Chap­ter IV – For Greater Things begins with a vivid recount­ing of Stanis­laus Kostka’s long jour­ney from Poland to Vien­na, a voy­age that serves not just as a phys­i­cal relo­ca­tion but as a for­ma­tive expe­ri­ence for the young saint. At near­ly four­teen, Stanis­laus rides along­side his broth­er Paul, both accom­pa­nied by their tutor, John Bilin­s­ki, and sev­er­al ser­vants. The route, span­ning over six hun­dred miles, unfolds as a blend of nat­ur­al beau­ty, hard­ship, and qui­et encoun­ters. They cross sweep­ing plains, ford moun­tain streams, and camp beneath star­lit skies along the Carpathi­ans, often sur­round­ed by land­scapes both daunt­ing and majes­tic. Each mile they trav­el offers Stanis­laus an oppor­tu­ni­ty not just to observe but to engage with the world around him through a lens shaped by faith. Rather than embrac­ing the aris­to­crat­ic detach­ment often expect­ed of noble sons, he opens his heart to every­one he meets. His inter­ac­tions show a rare blend of nobil­i­ty and humil­i­ty, and his matu­ri­ty sets him apart.

On the road, Stanis­laus fre­quent­ly inter­acts with peas­ants and trav­el­ers, offer­ing encour­age­ment, com­fort, and even his own mount to those exhaust­ed by the road. This ges­ture, while seem­ing­ly small, reflects a spir­i­tu­al instinct far beyond his years. He sees no hier­ar­chy in souls—only shared dig­ni­ty and suf­fer­ing. These moments reveal the ear­ly fruit of his Jesuit influ­ence and his pro­found inte­ri­or life. As they pass through vil­lages and open coun­try­side, his con­ver­sa­tions often turn to eter­ni­ty, show­ing an earnest yearn­ing for heav­en­ly union more than world­ly approval. Even hard­ened men such as char­coal burn­ers and fron­tiers­men are left stirred by the clar­i­ty and puri­ty of his faith. His qui­et con­ver­sa­tions leave behind not just polite­ness, but a whis­per of some­thing greater—of val­ues not dri­ven by pride, but by com­pas­sion and divine long­ing.

Though Paul, the elder broth­er, enjoys the ride for its adven­ture and nov­el­ty, Stanis­laus views it as a pil­grim­age of sorts. Every hard­ship becomes a reminder of Christ’s own path, and every kind­ness extend­ed becomes a small act of devo­tion. In towns where inns are scarce, and where the cold bites through their trav­el-worn coats, Stanis­laus does not com­plain. Instead, he prays silent­ly, giv­ing thanks for the chance to suf­fer even a lit­tle. His con­duct impress­es not only strangers but even some of the ser­vants, who wit­ness his qui­et endurance and gen­eros­i­ty first­hand. Unlike Paul, who often remains aloof or impa­tient, Stanis­laus finds a sense of kin­ship with those of low­er sta­tus, rec­og­niz­ing in their eyes a hunger for hope. This com­pas­sion nev­er calls atten­tion to itself. It sim­ply radi­ates through his actions, offer­ing a glimpse of sanc­ti­ty tak­ing root in every­day choic­es.

As they near Vien­na, the bustling roads fill with traders, pil­grims, and stu­dents, each pur­su­ing their own des­ti­na­tion. Stanis­laus watch­es them all with calm won­der, not out of curios­i­ty alone but with the eyes of some­one who sees divine fin­ger­prints in every life. Where oth­ers mea­sure progress in miles, he mea­sures it in moments of grace. His reflec­tions deep­en with each pass­ing day, and while he is still a boy in age, his spir­i­tu­al insight makes him a guide in spir­it. This leg of his life jour­ney shapes not just his world­view but the peo­ple around him. With­out preach­ing, with­out posi­tion, Stanis­laus man­ages to draw oth­ers clos­er to God. His mes­sage isn’t in sermons—it’s in sac­ri­fice, kind­ness, and a pres­ence that com­forts and chal­lenges all at once.

The jour­ney from Poland to Vien­na becomes a metaphor for a deep­er transition—from com­fort to pur­pose, from priv­i­lege to ser­vice. Stanislaus’s capac­i­ty to trans­form dis­com­fort into prayer, and unfa­mil­iar paths into sacred ground, tes­ti­fies to the pow­er of inward grace. What began as a noble fam­i­ly’s edu­ca­tion­al pur­suit becomes the cru­cible in which a saint is qui­et­ly forged. Every foot­fall on the worn roads of Europe brings him clos­er not only to the Jesuit col­lege in Vien­na but also to the voca­tion that would define his short, lumi­nous life. Through this jour­ney, read­ers wit­ness that the mak­ing of a saint often begins in ordi­nary places—with open eyes, a gen­er­ous heart, and a soul will­ing to walk wher­ev­er God may lead.