Saint Francis

  Courtesy demanded I remain quiet, but, bumpkin that I am, I opened my mouth and asked: "What bird?"

  Francis turned and looked at me. So much suffering was in that gaze, I could not keep myself from clasping his hand and kissing it. "Forgive me," I said.

  His expression sweetened. "What bird? Is it possible I know?" He sighed deeply.

  "No, I don't, I don't know," he groaned. "Stop asking me questions! Come!"

  And he grasped my hand tightly, as though afraid I might leave him.

  But I, how could I leave him? Where could I go? From that moment on, I was constantly at his side. Father Francis, was it you I had been seeking year after year? Was that why I had been born: to follow you and listen to you? I had ears, but no tongue--so I listened. You told me what you told no one else. You took me by the hand, we went into the forests, scrambled up mountains, and you spoke.

  You used to say to me, "Brother Leo, if you weren't with me I would tell it all to a stone, an ant, a tender olive leaf-- because my heart is overflowing, and if it does not open and spill forth, it may break into a thousand pieces."

  I know things about you, therefore, that no other person knows. You committed many more sins than people imagine; you performed many more miracles than people believe. In order to mount to heaven, you used the floor of the Inferno to give you your momentum. "The further down you gain your momentum," you often used to tell me, "the higher you shall be able to reach. The militant Christian's greatest worth is not his virtue, but his struggle to transform into virtue the impudence, dishonor, unfaithfulness, and malice within him. One day Lucifer will be the most glorious archangel standing next to God; not Michael, Gabriel, or Raphael--but Lucifer, after he has finally transubstantiated his terrible darkness into light."

  I listened to you, mouth agape, thinking what sweet words these were and asking myself if this meant that sin, even sin, could become a path to lead us to God; if even the sinner, therefore, could have hopes of salvation.

  I am the only one, also, who knows about your carnal love for Count Favorini Scifi's daughter Clara. All the others, because they are afraid of their own shadows, think you loved only her soul. But it was her body that you loved earliest of all; it was from there that you set out, got your start. Then, after struggle, struggle against the devil's snares, you were able with God's help to reach her soul. You loved that soul, but without ever denying her body, and without ever touching it either. And not only did this carnal love for Clara not hinder you from reaching God, it actually helped you greatly, because it was this love that unveiled for you the great secret: in what manner, and by what kind of struggle the flesh becomes spirit. All love is one; it is exactly the same whether it be for wife, son, mother, fatherland, or for an idea, or God. A victory, even though on love's lowest rung, helps form the road which will lead us to God. So, you fought the flesh, vanquished it mercilessly, then kneaded it with your blood and tears and after a terrible struggle which lasted many years, transformed it into spirit. And didn't you do exactly the same with all your virtues and all your vices? They too were flesh, were Clara. Weeping, laughing, tearing your heart in two, you turned them into spirit. This is the road; there is none other. You led the way and I, panting, followed you.

  One day as I watched you rise from the bloodstained rocks, moaning, your body one great wound, my heart took pity on you. I ran to you and clasped your knees. "Brother Francis, why do you torture your body so?" I cried. "It too is one of God's creatures and must be revered. Don't you feel sorry for your blood, your blood which is being spilled?"

  But you shook your head and answered me, "Brother Leo, with the world in the state it is today, whoever is virtuous must be so to the point of sainthood, and even beyond; whoever is a sinner must be so to the point of bestiality, and even beyond. Today, the middle road is no more."

  And on another occasion when in desperation you looked to the earth and it wanted to devour you, to heaven, and it refused to help you, once again you turned to me, and I shuddered when I heard your words:

  "Listen, Brother Leo," you said. "I'm going to tell you something very grave. If you cannot bear it, lamb of God, then forget it. Are you listening?"

  "I'm listening, Father Francis," I answered. I had already begun to tremble. You placed your hand on my shoulder as though trying to steady me and prevent me from falling.

  "Brother Leo, to be a saint means to renounce not only everything earthly but also everything divine."

  But as soon as you uttered those blasphemous words, you became terrified. Bending down, you seized a handful of dirt and thrust it into your mouth. Then, placing your finger over your lips, you glared at me in horror. A few moments later you cried:

  "What have I said? Did I speak? . . . Quiet!"

  And you burst into tears.

  Every evening beneath the light of the lamp I took aim at each of your words, each of your acts, and pinned them down securely one by one so that they would not perish. A single word from your lips, I said to myself, may save a soul. If I fail to record it, fail to reveal it to mankind, that soul will not be saved, and I will be to blame.

  I had taken up my quill to begin writing many times before now, but I always abandoned it quickly: each time I was overcome with fear. Yes, may God forgive me, but the letters of the alphabet frighten me terribly. They are sly, shameless demons--and dangerous! You open the inkwell, release them: they run off--and how will you ever get control of them again! They come to life, join, separate, ignore your commands, arrange themselves as they like on the paper--black, with tails and horns. You scream at them and implore them in vain: they do as they please. Prancing, pairing up shamelessly before you, they deceitfully expose what you did not wish to reveal, and they refuse to give voice to what is struggling, deep within your bowels, to come forth and speak to mankind. As I was returning from church this past Sunday, however, I felt emboldened. Had not God squeezed those demons into place whether they liked it or not, with the result that they wrote the Gospels? Well then, I said to myself, Courage, my soul! Have no fear of them! Take up your quill and write! But I immediately grew fainthearted once again. The Gospels, to be sure, were written by Holy Apostles. One had his angel, the other his lion, the other his ox, and the last his eagle. These dictated, and the Apostles wrote. But I. . . ?

  I had remained hesitant in this way for many years, carrying about your sayings faithfully transcribed one by one on skins, scraps of paper, the bark of trees. I kept repeating to myself, Oh, when shall I grow old? When, unable to walk any more, shall I settle down in a monastery and in the calm of my cell receive from God the power, Father Francis, to arrange your words and deeds on paper as a Saint's Legend, for the salvation of the world!

  I was in a hurry because I felt the words coming to life and jostling each other on the bits of skin, the scraps of paper, the bark of the trees. They were being smothered, and had begun to revolt in an effort to escape. I felt Francis too, felt him prowling outside my monastery, homeless and exhausted, his hand outstretched like a beggar's; felt him slip into the cloister, unperceived by anyone but me, and enter my cell. Just the other evening, as I was bent over an ancient parchment reading the lives of the saints, I felt someone in back of me. The north wind was blowing; it was cold, and I had lighted my earthenware brazier, the Holy Superior having given me permission to keep a bit of fire in my cell because I had grown old, and lost my endurance. The saints' miracles had encircled me, were licking me as though they were flames. I no longer touched the earth; I was hanging in the air. It was then that I felt someone in back of me. Turning, I saw Francis huddled over the brazier.

  "Father Francis, have you abandoned Paradise?" I cried, jumping to my feet.

  "I am cold, I am hungry," he answered. "I have nowhere to lay my head."

  There was bread and honey in the cell. I ran quickly in order to give him some and calm his hunger. But when I turned, I saw no one.

  It was a sign from God, a visible message: Francis roams homeless over
the earth; build him a home! But once again I was carried away by fear. I struggled within myself for a long time and then, having grown weary, leaned my head against the parchment and fell asleep. I had a dream. It seemed I was lying under a blossoming tree with God blowing over me like a fragrant breeze. The tree was the tree of Paradise, and it had blossomed! As I gazed at the sky through the flowering branches suddenly a group of minute birds, just like letters of the alphabet, came and perched in the tree, one on each branch. They began to chirp, at first singly, one by one, then in pairs, then three together. Afterwards, hopping from branch to branch, they formed groups of two or three or five and twittered away ecstatically. The whole tree had become a song, a sweet tender song full of passion, desire, and great affliction. It seemed as though I were already deeply buried beneath the springtime soil, my arms crossed upon my breast, and that this flowering tree were issuing from my bowels, the roots invading my entire body and suckling it. And all the joys and sorrows of my life had become birds, and were singing.

  I awoke. I still felt the chirping within my bowels; God was still blowing over me.

  It was dawn. I had slept the entire night with my head on the parchment. Rising, I washed and changed to clean clothes. The bell was ringing for matins. I made the sign of the cross and went to the chapel, where I glued my forehead, mouth, breast to the floor, and received the sacrament. When Mass was over I scampered back to my cell, not speaking to anyone lest I soil my breath. I flew: angels were holding me up. I did not see them, but I could hear the rustle of their wings to my right and left. I took up my quill, crossed myself --

  And began, Father Francis, to record your Life and Times.

  May the Lord help me and be my guide! I SWEAR I shall tell the truth. Lord, aid my memory, enlighten my mind, do not permit me to utter a single word I might later regret. Arise and bear witness, mountains and plains of Umbria; arise, stones sprinkled with his martyr's blood, dusty, bemired roads of Italy, black caves, snow- covered peaks; arise, ship that took him to the savage East; arise, lepers and wolves and bandits; and you, birds who heard his preaching, arise--Brother Leo needs you. Come, stand on my right, on my left; help me to tell the truth, the whole truth. Upon this hangs the salvation of my soul.

  I tremble, because many times I find I cannot distinguish what is true from what is false. Francis runs in my mind like water. He changes faces; I am unable to pin him down. Was he short? Was he immensely tall? I cannot put my hand over my heart and say with certainty. He often seemed squat to me, all skin and bones, with a face which bore witness to his penury--scant chestnut-colored beard, thick protruding lips, huge hairy ears erect like a rabbit's and listening intently to both the visible and invisible worlds. His hands, though, were delicate, his fingers slender--indications of descent from a noble line. . . . But whenever he spoke, prayed, or thought he was alone, his squat body shot forth flames which reached the heavens: he became an archangel with red wings which he beat in the air. And if this happened at night when the flames were visible, you recoiled in terror to keep from being burned.

  "Put yourself out, Brother Francis," I used to cry. "Put yourself out before you burn up the world."

  Then, lifting my eyes, I would watch him as he headed directly for me, calm and smiling, his face once again characterized by human joy, bitterness, and penury. . . .

  I remember once asking him, "Brother Francis, how does God reveal Himself to you when you are all alone in the darkness?"

  And he answered me: "Like a glass of cool water, Brother Leo; like a glass of water from the fountain of everlasting youth. I'm thirsty, I drink it, and my thirst is quenched for all eternity."

  "God like a glass of cool water?" I cried, astonished.

  "And what did you think, Brother Leo? Why be alarmed? There is nothing simpler than God, nothing more refreshing, more suited to the lips of man."

  But a few years later when Francis was a doubled-over lump of hair and bones, devoid of flesh, nearly breathing his last, he bent forward so that the friars would not hear him, and said to me, trembling, "God is a conflagration, Brother Leo. He burns, and we burn with Him."

  As far as I can gauge his height in my mind, I can say only this with certitude: from the ground trodden by his feet, from there to his head, his stature was short; but from the head upward it was immense.

  There are two parts of his body, however, which I do remember with perfect clarity: his feet and his eyes. I was a beggar, had spent my entire life among beggars, had seen thousands of feet which passed every day of their existence walking unshod over rocks, in dust, mud, upon the snow. But never in my life had I seen feet so distressed, so melancholy, feeble, gnawed away by journeys, so full of open wounds-- as his. Sometimes when Father Francis lay sleeping I used to bend down stealthily and kiss them, and I felt as though I were kissing the total suffering of mankind.

  And how could anyone forget his eyes after having once seen them? They were large, almond-shaped, black as pitch. They made you exclaim that you had never viewed eyes so tame, so velvety; but scarcely had you completed your thought when the eyes suddenly became two open trapdoors enabling you to look down at his vitals--heart, kidneys, lungs; whereupon you discovered that they were ablaze. He would often stare at you without seeing you. What did he see? Not your skin and flesh, not your head--but your skull. One day he caressed my face slowly with the palm of his hand. His eyes had become filled with compassion and sweetness, and he said, "I like you, Brother Leo, I like you because you leave the worms free to stroll over your lips and ears; you do not chase them away."

  "What worms, Father Francis? I don't see any worms."

  "Surely you do see them when you are praying, or asleep and dreaming about Paradise. You see them but do not chase them away because you know full well, Brother Leo, that they are emissaries of God, of the Great King. God is holding a wedding in heaven, and he sends them with invitations for us: 'Greetings from the Great King, who awaits you. Come!' "

  When Francis was among men he would laugh and frolic --would spring suddenly into the air and begin to dance, or would seize two sticks and play the "viol" while singing sacred songs he himself had composed. Doubtlessly he did so to encourage his companions, realizing perfectly well that the soul suffers, the body hungers, that man's endurance is nil. When he was alone, however, his tears began to flow. He would beat his chest, roll in the thorns and nettles, lift his hands to heaven and cry, "All day long I search for Thee desperately, Lord; all night long while I am asleep Thou searchest for me. O Lord, when, when, as night gives way to day, shall we meet?"

  Another time I heard him cry, his eyes pinned on heaven: "I don't want to live any more. Undress me, Lord. Save me from my body. Take me!"

  Each dawn, when the birds begin to sing again, or at midday when he plunged into the cooling shade of the forest, or at night, sitting in the moonlight or beneath the stars, he would shudder from inexpressible joy and gaze at me, his eyes filled with tears. "What miracles these are, Brother Leo!" he would say. "And He who created such beauty-- what then must He be? What can we call Him?"

  "God, Brother Francis," I answered.

  "No, not God, not God," he cried. "That name is heavy, it crushes bones. . . . Not God--Father!"

  One night Francis was roaming the lanes of Assisi. The moon had come up fully round and was suspended in the center of the heavens; the entire earth was floating buoyantly in the air. He looked, but could see no one standing in the doorways to enjoy the great miracle. Dashing to the church, he ascended the bell tower and began to toll the bell as though some calamity had taken place. The terrified people awoke with a start thinking there must be a fire, and ran half- naked to the courtyard of San Rufifino's, where they saw Francis ringing the bell furiously.

  "Why are you ringing the bell?" they yelled at him. "What's happened?"

  "Lift your eyes, my friends," Francis answered them from the top of the bell tower. "Lift your eyes; look at the moon!"

  That was the kind of man Blesse
d Francis was; at least that was the way he appeared to me. I say this, but I am really not sure. How can I ever know what he was like, who he was? Is it possible that he himself did not know? I remember one wintry day when he was at the Portiuncula, sitting on the threshold sunning himself. A young man arrived, out of breath, and stood before him. "Where is Francis, Bernardone's son?" he asked, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. "Where can I find the new saint so that I may fall at his feet? For months now I have been roaming the streets looking for him. For the love of Christ, my brother, tell me where he is." "Where is Francis, Bernardone's son?" replied Francis, shaking his head. "Where is Francis, Bernardone's son? What is this Francis? Who is he? I am looking for him also, my brother. I have been looking for him now for years. Give me your hand and let us go find him!"

  He rose, took the young man by the hand, and they departed.

  That night when we first came together in Assisi how could I possibly have known what this youth was destined to become--this youth whom I had found serenading his lady, the long red feather in his cap? He held me tightly by the hand and we strode hurriedly across the city until we reached Bernardone's house.