Saint Francis

by Nikos Kazantzakis

  But how could I have a heart like Francis', able to forbear and forgive everything! The sight of Elias Bombarone talking furtively with the brothers that day made me shake with anger and fear.

  As soon as everyone was finally assembled, Francis rose, crossed his arms upon his breast according to his habit, and began to speak. His voice was tranquil, muted, sad; from time to time he extended his hand toward the brothers as though asking for alms. Using simple words, he related how he had entered the Eternal City, how he managed to see the Holy Father, what he said to the pope and what the pope replied, and how he knelt and laid the Rule at his feet. Three days later, surely on command from God, the pope had affixed his seal--look, here it was! Francis removed the hallowed parchment from his bosom and read it slowly, syllable by syllable, while the friars listened, fallen on their knees. And as soon as he had finished, he extended his arms above them and said something more--but now he was not speaking to them, he was praying:

  "Holy Mistress Poverty, thou art our wealth. Do not leave us! Grant that we may be always hungry, always cold, and that we may have nowhere to lay our heads!

  "Holy Mistress Chastity, purify our minds, purify our hearts, purify the air we breathe! Help us to conquer the Temptation that prowls around the Portiuncula--around our hearts--like a lion.

  "Holy Mistress Love, adored first-born daughter of God, I lift my arms to Thee: hear me and grant my prayer. Widen our hearts that they may accept all men, good and bad; that they may accept all animals, wild and tame; all trees, fruitful and unfruitful; all stones, rivers, and seas. We are all brothers. We all have the same Father, and we all have taken the road which leads us back to our paternal home!"

  He stopped. Perhaps he intended to say more, but Brother Elias jumped up, his gigantic body steaming, sweat flowing from his temples.

  "Let the other friars speak too, Brother Francis," he called in a thunderous voice. "We are all equal before God, and each one has the right to speak his mind freely. . . . Brothers, you have heard the Rule which Brother Francis has brought us from the pope's hand. Do you like it or not? Let each of you rise and speak without constraint."

  For a moment everyone remained silent. Some had objections to voice, but felt too much respect for Francis. Others had nothing to say; they had not understood very well what Francis had read, and thus they held their tongues--as did I, for although I agreed with the Rule I had no idea how to express my agreement.

  Finally Father Silvester rose. "Brothers," he said, sighing, "I am the oldest here, and that is why I have been bold enough to rise and speak first. Listen to me, my brothers: the world is rotten, the end is near. Let us scatter to the four corners of the earth and proclaim the destruction of the world so that men may be frightened into repenting, and thus be saved. That is my opinion, but act as God enlightens you."

  Sabattino leaped forward, his face yellow and embittered. "The world is not rotten," he shrieked; "only the lords are rotten. The first part of the fish to stink is the head! We should rise up, rouse the populace, and then attack our overlords--burn their castles, burn their silk clothes, burn the plumes they wear on their heads. This is the only true crusade, the only way we shall ever deliver the Holy Sepulcher. And what is the Holy Sepulcher: the wretched populace, which is being crucified. Resurrection of the people: that is the true meaning of the resurrection of Christ!"

  "The people are hungry!" shouted Juniper, all aflame. "They haven't enough vigor even to stand on their, feet, so let them eat first to regain their strength; they lack eyes to see how they are being oppressed, so let us open their eyes for them! Brother Francis, why don't we forget the kingdom of heaven for a minute and pay attention to the kingdom of this earth--that's where we must start! You've heard my opinion. We ought to have a scribe here to write everything down!"

  Bernard was the next to rise. "Brothers," he said, his blue eyes brimming with tears, "let us depart the world of men. How can we expect to contend with the rulers of the age? Let us depart, take refuge in the wilderness, and dedicate our days and nights to prayer. Prayer is all-powerful, my brothers. A person prays at the top of a mountain, and the prayer rushes headlong down, enters the cities below, and rouses the hearts of all transgressors; at the same time it mounts to God's feet and bears witness to the suffering of mankind. My brothers, only with prayer--not with wealth, not with arms--shall we save the world."

  At that point I myself got up to speak. I stammered out a few words but immediately became completely confused and burst into tears, hiding my face in my palms. Several of the brothers laughed, but Francis embraced me and had me sit down next to him, on his right side.

  "No one else spoke with such skill, such strength," he said. "Brother Leo, you have my blessing."

  He rose and spread his arms wide, as was his custom.

  "Love! Love!" he said. "Not war, not force! Even prayer, Brother Bernard, is not enough; good works are needed too. It is difficult and dangerous to live among men, but necessary. To withdraw into the wilderness and pray is too easy, too convenient. Prayer is slow in producing its miracles; works are faster, surer, more difficult. Wherever you find men, you will also find suffering, illness, and sin. That is where our place is, my brother: with lepers, sinners, with those who are starving. Deep down in the bowels of every man, even the saintliest ascetic, there sleeps a horrible, unclean larva. Lean over and say to this larva: 'I love you!' and it shall sprout wings and become a butterfly. . . . Love, I bow and worship thine omnipotence. Come and kiss our friars; come and accomplish thy miracle!"

  The whole time Francis spoke Brother Elias squirmed on the rock he was sitting on and nodded his head in breathless perturbation, signaling to his faction. Finally, unable to restrain himself any longer, he jumped to his feet.

  "Don't listen to him, brothers! Love isn't enough; what's needed is war! Our order must be a militant one and the brothers fearless warriors with the cross in one hand and the battle-axe in the other. As the Gospel says, the axe must be laid to the root of the trees, and every bad tree cut down and thrown into the fire. There is only one way to conquer the powerful of this world: by becoming more powerful than they are! Away with poverty, away with absolute poverty! Wherefore such arrogance, Brother Francis? Did not Christ Himself leave His Apostles free to possess sandals, staff, and scrip? Did not one of the Apostles have charge of the purse and struggle to keep it filled in order to feed the group? And you, Brother Francis, are you so audacious as to wish to surpass Christ? Wealth is an almighty sword; we cannot afford to remain disarmed in this ignominious cutthroat world! Our chief must be a lion, not a lamb; instead of holding an aspergillum in our hands, we must hold a whip. Or perhaps you forget, Brother Francis, that Christ took a whip and drove out all who sold and bought in God's Temple? I said it once, brothers, and I say it again: war!"

  Five or six of the younger friars sprang to their feet with cries of joy and raised Elias up in their arms. "You are the lion," they shouted. "Step in front; lead us!"

  Pale and exhausted, Francis placed his hand on my shoulder and pulled himself to his feet.

  "Peace, my brothers," he cried in a voice that was supplicating, afflicted. "How can we bring peace to the world if we do not have peace in our own hearts? One war begets another, and this still another, and thus there is no end to the shedding of human blood. Peace! Peace! Do you forget, Brother Elias, that Christ was a lamb and that He bore upon Himself the sins of the world?"

  "Christ was a lion, Brother Francis," retorted Elias. "He says so Himself: I have not come to bring peace, but a sword!"

  He turned to the friars. "Did you hear? Those were Christ's words; not mine, Christ's: I have not come to bring peace, but a sword!"

  The friars rose with agitated hearts and separated into two groups. A few gathered around Francis and wept, but the majority surrounded Elias and broke into peals of laughter. Everyone began to talk at once and shout excitedly, until Father Silvester stepped into the middle. "Brothers," he said, "Satan, the black goat, has c
ome once again among us. I see his green eyes in the air!"

  Francis made his way through the friars who circled him, and going up to Elias put his arm around his waist.

  "Brother Elias, all of you--listen," he said. "Our brotherhood is passing through a difficult moment. Allow the arguments and counterarguments you have heard during this meeting to settle down tranquilly within you. War? Peace? Prayer in absolute solitude? Time, God's faithful guide, will show us the correct road. Meanwhile, my brethren, do not forget your duty! The Holy Father had accorded us the privilege of preaching. The roads of the entire earth stretch before us; let us portion them out in a brotherly way and start our journeys. Our home here is too constricting. The Portiuncula is small: we live elbow to elbow, trip over each other, become irritated, angry--and then the Tempter comes. Go into the open air and set off along the main roads, traveling in pairs so that one can be a source of courage and comfort to the other. And wherever you see men gathered together, halt and strew before them the Word of God-- immortal nourishment. I, with God's help, shall proceed to Africa. I shall find a boat, cross the sea, and, God willing, reach the faraway lands of the infidels where innumerable souls have never even heard the name of Christ. God willing, I shall bring it to them! Forward, brothers, in the name of the Lord. Let us scatter to the ends of the earth, and afterwards return here to the Portiuncula, the cradle where we were born, to relate to each other everything we have seen, suffered, and accomplished on this, our first apostolic campaign.

  "Disperse now, my brothers, my children, disperse with my blessing to the four corners of the earth. The entire world is God's field. Plough it and then sow poverty, love, and peace. Strengthen the world that is tottering and about to fall: strengthen your souls. And elevate your hearts above wrath, ambition, and envy. Do not say: 'Me! Me!' Instead, make the self, that fierce insatiable beast, submit to God's love. This 'me' does not enter Paradise, but stands outside the gates and bellows. Listen now to the parable I shall tell you before we part. Remember it well, and let it be a remembrance of me, my children.

  "Once there was an ascetic who struggled his whole life to reach perfection. He distributed all his goods to the poor, withdrew into the desert, and prayed to God night and day. Finally the day came when he died. He ascended to heaven and knocked on the gates. 'Who is there?' came a voice from within.

  " 'It's me!' answered the ascetic.

  " 'There isn't room for two here,' said the voice. 'Go away!'

  "The ascetic went back down to earth and began his struggle all over again: poverty, fasting, uninterrupted prayer, weeping. His appointed hour came a second time, and he died. Once more he knocked at the gates of heaven. 'Who's there?' came the same voice.

  " 'Me!'

  " 'There isn't room for two here. Go away!'

  "The ascetic plummeted down to earth and resumed his struggle to attain salvation even more ferociously than before. When he was an old man, a centenarian, he died and knocked once again on the gates of heaven. 'Who's there?' came the voice.

  " 'Thou, Lord, Thou!'

  "And straightway the gates of heaven opened, and he entered."

  SUMMERTIME. Broiling sun, the sea sparkling, to our left the Greek islands; the boat filled with warriors in armor --adolescents, mature men, ancient graybeards all going like so many others to deliver the Holy Sepulcher. The crusaders had been besieging Damietta for months, but Sultan Melek- el-Kamil, a capable ruler and brave warrior, had not allowed the city to fall.

  At Cape Malea we were caught in a fierce tempest. A myriad-headed, myriad-mouthed sea sprang up to devour us, and the stalwarts on board turned white, then green, and sighed as they gazed longingly at the coastline. Oh, if they could only jump, catch hold of a branch on dry land, and recover their manliness! The few women who were traveling with them began to scream. Francis went from man to man, woman to woman; he spoke to them of God, and they listened and were comforted. Night fell; a black, cloud-filled sky hung just above the sea, and between water and firmament the ship bounced, creaked, seemed ready to break apart. Francis had gone to the bow, where he had knelt down among the folded sails and begun to pray.

  I approached him, but he neither saw nor heard me. His head extended toward the sea, he was chanting melismatically in a hushed, vibrato voice, as though casting a spell.

  "O sea, sea, daughter of God, take pity on these men, thy brothers. They are not merchants or pirates; their aim is a noble one: they are proceeding to the Holy Sepulcher. Dost thou not see the red cross on their breasts? They are crusaders, soldiers of God. Take pity on them. Remember Christ, who one day called thee to be calm, and thou obeyedst. In Christ's name, I, His humble servant, adjure thee now to become calm!"

  I had fallen face down on top of the sails. I heard the bellowing water, the wailing of the people inside the boat, and between people and frenzied sea, Francis interceding gently, supplicatingly, imploring the waters to grow calm. It was then I understood for the first time the man's true worth: at the height of desperation, at a time when the world was crumbling to pieces, he prayed. I was certain the sea heard Francis' words, that God heard them too, as did Death--they had all pricked up their ears to listen. And then--I swear it by the soul I shall render up to God--then the miracle took place; no, it was not a miracle, it was the simplest, most natural thing in the world: the sea became calm. At first it lowered its bellowing slightly, but still remained angry; it was balking before the yoke, trying to avoid subjection. But little by little it submitted, grew gentle, and by midnight it no longer beat maniacally against the ship, but stretched out peacefully around it, humble and becalmed. Unbelievers may deny that the soul can speak to the sea and command it, but as for me, thanks to Francis I know the secret: the soul is more powerful than the sea, more powerful than death; it is able to spring out of man's body and buttress the crumbling world. . . .

  I crept to Francis and kissed his bloodstained feet. But he was unaware of me; his entire soul was out over the black waters, awake and vigilant lest the sea lift its head in rebellion once again.

  The next morning water and sky were gleaming, laughing, and so were the people on board. Francis, yellow and exhausted from his ordeal, was still at the bow, squatting, his eyes closed. He had performed his work well, and now he allowed sleep to descend upon him.

  The days and nights went by. The moon had been a thin sickle when we departed from Ancona; it grew larger and larger, became fully round, and then began once more to melt away and disappear. Everyone kept his eyes riveted southward, searching for a glimpse of the accursed Moslem coast. Little by little the water around us turned green. "The sea is mixing with the waters of the Nile," the captain explained; "we are nearly there." And indeed, the following morning we could clearly see the outline of the land at the center-point of the horizon. It was low, sandy, and colored rose by the first rays of the sun.

  We anchored in an isolated cove. Francis fell prostrate on the beach, did worship, and traced a cross in the sand. The warriors set off to join the rest of Christ's troops, leaving Francis and me alone on the deserted shore. Far in the distance we were able to discern towers and minarets. Francis looked at me compassionately. "Brother Leo, lamb of God," he said, "we have entered the lion's mouth. Are you afraid?"

  "Yes, I am afraid, Brother Francis," I replied. "But I pretend not to be, and wherever you go, I'll go too."

  He laughed. "Even to Paradise, Brother Leo?"

  "Even to Paradise, Brother Francis."

  He raised his hand and pointed to the distant minarets. "Well then, let's go. This is the way to Paradise!"

  He set out, walking in the lead. The sand burned our feet, but we began to sing, and thus forgot the pain. From time to time Francis halted and squeezed my arm to encourage me. Then he started out again at once, resuming his song.

  "Ah, if only Brother Pacifico were here with his lute so that we could make our appearance before the Sultan like three intoxicated friars, three friars drunk with too much God!" "I'm hungry, Brot
her Francis," I said, unable to contain myself any longer.

  "Patience, Brother Leo. Look, the minarets are getting bigger and bigger. We're almost there. Don't worry, the moment the Sultan sees us he'll give orders for the pots to be put in the oven!"

  As we were talking, we heard savage cries, and two Negroes leapt out in front of us, swords drawn.

  "Sultan! Sultan!" cried Francis, pointing to the minarets.

  They thrashed us soundly, then placed us between them and, doubled over with laughter, pushed us to the Sultan's palace and threw us down at his feet. By this time it was already evening.

  The Sultan laughed as soon as he saw us. Poking us with his foot, he asked (he was accomplished in our language) : "Well, and who are you, my wine-loving monks? Why have you entered the lion's den? What do you want?"

  I raised my eyes and saw him. A beautiful person, he had a curly black beard, slender hooked nose, and large, deep-black eyes. On his head was a wide turban, green, with a half-moon made of coral pinned on it. An immense Negro armed with a yataghan stood at his side: the executioner!

  "Who are you and what do you want?" the Sultan asked again. "Get up!"