My God and My All: The Life of Saint Francis of Assisi

by Elizabeth Goudge

  As the eldest son he was destined for his father’s business and worked with his father, learning the art of money-getting. One cannot imagine that he was very proficient at this, but he loved getting rid of it, for he was both generous and extravagant. Once a beggar came to the warehouse and begged alms for the love of Christ. At first Francis refused him, for his father had probably brought him up to regard poverty as disaster and beggars as contemptible, but the beggar had not been gone for very long before he suffered one of those quick revulsions of feeling that were typical of him, and reproached himself bitterly. “He asked me in the name of Christ, how could I have been so hardhearted?” he reproached himself, and ran out of the warehouse and down the street and did not rest until he had found the beggar and made him a generous gift; and from that day he never turned away anyone who begged in the name of Christ.

  As once he had been prince among the children, so now he was prince of the young men and boys of Assisi. Even the sons of the nobles recognized the born leader in him and followed him delightedly. He outdid them all in extravagance, in wild fantasies, in largesse and laughter. Once the dancing, singing children were in bed the streets were theirs, and when their feastings were over they would pour out into the narrow ways carrying their torches, a torrent of noise and light and color that kept the citizens awake until the dawn came, the Assisian love of processions as strong in them as when they were children. Pietro Bernadone protested at the princely expenditure, for Francis spent an inordinate amount of money on the fantastic clothes he designed for himself, and on the wine for the feasts, but he loved the boy and was proud of this son of his, who not only took his place as easily with young men of rank as though he were himself of noble birth, but was also their accepted leader.

  Yet he did not dominate them, and that he should always have been able to lead men without having in his character one trace of that love of power which mars the character of so many leaders of men is one of the remarkable things about him. He had ambition, but it was a romantic and chivalrous ambition and had even then an otherworldliness about it. He was determined to be a great man, but a man after the pattern of Galahad and Roland rather than Alexander, a champion of great causes and a lover of Christ. For even now he was passing beneath the dominion of Christ, even if he did not know it. When the name of Christ was mentioned he was always suddenly quiet. If he heard an obscene word he would turn his head away and he did not succumb to the grosser temptations. Perhaps it was partly in this fastidiousness that his power over his companions lay; without the slightest affectation of superiority he was yet a little different from themselves. And then they must have delighted in his abounding vitality, his brilliant fantastic imagination, “the charm of his gentleness and his courtly bearing.” He had a clear and musical voice and like all young men of that time knew how to play the viol and sing to it the songs of the troubadours that he loved so well. And he was immensely generous, both as friend and host, prodigal of himself as well as of his possessions. Altogether an unusually attractive young man, even if he had no good looks to commend him except his slender grace of body and his large dark shining eyes. Pica, when her neighbors commented upon these things, and being Italian they no doubt commented with much vociferation and reiteration, replied quietly, “I will tell you how this son of mine will turn out; he will become a son of God.”

  Perugia did not wait for long. Some of the German nobles who had had their homes destroyed became émigrés within her walls, and the remainder of the Imperial party still living in Assisi spent their time intriguing against her and finally appealed to Perugia for help. Perugia was delighted to give it and four years after the destruction of the Rocca the two cities were at war. Foligno joined Perugia, and the smaller cities, Nocera, Spello, Rosciano and Bastia, allied themselves under the red and blue flag of Assisi. All the men of Assisi, from eighteen to sixty years of age, joined the army, Francis serving in the cavalry and providing his own horse and equipment. The city hummed with the noise of preparation, the ring of hammer on anvil as armor and weapons were forged and repaired, the shouting of commands, singing and laughter, the yells of excited children, and the neighing of the war horses being exercised outside the walls. Then they were ready and in all their glory streamed out of the city gates with trumpets sounding and banners floating in the wind.

  From the city walls the old people, the women and children watched them go. Pica would have been there, and Pietro if he was at home, full of mixed pride and dread like other parents of young sons. From Perugia the cavalry and infantry streamed out, and the two armies met each other not far from Perugia, where an old Roman bridge that had known the tramp of the Legions crossed the Tiber at Ponte San Giovanni. Uccello’s picture of the rout of San Romano in the National Gallery in London, though it is of later date, nevertheless gives one the feeling of this little battle. There are the floating banners and the long thin trumpets, the knights in their heavy armor wielding battle-axes and pikes, the plunging horses with their bright trappings, and to one side of the picture a bareheaded boy, whose helmet must have fallen from his head, riding along as peacefully and quietly as though the battle were no more than a tourney, a boy who might be Francis himself. In the distance is the Italian landscape, a little hill, a terraced field, an apple tree, and a hedge of roses in full bloom. By the standard of the Legions, by the standard of our fearful battles of today, this battle was a very small affair, but it was a savage little fight all the same. A Perugian poet wrote of it:

  Fallen are the lords of Assisi, and their limbs are all mangled,

  Torn apart and defaced, so their own cannot know them;

  There is no head where the foot is, their entrails are scattered,

  The eye no longer looks from the socket, its one-time window.

  Perugia with her greater power won the fight with ease and Francis was among those who were taken prisoner. Perugia was never very merciful to prisoners and Francis and his companions had to march bound through the streets of the grim city, dragging their conquered banners in the dirt behind them to the Palace of the Captain, to be thrust into the dungeon there. The imprisonment lasted for nearly a year, while negotiations for peace dragged on between Assisi and Perugia, and through the whole ordeal Francis was merry amongst his depressed and irritable companions, for he had his private country of escape, his daydreams in which he was the hero of every story that his picturesque imagination could weave about himself. The men with him thought he was mad to be so merry. “Would you know why I am merry?” he retorted. “I see the day when all the world will bow in homage before me.” But he was not too absorbed in his dreams to be unaware of the suffering near him. One of the prisoners had in some way injured one of the others and the rest of them would have nothing to do with him. He was left by himself, miserable and bitter. Francis was always so beloved and popular himself that he could not bear it. He sought him out, won him by gentle compassion, and finally healed the breach and brought him back into the circle of comradeship. And so the year dragged on and they were set free at last. They came out into the sunlight again, rode home across the plain and saw Assisi on her hill among the tall cypress trees, the vineyards and the olives. They rode in through the gate of the city and were at home.

  Chapter 2

  The Leper

  Pardon, Lord, we sinners pray,

  Our offenses purge away,

  Let us taste, if so we may,

  Of thy love a little share.

  Thou art love and courtesy,

  Nought ungracious dwells in thee;

  Give, O love, thyself to me,

  Lest I perish in despair.

  JACOPONE DA TODI

  LAUDA LXXXVI

  IT IS NOW THAT FRANCIS begins to come closer to us. Through his early youth he seems somewhat like a prince in a fairy tale, charming yet remote, but now there begins in him that hunger for God that is the same in every age, so completely the same that the psalms could be the cry of our own hearts, and though the experience
of Francis even in the earliest days of his conversion transcends that of most men yet it is something that we recognize as having a universal quality. This is the path that all men must tread, either in this world or the next, if they would come to God. His own quality of inner light illumines it for us, illumines it for an almost incredible distance, so far did he travel while yet in this world, but we must set out upon it for ourselves.

  Conversion is rather an ugly word for the stretching out of God’s hand to take a soul to himself, a process often so exquisite and tender that to try and describe it can seem a desecration. Yet there is nothing more fascinating than to watch it in a life as lovely and luminous as that of Francis. For his was no sudden conversion like Saint Paul’s, but one that was subtle and gentle, suited to his gentle nature.

  When he returned home he became ill with fever, so ill that there seemed no hope for him. The suddenness and completeness of the collapse suggests that in spite of the laughter and fun in the Palace of the Captain his experience had thrust deep into his sensitive nature. The mutilation and death of friends in the little battle, the humiliating entry into Perugia and the long imprisonment shut away from the air and the light and the beauty of the world that he adored had been the cause of a hidden suffering that had exhausted him. Perhaps in spite of the comfort of his private daydreams his laughter in the prison had had more of sheer courage in it than even he had realized. His courage stood by him, too, in this first experience of severe illness. He did not succumb to it, and characteristically his first action, as soon as he was on his legs again, was to stagger along to the nearest gate to feast his eyes upon that same beauty of the habitable world. It was the spring of 1204 and he was twenty-two years old.

  He came to the Porta Nuova through which he and Pica must have passed so often on their walks, and stood there leaning on his stick. Before him was spread one of the loveliest views in the world, in the glory of the spring. The sun shone warmly upon him and the birds were singing. To his left was Monte Subasio, to his right the Umbrian plain with its woods and fields and castled hills. The garlands of young vine leaves were freshly green, there were poppies growing in the corn and the tall cypresses soared up black against the blue sky. In the far distance were the celestial mountains. Fringing the stony paths were the spring flowers, and lavender and rosemary bushes, and their breath came up to him on the wind. This was what he had longed for in prison, and through the days of fever. And it meant nothing to him. He looked at the beauty of earth and it gave him no joy. He had thirsted for a drink of water and was given an empty cup. He did not know it but in the desolation, the dryness of that moment, God touched him. There is no point in anything without God. The beauty of the earth is so much emptiness unless God fills it. The emptiness was the beginning of his lifelong hunger for God.

  He went home and perhaps the whole of his life seemed to him now a little meaningless, for he seized eagerly upon the chance of escape from it that the next few months brought to him. A certain knight of Assisi, Count Gentile, called for volunteers to ride with him to fight for the pope in southern Italy. They were to join the armies of Walter de Brienne, Prince of Taranto, a gallant and chivalrous figure who had captured the imagination of all young men everywhere. Francis answered the call at once, flinging himself into the new adventure with all his old ardor and eagerness; the Prince of Taranto was just such a hero as he had dreamed of being himself, and moreover he was a Frenchman. And this was a real war, waged for freedom and religion, and in it he might himself become a knight. This was his chance to do what he had always longed to do, to win his spurs. And perhaps he thought that on this adventure he might win the lovely lady who would be his bride.

  His parents, who so tenderly loved him, entered into all his plans with sympathy and approval and gave him a splendid outfit. Not one of the young nobles would ride to war more magnificent than he. And then, just as they were on the point of departure, Francis discovered that one of the men who were to ride with him, a young man who was already a knight, was poor and ill-equipped. Francis could not bear it. That a man who had already won his spurs should have to ride to war shabbily, while he who was not yet knighted had everything he wanted, was intolerable. It was the outcast prisoner at Perugia over again. It was as it would be all through his life; if he saw other men having less than he had he could not bear it. He gave all his magnificent equipment to the other man. It must have been a blow to his father and mother but by this time they would have known that with Francis anything was to be expected.

  When he went to bed that night, with his head full of the knight he had succored, of the adventure to which he was committed and of the lovely lady, he dreamed a dream. He was in the palace of a fair bride, and it was full of armor hanging on the wall as though waiting for a company of knights to come and take it, and the arms were all marked with the cross of Christ. He wondered who was the owner of this palace and all the weapons and armor, and then he knew in his dream that these things belonged to him and his knights. He woke up delighted and when he was asked why he was so happy he said, “I know I shall be a great prince.” The men of the Middle Ages attached great importance to their dreams, seeing in them not only a picture of events that were to come but also intimations of the will of God. And that being their faith no doubt for them it was so, for God guides us through that which we believe, in our time and in our circumstances. Francis took this dream literally, for as his biographer Saint Bonaventure expresses it, “he had not yet practiced his mind in examining the divine mysteries, and knew not how to pass through the appearance of things seen unto the beholding of the truth of things unseen.”

  The next day the cavalcade set out. Francis was once more equipped with the best his father could give him, and bore on his arm the little buckler of a page. When he came back, he must have told his father and mother and excited young brothers, he would be carrying the knight’s shield. Assisi watched them ride down to the plain and wheel away toward the south, and was immensely proud of them.

  That day they rode thirty miles through the forests and came at nightfall to Spoleto, where they rested, and here again there came to Francis the touch of God, and this time he knew it for what it was. He was lying still, perhaps beside a campfire, perhaps in some friendly room where through the small unshuttered window he could see the stars. He was not asleep, he was in that state between sleeping and waking when the veil between one world and another sometimes grows thin, and he heard the voice. To hear the voice is not an uncommon occurrence. Lovers of God, and Francis in his generosity was that already, have heard it in times past and do today, but they find it hard to explain to us who do not hear. They say, “You do not hear it with your bodily ears, and yet you hear, and afterwards you know the actual words that have been spoken.” Saint Bonaventure puts it very simply. He says Francis “heard the Lord speaking unto him by night, with the voice of a friend.” The voice said, “Francis, who can do better for you, the lord or the servant?” And Francis replied that the lord could do best for him. And the voice said, “Why, then, do you leave the lord for the servant?” And Francis asked, as he was to ask at every turning point in his life, “Lord, what would’st thou have me to do?” And the voice said the same words that Saint Paul had heard when he asked the same question. “Return to your own country and you will be told what to do.”

  Francis did not sleep at all that night and very early the next morning he rode back to Assisi.

  To do so took a particular brand of tough courage. He had built every high hope that he had on this adventure, and now he was asked to turn his back on it. He had ridden out from Assisi to the cheers of the people, leaving behind him a family immensely proud of him, and now he must ride back to face the ridicule of Assisi and the deep hurt and disappointment of those who loved him. He must ride home stripped of his hopes and dreams and still carrying on his arm only the buckler of a page. For a man so young and ambitious this stripping must have been bitterly hard. Yet his biographers said that he rode hom
e gaily, in a manner that reminds us of a saying of King Alfred: “If thou hast a woe tell it not to the weakling, tell it to thy saddle-bow and ride singing forth.”

  There is no record of his reception at Assisi, but it is proof of his courage that whatever it was he lived it down in such a manner that in a short while he had won back all his old ascendancy and was once again the leader of the young men in the gaieties of the city.

  2

  HE WENT BACK TO THE OLD LIFE, there being nothing else to do while he waited for his orders, but he did not go back to it in the same way because he was not the same man. He had never cared about his father’s business and he cared about it even less now, and the feasting and the gaiety no longer gave him the old delight. It seems that just as the beauty of the world became meaningless to him as he stood at the gate of the city, so now he felt the same sort of emptiness in the life of pleasure. And he was noticing things more. As the young men paraded the streets at night in their gorgeous clothes, with their torches and their singing, Francis often leading them with the wand of the master of the revels in his hand, there were watchers in the shadows. Assisi, like all cities, had her poverty, and the poverty of the Middle Ages could be horrible. In the dark alleys that were hidden away between the fine houses of the nobles and the merchants were filthy little rooms, squalor, disease, and misery. There was little help or hope then for the sick, the crippled, and the blind, little to relieve their pain or comfort their dying. There were religious orders in Italy who cared for the poor, such as the Crucigeri, the Cross-Bearing Brothers, who looked after the lepers, but they could do no more than touch the fringe of the misery. For most of the suffering poor, their chief hope was to display their wretchedness in the streets, outside the churches and the houses of the rich, in the hope of a coin being flung to them. Francis had been generous with his coins since the beggar had asked alms of him in the name of Christ, but the eyes of his mind had been turned inward to that pageant of his dreams, the knights and the tourneys and the great things that he would do. But those dreams had gone now and there too was an emptiness that was gradually filling with the men in the shadows. He noticed them now as he walked by. The torchlit procession of the young men through the streets brought a little excitement into their lives. They crept up from their wretched hiding places to warm themselves for a moment or two in the warmth and color. And perhaps some of them in their bitterness cursed under their breath. In the light of the torches Francis saw the twisted limbs, the sores and dirty rags, and in spite of the perfume that scented his own fine clothes and the smell of the wine he had drunk, their stench came to him and sickened him. He had always had a fastidious horror of mutilation of any sort, of dirt and smells. He especially shrank from lepers, and when he had to pass one he “turned aside his face, stopping his nostrils with his hand.” But now in this flight from what he hated he was somehow coming to a dead end. Poverty was catching up with him, and soon he would have to turn and confront her.