On one occasion Blessed Francis was complaining to me of the shortness of
his memory. I tried to console him by reminding him that even if it were
true, there was no lack in him of judgment, for in that he always excelled.
In reply, he said that it was certainly unusual to find a good memory and
excellent judgment united, although the two qualities might be possessed
together by some in a moderate degree. He added that there were of course
exceptions to the rule, but such exceptions were mostly of rare and
extraordinary merit.
He gave as an instance one of his most intimate friends, the great Anthony
Favre, first President of Savoy, and one of the most celebrated lawyers of
his time, who united in his own person remarkable keenness of judgment with
a marvellous memory. "In truth," he went on to say, "these two qualities
are so different in their nature, that it is not difficult for one to push
the other out. One is the outcome of vivacity and alertness, the other is
not unfrequently characteristic of the slow and leaden-footed."
After some more conversation with me on this subject, in which I deplored
my want of judgment, he concluded with these words: "It is a common thing
for people to complain of their defective memory, and even of the malice
and worthlessness of their will, but nobody ever deplores his poverty of
spirit, i.e., of judgment. In spite of the Beatitude, everyone rejects such
a thought as a doing an injustice to themselves. Well, courage! advancing
years will bring you plenty of judgment: it is one of the fruits of
experience and old age.
"But as for memory, its failure is one of the undoubted defects of old
people. That is why I have little hope of the improvement of my own;
but provided I have enough to remember God that is all I want.[1] _I
remembered, O Lord, Thy judgments of old: and I was comforted._"
[Footnote 1: Psalm cxviii. 52.]
A PRIEST SHOULD NOT AIM AT IMITATING IN HIS SERMONS ANY PARTICULAR
PREACHER.
I esteemed him so highly, and not without reason, that all his ways
delighted me. Among others, I thought that I should like to imitate his
style of preaching. Can it be said that I chose a bad model or was wanting
in taste?
Do not, however, imagine for a moment that I have ever aimed at reproducing
his lofty and deep thoughts and teaching, the eloquent sweetness of his
language, the marvellous power which swayed the hearts of his audience. No,
I have always felt that to be beyond my powers, and I have only tried to
mould my action, gestures, and intonation after the pattern set by him.
Now, as it happened, that owing to his constitution and temperament his
speech was always slow and deliberate, not to say prosy, and my own quite
the opposite, I became so strangely changed that my dear people at Belley
(where the above incident occurred) almost failed to recognise me. They
thought a changeling had been foisted upon them in the place of their own
Bishop, whose vehement action and passionate words they dearly loved, even
though sometimes they had found his discourses hard to follow. In fact, I
had ceased to be myself; I was now nothing more than a wretched copy with
nothing in it really recalling the original.
Our Blessed Father heard of this, and being eager to apply a remedy chose
his opportunity, and one day, when we were talking about sermons, quietly
remarked that he was told I had taken it into my head to imitate the Bishop
of Geneva in my preaching. I replied that it was so, and asked if I had
chosen a bad model, and if he did not preach better than I did.
"Ah," he replied, "this is a chance for attacking his reputation! But, no,
he does not preach so badly, only the worst of it is that they tell me you
imitate him so badly that his style is not recognisable: that you have
spoiled the Bishop of Belley yet have not at all succeeded in reproducing
the Bishop of Geneva. You had better, like the artist who was forced to put
the name of his subject under every portrait he painted, give out that you
are only copying me." "Well, be it so," I replied, "in good time you will
see that little by little from being a pupil I have become a master, and in
the end my copies will be taken for originals."
"Jesting apart," he continued, "you are spoiling yourself, ruining your
preaching, and pulling down a splendid building to re-fashion it into one
which sins against the rules of nature and art. You must remember, too,
that if at your age, like a piece of cloth, you have taken a wrong fold, it
will not be easy to smooth it out."
"Ah! if manners could be changed, what would I not give for such as yours?
I do what I can to stir myself up, I do not spare the spur, but the more I
urge myself on, the less I advance. I have difficulty in getting my words
out, and still more in pronouncing them. I am heavier than a block, I can
neither excite my own emotions, nor those of others. You have more fire in
the tip of your fingers than I have in my whole body. Where you fly like
a bird, I crawl like a tortoise. And now they tell me that you, who are
naturally so rapid, so lively, so powerful in your preaching, are weighing
your words, counting your periods, drooping your wings, dragging yourself
on, and making your audience as tired as yourself. Is this the beautiful
Noemi of bygone days? the city of perfect loveliness, the joy of the whole
earth?"
Why should I dwell more on his reproof? Sufficient to say that he cured me
of my error, and I returned to my former style of preaching, God grant that
it may be for His glory!