"Do you understand?" Francis asked me, laughing. "We, Brother Leo, are the snails; within us are the wings and the scimitar, and if we want to enter Paradise we must take the leap. . . . For the salvation of your soul, fellow athlete, jump!"
He grasped me by the hand, and we ran. Several minutes later he stopped, out of breath.
"Brother Leo, listen well to what I am going to say to you. Prick up your ears. Are you listening? I have the feeling you don't like the life we are leading very much. It seems oppressive to you, and you are fretting."
"No, Brother Francis, I'm not fretting. But we're all human. You forget this fact; I don't. It's as simple as that."
"Brother Leo, do you know what perfect joy is?"
I did not answer. I knew extremely well what perfect joy was: it was for us to reach this monastery, for the doorkeeper to take pity on us and open the gate, for a huge fire to be lighted for us in the fireplace, for the pot to be put on and heaps of warm food prepared for us, and for the monks to go down into the monastery cellar and bring up a large jug of vintage wine for us to drink! But how could I say such sensible things to Francis? His love of God had made him turn need inside out. For him hunger took the place of bread, thirst took the place of water and wine. How then could he understand those who were hungry and thirsty? I held my tongue.
"Even if we were the most saintly men on earth, the most beloved of God--remember well, Brother Leo, what I say to you: that would not be perfect joy."
We walked a little further. Then Francis stopped again.
"Brother Leo," he called, shouting because he was unable to make me out in the darkness, "Brother Leo, even if we gave sight to the blind, cast out devils from men, and raised the dead from their graves, remember well what I say to you: that would not be perfect joy."
I did not speak. How can you argue with a saint? You can with the devil, but not with a saint. Therefore I did not speak.
We proceeded, stumbling over the stones and branches which the rains had washed down onto the road. Francis stopped once more.
"Brother Leo, even if we spoke all the languages of men and angels, and even if, preaching the word of God, we should convert all infidels to the faith of Christ, remember well, Brother Leo, what I say to you: that would not be perfect joy."
My patience gave out. I was hungry and cold. My feet were killing me: I couldn't walk.
"All right, what is perfect joy?" I asked wearily.
"You shall see in a moment," replied Francis, and he quickened his pace.
We reached the monastery. It was closed, but lamps were still burning in the cells. Francis rang the little bell. I huddled in a corner next to the gate, frozen to death.
We cocked our ears and waited to see whether or not the doorkeeper would come to open the gate for us. I'm ashamed to say this, but since a sin once confessed is no longer considered a sin, I'll admit that I was silently cursing the fate which tied me to this terrifying wild beast of God, this Francis. Though he did not know it, he was like the leprous king of Jerusalem--a handful of flesh and bone, with God, God in His entirety, sitting inside. That was why he could endure, why he never felt hunger or thirst or cold, why the stones which people threw at him were like a sprinkling of lemon flowers. But I, I was a man, a reasonable man, and a wretched one. I felt hunger, and the stones, for me, were stones.
An inner door opened. Heavy footsteps resounded in the courtyard. It's the doorkeeper, I said to myself. He's taken pity on us. Glory be to God!
"Who's here at such an hour?" growled an angry voice.
"Open the gate, Brother Doorkeeper," Francis replied in a sweet, gentle tone. "We are two humble servants of Christ who are hungry and cold and who seek refuge tonight in this holy monastery."
"Go about your business!" bellowed the voice. "You-- servants of God? And what are you doing roaming about I threw my staff to the ground and crossed my hands upon my breast.
"Strike, Brother Doorkeeper," I said, my lips trembling with furor. "Strike, and may the wrath of God deal with you!"
The doorkeeper laughed at our words. His breath smelled of wine and garlic. He began to pound me with his cudgel and I heard my bones cracking. Francis, who was sitting on the ground now, in the mud, kept talking to me, giving me courage.
"Do not cry out, Brother Leo; do not curse, do not lift a hand in defense. Think of the royal leper, think of Christ when He was being crucified. Fortify your heart."
The doorkeeper finished his job. Giving each of us a final kick, he locked and barred the door.
I huddled in my corner, dying of pain. I was cursing to myself, but I did not dare open my mouth. Francis drew himself to where I had fallen, took hold of my hand tenderly, and stroked my painful shoulders. He nestled in the corner with me and we hugged each other to become warm.
"This, Brother Leo," he whispered in my ear as though not wanting anyone to hear, "this, Brother Leo, is perfect joy."
Now he had carried the thing too far! "Perfect joy?" I screamed, flying into a rage. "I beg your pardon, Brother Francis, but to me it sounds more like perfect impudence. The heart of man is impudent when it joyfully accepts nothing but what is unpleasant. God says to it, 'I brought you food to eat, wine to drink, fire to keep you warm,' and the heart of man answers, most insolently, 'Sorry, I don't want them!' When is it going to say Yes, the pretentious idiot!"
"As soon as God opens His arms, Brother Leo, and tells it to come. The heart shouts No! No! No! to the small, insignificant joys. And why do you think it does this? To save itself in order to reach the great Yes."
"Can't it arrive there any other way?"
"I cannot. The great Yes is formed only by these many No's."
"In that case why did God create the earth's riches? Why did He lay such a splendid banquet before us?"
"In order to test our stamina, Brother Leo."
"What's the use of arguing with you, Brother Francis? Let me go to sleep. Slumber is more merciful than God--maybe I'll dream about loaves of bread."
I rolled up into a ball, closed my eyes, and along came all- merciful sleep, God bless it! and enveloped me.
The next morning at dawn someone began to push me. It was Francis. I awoke.
"Listen, Brother Leo, he's coming!"
From inside the courtyard came the sound of the approaching doorkeeper, the keys clinking at his belt. The door opened.
"Glory be to God," I murmured. "Our troubles are over." I had already begun to lift my foot in order to cross the threshold.
Francis turned and looked at me, his twinkling eyes filled with saintly cunning.
"Shall we go in?" he asked me. "What do you think, little lion of God, shall we go in?"
I understood. He wanted to tease me because I was hungry and unable to resist the call of my stomach. My self-respect, however, got the best of my hunger.
"No," I answered, "let's not. I'm not going in!" I turned away.
Francis fell into my arms. "Bravo, Brother Leo. That's the way I want you: a true stalwart!"
He turned to the monastery. "Farewell, holy inhospitable monastery. Brother Leo has no need of you; he is not going in!"
Crossing ourselves, we set off once again on our journey. Francis was so happy, he flew. The sun had come out; the rain had stopped. Trees and stones were laughing, the world glistening, newly washed. Two blackbirds in front of us shook their drenched wings, looked at us, and whistled, as though taunting us. Yes, that's what they were doing: taunting us. But Francis waved his hand and greeted them.
"These are the monks of the bird kingdom," he said. "Look how they're dressed!"
I laughed. "You're right, Brother Francis. Really, in a monastery near Perugia I once saw a blackbird which had been trained to chant the Kyrie eleison! A true monk."
Francis sighed. "Oh, if only someone could teach the birds and oxen, the sheep, dogs, wolves, and wild boars to say just those two words: 'Kyrie eleison'! If only the whole of Creation could awake in this way each morning, so that from the depths of the forest, fro
m every tree, every stable, every courtyard you would hear all the animals glorifying God, crying, 'Kyrie eleison'!"
"First let's teach men to say those two words," I said. "I don't see why the birds and animals need learn them. Birds and animals don't sin."
Francis stared at me with protruding eyes. "Yes, what you say is correct, Brother Leo. Of all living things man is the only one that sins."
"Yes, but on the other hand, Brother Francis, man is the only one who can surpass his nature and enter heaven. The animals and birds can't do that."
"Don't be too sure," protested Francis. "No one knows the full extent of God's mercy."
In this way, talking about God, birds, and man, we arrived one morning outside our beloved Assisi. Her towers, campaniles, citadel, olive groves, cypresses filled our eyes with bliss.
Tears blurred Francis' sight. "I am made from this soil," he said. "I am a clay lamp made from this soil."
Bending down, he scooped up some dirt in his hand and kissed it.
"I owe a handful of soil to Assisi; I shall return it to her. No matter where I die, Brother Leo, I want you to bring me here to be buried."
We had turned into a narrow, covered alleyway. It was Sunday today, and the bells were tolling the end of Mass. Francis had hardly finished what he was saying when he halted abruptly and leaned for support against the wall, breathing laboriously, as though suffocating. I had been running behind him, and all at once my breath was taken away also. Standing in front of us was Count Scifi's daughter. She was dressed completely in white except for a red rose on her bosom--but how pale she was now, how sad, how dark the rings around her eyes. All the time since we had last seen her that day at San Damiano's, how many nights she must have stayed awake and wept! The little girl had suddenly become a woman!
The nurse followed behind her, old and dignified. Seeing her mistress stop, she stopped too, and waited. The morning was bathed in sunlight and they had taken the longest possible route back from church so that they could reach the great house as late as possible and thus delay enclosing themselves within.
As soon as Clara saw Francis her knees gave way beneath her. She wanted to turn back, but was too ashamed. Forcing herself to be brave, she raised her eyes and gazed directly into his with a severe, melancholy look. Then she took a step toward him, stretched her head forward, and stared at his rags, his naked bespattered feet, his starved face. She shook her head scornfully.
"Aren't you ashamed?" she asked him in a stifled, despairing voice.
"Ashamed? Ashamed in front of whom?"
"Your father, your mother, me. Why do you go to the places you do? Why do you shout what you shout? Why do you dance in the middle of the street like a carnival acrobat?"
Francis listened with bowed head, stooped, half-kneeling. He did not speak. Clara leaned over him, her eyes brimming with tears.
"I feel sorry for you," she said fervently. "When I think of you my heart breaks."
"Mine too . . ." said Francis, but so softly that only I, supporting him as I was to keep him from falling, managed to hear.
Clara gave a start. Her face became radiant. From the motion of Francis' lips she had divined his words.
"Francis . . . you think of me too?" she asked, her bosom swelling.
Francis raised his head.
"Never!" he cried, and he extended his arm as though to direct her to one side so that he could pass.
The girl uttered a shrill cry. The nurse ran to support her, but Clara pushed the old lady away. Her eyes flashing, she raised her hand:
"Accursed is he who acts contrary to the will of God," she said in a fierce voice. "Accursed is he who preaches that we should not marry, should not have children and build a home; who preaches that men should not be real men, loving war, wine, women, glory; that women should not be real women, loving love, fine clothes, all the comforts of life. . . . Forgive me for telling you this, my poor Francis, but that is what it means to be a true human being."
Yes, yes, that is what it means to be a true human being, my poor Brother Leo, and forgive me for telling you, I repeated in my turn (to myself) rejoicing in the girl's splendid words, and in her ferocity and beauty.
The nurse approached and put her arm around her mistress' waist. "Come, my child," she said. "People will see you."
The girl laid her head on the old woman's breast and suddenly began to cry. God knows how many months she had been spinning those words in her heart and longing to see Francis and speak them out to him in order to relieve herself. And now, now that she had finally spoken, she had found no relief at all. Her heart was thumping, ready to burst.
The nurse drew her along calmly, gently, but the moment they were about to turn into the next lane, Clara halted. Unpinning the red rose from her bosom, she spun around, saw Francis still stooped over toward the ground, and threw it to him.
"Take it," she said. "Take it, poor, wretched Francis, as a remembrance of me--a remembrance of this world!"
The rose landed at Francis' feet.
"Come," the girl said to her nurse. "Everything is over now!"
Francis remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the pavement. Gradually he raised his head and looked around him fearfully. Then he squeezed my hand.
"Is she gone?" he asked softly.
"She's gone," I answered, and I picked up the rose.
"Don't touch it!" said Francis, terrified. "Put it at the edge of the street so that no one will step on it. Come, and don't look behind you!"
"Where? Still to Assisi? This meeting was a bad omen, Brother Francis. Let's change our plans."
"To Assisi!" he said, and he began to run. "Take the ram's bell, ring it! Good God, to marry, have children, build a home --I spit on them all!"
"Alas the day, Brother Francis, I believe--forgive me, Lord, for thinking so--I believe the girl was right. A true human being--"
"A true human being is someone who has surpassed what is human--that's what I say! I implore you, Brother Leo, be quiet!"
I held my tongue. What could I reply? The longer I had been living with Francis the more clearly I sensed that there were two roads which led to God: the straight, level road, that of man, where you reached God married, with children, freshly shaved, full of food and smelling of wine; and the uphill road, that of the saint, where you reached Him a tattered rag, a handful of hair and bones, smelling of uncleanliness and incense. I was suited to the first of these, but who ever bothered to ask my opinion! So, I took the uphill road--and may God grant me the strength to endure!
We reached the center of the city. I went ahead of Francis and rang the bell, crying, "Come, come one and all to hear the new madness!" The people in the streets stopped. Now they'll pick up stones and start pelting us, I said to myself; now the children will emerge from every lane and begin to jeer at the top of their lungs. . . . But nothing happened. Silence. I became frightened. Was this the way we were going to be received now--without being hooted or booed?
No one lifting a hand to stop us, we continued on. Bernardone was standing outside his shop. His shoulders were rounded now, his skin had become yellow. When Francis saw him he turned coward for a moment and started to reverse his steps in order to find another route.
"Courage, Brother Francis," I said to him softly, taking hold of his arm. "This is where you are going to show us how brave you are."
Bernardone turned and saw us. At first a shudder ran through his body, but then he ran quickly inside, got his staff, and descended upon us, bellowing. Francis stepped forward and pointed to me.
"Here is my father, Sior Bernardone. He gives me his blessing; you give me your curse. He is my father!"
He took my hand and kissed it.
Bernardone's eyes filled with tears which he wiped away with the edge of his wide cuff. A considerable number of passers-by had halted to stare hatefully at the rich merchant and his ragamuffin of a son. Father Silvester of the parish of San Niccolo was also passing by. He was about to intervene in an attempt to r
econcile father and son, but he immediately changed his mind. "Let them settle their own affairs!" he murmured, and he went off toward his church.
Bernardone lowered his head and did not breathe a word. But his face had suddenly become covered with wrinkles. Feeling his knees begin to give way beneath him, b^ leaned on his staff for support and regarded his son for a considerable time, still not speaking. Finally, his voice full of complaint, he asked, "Have you no pity for your mother?"
Francis turned pale. He opened his mouth to reply, but his jaw began to tremble.
"Have you no pity for your mother?" Bernardone asked again. "She weeps all day and all night. Come home; let her see you."
"I must first ask God," Francis managed to answer.