So light-hearted and gay was he, so truly did his happy face express the
serenity and peace of his soul that it was almost impossible to remain for
any time in his company without catching something of this joyous spirit.
I feel sure that only those of dull and gloomy temperament can take
exception to what I am going to relate in order to illustrate our Blessed
Father's delightful gift of pleasantry in conversation.
On one occasion when I was paying a visit to him at Annecy two young girls,
sisters, and both most virtuous and most devout, were professed in one of
the convents, he performing the ceremony, and I, by his desire, giving
the exhortation. While preaching, although I said nothing to my mind very
heart-stirring, I noticed that a venerable Priest who was present was so
much affected as to attract the attention of everyone. After the ceremony,
when we were breakfasting with the holy Bishop, the Priest being also at
table, I asked Blessed Francis what had been the cause of such emotion. He
replied that it was not to be wondered at seeing that this good Priest had
lost his aureola, and had been reduced from the high rank of a martyr to
the lowly one of a Confessor!
He went on to explain that the Priest had been married, but that on the
death of his wife, who was a most saintly woman, he had become a Priest,
and that all the children of that happy marriage had been so piously
brought up that every one of them had devoted himself or herself to the
service of the Altar, the young girls just professed being of the number.
The tears shed by the Priest were therefore of joy, not of sorrow, for he
saw his most ardent desire fulfilled, and that his daughters were now the
Brides of the Lamb. "But," I cried, "what did you mean by saying that a man
married to such a wife as that was a Martyr? That may be the case when a
man has a bad wife, but it cannot be true in his case."
Our Blessed Father's manner changed at once from gaiety to seriousness.
"Take care," he said to me in a low voice, "that the same thing does not
happen to you; I will tell you how, by-and-by, in private."
When we were alone afterwards I reminded him of his promise. "Take care,"
he said again with some severity of aspect, "lest if you yield to the
temptation which is now assailing you something worse does not befall you."
He was alluding to my desire to give up the burden of my Bishopric and to
retire into more private life.
"Your wife," he went on to say, meaning the Church, whose ring when he
consecrated me he had put on my finger, "is far more holy, far more able
to make you holy than was that good man's faithful wife, whose memory is
blessed. It is true that the many spiritual children whom she lays in your
arms are a cause of so much anxiety that your whole life is a species
of martyrdom, but remember that in this most bitter bitterness you will
find peace for your soul, the peace of God which is beyond all thought
or imagination. If you quit your place in order to seek repose, possibly
God will permit your pretended tranquillity to be disturbed by as many
vexations as the good brother Leone's, who, amid all his household cares in
the monastery, was often visited by heavenly consolations. Of these he was
deprived when, by permission extorted from his Superior, he had retired
into his cell in order, as he said, to give himself up more absolutely to
contemplation. Know (Oh! how deeply these words are engraven on my memory)
that God hates the peace of those whom He had destined for war.
"He is the God of armies and of battles, as well as of peace, and he
compares the Sulamite, the peaceful soul, to an army drawn up in battle
array and in that formation terrible to its enemies." I may add that our
Blessed Father's predictions were perfectly verified, and after his death
when the very things he had spoken of happened to me I remembered his words
with tears.
As I write I call to mind another instance of his delightful manner which
you will like to hear.
Young as I was when consecrated a Bishop, it was his desire that I should
discharge all the duties of my holy office without leaving out any single
one of them, although I was inclined to make one exception, that of hearing
confessions. I considered myself too young for this most responsible work,
and wanting in that prudence and wisdom which are born of experience.
Our Blessed Father, however, thought differently in the matter, and I,
holding this judgment in so much higher esteem than my own, gave way, bent
my neck under the yokes and took my place in the confessional. There I
was besieged by penitents, who scarcely allowed me any time for rest or
refreshment.
One day, worn out with this labour, I wrote to St. Francis, saying, among
other things, that intending to make a Confessor he had really made a
Martyr.
In answering my letter he said that he knew well that the vehemence of
my spirit suffered the pangs of a woman in travail, but then I must take
courage and remember that it is written, _a woman when she is in labour
hath sorrow because her hour is come; but when she hath brought forth the
child she remembereth no more the anguish for joy that a man is born into
the world_.[1]
[Footnote 1: John xvi. 21.]