Saint Francis (38 page)

"I had a very good time, Brother Francis," I said as I collapsed to the ground from exhaustion.

"You did not have a good time; you suffered. It's exactly the same thing."

We went inside. I lit a fire, squatted down next to the hearth, and in a few moments was asleep. In my dreams I saw myself holding a small roast pig in my arms, sucking in its juice.

Bernard and Sior Pietro came to visit us early one morning. Kissing Francis' hand, they sat down, one on either side of him. It was still cold out, the fire was going, and all three kept their faces turned toward the hearth. No one spoke, but from time to time Francis reached out to touch Bernard on his right and Pietro on his left, as though wishing to make certain they were still near him. Then he would join his hands together again in an attitude of prayer, his face beaming with joy. . . . I stood in the back corner, watching them. They resembled three veteran warriors who had met once more on a cold day after years of separation, and had lit a fire to warm themselves. I had pricked up my ears in order to overhear what they said, but none of them opened his mouth. You felt that the air between them was vibrating, however, and that a string of unspoken words was being unwound from mouth to mouth. Without the slightest doubt, this was how the angels spoke in heaven. How long did their silence last--how many hours? It seemed to me that time had come to a standstill, that one hour and one century were of the same length. Eternity must be the same, I reflected: stationary and mute.

The fire had gone out; the sun had mounted a spear's- length above the horizon. Bernard and Pietro rose. Stooping, they kissed Francis' knees, then his hand and shoulders. Francis began to weep, and the other two joined him. All three fell into each other's arms and remained motionless, prolonging their embrace as long as possible. Then, slowly, without uttering a word, they separated. The two friars walked to the door, crossed the threshold, and disappeared behind the trees.

As soon as I remained alone with Francis, I sat down next to him. My tongue was itching me: I wanted to speak.

"Why didn't any of you talk, Brother Francis?" I asked.

"You hadn't seen each other for ages. It's strange that none of you had anything to say."

"But we did, Brother Leo," replied Francis with surprise. "We spoke; we were speaking the whole time. We told each other everything, and when we had nothing more to say, we parted."

"I didn't hear a word, Brother Francis."

He smiled. "Which ears were you listening with? You should have listened not with those two clay ones that stick out so far on either side of your head; not with those, but with the others, the inner ears."

He stroked my shoulder. "You know, of course, that we have inner ears and eyes and an inner tongue made not of clay, but of flame. It is with these, Brother Leo, that you must hear, see, and talk!"

Early Sunday morning Father Silvester brought the robe which the nuns had sewn for Francis out of the scores of patches they had begged from the poor, each pauper contributing one patch as a gift to Poverty's bridegroom. Francis clasped the robe to his bosom, kissed the mud- bespattered patches one by one, then blessed holy Poverty, his wife.

"Whoever does not crave riches is rich; whoever is rich but craves further riches is poor. I, praise the Lord, am the richest king on earth, Brother Leo, and this frock is my royal robe."

"Enjoy it in good health, Brother Francis. It is the wedding gift sent you by your wife Poverty."

He put on the new robe and began joyfully to admire himself. There were black patches, blue patches, green patches--patches of every conceivable color--and as Francis walked with the robe swelling out around him in the breeze, he resembled some strange piebald bird that had borrowed a feather from each of its brothers in the airy kingdom. "Brother Leo," he said to me, "I long to see the friars, I long for them to see me. They might still be at church. Come, let's go hear Mass with them."

His eyes had improved during the last few days, his knees had grown somewhat firm. He led the way, pushing aside the branches, and I followed behind, entirely happy. Francis is like a child, I was thinking, like a child--that's why I love him. Now he's going to the brothers to show off his new robe!

The skies were threatening; a warm raindrop struck my lips. Francis raised his head, gazed upward, and stretched out his hand as though begging the heavens to give him a drop too. "What is this great joy I feel, Brother Leo?" he asked, turning to me. "It's as though I had put on the whole world's poverty, as though I had lifted the whole world's poor onto my shoulders and begun to march with them. To go where? To take them where? God grant that it may be to heaven! Yes, poverty really suits us, Brother Leo--it suits us like a red silk ribbon in the hair of a sweet little girl!"

Suddenly we heard Elias' thunderous voice behind the trees. He was preaching a sermon. Francis stopped, hesitated. He seemed to want to turn back.

"Brother Elias is talking," he whispered. "Mass is over; he must be explaining the Gospel."

"No doubt he's interpreting Christ's message to make it fit his own needs," I replied with malice. I just could not stomach this brother. In my thoughts--forgive me, Lord-- instead of calling him Elias I called him Judas.

Francis gave me a severe look. "Brother Leo, the earth has seven levels, heaven has seven spheres, and yet the total is still too small for God. But man's heart is not too small--the Lord can fit within it. Take care, therefore, that you do not wound man's heart, for in doing so you may be wounding God."

As soon as he had said this, he continued on toward the Portiuncula, his head bowed.

The tiny church was buzzing like a beehive. Elias, the high staff in his hand, stood on a stool in the middle; he was addressing the brothers, who thronged everywhere around him. Never had I known a man so willful as this Elias, so insatiably avid, so capable of projecting power from his entire body--except perhaps Francis' father, Sior Bernardone.

When Francis entered, several of the friars turned and noticed him, but no one budged. A few laughed when they saw his robe. Though Elias had caught sight of the visitor, he made no attempt to step down from his stool to welcome him. Francis inched his way along the wall until he found a corner he could squeeze into. Bowing his head, he began to listen. Elias was speaking about the new Rule which the brothers were henceforth to follow. I learned subsequently from Father Silvester that he had been working on it day and night for the past week, for the old one did not please him. He regarded it as too naive, too narrow: it constricted him. "Times have changed," he was shouting, "times have changed, people have changed, and so has the countenance of heaven and earth. The old truths have become falsehoods; the old virtues are the swaddling bands in which our order was protected when it was an infant, but now that we have grown it is imperative that these old bands be unwrapped and that we be allowed to breathe freely. The new Rule, my brothers, brings you these new truths and new virtues."

He raised the shepherd's crook and cast a swift, flashing glance at Francis.

"Whoever does not agree," he cried, "let him rise and leave. Discipline is the most rigid of our new virtues. There is no room in our brotherhood for more than one opinion. We are not irregulars, but soldiers in a standing army which is waging war. This Rule is our general."

As soon as he had said this he unrolled a huge scroll covered with red and black letters.

"I have explained each of the new commandments to you and what Poverty, Love, Chastity, and Obedience shall mean to us from this moment on. Raise your hands and shout 'Aye!' "

All the brothers raised their hands and shouted "Aye! Aye!"--all except Francis and me, who were the only ones to remain with crossed arms. Elias' thunderous voice resounded once again:

"Happy is the brother, happy the brotherhood, that keeps pace with the rhythm of the times. Alas for him"--he threw a second flashing glance at Francis--"alas for him who lags behind!"

He turned in triumph to the humble friar who had been listening in silence, huddled in his corner.

"Welcome, Brother Francis! Why are you shaking your head? Don't you agree? Do you have any objection you'd care to raise?"

"My brothers," Francis replied, stretching forth his arms, "my children, Brother Elias: forgive me, but I do have one thing, one tiny thing to say, and I shall say it. Today there are so many, so very many people who pursue wealth, power, and learning that I say, Blessed is the man who remains poor, humble, and illiterate!"

"Now it's my turn to tell you something, Brother Francis," answered Elias with a scornful laugh. "The duty of the man who is truly alive is to conform to the times in which he lives."

"To oppose the times in which you live," retorted Francis, "is the duty of the free man! God took me by the hand and said to me, 'Francis, step out in front, illiterate, stupid, barefooted as you are; step out in front, guide the flock I have entrusted to you, take this path and you shall find me.' The path in question, Brother Elias, is called Humility."

"Since you insist on speaking in parables, Brother Francis, very well, God took me by the hand also. He showed me a wide road and said, 'Take this road and you shall find me!' The road in question, Brother Francis, is called Combat."

But Francis shook his head violently. Refusing to give in, he addressed Elias in a loud, despairing voice: "Brother Elias, I fear that you are leading Christ's sheep astray. The road you speak of is not called Combat, but Easy Living. No wide road leads to God; only narrow pathways lead to His house, to Paradise, Brother Elias. The wide road is the road of Satan. I see now why God sent me to this assembly of yours today. It was to cry, 'Stop! Go no further, my brothers. Turn back! Return to the old, narrow path!' "

"The sun does not turn back, Brother Francis," shrieked Elias; "the river does not turn back; man's soul does not turn back, but follows the impetus maintained by God. Do not listen to him, my brothers. We bow and kiss your hands, Brother Francis, and then we advance beyond you. Goodbye!"

Cries came from every direction: "Goodbye, Brother Francis, goodbye!"

Francis lifted his sleeve to wipe away his tears.

"Is there anything else you'd care to say, Brother Francis?"

"Nothing, nothing," replied Francis. He burst into a wailing lament and slowly, noiselessly, sank to the ground. I bent down to help him to his feet.

"Let me be, Brother Leo," he whined. "Don't you see: it is finished!" Several of the friars--Sabattino, Juniper, Pacifico, Ruffino --crowded around him to express their sympathy, the remainder of our original allies having departed with Father Silvester to avoid hearing Elias. All those who remained faithful to the law had now become rebels.

Elias came up to Francis and unrolled the scroll before his eyes. Antonio, the young novice, stood behind with inkwell and quill.

"Here is our new charter, Brother Francis," he said, leaning over him. "Affix your seal; do not oppose us. Several rebellious brothers have already deserted. Discord is making its way into our order. Affix your seal so that we may all live together in harmony!"

"Dead men have no seals, Brother Elias," replied Francis in a gasping voice full of despair, and he pushed away the charter which Elias was waving in front of his eyes. "Goodbye!"

I raised him up. Placing my arm round his waist, I led him outside and started along the path. But he did not have enough strength left to walk now, and despite my support he kept sinking to his knees and falling. Eventually I had to lift him up in my arms. He was light--just a bale of rags. When we reached the hut I found him unconscious. Laying him down on his mat, I sprinkled him with water until finally, after a considerable time, he came to. He gazed at me then with inexpressible sadness, closed his eyes, and--it seemed to me--fainted once again. For four days and nights he did not open his mouth either to eat or speak. He was failing, melting away like a candle. When I awoke on the fifth morning and looked at him, I became terrified. His head was a fleshless skull: his cheeks, lips, temples had sunk away; and each of his hands was nothing more than five bones.

"Brother Francis," I called to him, placing my mouth against his ear, "Brother Francis!"

But he did not hear.

"Dearest Francis," I called again. "Father!" .

He remained immobile. I clasped him in my arms. His robe was an empty sack; his feet stuck out at the bottom like two pieces of wood. Leaving him, I ran to the Portiuncula.

"Help!" I cried. "Brother Francis is dying. For the love of God: help!"

Elias lifted his head from the parchment on which he was writing. "You say he's dying?" he asked.

"He hasn't eaten anything for four days and nights, not even bread or water. And today he doesn't have enough strength left to breathe. Come--all of you. We must save him!"

"We, how can we save him?" asked Elias, putting down his quill. "If God has decided to take him, we must not stand in the way--nor can we."

"You can, you can," I cried in desperation. "He's deliberately advancing toward the grave; he wants to die, Brother Elias, because you wrote a new Rule which departs from the route he first laid out. Since that time a knife has been in his heart: he wants to die, and if he does, Brother Elias--I say this in front of all the brothers--you will have to answer for it"