Saint Francis

by Nikos Kazantzakis

  I rolled up my sleeves. His words had fired my blood.

  "When do we start?"

  "Now. San Damiano is exposed to the rain; he is falling in ruins, stumbling in the darkness; he cannot wait. But our souls, Brother Leo: do you think they can wait? They too are exposed to the rain; they too are falling in ruins, stumbling in the darkness. Forward, comrade! In God's name!" He threw off his velvet coat and began to arrange the large corner-blocks that had fallen down and filled the yard. I lifted the hem of my robe to form a sizable pocket and then ran all about filling it with stones which I carried to one spot and deposited in a pile. While working, Francis began once more to sing the troubadour songs he had learned as a child. They were about love. Love for whom? The troubadours had embellished the virtue of the beloved lady; but this time as Francis sang, surely he was thinking of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

  It was already evening when we returned home. The whole way we talked passionately about stones, cement, and trowels--like two masons; and it was just as though we had been talking about God and the salvation of the world which was about to fall into ruins. That evening I understood for the first time that all things are one and that even the humblest everyday deed is part of a man's destiny. Francis too was deeply roused; he too felt that there is no such thing as a small deed or a large deed, and that to chink a crumbling wall with a single pebble is the same as reinforcing the entire earth to keep it from falling, the same as reinforcing your soul to keep that too from falling.

  As we came within sight of the house, Lady Pica was sitting at her window, searching the road anxiously. The darkness had not fallen yet; it was still light outside. Making us out in the distance, she went downstairs to open the door personally. She intended to scold her son for being late and for tiring himself while he was still sick, but when she stood in front of him and saw his face, she could not speak. She gazed at him in astonishment for a moment; finally she opened her mouth:

  "Your face: why is it beaming like that, my son?"

  "If you think it is beaming now, Mother, just wait!" replied Francis with a laugh. "This is only the beginning. We're on the first step, and all in all there are seventy-seven thousand."

  He took his mother by the arm and leaned over to her ear.

  "Tonight Brother Leo is going to eat with us--at the same table!"

  The next morning we slipped out of the house at dawn like two thieves and went down to the market place. We bought tools--two hammers, two trowels--also paints and brushes, and we ordered tiles and cement. Then we set out hurriedly along the road to San Damiano's.

  There were scattered clouds in the sky. The weather was cold; a nipping breeze came from the mountain. The cocks had begun to crow in the courtyards; men and beasts were awakening. The olive trees glistened. The oxen had already departed for their sacred daily toil.

  "This is the way the soul awakens," said Francis, turning to me suddenly. "It too has oxen, five of them. It puts them under the yoke early in the morning and begins to plough and sow." "To sow what?" I asked, unable to understand.

  "The kingdom of heaven. The kingdom of heaven, or else the Inferno," answered Francis, and he stooped to pick a beautiful yellow daisy from the edge of the road.

  But as he was putting out his hand, he suddenly restrained himself. He had changed his mind.

  "The Lord sent it to adorn the road. We must not prevent God's creatures from fulfilling their duty." When he had said this he waved to the daisy with his hand as though saying goodbye to his own beloved sister.

  When we finally reached the dilapidated chapel we found its curate seated on the threshold sunning himself. He was an old man bent over with the years, and ravaged, just like the tiny church of San Damiano, by poverty. When Francis was a short distance away from him, he halted for a moment, startled.

  "Is it possible that you are San Damiano?" he mumbled.

  But he set himself to rights immediately, and taking a few additional steps, came near the man and recognized him.

  "It's old Father Antonio, the curate. I know him."

  Relieved, he advanced and greeted the priest, kissing his hand.

  "With your permission, Father, we are going to repair the church. The saint came to me in my dreams and I gave him my word."

  All of a sudden the curate raised his head. Though his body was tottering, his eyes were still two flames.

  "Why didn't he come to me in my dreams?" he asked angrily, reproachfully. "I've grown old in his service, haven't I? He's eaten me out of house and home with the oil I've needed to keep his lamp lit, the brooms to sweep the place out, incense to make him smell nice, wine to wash his effigy. And did he ever appear to me in my sleep to say anything pleasant to me? Never! And now--what next!--he's come to the likes of you. . . . Aren't you Sior Bernardone's debauched, prodigal son--the one who spends the whole night roaming the streets with his guitar?"

  "Yes, Father, that's who I am: the debauched, prodigal son."

  "Well then, what can God expect from you?"

  "Nothing," Francis answered. "Nothing. But I expect everything from Him."

  "What do you mean: 'everything'?"

  "The salvation of my soul."

  The priest lowered his head in shame and remained silent, his hand held over his eyes to keep the sun from burning them. Rolling up our sleeves, Francis and I got down to work and little by little, without consciously meaning to, we both began to sing. First we ran to and fro gathering stones; then the cement arrived and we took up our trowels. We were like a pair of birds building their nest.

  "What do we resemble, Francis?" I suddenly asked my companion, and he answered laughingly: "Two birds who are building their nest in the springtime."

  The priest had risen: he was gazing in our direction, saying nothing. Every so often he threw a furtive glance at Francis and crossed himself. Around noontime he left to go to his tiny house, which was next to the church, and in a little while he returned carrying a wooden platter with two barley rolls, two handfuls of black olives, an onion, and a small jug of wine on it.

  " 'If a man work, let him eat,' commanded the Apostle Paul," he said to us with a smile.

  It was then that we first became aware of our hunger. Sitting down cross-legged in the yard, we began our meal.

  "Have you ever eaten olives as tasty as these, or such delicious bread?" asked Francis, chewing his barley roll with relish. "Have you ever drunk such exquisite wine?"

  "Once and only once," I answered, "but that was in my dreams (hungry people obviously dream of bread). I had just entered heaven; along came an angel with a platter exactly like this one, and it was loaded with barley bread, olives, an onion, and a small jug of wine. 'You've come a long way; you must be famished,' the angel said to me. 'Sit down and eat and drink before you have your audience with God.' I stretched out on heaven's green turf and began to eat. Each mouthful went down inside me and instantaneously turned to soul. Bread, wine, onion: all turned to soul. Just like now." We set to work again. Hewing stone, mixing cement, singing all the songs we knew, we calked the fissured walls. Night began to fall. For a moment I imagined San Damiano had emerged from the church and placed himself in the doorway, from where he was watching us with satisfaction. But then we saw it was the priest, and that he was smiling.

  "Who knows, perhaps he's San Damiano after all," said Francis, glancing with respect at the tiny old man who stood on the threshold. "It's possible that after so many years of prayer and poverty the two of them have become one."

  And truly, when darkness fell and we finally stopped work and went to bid him good night, his face was as radiant as a saint's.

  I shall not relate here how many days and weeks we worked. How can I remember! The time raced by like a babbling brook and we babbled along with it, painting, chinking the tiles on the roof, wielding our hammers, trowels, and brushes. Each day the sun rose, mounted to the center of the heavens, set; the evening star appeared in the western sky, night fell, and we climbed up toward Assisi, happy,
our hands spattered with cement. . . . The only thing I can say with certainty is that during each of those sacred days and weeks both of us experienced the sense of joy, urgency, and love possessed by the bird that is building its nest; we discovered, for the first time, the true meaning of "nest," "bird," and the exultation of realizing that your insides are filled with eggs! For the rest of our lives those days were to shine out, tender and lavish of grace, as though they had been a period of betrothal, the betrothal of our souls to God.

  "What has happened, what has happened, Brother Leo?" Francis asked me one morning as we began work. "Did the world change or did we? I weep, I laugh, and weeping and laughing are the same thing. I believe I'm walking a man's height above the earth, suspended in the air! And what about you, Brother Leo?"

  "Me? I believe I'm a caterpillar buried deep down under the ground. The entire earth is above me, crushing me, and I begin to bore through the soil, making a passage to the surface so that I can penetrate the crust and issue into the light. It's hard work boring through the entire earth, but I'm able to be patient because I have a strong premonition that as soon as I do issue into the light I shall become a butterfly."

  "That's it! That's it!" shouted Francis joyfully. "Now I understand. God bless you, Brother Leo! We are two caterpillars and we want to become butterflies. So . . . to work! Mix cement, bring stones, hand me the trowel!"

  Just as we were finally about to complete the rebuilding of San Damiano's, old Bernardone returned from his trip. He was taken aback when he did not find his son at the shop. Francis came no more to help with the business, but left at dawn, returned after dark, ate all by himself: Bernardone never saw him any more. "Where does your darling go every morning instead of looking after the shop?" he asked his wife with irritation.

  She lowered her gaze, not having the courage to face him directly.

  "He had a dream," she answered. "San Damiano--great is his grace--came to him and ordered him to repair the church."

  "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.