Saint Francis

by Nikos Kazantzakis

  I fell at Francis' feet. "Forgive me, Brother Francis. I still haven't succeeded in conquering the flesh. I continue to feel hungry, tired, cold. Wherever you go I go too; sometimes, however, my mind does not follow you--instead, it grows insolent and resists. I am before the gates of heaven, but they do not open."

  "You must not lose heart, Brother Leo," he answered stroking my head. "Stand on your feet, and if the Tempter has straddled you, have no fears: the gates will open, and the two of you will enter together!"

  "The Tempter too? He'll enter too? How do you know, Brother Francis?"

  "I know because of my heart, which opens and receives everything. Surely Paradise must be the same."

  We arrived at a tiny city perched on the flanks of a sharp, rocky mountain. At its foot were tumble-down houses, worn away by rain, sun, and time; at the summit the castle, fitted out with towers and long, swallow-tailed pennons. Here the lord lived with his falcons. The city was belted by vineyards and olive groves below on the plain.

  "We'll stop here and rest for three days," said Francis, feeling sorry for me. "I see a tiny monastery there among the olive trees. God has taken pity on you, Brother Leo."

  We entered the city. The farmers were returning from their labors: the sun was about to set. We seated ourselves in the garden of a ruined church. There were cypresses on all sides; the hedge was covered with sweet-smelling red flowers; in the center was a plane tree with tender, dark green foliage that had but just unfolded. An open, flowing spring was at its roots.

  Francis looked around him and sighed deeply. "Paradise must be just like this," he said. "Do not seek anything more. This is enough for the soul of man, enough and more than enough."

  Hearing much chirping above him, he looked up. A flock of sparrows was flying toward the plane tree: there they had their nests, and they were going home to spend the night. They perched on the branches, then scattered throughout the garden and began to peep happily before burrowing into their tiny houses to lay their heads upon their downy breasts and give themselves up to sleep.

  Francis advanced slowly toward the flowing water, which was where the birds had gathered now. He held out his hands to greet them.

  "Stay where you are, Brother Leo," he said to me. "Don't move; you might frighten them. Since I haven't any grain to throw them, I shall feed them with the word of God so that they may hear it and be able, like men, to go to heaven."

  Turning to the birds, he leaned over them and began to preach, his arms spread wide.

  "Sister Birds, God, the Father of birds and men, loves you greatly, and you are aware of this. That is why when you drink water you lift your tiny heads to heaven after each sip and give thanks to Him; why in the morning when the sun strikes your little breasts you fill yourselves with song and fly from branch to branch glorifying His name, the name of the Lord, who sends the sun, and green trees, and song. And you fly high up into the sky so that you can come close to Him and He can hear you. And when your nests are filled with eggs and you are mothers sitting on them to hatch them, God becomes a male bird, sits Himself down on the branch opposite, and sings to ease your labors."

  A flock of doves passed overhead as Francis was speaking. They heard his sweet voice, descended, seated themselves round about his feet, and one small dove flew up and squatted on his right shoulder, cooing. Francis leaned further and further forward. He kept shaking his robe as though it were a pair of wings, and his voice chirruped, sweet as a nightingale's. It seemed he wanted to join the birds around him, and that he was struggling to become a bird, a large sparrow, in order to do so.

  "Sister Sparrows, Sister Doves, consider what gifts God has bestowed upon you: He gave you wings so that you might travel through the air, and down to keep you warm in wintertime; He scattered many kinds of nourishment over the ground and in the trees so that you would not go hungry; He filled your breasts and throats with song."

  Swallows arrived now and perched in rows along the hedge opposite us and also along the edge of the church roof. Folding their wings, they stretched their heads forward and listened intently. Francis turned to greet them.

  "Welcome to our sisters the swallows, who carry spring to us each year on slender wings. Though it is still cold and rainy out, though the sun is shorn of its golden hair, you feel your hearts warm and full of summer. You sit on the snow- covered roof tiles, wing your way from bare branch to bare branch, and peck at winter with your sharp beaks to force it to depart. On the Day of Judgment you, my dear swallows, you before all other winged things, before even the angels with their trumpets, will fly to the cemeteries and begin to chirp above the tombstones, singing out the news of resurrection. The dead will hear you and will leap out of their graves onto the daisies to greet the eternal spring!"

  The swallows beat their wings happily, the doves cooed, and the sparrows came close to Francis and began to peck tenderly at his robe. Holding his hand out over their heads, he made the sign of the cross and blessed the birds. Then he waved in all directions, bidding them farewell.

  "Evening has come, Sister Sparrows, Doves, and Swallows; evening has come, go now and sleep. And if God has graced you with the ability to have dreams, may He grant that tonight in your sleep you will see Our Lady of the Swallows flying over your nests like a large swallow."

  While Francis was speaking, a man had come by on horseback and halted, moved to laughter by the sight of a monk conversing with birds. He was middle-aged, an aristocrat, had a fat cudgel-like nose, voluptuous hanging lips, and was dressed in motley, with a crown of wide-leafed laurel in his hair and around his waist a gold chain with a tiny cloth monkey as a good-luck charm. A lute hung from his shoulder.

  Following behind him was a troupe of young men and women, all with crowns of ivy and flowers. When they saw their leader stop, they stopped too and burst into peals of laughter. The rider's face was gleaming; the last rays of the evening sun had struck his head, igniting his blond hair.

  I leaned over the hedge and beckoned to one of the young men, who came up to me. "Who is this lord, the one on horseback?" I asked him. "He is as handsome as a king." "His name is Gulielmus Divini and he is truly a king. Haven't you heard of him? He has just been in Rome, where they crowned him with laurel at the Capitol and proclaimed him King of Song."

  "What does he sing about?"

  "Love, monk, love. I don't suppose you've ever heard of that, have you?"

  He returned to his companions, laughing heartily.

  The rider had reined in his horse, meanwhile, and had remained motionless, listening as the doves came, and after them, the swallows. Suddenly he turned to his laughing escort. "Be quiet!" he shouted at them angrily.

  Francis was saying good night to the birds and preparing to cross the yard and leave when the King of Song jumped off his horse, ran to him, and fell at his feet.

  "Holy Father," he cried, kissing Francis' bloody feet, "I was blind and now I have regained my sight; I was dead and now I have risen from the grave. Take me, bring me away from the world of men, save my soul! All my life I have sung the virtues of wine and women. I've grown weary of that. Take me so that I may sing the glories of God. I am Gulielmus Divini, and those idiots in Rome have just crowned me King of Song."

  As soon as he had said this, he wrenched the crown off his head, pulled it apart, and strewed the laurel leaves over the ground. "Now I feel pacified," he said. "I am going to throw away the motley too. Give me a frock, Holy Father. Here, I am removing this golden chain I have around my waist. Gird me with a knotted cord."

  Francis leaned over, raised him up, and kissed him on the forehead.

  "Rise, Brother Pacifico. I shall call you by this name, my brother, because you have just entered the peace of God. I kiss your forehead; it is still filled with song. You used to sing about the world; from now on you shall sing about the world's Creator. Keep your lute so that it too may enter God's service and be sanctified. And when the good time comes, Pacifico, my brother, I want you to know that you shall e
nter heaven with this lute hanging from your shoulder; and the angels will congregate round you and ask you to teach them new songs."

  The young men and women ran to gather up the fallen laurel leaves. They gazed at the celebrated troubadour, unable to determine if this was just a new game he was playing, or if he had truly taken leave of his senses and decided to become a monk.

  But Brother Pacifico turned to bid them farewell: "Goodbye, companions of my former life; now Gulielmus Divini is dead. Go bury him, and put this little monkey in his coffin--bury it too!"

  He tossed them the gold chain with the cloth monkey. "Goodbye," he repeated. "Goodbye--we shall never meet again!"

  The astonished young men and women dispersed, leaving the three of us alone. With Francis in the lead, we proceeded toward the small monastery in the middle of the olive grove. Brother Pacifico sang along the way.

  "My heart is a bird, a nightingale, Brother Francis," he said. "It came along with the other birds to listen to you, and when it heard you, it lifted its beak toward heaven to begin a new song."

  Francis laughed. "I am bringing a new madness to the world," he said, "and you a new song--the song of the new madness. Brother Pacifico, it's fine that we have joined forces. Welcome to our brotherhood."

  We spent three days at the little monastery, recovering our strength. At the first sight of us, the monks frowned. Francis was laughing, Pacifico playing his lute, and I was accompanying the new brother in my raucous voice.

  "Say, where do you think you are?" the Father Superior shouted at us. "This is a monastery: the house of the Lord."

  "And how, Brother Superior, do you expect us to enter the house of the Lord--weeping?" answered Francis. "God shouts: 'I've had enough of weeping, I don't like sighs, I'm tired of seeing long faces. What I long for is the sound of laughter on earth!' Brother Pacifico, sound your lute, sing a song, gladden God's heart."

  The monks got used to us gradually. Francis had them assemble in the courtyard each evening, where he spoke to them about love, poverty, and heaven.

  "What do you think heaven is like?" he asked them. "Like some huge palace with a marble staircase, all filled with gold and wings? No! No! One night I saw it in a dream: it was a tiny tiny village completely surrounded by green meadows; and in the middle of the village, next to the well of the humblest, most abject hut, was the soul of man--identical with the Virgin Mary, and it was giving suck to God. . . ."

  While Francis spoke, the night descended peacefully over us, the air filled with blue wings, and the monks closed their eyes happily and entered Paradise.

  We resumed our journey northward as soon as the three days were over. Brother Pacifico's singing made the trip seem brief, and, before we knew it, one evening we saw the citadel and towers of our beloved Assisi.

  "Welcome, dearest Assisi," said Francis, raising his hand and blessing the city. "Lord, help me face my friars calmly."

  The sun had set by the time we appeared at the Portiuncula. We approached quietly, with Francis in the lead and Pacifico and myself following behind, exhausted. Francis wanted to surprise the friars so that he could see what they were doing and hear what they were saying. But as soon as we came closer, he stopped. We heard shouts and laughter. Smoke was ascending from the roof--the brothers must have been in the habit of making fires. Then the smell of roast meat struck our nostrils: they were cooking!

  "They're celebrating," Francis whispered; "they're eating meat."

  Just then an old beggar appeared. From far away he had smelled the aroma of meat being roasted and had run in the hope that he might receive a few mouthfuls as alms.

  "Will you do me a favor, brother?" Francis asked him. "Let me have your cap, staff, and sack so that I can go and greet the friars. I'll give the things back to you right away. Do me this favor, and may the Lord repay you."

  "Are you the one they call Francis of Assisi?"

  "Yes, my brother."

  "Then take them!"

  Francis pulled the cap down over his ears, slung the sack across his shoulder, and, leaning on the staff, went and knocked on the door of the Portiuncula.

  "In the name of Christ, my brothers," he whined, altering his voice, "take pity on a poor, sick old man who is hungry."

  "Come in, old man," the brothers answered him. "Sit down by the fire and eat!"

  Francis entered with his head bowed and his shoulders all hunched over so that it was impossible to see his face. He seated himself by the fire with his back turned toward the friars. A novice brought him a dish of soup and a slice of bread. Bending over, Francis filled his hand with ashes from the fire, threw them into the soup, and began to eat. The brothers recognized him at once, but none of them dared reveal this, so overcome with shame were they that Francis had caught them eating meat and celebrating. Lumps rose in their throats, and they were unable to continue their meal. They waited, bent over their dishes, sensing that the squall would be unleashed momentarily.

  Francis ate two or three spoonfuls of soup and then, putting down his dish, turned to the friars.

  "Forgive me, my brothers," he said, "but when I entered and saw you seated before such rich fare, I was unable to believe my eyes. Are these the poverty-stricken monks, I asked myself, the ones who go about knocking on doors and begging, and whom everyone takes for saints? If so, why shouldn't I enter their order and enjoy a comfortable life? So for the love of Christ, tell me please whether or not you are the humble friars of the pauper, Francis of Assisi."

  The brothers were unable to restrain themselves any longer. Some burst into tears; some slipped away surreptitiously and ran off in terror; still others fell at Francis' feet and begged his forgiveness. Francis kept his arms crossed over his breast; he did not spread them to embrace the brothers, as was his custom. Elias approached; he, to be sure, did not weep, nor did he beg forgiveness.

  "Don't you recognize the friars?" he demanded. "We've multiplied while you were gone. Raise your hand and bless them." But Francis had allowed his head to fall upon his breast. He said nothing. The friars who had circled him stared in anguish.

  Once more Elias spoke:

  "Did you see the pope, Brother Francis? Did he affix his seal?"

  Francis placed his palm over his breast. "The seal with its two keys is here, Brother Elias. Do not be impatient: tomorrow, God willing, I shall speak. As for now, come, let us all go inside the church and beseech the Lord to affix His seal as well."

  The next day the friars assembled in a clearing in the forest. Elias went to and fro gathering them in circles around him and speaking in furtive undertones. His body was gigantic, the tallest of the whole brotherhood, and Francis, next to him, became even shorter than he was, even humbler --he simply disappeared. Forgive me, Lord, but I was never able to hold this man very dear to my heart. His glance was all pride and greediness; his soul found the Portiuncula too small, felt constricted by Poverty and Love. It wanted to spread itself out and conquer the world not only by means of kindness but also by force, and then to enter the kingdom of heaven as a knight on horseback. He should have been a follower of Dominic, the fierce Spanish missionary, and not of the sweet little pauper of Assisi. Why had God sent him to us? What was the Lord's hidden purpose? Was it possible that He wanted to pair together the unpairable?

  One day I grew bold enough to tell Francis my feelings about Brother Elias. "Every brotherhood has its Judas," I said. "May God expose me as a liar, but all the same, I believe this man is our Judas."

  "Even Judas is good, Brother Leo," Francis replied; "even he is a servant of Christ, and if God destined him to be a betrayer, it was precisely in betrayal that he did his duty."

  He reflected for a moment, then lowered his voice:

  "Do you remember the wolf of Gubbio? He used to enter the sheepfolds and kill the sheep; he was ruining the village. I felt sorry for the inhabitants and went into the forest to admonish the wolf in God's name not to eat any more sheep. I called him, he came--and do you know what his answer was? 'Francis,
Francis,' he said, 'do not destroy God's prescribed order. The sheep feeds on grass, the wolf on sheep --that's the way God ordained it. Do not ask why; simply obey God's will and leave me free to enter the sheepfolds whenever I feel the pinch of hunger. I say my prayers just like Your Holiness. I say: "Our Father who reignest in the forests and hast commanded me to eat meat, Thy will be done. Give me this day my daily sheep so that my stomach may be filled, and I shall glorify Thy name. Great art Thou, Lord, who hast created mutton so delicious. And when the day cometh that I shall die, grant, Lord, that I may be resurrected, and that with me may be resurrected all the sheep I have eaten--so that I may eat them again!" ' That, Brother Leo, is what the wolf answered me. I bowed my head and left. Why did God decree that wolves should eat sheep? What insolence, Brother Leo, even to ask!"