CHAPTER XVI

Gemma’s Profound Humility

PRIDE SEPARATED man from God; humility brings him back to God. Pride is the fatal principle of every vice; humility is the fruitful mother of every virtue. The foundation of all perfection. Gemma, when on her death-bed, being asked by one of the Sisters in attendance what virtue was most important and dearest to God, answered with great vivacity of spirit, “Humility, humility—the foundation of all the others.”

In accordance with this doctrine I made humility the test of her spirit from the moment I was called on to examine it. Many persons, including even her ordinary Confessor, manifested hesitation, and all but doubt, on witnessing such extraordinary things in a simple child from the first moment that she entered on the way of perfection. “It may be so,” they said, “but can all this, so rarely to be found even among the greatest saints of the Church, be from God?”

My answer was: “This certainly is from God, if accompanied by humility.” I set myself to examine, and from the very start it became evident that for a long time this holy child had understood the importance of humility; nay, she had aimed at acquiring it before all the other virtues, and with her whole being studied how to practice it. In a word I found her to be most humble. There was accordingly no room for doubt, and, deeply touched by what I witnessed, I remained rapt in admiration of the blessed child, who thus enlightened by God, had learned so soon and so perfectly how to correspond with grace. To me her sanctity seemed more than proved. When thirteen years of age she made a course of spiritual exercises at the Convent of St Zita in Lucca. In a little notebook, she wrote of this retreat: “Exercises made in 1891, in which Gemma has to change and give herself entirely to Jesus.” Among the many and holy maxims inculcated by the preacher was this: “Let us remember, sisters, that we are nothing, and that God is all.” These words from that day forward made a profound impression on the mind of this child, and she never forgot them.

There is not a letter of hers, especially those written to her director, in which this sentiment of her own nothingness is not expressed with ever-increasing emphasis and renewed eloquence; thus she kept growing more and more in the knowledge of God and of herself until at last it seemed impossible to her for anyone to be proud. The truth is that during her whole life she never entertained a thought of self-esteem. “And how,” she used to say, “could I become vain? Was there ever greater madness than that?”

On one occasion I reproved and mortified her, and at the same time admonished her to be on her guard, lest she be taken unawares by pride. I also let her imagine that I had noticed some secret germ of this vice in her heart. Observe the terms in which she answered me:

“I have read your letter. O my God, have mercy on me! It is true, too true that pride is in me. Listen, Father. I no sooner read that word pride than the devil seized on it in order to drive me almost to despair. I had already passed a very bad hour, and at last, driven to extremes, I ran to the Crucifix and, prostrate on my face, asked pardon many times, and implored of Him to let me die there and then at His feet. But this was not granted me.

“A few moments later tranquility and peace suddenly returned. Poor Jesus! Oh how often do not cause Thee pain! Where am I going to end if I continue in this way? But no! I won’t be wanting any more, and I ask your pardon, Father. Don’t be angry with me: You shall see; I won’t do the same thing again. Your letter said what was true, and I thank you for it on my knees. But why let me trouble you so. Don’t you know that I have a thick head and little intelligence? Then forgive me, and I will never again displease you. What pain I must have given Jesus by these proud thoughts!”

Not even she could tell what those thoughts were, but simply she believed what her director had said. Then she continued:

“Father, ask Jesus to forgive me in pity for my poor soul. Instead of being always good, I have managed to get filled with malice and iniquity and pride. Yet Jesus has given me the grace to acknowledge this wicked sin, and now He enables me to correct it.” Then she further adds, “I tremble, I fear that Jesus will punish me because I have offended Him and displeased you. Do you know the punishment I fear? And I shall deserve it—to be condemned not to love my Jesus any more. No, no! Let Jesus punish me in any other way that He chooses, but not this. Father, if you still find pride in me, don’t delay, kill me, do all that is possible, but take the pride quickly from me.”

Her actions corresponded to her words. No one ever saw her ruffled; she neither boasted of, or made any display of her talents and gifts; quite the reverse, no one could equal her in modesty and in her efforts to hide herself from the eyes of others.

“For charity’s sake, Father,” thus she wrote, “don’t speak of me to others, if not to tell them what I am in reality. I will humble myself and change my ways, and ask forgiveness of all for having deceived them; Jesus Who is infinitely good will pardon me.”

I must now speak of her natural qualities. I have already said that they were many and exceptional: quickness and clearness of intellect, strength of mind and fixity of purpose; yet to see and deal with her, one would almost think she had no mind of her own, as she asked for advice and direction about everything. At school she acquired a great proficiency in French, drawing, and painting, but once done with school and study, she never was heard to utter a word of French, or seen to take her brush and colors in her hand. It was only after her death that it became known from her teachers that she was proficient in those things. She moreover wrote verses with great facility. But of this talent she was not known to make much use. Once at the request of a Religious, with whom she was very intimate, in less than half an hour she wrote a poem of fifteen stanzas in form of devout aspiration to God, directed to sanctify the principal actions of the day. It would be difficult I think to say what was most to be admired in these stanzas, the smoothness of the verse, the variety and naturalness of the ideas, or the piety of the poetess.

A very charming sonnet of hers on the happiness of life in the cloisters also came into my hands. I do not know of her having indulged in any other poetic compositions; on the contrary it is known that, having been requested to write one for a festivity, she stoutly refused to do so, notwithstanding many entreaties, saying that it was mere vanity or at least a loss of time.

This favored child was also gifted with a charming voice and a marked taste for music. Anyone who had known her ardent longing to praise her beloved Jesus and her Heavenly Mother, would certainly have expected that at least while alone at work she would have opened her innocent lips in devout song of praise. But no—no one ever heard her sing, even in an undertone. Do not these constant uniform practices in a young girl of natural vivacity and ease of manner constitute a strong proof in themselves of profound virtue?

Gemma’s Spiritual endowments were without measure, She had such extraordinary gifts that one marvels at their very description. All saw them and were struck with admiration. She alone seemed unaware of them, or at least gave them no consideration, except in order to humble herself the more before God and men.

How often did she not implore of Our Lord to withdraw from her those marked favors for which she did not believe she could possibly be fitted, and give them instead to others who would know better how to correspond to them.

“O Jesus,” she would say, “don’t let me do these things that are above me. I am not good in anything. And then I know not how to correspond to so many great graces that You hast given me. Seek, oh seek, someone else who will know how to do better than I.”

One of the many times when she was thus bewailing her own shortcomings, Our Lord, Who deigned to act as her loving Master in the school of humility, in order to confirm her the more in this virtue, made her hear in her heart these words: “Do what you art able; I will to make use of thee precisely because you art the poorest, and so great a sinner among all My creatures.” To these words she replied with ingenuous familiarity, “Then Jesus, do as You please and I am satisfied.”

On another occasion He let her see her soul through rays of His infinite light, in order that she might humble herself at the sight; and said to her in spirit that she ought to be ashamed to let herself be seen by others. Gemma not only humbled herself and was filled with shame, but she remained stupefied. “If you only saw”—she confided to me one day—“how horrible my soul is! Jesus has made me see it.” Sometimes Our Gracious Lord, in order that she might love Him with greater earnestness, appeared to disregard her, assuming an aspect of severity.

“Jesus,” she said, “scarcely looks at me any more, and if He does glance at me, He is so very, very serious that sometimes I am even obliged not to look at Him. It seems as though He drives me from Him. This is a real torment. Now, Father, I am almost abandoned by Jesus on account of my sins; and what shall I do? To whom shall I go? You, Father, ask Jesus, and hear what He says.”

Not only in the time of trial did Gemma feel unworthy to look at Our Lord, but also during the frequent apparitions with which He favored her when her soul was full of sweetness; so great was the shame that covered her in the presence of His Divine Majesty. Such being the disposition of this pure soul, grace was able to descend in torrents upon her without fear, so to say, of lessening her humility. The more she was favored, the more deeply did she descend into the depths of her own nothingness. I, on my part, can affirm that this holy child never spoke to me either in person or by letter of any special communication she had from God, that she did not end with some act of the most profound humility.

In proof of this let one example suffice, in addition to all that has been said. Our Lord had on a certain occasion filled her with such great consolations that she seemed to come from them born again to a new life. In giving me a short account of what had happened this is how she expressed herself:

“Oh how much ought, not I to marvel at the infinite mercy of God! Yes, Jesus is indeed my Jesus, all full of goodness to me miserable and most ungrateful sinning creature. He has again wrought the miracle of my conversion. Hence through the light that He has deigned to grant me, I have come to know my baseness.”

From these and like words that on every opportunity came to her lips and were expressed in her writings it is easy to understand that Gemma was not only dismayed at realizing her own nothingness before God, but also that she believed herself unfaithful to the immense favors she had received front Him, She was fully aware of the value and beauty of the gifts bestowed on her, and used to say that their price was the Blood of Jesus Christ. Hence her great confusion and contempt of self.

Here are some of her words in this connection: “I ought to think, dear Father, of all that is wanting in me in order to be a worthy child of Jesus; and instead ?. . . . (These points that are often met with in her writings are meant to signify so much more that she sees and feels, but is unable to express.) I ought to fight bravely, doing violence to myself; and instead . . . there is nothing left me but to humble myself beneath the powerful hand of God, and pray, without seeking my own satisfaction. Behold the month of May!”

She wrote again: “I am thinking of the great benefits I have received from my Heavenly Mother during these first years of my life, and I am ashamed, because I have never repaid the hand and heart that so lovingly bestowed them on me. Nay, what is worse, I have repaid with ingratitude all that she has done for me.” On one occasion, well knowing with whom I had to deal, I took the liberty to humble her by saying: “I cannot understand how Jesus can bring Himself to soil His hands in such a cesspit.” The angelic maiden smiled and was filled with joy, as though she had found in those words what she had been seeking for a long time, namely the best epithet that she could apply to herself. She stored it in her heart, and every now and then brought it out when speaking or writing, and even when ravished in ecstasy she exclaimed—“Oh Jesus, how is it that you wish to soil Your hands in this cesspit Gemma?”

And when her Angel Guardian appeared to her, she exclaimed, “Don’t soil your hands, I beg of you, in this cesspit.” To this epithet she used to add another that she herself invented: that of worth less being—“What is to be done, Father, with this worthless being?” And she meant to say, “With this discarded contemptible creature, become vile and repulsive in the eyes of God and man.”

And in prayer, “Dear Mother,” she would say in tears, “my dear God, this miserable being has to be lifted up, and when?” With this same sentiment in her mind, having learnt that I was going from Rome to Isola to visit the tomb of her Confrere Blessed Gabriel, she wrote me a long letter charging me with several messages to him. The principal one was the following: “Say to Venerable Gabriel these precise words—What am I to do with Gemma? Mind, say this, Father, and let me know his answer.”

Not only was the confusion of this humble virgin great indeed at finding herself so lovingly treated by God; it was the same when she saw herself benefited by those around her. In her exterior, as already observed, she knew not how to be complimentary; besides that, so great was her pain at noticing that she was the object of attention from others, that had they known it, they would—in order to save her suffering—have been watchful not to let her notice their solicitude.

“I am asking Jesus,” she wrote me, “for patience, not for myself but for my Aunt here, because she needs it with me. I would rather have nothing of all that is done for me. If you only saw, Father! In some things she prefers me to the others; she goes so far as to have my bed warmed for me. Now ought these things to be done for me? Will you speak to her? Heaps of things are done for me, who ought to be treated as worthless, and yet not even a thank you escapes my lips. Oh! if at least with my cold prayers I could benefit those who are kind to me! My wish would be that they should all treat me as a slave.”

It is well known how inclined devout souls, especially those who have made vows, are to call Our Lord their Spouse, and themselves His Spouses. Not so Gemma. Although she loved with all the ardor of her soul this Divine Eternal Word, true Spouse of our poor humanity, and found herself treated by Him with exceptional tenderness, yet she would not dare to call Him Spouse.

“Child, useless servant, foolish virgin, wretched creature”—these are the titles she gave herself, never “spouse”; at least when not in ecstasy. Two or three times only, when ravished in the highest contemplation, she was heard to call her dear Lord “Spouse of Blood.” In her letters, when she had finished what she had to say, she always wound up with these words, “Pray for me, who am poor Gemma.”

One day I said to her that she had better add a surname; that if she did not wish for any other she might take “Gemma of Jesus.” At such a proposal the humble maiden was wholly confused and mortified, as it seemed to her to be too great a pretension, and she made difficulties.

I insisted that such a name did not mean that she was worthy of Jesus, but that she did not wish to glory unless in Jesus alone. She seemed convinced. And from that day began to sign herself “Poor Gemma of Jesus.”

But it was not for long. The sentiment of her own vileness drove my suggestion from her mind, and she ended by forgetting it altogether. Returning to her old custom she henceforth signed herself “Poor Gemma.” This deep sentiment of her own nothingness made her recommend herself to the prayers of everyone to whom she spoke.

In this too her eloquence always found new forms of expression: “Recommend me to Jesus; also to the others; whoever prays for me will do a great act of charity. I ask your blessing; and then tell our confrere Venerable Gabriel to think also of poor Gemma.”

And in another letter—“If you only knew, Father, the means Jesus uses to confound my pride. Oh, if you were to know how wicked I am! Who will give me the virtue I need to attract Jesus’? Pray and get the others to pray that He may quickly help me to heal my great wretchedness, clearing my mind and letting me see through the horrible darkness in which I am enveloped, so that although I remain confused, Jesus may be glorified in my poor soul.”

Great was her embarrassment when others turned to her for help in their needs; and this was of frequent occurrence because of the high opinion in which she was held by many. To a confidential friend she wrote thus:

“Listen; I was greatly astonished that you in your letter should have obliged me to pray for that Lady. If you did not know me you could be excused; but now that you know me well enough! . . . I say no more. What can you expect to obtain through a sinful soul, full of defects, that is so little, if at all, concerned for Jesus? Nevertheless I will obey, but don’t trust me, because I am good for nothing.”

Her words to a priest were: “I will pray; be assured of that; but you know well that my poor prayers are weak and without force, and Jesus, Who is gone to hide, will not hear them.”

Thus she was accustomed to speak of Our Lord, when withdrawing His sensible Presence, He allowed her to languish in aridness—“Jesus gone to hide.”

Elsewhere I shall say more of this interior martyrdom with which from time to time Our Lord was pleased to try the fidelity of His servant. Here I need only observe that however great His severity, she never made the smallest complaint, being convinced of her unworthiness of all consolation. She thought instead that she deserved to be abandoned by God in punishment for her sins. This made her write with trembling hand to her director as follows:

“Let me tell you Father, Jesus at last is tired of me because of my great want of fervor; but He has reason to be so, therefore I thank Him always and adore Him.” The very inflictions with which the spirit of darkness tormented her so often, of which I must speak later, gave her a motive for self-humiliation in the thought that she herself through some hidden fault had provoked the Divine justice to chastise her in that way. She accordingly was not grieved thereat, but bore all as a just punishment, saying, “I know, Father, I know why Jesus lets the devil torment me thus, and I will tell it you in confession; but it has grieved me exceedingly. Even my Angel Guardian seems ashamed to stand by me.”

And it seemed to her that all in the family must have noticed her Angel’s displeasure. For this reason she once said to me with indescribable simplicity, “Perhaps you, Father, would think of it, and tell the Angel to keep hidden you know, and not let the others see him.”

In a word, everything offered this child of benediction an opportunity of humbling herself. When the tormenting pains of her stigmata oppressed her, she reproached herself in her heart, saying: “Look there, Father, how I am always behind-hand, how suffering deters me. Oh! what weakness of spirit! I would almost dare to choose from the hands of Jesus the kind of suffering that would please me! Pray for my soul.” If there was any upset in the family, she attributed all that went wrong to herself, and even in the event of any public disaster she believed unhesitatingly that she was its cause.

We have already seen how assiduous this favored child was in revealing the state of her conscience to her spiritual father. Anyone who did not know her well might perhaps have believed her to be one of those light-headed creatures who take the greatest pleasure in talking of themselves and their affairs. It was the reverse with our humble Gemma. The manifestation of her inmost thoughts cost her pains of death, and she would have preferred to be sunk in the abyss, rather than say or write a single word about the extraordinary things that Grace was operating in her. Let her tell us this herself:

“I have been making these manifestations to you,” she says, “for such a long times that the shame it causes me ought now to have passed away. On the contrary every time I have to write or confess such things, my confusion increases. I don’t know how to express myself. But it is not shame, it is a sort of fear.”

In reality she was influenced by both these sentiments; shame, because she would rather not have told any human being of things that could in the least redound to her praise; and fear, because she dreaded not being able to express herself clearly, and that others on her account might thus be led into error. “I fear,” she said, “that in the midst of the extraordinary things that happen to me daily, I may be duped, and also lead others astray. This I should regret beyond everything. Beg of Jesus earnestly to help me, and not let me deceive others. My fear is so great that on certain days I would fain be hidden from the eyes of all.”

But where was there room for deceit in this candid soul, who did not even know how it was possible to impose on others? She once said to me: “Father, I wish you to explain to me the meaning of the word ‘deceit,’ for I wish not to deceive anyone.”

If then, Gemma felt such great difficulty in manifesting the “things of Jesus” as she used to call them to her Confessor, we can imagine what repugnance she would have felt to reveal them to others. That great maxim of the Prophet Isaiah, “My secret to myself” was with her a rule of conduct; and none did know them except her spiritual director. And, by his express command, the pious lady who acted as her mother. But, notwithstanding all the precautions she took, her anxiety was ceaseless for fear that something might get known. “I do myself all the violence I can; but I fear that, on the occasion of some sudden impulse, others may come to know what Jesus wishes to be kept secret. In the street, in church I try to distract my thoughts, but I do not always succeed. Hence I may excite an estimation in others that I do not deserve.”

It was this great fear that made her so long to be enclosed in a convent. “In the cloisters”—she thought—“I shall be hidden, at least from the eyes of seculars.” All the time that I have had to do with this CHILD OF HEAVEN, as already stated, I have invariably noticed her indifference to all her surroundings. Without desires, without inclinations, without will, she seemed completely dead to self. Only in this one desire to be enclosed in a convent have I found her somewhat tenacious, and I often scolded and mortified her for it. There is scarcely one of her letters in which she does not return with earnestness to the subject.

“Father, don’t leave me in the world; the world is not made for me; it keeps me in fear. Come soon to Lucca, and shut me in. Oh why do you leave me exposed to the gaze of all? And what would happen to me if they came to know certain things?”

Thus she continued for a long while, until God made known His Will to dispose of her in another way. It is certain that she carried this excessive fear and reserve so far as to keep herself hidden even from her directors, except when she felt an urgent need to consult them. A holy reserve this, indeed; but how many holy things, and what a mine of important information regarding this child of grace has it not hidden from us!

What has been mentioned will go far to explain how Gemma felt wounded to the core whenever she noticed that anyone held her in esteem. She often had letters from very distinguished persons. Many who desired to meet her made arrangements with members of the family so as to succeed without her suspecting that she extras the object of their visit.

On such occasions she did all in her power to get out of the way and hide herself; but when obedience forced her to remain, it could be seen that in spirit she suffered violence, unless perchance she succeeded by some studied industry to pass as a simpleton. As an instance of this I remember that, while I was at the house, an eminent Prelate was announced as wishing to see Gemma. She, not being able to escape, immediately on being called ran and seized a large cat that was near, and appearing to be greatly delighted with the animal, fondling it around her neck quite childishly (a thing, be it noted, she never before had done), she presented herself to the Prelate. Her artifice succeeded, and he, shrugging his shoulders, showed that he despised her. Then Gemma, full of joy at having attained her object, sped away with the cat in her arms without making her homages to the visitor.

Blessed folly, that in the eyes of God is wisdom and virtue! Blessed humility, that keeping man in his place, moves God to come down to him and load him with graces! The second motive that urged this servant of God so to humble herself, was the great number of sins that she believed she committed continually, and the numerous defects with which she beheld herself as with a leprosy defiled.

Some think that the Saints, because Saints, cease in a certain sense to be human, and become, so to speak, celestial beings. Even the writers of their lives are frequently so mistaken. They would represent them as ideal beings, who have little in common with our human miseries. But they are wrong. The Saints are ideals, if you will, but truly human, children of the same father Adam, from whom they inherit a fallen vitiated nature. Grace lifts this fallen nature, and restores it to perfection. But this work is not effected at once; and therefore side by side with supernatural gifts, there remains the human with all its miseries. This human side is undeniable and by its contrast with the supernatural, the virtue of Divine Grace in the Saints is admirably manifested.

According to St Paul, “Virtue in infirmity is made perfect.” The Saints are subject to our weaknesses, to our repugnances, to our wearinesses and distastes in the practice of virtue; they too feel the weight of the flesh, and the impulse of passions; they too have great reason to fear and tremble for their souls, and need to do violence to themselves in order to remain faithful. It is because they so love God and are so deeply impressed by His infinite beauty, that every shade of fault seems to them a monstrosity, and every least failing a serious sin. Hence their tears, their penances, and the contemptuous titles they continually give themselves, as though they were great sinners and criminals unworthy to be allowed to live.

Gemma’s defects and those she called great sins were certainly not willful. Nay she would have passed through any torment rather than deliberately consent to even the merest shadow of venial sin. “I would not willingly-commit them,” she used to say, “but I am so wicked. I am on the watch not to sin, but no matter how much I strive, I always relapse. The misfortune is that I am not aware of it when I fall, and I only come to see it afterwards. Otherwise Jesus knows that I would not offend Him.”

Nevertheless in the tribunal of penance she knew not how to make any distinction between voluntary and involuntary faults, and with an eloquence that would have led the most expert confessors astray, she declared herself culpable in everything. There was an absence of the timidity, affectation, and sighs that weak souls but too often give way too; she told her faults with order, openness and precision of terms, distinguishing their number, species, and gravity. I let her speak, and then, reconsidering those faults, I had always to conclude that they were either virtuous acts or mere frailties.

After my experience with her for many years, and after having several times heard the general confession of her whole life, I am able to declare that this saintly girl never committed even one formal sin—that is with full deliberation; also that having lived twenty-five years in this corrupt and corrupting world, she took to Heaven unstained the robe of her baptismal innocence. The same thing has been attested by other confessors, whose authentic depositions I have before me as I write.

It is evident that Gemma judged herself differently from others, and in truth it needed time and labor to persuade her to the contrary, and to prevent her, terrified as she was at her own state, from falling almost into despair. “But can it be true,” she said to me in great anxiety, “that Jesus is content with my soul? Oh, how often I blush and tremble at seeing myself so unclean in His presence! I have turned away when He called me. Oh Father, do ask Jesus often to have mercy on my soul! Implore Him to pardon my sins. Tell Him that a thousand pains of body and soul will seem to me nothing if only I can make atonement for my faults. O my God, the chastisement will never be as terrible as I deserve; punish me as You wilt, but take off the weight of so many sins, for this weight oppresses and crushes me. Woe to me if for one instant I were to lose sight of my faults and my iniquities! Oh, what disgust I feel for myself! Jesus dishonored by me! The goodwill that I seem to have is my only comfort in the midst of so many miseries.”

These and similar words, repeated in a thousand ways, each one more expressive and touching than the other, came from the pen of this humble servant of God in almost every letter she wrote. This was specially the case when she wrote while in ecstasy.

Once Our Lord appeared to her in tears, and she as I stated when speaking of her unbounded simplicity, asked Him why. He was weeping. Later on one day, when thinking of this appearance, she said to me, “I know myself to be guilty of a thousand iniquities, and yet I had the courage to say, Why does Jesus weep?”

On another occasion, after some little family disturbance, having as usual attributed all the fault to herself, she conceived such horror of it that it required every effort and every art to restore her courage.

“But see what I have done, Father!” she exclaimed. “I shall end by forcing all to abandon me. Despair would fain lay hold of me. But no, my Mother, I do not wish to offend God, nor you, Father, nor the others. I don’t wish it. I don’t understand myself; there is something mysterious about me.”

She meant to say that she could not understand how a prompt and resolute will to do right could co-exist with the human frailties that seemed to her so enormous.

God Himself, Who willed to keep His servant in these humble sentiments, allowed the enemy to disturb her mind to such an extent, that he sometimes led her to believe that she was all but lost. Then it was that the poor child could give herself no rest, and used with trembling hand to write to her director—“If ever you see, Father, that my soul is in danger, or that I am in the clutches of the enemy, oh, be quick and help me. I wish at any cost to save my soul. How shall I succeed in this?” Now, as it pleased God to give some efficacy to my words, Gemma was constantly seeking to profit by them, and find comfort in her fears. “Oh Father,” she wrote, “you do not yet know the great need I have of your advice. Oh, if you knew the relief I find when I receive a line from you! For your words give me courage to suffer and shed tears. Help me! Help me! If you don’t you will see me soon reduced to me ashes of sin.”

See what sentiments her profound humility excites in the heart of this innocent girl, and with what delicacy of thought she expressed herself. The horror that Gemma had of sin was not inspired merely by its deformity and the eternal loss it entailed. It was much more the result of her great love of God, whom sin offended. And inasmuch as this love had immensely increased in her, so her contrition for the great offences of which she believed herself guilty against the Divine Majesty became immeasurable.

“How is it?” she was often heard to exclaim, when she thought no one was near, “that a God so great and so worthy of being loved, should be outraged by me! And who am I, to dare so much My poor Jesus!” This thought caused her to grow pale, and torrents of tears to fall from her eyes, as an eyewitness tells us. Even in her ecstasies, when Our Lord ordinarily gave her to taste of the sweets of Paradise, she reproached herself and fervently exclaimed, “Pardon me, Jesus. Oh Father, Father, forgive me my many sins.”

Although this sentiment of vivid compunction was a habit of her life, there were nevertheless certain days on which Our Lord made her feel it in a way that was altogether extraordinary. She herself besought the Divine Spouse with fervent supplications to hasten the return of those days, valuing more than any heavenly consolation, and as the greatest grace, that of being able to deplore her faults with unusual intensity. She kept this in mind, and counted the hours that passed between one and another of these ineffable grievings; and when she had gone through them she hastened to tell her spiritual Father of it.

“So many days had passed that I had not felt that sorrow for my sins. But Jesus willed anew to give me this grace. Yesterday evening I wept much at His feet. Oh how bitter were those tears, Father, and at the same time how sweet! And how great the throbbings of my heart, as if it would burst with compunction!”

It used to happen in this way—While the holy maiden was absorbed in prayer, all of the sudden a bright light flashed in her mind, and laid bare the most hidden depths of her soul. She then beheld herself all covered with the blackest stains of sin; and sometimes it seemed as if God was greatly incensed against her; at others He appeared sad and afflicted by the affronts she had offered Him. Such a sight made this tenderhearted girl tremble, and often losing her senses through the shock of excessive grief, she fainted away.

This inner heart anguish sometimes lasted for hours, sometimes even for a whole day. We have heard her call it bitter and at the same time sweet. This was because in her grief she knew she was able to offer her Lord some compensation for her offences against Him. Here are her words:

“This evening, Father, as usual all my sins came to my mind, and so vividly in their enormity that I had to do myself violence in order not to cry aloud. I felt greater sorrow for them than ever before. Their number surpassed a thousandfold my age and capacity. But what consoles me is that I felt such great grief for them, and I would not wish this sorrow ever to be cancelled from my mind or ever to grow less. My God, how immeasurable my iniquity!”

The words “as usual” in the foregoing passage clearly show that this grace of extraordinary contrition had become habitual with her whenever she entered into deep recollection and union with God. But it was so more particularly from Thursday to Friday every week, when it was given her to participate in the Passion of Our Lord, as she herself made clearly known to me.

“During the whole of Thursday evening in particular such great grief lays hold of me at the thought of having committed so many sins, all of which come back to my mind, that I feel ashamed of myself, and become greatly, oh so greatly, afflicted. I only find some solace in the little suffering that Jesus sends me, by offering it first for sinners, more particularly for myself, and then for the Souls, in Purgatory.” In this way, purifying her soul in sorrow and tears, this holy virgin prepared herself for the Divine communications that she received every week in those wonderful ecstasies.

When in September, 1900, I was invited to Lucca for the first time to examine Gemma’s Spirit, I found her engaged in writing by order of her Confessor a diary of all that happened to her in the practice of perfection. Being on principle opposed to such a method, as it appeared to me useless and dangerous to keep penitents occupied about themselves I advised that it should cease. Thereupon Gemma’s holy Confessor acting on my advice forbade the journal.

Very soon, however, I had to acknowledge that I had been precipitate and that my maxim though good in itself should not be applied to Gemma’s case. Having taken all that she had written and read it carefully, I found it full of celestial wisdom and of important particulars that would of themselves have formed a most edifying biography.

While thinking how to remedy the harm done, all of a sudden an idea presented itself, as if an inspiration, and I seized it immediately. Aware as I was of Gemma’s child-like simplicity, I said to her: “You according to your own saying, have committed an infinity of sins beginning from your earliest years. I know well those that you commit at present; now would it not be well that you should make me in writing a general Confession of the sins of your whole life with all their minute and special circumstances? Knowing then with what class of sinner I have to deal, I shall be better able to direct you in the path of virtue.”

The innocent child, whose most ardent desire was to have a sure guide, fell into the snare, although showing some repugnance at first to what I asked of her. “O Father,” she said, “what need have you of explanations? Of what sins am I to inform you? Think of all that the greatest sinners have committed, I have committed as many. And then, when you have read this paper and known the sins, you will be horrified and won’t wish to be my Father any longer; then indeed!”

But I insisted and this docile creature through pure obedience, after having earnestly prayed and besought her Angel Guardian to assist her by recalling to her mind all that seemed to her so wicked, set to work. She began thus:

“MY FATHER, Be prepared to hear all sorts—sins of every kind. . . . By my writing all, good and bad, you will be better able to know how guilty I am and how good others have been with me; how ungrateful I have shown myself to Jesus, and how I have given a deaf ear to the advice of my parents and mistresses. Now I begin, Father, Viva Gesu.”

While writing she had to battle continually with her reluctance to speak of herself. This repugnance and struggle increased as she drew nigh the end of her task; the more so because in order to tell the tale of her sins she was forced to relate this story of her whole life, and because she could not emphasize her ingratitude to God without manifesting the great graces she had received. This Manifestation was precisely what I had in view when setting her to write. Let us hear from herself how great her pain was at having to act thus:

“My Jesus, may Thy Holy Will be done! How I suffer at having to write certain things! The repugnance I first felt at having to do so, far from growing less, has kept on increasing and makes me feel a pain that kills. And then, wouldst You, O my God, wish me to write even those secret things that Thy Goodness makes known to me in order to humble me and keep me in my nothingness? If You will it, O Jesus, I am ready to do even this for Thee; make me know Thy Will.”

To the fear she felt at making known what was so repugnant to her humility she added a doubt which she expressed as follows: “But these writings, what use are they? For Thy greater glory, O Jesus, or to make me commit more sins? You hast willed that I should do this and I have done it, so You must see to it; in the Wound of Thy Side I hide every word of mine, O lovable Dear Jesus!”

The devil, no doubt, had a great part in Gemma’s anguish, for the good that her writing would surely produce was most hateful to him. Once he appeared to her visibly, and said with a bitter sneer: “Well done, write everything, do you not know that all those things are my doing, and if you art found out imagine thy Shame! What will then become of thee?” Obedience however triumphed and in a very short time Gemma had written a good-sized volume, nearing a hundred pages. But in it with what exquisite art did not the humble maiden strive to hide herself; placing the splendor of her virtues and God’s best gifts, as it were, beneath the shadow of the sins by which she declared she had profaned them!

To form an idea of this Volume one should read it. But Gemma’s efforts were in vain; her simplicity betrayed her, and where she believed she would disgust others by relating sins and disorders, she composed on the contrary a most charming biography.

I had gained my end. But Satan was enraged at it and used all the arts of his cunning to overthrow it. I have here to relate what seems incredible but it is a real and historical fact in which there was no room for the play of imagination. I will say without comment simply what happened to myself. Then let my readers judge of it.

Gemma’s Manuscript when finished was by my orders given in charge to her adopted mother Signora Cecilia Giannini who kept it hidden in a drawer awaiting the first opportunity of handing it to me. Some days elapsed and Gemma thought she saw the Demon pass through the window of the room—where the drawer was—chuckling and then disappearing in the air.

Accustomed as she was to such apparitions, she thought nothing of it; but he, having returned shortly after to molest her, as often happened, with a repulsive temptation, and having failed, left gnashing his teeth and declaring exultingly: “War, war, thy book is in my hands.” So she wrote to tell me. Then, owing to the obedience she was under to disclose to her vigilant benefactress everything extraordinary that happened to her, she thought she was obliged to tell her what had occurred.

They went, opened the drawer and found that the book was no longer there. I was written to at once and it is easy to imagine my consternation at having lost such a treasure. What was to be done? I thought a great deal about it, and just then while at the Tomb of Blessed Gabriel of the Dolours a fresh idea came to my mind; I resolved to exorcise the Devil and thus force him to return the Manuscript if he had really taken it.

With my ritual stole and holy water I went to the Tomb of the Blessed Servant of God and there, although nearly four hundred miles from Lucca, I pronounced the exorcisms in regular form. God seconded my ministry and at that same hour the writing was restored to the place from which it had been taken several days before. But, in what a state!

The pages from top to bottom were all smoked and in parts burned as if each one had been separately exposed over a strong ire; yet they were not so badly burned as to destroy the writing. This document, having thus passed through a hell tire, is in my hands. It is truly a treasure, as I have already said, of most important information which, had it been destroyed, could never have become known.