Saint Francis (51 page)

"You ought to use a little compulsion, Brother Leo," Juniper advised me. "Force him to eat. Pretend you don't understand, and light the fire at night when he's asleep. Mend his frock when he's not looking. Don't let him die. Didn't it ever occur to you that we'll never be able to find such a guide again, a guide who can lead us straight to heaven?"

"I can't, Brother Juniper. He won't allow it I freeze and starve along with him." "I admire you for sharing such a hard life, Brother Leo. It's beyond human strength. How can you do it?"

"I can't, Brother Juniper. I do more than I can, but it's out of pride. Not piety, pride. I'm ashamed at this point to turn back."

"Ashamed before whom?"

"Everyone: God, Francis, the people around me, and also myself."

"Don't you feel like eating a good meal now and then--on holidays, for example; or like drinking a sip of wine, or sleeping on a soft mattress? God, as you know, made all those things for man, and it's a sin not to accept them. As for me (why not speak frankly?) I live comfortably enough, glory be to God, and therefore each time I pray and give thanks to the Almighty my prayer issues not only from my heart, but also from my stomach, my warm hands and feet, my entire body. The whole secret is this, Brother Leo: to combine what's good with what's best for your own interests."

I smiled.

"Woe to us if you were our leader, Brother Juniper. We'd all end up well nourished--in hell!"

Juniper was opening his mouth to reply, but just then we heard Francis shift his position. We held our breath, our hearts thumping. Francis turned.

"What's this?" he cried as soon as he saw the fire. "Who lighted a fire? Bring water at once and put it out!"

"Father Francis, apostle of Love," said Juniper, embracing Francis' knees, "fire is our sister: why do you want to kill her? Don't you pity her, you who feel pity for the very ground you walk on? She too is God's daughter, and she wants to help us--that's why she came and seated herself in the hearth. Listen to how she cries. Don't you hear? 'Brother Francis,' she says, 'I too am one of God's creatures. Do not kill me!' "

Francis remained silent. Juniper's words had penetrated to his heart.

"Brother Juniper, you old swindler," he said finally with a laugh, "you've come to set us topsy-turvy with your pious jugglery."

He turned to the hearth.

"Sister Fire, forgive me. I shall not chase you from my hut; instead, I request you to come again."

When he had said this, he went to the doorway, as far as possible from the fire, and sat down.

Early the next morning Francis pushed me with his foot.

"Get up, Brother Leo. This hut is too warm; we're too comfortable here. Come, let's go to San Damiano's. Outside the convent there's a shelter made of branches; that is where I want to stay. But what about you? Will you be able to endure it? Take stock of your forces, Brother Leo. You can leave at any time; you can escape. Forgive me, little lion of God, for tormenting you so very much."

Yes, it was true that he tormented me, but he did so because his love for me was so very great.

"Wherever you go, I go too, Father Francis," I cried, jumping to my feet. "I've burned my bridges behind me; I can't turn back now."

"Well then, let's be off, Brother Leo. I have burned my bridges also. There is no turning back! Put your arm around my waist to keep me from falling. It's still not very light out."

The cold was biting, the sky dark blue; the entire swarm of stars had already been drowned in the tenuous morning brightness. Only Venus, still indestructible, happily awaited the sun so that it could vanish within its rays. The birds had not begun to chirp yet, but in the distance we heard a cock crow.

"The birds must go hungry in wintertime," I said. "That's why they don't sing. Could it be that men are just the same, Brother Francis? Could it be that we have to eat in order to have food to transform into prayer and song?"

Francis smiled.

"Your mind is constantly on food, Brother Leo. Everything you say is correct for those who do not believe in God. But for those who do, the opposite is the case: prayer, for them, is transformed into food, and their stomachs are filled." The light increased as we were talking, the eastern sky turned rose, and the moment we stepped beneath a densely needled pine tree a songbird, feeling a glint fall upon its closed eyelids, awoke and began to twitter.

"Good morning, Sister Skylark!" cried Francis. "We are on our way to San Damiano's. Come, join us!"

The lark darted out from among the branches, shook her wings to rid them of their numbness, and all of a sudden flew up into the sky, singing merrily.

"The sky is her San Damiano's," said Francis. "Goodbye until we meet again!"

When we reached the convent we found the nuns still at matins. The lamps inside the church were burning. Advancing on tiptoe, we went to the little window of the sanctuary and stood outside to hear the high feminine voices warbling to the Lord.

"What joy this is, Brother Leo!" said Francis, tears welling up into his eyes. "The sun, the skylark, matins, the brides of Christ who are awake before anyone else and glorifying the Beloved--what joy! I can hear Sister Clara's voice above the rest."

The office completed, the nuns flowed out into the cloister, wrapped in their white wimples. The moment they saw Francis they uttered shrill, happy cries, like hungry doves at the sight of wheat. Sister Clara was the first to come forward. She took Francis' bloody hand, covering it with her tears.

"Father Francis . . ." she murmured, her voice stifled with emotion, "Father Francis . . ."

"Sister Clara, I would like to remain near you and the other sisters for a few days. I greet you and bid you farewell: I am departing. Holy Mother Superior, give me permission to stay in the shelter of branches which is outside your convent."

Sister Clara gazed at Francis, her large eyes overflowing with tears.

"Father Francis, the shelter and the convent and all the sisters are at your service. Command us."

Francis' aged mother appeared. She had grown exceedingly thin and was deathly pale from her vigils and fasts, but her face beamed with happiness. She stooped in her turn to kiss her son's hand, and he placed his palm on her gray hair and blessed her.

"Mother," he whispered, "Mother . . . Sister Pica . . ."

Two of the sisters wanted to run to put the hut in order, but Clara made them step aside. "I shall do it myself," she said. "Bring me a broom, a pitcher of water, the potted flowers I have in my cell; also a lamp, and the cage with the goldfinch that the bishop gave us the other day."

Francis was exhausted. He sank to the ground beneath the tiny window of the sanctuary, and waited. His mother, her heart filled with pain and pride, watched him from the corner of the courtyard where she had withdrawn. His lips, feet, and hands had turned blue with cold. The sisters brought a heavy wool blanket with which to cover him, but he tossed it aside and tried to stand up, only to find that he did not have the strength. Two sisters ran to him. Supporting him under the arms, they brought him slowly, step by step, to the hut. Clara had laid a mat down for him, and on it a mattress well stuffed with straw; also a soft pillow. The sisters placed him on the mattress; then they departed, leaving the two of us alone once more.

I leaned over to his ear. "Do you want anything, Father Francis?"

"What could I possibly want, Brother Leo? What more could I want? I have everything."

He closed his eyes, nodding to me as though to bid me farewell.

That night he did not sleep a moment, but raved deliriously, his forehead, hands--his entire body--shooting forth flames. The following afternoon he finally opened his eyes.

"Brother Leo, instruct the sisters not to come to see me any more. Tell them I want to be alone and that I do not have need of anything. All I want now is quiet. Nothing else. No fire, no food--just quiet."

Seizing the pillow, he hurled it away from him.

"Take this and throw it outside, Brother Leo. The devil is inside it; he didn't let me sleep the whole night. Bring me a stone for a pillow."

He placed his burning hand in my palm.

"Brother Leo, my fellow voyager, fellow struggler: forgive me. . . ." Then he closed his eyes.

I went outside, sat down in front of the shelter, and wept-- softly, with stifled sobs, lest he hear. Sister Clara came up to me.

"What can we do, Brother Leo? How can we keep him alive?"

"He doesn't want to stay alive, Sister Clara. He says the ascent is finished. Its peak is crucifixion, and he was crucified. Now he's waiting impatiently for only one thing: resurrection."

"And that means death, doesn't it, Brother Leo?"

"Yes, it means death."

Sister Clara sighed and bowed her head. Then, after a moment:

"Perhaps the goldfinch will keep him alive a little while longer. Did it sing all day yesterday?"

"No, Sister Clara. I imagine it was frightened."

"As soon as it gets over its fear and begins to sing, perhaps Father Francis will stop wanting to die so quickly."

I said nothing, but I knew extremely well that Francis was able to hear another, much sweeter song, an immortal warbling which came from far above the clouds, far above the stars, and which was calling him. His soul had already opened its cage in order to depart: to depart so that it could join the celestial choir.

On the third day his fever reached its height. His pale cheeks reddened; his lips became parched. He sprang up continually because in his delirium he kept seeing invisible presences. Suddenly he addressed me. It was nearly dawn.

"Brother Leo, where are you? I don't see you."

"Here at your side, Father Francis. Command me."

"Have you your quill and ink with you?"

"Always, Father Francis! Command me."

"Write!"

He had riveted his eyes upon the air and was trembling from his haste to dictate in time, before the vision left him.

"I'm listening, Father Francis."

"Write: I am a reed that bends in God's wind. I wait for Death, the Great Troubadour, to come and harvest me, cut holes in me, turn me into a fife. Thus, pressed between his lips, I shall go about singing in God's immortal reed-bed."

He sank down onto the mattress and lay still, face up, eyelids closed. But just as I was rising in order to extinguish the lamp so that it would not hurt his eyes, suddenly he sat up again.

"Brother Leo!" he called at the top of his lungs as though shouting for help, "Brother Leo, write: "The black Archangel took me by the hand. 'Where are we going?' I asked. 'We are leaving the earth behind us,' he answered, placing his finger upon his lips. 'Close your eyes so that you will not see it and begin to shed tears.'

"I set sail," Francis continued without a pause. "Behind me was the green earth, in front of me the black endless sea, while above, in the heavens, the north star sped forward like a meteor. Lord, Thou hast my heart in Thy hand; Thou showest it the way, and it sails onward. Already the first bird of Paradise is visible."

His eyes were burning, his entire body pulsating. I waited, holding the quill in the air.

"Write! Where are you, Brother Leo? Write:

"When the Archangel expelled Adam and Eve from Paradise, our two Parents sat down on a clod of earth, neither of them speaking. The sun went down. The night rose from the earth filled with terror, descended from the sky filled with terror; a biting wind began to blow, and Eve snuggled against her husband's breast to grow warm. As soon as she felt better she clenched her small newborn fist, opened her mouth, and said, 'Thy will not be done, horrible old man!' "

Francis laughed. Doubtlessly he saw the First Creatures in the air before him, with Eve squeezing her newborn fist and threatening. But in the midst of his laughter, he was overcome with tears.

"Are you still here, Brother Leo? Write: "It was spring when the Archangel Gabriel came down to earth. What he saw frightened him. The earth is exceedingly beautiful--the hussy! he said to himself; I had better not stay very long! A carpenter ran out of his shop. 'This is Nazareth, my child,' he said. 'What are you looking for?' 'Mary's house.' The carpenter began to tremble. 'And why do you have that cross in your hand, and those nails, and the blood?' 'This isn't a cross, it's a lily.' 'Who sent you?' 'God.' A knife turned in the carpenter's heart. All is finished! he said to himself as he opened his door, revealing a small courtyard, a well, some basil in a flowerpot, and next to the well, a girl sewing an infant's tiny gown. The Archangel hesitated for a moment on the threshold, his eyes filled with tears."

Francis' eyes filled with tears also, just like the Archangel's. He sighed; his heart was breaking in two.

"Poor, poor Mary," he murmured, "poor, sweet little mother whose beloved child was robbed by death. . . . Lord, if all the tears that men shed in a single year flowed at the same time, they would form a river that would engulf Thy house. But Thou art omniscient, and thus Thou makest them flow one by one."

These words frightened him, and as soon as he had uttered them he implored me not to write them down. "They were words of the devil," he said. "If you have already written them, Brother Leo, cross them out--please!"