SAINT FRANCIS
Nikos Kazantzakis
Translated from the Greek by P. A. Bien
Dedicated to the Saint Francis of our era, Dr. Albert Schweitzer N.K. PROLOGUE
If I have omitted many of Francis" sayings and deeds and if I have altered others, and added still others which did not take place but which might have taken place, I have done so not out of ignorance or impudence or irreverence, but from a need to match the Saint's life with his myth, bringing that life as fully into accord with its essence as possible.
Art has this right, and not only the right but the duty to subject everything to the essence. It feeds upon the story, then assimilates it slowly, cunningly, and turns it into a legend.
While writing this legend which is truer than truth itself, I was overwhelmed by love, reverence, and admiration for Francis, the hero and great martyr. Often large teardrops smeared the manuscript; often a hand hovered before me in the air, a hand with an eternally renewed wound: someone seemed to have driven a nail through it, seemed to be driving a nail through it for all eternity.
Everywhere about me, as I wrote, I sensed the Saint's invisible presence; because for me Saint Francis is the model of the dutiful man, the man who by means of ceaseless, supremely cruel struggle succeeds in fulfilling our highest obligation, something higher even than morality or truth or beauty: the obligation to transubstantiate the matter which God entrusted to us, and turn it into spirit. FATHER FRANCIS, I who take up my pen today to write your life and times, unworthy that I am: when you first met me, remember, I was a humble beggar, ugly, my face and head covered with hair. From the eyebrows to the nape of the neck I was nothing but hair. My eyes were frightened and na�ve; I stuttered, bleated like a lamb--and you, in order to ridicule my ugliness and abasement, you named me Brother Leo, the lion! But when I told you my life story you began to weep; you clasped me in your arms, kissed me, and said, "Brother Leo, forgive me. I called you 'lion' to ridicule you, but now I see that you are a true lion, because only a lion has the courage to pursue what you are pursuing."
I had been going from monastery to monastery, from village to village, wilderness to wilderness, searching for God. I did not marry, did not have children, because I was searching for God. I would hold a slice of bread in one hand and a fistful of olives in the other, and though I was famished, I always forgot to eat, because I was searching for God.
I walked so much that my feet became swollen; I asked the same question over and over again until hair sprouted on my tongue! Finally I grew tired of knocking on doors and holding out my hand, first to beg for bread, then for a kind word, and after that for salvation. Everyone laughed, called me a visionary, and chased me away--pushed me until I arrived finally at the edge of the abyss. I was weary; I began to blaspheme. I'm human after all, I said; I'm tired of walking, of going about hungry and cold, of knocking on the gates of heaven and seeing them remain closed. And then, as I was on the verge of despair, one night God took me by the hand; He took you by the hand also, Father Francis, and brought us together.
Now I sit in my cell and watch the springtime clouds through my tiny window. Below in the courtyard of the monastery the heavens have descended: there is a fine drizzle, and the soil is fragrant. The lemon trees in the orchards have blossomed; in the distance a cuckoo calls. All the leaves are laughing: God has become rain and is raining on the world. O Lord, what joy! What happiness! Look how earth, rain, and the odors of dung and the lemon trees all combine and become one with man's heart! Truly, man is soil. That is why he, like the soil, enjoys the calm caressing rains of spring so very much. My heart is being watered. It cracks open, sends forth a shoot--and you, Father Francis, appear.
All the soil inside me has blossomed, Father Francis. Memories rise up, time rolls back its wheel, and there, brought back to life, are the sacred hours we spent journeying together over the face of the earth, you in front and I following timorously in your footsteps. Do you remember where we first met? I was so hungry that night, I staggered as I entered the celebrated city of Assisi. It was August and the moon was immense. I had already enjoyed this noble city many times, glory be to God, but that night Assisi was something else entirely: it was unrecognizable. What miracle was this? Where was I? Houses, citadel, churches, towers: all were hovering in the air, floating in a pure white sea, beneath a purple sky. It was dinnertime when I entered the city through the newly built Saint Peter's Gate. The moon was just rising--full, brilliantly red. It was gentle, like a kindly sun; and from high up on the citadel, the Rocca, a serene waterfall spilled down onto the bell towers and housetops, filling the ditches with milk until they overflowed, flooding the narrow lanes, which ran like brooks, and making the faces of the inhabitants so radiant that everyone seemed to be thinking of God. I stopped, swept away by the sight before me. Is this Assisi? I kept asking myself, making the sign of the cross. Can these be houses and people and bell towers, or is it possible that, while still alive, I have entered Paradise? I held out my hands; the moon filled my palms, a moon sweet and gelatinous, like honey. I felt the grace of God running over my lips, my temples--and then I understood. I uttered a cry. Some saint--yes, without a doubt some saint had come this way. His smell was in the air!
Sloshing through the moonlight, I climbed the twisting lanes until I reached the Piazza San Giorgio. It was Saturday night and a large crowd had gathered. There was singing and raucous shouting, mixed with the sound of mandolins and the intoxicating aroma of fried fish, jasmine, rose, and cabobs sizzling on the coals. My hunger increased beyond bounds.
"Hey, good Christians," I called, approaching one of the groups of celebrants, "who in this renowned city of Assisi can give me alms? I just want to eat, sleep, and then leave in the morning."
They looked me over from head to toe, and laughed.
"And who do you think you are, my beauty?" they answered, guffawing. "Come closer and let us admire you."
"Maybe I'm Christ," I said to frighten them. "Sometimes He appears on earth like this, like a beggar."
"You had better not repeat that, not if you know what's good for you, poor fellow," one of them said. "We won't have anyone spoiling our party. Quick now, move on! Otherwise we might rise up, every single one of us, and crucify you!"
They laughed again; but then one, the youngest of the group, felt sorry for me.
"Pietro Bernardone's son Francis, old 'Leaky Palms': he's the one who'll give you alms. And you're in luck. Yesterday he returned from Spoleto with his tail between his legs. Go and find him."
At that point an ugly, gawky giant jumped forward. He had a mouselike face, a jaundiced complexion, and was called Sabbatino. We met again a few years later when he too became one of Francis' disciples and, barefooted, we journeyed together over the roads of the world. On this night, however, the sound of Francis' name made him cackle maliciously:
"Why do you think he went to fight at Spoleto, all fitted out in his gold and plumes? It seems he wanted to do great deeds, have himself invested as a knight and then come back here to play cock of the walk. But the Almighty knows what's what. He gave him a bang square on the head, and our proud rooster returned home with his feathers plucked."
He jumped into the air, clapping his hands.
"We even made up a song about him," he said with a chuckle. "Ready, lads--all together now!"
And suddenly they all began to clap their hands and sing at the top of their voices:
He went to Spoleto, la-la, la-la,
He went to Spoleto for wool,
He went to Spoleto, ta-ra, ta-ra,
And got himself sheared to the full!
The sight of the wine and tidbits made me feel faint. I leaned against a doorpost, gasping for breath.
"And where is this '
Leaky Palms,' this Francis--may God protect him! Where can I find him so that I may fall at his feet?"
"Go to the upper part of the city," the young one directed me. "You'll see him there under a window, serenading his lady."
I set out, perishing with hunger, and began to climb up and down the narrow streets. I could see smoke rising from the chimneys. People were cooking--all sensible people--and I smelled the odors. My entrails were drooping like naked grape stems despoiled by birds and mice. Unable to endure it any longer, I began to blaspheme: "Oh, if only I wasn't looking for God," I murmured in a rage, "if only I wasn't looking for God, how I'd loll in the lap of indolence! What a joy that would be! I'd do nothing but eat gigantic slices of white bread, and roast pig, which I love so much, or rabbit smothered in oil and garnished with scallions, bay leaves, and cumin. And to cool my insides I'd down a jugful of red Umbrian wine. Then I'd visit some widow and let her warm me: people say a widow's warmth is the sweetest in the whole world. Certainly a brazier can't compare. . . . But what am I to do since I'm searching for God!"
I was walking as fast as I could in an effort to get warm. With a sudden impetus I broke out into a run in order to breathe clean air again, to save myself from the temptations, from the odors and the widows. Finally I reached the heights of the citadel, the famous Rocca. The proud walls had been thrown down, the doors reduced to charcoal; nothing remained but two crevassed towers. The weeds had already climbed over them and were protruding from the spaces between the stones. The people had revolted a few years before, unable any longer to endure their lords, and had charged this hawk's nest and destroyed it. I felt like circling the ruins in order to enjoy the misfortune of these rulers who had gorged themselves with food and wine (until our turn had come), but a bitter, smarting wind was blowing, and I felt cold. I descended at a run. The lamps in the houses had been extinguished; the people were snoring. They had eaten well, drunk well, and now they were snoring. These respectable homeowners had found the God they were seeking, found Him on earth, just as they wanted Him: their own size, complete with children, wives, and all the best things of life --while I, the visionary, roamed the streets of Assisi barefooted, hungry, shivering, and beat on the doors of heaven, cursing one moment and lustily repeating the Kyrie eleison the next in order to keep warm.
Toward midnight I heard guitars and lutes in the vicinity of the bishop's church. Probably some young men serenading their sweethearts. One of them was singing. I approached on tiptoe and hid in the doorway, glued to the wall. There were five or six youths outside of Count Scifi's mansion. One of them, much shorter than the others, a long plume in his cap, was standing with crossed arms, his head thrown back, his eyes pinned on a grated window. He was singing, while the others around him, enraptured by his voice, accompanied him on their guitars and lutes. And what a voice that was! O God, how sweet, how passionate; how it implored and commanded! I don't remember the song and can't record it here to preserve it for posterity; but I do remember well that it was about a white dove that was being pursued by a hawk, and that the youth was calling the dove to come and take refuge in his bosom. . . . He sang softly, tranquilly, as though afraid he might wake the girl, who must have been sleeping behind the grated window. You couldn't help but feel that he was singing not to the girl's body, which was asleep, but to her soul, which was lying awake. My eyes had filled with tears. I was troubled: where had I heard that voice before-- the sweetness, the entreaty, the command? Where and when had I heard that invitation: the hawk in screeching pursuit, the dove twittering in terror; and, far far away, the sweet, inviting voice of salvation?
Slinging the guitars and lutes over their shoulders, the youths got ready to leave.
"Let's go, Francis," they called laughingly to the singer. "What are you waiting for? You think your little countess will throw you the rose, do you? She hasn't opened her window until now, and she isn't going to tonight, either!"
But the singer, without answering, set off before the others in order to turn the corner and go down to the square, where songs from the open taverns could still be heard. At that point I darted out in front of him. I was terrified at the thought of losing him, for I had suddenly felt that my soul was a dove, and the hawk Satan, and that this youth was the bosom in which I could find refuge. Removing my tattered, threadbare robe, I spread it beneath his feet for him to walk over. His entire body emitted an odor, a fragrance like honey, like wax, like roses. I smelled it and understood: it was the odor of sainthood. When you open a silver reliquary, that is how the saint's bones smell.
He turned and looked at me, smiling.
"Why did you do that?" he asked in a low voice.
"I don't know, sir. How do you expect me to know? The robe left my shoulders of its own accord and stretched itself on the ground for you to walk over."
He remained standing where he was. The smile had left his face.
"Did you see some sign in the air?" he asked me, leaning forward, troubled.
"I don't know, sir. Everything is a sign--my hunger, the moon, your voice. Better not ask me. I'll begin to weep."
"Everything is a sign," he murmured, looking about Mm uneasily.
He held out his hand. His thick lips moved as though he wanted to question me but could not make up his mind to do so. His face had melted away under the strong moonlight, his hands had become transparent. He took a step forward, coming closer to me. I leaned over to hear what he was about to say, and felt his alcoholic breath in my face.
"Don't look at me like that," he whispered angrily. "I have nothing to say to you. Nothing!"
He began to walk again, quickening his pace. He motioned me to follow him.
I trotted behind him in the moonlight, looking at him. He was dressed in silk, with a long red plume in his velvet cap and a carnation in his ear. This man isn't searching for God, I said to myself; his soul is wallowing in the flesh.
And all at once my heart took pity on him. I held out my hand and touched his elbow.
"Excuse me, sir," I said, "but there was one thing I wanted to ask you, and it was this: You eat, drink, dress yourself in silks, sing beneath windows. Your life is one continuous party. Does this mean you lack nothing?"
The youth turned abruptly and drew his arm violently away to prevent me from touching him.
"That's right, I lack nothing," he replied with irritation. "Why do you ask? I don't like having people question me."
"Because I pity you, sir," I said in reply, fortifying my heart.
When the youth heard this he tossed his head arrogantly.
"You, you pity me!"
He laughed, but a moment later, in a low, panting voice: "Why do you pity me--why?"
I did not answer.
"Why?" he asked again, leaning forward and gazing into my eyes. "Who are you--dressed like that, like a beggar? And who sent you to find me here on the streets of Assisi in the middle of the night?"
He grew furious. "Confess the truth! Someone sent you. Who?" Then, receiving no answer, he stamped his foot on the ground:
"I lack nothing! I don't want to be pitied, I want to be envied. . . . I lack nothing, I tell you!"
"Nothing?" I asked. "Not even heaven?"
He lowered his head and was silent. But after a moment:
"Heaven is too high for me. The earth is good, exceptionally good--and near me!"
"Nothing is nearer to us than heaven. The earth is beneath our feet and we tread upon it, but heaven is within us."
The moon had begun to set; a few stars hung in the sky; the sound of impassioned serenades came thinly from the distant neighborhoods; down below, the square was buzzing. The air of this summer night was filled with aromas and with love.
"Heaven is within us, my young lord," I repeated. "How do you know?" he asked, giving me a startled look.
"I suffered, went hungry, thirsty--and learned." He took me by the arm. "Come home with me. I'll feed you and give you a bed to sleep on. But don't talk to me about heaven--it may be wi
thin you, but it's not within me."
His eyes flashed with anguish; his voice had grown hoarse.
We went down to the market place, where the taverns were still roaring. Drunken young men were streaming in and out of one of the low houses, in front of which was a small red lantern. Donkeys laden with vegetables and fruit had begun to arrive from the villages. Men were setting up tables and arranging bottles of wine, brandy, and rum on them. Two tightrope walkers had started to drive in poles and stretch their string. The preparations for the Sunday bazaar had already begun.
Two drunks spied Francis in the moonlight and began to laugh clandestinely. One of them removed his guitar from his shoulder. Glaring at Francis derisively, he started to sing:
You build your nest so high in vain:
The bough will break,
You'll lose the bird,
And be left with only the pain.
Francis listened, motionless, his head bowed.
"He's right," he murmured, "he's right."
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