, about fifteen. Some seemed to know him.

"Look, there's Lewis" I heard same one say."Do you know him?" "Yes, it's Lewis Comollo. He's from my village, a fine chap but rather quiet." Without saying anything or looking around defiantly he went straight to an empty seat.I observed this and felt surprised. He took no notice of the noise, took a book out of his case and left it open in front of him. I really wanted to get to know him but before I had a chance to do so, one of that gang, a nasty ringleader, got hold of his book and just closed it.

"Go ahead, mate" he snarled. "Join in."

The new classmate calmly looked at the loud mouthed one.

"I can't do that" he replied "I've never done that." "Then you'll have to learn," sneered the ringleader. "Quick or you'll get a slap you'll not soon forget."

I thought I might hear a bang. In the sudden stillness I heard Lewis answer:

"Well, then you'll have to do what you want to. I'm not coming." That was adding fuel to the fire. That cheeky monkey thought he might lose face so he grabbed Lewis by the arm and was about to drag him out of his bench but, not succeeding very well, he gave him a slap around his ears that resounded through the classroom.

"Go on, hit back, lad" I thought, "don't let him do that to you."

I expected a fight any minute. But nothing happened. Blazing red, the lad looked the lout straight in his eyes.

"Are you happy now" asked Lewis. "I don't take it amiss. Just leave me alone."

Did that impress me! Yes, such self-control! How did he do that? I admired the way he kept so calm. They need not have tried anything like that on me!

I'm quick tempered, it seems, and I know it. I work myself up for almost anything at all. My blood began to boil. Such a problem can only be solved with ones fists. That's the reason why that lot leaves me alone.

That same day I was on the lookout for Lewis. We became two good friends. But his timidness made him a target for his teasers.

"Isn't it enough for now?," I sometimes cried. Then all was quiet for a few days. But among the gang some were goading one another on not to give up.

Today it was the same again. In the corner of the playground they had pushed Lewis and Tony among them. They plagued them, ridiculed them and teased them for all they were worth.

By now I began to get fed up with it all. So I went right into them and shouted.

"Are you going to leave them alone?" But the youngest of them was so furious he wouldn't hear of stopping.

"Look out, mate" I shouted aloud. "If you come another step further ..." That didn't make the slightest bit of difference so he came up to me and Lewis. I thought I would explode.

I didn't have a stick or a chair at hand.

I flew at one of those grinning at me, grabbed him, lashed out at him and used him as a cudgel to get into the rest of them. In a flash four of them lay on the ground. The others took to their heels.

Just at that moment in came the teacher, as luck would have it. On hearing the row and seeing the fight he stepped in and demanded the whole business come to an end I got the full backlash.

"You there, Bosco, how old are you?"

"Nineteen, Sir.

"Be your age then! You'd better use your brains rather than your fists. And what's worse it was against younger classmates!"

When the row was over he also wanted to know why I had got mixed up with it all. Slowly, I began to explain but, strangely enough, he burst into a hysterical laugh. He even seemed to enjoy it all. No question of punishment. Did he in this way perhaps make me feel that he was pleased because the bullies had got the message at last?

I was thinking it over all afternoon and feeling quite pleased with myself and yet there was also that nagging feeling in my mind. Would they try to isolate me? On the other hand most of them know how desperately they need me to help them out with their lessons. Perhaps they were too aware of my fists. Or do they see themselves now to be in the wrong?

And yet this evening the feeling of unease wouldn't go away, not even in the Café, where as a student lodger, I'm serving coffee and drinks to customers. Again and again scenes flashed before my eyes, scenes from that dream I had as a boy of nine. I just can't get rid of them. So many other dreams by morning have disappeared or have grown blurred in the mist of my memory, but this one has haunted me. for years.

I still remember what a man, nobly clothed, said to me. In my dream I had tackled some lads, I seemed to know, in exactly that same tough way. I was convinced that I had behaved correctly. But he said:

"Not by blows, John, no, not with blows. With gentleness, patience and kindness. With affection." Yes, that's how he spoke to me. I was glad he called me John, and not in a stern tone 'Bosco' as happens here at school.

"That's all well and good," I sometimes think, "but don't these louts deserve to be given a lesson?" I can't help it but I'm glad that today I firmly intervened. Yet there is that continuing doubt and nagging feeling all the time. I can't get to sleep in spite of a full day at school doing my studies not to mention four hours of running around in this Café.

I lie here restless, turning over in my mind what has happened today and the dream I dreamt so many years ago. I try to convince myself something must eventually come of it. I can't just stay on the side line helplessly looking on? Nobody is making a move, not even the teachers!

"Write it all down" I suddenly said to myself, "that might calm me down."

As I look back now in retrospect on this day's happenings I wonder if gentleness, patience and kindness would actually have stopped them teasing. I don't know. But, if that's the only right tactics, I'll have to work harder at controlling my own short temper.

I'm fighting, even in my dreams.

Still, in that dream I was told: "With violence you'll get nowhere!"

II

April 1835

"Have you got the answer, John?" a couple of lads asked me just before class one morning.

"Oh, yes" I said.

"I don't know a thing about it" mumbled another.

"I don't either" a couple next to him added. "What a hopeless exercise." "I say, can't we just quickly copy your homework?"

I couldn't settle for that. I can't bear dodgers cadging from my work. "Come on, just once!"

"You know how that is strictly forbidden here in school."

"That's alright for you!" they muttered "you're a smart lad. It's child's play for you. But for us...!"

I didn't want to leave them in the lurch.

"I tell you what? I’ll give you a hand. That's if you agree."

My suggestion seemed to catch on. That same evening a group came along. We studied together the subject matter. I got them going on their homework. Those who were not serious about it I cleared off. Without any apology.

When we had finished they sat around chatting. I told them some exciting stories and got out my box of conjuring tricks. I felt they slowly came around chiefly for companionship.

"We'll have to call our group some name," I said a few months later. They had all sorts of suggestions. The most witty ones first of course. So I firmly decided:

"Let's call it "The Joy Spreaders". "I like that best."

"What an old fashioned name" two of them whispered. I had a mutiny on my hands. But they hesitated. I had never been a softy. Mo-reover I was a few years older than them. That too was an advantage.

"Did you have to repeat your grades a couple of times? shouted one of them. The group sniggered.

"White you, as a twelve year old, were wearing out the seat of your trousers on the benches, John, until he was sixteen, had to look after the cows and work on the farm to earn his living."

The lad looked a little bemused. I touched him on the shoulder and winked at him and said:

"You couldn't know."

"Yes, 'Joy Spreaders' genuine joy and healthy sport, that's what I want. Nothing else. We don't want faultfinders and grumblers."

With that all discussion ended.

And so we had fun more than once. Even that afternoon.

During these last couple of days there came to town a well known juggler and entertainer. He set himself up on the square in front of the church. He was at it already before the Mass began. People who came to church, slowed down and in the end hung around. They were mesmerised by his tricks and soon they parted with their money.

To me that seemed rather odd.

"I would like to teach that charlatan a lesson," I hinted at the club, "If need be with a challenge. As long as he takes to his heels."

To my surprise the lads had spread the word halfway round Chieri. Even the juggler had done the same and he had accepted the challenge.

"Where's that bright spark" he said laughingly. "Drag him over here and I’ll teach him a lesson!"

Could I now withdraw?

At the spot where the competition was to take place a crowd of people were waiting. They were anxious to know how a famous jug-gler and sprinter like him would deal with that youngster.

"That lad seems to fancy himself somewhat" they all thought. I began to feel sorry for myself. Why did I venture out in this direction?

"You have three goes to beat me" the man called out with a great gesture and loud voice "Admit you haven't got a chance to beat me!"

First of all there was a race. Naturally with his long legs he would easily beat me to it.

"I'll bet twenty lire" he decided.

"I haven't got that much" I replied, having been taken somewhat by surprise.

"You'll get them from us" whispered my friends and they put their liras together. I had misjudged the man. He just shot off like a greyhound.

"What on earth have I taken on" I said quite out of breath, after a few hundred metres. In the short run I felt I couldn't beat him. But in the long run, that could be a different matter. Instinctively I let him go ahead. But then, about halfway, he really showed signs of exhaustion. He put his hand to his side. Good job I regularly exercised my lungs and legs. For years I had run the distance there and back from our hamlet the Becchi to the school at Castelnuovo d'Asti. About eighty metres before the finishing line I caught him up and in the end I beat him by several metres.

As for me, that was it. Finished. He on the other hand was irritated. He had overheard that some were showing sympathy for his opponent. "I'll double the stakes for a leap over the Tepice! Forty lire"! he yelled out.

(The Tepice is a fairly wide brook running not far from the Jesuit church in the provincial town Chieri. - M Rua)

My pals urged me not to refuse the challenge.

"Go on" they shouted "Go ahead man!"

They believed in me. Even the curious onlookers shouted here and there: "Come on, John!" They probably would have preferred to see me take the conkers out of the fire or to see me landing in the water getting my trousers wet.

And so off we went to the stream. Perhaps I allowed myself to be dragged along because of my previous success. He was to jump first. With lightning haste he had to get hold of a low hanging branch so as not to land himself in the ditch. But he managed. I now became frightened.

"Go ahead, John. Show us what you can do! And not by just grabbing to the branch over the brook!" shouted out one of the on-lookers.

I took a long run. Then when I landed on my hands on the other side and made a somersault which took me another metre further on, there was great hilarity. They sensed excitement. That amateur could do more than they thought.

The juggler saw his money disappearing. He shouted out aloud wanting to know whether that greenhorn dare do an acrobatic stunt for eighty lire. I could even choose. I began to feel a little overconfident, I think! My success raised my blood temperature. Didn't I learn a few years ago the trick of balancing with great precision a stick with a hat on top over my arms and forehead?

"I'll take him on," I thought defiantly. It was my turn. With an elegant bow towards the audience - just like a professional - Then with a flourish I held the hat over the stick and let it hop over from one finger to another, then across my shoulder to my chin and on to my nose and forehead and then all the way back. While I handed the stick over to him, I heard him sniggering. I knew of course the trick would be child's play for a professional juggler, I could see in his eyes that he could do equally well, and would easily get the money back into his pocket.

He started smoothly and, quicker than I could have done it. I was going to let myself be fooled. The stick leapt gracefully over his chin and tips towards his nose and forehead and back again even quicker. The crowd fell silent. Then suddenly.

A row of onlookers shouted "Oh! dear!" Just at the moment as he tried piloting the stick along his hawklike nose towards his lips and chin it fell over while he was still trying to balance it he just couldn't save it no matter how he twisted his body. Noisily the stupid thing fell on the pavement and the hat came bouncing along to the feet of the onlookers in the first row.

I could see his deep annoyance. Infuriated he threw the hundred lire next to the eighty lire lying on the hanky with the stakes.

He desperately wanted to make a final attempt. "Climb the highest point on that tree there" he yelled in despair "yes, and the one who can get with his feet the closest to the top, wins!" I didn't get much time to think about it although I would have liked to. I had, at home, fallen off a tree and escaped death by a hair's breadth.

But the man was already climbing the tree in the lane and in a split second stood on top nervously swinging from one side to the other. The women down below were shouting and the girls were screaming with terror not daring to look up anymore. Someone yelled:

"Enough, enough" and turning to those around said: "He'll kill himself!"

But he stayed up there enjoying his triumph. How could I im-prove on such a display? With catlike leaps he was soon back on solid ground looking smug and self-satisfied in my direction with his chin up. "Give up, John!" suggested some of my mates, "you can't get higher than that! Look what a tiny branch he stood on? Don't risk your life!" So they tried to stop me in every way. But just now I wasn't go-ing to give up.

I took my time. While I slowly heaved myself up, I was de-liberating. I didn't want to go crashing down once more. Suddenly I got an idea. I reached up to a branch lower than the one he had got on to. Where the top branch was still fairly strong I grabbed it with both arms. Although it began to sway I made a kind of rollover while pushing my legs up. They actually stuck above the top. A thunderous applause from an ever growing crowd of onlookers cheered me on and all the way down. They crowded round me and I was over the moon!

Then came the moment of reckoning. I had wanted right from the start for the man to give up his contest. He was out of pocket. I didn't intend that to happen. I had won, that was enough! He also was, I suppose, a father of a family. Now after the death of my own father I saw my mother struggling for years to make ends meet

"Look Sir," I said "you keep your money."

"John!..." My mates were struck dumb. "However listen," I assured him, "I want you to treat all the lads of the Club to something small in the "Il Muletto" restaurant." He couldn't believe what he had heard. For although there were twenty two of us, it wouldn't mean all that much for him to do so.

It turned out to be jolly good time in "Il Mulleto."

Everyone was delighted. Not least the fair entertainer who got back nearly all his money. When he left he said smiling that in future he would be more cautious.

And as for me? I'm still enjoying my victory and the treat in the restaurant. To tell you the truth I'm pleased I let my heart speak.

"You ought to became an entertainer yourself, with so much talent" some people told me after the show to which they had been treated freely that afternoon.

"You can make money that way, young man" said one onlooker with beaming eyes as he rubbed his thumb and finger together.

"What!" I thought, "me become a juggler?"

Well, what am I going to do with my life? That question popped up for months, almost daily, I can't get it out of my mind. In three months time I finish with my studies here in Chieri. Become a jug-gler? I am skilful and deft. Throughout my boyhood I amused young and old with my tricks.

"You'll soon go on to be a priest" said my friend John Filippello all most two years ago. That was on a lovely Autumn day while we were walking to Chieri to begin our secondary studies.

"What made you say that?" I retorted.

"Well, you're going to College just now and you know already quite a bit" he replied without blushing.

"Do you really know what it means to be a priest?"

He was astounded at my forthrightness.

"Mind you one would then have quite heavy responsibilities" I said. "When you get up from table after lunch or evening meal, you have to ask yourself: my hunger may have been satisfied. What about that of my parishioners?"

We continued walking quietly ahead.

"No" I said, decidedly, "I can't see myself becoming a parish priest. I want to give my whole life working for youngsters."

I must definitely talk it over with my friend Lewis Comollo.

With him you can talk over serious matters. Not merely about cows or calves or even about school business or teachers. He's a real friend. He doesn't dither when it comes to it making a decision. I tease him sometimes and say:

"You're my walking conscience."

"Good gracious, John!" he then says shyly.

III

27 May 1841

Another eight days and then for me and forty one other fellow students is the big day. On 5th June we were going to be ordained priests. At long last!

So many memories and questions run through my mind. Why me? So many fellow students of College days have gone separate ways. I found several of them far more worthy.

Where are all those fields around our house on the Becchi slopes where I used to play with my pals? I had to look after the cows and chickens. With the boys and girls of the neighbourhood we rambled through the woods searching for birds' nests. In the end I came home with bruises and scratches.

"Now that's enough" added my mother "you'll no longer go out and play with those rascals."

"Come on, ma" I said "let me go back. When I'm with them they don't get up to mischief!"

Mother looked at me thoughtfully.

"I can then go back, ma?"

"Alright," she sighed, smiling and nodding her head.

The children in the neighbourhood were fond of me and at the same time looked up to me. Although short of stature I did feel strong enough to take on those who were older and a head taller. I was both their leader and referee. They accepted my decisions.

I have taken out and reread some of the notes I wrote in my Col-lege days. It was about a dream I had in my childhood. Next morning at breakfast I hastened to tell everyone at home my dream. Each one had his own comment. My youngest brother just laughed:

"You'll become a big goats' herd or a shepherd later on."

Anthony, my half-brother, who hated the sight of me, just growled. "You'll be a right old gang leader." My mother asked herself cautiously "Who knows you might even become a priest?"

"Dreams can be deceptive" joined in my grandmother decidedly. "Don't dabble in such matters!" That was it. I agreed with her.

On the hillside of the Becchi I was one of the few who could read. I read books avidly and so I recalled stories which my friends had never heard of They were keen on them. Even adults stealthily crept near while I was reading.

I had also learned some conjuring tricks and tightrope walking. I regularly set off with my mother to the market where she took the produce of the small farm to be sold. I could then also go to the fair. There I had kept a keen eye out for what was happening in the con-jurors' booth. At home I had tied a rope between two trees. I can't re-member how often I fell off it. But when I was eleven years old I lea-ped and danced like a full-blown circus artist. With the money I earned I bought new gadgets and tricks to add to my box. Getting up in front of my friends I swallowed some coins and recovered them out of their noses or ears. I doubled the marbles and eggs, changed water into wine, killed a cock, cut it into pieces and brought it back to life and it ran off quicker than ever.

Because of Anthony there were regular rows at home. He was the eldest and wanted to be the boss. For him studies were a waste of time. I had to do work. During the winter months when one couldn't work outside he let me go to school in the village. That was about four kilometres away. Every morning and evening I trudged through the bitter winter weather. Rain, snow, mud or cold, nothing could hold me back. Spring was just round the corner and Anthony began furiously to say that my job was to be in the field. The tension was now too much. Regularly we confronted each other. One evening we were at loggerheads again. He was fed up with it and the books had be put aside for good.

"Look at me," he said while he beat his chest and bent over the table towards me." "I'm big and strong without all that nonsense." So he swiped the books off the table. I felt so hurt and disappointed that I yelled without any further thinking:

"Our donkey is even bigger and stronger then you and has never been to school!"

I shouldn't have said that of course but it just slipped out of my mouth. Anthony was in a terrible state. Thanks to my quick legs I dodged a beating. The atmosphere was unbearable.

"John, come here, lad," ma pleaded with me one February mor-ning. Her eyes were sad.

"Lad," she said, "you see for yourself you can't endure this sort of thing any more.

She hesitated. "Would you not consider spending a year working somewhere else?"

I felt tears welling up. Mother remained brave.

"May be you could ask the young farmer Moglia in Moncucco if he can give you some work to do?"

"You won't be that far from home then" she said trying to console me.

When I called at that place there seemed no prospects of a job. It was too early in the year. But the farmer's wife saw the predicament I was in and on her pleading for me I was allowed to stay. I had to do all kinds of jobs. I preferred looking after the cows. As soon as they were quietly grazing I sat with my book in the shade of a tree and began to read or study. I forgot the hours and the time.

On a warm afternoon, Teresa, the youngest sister of the farmer Moglia suddenly stood in front of me. Being fifteen years old she was a head taller than me.

"Your cows were in the maize fields again." I got a fright. The farmer would give me a ticking off. Teresa stared at me.

"Why do you take the cows to the field when you don't look after them?" "I want to study, Teresa, and so I forget to look and sometimes they're off before I notice it."

"Is it true you want to go on to be a priest?" she asked hesitatingly."Yes," I said, as she swung round hitting a cow on the neck.

"Well then, I'll keep an eye on your cows."

I was delighted.

"Thanks ever so much. That's great!" I said, as she went laughing across the field.

I stayed almost two years at the Moglia farm. An unforgettable, lovely time. When I was fourteen I was able to go home again.

That year I got to know the parish priest who was there at that time. He was an elderly friendly priest who had retired.

As we came out of the parish church together he began to speak with me. I got quite a shock. Priests don't normally speak to young-sters. They pass them by. Boys don't count!

I had just run ahead a little along the sandy path when he called me. "Well" he said inquisitively "what do you come for during these sermons?"

I told him I liked listening to them.

"Well, well" smiling somewhat doubtfully "do you remember what you heard in the church?"

I'm still amused seeing that amazing look on his face when I said I could recall every word of the sermon.

"What a remarkable memory," he mumbled quite astounded. "Well, be thankful for it."

One word led to another. What did I do? So I said that I loved to study but Anthony at home forbade me.

"Why is it then you want to study?" he asked me.

"I want to be a priest" I blurted out.

He stood still and looked at me.

"Become a priest? Why become a priest?"

"I want to involve myself with the young," I explained to him. "And I want to talk to them and teach them religion. Children are not bad, Father!" I added, "But may become so because nobody takes any interest in them."

He promised to keep me in mind.

And indeed he did.

He became my first teacher. That was all right at home. The win-ter was approaching and everything at the farm stood still. No sooner were the trees in bud when the whole misery began all over again. I was settling down at the kitchen table when my brother Anthony came in. He flung open the door and shouted:

"Do you think I'm going to kill myself working for an idler like you and let you just play the nice gentleman?"

There were endless discussions and continuous rows. It was fi-nally agreed I would work in the fields in the afternoon and attend classes at Don Colosso's place in the mornings. They turned out to be fairly quiet months.

One morning while I was studying I was suddenly called. The parish priest Don Colosso, had had a stroke. All my hopes and plans of ever becoming a priest, suddenly fell through.

On reaching my sixteenth year I could go to Chieri as a job student. There I brought my secondary studies to an end.

When I had completed my studies there I applied to enter the se-minary but I found some priests hesitant about it. I was too well known as a playboy who cared more for sport and relaxation. The conjuring shows I held in between Catechism classes for the young ones now caused me serious problems. Some good but rather naïve and superstitious folk were convinced I was colluding with the devil. And someone like that would want to become a priest! I once gave Mr. Tomaso, a tailor and for a while my landlord, the fright of his life with my tricks. Yet he could enjoy a joke and was really a soft-hearted man.

I remember very well how on his feastday he had cooked for his lodgers a chicken in a very tasty sauce. Then at table, with a broad and triumphant smile, he took the lid off the dish and out came a live chicken that shot across the table cackling. Then there was that bottle of good wine that had changed into water and the sawdust that came out of the spaghetti. All this was too much for him. He became concerned over my fiendish tricks. With an uneasy mind he went off to tell a priest. He told him about the strange things I had meddled in recently.

The Dean of the Cathedral called me up.

"Go and sit over there, Bosco," pointing to the chair. He wanted to know how I was getting on.

"Well, I'm pleased with you," he nodded approvingly. I hear your studies are outstanding and you regularly gather children toge-ther for Catechism lessons. I appreciate that very much. How many of them are there?"

"About fifty" I said. "They are cheerful kids but I always notice that they know very little about their faith."

He nodded earnestly.

"I therefore approve of your endeavours and I want to thank you." "I like doing it" I said.

"They seem to be quite keen on your lessons. With that conjuror's box of yours it is a real treat for them. By the way, as we are on that subject." "Oh!" I thought "here we go!"

"Do you realise that here and there some are suspicious of magic and consider the devil to be involved in it?"

I laughed heartily but he gave me a searching look.

I wanted to assure him. I asked him, with some pretence, what ti-me it was. Immediately he felt for his watch and chain in his waistcoat pocket. He looked at me rather puzzled.

"It's gone" he mumbled not knowing what was happening.

"Well then, a coin will do," I quickly added. But he couldn't find his purse. He went red.

"Look, your reverence," I quickly added, "Is this perhaps your watch and this your purse?" and I laid them on the table in front of him. Confused, he stared at me.

"I guessed why you had called me. I saw your watch and chain lying on your desk and took it with me together with your purse which I found on the cupboard shelf near the door. It wasn't any more dif-ficult than that." He breathed freely and even enjoyed it all.

"Now I know that your famous devil is in your eyes and fingers." "Carry on," he added, and shook my hand as he said good bye.

The man, from whom in the meantime I sought advice, wouldn't say what I could best do with my life. He thought I ought to decide for myself. No one saw the insecurity behind my laughs and banter with the 'Joy Spreaders Club' and during my exuberant pranks and magic shows. Still I felt abandoned, lonely and uncertain. I was particularly troubled by the idea that the priesthood is a life-long commitment.

Was I really fit to be a priest? Not too superficial? But I felt there is a time to go to church and there is a time to relax somewhat. May be even that wouldn't be sufficient? The desire to become a priest re-mained uppermost in my mind. I got an idea. If I wasn't fit for the work and responsibilities in a parish, I might try to be instead a Fran-ciscan. I made enquiries at the "Monastery of Peace."

I was so taken up with my life's decision that it became part of my dreams. It proved to be a very strange sort of dream. I was stan-ding in the cloisters of a monastery and a long row of monks passed by in silence carrying torches. A curious sight. I felt scared. Then an old monk came up to me out of the dark. He gazed at me earnestly.

"You are searching for peace?" he said very quietly, "you will not find it here." I wanted to ask him a question but a sudden noise woke me up. I wasn't any wiser. The doubt and uncertainty remained.

Via my friend Lewis I was given a good hint. Having weighed up the pros and cons I thought it best to enter the seminary. It was there I would at long last come to know what the Lord wanted of me.

It was a complete relief.

The cloud of uncertainty was lifted.

Now I am at the end of six years of hard study. They were good days, years of all kinds of experience. Years full of youthful enthusi-asm, finely honed and polished by daily reality.

For a long time I shall remember the various courses we had to do in the parishes. There we regularly had the opportunity to preach a homily during the Eucharistic celebrations. I spent a good deal of time in preparation, which I did gladly of course, for even though I say it myself, I preached rather well.

We normally had a discussion with the parish priest afterwards. One time out of curiosity I asked him what he thought of it.

"It was a fine homily, well delivered. It's going to be quite all right."

I was beaming with pride.

"But then" I asked "did the ordinary people understand what it was all about."

He smiled cunningly.

"Two, I think," he said, as he looked at me, "my brother priest and myself?"

…

"Well, shall we say two more!" he added thoughtfully.

I sat there speechless. It was not something I could easily digest.

There are a lot of reminiscences.

Soon the little cowherd of the Becchi will stand before his bishop who will say to him:

"Now you are a priest - a priest for ever!"

My God, what a day it will be!

My secondary schoolteacher should be here to see it.

"What? You want to study Latin?" he had mocked aloud in front of the class. "You only get donkeys coming out of the Becchi, good ones but donkeys nevertheless!"

The class cheered and clapped! That's how my first day began when I, as an awkward sixteen-year old teenager, had to sit in benches with those youngsters of the First Year. The teasing I got then really hurt. I can smile now as I look back on that time, probably thanks to the fact that I managed, contrary to expectations, to skip a few forms. I must have known a little more in spite of being "a donkey from the Becchi."

Taking everything into consideration, the years of hardship and great set-backs, I think it has all been worthwhile. They left a deep impression on me and for that I have been ever so grateful.

All my life.

IV

May 1845

"No admittance: transpassers will be prosecuted."

I should have known that.

Yet, for a moment, I thought I had found the solution for my youth work. Not far from where I was living and working during the week there was a church with a rectangular arcade in front.

"I'm looking for a place where my lads could play on a Sunday afternoon," I explained to the curate when I met him on the road du-ring that week. "Perfect. Look at all that space," he said waving his hand with a broad sweep. "Come along" he said enthusiastically. We went there with a couple of hundred kids with us.

"Oh! an ideal place!" said John Borel, a fellow worker wringing his hands excitedly.

"A place to dream of, indeed," I smiled. But I had not taken the landlord, or rather the curate's housekeeper into account. When she saw us from behind the window curtains of the kitchen, and her chickens noisily scattered all around the patch in front of the building, she rushed out shouting her head off. With her broomstick she began to sweep towards a group of kids who were close by playing leap-frog. They stood there stiff and scared. I tried to intervene but she turned on me. We were just dirt in her eyes.

"If you don't clear off at once I will fetch the police" she yelled. Oh yes she would have done that! "What are you up to?" she added.

She went about as if the whole of hell had been let loose. Had she never been young? At that moment the curate came home and he too got a mouthful. It then became obvious to me that we were still as guests for just one Sunday.

On arriving the next week, we were confronted with a notice from the municipal association which read: "No thoroughfare."

"There was no room for him at the inn". Is the Christmas story being repeated today? I really have to persuade myself sometimes that the good Lord is not leaving me in the lurch. Now four years after my ordination shouldn't I be starting something else? There had been so-me good offers, easy and well paid as a teacher, for example. Why didn't I just return as an ordinary country parish priest to my birth pla-ce. They wouldn't have wished anything better and with the prospects of a double salary for me.

It turned out to be completely different.

"You don't need to take on anything yet," said Joseph Cafasso when I discussed this business with him after my ordination. "Come first of all for a couple of years to the Formation Centre," he said. "Some one like you ought to carry on studying." That seemed to me a good idea. So I started a three year course but I just could not sit still and be wrapped up in my studies.

"Can I not take up in my spare time some apostolate?" I asked him.

"Of course. Just come with me and visit the prisons." For the 150.000 inhabitants of Turin there were four prisons. Among the delinquents in the central prison I came across twelve year olds lying in damp cells, covered with bugs and fleas, without food, without a single friendly word from anyone. I felt as if I was nailed to the floor.

"Here they wouldn't learn anything worth while" I said to Joseph Cafasso on our way home.

"That's so" he answered, "and when they are released, most of them are arrested again because they go back to their old ways."

"Those lads ought to find a friend outside the prison who is interested in their fate, and is willing to help them, looking out for jobs and teaching them something. Perhaps then there will be less chance of them landing back in prison."

Thinking about it I couldn't find a solution. Unless I could bring them together somewhere. But where?

Whenever my studies permitted more time, I went in search of them. Through the back alleys and the popular districts with their factories and work houses. You could smell and feel the misery and hear the commotion and rebellion. Youngsters sauntered about in gangs through the streets. Many of them were trying to escape the social deprivation in the hillside regions and in the countryside and were in search of some work or other. If they couldn't get work or were unable to eke out a living then they stole or burgled. Children who were just eight or twelve years old were clambering up dangerous scaffolding for twelve hours a day in rain and wind or scorching sun, carrying heavy loads of stone or mortar, while the masons used to shout at them abusive words and even hit them.

Especially on Sundays, it was a bleak sort of time with regular fights and scuffles. I sought contact with groups that were hanging around the cafes and bars. But, becoming suspicious they cleared off, ridiculing me.

One December morning I was in the sacristy of St. Francis of Assisi church near the college getting vested for Mass. I suddenly heard a noise and a bang behind me. I saw the sacristan having it out with a lad of sixteen.

"If you can't serve the Mass what are you looking for then?" I heard him asking. The young lad didn't react quickly enough so he was driven out with a brush. He had obviously made short shrift of him.

"Why do you want to send away my friend?" I suddenly called out to him. "Your friend, Father?" he replied crestfallen. "Of course."

"1 didn't know that when I threw him out."

Quietly I then put the lad at ease.

"What did you come for, my friend?"

"Where else can I go, Father?" It is so cold outside and I saw the door was open."

After the Mass we had another chat.

"Will you come again next Sunday?" He promised he would.

"And bring some of your pals with you" I immediately added.

So that was alright.

I believe I shall always remember how that poor lad made me aware of the need for religious instruction to be given as my spiritual director Joseph Cafasso had previously suggested. With such a friend-ly and interesting encounter on the Feast of our Blessed Lady I was even more delighted.

The following Sunday he rang the bell at the college door.

"I'm looking for Don Bosco" he said to the porter. The man was rather taken aback on seeing and hearing a group of young lads so poorly dressed.

I was glad the lads kept the appointment. They had forgotten the threats of the sacristan. In fact six of them turned up.

"Now here's a priest you need not be afraid of," he told his comrades. "He took an interest in me and said that I was his friend!"

We were able to chat freely together in my room. I let them talk about their work just as they would do at home. I then took out my box of tricks. They looked with their eyes wide open. The afternoon just sped by.

"Can we come back again next Sunday?" they asked as they were leaving. "Naturally" I promised them.

"Come every Sunday, you will find the door wide open."

They laughed quite loudly. "And bring a couple of friends with you!" I said.

"Ok! we shall."

They enjoyed themselves. I played together with them in the small yard of the college and when they lay there perspiring and reco-vering their breath, I told them some of my best stories. They listened most intently whether it was in the house, in the meadow or later on in Chieri. And then came the competitions for tokens. With the tokens they could come to me and exchange them for a new pair of trousers, a shirt, a pair of shoes or food. And how proud they were! They no longer had to ask or go begging.

They had earned something with their skills. Those were great days full of fun.

The oratory grew in numbers Sunday after Sunday and gradually took a definitive shape.

During the week I crisscrossed the streets of the town: some-times I went into a factory and then in a workshop. I climbed up the scaffolding. The lads enjoyed watching me do that and seeing how the workmen reacted to it. Of course now and then I heard remarks such as:

"What's that black crow doing here?" "Youngsters have to be handled rough, drilled and toughened. That's how it should go," shou-ted one of the workmen from on top of a scaffolding a couple of weeks later.

"My friend," I said, tapping him on the shoulder, "with a little bit of kindness you'll even get more out of them."

They considered me to be a rare bird. A priest associating with lads and that type of lad too! They had not seen such a thing before. Some thought that it was scandalous. But some of the owners began to appreciate what I was doing. It gave them a certain amount of trust in their worklads. And in that way I could get another lad some em-ployment.

For three years we could make use of the walled playground of the seminary and in a room next to the sacristy I could teach a few lessons. As long as there were only a dozen or so it was manageable, but with thirty or more the place was bulging. Their loud laughter, cheering and din distracted the Sunday services in the church next door and, not least, the siesta of the elderly neighbours. They were not exactly meek and mild First Communicants. With all that exuberance the nerves of some of the people reached breaking point. It couldn't go on. We had to find a new place.

"We haven't anything against these lads, you know, Don Bosco. No, not at all! They can play anywhere they like but not around here!"

Luckily, for the time being we could come together in a room of an unfinished hospital building. For seven marvellous months. But even that nice little dream soon came to an end. No sooner did the building reach its completion, than we had to clear out immediately. Then I came across that covered walk adjacent to a church. New hope sprang up.

Until a police notice at the church porch read: "No admittance: transpassers will be prosecuted."

V

September 1846

Today is a beautiful sunny October Sunday. I have been three months at the Becchi with my family taking it easy. I thought it was time to get back to the youth centre in Valdocco. But every one was telling me to hang on for a while.

"Listen! Business goes on quite well without you," they assured me. But nevertheless I wanted to get started again.

"It was touch and go," they assured me.

"We thought we were going to lose you. You had almost one foot in the grave."

I could see it in their eyes as I read the minds of the two doctors who examined me. I was afraid I would not be here at their next visit. In midsummer I had developed a heavy lung infection with compli-cations.

A few days later, reading my pulse they concluded that there was a miraculous change.

Less than a month later on a Sunday afternoon in August I could venture outside and enjoy the fresh air. Nevertheless I felt somewhat weak and I was anxious to get down to the youth centre to be with the boys. It was only a couple of hundred yards from my lodging at the Institute of the Marchioness di Barolo. I was sure I could. When the boys saw me leaning on a stick, hobbling along - a young priest who was only thirty one - they ran up to me. A few of the bigger ones got hold of an armchair. They made me sit in it. They lifted the chair on their shoulders and carried me round on a lap of honour. The others came jostling around me.

"Look out," they shouted to those carrying him, "You'll let Don Bosco fall!"

After years of misery, opposition and misunderstanding their spontaneous and enthusiastic welcome did me a world of good.

Ever since we were chased away by that nasty old priest's housekeeper, some of the older lads really resented the unfairness.

That week I found a small chapel near the town's mills. Having learned by experience, first of all I asked for the council's permission. They said that we could have it.

It turned out to be very good. However, very soon exaggerated stories and petitions came flooding into the council - endless com-plaints over boisterous and cheeky behaviour, not to mention utter vandalism.

Priests came to me saying :

"Don't you see you are bringing the priesthood into disrepute?"

"How so?" I replied quite amazed.

"Well, with your strange behaviour. You play with that lot. Look here, Don Bosco, the people have not seen this sort of a thing before and they don't like it."

I laughed at all this nonsense.

"Come and see for yourselves and see that it's all pure exag-geration," I pleaded with them at the townhall. The mayor understood it but then what about the councillors? Permission was withdrawn and me thinking I had enough with that sacristan and housekeeper! The disappointment felt by my boys was intense.

"They don't want us anywhere" they said, and took leave thoroughly disappointed.

I was afraid that the boys would become disheartened and might stay away. On the contrary, a small gang of them followed me every-where even though I didn't have even a square yard of land to keep them together. Should I give up? Not likely! I thought of running a wandering youth centre. There was a gathering every Sunday called together at the chapel mill. In a quiet march we travelled through the inner city. I had asked them to do this. No one could complain about that. As for me it was a silent protest march against all those unjust complaints. The onlookers in the streets appeared to be dumbfounded and even amused, some at their doors, on the balconies and all along the way, everyone of them curious and suspicious. Once outside the town everything was let loose. Drums rattled and trumpets blasted. Absolutely elated, the lads sang all kinds of songs. In the end they began to enjoy these outings.

By Spring I managed to hire a piece of meadow surrounded by a low scraggy hedge. We were there in the open at the mercy of the storm and rain. We had about four hundred boys every Sunday. Again that caused consternation and rumour-mongering. There was going to be an uproar and revolution in the land. And immediately I was con-sidered a dangerous man with a mighty influence. I might well start off such a revolution in the town! Rumours began to spread every-where. Yes, a moment of distraction could spark off the whole thing!

"Don't forget, some of those lads have been in jail before," they warned others.

"Among them there are weedy-looking louts with knives on them."

One of the policeman had seen me bringing that gang to order in a flash of a second. He hurried to the townhall to say:

"If ever that priest were a general he could lead the strongest army in the world!"

Encouraged by his attentive listeners he went on:

"And do you know what? Some seven hundred lads are gathe-ring with us. There are some thugs among them. I repeat, something nasty could surprise us all!"

The fear of an impending revolution in Italy did the rest. The authorities pricked up their ears and swallowed the rumours. Marquis Michael Cavour, the Superintendent of Police, did not trust the whole business. He called me again to the townhall. I had just sat down when he said:

"You're going to get rid of that rabble straightaway." His com-mand was short but farm.

I didn't let that upset me.

"There are also people who maintain that I bring more peace to the town than a whole regiment of soldiers!"

It was tit for tat.

"I know what I am saying Don Bosco, those gatherings are dangerous to the State."

I kept as calm as I could but he shouted,

"I haven't called you here to discuss matters. You incite unrest and I shall stop it and that's it!"

The following Sundays policemen were at the meadow. They looked on, listened to my preaching and reported duly to the autho-rities. I couldn't think of any better assistants for my boys although they had come to keep an eye on me. To tell you the truth I addressed my sermons during those Sundays more to them than to my boys. Of course I didn't tell them that!

Then we were given notice to vacate the meadow. I had to vacate the place within a fortnight. The owners complained that we were turning it into a wasteland. That was another slap in the face and one of the saddest days of my life.

"John," said Don Borel, as we were chatting together one Sunday evening with the leaders, "Let us stop. If need be just go on with about twenty lads or so and wait and see."

"We are not going to cave in," I reassured them vehemently. They stared at me perplexed.

"But in God's name where will you go with those boys? You can't break an iron bar with your hand." I couldn't persuade them. Their trust in me began to waver. They went away in silence and I was left alone. I felt abandoned with four hundred boys.

The Marchioness di Barolo sent for me and said:

"Don Bosco, I can't understand you. You have a steady job here. Six days a week. And what do I find, Sundays you work yourself to death. I can't agree with this. You'll have to choose!"

"I understand that, Madam. It's quite simple," I calmly told her, "I have to devote myself to the boys."

I saw disillusionment and anger in her eyes. "I shall have to dismiss you," she coolly threatened.

"Alright then" I humbly replied.

She then added, "Don't you see that you are in poor health? You are ruining yourself. You're overworked. Everyone says you are ex-hausted. The cord will snap." I nevertheless detected a certain con-cern in her voice. She was right. I myself felt there would be a reac-tion.

In the meantime most of my helpers and best friends kept quiet and others began to laugh at me. On meeting them I did my best to win them over.

"We shall find a permanent residence." I tried to convince them. "I can see it before me but not quite yet. You just wait and see." They thought I was chasing an illusion. What's more, they spread the ru-mour that I was going mad. First of all I was considered a revolu-tionary. Now it has gone to my head, not that I didn't mean well. No one doubted that but I might have had a brainstorm. In fact I was hea-ding for the asylum. What I needed was psychiatric treatment, a good examination and a period of rest to get me back on my feet! Two priests volunteered to do the job. They came to collect me in a carria-ge. Quite concerned they asked me how I felt and if I would appre-ciate a short outing. They assured me that a bit of fresh air would do me a world of good and that we could have a friendly chat at the same time."

"Of course," I added enthusiastically. "With pleasure, but, just a minute, I'll get my hat and coat first. Oh yes, I will enjoy it!"

I saw them cunningly wink at each other as we headed for the carriage steps. So I said to them,

"You go first, gentlemen." Like lightning I politely shut the car-riage door and shouted to the driver on the carriage.

"Off you go straight to the asylum! They are expecting them." At full speed the carriage tore along the cobbled road. For days Turin talked about what had happened. Though I was not feeling well yet, it gave me a great uplift just as I had with that juggler in Chieri on that occasion.

As it is said, when the need is the greatest the solution is always ready at hand. It was on that last Sunday in the field, it happened to be Palm Sunday and I was among the boys puzzling my head off when suddenly a man came walking up the field. While twisting his cap between his fingers he stopped in front of me.

"Good day, Father, Pancratio Soave at your service. I hear you are looking for a laboratory," he bent over and stuttered.

"Not a laboratory, my friend" I tried to explain in a gentle way, "but an oratory. You know, a church or a chapel with a field around it where I can assemble my boys."

"Precisely, I know a place. You can come and have a look." I didn't let him tell me twice. You never know.

"It's the property of a certain man called Pinardi. He wants to hire out a large barn" he added, as he limped along with me in the direction of that barn.

It was not a tall building. In fact I had to stoop low so as not to hit my head as I went in.

"It is too low my friend, I cannot do anything with this," I sighed disappointedly to Mr. Pinardi who had just arrived on the scene.

Then I thought that something could be done to modify the building. I didn't want to let this opportunity slip by.

"Perhaps the floor could be lowered by half a metre" I suggested.

"You can count on that. I'll arrange steps and a lower floor level."

Three hundred and fifty lire for hire. I then offered him three hundred and seventy if I could also use the bit of land surrounding it and be able to use it the following Sunday.

"No problem, Don Bosco," he said and firmly promised by Easter Sunday that all would be in order."

The boys were in the clouds! From the field I pointed out to them their new house among the estates, the gardens and meadows. When they got over their surprise they gave a tumultuous applause. They shrieked, clapped their hands, threw their caps in the air and ran into the field. The world seemed to have passed them by.

It was already getting dark when they left that night. They couldn't leave!

Was it the tension of the previous eighteen heavy months that left me weak? I don't know. When a month later on entering my room everything began to spin round like a windmill, I had to lean against the wall and my desk in order to reach my bed. As I didn't get up the next morning they called for the doctor. He diagnosed a complete breakdown and a heavy bronchitis. I hovered between life and death for eight days. It seemed that my hour had come and to be honest I felt ready to die. The youth centre could continue. It had found its feet.

But look, here I am sitting with my mother in the late October sun at my youngest brother Joseph's farm.

One of these days I would be returning to Valdocco. The boys insisted that I go back to the oratory.

"Either you come to Turin or we will transfer our Youth Centre to the Becchi," they jokingly said when they came to visit me.

What else can I do?

VI

June 1854

The New Year 1848 began with unrest, military exercises, parades and all kinds of demonstrations. Sometimes fifty thousand demonstrators went rampaging through the centre of Turin. There flooded in rumours of uprisings and revolution. Italy was thrown into confusion, we were told. Many began to wonder whether the country would disintegrate

A wave of hostility broke out against religion. Away with God, away with the church. Gangs stormed monasteries and convents, bro-ke windows, smashed in doors and threatened nuns who had locked themselves in. The uproar lasted a whole week. Sometime later differ-rent communities of nuns and religious left the town. Their convents and monasteries were closed and used as barracks. Priests were im-prisoned or exiled. The agitators were not satisfied. The turmoil con-tinued. There were cries of "War! war!" in the streets.

In spite of the harassment and the uncertain situation I continued to work.. During the week I visited the boys at their work, took classes in the senior school and in the evening I thought French, modern ma-thematics, song and piano lessons.

(By modern mathematics Don Bosco meant the replacing of the accepted method of counting in Italy with the new metric system. He was truly a leader in this. To get the boys to learn these methods Don Bosco often used drama and stage techniques. "Here we learn while we laugh" said a famous educationalist Aporti." M. Rua)

Sundays became hectic. Running around from early in the mor-ning till late at night. Early confessions, then the Eucharist with a homily. The rest of the morning was spent organising Sunday school and from one o'clock onwards the many activities of the youth centre.

The young were an easy target for malicious gossip and false accusations in the press and in speeches that were made. Around our house at Valdocco gangs of youths armed with sticks, knives and sto-nes rendered the surroundings of the centre unsafe. They grouped to-gether to pelt the house. Then they rained stones on the tiles or through windows. Our youngest boarders trembled with fear. I had to call the police repeatedly to see for themselves. Of course they never came.

The unrest in Turin went right through to the youth centre. Some of the older boys who had work outside, and appeared only on Sun-days, came with emotions running high. The newspapers goaded them on. It was a losing battle to try and calm the youth. It happened one Sunday afternoon. With waving flags they marched right through the centre of the town. Even some of my leaders joined them. The town was in an uproar. Was there any loyalty left in the youth centre? Only about a hundred out of the six hundred lads had stayed behind. For weeks on end the youth centre remained empty. It was a hard pill for me to swallow. Later on the majority came back and apologised. They wanted to come back but the eldest ones stayed away. Now I was al-most all alone with a hundred lads. I had practically no helpers. I could not stomach those rebellious leaders anymore.

One day in August, after new riots, word came that our youth centre would be attacked that evening. We were advised to evacuate the house immediately. I decided to stay. The uprising came towards our area. It appears that some one from the front row, a few streets away, held up the march.

It was absolutely meaningless to attack the youth centre, he shouted out to the demonstrators.

"There are only poor boys and a priest who is endeavouring to feed them," he pleaded. "Take it from me, Don Bosco is one with the people just like us. So leave him alone."

There was a moment of hesitation. There were cries here and there but in the end they made their way down to another street.

The war took its toll. Businesses collapsed. There was no more money. Lots of shops were closed down. A mass of unemployed people roamed the streets. New strikes broke out against low wages and long working hours, as much as twelve to fourteen hours a day. Also in the youth centre we had to tighten our belts. Restless months went by.

We felt the aftermath for years. There was poverty everywhere. Riches belonged to the wealthy who couldn't care less. The poor could no longer trust the promises made by the new regime. Therefore I began an emergency programme. I wanted to ease the biggest need. We organised charities but I became convinced that traditional cha-rities did not meet the need. Among my fellow workers I launched a fund for mutual aid for anyone who was able to contribute shares. That fund was to be a safety net for friends who lost their job or fell ill.

The atmosphere remained grim and many took it out on the priests. It was not merely a verbal assault but anyone who didn't side with the agitators was against them. It was as simple as that. One evening I stood in the sacristy giving Catechism lessons. Suddenly a shot rang out. The window shattered and a bullet went right through my cassock between my arm and my side and then made a hole in the wall. The boys were frightened to death by the unexpected crack and the splintering glass.

"O, my poor cassock," I said laughingly to make them com-fortable. "It's the only one I have!"

That was the end of the lessons. The boys were in a terrible state.

"They must be untrained lads playing soldiers who don't know quite how to go about it!"

However the tension remained.

On a warm August evening I stood near the fence of the play-ground chatting with a group of boys. Suddenly I heard a shout "A murderer! A murderer!"

A young man in his shirt sleeves came running up the play-ground brandishing a big knife.

"I must get Don Bosco! I must get Don Bosco" he roared.

The boys dispersed. At first that wild fellow went for the wrong priest. When he realised he had targeted the wrong one he furiously turned round. In the meantime I ran up the steps and shut the gate. The police did not do anything. I learned afterwards that he had been paid 180 lire to kill me.

"Look, lads" I said jokingly "that's all Don Bosco is worth."

With vulgarities of the worst kind the press inflamed hatred against priests. The worst of it was that their method of attack and of arousing anticlerical sentiment dissuaded those young lads, whom I knew were thinking of becoming priests, from continuing their goal. Also in the meantime, in many villages Eucharistic services were not celebrated on Sundays and Feastdays any more because of the shor-tage of priests.

What could I do?

The tension grew. I decided not to go alone on the streets if I had to go out. In retrospect that was after all not a bad decision. There hung around rascals who regularly shouted filthy abusive language at priests.

One Sunday evening two men came in haste running up to me.

"Father, can you come along immediately? Very close to this place at the "Golden Heart" there is somebody dying."

I decided to go along. I asked two heavily built lads to accom-pany me. I was not going to go alone along the lonely and dark narrow lanes where you could be held up with cudgels, pistols and knives.

"You are not going to ask those lads to go with you. It's quite unnecessary" he tried to assure me. "We'll accompany you to that the sick person and then we'll bring you back home."

"Don't worry," I smiled feeling a little tense, "the lads enjoy an evening stroll."

Instead of two I took four with me.

In the "Golden Heart" a few rough looking louts were sitting there with a tumbler in their hand. They wanted me to have a drink with them. "A swig will do you no harm, Father!" bragged one of them.

They poured out some wine for everyone. For my glass I saw one of them grab a different bottle. Jovially I held my glass high and with a toast "Cheers everyone!" I put it back on the table.

"What's the meaning of this?" shouted the onlookers.

"It's an insult," yelled a drunken woman.

"But I don't feel like drinking," I said.

Menacingly they drew close around me.

"You will drink some," they yelled as they grabbed me brutally by the shoulders.

"If you really insist that I drink, then let me go" I demanded. "Guys! do you know what? I'm not thirsty. My lads however would enjoy a glass. Wait!" I, there and then, leaped backwards towards the door, pulled it open and shouted to the lads to come in.

When the gang saw my heavily built lads they changed their tune. There was no talk of a dying person anymore.

The plots and attacks continued. Perhaps in the previous months I had written in the "Catholic Readings" something challenging or provocative against the Church's adversaries. ("Catholic Reading" was a series of pamphlets Don Bosco wrote at the time against the enemies of the Church - M Rua)

"Don Bosco, you goad on your enemy with such direct attacks," warned one of my proof-readers after reading just about half of my last pamphlet." I am not initialling this. I'm not tired of life yet!" and he pushed the draft towards me.

I could detect panic in his voice.

Actually it is understandable.

The written and verbal threats over the last few months were mo-re stressful than I made out. He thought naturally of the recent mur-ders of some prominent Catholics, among whom was the editor of a newspaper.

In August the previous year on a Sunday morning after Mass two unknown men came to me. It was concerning the "Catholic Readings." First of all, they offered money to support the Oratory. When I refused to accept they changed their tone and warned me not to write any mo-re of that 'silly nonsense'. They would not be responsible for the con-sequences if I refused.

"If it is 'silly nonsense' why all this fuss then?"

They became more embittered. I had to cease publishing "Ca-tholic Readings." If not willingly, then unwillingly.

"When you leave the house, are you sure you will return?" That was the threat they made as I saw them to the door.

The attacks appear to be exaggerated stories. But they are ne-vertheless true.

"We'll see you again," hinted one of them to two of the lads who saw them out.

The fact that the Oratory was situated in the middle of the fields and was during the day almost empty, because the boys were either in the local school or the others at their workplace, the buildings seemed to be rather unprotected.

I avoided as much as possible going out in the evenings but it was already getting dark, when on another occasion, I was called out to a dying woman. I remembered the previous attack all too well. So I brought with me again two tough lads.

"Why do you take these lads with you? Let them stay at home," I could hear them say.

It increased my suspicions all the more. I left two boys at the bottom of the stairs. The other two I took upstairs and made them stay near the door.

In one corner of the dirty, dingy room lay a woman gasping for breath. I asked the chaps around the bed to leave the room. Immedia-tely the lights went out and, before I knew what was happening, a hail of cudgels came my way. I could just about reach for a chair with which I protected my head as I made for the door. The chair shattered. I got such a wrap on my left thumb that I lost a nail and half a knuckle.

Surrounded by my boys I got home safely.

Even in my correspondence they tried fruitless attempts to put me under pressure. I amused myself sometimes comparing letters that arrived on the same day. First of all I read out to my secretary a letter full of praise and then one full of hate and malice.

"Just see how divided the opinions are for or against Don Bosco," I jokingly added.

There is one consolation. I am who I am in God's eyes.

VII

30th November 1856

A few days ago we buried my mother. For ten years she had been the mother of our Oratory. She, no doubt, was sad to have left my brother and his wife, her grand children and the farmhouse. One evening during my convalescence, about ten years ago, we sat at our ease at home on the Becchi slopes.

"Mother, wouldn't you like to come and live with me at Valdocco?" I suggested.

For a moment she gazed at me speechless.

"Look," I hastened to add "the Pinardi shed, our house, which I recently bought, lies a bit in a red light district and your presence in the house would spare me much embarrassment with my neighbours.

She looked pensively over the undulating hills around the house, where the vines began to change colours in the light mist that drifted over the fields.

"In fact I need some one to do housekeeping. I thought of you."

Everything remained quiet. A cow could be heard lowing further down the hill.

"If you think you need me," she said with a sigh, "then I shall go with you." Nothing else. It was that simple.

She was almost sixty and at the Becchi she was happy with her grand children. I teased her by saying she was "the Queen of the Becchi." Then she smiled slightly. Should one transplant such an old tree? And offer her but two poor empty rooms I had hired?

One fresh morning, shortly after the feast of All Saints, we took to the road on foot. It was thirty kilometres from the Becchi to Turin. After walking for two days we reached Valdocco. She smiled when she saw the two small rooms.

"At the Becchi I had my hands full keeping the house in order. Here I shall find it much easier."

So that is how she started.

I did not merely want to entertain the boys on Sundays.

I would ask one or two boys during the games "Can you read and write?"

"Don Bosco, we would very much like to learn but we haven't got time. We have to work."

"What about if I teach you to read and write?"

That set them thinking.

"What use will that be to us as we haul the stones up the scaf-folding?" one of them scornfully said with a laugh.

"Listen everyone," I said, as they were leaving, "whoever wants to come I'll teach him reading and writing." It snowballed. After a few months there wasn't enough room anywhere. They sat in the kitchen round the table, even in my room and in the four corners of the church. Of course, it was heavy going. One class was reading aloud in one corner while others were singing in another. That caused endless chaos.

I was glad I could rely again on some helpers. They had retur-ned, after having left during my illness which had disillusioned them. Day by day new young working lads came in after their job. Because of lack of teachers I had to teach as many as sixty boys in one class.

A few months later I was able to hire a few more rooms so that by winter three hundred boys could attend evening classes. There was a need for even the simplest text books. There weren't any. So I wrote some myself. At night.

Among the lads who were following evening classes there were some who had nowhere to sleep.

They would find shelter under the bridges or in filthy surround-dings. Such places swarmed with neglected kids. I'd better not have il-lusions about that. Nor had I.

One evening I said to some six boys that they could use the loft and make straw beds. When I tried to get them up for some coffee the next morning they had vanished. With the sheets and blankets my mother had lent them. I tried later the same with another group. The next morning the rascals had even absconded with the straw and hay.

"They will have sold that for a couple of lire," my mother thought.

One wet and chilly May evening there was a heavy knock at the door. We had just finished the evening meal. A young lad of about fifteen stood numbed and shivering with the cold on the door step. He was literally wet through.

"Come in," I said "here you can dry yourself out by the fire." Mother gave him some bread and hot soup. He swallowed the food avidly but quietly.

"And where are you going?" my mother asked him.

"I don't know" he muttered looking up at her. "Couldn't I sleep here somewhere?" he risked in a beseeching tone.

Mother looked at me and we were both thinking the same thing.

"If I knew you weren't a thief I would keep you here. Because before you a few rogues stole our blankets. Would you do the same?"

"No, never, sir," he hastened to add "you need not fear that. I may be poor but I have never pinched anything."

"Right then, you can stay here as long as you want." With a few stones, a plank and a strawbed on top near the fire he was soon fixed up.

When we went to our rooms upstairs, I noticed my mother bolted the kitchen door. Next morning the young lad lay sleeping rolled up in his blanket. Shortly afterwards a second lad came along. A few months later there were thirty. A tough assignment for my mother at her time of life. So a happy-go-lucky gang of lads, who went to work during the day, came and lodged with us free for the night. When mother was thirty she had three boys. Now at sixty she has thirty boys. It meant that everyday she had to cook, do the washing, do the repairs and do the cleaning. And those lads were not so neat and tidy first. In fact they were rowdy and rough. She was thrifty and careful and those ragamuffins did not seem grateful at all.

She braced herself for that. Whether some one was twelve or seventeen she said what was on her mind. Absolutely resolute. That was indeed my mother.

When I was four years old I trudged up the hill with my brother Joseph. The sun was scorching. The light was shimmering over the small white farmhouse which stood out against the background. The dust on the country lanes irritated our throats.

"Mum, we're thirsty!"

She came out and fetched a bucket of fresh cold water. Per-spiring and panting we just stood there.

Mother took out a cupful and gave it to my brother.

Taken aback I looked at her and my brother, who was gulping avidly. I was dying of thirst. She was just about to give me my cup, I shook my head. She didn't insist but took the bucket back in to the house.

Hesitatingly I followed her into the kitchen and stood hovering round the table.

"Mum..." My throat was parched.

"Yes, John..."

"I am thirsty!"

"A minute ago you were not thirsty at all?"

"Mum! Please!"

….

"Here you are, have some!"

In our house at Valdocco we could not afford servants. So my mother and I managed the house together. I peeled the potatoes while she got the food ready. I tidied up the rooms and chopped the wood for the kitchen fireplace. In the evening we repaired the torn trousers and shirts in the kitchen, which we found each morning at the foot of their beds. When sitting together we needn't have to say anything to understand each other and to feel deeply united.

In the Winter of 1850 an acquaintance of mine petitioned the minister, without my knowledge, for a grant towards helping our work. I could not really agree with that because he who pays the piper calls the tune! No I preferred to hold on to my independence.

However shortly after that some local committee members came along to find out the reasons for the help that was being sought. Endless questions. Could they inspect the house?

In the end they landed in the kitchen.

"Here is my own mother," I said "she is also a mother to all these orphans here.

"A far as I can see," remarked one of those three men, turning to my mother, "you are the cook in this house."

"One has to be able to tackle anything if one wants to get to heaven," she said coyly.

He looked around and went over to the kitchen oven.

"What do the boys have to eat?"

"Bread and soup, soup and bread," she said with a smile.

Looking rather bewildered, he then added

"That's very little, mam!" he replied suspiciously.

"We can't afford more for the moment" she replied firmly. "You know, often we are not sure if there will be bread on the table the next day."

"I see," concluded the man, "you have to be a real thrifty cook." He then changed his tactics.

"And do you have any one helping you?"

"On some days I have an excellent helper" she replied roguishly, "today he has something on and he is leaving me in the lurch."

"Who may that helper be?" he asked eagerly.

"He is over there," she said, as she pointed to me.

The men were dumbfounded.

"Don Bosco, we don't doubt your ability as an educator or as a writer," remarked the chairman of the committee. "But that you are up to standard when it comes to cooking..."

"Do you want to find out?" I asked him, "My polenta especially is unique".

Halfway in February a promising reply came from the Home Office. But on the report there was no mention of a grant. However fourteen days later we received a favourable decision from the Coun-cil.

If I had to be some where else, and that happened often enough she dealt with ins and outs of the house. She received visitors whoever they were. When difficulties turned up, she was there to find a solu-tion. Day after day, for ten long years, she arranged all business mat-ters and did the buying. Ten heavy and hectic years in the midst of abandoned and neglected youngsters.

They played a game of chasing one another. More than once the losing team, in the excitement of the game, found themselves being pushed right into Mam's kitchen garden. With great care mother tried to grow vegetables to eke out the supplies. The boys trampled over the whole lot. Also while playing football the ball sometimes landed among the vegetables. They would have to face the consequences. Mother stood there quite down hearted and distressed.

"John," she grumbled then, "Just look at what they are up to. It looks as if they don't care a rap."

A few days later when I came home at midday, she stood in the kitchen, ready, dressed and carrying her big shopping basket with a hand towel over it on her arm.

"What's all this about, mother?" I asked her with my hand still on the door knob.

"I can't carry on any more, John! Let me go back to the Becchi. I slave from morning till night for these urchins who destroy every-thing. I can't bear it any longer. Not at my age!"

I felt pity for her. She was right. I could not find any joke to cheer her up. I drew her attention to the crucifix above the mantel-piece. She bowed her head and put the basket down.

"You're right," and she got down to her work again. Never again did she mention about going home. I am sure more than once those unruly lads nearly broke her heart. But she stayed.

Two years ago, she was then sixty seven, she withdrew to her little room. At the beginning of autumn she became quite ill. The who-le house asked anxiously about her and wanted to visit her. She was loved that much. Her goodness and that endless care for each one of the boys had helped them in those years to forget the absence or loss of their own mothers. Through all kinds of trouble and misery she remained strong. Day in and day out she supported me. First of all du-ring those years I wanted to be a priest. Then for ten years she uncea-singly gave all she ever had to get my work on its feet.

Night after night I sat up with her. But one night just before the end she insisted on my taking some sleep. I wanted to stay with her but she was adamant. Then I said goodbye. I lay all night listening for the least noise.

I imagined myself again in the room standing by my father's bed. I heard my mother say to me:

"Now you no longer have a father."

Everyone went out of the room but I would not.

"Come, Johnny, come!"

"If daddy doesn't come, nor will I."

"Poor boy," she sobbed "you no longer have a father."

She burst into tears. I cried too because she cried but I didn't know why. It was the first thing I still remember ever since I was five.

Early that morning I heard my brother's footsteps as he passed in front of my door. Without a word I knew it. Mother had died. Since the death of my father she had been everything to me. Now I didn't ha-ve, nor did my boys have, a mother. They were orphans again.

After the funeral service the boys carried her to her grave. Our little band played funeral music on her last journey to the cemetery. Their music sounded ever so sad.

Slowly, slowly, they walked along as if trying to hold on to her as long as possible.

VIII

Autumn 1860

This morning Sir James Hudson with members of his English delegation paid our house a visit. While touring the premises they came by the study hall. It held about one hundred students. There was a large group of them silently getting on with their studies. The men could not believe their eyes.

"To have such order and discipline don't you have to have a regiment of supervisors, Don Bosco?" Sir Hudson asked.

"You may have a look around" I answered jokingly.

"I do not see anyone?" he said turning round to the others. He had another look.

"How strict have you to be to impose that kind of discipline?" he asked. He screwed up his eyebrows.

"You do not have to be," I assured him decidedly. "Look, we do not resort to harsh methods."

"You make me curious!"

"My dear gentlemen" I replied "the fact that these boys in the study hall are busy at work is not due to fear or punishment. Instead there is this trust between them and their assistants."

"Assistants?"

"Your Excellency you speak about educators as guards or invigilators. I find those words and their implication rather chilling and suggesting distance. Those are the type of persons the boys are afraid of. In our house we call the teachers "assistants" because I want them, to tell you the truth, to be with the boys all the time, not just physically but whole heartedly. The way you deal with the young I find very important. Make sure that, when you are there, they come to you and will not run away from you. That is my principle."

They became really interested.

"Can you not publish a book on such an education method?" the gentleman asked, "then we could try it out in our country as well."

"My method!" I think. "My method!" I get requests from every quarter to write down and explain my way of educating. But what if I myself cannot quite put it into words? I have never considered doing so. Moreover I am writing so many books and texts well into the night, writing, rewriting and publishing. How can I? Why should I record my way of dealing with my boys in rules and regulations? I am afraid that the day I put all this into print or on paper, the spiritof it will vanish or disappear. If it should come to it I think it will be the most difficult book I have ever written.

For me everything is so simple.

"Approach the youth with your hearts," I say a hundred times to my helpers, hoping they will remember. And act accordingly.

As I now see this idea written down, I think it does not reflect what I really have in mind. I believe it means much more than that. Take for example, the smile, the enthusiasm, the power of appeal of the educator himself. How do I get that across?

When we are chatting together at table my helpers like to listen to my own previous experiences. How I organised sports and games, music and song contents, recitals, theatre, walks and outings.

In between the various jobs I carry out, they find me in the playground joining the lads in their games, chatting and joking with them. They remember especially the time I challenged the lot of them in a race. Even though I was fifty and my legs were swollen I still beat them all.

What about that time in Chieri when I challenged that juggler and fair entertainer?...

My helpers no doubt have the best of intentions. But it is one thing to talk about something and another to carry it out in practice… I have to consider the matter carefully. But where do I find the time to write all this down in an understable way?

What I can do now and again when I get the chance is to put down on paper some ideas that come to my mind or to write about the experiences I have had. If these suit me I can one day or another deve-lop them. I shall put aside a few pages for such eventuality. We'll see later on.

Even if I were not be successful in writing a booklet, maybe those few ideas, would give some guidance in which direction I want them to go.

….

"We are here to run a race and win a price. So let us start together. But first of all we have to agree about the rules of the game. Joint action guarantees good friends.

I am not here to make money or to make a name for myself. Neither to boast of numbers. I have no other goal than to do some good to you. I have no other ambition but your happiness in every res-pect. But for that I need your help in return.

I do not want you to consider me as your superior but as your friend. You never need to be afraid of me. All I ask of you is to put your trust in me.

I tell you sincerely I have a thorough dislike for punishment. There is nothing smart in rebuking or punishing somebody. That is not my method. If someone steps over the mark and I can guide him back in the right direction, then the matter is settled. I do not want anything more.

Remember well, my dear lads, if I have to punish someone, the hardest punishment comes down upon me. I would feel it most my-self. Let us be honest and sincere with one another. If there is some-thing I dislike I say so. If I have to rebuke someone then I do so im-mediately quite openly or privately. I make no secret of it. I carry my heart on my tongue. You too have to do the same. If there is some-thing that doesn't please you, tell me and we will try to find a solution. You will find then everything in the house works smoothly.

(This advice was found written down on a piece of scrap paper inside his diary. A few ideas passed on in a "Good night" talk in 1863. There were at the time no less than one hundred new boarders in the Oratory at the start of the school year) - M. Rua)

I have always tried to let the student know I was not so much the superior but just an older friend. Boys often tell me about their village school teachers, who regularly used to beat them for the slightest offence and consider the stick to be an indispensable instrument. I just do not want that instrument to be in our midst.

…

"In my houses no harshness," I tell them over and over again. "I do not want a show of strength between educators and boys."

Yesterday during the weekly meeting one of the assistants sighed disappointed, "I do everything for my group of boys. I prepare exci-ting games. I try everything to make the recreation to their liking. I play with them. What do I get in return? During classes they never shut up and just cause havoc. All I get is ingratitude.

"Do you care about boys?" I cautiously asked him

"Of course I do," he said, somewhat irritated, "Am I not giving all I have?"

"Of course you are. I can see that. In the recreation while they are relaxing you are with the boys as often as you can and you try to be the pivot of their joy and happiness.

He gave a vague smile.

"But," I tried to make him understand, "do you let them know you care for them?"

There was silence.

"What do you mean, Don Bosco?"

"Aren't you too concerned about the success of what you are organising? If you were to ask them nicely what they would rather play and then you join them. They may more easily do what you expect and have to expect from them. Kindness inspires affection and affection, trust. That's what you have to win."

…

During tonight's assessment meeting we had another very warm discussion.

"Yes, Don Bosco," they protested. "A few years ago there was no need of punishment. We understand that quite well because at that time there were only thirty or forty boys in the house! Even rules were not necessary. But now there are five or six hundred boys. And not all of them are angels!"

Good gracious, punishing! I tell the boys quite plainly I dislike punishment and I don't find it pleasant even to reprimand them. That's not my way. I would prefer that in our houses there be no punishing at all. For if boys obey because they are afraid of being punished, then we miss the target. Fear and education don't go together.

There has, of course, to be order and regularity and the boys must know also what they can do and mustn't do. They can have the freedom to skip and jump and run and make noises to their heart's content.

I may be considered to be an Utopian, a dreamer for insisting on so little as possible and absolutely no punishment.

"Do you want education without any punishment?" asked one of the confreres that evening. They had just had a discussion at table as to whether or not to punish a pair of ring leaders. By the tone of his voice he sounded upset and irritated.

"Yes, I dream of that" I said "education without punishment." I allowed the tense silence to last for a while.

I know quite well, it is not easy or self evident or even fully possible. In some cases it is impossible. Punishment of some sort must follow. We must not however allow the ideal to fade away.

"The ideal?" he asked again.

"Education without punishment is to be our goal" I replied.

…

When I was about ten years old I came home one day. "Mamma, I met the parish priest," I said. "I doffed my cap politely to him and wished him 'Good day'. He hardly raised his eyes from the breviary book he was reading and nodded just once. He walked on without saying a word. Why did he do so? Why did he not stop and chat with me? I would have liked it so much."

"Dear, John," my mother laughed "the parish priest is a learned man. He has other things on his mind rather than to bid good day to a small boy."

"Surely," I insisted, "he could have at least said good day to me. Just you wait and see. If ever I become a priest I shall chat to all the children."

Mother shook her head and said no more.

…

The day before yesterday, after the recreation, I was walking for a short while with one of the assistants in the playground. Just before we parted, I asked him:

"How goes it with the boys?" "Are you successful in getting some discipline?"

"No, not always," he sighed. I felt he was disheartened.

"Look," I said, "if you want them to listen to you and respect you, see to it that they like you and that they are not afraid of you. We have to be a real big friend to them. Certainly not a superior who is ready to beat or punish them."

…

Punishing. That remains for my educators a stumbling block. It is getting more difficult year by year. I must not be blind to the fact that some of the boys are incorrigible rascals and that even those less favourably disposed to our way of education, find themselves ill at ease in the atmosphere of our schools, or rather, I would say, of our houses. No matter how much I regret to say this, there has to be now and again some sort of warning or penalty. For that matter, I have ne-ver stated there should be no rules nor regulations laid down. On the contrary. But it has to be explained regularly and made known to them over and over again. For when they do wrong, it is not usually out of malice. More probably through lightheadedness or their liveliness. That, of course, is not an excuse for not keeping the reasonable rules.

…

"If then, you do have to punish," I insisted in my talk that eve-ning, "may I at least ask you to be reasonable in your punishment? A boy who is punished must acknowledge his fault and accept the pu-nishment."

When I say this sort of thing, I see some assistants looking sceptical. I am afraid they think I'm not realistic.

…

What lies close to my heart is this: if you have to be stricter, tell the boy politely, face to face, and as kindly as possible. On no account make him feel humiliated or embittered. Send him away with a kind word and with the impression he is not so bad after all and that it is the end of the affair. Otherwise you will often hear him say: "He has always got something against me!"

…

Just before the boys go to bed, every evening I give them a parting thought. I have to thank my mother for that idea. On a chilly evening, years ago, we allowed a boy to stay overnight in our kitchen. Before we shut the doors and went to bed she calmly had a few words with that lad. He listened to her quietly and intently. I could see it did him good. It impressed me a great deal.

"I will do that myself in future." was the thought that flashed through my mind at that time.

When I am at home I always give the 'Good Night'. The boys love it. I tell them about everything that has happened and where I have been. On coming home today, I heard that they had for the last couple of days been real nuisances. They had been running about excitedly, feeling nervous and jumpy. They were quite unmanageable. After evening prayers I stood up in front of them.

"I hear you have not behaved all that well," I remarked calmly "Well then, I have no stories for you tonight. So, good night!" I sent them upstairs. It was like a lightning flash. It had its effect like a pu-nishment! A group of them hung around the portico and tried to give their excuses. If it can be settled that way, why not?

…

Keeping one's patience is also a difficult problem for educators. Some would prefer to make short shrift of certain cases with a quick clip around the ears. Others argue difficult cases should be sent away.

Whoever hits a child, just puts himself in the wrong, I have al-ways maintained.

"You can afford to talk," they tell me, "because you are patience personified. But it requires great courage not to explode when they get your blood boiling.

"And if it does require courage," I agree, "Don't think it doesn't require the same of me when I ask for jobs to be done and they are not done on time. At that moment my blood boils too. Yet I force myself to be `patient' and to wait until I calm down."

Then they look at me with staring eyes. They don't seem to be-lieve that I too feel like jumping out of my skin at times.

"Well then," I say with a laugh, "you do know the origin of the word 'patience'? No? It comes from the Latin word 'pati' and that means to suffer, to endure, to persevere, to exercise patience, so that, at the right moment one can decide calmly and even gently, what to do." I cannot say this often enough and hit that vital nail on the head.

It would not surprise me if they were upset again, if things do not turn out as they had hoped. Most people find that for them to be friendly and patient all the time is hard to realise.

"We want to be friendly but above all we must be strict," they say. Others maintain that friendliness and discipline have to go to-gether.

I hear them discussing this among themselves. "Let them first know who is the boss. Then let go of the reins and be friendly," That is what others were saying. It hurts me when I hear that and it makes me sad. Earlier on I always did it that way and I succeeded.

Am I getting too old?

…

Recently I have noticed once or twice that the one responsible for the maintenance in the house was causing some tension. This evening he was a bit late for the meal. The two of us sat still talking some time after the meal. He was in a cheery mood in spite of having had a busy and tiring day.

"You should start trading on the oil market," I suggested.

"Trading on the oil market," he repeated, somewhat taken aback. "Yes, on the oil market," I nodded.

"But, Don Bosco," he threw his arms up in the air. "Me, a religious?"

"Of course! Are you not responsible for the improvements in the house?" I asked him.

His astonishment grew.

"I can hear a few doors creaking. A bit of oil wouldn't do them any harm." I could see he was not with it.

"Look," I said, coming to the point, "I have noticed that people in the house are creaking somewhat..."

Now he understood it.

"A bit of the 'oil' of patience and kindness in our daily dealings with one another will work wonders!" I said.

…

Be slow in punishing, quick in forgiving and even quicker in forgetting.

…

24th of May, the Feast of Mary Help of Christians. Everywhere on the window sills and balustrades you could see tonight hundreds of little oil lamps in coloured holders burning away in a fairylike display. The boys were standing in the playground around our band of musicians. Then you could suddenly hear a peaceful melody slowly fading away. It was a unique and touching show with which to end a lovely feastday. We all felt as if we were in the clouds. Such feasts touch my heart. The whole house becomes alive and when I hear and see them so busy I feel very proud and I say to myself: "Don Bosco, you really have good lads!"

"To have no music in the house is like having a body without a soul," I often say. As an alternative to their studies at this time of the year, the boys can take on music, song and drama. Over and over again in the local villages they create an unforgettable impression. Recently the enthusiasm in one village was so overwhelming after a splendid performance that the parishioners led them to the station with their own band and to the sound of fire crackers...

On such occasions I find here, more than anywhere else, that they get caught up in a homely atmosphere. I like that immensely.

It naturally brings with it, its own risks. Discipline can at times break down.

"A bit of patience, they are under stress..." I say on such occa-sions, trying to calm down the assistants.

"Patience, once again, patience! Don Bosco is far too kind. We can't have chaos in the house!" I hear them say.

They are quite right. We can not have confusion and disorderly behaviour. I am adamant about it.

Even for our band. They know how keen I am on it.

Take, for example, the previous band. It was renowned far and wide for its marvellous performances. One time it allowed itself to be led astray by one of them. He was a capable and versatile musician. The others looked up to him, but he became rather self opinionated and would not listen to others. Round about the Feast of St. Cecilia he had dragged them, without my permission, into the town. There they spent the whole evening, carousing. Late that night they came back drunk. I was, to tell you the truth, infuriated but I let the night go by. The next day I called them all together. Only four of them came to apologize, the rest remained impudent and arrogant. I waited some time and then called them together again. No results. Though it caused me much pain. I disbanded the group of musicians and made them hand in all their instruments. I found that a terrible decision to make. Such a fine band. The band leader had to start from scratch again. How long would it take to get together such a first rate group! How-ever I set it in motion and got it going. What had happened could only be tolerated once. Someone who is incorrigible or will not obey and refuses to join in, I send away.

I consider myself to have been reasonable and they cannot accu-se me of having been wound up or in a rage.

To a group, that after that incident was discussing my decision, I said: "Listen carefully boys, Don Bosco is the most reasonable man on earth - make a noise, run and jump around to your heart's content, do all sorts of silly things, I can put up with that. All I ask of you is your good will and cooperation, just as I always behave towards you. But I cannot tolerate someone who drags his pals with him into things and situations that are unacceptable. I can then become very strict."

Now let me no longer dwell on this subject. The moments of joy the musicians give us far outweigh all else.

I must recall however another occasion when I happened to be away. A gang had gathered outside the gate of our Oratory. They be-gan to scream and kick up a din and shout all kinds of insults. The boys became frightened and kept silent.

When I came home and heard about this incident, teasingly I said to them:

"Why did you not get the band out? The next time they come get the band out behind the closed gate and get them to play a sudden loud tune. That will give them a fright.

They all had a good laugh.

…

I hope to make men of those boys who in time will turn out to be good decent Christians and honest citizens.

"You, Don Bosco, have the task," said the Pope to me recently, "of letting the world know that one can be a good catholic and at the same time a good and honest citizen."

…

April 1877

I have to keep to my room. I don't feel too well and I have lost my voice having just returned from my travels in France.

I visited a school of the Christian Brothers in Marseille. Just as with us I went into the playground and talked with the pupils. I was rather successful. Soon a group of boys gathered round me. We chat-ted and laughed. The rector asked me how I managed to win over the attention of the boys so quickly.

I talked for a while about the Preventive System, about friendli-ness, kindness... gentleness and patience towards the young...

I must no longer delay in setting out briefly the most important elements of my method.

…

June 1883 - Valdocco

(Don Bosco had recently returned from a tiring journey through France which lasted from the end of January to May 1883. He was dead tired. Shortly after that he met the rectors of the various houses and listened to their reports on the situations they found themselves in. They were not all pleasant things he had to hear. - M Rua)

"Sometimes I feel I do not recognise my house any more," I said to the secretary tonight.

He showed surprise but kept quiet.

"How is that the boys nowadays fear their superiors more than they like them?" I asked him. This has been disturbing me for months. Earlier on it was quite different."

He could not give an answer.

"Shall I tell you?" He gave me a questioning look. "The superi-ors and teachers work hard, very hard. And I am grateful for this. They do all that is possible to hand over values and to be good tea-chers."

He got back his breath after such praise.

"But the boys do not find this anything special," I went on, "after all, they say, that is their job."

The reports these days make me feel sad.

How often have I repeated that it is by what educators and teachers do during their free moments, that the young perceive if they have a heart for them. One has to find time for a heart to heart talk. That awakens trust in a person and opens a space to consider matters at a deeper level."

I am tired. I allow myself to drift along.

I have these last months felt my words seem to float off on the desert air.

Am I beginning to live too much in the past?

(These are the last of the stray notes or jottings found among the pages that had been left open and on bits of paper inserted in his notebook.

Some were the thoughts and observations that Don Bosco now and again had gathered and written down. Much of it was inspired by the small happenings in the house and statements which struck or disturbed him. No doubt sometimes quite consciously on the occasions when he was involved in meetings of the personnel, conferences and private personal interviews. He evidently wished to hold on to those ideas so as to incorporate them in a pioneer book dealing with his intentions and methods of education. - M. Rua)

IX

3th April 1874

Bit by bit, as the years went by, I was able to buy the whole of the Pinardi house next to that unsightly barn. I felt more and more the time had come to find a group of trusted helpers who would want to stay with me. The Sunday club or gathering, consisted of about five hundred members. The attendance became so big that I had to open others in different parts of the town. And the two or three boys with whom on a rainy evening I had started the boarding school, had in-creased now a hundredfold. Also the number of students in the school kept increasing. The house was no longer alive merely on a Sunday. Every day it was buzzing with activity that went on in the workshops and classrooms. Next to the original building a couple of new wings were added on. They cost a great deal of money. Regularly, I had to leave the house and was forced to go on a begging tour to pay off the debts. One more reason therefore why I had to find reliable helpers.

At first a few priests from the town were willing to give a hand on a Sunday and on a couple evenings in the week. They were not in-terested in doing so on a permanent basis. It demanded too much of them. "I have to find my fellow workers in my own school and from among my own boys," I said to myself, "it is the only way."

I did not let the grass grow under my feet. Every Sunday evening I invited the leaders of the various clubs to a meal. Afterwards I let them take some rest and talk matters over in my office. They seemed to like that and I was wondering whether they could form a group that would work and live together and especially whether they were of one mind and heart in caring for the boys.

At the end of the schoolyear 1859 I considered Michael Rua to be the one best prepared. A few months ago he had indicated to me that he wanted to become a priest. Just before our yearly camping holiday I said to him:

"Michael, I am looking for a couple of young men who might be willing to help me next year. Would you care to stay with me a few years?" Michael seemed quite keen.

In the course of the following months another four decided to join us. It wasn't easy for them as they were already following courses and doing exams. They were many and difficult. In the meantime they gave religious instruction in the house and supervised the boarders in their dining room. And if that wasn't enough they joined in on Sun-days with the work at the clubs. Dogtired they got to bed at night. One early Monday morning I came into the kitchen and I found John Cagliero lying asleep in an easychair with his socks still in his hands.

"Last night I did not have the energy any more to go upstairs," he said, apologetically, "I must have fallen asleep here."

I admired those young men.

During summer holidays we relaxed and set out with a group of boarders for a holiday camp near the Becchi. We camped in my brother's house where we could use the hay loft to sleep in. Then we roamed around the country side enjoying the relaxing and adventurous outings. Everything was of course on foot for three weeks long. In the evening they learned some lovely songs and short sketches, even some comedies I wrote for them. In the morning we went off to a neigh-bouring village led by the band. They looked forward to our coming. We carried the whole lot with us, from costumes to scenery and curtains. While the technical team put together the stage and arranged the costumes in the village square, another group of dressed up as clowns made their way noisily with drums and tooting horns through the streets with a gang of kids following them. In the evening the whole village came out to join them in the yearly open air festival. For years these camps were unforgettable highlights in the minds of these boys.

Until one particular day Archbishop Fransoni of Turin asked me to go and see him. In the course of our conversation he suddenly said:

"Don Bosco, you'll not always be alive."

In our houses we regularly speak about death especially if one of our youngsters dies. Nevertheless he surprised me as he said that straight to my face. After all I was only thirty four years old at that time. He was perhaps anxious about my frail health.

"If you are not careful your work will cease to exist when you come to die. That would be a pity! Do something so that it may conti-nue even after your death!"

My spiritual director, Joseph Cafasso, told me quite plainly:

"If your work is to continue you have to found a Congregation, John!"

"That's all well and good," so I thought, "but how?" They must think I am mad. How could I, in God's name, try to found a congrega-tion for educators at a time when in Europe and especially in Italy, re-ligious orders were being outlawed and persecuted!

A while after that I had an audience with the Minister Ratazzi. He was known nevertheless for his dislike of priests. The rumour went round that he could not stand religious. He stood firmly by the harsh law that drove them out of their houses and exiled them.

It was once more a rather strange affair. We seemed to get on well with one another. Talking to my friends about that recent encoun-ter with the minister they stared at me with utter unbelief."

"What! with that church persecutor," they exclaimed.

That he was willing to make an exception on my behalf was due, so I believe, to a stunt I carried out in a reformatory institute in Turin.

During my visits to the boys in their dingy cells I thought of a bold plan.

"Sir, I said to the one in charge of the prison one midday before going home, may I ask you something?"

"You can ask for anything, Don Bosco. You know that, except for my wallet" he replied smartly.

I'd like to suggest taking the young inmates on a day trip to the country." He threw his arms up in the air.

"But, Don Bosco, you can't be serious!"

"Those rascals will escape one after the other!"

"And what if I promise you, not one will run away?"

He saw I meant it. He was worried.

"You have to realise, Don Bosco, I cannot make such a decisi-on," he said, trying to excuse himself. "Such a proposition is for the police to decide. You yourself will have to ask the minister!"

"Do I!" I said, as I was leaving.

He hoped, of course, that a meeting with the notorious Ratazzi would put me off and I would scrap the whole business.

I did ask for a meeting with the minister.

"Your Excellency, may I ask you a favour?" I said, putting befo-re him my plan. He seemed well informed about my work for young delinquents.

"That seems to me to be an excellent idea," he said. "Alright, Don Bosco, you can take them out for the whole day. Will you let me know in good time? I can then arrange to send along my security offi-cers to keep an eye on them. In that way nothing will go wrong." This then was his compromise.

He noticed I was showing some reaction.

He added, "Don't worry. They will follow discreetly away back in the distance."

"Excuse me, your Excellency, I don't want anyone guarding them," I pleaded. "Otherwise it will not be a free day for those lads." I would like them to go on that outing with me alone.

Ratazzi strutted up and down in his spacious office.

"You won't bring even ten of them back!" he said suddenly.

"Don't be afraid," I assured him, "I will bring them all back without exception."

"But you will have to hang around in jail until the last one is back!" he threatened in a friendly sort of way.

"With pleasure your Excellency!" I promised him.

Ratazzi took that risk. And so one Sunday the neighbours got the surprise of their lives. Three hundred young prisoners marching happily out of the town. At the head there was I and an old donkey that carried the provisions.

It was an unforgettable day and a priceless sight. On our return that evening the young lads insisted I rode on that donkey after such a tiring day. So we marched singing and laughing through the prison gates to the utter astonishment of the governor and wardens. And they stood counting! Not one of them stayed behind!

Since then Minister Ratazzi and I have become, you might say, more friendly.

"How do you go about it, Don Bosco?" he asked me while sha-king his head.

"It's a matter of the heart, your Excellency, "I answered thought-fully. The state only punishes. I care for the young. That makes the difference, a very big difference."

Years later the eldest boys in the house and the new ones still spoke about that outing.

"Is it true, Don Bosco," the youngest boys in the playground asked, "that you were kept in jail all night until the next morning awaiting the return of a few lads who had absconded?"

"Don't believe everything you hear," I answered cunningly.

There had also been a cholera epidemic. Everyday we counted dozens of deaths. In one month there were eight hundred sick and five hundred dead. The town was short on helpers. With some forty or so of our oldest students I set out with them day after day with all our might to tackle that deadly disease as a ^'work of mercy.' As a token of appreciation Ratazzi came to visit the school. Since that time he arranged for payments to be made to cover the cast of catering and maintenance of buildings. One morning, to my great surprise, his nephew came into my reception room. He asked if he could become a student.

During a return visit I made, I thanked Minister Ratazzi for his financial help in the previous months. Being interested he asked how the work at Valdocco was progressing and also about its future.

"I hope you may live long" he said, "but should you no longer be here, what will happen to your work? Have you ever considered this?"

He too was thinking along those lines.

"What can I do?" I politely threw a question back at him.

"May I say what my idea would be?" he asked, leaning across his desk. "You should with a few priests and laymen form a congre-gation that could continue your work."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

Was that the man promoting the "Ratazzi law"?

I said that his suggestion or idea sounded very much like setting up a religious order.

"Two years ago you brought in a law decreeing the abolition of religious houses. And now you are suggesting the founding of a new congregation?" Ratazzi smilingly brushed aside my observation.

"If someone understands the law properly then I can deal with that," he laughed out quite loudly. "No, no, no, no one is going to prevent you founding a congregation, as long as you respect the laws."

"And what does this mean?" I asked anew.

"As long as you adapt it and modernise. Members of your congregation have to remain good citizens with all that that implies."

He noticed my questioning look.

"Paying the taxes, etc." he added cunningly.

"May I therefore be sure the state will give me permission?" I added somewhat hesitatingly.

"There is no law that forbids your type of work and no one will put obstacles in the way." Ratazzi said as he smiled and came up to me. "You will get the support of the state and the King! Because, my dear Don Bosco, your association can become a first class humanita-rian institute.

"I shall think it over," I assured him as I left.

Full of expectations I came back home. The talk with the minis-ter was the highlight of that day and particularly as it came from such an unexpected quarter. After all he had been a thorough anticlerical before that. Now I was doubly sure I could continue my work. How-ever there now remained a second unanswered question: Where do I find fellow workers and priests?

Some of the young men working in our houses were studying for the priesthood. No wonder our school in Turin was sometimes called 'a priests' factory.'

That success did not seem to please some people. I came back home once with a group of students from Florence. Some men sitting in our compartment were having a discussion among themselves. Pro-bably the presence of these young people in their compartment inspi-red them. For all of a sudden they started discussing about the educa-tion of the young. One of the more talkative ones, who had dominated the conversation, suddenly jumped up. With broad gestures towards his audience he maintained loudly that the Jesuit type of training and the seminaries ought to be done away with for good.

"If I were leading the government," he proudly said, "I would root out that hot bed of Jesuit training for which Don Bosco in Turin is responsible and clear out the whole lot of them. Instead, a cavalry regiment would take its place!"

I was sitting in the corner of the compartment busily writing something in a notebook when he saw me sitting there.

"Isn't that right, your reverence?" he said defiantly as he leaned on the partition and came in my direction.

"I doubt it," I said. "Do you know Don Bosco?"

"I've heard of him" he said, with a grin on his face and trying to get the approval of those around him. "He is the one training that lot of Jesuits. We don't want those monks!"

"Perhaps we do?" I retorted. Every sound was hushed. "I have not been that often recently in the Oratory but I have spoken with Don Bosco who considers himself to be the chief of the street youth. I have also seen what teaching goes on there. But as regards Jesuit training, I have not noticed anything at all. I have, however, the feeling that all he wants to do is to train those poor lads to become good Christians and citizens who are worthy of respect and appreciation!"

"But we are living in a new world, my dear man," he moaned. "The Middle Ages are long past."

Just then the train stopped and the noisy group got off.

Half a year later a man knocked on the door. I recognised him immediately, he was, I believe, an engineer in an important building firm. He had been sent to Don Bosco for a reference that might secure for him some big job in Rome.

"You will get it immediately" I said.

And, as I handed him the letter, he asked me if he could perhaps take some message for me to Rome.

"No" I said "but I would like to ask you one thing."

"Yes, of course!" he willingly assured me.

"Please don't say that Don Bosco and his boys at the Oratory ought to be kicked out otherwise that reference I gave you will not help you much, I suppose!"

You should have seen his face!

There was something outstanding about my leaders. Especially about five of them. They seemed to me promising and gifted young men. The lower forms looked up to them as roll models. One evening in December I took a bold decision. I called Michael Rua, John Cagliero, John-Baptist Francesia, John Bonetti and Joseph Lazzero up to my room. They enjoyed those evening get together.

"You know I do everything I can" I said, "but I really need some reliable and willing helpers. Otherwise the whole enterprise will col-lapse in a few years' time."

"That must not happen," they protested.

I put my cards on the table.

"All well and good. It mustn't happen but have you a solution?" No, they could not really think of one.

There was intense silence.

With a smile I looked each one in the face:

"Will you join me if I form an association?" I asked them.

Again there was this silence.

"What kind of association?" asked Michael Rua.

"Young men, priests, ordinary young men who would be willing to stay with me, who would form a group that promises to work for youth."

That evening as they went away quietly, so I heard later on, they had whispered to one another:

"Don Bosco wants to turn us into monks."

John Cagliero found the idea difficult to accept. For hours he had walked up and down the corridor. Then at long last he said to one of his friends: "Monk or no monk, I'm staying with Don Bosco."

I received a letter in which he wrote that he wanted to belong to the Salesian Congregation.

The first time I met him I assured him:

"Trust me, John, you have made the right decision."

Ten days later, on 18 December 1859, they were back in my room. That day I realised our congregation was secure for the future.

Now this morning, fifteen years later, there arrived the official papal recognition and approval of our congregation. How much ener-gy it has cost me! Obviously the opponents of our faith turned on me. I considered it a relief when the Grand Master of the Freemasons in Turin said to me on one occasion a few years ago.

"They make you sweat, poor Don Bosco!"

I stared at him.

"However I'll give orders for them to leave you alone now," he gladly informed me.

Now I met with opposition from another quarter. Everyone was having a go at me. That the greatest opposition came from a former friend was doubly painful.

On the slightest provocation I had to travel between Rome and Turin. Requests for explanations by cardinals and bishops and endless discussions. It was never satisfactory. It was a real Way of the Cross. Someone tried to console me with the fact that, at the start of the church, persecutions had actually strengthened its roots. There and then I did find that cold comfort.

I sometimes ask myself: If I ever had to start all over again and put in all that effort it has cost me, would I still have the courage re-quired.

If I had known fifteen years ago what I know now...

Good heavens, what a pagan I am! Would I without God's inspi-ration and strength ever have succeeded?

Come on, let bygones be bygones. Let me just say: Thanks be to God. Also for the hundred and twenty members I now have working with me.

X

15 November 1875

"Why do you only work for boys, Don Bosco?" This is a ques-tion I am regularly being asked these last two years by priests and bishops. Even good friends and benefactors used to say to me:

"Do you not find that one needs to turn ones attention and care to the upbringing of girls. It is becoming more necessary then ever. Have you thought about that?

I had in fact never thought about it. Thirty years ago I had met John Borel at the Institute run by the Marchioness di Barollo. She was in charge of a reformatory for wayward girls.

"Go and work there," Joseph Cafasso had suggested in the summer when I had finished my course of the Centre for Further Stu-dies. "During the week teach the girls and on Sundays you will be completely free to run the boys' club."

That was the condition. To all those who wanted to hear me I said:

"My main work is for boys." The Marchioness was kind enough to provide a couple of rooms for that venture. We were very soon overcrowded. Still it was better than being in the open! I cherished the hope she might even give me the whole wing for my youth work. She on the other hand had hoped I would eventually give up that work and devote myself completely to her institute.

I dismissed the idea.

I assured her: "You will easily find someone who would be willing to do that kind of work."

"What!" she shouted feeling disillusioned, "you would rather care for those unwashed ragamuffins than take on my work for girls?"

The discussion ended abruptly as I was dismissed.

That I thought, was the end of my apostolate for "girls." And yet the question remained: "Will you not do something for the girls?"

It must be about ten years ago when after some study course I was on a train sitting opposite a genial looking priest. He came from the village of Mornese. We got talking and he spoke about his parish. He mentioned there was a group of young women, in their twenties, who were interested in caring for the village girls.

"One of them is Mary Mazzarello," he said enthusiastically," a simple, cheerful country girl."

While still young and nursing some sick members of the family she contracted typhoid. She was so weakened by it that she no longer could carry on that hard work in the vineyards around Mornese. With her friend Petronella she had learned needlework at a dressmakers and now they were running a sewing guild. They gave regular lessons to the village girls.

"That workroom's success extends even beyond the village," Don Pestarino said with visible delight.

His story began to interest me.

To facilitate the work, they went to live together in a house close to the church. One cold winter's evening a widower with two children knocked on their door wondering whether the two little children could stay there. Mary and Petronella took those children on their arms and brought them in. They could stay. Gradually young girls from the vil-lage joined them.

"On Sundays they ran an Oratory such as you do in Valdocco," added Don Pestarino.

Don Pestarino couldn't be stopped. You could see that he believed in it.

We became friends and he regularly met me in Valdocco. One day he asked whether he could become a member of our congregation.

"Wouldn't you rather stay in Mornese?" I asked him. "You can do good work there and at the same time support and encourage that group of young women."

Now and again I visited that priest and the ever growing sewing guild. I also got to know those women and they got to know me.

A few days after the Epiphany of 1872 Don Pestarino was again on a visit to Valdocco.

"My dear Don Pestarino," I said "I think the time has come for you to suggest to them to start a congregation that would devote itself to working for girls in the same spirit as we do for boys."

Pestarino's face was radiant.

Yes, he would talk to them in my name.

The previous year on the 5th August, fifteen were ready to enter the congregation. Mary Mazzarello was chosen to be their first supe-rior.

Years ago it started. Regularly as clock work, letters kept coming in asking me to open new houses. In the beginning they came from within Italy. Later on also from abroad. The first one came from Belgium. Could we send priests and lay Salesians? I was dumbfound-ded and pleased at the same time. How could they there have heard of our initiative and method? An acquaintance, Count Saverio, on a tour of Germany, Belgium and France wrote about his contacts in Belgium. Priests regretted that they did not have works such as ours. They wanted to invite me to a Congress at Malines. In that way they hoped to be able to arrange for the establishing of such a Salesian work.

For the time being I could not consider that request We had in those years 1867 or thereabouts only sufficient staff for our three hou-ses and their Oratories. We had about eighty Salesians but the majori-ty of them were novices or those in formation. As far as I remember we only had fourteen priests.

Requests now came from India, China and America. More than fifty letters, from every part of the world, lay at one time on my desk. I pushed them aside. A man must not try to run before he can walk.

The previous December, Gazzolo, the Consul for Argentina, came on a visit. I had met him a while ago at one of our new establish-ments. With his colourful language and enthusiasm about Argentina he tried to persuade me to send priests to the capital Buenos Aires.

"Just imagine, Don Bosco!" he said "half a million emigrants are driven out of our country because of the misery. With their families they set out for South America to find work and happiness."

I was impressed.

"They live there isolated, without God or the law and they are exploited the same as they were over here," he went on to tell me.

I bent over the map of Argentina and Chile that lay spread out on my desk.

"Look," he said as he placed his heavy finger on the map, "here lies Buenos Aires. There your confreres can carry out remarkable work on behalf of the poor and abandoned youth."

"I shall have to put this to the council members of our Congre-gation," I said cooling down his enthusiasm.

"And look what a vast area lie further down in the Pampas, Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego," he droned on, "don't leave these people in the lurch."

Where has that time gone when as a young priest I wanted to go off on the missions?

"You have nothing to gain by going across the ocean," Joseph Cafasso had told me when, after my ordination, I intimated to him my longing to go abroad.

"Your place is here!" "Not only that," he said "what will you be doing months on a ship, you who are already travelsick after a quarter of an hour in a carriage!"

I never brought up the subject again. I was fully engaged in my youthwork. How fully!

"We are gradually acquiring more personnel," the Council mem-bers pointed out, as I put this matter to them, "let us go ahead!"

At the end of January that year I invited the Consul on the occa-sion of the Feast of St. Francis of Sales, our patron. He sat there on the podium in his smart uniform. He was heavily built with an enormous moustache and beard and sat between the Rectors from all the houses. The boys and Salesians had all assembled in the large study hall. The atmosphere was electric. I let him first of all talk about Argentina. They were totally absorbed in his interesting story. I thanked him and at the end, I said:

"Should anyone among you feel the call to go and work out there, give me your application in writing."

A wave of enthusiasm swept through the house. They all wanted to go. I selected a group of ten.

Who was I to send as leader of the group?

One evening I stood with John Cagliero in the playground.

"I have ten people in mind," I began after a moment's silence, "It is a young group. I would like to find a somewhat older priest to go with them to start the project.

Cagliero remained there staring.

"If you do not find some one, Don Bosco, and you think I could do this then I will" he said with a smile.

"Thanks very much," I said, "I'll think it over."

John Cagliero! How would the others react when they learnt that I had chosen him? Such an outstanding person in our house. Such a jovial and robust chap of thirty seven. A dynamic and humorous fellow!

"Without John you can forget about your youthwork," the leaders assured me, "he's so cheerful and go-ahead!"

They are right. When he is with the boys, no one would suspect him to be a doctor of Divinity and a professor. And a gem of a musi-cian, how we would miss him. I realised all too well what a heavy loss his going would mean to all of us.

I allowed him to ponder for a few more months on the decision.

"Do you remember what you said when I told you I wanted someone to be responsible for the project to go out to South America? Your answer was, may be, one of your great jokes?"

"Over such matters I never joke, Don Bosco," he assured me.

"Then be ready to go," I said, "the boat leaves Genoa mid No-vember."

XI

May 1883

"Here comes our money spinner," they say as they welcome me on my visit. Some have hardly got sight of me when they come run-ning up and press themselves against my carriage.

Does someone want to build a new church! "Ask Don Bosco, he will see to it. He knows the trick on how to touch hearts and loosen the purse strings!"

These last few months I have done nothing else but traipse up and down staircases begging for alms. But they should know how much it costs me to be putting out my hand for money.

When my brother Anthony got married and left the house, my mother agreed to let me start thinking of going to the secondary school in Chieri. I needed clothing, shoes and books. I dare not even think of the regular monthly fees I would have to pay.

I said one morning: "If it is alright with you, mam, I'm off to collect some bits and pieces in the village."

The very thought of having to go begging for money was repugnant. It hurt my pride. And it never became any better. Now-adays I think: "At least this money is being set aside for my boys. The humiliation I keep for myself."

With my satchel on my back off I went.

"I am the son of Margaret Bosco," I said, as I knocked on the door of the farmhouse, "I am going to Chieri to study for the priest-hood. Will you please help me?"

A few of them were well off. They gave me eggs, maize or some corn.

"My dear Rua, I'm thinking of going again to France on a begging tour!" I said to him one morning.

"But, Don Bosco," he started, "you have only just recovered and you want to go away in this condition?"

The news of my last illness had spread everywhere. Recently during breakfast the confreres read in one of the newspapers of my death.

I chuckled:

"One day they have me dying in Buenos Aires, then again in Marseilles and yesterday in Pavia, today in Turin. Well now I am going for a walk. As long as I hear with my own ears that I am dead I'll be fine!"

They laughed. Of course feeling a little tense.

"Don't go! Who is going to give you a cent over there! It's going to be a fiasco!" they tried to make me stay at home.

"What do you really want?" I asked, "do you not understand we cannot carry on without money? If I do not go how shall we manage to pay off our debts? And does the church of the Sacred Heart in Rome, now only half built stay as it is? I can find a solution for this in France."

For five months we went round France from town to town begging for funds. At the same time I had an opportunity to visit our Salesian houses out there.

At a garden fete for benefactors I had to give a speech. The la-dies and gentlemen present clapped their hands, obviously agreeing with what I had said. Then with a slight gesture I asked for a moment's silence.

Apologetically, I said "To continue looking after the boys I do not need the help of those who clap their hands but of those who can put their hands into their purses."

There was a genial chuckle in the audience.

Somewhat naugthily I said:

"If at lunchtime I only clapped my hands, my lads would come off badly."

There was general applause.

Although we feared the Parisians would not be interested in our appeal, it nevertheless turned out to be a great success. Even the news-papers wrote about the enthusiasm shown by the people.

All the places in the cathedral were occupied two hours beforehand. Afterwards the people filed by me for hours in the sacris-ty of the church. I was dead tired just listening to them.

"How many are still waiting?"

"About a thousand."

So I said "We have to stop. I cannot carry on."

To tell you the truth, I got a shock when I saw the last photo they took of me. I must say I am beginning to think my face draws more pity than enthusiasm...

Thank God, they respond well to my requests to be generous.

Still, more than once, I had to tell the unvarnished truth. Then I was afraid I might upset them and turn them away. But I found I had to be honest and say what was on my mind.

"I am begging for money in order to provide food for my boys and to teach them an honest way of living so that they would have a decent future. If you leave them to their fate and they come asking you for money it would be with a knife at your throat."

On another occasion I put it more bluntly: "The boy who grows up in the street," I said, "because we do not have the money or funds with which to bring him up in a reasonable manner, will first of all come and ask you for help, then he will claim it or take it from your pockets or purses. He may even do so with a gun in his hand!"

Nobody made an objection or left the place. On the contrary. Af-ter my talk they rushed forward to shake my hand and give me money.

My plain demands for social justice upset a number of priests. They wrote openly that my point of view was very much like that of the communists.

During the intervening days between those journeys there were some funny moments.

I arrived late one time. A huge crowd stood in the street. I step-ped out of my carriage and tried to get to the house on foot. No one recognised me. People were crowding up to the doorstep to meet Don Bosco. I could not get through.

I politely asked them, "May I pass, please?"

"No, no, we were here first."

I kindly repeated my request.

"If I cannot get through you have no chance of meeting Don Bosco," I assured them.

"Why not?" they shouted from all directions.

"Because I am Don Bosco!"

The bystander had a good old laugh and called out again:

"You so and so, are you trying to get one over us? Tell us an-other!" In the end I just walked away.

Also in Lyons the churches were full. When the assembling crowds held up our carriage, I heard the driver say:

"It is easier to drive the devil somewhere rather than this priest."

It went too far. Some people came along and stealthily managed to cut off with their scissors a piece of my cassock. I thought:

"Not all mad people are in the asylum!"

If only they could have given me a new one. No, I had to find another myself!

We are now on a train on our way back to Turin. Don Rua and Don Barruel are dead tired. Their eyes are shut. They are trying to think over so many happenings. So now I start writing. I like doing that on a train.

At the same time I am complying with the pope's wish. During one of my audiences with him he said:

"Don Bosco, I want you to write down everything that you remember of the events in years gone by.

He saw me, quite surprised, looking up at him.

"Yes, Don Bosco, I mean it," he said emphatically. "It is impor-tant. Your confreres and followers must know what time and energy was spent on what they are now experiencing and witnessing."

I could not fathom why he considered that to be so important. But he did not give up. At another audience with him, his first question was:

"Have you given further thought to my advice? Have you been recording the events?"

"I beg your pardon," I said "but I have had no time recently, my engagements tie me down so much..."

He interrupted me.

"If that is the case" he said, "then not only do I advise that you write, but I command to do it. To comply with my wishes all other bu-siness, no matter how important, must yield. Drop everything if need be. Just write."

I find being on a train an ideal place where you can roughly jot down odd or ongoing ideas. I can then further develop them when I am at home even though writing wearies me more and more. It's those eyes!..

In the last four months strange things have been happening.

"Do you remember the road from Buttigliera to Murialdo?" I as-ked Michael Rua.

He nodded in agreement. How often did we not take that road during the holiday time at the Becchi. Upon the hill there was that poor little house. It was there I had lived with my mother. It was through those fields I used to take two cows.

"If only those well-off ladies and gentlemen knew they were treating so magnificently, a poor peasant lad from the Becchi..."

Michael was gazing thoughtfully through the carriage window at the passing fields.

"The good Lord must have great sense of humour," I said.

Turin - Valdocco, 5th February 1888

I have to make the saddest announcement I ever had to in my life. In the early morning of 31st January 1888 our guide and father John Bosco died. We buried him a few days later. People talk about it like a royal funeral. The newspapers estimated that forty thousand people filed past the coffin where he lay in state in the Basilica. It looked as if the whole of Turin made its way to our house. Shops were closed: "Closed on account of the death of Don Bosco." His funeral turned out to be a triumphal procession ether than a sad parting.

I am writing this in Don Bosco's simple living room. I have been reading through some of his notes. A month before he died he called his secretary.

"Don Viglietti," he whispered "have a look in the drawer of my table. You will find there a notebook. You know why I keep it there. Do take care of it."

Now as his successor, I read it respectfully. While I'm reading, the boys who normally would be running around in the playground, are just sauntering around. Regularly they look up knowing that is where Don Bosco lived.

For a couple of years we had noticed his decline in health. After an examination a specialist said to him one day:

"Don Bosco, your body is worn out like an old coat!" You have worn it far too much. The coat can only look better if you leave it hanging for a while in the cupboard. What I am getting at is you need a complete rest." Don Bosco ignored such advice.

"Doctor," he sighed, "why do you prescribe the only remedy I cannot take. I have not got the time for that. There is so much to be done."

He returned once from a begging tour in the town and his secre-tary suggested he rested for a while before getting down to work at his desk. He reacted by saying: "I shall rest when I get to heaven!"

That was Don Bosco. Regularly I heard him warning his Sale-sians:

"One man can only do the work of one man. Nobody should do violence to one's nature to do the work of two, otherwise he will exhaust himself before time."

This obviously did not apply to him. As long I have known him he lived and worked at that frantic pace.

That takes its toll naturally. He was worn out before his time. His eyes were totally weakened by his working late into the night. For forty years the concentration needed to write, to read, correct and proofread dozens of books and all the while under shimmering gas-light, became too much for him. His legs were worn out by rushing endlessly to hear confessions, going out to preach or raise funds somewhere. Now that they were badly swollen they did not render service anymore.

"He is only seventy two and his heart is in a bad way," the people were saying who came to visit him as he was sitting there in his armchair, quite still, not saying anything and completely exhausted.

"He is like a lamp fading out through lack of oil."

In the house there was an air of depression.

In spite of his brokendown health he still received hundreds of people. An irresistible attraction emanated from him. He cared equal-ly for everyone and yet there was this feeling that each one considered himself or herself to be special.

At the beginning of December he allowed Bishop Doutreloux of Liege to come and see him. He came expressly to ask him to start a new house in the town he lives in. I remember it very well because Don Bosco had decided previously that it was not possible.

He said to me: "We do not have the personnel for it." And yet to our surprise he had on 8th December, the Feast of Our Lady, assured the bishop that he would as soon as possible send Salesians to Liege. It was the last foundation for which he himself had given permission.

The New Year 1888 began with uncertainty. He was suffering but said nothing. And yet in spite of the pain he was feeling, he broke the tension in the room by making a kind of joke of it. One morning while experiencing a breathing crisis he said:

"Do you know where you can buy a pair of bellows?"

"In Turin, I suppose. Why?" I asked perplexed.

Smiling and pointing to his chest, he said: "I have here two that are useless. That's why."

If his condition improved somewhat he did a little work listening with great attention to the letters that were read to him and then he dictated a reply. He deteriorated quickly towards the end of January. He was utterly exhausted. Whispering to his secretary he said:

"Have a look in my purse. I believe there are a few coins left in it. Will you take them to Don Rua?"

And, with a wicked little smile, he said:

"When 1 come to die I want people to be able to say: Don Bosco died without a penny in his pocket."

On the morning of January 30th the doctors warned me that he would die that night or at the very latest next morning. The rumour went round like wild fire! Everyone begged to be allowed to see him again and say good bye.

"I just want to see him!"

"He need not say anything!"

"I want to say just one word! Please!"

Could I refuse? In deep silence they shuffled along, asking for his blessing. After that came the boys. Hundreds of them. With my help he was able to bless them all.

Don Bosco.

I got to know him when I was eight. We were living a stones throw away from the club. Towards the end of my secondary educa-tion he asked me one day. "What do you intend doing next year, Michael?"

"I was thinking of going to work in some office so as to support my mother a bit."

"But you are a good student. Would you not rather further your education? Or do you want to give up studies altogether? "

"Well, you see, my mother is poor and my father is dead. Where will she find the money?"

"I'll see to that" said Don Bosco quietly.

So after my secondary studies in town I went at the end of September as a boarder to Valdocco. I wanted to stay with Don Bosco and become a priest. The next day we were to go on foot with him, his mother and about thirty other young boarders on the yearly camping holiday at his brother Joseph's farm. Just before setting out he called me and said:

"Michael, next year I sorely need you in the house to help us out. On our return would you care to be assistant and teacher to your companions?" I was delighted.

"Alright" I promised him.

On our return from the camp I walked for a while beside him.

"May I ask you something?" I said to him quietly.

"Of course." As I seemed to be hesitating he gave a roguish laugh and with a wink and a knowing glance, he reassured me "You really don't need to be afraid."

"Do you remember the first time I ever met you?" I asked. You were distributing some medals to some boys who were standing around you. When it came to my turn you made a strange gesture. You cut your hand in two and said: "That's for you. What did you mean by that? Dozens of times I had turned it over in my mind"

"Haven't you realised yet?" he asked me, walking a little further silently. "I simply meant: We would share everything. What is mine would also be yours. Mind you, also the debts, the responsibilities and the worries."

Forty years later, I have now completely understood the meaning. Especially as three years ago he appointed me on his death as his successor.

That night of 30th January we saw that he had reached the end. I whispered in his ear that we were all with him and wanted his final blessing.

"See to it," he whispered with great difficulty," that they love you." These were his last words to me.

That was Don Bosco! For when he appointed me to be the rector of the first Salesian college outside Turin he gave four pages of short pieces of advice to take with me. One of them left a deep impression on me. First of all in the straight forward original form: "Do your best to be liked before you try to win authority," it said. Later, after much experience and practice, these were the words of a wise man with an even bigger heart:

"Make a greater effort to be loved rather than wield authority."

By dawn he fell asleep. For ever.

In the campanile of the basilica, close to his room, the Angelus bell rang out its prayer across the roofs on that cold grey winter mor-ning.

Michael Rua

Important dates in the life of Don Bosco.

16th August 1815: Don Bosco was born at the Becchi, near the village of Murialdo which belonged to the Municipality of Castel-nuovo d'Asti.

John had a half brother, Anthony, who was seven years older and his brother Joseph who was two years older.

1817: His father died when John was only two years old.

November 1827: Because of the rows with Anthony John left home in 1827, before he was twelve years old, to go and work and stay at the farm of the Moglia family in Moncucco.

A year and a half later he came home again and began to take lessons at the house of the elderly parish priest, Don Colosso in Murialdo.

4th November 1831: John moved to Chieri. He stayed there for ten years. He followed lessons in the local school and lived in a boarding house. To maintain his keep he found all manner of work so as to earn some money.

5th June 1841: John Bosco was ordained a priest.

Autumn 1841: In the sacristy of the church of St. Francis of Assisi he made contact with young builders' apprentices. He invited them to a weekly get together. That was the start of his work.

12th April 1846: On Easter Sunday the Oratory moved to a shed at Valdocco which Don Bosco hired from a certain Francis Pinardi. Val-docco became his permanent place of work.

May 1847: One evening a young lad came and asked Don Bosco to stay with him. He was to be the first boarder.

March 1848: The first independence war broke out in Italy. Politics caused unrest among Don Bosco's helpers. The bigger boys in his Oratory allowed themselves to get involved. In the spring of that year Don Bosco was shot at through a window in the chapel. The shot missed its target.

1851: On behalf of young labourers Don Bosco organised in his Ora-tory a meeting to establish a workers' union.

1853: Don Bosco began to write monthly editions of "Catholic Rea-dings" so as to instruct the ordinary folk in their Christian faith.

26 January 1854: Don Bosco selected four young men (among them Michael Rua and Joseph Cagliero) who would in future be known as Salesians. They would take vows and apply themselves to helping and "loving their neighbour."

25 November 1855: Michael Rua committed himself for life to the work of Don Bosco. He was the first Salesian.

25 November 1856: Mamma Margaret died at the age of 69.

1867: Pope Pius IX made Don Bosco write down the story of the won-derful humble beginnings of his work.

August 1867: Don Bosco received a letter inviting him to send Sale-sians to Belgium. That request was made via Count Francis Saverio, the curate Jaspers of St. George's parish in Antwerp and Eugene Somers, of the parish of "Minimes" in Brussels.

It took another twenty years for Don Bosco to answer that letter.

lst March 1869: The Salesian Congregation was approved by the Holy See.

5 August 1872: The setting up of the Congregation of the Daughters of Mary of Christians who were impressed by and wanted to imitate the spirit and work of the Salesians. Mary Mazzarello became the first superior.

11 November 1875: The start of the Salesians Missions. With John Cagliero as the head the first ten missionaries set off for South Ame-rica.

1876: Don Bosco instituted his "Third Order", the Salesian Coope-rators.

1877: He wrote a rough draught of the "Preventive System" for the Salesian Houses. There were already nine pages of annotations but the work had now been interrupted and delayed because of urgent busi-ness and serious problems.

1883: From the end of January to the end of May Don Bosco carried out various journeys in France.

April 1886: Don Bosco travelled to Spain and remained there for thirty days.

8 December 1887: A few weeks before his death, Bishop Doutreloux from Liege visited Don Bosco. He asked if Don Bosco could send could send Salesians to Belgium. On 8th December he agreed to it. It was his last foundation

31 January 1888: Don Bosco died in the early hours of that day.

Back of book cover.

My secondary school teacher must have had it in for me when he remarked:

"What! You want to study Latin? You only get donkeys coming out of the Becchi, good ones but donkeys nevertheless!"

The class cheered and clapped when I as an awkward sixteen year old teenager, had to sit in the benches with those youngsters of the First Year. The teasing I got then really hurt me. I can smile now as I look back on that time. Contrary to expectations I managed to skip a few forms. I must have known a little more in spite of being "a don-key from the Becchi."

Taking everything into consideration, years of hardship and great setbacks, I think it has all been worthwhile. They left a deep impres-sion on me and for that I have been ever so grateful all my life.

What were Don Bosco's thoughts? How did he feel?

What influenced his life? What brought about that extraordinary development?

You will find that out as you read the touching account of the highlights of his life.

Assured then of this remarkable insight into his life, here is a chance to get to know Don Bosco as a source of inspiration, as an edu-cator and as a man.