 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Narrated by Sean McKinley. God's Troubadour. The Story of St. Francis of Assisi by Sophie Jewett. CHAPTER XIV. THE CHRISTMAS AT GRETCHIO The beautiful mother is bending low where her baby lies, helpless and frail for her tending, but she knows the glorious eyes. The mother smiles and rejoices while the baby laughs in the hay. She listens to heavenly voices. The child shall be king one day. O dear little Christ in the manger, let me make merry with thee, O king in my hour of danger, wilt thou be strong for me? Adapted from the Latin of Jacopone d'Ato di in the thirteenth century. One night in December, a few years after his return from the east, Brother Francis, with one companion, was walking through the beautiful valley of the Vellino River toward Riedi, a little city where he came often on his way from Assisi to Rome. Tonight he had turned somewhat aside from the main road, for he wished to spend Christmas with his friend Sir John of Gretcio. Gretcio is a tiny village lying where the foothills begin on the western side of the valley. The very feet of Brother Francis knew the road so well that he could have walked safely in the darkness, but it was not dark. The full moon floated over the valley, making the narrow river and the sharp outlines of the snow-covered mountains shine like silver. The plain and the lower hills were pastureland, and, not far from the road, on a grassy slope, the brothers saw the red glow of an almost-spent shepherd's fire. Let us stop and visit our brothers, the shepherds, said Francis, and they turned toward the fading fire. There was no sense of winter in the air, scarcely a touch of frost, and the only snow was that on the silver peaks against the sky. The shepherds, three men and one boy, lay sleeping soundly on the bare ground, with their sheepskin coats drawn closely around them. All about them the sheep were sleeping too, but the solemn white sheep-dogs were wide awake. If a stranger's foot had trod the grass never so softly, every dog would have barked, and every shepherd would have been on his feet in an instant. But the dogs trotted silently up to the gray brothers, and rubbed against them, as if they said, We are glad to see you again. For they knew the friendly feet of the little poor man, and they had more than once helped him to eat the bread that was his only dinner. Followed by the dogs, Francis walked about among the shepherds, but they slept on, as only men who live out of doors can sleep, and Francis could not find it in his heart to awaken them. The sheep lay huddled together in groups for more warmth. Around one small square of grass a net was stretched, and inside it were the mother's sheep who had little lambs. There was no sound except the faint cry, now and then of a baby lamb. The coals over which the shepherds had cooked their supper, paled from dull red to gray, and there was only a thin column of smoke, white in the moonlight. Francis sat down on a stone, and the largest of the white dogs pressed up against his knee. Another went dutifully back to his post beside the fold where the mothers and babies slept. The Italian hillside seemed to Francis to change to that of Bethlehem, which he had seen perhaps on his eastern journey. The clear December night seemed like that of the first Christmas Eve. How the shepherds sleep, he thought. How they would awaken if they heard the peace on earth of the angel's song. Then he remembered, sadly, how the armies that called themselves Christians had year after year battled with the Saracens over the cradle and the tomb of the Prince of Peace. The moonlight grew misty about him. The silver heights of the mountains and the silver line of the river faded, for the eyes of brother Francis were full of tears. As the two brothers went on their way, Francis grew light of heart again. The sight of the shepherds sleeping on the grass had given him a new idea, and he was planning a surprise for his friends at Gretcio. For at Gretcio all were his friends, from Sir John, his host, down to the babies in the street. In the valley of Rietti he was almost as well known and as dearly loved as in his own valley of Assisi. The children of Gretcio had never heard of Christmas trees, nor perhaps of Christmas presents. I am not sure that in the 13th century Italians had the beautiful custom which they now have of giving presents at 12th night in memory of the coming of the three kings with their gifts to the Christ child. But in the 13th century, even as now, Christmas was the happiest festival of the year. This year all the folk of Gretcio, big and little, were happier than usual because their beloved brother Francis was to help them keep their Christmas tide. Next day Francis confided his plan to his friend Sir John, who promised that all should be ready on Christmas Eve. On the day before Christmas the people came from all the country around to see and hear brother Francis. Men, women and children dressed in their holiday clothes, walking, riding on donkeys, crowding into little carts drawn by great white oxen from everywhere and in every fashion the country folk came toward Gretcio. Many came from far away and the early winter darkness fell long before they could reach the town. The light of their torches might be seen on the open road and the sound of their singing reached the gates of Gretcio before them. That night the little town was almost as crowded as was Bethlehem on the eve of the first Christmas. The crowds were poor folk, for the most part peasants from the fields, charcoal burners from the mountains, shepherds in their sheepskin coats and trousers made with a wool outside so that the wearers looked like strange, two-legged animals. The four shepherds who had slept so soundly a few nights before were of the company, but they knew nothing of their midnight visitors. The white dogs knew, but they could keep a secret. The shepherds were almost as quiet as their dogs. They always talked and sang less than other people, having grown used to long silences among their sheep. Gathered at last into the square before the church by the light of the flaring torches, for the moon would rise late, the people saw with wonder and delight the surprise which Brother Francis and Sir John had prepared for them. They looked into a real stable. There was the manger full of hay, there were a live ox and a live ass, even by torchlight their breath showed in the frosty air, and there, on the hay, they a real baby, wrapped from the cold asleep and smiling. It looked as sweet and innocent as a Christ child himself. The people shouted with delight, they clapped their hands and waved their torches. Then there was a silence, for Brother Francis stood before them and the voice they loved so well and had come so far to hear began to read the old story of the birth of the child Jesus, of the shepherds in the fields, and of the angels' song. When the reading was ended, Brother Francis talked to them as a father might speak to his children. He told of the love that is gentle as a child, that is willing to be poor and humble as the baby who was laid in a manger among the cattle. He begged his listeners to put anger and hatred and envy out of their hearts this Christmas Eve, and to think only thoughts of peace and goodwill. All listened eagerly while Brother Francis spoke, but the moment he finished, the great crowd broke into singing. From the church tower the bells rang loud, the torches waved wildly, while voices here and there shouted for Brother Francis and for the blessed little Christ. Never before had such glorious hymns nor such joyous shouting been heard in the town of Gretcio. Only the mothers with babies in their arms and the shepherds in their wooly coats looked on silently and thought, we are in Bethlehem. Chapter 15 La Verna The story of the troubadour is almost finished. The last years of his life were years of suffering and sorrow. Now that the brotherhood had grown so large, many of its members were forgetting the teaching of their leader. Instead of serving Lady Poverty they were serving Lady Wealth or Lady Pride or Lady Fame, and they were little poor men only on the outside. In their coarse grey robes and their unshod feet. This change in his brother's well-nigh broke the heart of Francis of Assisi. He remembered the first winter in the hovel at Rivo Torto, when, in spite of cold and want, the little company had been so happy and so united. He remembered the joy with which they had built the huts in the plain, and had planted at their tiny gardens. It seemed to him that his children were scattered far and wide over the world, that they were no longer simple servants of all who needed help, but that each was striving for his own comfort and his own gain. There came back to him an old dream. He had dreamed of a little black hen, who had so many chickens that she could not gather them all under her wings. Some would be left out to die of cold or to be stolen by the fox. Even in his grief, Francis smiled over his dream. I am the little hen, he thought, and I cannot any longer shelter my brood. Besides his sorrow, Francis had much illness and pain to bear. His body, brother Ass, as he sometimes called it, was worn and weak, but his heart was brave and his heart was always sweet. In those days, sick people could not have the help and comfort that doctors and nurses have learned to give. There was no ether nor chloroform to put a patient out of pain, and surgery was horribly cruel. Once, when Francis was exceedingly ill, the doctors decided that they must burn his forehead with a hot iron. As the surgeon came with a terrible rod, heeded till it looked white and quivering. Francis shrank away fearfully for a minute. Then he lifted his hand and said cheerily, Brother Fire, thou art one of the most beautiful of all things, help me in this hour. Thou knowest how I have always loved thee. Be courteous to me to-day. The brothers, unable to bear the sight, had gone to the next room. A moment later they came back and Francis smiling on them said, Why did you run away in such a cowardly fashion? I have not felt the pain. He added, Brother Doctor, if it is necessary, you may begin again. One great joy remained to Francis almost until the end, the joy of being out of doors. His love for a life under the sky, his love for birds and flowers, for long journeys through the river valleys or among the high mountains never left him. One mountain he loved best of all. It is called La Verna, and it stands wild and beautiful among the Tuscan Apennines. A certain Count Orlando, to whom all the region belonged, had once heard Brother Francis preach, and had said to him, I have a mountain in Tuscany. It is a silent and lonely place where one might rest and think and pray. If you would like it, I will gladly give it to you and to your brothers. The old story says that Brother Francis was greatly pleased by this gift of the mountain. He thanked First God and then Messer Orlando, and he promised that when he should return to the Portiuncula he would send some of the brothers to Messer Orlando at his castle of Chiusi. This castle stood and its ruthless wall still stand where the road begins to climb to La Verna. So it happened that when Count Orlando went home he was visited by two gray brothers from Assisi come to see if, in the forest of La Verna, they might find a fit place for Brother Francis. Count Orlando received the two brothers with the greatest joy and friendliness, and because the mountain was filled with wild beasts he sent armed men to escort the strangers. The little poor men, with their guard of soldiers, surged about on the steep, rocky mountain till they found a small-level place like a natural terrace looking off to the southwest. Here, they said, is the right spot. Let us build huts for ourselves and for our brothers. The soldiers of Count Orlando began to cut down great branches from the fir trees and beaches, and with these they helped the brothers to make rude shelters. Then startled eyes looked out from the green shadows, and soft feet rustled away over the fallen leaves. And a thousand pair of wings made a whirring sound, for all the wild things of La Verna were disturbed by the loud voices and the ringing axes of Count Orlando's soldiers, and Brother Francis was not there to understand and comfort them. When the green, sweet-smelling huts were finished, the two brothers, with their guard of soldiers, went back to the castle of Chiusi to thank Count Orlando for his gift. Then they journeyed down to the plain of Assisi and reported to Brother Francis that the Tuscan Mountain was the fittest place in the world in which to think and pray. Brother Francis rejoiced at the account of the two brothers, and he thought it good that a company of the poor men should keep at La Verna the feast of St. Michael and all angels, which comes at the end of September. He started out bravely on foot, as of old, but during the long, rough journey he became so weak that the brothers were forced to ask help of a peasant who was riding upon an ass. The peasant gave his beast to the sick man and walked beside him all the way until they reached the sheer gray crags below the little huts that Count Orlando's soldiers had built. Here they rested under an oak tree before making the steep climb. Brother Francis sat looking about the place of which he had heard so much. And, says the story, as he was looking and thinking there came great flocks of birds from every direction, singing and beating their wings, and they showed signs of joy and welcome. They circled around Francis so that some perched on his head, some on his shoulders, on his arms, in his lap, and even on his feet. His companions and the peasant saw them with wonder, but Francis said all happy of heart. I believe, dearest brothers, that our Lord Jesus Christ is pleased that we are to live in this lonely mountain since our sisters and brothers, the birds, show such joy at our coming. The little company lived for some weeks on the mountain. Apart from the others that he might be more alone, Francis had a tiny hut, and here he spent much time in prayer. Only Brother Leone was allowed to come to him before dawn each day bringing his scant food. His only other comrade was a falcon whose shrill cry used to wake him long before light, but sometimes when brother Francis, worn and ill, lay sleeping, brother falcon, like a person discreet and pitiful, would be silent until later in the morning. The forest was full of singing birds, but sweeter music than theirs sounded sometimes in the ears of the little poor man, who, growing weaker and weaker in body, fixed his mind more and more on the glory and the joy of the heavenly life. Once, as he thought on these things, longing to know what heaven might be like, he saw before him a most beautiful angel with a veal in his left hand and a bow in his right. As Francis gazed, wondering, the angel touched the strings with the bow, and so soft a melody was heard that the spirit of Francis was filled with sweetness, and he forgot all his pain of body and mind. One morning, in the house before sunrise, Francis was kneeling in prayer not far from his hut, when a light shone in the heaven above him, and came nearer and nearer, and behold, it was a seraph with six wings shining and aflame. As a seraph came nearer in swift flight, he seemed to Francis like the figure of a man crucified. Two wings were lifted above his head, and two outstretched in flight, and two were folded down, covering all his body, and Francis was filled with fear, and yet with great joy. Then all the mountain of Laverna seemed to burn with the rosiest flame, the flame shone out and lighted all the hills and valleys far away, as if it were the red light of dawn. The shepherds watching their flocks were frightened to see the mountain all ablaze, and afterward they declared that the flame had lasted on Laverna for an hour and more. The light shone even into the windows of the low houses and little ends in the country round about, so that some mule-drivers who were sleeping at an inn not far away to the west rose and saddled and loaded their mules, thinking that it was day. As they went on their journey they were astonished to see the beautiful light fade away over Laverna, and, after an hour of darkness, the real sun rise. If the shepherds on the hills and the mule-tears going sleepily along the road wondered and feared because of the great light that was not dawn, the brothers on Laverna wondered still more. But brother Francis knew what the vision meant. Often in these last years his life had seemed a failure, and sometimes he had envied the martyrs of the early church, and even his own brothers who had given their lives for the faith in Africa and in Spain. Now the vision of pain and glory seemed to say to him, Be content, little or man, for not by the martyrdom of thy body, but by the fire of thy spirit, thou art made like to thy master Christ, and the brothers who wrote down the story tell how, from that wonderful hour upon the mountain, their beloved leader bore on his hands and on his feet marks like the nail-prints of the crucified. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Almost the first we know of St. Francis of Assisi is the story of the sweet-voiced lad who liked to sing gay songs of love and war. Almost the last that we know of him is the more beautiful story of the song which he made and sang only a little while before he died. He had been terribly ill, he was weak and sad, and in great pain. But one morning his friends heard the wonderful voice strong and clear as of old, singing words that they had never known. He had often sung the sweet old Latin hymns. But these words were Italian, and so simple that it seemed as if the singer had made them as he sang, and so he did. The weary suffering man was still at heart the troubadour. He was still, as he used to call himself, the lark. And, like the lark, he sang for sheer happiness and praise. It is not easy to put the quaint old Italian into English. The beauty and the music seemed to disappear. The last song of God's troubadour, the song that cheered his hours of pain and comforted the friends who loved him, was a song of the son. O Lord, we praise thee for our brother son, who brings us day, who brings us golden light. He tells us of thy beauty, Holy One. We praise thee, too, when falls the quiet night, for sister moon and every silver star that thou hast set in heaven, clear and far. For our brave brother wind we give thee praise, for clouds and stormy skies, for gentle air. And for our sister water, cool and fair, who does service in sweet humble ways, but when the winter darkens bitter cold, we praise thee every night and all day long. For our good friend so merry and so bold, dear brother fire beautiful and strong. For our good mother earth we praise thee, Lord. For the bright flowers she scatters everywhere. For all the fruit in gray in her fields afford, for her great beauty and her tireless care. It was through this song of the son that the last great joy of his life came to Francis. He was the guest of the bishop of Assisi and the same place where, so long before, he had gone with the story of his father's anger and his mother's grief. Bishop Guido must have been an old man now, but he was, as always, impulsive and hot-tempered. He had kept a certain love for Francis all these years, but with most of his neighbors he was often at odds. Just now a sharp feud was going on between the bishop and the governor of the city, and all of Assisi was in Tulmult. Francis loved his native town, and he loved peace and his heart, and this quarrel meant to him the deepest sorrow. His days were full of suffering, but he forgot himself, and only prayed that he might make peace before he died. One day he called a brother to him and said, Go to the governor and beg him to come with all the chief men of the city to the porch before the bishop's palace. The governor came at this request from dying Francis, and when the bishop stepped out at his palace door he found himself in a gathering of the very men with whom he was at strife. Just at that moment two gray brothers came forward before the two proud enemies and one said, My lords, brother Francis has made a song for the praise of God and he begs you will all listen to it, and they began to sing the song of John. They sang the praise of sun and moon, of wind and fire, of sister water and mother earth, and then their voices rose higher and sweeter in a new stanza that Francis and his longing for peace had added. We praise thee, Lord, for gentle souls who live in love and peace, who bear with no complaint all wounds and wrongs, who pity and forgive each one of these most high shall be thy saint. The old story tells that the governor listened standing humbly, weeping hot tears, for he greatly loved the blessed Francis. When the song was finished, no in truth he said, that I pardon the lord bishop whom I wish and ought to regard as my lord, for even if someone had murdered my brother I should be ready to forgive the murderer. After these words he threw himself at the feet of the bishop and said to him, Behold me, ready to do all that you wish, for love of our lord Jesus Christ and for his servant Francis. Then the bishop, taking him by the hand, lifted him and said, In my calling I ought to be humble, but since I am by nature too quickly angry you must pardon me. A few days later brother Francis was carried out from the bishop's palace and borne tenderly down the familiar road toward the Porti Unkila. At the leper hospital he asked his bearers to halt, and he looked back with dim eyes, lovingly, and lifting his feeble hand he blessed Assisi. Then the gray procession entered the forest and passed softly through the fallen leaves to the poor huts and the bright garden which had been the dearest home of the brotherhood. And here the troubadour, the little poor man, died, happy and high hearted, singing praise at the last for the welcome coming of our sister death. In Umbria Under a roof of twisted boughs and silver leaves and dune-day sky, among gaunt trunks where lizards howse, on the hot sun-burned grass I lie, I hear soft notes of birds that drowse and steps that echo by, unseen along the sunken way, that drops below the city wall, not of today nor yesterday the hidden holy feet that fall. O whispering leaves beseech them to stay, O birds, awake and call! Say that a pilgrim, journeying long, from that loud land that lies to west, where tongue's debate of right and wrong, would be the little poor man's guest, would learn the lark's divine sun-song, and how glad hearts are blessed. Say, Master, we are of overseas, confess that oft our hearts are set on gold and gain, and if, with these, for lore of books we strive and fret, perchance some lore of bended knees and sainthood we forget. Still, in one thought our lips are bold, that in our world of haste and care, through days whose hours are bought and sold, days full of deeds and scant of prayer, of thy life's gospel this we hold, the hands at toil are fair. Therefore forgive a soil each stain, of trade and hate, of war and wrath, teach us thy tenderness for pain, thy music that no other hath, thy fellowship with sun and rain, and flowers along thy path. Thou dost not answer down the track, where now I thought my feet must pass. With patient step and burden back, go brother ox, and brother ass, a mountain cloud looms swift and black, or shadowing stone and grass. The silver leaves are turned to gray, there comes no sound from hedge nor tree, only a voice from far away, born o'er the distant hills to me in treats, be light of heart to-day, to-morrow joy shall be. The glad of heart no hope betrays, since mother earth and sister death are good to know and sweet to praise. I hear not all the far voices sayeth, of love that trod green ombrian ways, and streets of Nazareth. End of Chapter 16 The Troubadour's Last Song End of God's Troubadour The Story of St. Francis of Assisi by Sophie Jewett