Saint Francis (10 page)

"Because I love you . . ." said God's voice. It was soft now, tender, and it came from within Francis' heart.

Suddenly all the bitterness fled his breast and a force entered him, not his own force, but an omnipotent one. He rose. His face had begun to shine; his knees were firm. He stood for a moment at the entrance to the cave. The sun was about to set.

"I'm going," he said, and he crossed himself.

Just then I returned from my begging, my sack full of stale bread. I saw him standing in the opening of the cave. His face was like the rising sun; it was dazzling, and I had to place my hand over my eyes to shade them. I had planned to say to him: I've brought some bread, Francis; you must be hungry, you haven't had a thing all day, sit down and let's eat. But I was ashamed to say this, because the moment I beheld him I sensed that he had no need of bread.

As soon as he caught sight of me, he raised his hand.

"Let's go," he said.

"Where?"

"To leap!"

Once more I was too timid to ask him to explain. To leap? Over what--and why? I didn't understand. But he started out in front, striding hurriedly over stones and soil, and, together, we made our way to Assisi. NIGHT WAS FALLING. The western sky was dark, the color of wild cherries; odd-looking, compassionate clouds began to rise and to cool the earth, which was still boiling from the great heat of the day. The fruitful plain of Umbria was resting. It had accomplished its duty, had given wheat, wine, and olive oil to men. Now, in repose, it gazed at the sky, waiting with confidence for rain so that the seeds beneath its soil could once more grow and form fruit.

The farmers were returning home, and in front of them, moving slowly, majestically, came the well-fed, guileless oxen. They kept turning and casting beneficent, unsurprised eyes upon us for a moment as though we were oxen of some other breed who were also returning to Assisi after our day's work, drawn on by the call of a stable full of hay and oats.

Francis marched in front, deep in thought. From time to time he stopped, looked at the sky, and listened intently as though expecting someone to speak to him. He heard nothing, however, except the soft rustling of the wind in the trees, and the sound of dogs barking far away in Assisi. Sighing each time, he would resume the ascent.

At one point he turned and waited for me to catch up.

"Do you know how to dance, Brother Leo?" he asked me softly, confidentially. I laughed. "To dance? We're not going to a wedding, are we?"

"Yes, to a wedding, that's where we're going, Brother Leo --and do not laugh. The servant of God is being married."

"Which servant of God?"

"The soul. She is marrying her great Lover."

"Do you mean God, Brother Francis?"

"Yes, God, Brother Leo, and we must dance in front of Bernardone's house; in the middle of the square, Brother Leo: that's where the wedding will take place. And we must clap our hands and sing, Brother Leo; and the people will congregate, and instead of offering us almond cakes, their way of saying 'May they live happily ever after' will be to pelt us with stones and lemon rinds."

"What happened to the almond cakes and bay leaves and lemon flowers? Why stones and rinds, Brother Francis?"

"That is the way the Bridegroom wants it."

He resumed the climb and did not speak again. I watched his skinny calves and the naked, bloody feet that continually stumbled and tripped. He was running now, gazing constantly at Assisi: he had suddenly been invaded by a sense of urgency, of great longing. But when we reached the walls his knees gave way and he stopped.

"Brother Leo," he asked in a gasping, supplicating tone, catching hold of my arm, "do you remember how on that night on the Mount of Olives Christ lifted his arms to heaven and cried, 'Father, let this cup be taken from me'? The sweat was pouring from his forehead, Brother Leo. He was trembling. I saw him, Brother Leo; I was there and saw him! He was trembling."

"Calm down, calm down, Francis; do not shake so. Come, we'll go back to our cave. You'll spend your days praying, I'll spend mine begging, and in the evening we'll both sit in front of a piece of bread and we'll talk of God."

I spoke to him softly, sweetly, because I was afraid of his fiery eyes. But he was far, far away on the Mount of Olives, and did not hear.

"He was trembling," he murmured again, "He was trembling . . . but he seized the cup and drank it down in one gulp, right to the bottom!"

Releasing my arm, he passed resolutely through the city's gate, then turned and looked at me, raising his hand.

"Let's go," he said in a loud voice. And immediately after, in a whisper: "Christ, help me!"

I followed him at a run. I had divined his suffering and drew near so that I could share it with him. What does man's soul resemble? I kept asking myself as I contemplated Francis' pallor and the tremors that were passing through his body. What does man's soul resemble? A nest filled with eggs? The thirsty earth gazing at the heavens and waiting for rain? Man's soul is an "Oh!"--a groan that ascends to heaven. Francis turned and glanced at me. "You can go back if you want, Brother Leo."

"I'm not going back," I answered. "Even if you leave, I'm staying."

"Oh, if only I could leave, if only I could escape! But I can't."

He lifted his eyes to heaven:

"Thy face is behind water, behind bread, behind every kiss; it is behind thirst, hunger, chastity. O Lord, how can I escape Thee?"

With a hop and a skip he turned into the first narrow lane and soon reached the Piazza San Giorgio, where he began to jump, clap his hands, and shout: "Come one, come all! Come to hear the new madness!"

It was the hour when the citizens were returning with laden donkeys from their vineyards and melon fields. The merchants and artisans were closing their shops and gathering in the cafes to drink a quarter-liter of wine and chat pleasantly with their friends. The old ladies sat on their doorsteps. Their sight had grown dim, but they did not mind, for they had long since lost interest in watching the streets, people, and donkeys of Assisi. On the other hand, the girls and young men, washed and in fresh clothes on this Saturday evening, were parading up and down the long, narrow city. The clouds had scattered, a cool breeze was blowing, the ribbons in the girls' hair were fluttering, and the young men grew excited and eyed the women with longing and desire. The first lutes already resounded within the taverns.

Suddenly: laughter, shouts, jeering. Everyone turned to look. Francis was visible at the edge of the square, hopping, dancing, his robe tucked up. "Come one, come all!" he was calling. "Come, brothers, come to hear the new madness!"

Behind him ran a hoard of laughing children, chasing him and throwing stones.

I raced in back, threatening them with my staff, but more appeared from every street, and soon they all joined together and charged Francis. He, calm and laughing, turned from time to time, held out his arms to the children, and shouted, "Whoever throws one stone at me, may he be once blessed by God; whoever throws two stones at me, may he be twice blessed by God; whoever throws three stones at me, may he be thrice blessed by God"--whereupon a continuous stream of stones rained down upon him.

Blood was flowing now from his forehead and chin. The citizens rushed out from the taverns, guffawing. Even Assisi's dogs were roused; banding together, they started to bark at Francis. I had placed myself in front of him so that I could receive my share of the stones, but he pushed me aside. He was jumping and dancing rapturously, all covered with blood.

"Hear, brothers," he sang, "hear the new madness!"

Everyone was roaring with laughter. The young men began to whistle, meow, and bark to drown out his voice; the girls, crowded around the columns of the ancient temple, were screeching. Someone shouted from the tavern opposite:

"Say, aren't you Bernardone's son Francis, the bon vivant? All right, tell us about your new madness. Let's see what it is!"

"Tell us, tell us, tell us!" came from every side, accompanied by a chorus of guffaws.

Francis mounted the steps of the temple, opened his arms to the jeering crowd, and screamed: "Love! Love! Love!" Then he began to run from one end of the square to the other, jumping, dancing, shouting.

Leaning over the balcony of an imposing palazzo, a girl was watching--watching and crying.

"Clara!" came a voice from within. "Clara!"

But the girl did not move.

Suddenly my blood turned to ice. There was a roar, and the crowd made way, the booing ceased abruptly. A huge giant had rushed forward and grabbed Francis by the scruff of the neck. It was his father, Sior Bernardone.

"Come with me!" he roared, shaking his son furiously.

But Francis was able to catch hold of one of the columns of the temple.

"Where?" he shouted. "I'm not going anywhere!"

"Home!" "My home is here--here in the square. And these men and women who are hooting me: they are my father and mother."

Old Bernardone went wild. Grasping his son around the waist with both his arms, he tried to wrench him away from the column.

"I'm not going!" screamed Francis, throwing his arms more firmly around the column. "I have no father, no mother; I have no home--only God!"

He was quiet for an instant, and then he began at once to shout again: "Only God! Only God!" The crowd roared with laughter.

"We haven't any buffoon to help us pass the time," said someone with a face like a mouse. (It was Sabbatino; I recognized him.) "Now, praise the Lord, we have Bernardone's son! Hello there, Francis, God's trained bear! Jump for us! Dance!"

Everyone roared with laughter.

At that moment the Bishop of Assisi happened to be walking across the square. He was a venerable old man, a good, simple soul with a gentle voice; a man who trembled when he thought of hell, trembled when he thought of heaven, and who was continually begging Satan to repent and return to Paradise quietly, supplicatingly, with no more thought of resistance.

This evening he had made his accustomed rounds of the poorer sections of the city. Behind him came the deacon with an empty hamper which the bishop had had filled with food to be distributed to the poor. As he was walking, his long ivory-hilted crosier in his hand, he heard the cries and stopped. Francis was still shouting, "I have no home--only God! Only God!" and the people were splitting their sides with laughter.

It seemed to the bishop that someone was in danger and desired aid from him, God's representative in Assisi. He quickened his pace as much as he could, and approached.

The darkness had not fallen; the last gleams of twilight still remained, and the bishop was able to see Francis and recognize him. And there on top of him was old Bernardone, struggling to drag him away. The bishop raised his crosier.

"Sior Bernardone," he said in a severe voice, "it is shameful for one of the leading men of the region to provide a theatrical show for everyone to see. If you have any differences with your son, let both of you come to our residence so that we may render judgment."

He turned to Francis. "My child, do not resist. You were calling God. I am God's representative in Assisi. Come with me!"

Francis released his grip on the column. He saw me next to him.

"You come too, Brother Leo," he said. "The ascent is beginning."

The bishop led the way, followed by Francis and me, with old Bernardone behind us, grumbling. And still further behind, keeping a respectable distance, came the agitated populace, their eyes fixed abjectly on the ground.

Francis turned to me for a moment. "Brother Leo, are you afraid, are you ashamed?" he asked in a low voice. "I repeat to you: if you want to turn back, you can. Why should you become involved? Go!"

"As long as I'm with you, Brother Francis, I'm neither afraid nor ashamed. I'll never leave you as long as I live."

"You've still got time," he insisted. "I feel sorry for you. Go!"

At this I was no longer able to restrain myself, and I burst into tears.

Francis touched my shoulder tenderly.

"All right, all right, little lion of God. You can stay."

We reached the bishop's palace and entered the benighted courtyard. Behind us a large number of the townspeople squeezed their way inside, as did several notables who had raced to admire the state to which Bernardone's son had fallen.

The servants lit the chandelier, illuminating the great hall. Above the episcopal throne was a crucifix which showed Christ beautiful and well fed, with plump, rosy cheeks. Crossing himself, the bishop sat down on his throne. Sior Bernardone went and stood at his right, Francis at his left. Further back stood five or six notables, and further still, against the wall, the common people.

I remember everything that happened that night, remember it perfectly: the bishop's words, Francis' sweetness and resplendence, Bernardone's fury. But I am going to relate it hurriedly so that I can arrive at the essence--at the great moment when Francis stood naked before God and man.

As I was saying, the bishop mounted his throne and crossed himself.

"Sior Pietro Bernardone," he said, "I am listening in God's name. What complaint do you have against your son?"

"Lord Bishop," old Bernardone answered in a hoarse, exasperated voice, "this son of mine is no longer in his right mind. He has insane dreams, hears voices in the air, takes gold from my coffers and squanders it. He's ruining me! Until recently he spent it in having a good time and I said to myself that he was young and would get over it. But now I've finally lost all hope. He goes around with ragamuffins, sleeps in caves, weeps and laughs without rhyme or reason, and lately has been seized with a mania to rebuild ruined churches. But tonight this disease simply went too far. He came to Assisi and began to sing and dance in the middle of the square while everyone laughed. . . . He is a disgrace to my blood. I no longer want him!"

"And so . . . ?" asked the bishop, seeing Bernardone hesitate.

"And so," said old Bernardone, holding his arm over his son's head, "and so, before God and man I disown him, disinherit him. He is no longer my son."