Saint Francis (9 page)

"And so . . . ?"

"He leaves every morning to go and build."

"By himself? With his own two hands?"

"With his own two hands."

"All alone?"

"No, with his friend the beggar."

Sior Bernardone frowned and clenched his fists.

"Your son is taking a bad road, Lady Pica," he said, "and you're the one to blame."

"Me?"

"You. Your blood! You have troubadours in your blood, and scatterbrains, and lunatics--and you know it."

The mother's eyes filled with tears. Bernardone took his walking stick.

"I'm going to go personally to retrieve him," he said. "He hasn't only your blood in him, he has mine also. There's hope for him yet."

He made his appearance at San Damiano's just before noon. His face was somber, his chest heaving from the exertion of the walk. Francis was perched on the church roof, chinking the tiles. This was the day we were to finish our work, and he was singing troubadour songs in his mother's native tongue with even more gusto than usual.

Bernardone raised his stick. "Hey there, master craftsman," he shouted, "come down, I need you."

"Welcome to Sior Bernardone," answered Francis from high up on the roof. "What do you want?"

"My shop is falling to pieces too. Come down and repair it."

"I'm sorry, Sior Bernardone, but I don't repair shops, I demolish them."

Bernardone let out a howl and banged his stick furiously on the cobblestones of the yard. He wanted to speak but was unable to find the words, and his lips just twisted and turned.

"Come down here at once," he bellowed at last. "I command you to come down! Don't you know who I am? I'm your father."

"Sorry, Sior Bernardone, but my father is God, God and no one else."

"And what about me, then?" called Bernardone, froth coating his lips. Standing in the sun as he was, it was as if smoke were rising from his hair.

"And what about me?" he shouted again. "What am I? Who am I?" "You are Sior Bernardone, the one who has the big shop on the square in Assisi and who stores up gold in his coffers and strips the people around him naked instead of clothing them."

The priest heard the shouting from his small house and came out. As soon as he saw old Bernardone he understood. Terrified, he stepped forward, reached under his frock, and brought forth the sack of money which Francis had given him to use to buy oil for the saint's lamp.

"This money is yours, Sior Bernardone," he said. "Forgive me. Your son gave it to me, but I haven't touched it."

Without even turning to look at the priest, Bernardone grabbed the sack and thrust it into his ample pocket. Then, brandishing his stick again toward the roof:

"Damn you, come down and get the thrashing you deserve!"

"I'm coming," Francis answered him, and he began to descend.

I put down my trowel and waited to see what would happen.

Shaking the dust and cement from his clothes, Francis started toward his father. Flames were darting from old Bernardone's eyes. He stood there glowering, ready to incinerate the rebellious boy. He did not move, did not speak, but, his stick raised in the air, simply waited for his son to come near him. Francis came, and as he bowed to greet his father, his hands crossed upon his breast, old Bernardone lifted his huge, weighty hand and gave him a strong slap on the right cheek; whereupon Francis turned the other.

"Strike the other cheek, Sior Bernardone," he said calmly. "Strike the other also; or else it might feel offended."

I started to run to my friend's defense, but he held out his hand. "Do not interfere with God's doings, Brother Leo," he said. "Sior Bernardone is helping his son find salvation. . . . Strike, Sior Bernardone!"

At this point old Bernardone became frantic. He raised his stick in order to baste his son squarely over the head, but his hand remained motionless in mid-air. Francis looked up in surprise. Fat grains of sweat had popped onto Bernardone's forehead, and his lips had turned blue. Fear deformed his face. You felt he was toiling to bring the stick down upon Francis' scalp. But his arm had turned to stone.

Francis saw how his father was staring into the air with protruding eyes, quaking from fright. Some infuriated angel must have swooped down upon the old man and restrained his arm. Francis did not see this angel and neither did I, but both of us heard wings beating angrily in the air.

"It's nothing, Father, nothing," said Francis. "Don't be afraid."

His heart pitied the man. He started to grasp him by the arm, but old Bernardone suddenly swayed and, with a single motion, crumpled onto the cobblestones. When he came to, the sun was hanging at the zenith, .the old priest still clasped the cup of water he had used to sprinkle the unconscious man's temples, and Francis, his head between his palms, was seated cross-legged next to his father and gazing at the sun-drenched flanks of Mount Subasio in the distance.

Old Bernardone sat up and retrieved his stick. I ran to help him rise to his feet, but he dismissed me with a wave of his hand. He got up, exhausted, and wiped away his sweat. Not breathing a word, not so much as glancing either at his son, who was still sitting on the ground, or at the tiny old priest with the cup of water, he shook out his clothes, leaned heavily upon his stick, and started slowly up the hill. Soon he had vanished behind a curve in the road.

That night Francis did not return home. I remained at his side. Searching in the vicinity of San Damiano's some days before, he had found a cave where every so often, abandoning his construction work, he would immure himself for hours on end. He must have spent the time praying, because when he emerged from the cave and returned to take up his work again there would be a nimbus of quivering light encircling his face, just like the halos we see on paintings of the saints: the flame of prayer had abided around his head.

We went to this cave and dragged ourselves inside. It was filled with the odor of damp soil. Placing two stones to serve as pillows, we lay down without eating, without exchanging a single word. I was exhausted and I slept immediately. It must have been already dawn when, waking up, I spied Francis seated at the mouth of the cave, his face wedged between his knees. I heard a persistent, muted murmuring; he seemed to be weeping softly, trying not to wake me up. I was destined many times in the succeeding years to hear Francis weep. But that morning his sobs were like those of an infant who desires to nurse and has no mother.

I crept to the entrance and knelt down next to him, riveting my eyes upon the sky. The stars had already begun to grow dim; several still hung in the milky heavens, and one, the biggest of all, was emitting flashes of green, rose, and blue light.

"Which star is that, Brother Francis?" I asked him to distract his thoughts. "Have you any idea?"

"It must be some archangel," he said, holding back his tears. "Who knows--perhaps the archangel Gabriel. It was such an archangel, gleaming with splendor, that came down one morning and pronounced the 'Hail, Mary.' "

He was quiet for a moment

"And that star which is so bright--the one you see dancing there in the east and which is about to be smothered by the light of the sun--that is Lucifer!"

"Lucifer!" I exclaimed with surprise. "Why? Why? No, it's not right. He is more brilliant than the archangel Gabriel! Is that the way God punished him?" "Exactly," answered Francis in a stifled voice. "There is no harsher means of punishment, Brother Leo, than to answer malice with kindness. . . .

"Why are you surprised?" he continued after a moment's silence. "Isn't that what God did with me--with me, vile, wretched, good-for-nothing Lucifer that I am? Instead of hurling down the thunderbolt to reduce me to ashes, one night when I was singing--gorged with food, drunk, debauched--what did He do? He sent San Damiano to me in my sleep and instructed me to place my back beneath the Church. 'It is in danger,' He said. 'Make it firm. I have faith in you.' I believed then that He was speaking about the ruined chapel, and I rebuilt it. But now--"

He sighed. Spreading out his arms, he took a deep breath.

"Now?" I asked, looking at him uneasily.

"Now my heart is still not calm. No, no, He wasn't speaking about the chapel--that is what has been on my mind all night. Brother Leo, I am beginning to understand the terrible hidden meaning."

He was silent.

"Can't I hear it too, Brother Francis? Tell me so that I can rejoice along with you."

"You won't rejoice, poor Brother Leo. No, you won't rejoice; you'll be terrified. Patience--come with me, have faith. Little by little you shall understand, and then you shall begin to weep, and you may even want to turn back. The uphill road is indeed severe. But--who knows?--perhaps by then it will be too late for you to turn back."

I grasped his hand. I wanted to kiss it, but he would not let me.

"Wherever you go I go too, Brother Francis. And I won't ask any more questions either. . . . Lead on!"

We remained silent, watching the ever-increasing light. Little by little the mountainside had turned from purple to rose, then from rose to brilliant white. Olive trees, stones, and soil were laughing. The sun appeared, seated itself on a rocky ledge, and we, at the entrance to the black cave, lifted our arms to greet it.

I rose to go to San Damiano's so that I could gather together our tools, sweep out the church, and put everything in order.

"Give the tools to the old curate," said Francis, "but first kiss them one by one: they did their duty well. We have no further need of them, because the Church that we are going to strengthen now cannot be strengthened with trowels and cement."

I began to open my mouth to ask why, but closed it immediately. One day I shall understand, I said to myself. Let's try and be patient.

"Go, and God be with you," said Francis. "I plan to spend the day here in the cave. I want to implore God--I have so very much to tell Him--I want to implore Him to give me strength. Before me is the abyss. How can I leap across it? And if I do not leap, how shall I ever be able to reach God?"

I departed. It was many years later, when Francis already had one foot in the grave and was preparing to take leave of this life, that I learned what had happened inside the cave that day. He was lying on the bare ground outside the Portiuncula, I remember, and was plagued by the wood mice that came and wanted to devour the little flesh that still remained to' him. Unable to sleep, he called me to sit down next to him in order to chase them away, and also to keep him company. It was then, while I sat up with him that night, that he revealed to me what had happened inside the cave.

As soon as he had found himself alone he fell on his face and began to kiss the soil and call upon God. "I know Thou art everywhere," he called to Him. "Under whatever stone I lift, I shall find Thee; in whatever well I look, I shall see Thy face; on the back of every larva I gaze upon, at the spot where it is preparing to put forth its wings, I shall find Thy name engraved. Thou art therefore also in this cave and in the mouthful of earth which my lips are pressing against at this moment. Thou seest me and hearest me and takest pity on me.

"So, Father, listen to what I have to say. Last night in this cave I shouted joyfully: 'I did what Thou instructedst me to do. I rebuilt San Damiano's, made it firm!'

"And Thou answeredst me, 'Not enough!'

" 'Not enough? What more dost Thou wish me to do? Command me!'

"And then I heard Thy voice again: 'Francis, Francis-- make Francis firm, rebuild the son of Bernardone!'

"How shall I make him firm, Lord? There are many roads. Which is my road? How shall I conquer the demons within me? They are many, and if Thou dost not come to my aid, I am lost! How can I push aside the flesh, Lord, so that it will not come between us and separate us? You saw for yourself, Lord, how troubled my heart was when I faced the young girl at San Damiano's, how troubled it was when I faced my father. How can I save myself from my mother and father, from women, friends, from comfortable living; and from pride, the yearning for glory, from happiness itself? The number of the mortal demons is seven, and all seven are sucking at my heart. How can I save myself, Lord, from Francis?"

He shouted and raved in this way the entire day, prostrate on the floor of the cave, throbbing convulsively. To ward evening, while I was still making the rounds of Assisi begging for alms, Francis heard a voice above him:

"Francis!"

"Here I am, Lord. Command me."

"Francis, can you go to Assisi--the place where you were born and where everyone knows you--can you go there, stand in front of your father's house and begin to sing, dance, and clap your hands, crying out My name?" Francis listened, shuddering. He did not reply. Once more he heard the voice above him, but nearer now--in his ear: "Can you trample this Francis underfoot; can you humiliate him? This Francis is preventing our union. Destroy him! The children will run behind you and pelt you with stones; the young ladies will come to their windows and burst out laughing; and you, exultant, dripping with blood from the stoning, will stand your ground and cry, '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.' Can you do that? Can you? Why don't you speak?"

Francis listened, trembling. I can't, I can't, he was saying to himself, but he was ashamed to reveal his thought Finally he opened his mouth:

"Lord, if I must dance in the middle of the square and cry out Thy name, couldst Thou not send me to some other city?"

But the voice, severe and full of scorn, answered, "No! Assisi!"

Francis' eyes filled with tears. He bit into the soil his lips had been resting upon. "Mercy, Lord," he cried. "Give me time to prepare my soul, to prepare my body. I ask three days of Thee, three days and three nights, nothing more."

And the voice thundered again, no longer in Francis' ear now, but within his bowels: "No, now!"

"Why art Thou in such a hurry, Lord? Why dost Thou wish to punish me so?"