St. Maria Goretti

In Garments All Red

Godfrey Robert Poage C.P.

• Publisher: Hauraki Publishing
• Year: 2016
• eBook ISBN: 9781787201224
• Topic: Theology & Religion
• Subtopic: Religion

MARIA GORETTI was not yet 12 years old when she was faced with that momentous decision in July of 1902: Sin or death. Maria's answer to her assailant was clear: "No! No! It is a sin! God does not want this!" Alessandro stabbed Maria 14 times, and little Maria became another virgin martyr in the line of St. Agnes and St. Cecilia.Here is the beautiful true story of Maria's virtuous life that led to her heroic choice, of the Goretti family's terrible poverty, Maria's First Holy Communion, her great maturity in shouldering adult responsibilities, her forgiveness of her murderer, her lingering death, then finally her public elevation to sainthood in 1950—in the presence of her mother, her family and the largest crowd ever before seen at a canonization—over half a million people.A contemporary classic, this is truly a book for all—because people of any age will be inspired by St. Maria Goretti's purity and love of God—which triumphed over her love for life and even over the anonymity of death.

 

1.—JOURNEY FOR MARIA

“Assunta, I tell you, we’d do better to leave this place,” Luigi exclaimed.

But the mother only bent over the fire and banked the embers. The flame glowed warmly. Their three children, gathered about the hearth, spread their hands to the heat. Assunta straightened up and heaved a sigh, but said nothing.

“You know, I was talking to the Cimarellis last night. They are leaving in the Spring,” he continued.

It was like a shock to her! Assunta guessed immediately that her husband had reached a decision with their neighbor. He was trying to break the news gently.

For several winters now the idea of immigrating had tempted him. Luigi was a hard-working farmer, a man of action. On bad days, when snow and rain confined him to pacing the kitchen from window to door, from door to cupboard and back again, he could not help complaining about the land and climate. It was useless to argue with him, thought Assunta. She had tried it often. Early she had learned that discussion was futile. So now she was ready to accept what she could not prevent. She fought back the tears.

“Then you wish that we leave with them?” she asked.

Her voice was calm and slow. Luigi looked at her, but her eyes remained fixed on the flames. She seemed resigned. He had not expected so easy a victory.

“Yes, Assunta, we must. We can no longer remain here. Over there you will be much happier, believe me. In the neighborhood of Rome there are vacant farms and lands to be leased. We will find ourselves something worthwhile.”

The storm door slammed! A blizzard was at its height. Snow was falling heavily. Winters are severe in the neighborhood of Ancona, and though one might well love that country for its pure air and steep pathways, when storms arise and fuel is low, it can become a land of misery.

There was a long silence in the Goretti home. The two boys and Maria continued to warm themselves by the fire. Assunta passed a damp cloth over the table she had just cleared.

She was a farm-bred, healthy woman, in her early thirties, slender still, in spite of the loose skirts that hung in folds about her. Luigi watched her work. Her slow movements spoke more eloquently than words of the painful fatigue and discouragement. He understood that she had just accepted the hardest sacrifice of her life. She was attached to this village, where she had always lived, where her parents lay buried. She had known no other horizon than these mountain slopes. With him it was different. As a soldier, he had traveled over the Apennines and through the fertile plains beyond.

“Why should one kill oneself in these mountains steeped in rock, rubble, and harsh weather for reasons of sentiment?” he had asked himself time and time again.

The cold weather whistled under the door. The three youngsters were becoming sleepy by the hearth. Assunta was now washing the dishes. Luigi’s anguish mounted. With his fingernail he scraped a hole in the frost on the windowpane. A huge blanket of white covered everything, and the snow continued. There was no end of it. It was up to the height of the well now. The stone bench and the rose bushes were buried from sight.

Then a little hand slipped into his own. He lowered his eyes, and the hard lines in his face softened. It was his darling Maria, who had come to press herself to his side. He kissed her forehead and ran his fingers through her long chestnut hair. This little girl of six was his favorite. She had indeed a temper that broke out occasionally, but in her calmer moments she was so affectionate and sweet! She turned her limpid eyes to her father and begged him to take her in his arms. Her rosy cheeks reminded Luigi of warmth and sunshine out beyond the Apennines on the shores of the Mediterranean.

 

At length the winter passed. The snow melted and rivers rushed madly to the sea. Then one bright morning, Luigi loaded his cart, hitched up his oxen and drove slowly away from Corinaldo. All he had left was his household goods and a few hundred lire, for he had sold his cottage and his field. The two boys, Angelo and Marino, age nine and four, played amid the bundles of belongings. Assunta, sitting in front with Maria and Luigi, was nursing a newborn child, Alessandro.

The Cimarelli cart followed behind them. Domenico and Luigi had always been close neighbors. Theresa and Assunta, friends from childhood, would not have wished to be separated for anything in the world.

Together they crossed the Apennines. Together they followed the winding road toward Rome. It took them several weeks to make the two-hundred mile journey by ox cart. At times Luigi walked behind, deep in thought.

Maria watched the white mountain peaks fade in the distance. In her young mind was impressed forever that last picture—the great snowy heights of Corinaldo reaching heavenward.

 

2.—HOME IN THE SWAMPLAND

They arrived at last. But Luigi soon began to think it were better had they never come!

For two days the Gorettis and Cimarellis wandered the streets of Rome. To these simple farmers, the great city was a universe. They knew not where to go, helplessly wandering about, retracing their steps. A dozen times they repassed the same place without noticing it. They visited churches, prayed before the Virgin’s statues, lit candles, called on the saints. Yet, despite the prayers, a pitiless fate seemed to steer them toward their ruin.

From a chance acquaintance they learned that Count Mazzoleni owned rich lands in the neighborhood of Nettuno. He rented them out, they were told, at a reasonable price. Or better still, he ceded them on a profit-sharing basis. They were supposed to be good farms, lands that furnished a rich livelihood regardless of the year. There were swamps there, too, and the climate was damp. But that should not stop anyone.

“Why not go there?” the stranger suggested. “You can see for yourself. I know the place. It belongs to the district of Conca. Stop off at Ferriere and inquire. They’ll tell you where it is.”

Luigi and Domenico thanked the good man and set off without further delay. If only they had known what lay in store for them.

As they approached the marshes, the air became heavy. Heavy, too, was the cart in which the children, tired of their cramped quarters, began to complain. Maria alone was patient and quiet. With her little legs hanging over the back of the cart, she thought on many things. The heavy wheels rumbled on the pavement. She was not worried or concerned about where this strange adventure would end, and it little mattered to her where they would be by dusk. She noted that they were leaving the city. Little by little, all that great world was left behind—its many people, its beautiful churches, its great houses stuck close one upon the other. Soon they were out in the open country, and vineyards and fields of wheat and corn appeared. It was hot and she was thirsty, but father had said there would be no stopping. The oxen trudged along. Luigi was whistling in contentment. Domenico cracked his whip.

When they saw afar off the first houses of Ferriere, they sighed with relief. The journey had been long. Luigi stood up and peered through the trees at a turn in the road. He noticed that there was no church spire. But then, you cannot expect everything. He urged on his beast, and in short time they were in the midst of the poor village. No shops welcomed them. Not a door nor window was ajar along the dirty road. It was siesta time and apparently strictly observed. Luigi knocked three times at one of the houses. There was no reply, but movements within gave hope of an answer. The door was unbolted, and a wrinkled old lady peered through the opening with blinded eyes.

“Could you tell me where to find Count Mazzoleni’s farm?” Luigi asked.

The old woman was not quite awake, and it was necessary to repeat louder.

“Oh, you mean the old cheese factory!” She took a step forward in the doorway. “It’s over there on your left. The last place, you can’t miss it.”

They found the place all right. It was an oblong, tile-roofed building set on a rise of ground. All about it was flat, low-lying, swampy farm. The children piled out of the cart and began exploring the yard. The heat was intense. There were no trees about the place, nor shade of any description. Everything seemed dead. The hen house was empty and the stone watering-trough scorched and dry.

Luigi and Assunta looked over the farm, visited the stable and shed, went through the kitchen and two rooms of the house, then climbed the stairway to the upper floor. They met neither dog nor cat nor any other living thing. And thus without arousing anyone they took possession of Ferriere farm.

Next day the arrangements were settled. Luigi and Domenico became share-croppers of Count Mazzoleni. The Cimarellis took over the house adjacent to that of the Gorettis. They were not partners—just neighbors.

Assunta very quickly had the place cleaned and swept. Misery was stalking them, but hope was adamant.

It was a dangerous situation for this family, accustomed to the invigorating air of the mountain heights, to become stranded on the edge of the Pontine Marshes, which were damp and unhealthy, a hotbed of malaria.

But Luigi set about his work courageously. No longer was he working with little plots, one higher than the other, as at Corinaldo. Here, low-lying fields and meadows stretched out in flat panorama.

For the past three years the property had been neglected. The preceding hired man had lived on the spontaneous yield of the ground, without taking any pains to develop its resources. Neglected ditches failed to carry off the excess water which spread out in pools over the land. With great energy, Luigi tried to bring the land under control. Ditch digging occupied him for the rest of the summer. The water seeped off and plowing began. By Fall he was able to sow eight acres in wheat and barley. But such rugged labor in the heat and damp of the Pontine Marshes was too much, even for the robust farmer of the mountain country. His strength was undermined.

The first attacks of fever were light, and he paid no attention to them. Assunta urged him to rest. But Luigi could not remain idle and set out to work as though nothing were the matter. A few days later, coughing commenced and then he was obliged to admit his defeat. For a week he lay in bed suffering from bronchial trouble. But no sooner was he up again than he set about working on the roadway, and for two weeks hauled rocks and stone from the quarry. Then hedge trimming and firewood took up his attention. On through the winter he worked desperately, in spite of continued weakness and a bothersome cough. As soon as the land was in shape, he undertook repair of the buildings. Repair of roofs, cleaning of lofts, partitions in the stable...one task followed another, one project gave rise to others. He went and came without rest—without thought of the dread disease that was undermining his health.

Meanwhile, in the home, Maria was maturing rapidly. Her eyes were opening upon life, her hands learning the family arts. Before too long, death would come to pay a visit, and hardship already hovered over Ferriere.

3.—COMING OF THE SERENELLIS

Harvest time came. Luigi sharpened his sickle and set out early. He was counting on doing it alone. If he hired no one to help bring in the crop, there would be more sustenance for his family. That was his last imprudence.

In the first days, all went well. The sheaves, accumulating behind him, lent ardor to his task. For hours at a time he bent over the furrows, dripping with sweat, not pausing an instant. It was foolish for him to work so hard. Each evening he came back more worn out than the preceding day. He went to bed with hardly any supper. At this rate he could not carry on. Toward the en...

Table of contents

• Title page
• TABLE OF CONTENTS
• DEDICATION
• AUTHOR’S NOTE
• BEATIFICATION ADDRESS
• PROLOGUE
• 1.-JOURNEY FOR MARIA
• 2.-HOME IN THE SWAMPLAND
• 3.-COMING OF THE SERENELLIS
• 4.-MISUNDERSTANDING AND WARNING
• 5.-MARIA’S HAPPIEST DAY
• 6.-THE LITTLE WOMAN
• 7.-THE ANGEL OF DARKNESS
• 8.-EVEN TO BLOOD
• 9.-HOURS OF PAIN
• 10.-THE FINAL STRUGGLE
• EPILOGUE
• PICTURES
• MODEL OF YOUTH
• NOVENA TO ST. MARIA GORETTI
• REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER