Chap­ter XII – For Greater Things begins with a piv­otal deci­sion: Peter Can­i­sius, see­ing both Stanislaus’s matu­ri­ty and the loom­ing threat of fur­ther inter­fer­ence from his fam­i­ly, rec­om­mends that the young aspi­rant con­tin­ue his jour­ney to Rome. There, far from the reach of his dis­ap­prov­ing rel­a­tives, he would be safe to pur­sue his call­ing with­in the Jesuit Novi­tiate. He is promised a let­ter of intro­duc­tion to the Father Gen­er­al, Fran­cis Bor­gia, and is assigned two com­pan­ions already trav­el­ing in that direc­tion. With this for­mal accep­tance in view, Stanis­laus is fit­ted with suit­able attire by the col­lege tailor—his old tunic, worn from trav­el, replaced by gar­ments that reflect his new­found place with­in the order. As he pre­pares for depar­ture, he car­ries not only cloth­ing and cre­den­tials but a grow­ing sense of pur­pose. Unlike his pre­vi­ous, soli­tary escape, this jour­ney begins with com­pan­ion­ship, encour­age­ment, and the bless­ing of his supe­ri­ors.

The trek to Rome begins around Sep­tem­ber 20, and unlike his ear­li­er ordeal, this pas­sage is marked by fel­low­ship and awe-inspir­ing scenery. They pass through the Bavar­i­an coun­try­side and ascend the Tyrolese Alps, where vast moun­tain ranges and crisp autumn air give rhythm to their steps. Stanis­laus takes in the world with won­der but keeps his soul anchored in qui­et prayer. He sees the snow-laced peaks not as obsta­cles, but as signs of God’s majesty. His com­pan­ions often find him thought­ful, at times silent­ly recit­ing prayers, at oth­ers smil­ing at the vast beau­ty sur­round­ing them. The hard­ships of the path—cold morn­ings, steep climbs, and rough shelters—fail to damp­en his spir­it. Rather, these phys­i­cal tri­als seem to for­ti­fy his resolve, shap­ing his exte­ri­or jour­ney as a mir­ror to his inte­ri­or ascent toward a more per­fect sur­ren­der.

When they final­ly reach the warm, bustling streets of Rome on Octo­ber 25, it marks not just a geo­graph­i­cal arrival, but a pro­found turn­ing point. The recep­tion from Fran­cis Bor­gia is gra­cious and affirm­ing. The Father Gen­er­al sees in Stanis­laus not mere­ly a boy of noble Pol­ish blood, but a soul ready to be refined in the cru­cible of devo­tion. He is wel­comed with­out hes­i­ta­tion into the Novi­tiate, ful­fill­ing the spir­i­tu­al long­ing that had pro­pelled him from Vien­na. The start of his Jesuit life is sim­ple, but it holds deep sym­bol­ism. In place of tur­moil and exile, there is now peace and belong­ing. Rome, once a dis­tant dream, becomes the ground upon which Stanis­laus will cul­ti­vate the virtues for which he would lat­er be known.

His inte­gra­tion into the novi­tiate is swift, and soon he joins a cir­cle of young men ded­i­cat­ed to the same path, includ­ing Claude Acqua­vi­va, who would lat­er rise to promi­nence with­in the Soci­ety. Though younger than many, Stanis­laus nev­er seeks recog­ni­tion. He immers­es him­self in the dai­ly rhythm of novi­tiate life with qui­et discipline—rising ear­ly, attend­ing Mass, com­plet­ing his duties, and carv­ing out time for reflec­tion. His humil­i­ty is vis­i­ble in every inter­ac­tion. He asks for noth­ing, yet he gives everything—his ener­gy, time, and silence. The oth­er novices quick­ly come to respect his sin­cer­i­ty and sense of pur­pose. His actions, though sim­ple, reflect an inner puri­ty that becomes impos­si­ble to over­look.

This chap­ter illus­trates more than travel—it reflects Stanislaus’s spir­i­tu­al evo­lu­tion. The jour­ney from Vien­na to Rome becomes a metaphor for his deep­er trans­for­ma­tion: from oppo­si­tion and iso­la­tion to wel­come and voca­tion. Along this path, Stanis­laus grows—not in fame or learn­ing, but in sanc­ti­ty. His tri­als refine his inten­tions, his humil­i­ty roots his faith, and his obe­di­ence shapes his char­ac­ter. He proves that divine call­ing can flour­ish even in youth, and that courage often wears a qui­et face. As he set­tles into his new life, his focus shifts from sur­viv­ing to serv­ing. His sto­ry becomes one of readiness—ready to be formed, ready to love more deeply, and ready, ulti­mate­ly, to die in the ser­vice of the One who called him.

By the chapter’s end, read­ers are left with the image of a young man who has found where he belongs. Rome is not just a destination—it is a begin­ning. With no applause and lit­tle cer­e­mo­ny, Stanis­laus steps ful­ly into the life he had pur­sued with such con­vic­tion. The qui­et strength of his arrival fore­shad­ows the impact he will make, not through ser­mons or pub­lic acts, but through a life of pure, unwa­ver­ing fideli­ty. His exam­ple con­tin­ues to speak long after his death, remind­ing us that the jour­ney to sanc­ti­ty may begin with a sin­gle step—but it is sus­tained by every faith­ful step that fol­lows.