Saint Francis (54 page)

The chamber in which Francis was laid had a large window which overlooked the roofs of Assisi. The entire city was visible, as was the olive grove, and also the gentle, domesticated plain below, with its vineyards and the slow river which crept snakelike through the meadows. By conjecture, you could observe the position of San Damiano's halfway down, and, further below, that of the Portiuncula.

When Francis sat up in bed the next morning and saw this vista which he had loved so dearly ever since his youth, he burst into tears.

"Mother . . ." he murmured, "Assisi, my mother . . . dearest Umbria . . ."

He had instructed me to lay my mat in a corner of the same room: we went to sleep and awoke together. Two swallows had built their nest under the eave, outside the window. Each morning at dawn the male began to fly about and twitter. Doubtlessly the female was sitting on the new eggs, incubating them, and the male was encouraging her by singing. Francis turned to me. "Brother Leo," he asked with great emotion, "is it really true that a person cannot raise his eyes, prick up his ears, without having them filled with miracles? Lift a stone and beneath it you will see an indestructible bit of life sitting in the moist darkness and serving the Lord: a tiny, humble caterpillar that is preparing to sprout wings, become a butterfly, and fly out into the sun. What else do we human beings do upon earth, if not this!"

While he was still speaking, we heard hooting and cursing in the street in front of the episcopal palace. A huge mob must have gathered: there was a great uproar, accompanied by the sound of heavy pounding on the door. Apparently someone had mounted a platform and begun to discourse to the crowd. The bishop's deacon entered our room.

"Do not be disturbed, Father Francis," he said. "The mayor of Assisi is at sword's points with the bishop, and each day he assembles the people, leads them here, and starts threatening. He has forbidden them to set foot in church."

Francis felt severely troubled. "This is shameful, shameful!" he cried. "We must make peace!"

As soon as the deacon had left, he turned to me. "Brother Leo, my hymn to God is never finished. Take your quill, please, and write."

I found the quill; he began to dictate to me:

BE THOU PRAISED, my Lord, for all who forgive their

enemies out of abounding love for Thee.

Blessed are those who endure injustice and persecution in

peace, for the sake of their great love.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for by Thee, Lord, they shall

be crowned.

He crossed himself. "Come, Brother Leo, help me get up. Support me; I want to appear at the door and speak to the people. . . . No, I won't speak to them; the two of us will stand next to each other and begin to sing these words which have just issued from our hearts."

I put my arm around him, and we crossed the courtyard. I opened the door. The rabid mob dashed forward in an attempt to enter, but halted the moment Francis came into view.

"My children," said Francis, blessing the multitude, "my children, God has instructed me to say something to you, a few kind words. For the love of Christ, allow me to speak."

He nodded to me. We both leaned against the street door, joined hands, and began to sing in loud voices:

BE THOU PRAISED, my Lord, for all who forgive their

enemies out of abounding love for Thee.

Blessed are those who endure injustice and persecution in

peace, for the sake of their great love.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for by Thee, Lord, they shall

be crowned.

The bishop had by this time appeared on the threshold. He was a venerable old man who regarded the populace with kindly eyes. Soon he began to sing, adding his voice to ours --and it was then that the miracle took place. The mayor made his way through the crowd, stepped forward, and knelt before the bishop.

"For the love of Christ," he said, "and for the sake of His servant Francis, I hereby forget our enmity, Bishop, and stand ready and willing to abide by your wishes." The bishop was extremely moved. He bent down, raised up his adversary, and embraced him, covering him with kisses.

"My position obliges me to be humble, good, and to bring peace," he said. "But, alas! by nature I am easily angered. I implore you to forgive me."

The people knelt too and praised God; then everyone ran forward to kiss Francis, to kiss the hands and feet of the peacemaker.

When we went inside, Francis was happy and radiant. His abundant joy had made him forget his afflictions, and he was able to walk without pain.

"Do you know the tale about the prince and the sorceress, Brother Leo? Once upon a time there was a handsome prince, and an evil sorceress threw a curse over him, and he was transformed into a horrible beast that ate human beings. The people hated him. They armed themselves and set out in pursuit of him in order to kill him. Meanwhile, he grew more and more ferocious. But one day a compassionate young girl went up to him and kissed him on the mouth. All at once the horrible face melted away, and behind the wild beast appeared once more the handsome young prince. . . . The people, Brother Leo, are exactly like this bewitched prince."

Francis' new feat had tired him, however. He had mobilized all of his forces for an instant and had brought about the miracle. But once back in his room he collapsed onto his bed, unconscious. I summoned the deacon. He went for some rose vinegar, and we brought Francis to. The bishop came.

"I am going to call a doctor to look after you, Francis, my son," he said. "You are in my house, and I am responsible for you."

But Francis shook his head: he refused.

"You must respect life, Brother Francis," insisted the bishop; "not only the life of other men and of worms, but also your own. Life is the breath of God: you do not have the right to stifle it. In the name of holy Obedience, obey!"

Francis crossed his arms and did not speak. The doctor came--a quiet, jaundiced old man with fiery eyes. He undressed the patient, turned him over, turned him back again, listened carefully to his heart.

"With God's help he might get better," he said.

Francis shook his head. "And without God's help?"

"It's my opinion you shall be able to live until autumn, Father Francis. Beyond that, your future is in God's hands."

Francis remained silent for a moment, but then he lifted his arms to heaven. "In that case, I shall be ready to welcome you, Brother Death, with the first autumn rains!"

Turning to me, he said with a smile, "Isn't it right, Brother Leo, that we should also thank God for Brother Death? You agree, don't you? Take up your quill therefore, take it up once more, my much-buffeted companion, and write: BE THOU PRAISED, my Lord, for Brother Death, Whom no

living man can escape.

Wretched are those who die in mortal sin, Blessed those,

Lord, who keep Thy ten commandments.

They do not fear Death; they love it.

I made a fair copy of the entire Laud on a piece of paper and gave it to Francis so that he could affix his seal, the cross. He took the paper, looked at it, and shook his head.

"Oh Lord, I still had much to say," he murmured, "much to praise Thee for. But Thou knowest my heart and loins. Be Thou praised, therefore, for everything."

Taking the quill, he wrote: "BE THOU PRAISED, my Lord, for everything!" and then drew a large cross in the bottom margin of the paper.

"Finished!" he exclaimed. "I thank the Almighty for having granted me sufficient time. . . . And now, little lamb of God, send a man to the Portiuncula to tell Pacifico to come with his lute. I am nearing God and am exhausted; there is only one thing I want to do now, and that is to sing."

I dispatched the man, and toward evening Pacifico arrived with his lute. Francis greeted him with open arms.

"Welcome to God's troubadour, welcome to man's true mouth! Remove the lute from your shoulder. Here, take this piece of paper and sing the song that is written on it I'll sing too, and so will this little lion of God next to me, and so will the four walls of our cell: stones, cement and paintings. All shall sing together!"

Before long our cell resounded with joyous, vociferous song. The window was open, the sun about to set; light dripped from the leaves of the trees. The bell of San Ruffino's began to toll for vespers, its sound spilling out with infinite sweetness into the air. Francis' voice grew louder and louder. He had begun to clap his hands; beneath his frock, the whole of his wounded, bruised body was dancing.

In the middle of all this, the door opened and in came the bishop, a scowl on his kindly face.

"If you want Christ's blessing, Francis, my son, do not sing. People pass by, stop at the sound of your voices, and then begin cursing again. They tell everyone that the bishop is drunk, that because he defeated the mayor he has given himself over to wild celebration."

But Francis was still carried away by the song's sweetness. "Bishop," he replied, "if my presence in your house is overburdensome to you, I shall leave. I sing because that is all I can do now. I am approaching God. How can you expect me not to rejoice and sing as I go to meet Him?"

"You are right, my child," replied the bishop, "but the others are not approaching God, and they do not understand. To them it seems scandalous. Sing, therefore, but in a low voice so that they will not hear you."

With these words, he left. "Brother Pacifico," said Francis, "everyone is right from his own point of view. The bishop is right, and we are right also. Let's sing therefore in low voices so that we won't scandalize anyone. Give me the lute, teacher. I want to play too."

Taking the lute in his arms he began to play slowly, with painful fingers; and we, our voices extremely muffled, resumed our glorification of the Lord. When our need was fulfilled, Francis gave the lute back to Pacifico and closed his eyes. The singing had fatigued him. Pacifico started toward the door, walking on tiptoe.

"Do not leave Assisi," I said to him. "Francis may require you again tomorrow. He has already entered the kingdom of song."

But the next day Francis was overwhelmed by a new concern.

"We must not lose any time," he said to me early in the morning. "Before I die I want to write my testament for the brothers and sisters; I want to open up my life before them all, to confess my sins. Perhaps some soul, hearing how much I endured, how much I struggled, may be encouraged to continue along the uphill road. . . . Sharpen your quill, therefore, Brother Leo, and write."

That entire day I listened to Francis and wrote. I was deeply touched. Sometimes I had to stop in order to wipe my eyes; at other times Francis was the one who paused: he found the words too narrow for his emotion, and gave himself up to tears.

First he recounted his youth--how, dressed in silks and velvet, a red plume in his hat, he used to spend his nights going from party to party with his friends; how he stood beneath window after window to serenade his ladies. Next he told how arrogance had possessed him, how he had set out for the wars so that he could win glory by killing the enemy and then return in triumph to Assisi as a newly invested knight. Next, how one night he suddenly heard God's voice and grew afraid. "The Lord condescended to save me," he dictated, "to save me, the sinner Francis of Assisi, in the following manner: While I was still wallowing in sin, I felt an unconquerable aversion to lepers. God cried out, therefore, and tossed me in among them, commanding me to hug them, kiss them, to undress them and cleanse their wounds. And when I had hugged them, kissed them, and cleansed their wounds, the world seemed to change. What had formerly appeared so bitter to me was transformed: it became sweet, like honey. Not long after that I left the world, left this vain world and all its goods in order to dedicate myself heart and soul to God. And God gave me brothers and revealed to me by means of the Holy Gospel what Rule I should establish over my life and theirs. Those who agreed to come with me were obliged, before anything else, to distribute all their belongings to the poor. We possessed nothing but a single frock, patched inside and out, and a knotted cord; and we walked barefooted. We were all simple and illiterate, each one obeying the other. And I worked with my hands, and I still firmly desire that all the brothers should learn an honest trade and should work, not to earn money but in order to set an example, and also to repel idleness. Only when we are unable to earn our living by working should we go from door to door and beg. God revealed to me this salutation: that we must always say Pax et bonum!"

The whole of that day and the next, Francis sat with closed eyes and related his entire life: all of the steep, terrible ascent he had mounted with his bloodstained feet, gasping for breath. He told of his father, who died unconsoled, his noble mother, who became a nun; of Sister Clara and all the brothers, one by one; of Dominic, the fiery Spanish missionary he had met at Rome; and finally of "Brother Jacopa," as he called the noblewoman who had fallen at his feet in the Eternal City and had donned the Franciscan robe beneath her own clothes, next to the skin. He also recalled the incident of the tiny lamb in Rome. A butcher was carrying it on his shoulder, taking it to be slaughtered. Francis was walking behind, and the terrified creature stared at him, stared at him and bleated as though asking for help. Francis' heart bled for the animal. Running to the butcher, he embraced him and cried, "In the name of Christ, my brother, in the name of Love, I adjure you not to slaughter this lamb!" The fierce butcher laughed uproariously. "And what do you expect me to do with it then?" he asked. "Give it to me, my brother. The Lord will record your good deed in His ledger and will present you with an immortal flock in the next world." "Oh oh," exclaimed the butcher with a sigh, "you aren't by any chance this Francis they talk about, are you? The one from Assisi, the miracle-worker?" "I am the sinner Francis of Assisi. But who am I to work miracles? I am simply a sinner, a sinner who weeps. I weep, my brother, and implore you not to slaughter this lamb!" "Take the beast," said the frightened butcher. "Here I give him to you--free. You see, you've just performed another miracle!" He lowered the lamb from his shoulder. Francis carried it in his arms, brought it as a gift to Brother Jacopa; and it is said that ever since that day the animal never strayed far from her side: it even accompanied her to church and knelt in front of the icons like everyone else. . . .