Saint Francis

by Nikos Kazantzakis

  He crossed his arms over his breast and raised his head. The discharge from his eyes began to run down his cheeks again, covering his mustache and beard with blood. He was in pain, but he bit his lips and did not reveal his suffering.

  "Though I do not understand, Lord," he murmured, "I do not ask questions--who am I to ask questions? I do not resist --who am I to resist? Thy designs are a bottomless pit. How can I descend into this pit to examine it? Thou lookest thousands of years into the future and then Thou judgest. What today seems an injustice to man's minute brain becomes, thousands of years hence, the mother of man's salvation. If what today we term injustice did not exist, perhaps true justice would never come to mankind."

  Francis' face grew continually brighter as he spoke. This thought had come to him in all its freshness, as though it had never occurred to him before, and his heart began to grow calm. Turning smilingly to Elias, he nodded for him to approach. Elias came forward, the shepherd's staff held tightly in his hand.

  "Bow your head, Brother Elias," he said in a gentle voice. "I shall give you my blessing. Look, my hands are cool; they aren't trembling."

  He laid both hands on Elias' head. "Brother Elias," he exclaimed in a deep voice, "God is intricate, unfathomable. He apportions His divine grace among men in whatever way He likes; He uses a standard of measure which is not the same as ours; His thought is such that the mind of man cannot even approach it without being turned to ashes. Give me the staff!"

  Elias hesitated for an instant and then drew the staff back, squeezing it tightly in his hand. But Francis reached out and repeated in a commanding tone: "Give me the staff!"

  Bowing his head, Elias surrendered the staff to him. Francis continued in the same deep, calm voice:

  "God issued a command, Brother Elias, and I am obeying Him. Lord, if I have interpreted Thy voice incorrectly, give me some sign. Let me hear thunder now while the sky is clear; or bang against the door and smash it to pieces; or cut off my hand before I place it on this man's head to give him my blessing."

  He waited in silence. Nothing. Then he raised his arm with a violent motion and cried: "Brother Elias, I lay my hand upon your head; bow down. My brother, I turn my flock over to your care. Lead it where God shows you; pasture it as God counsels you. It is no longer to me that you must render account, but to God. There is only one thing that remains in my power to do, and that is to give you my blessing. . . . I bless you, Brother Elias. Take the staff, step out in front, guide the flock!"

  Tears gushed from his eyes and mixed with the blood. He gazed around him at the friars, one by one, as though taking leave of them.

  "Forgive me for weeping, my brothers," he said, wiping his eyes with the cuff of his robe. "I did not realize that parting was so sorrowful. Farewell! Do not be sad: I am not going to leave your sides, but shall remain with you always, mute and unseen. You shall see me only at night in your dreams. . . . And you, O you three charming, inseparable sisters--saintly, thrice-noble Dame Poverty, my wife, all ragged, barefooted, and hungry; and saintly thrice-noble Love, O Maria, you who carry no handkerchief to wipe away your tears, nor sword to kill, but instead the infant God, whom you suckle; and you, saintly, thrice-noble Simplicity, whose reply to all questions is 'I don't know, I don't know,' followed by your all-knowing smile: I implore all of you not to abandon the brothers, but to remain with them through their difficulties. Run around the flock like ever-vigilant greyhounds, and do not allow a single sheep to go astray."

  He fell silent, but then looked at us all once again, and smiled. His heart still had not been emptied.

  "If we were to select a bird to engrave on the seal of our order, which would it be, my children? Not the eagle-- Brother Elias; nor the peacock--Brother Capella; nor the nightingale--Brother Pacifico; nor the wild dove that is such a lover of solitude--Brother Bernard; nor even the golden oriole--Brother Leo; but the hooded skylark!"

  Smiling, he began to compose the skylark's panegyric:

  "Brother Skylark has a hood just like we do; his feathers are colored the same as our robes, the color of soil, and are equally simple and poor. He wings from street to street, branch to branch in search of a grain of wheat to eat. And in the morning, every morning without fail, he ascends high into the heavens--singing, intoxicated with the light. He disappears, soars out of sight, then suddenly falls back to earth again like a tiny lump of clay. . . . Brother Skylark has said his morning prayers: he climbed up to God and returned again to the soil."

  Elias raised his hand, indicating that he was about to speak.

  "He who sows, Brother Francis, also reaps in the very process, because in his mind he has a foretaste of the future harvest. You are blessed, Brother Francis, because you accomplished to perfection the task entrusted to you by God, the task of sowing. Now, with tranquil heart and clear conscience, you relinquish the high staff to other hands. When you appear before God, Brother Francis, your arms will be filled with ears of grain. I raise this staff and vow to you that I shall transform the road you laid out from a footpath wide enough only for three or four brothers to a boulevard which shall accommodate thousands. I shall broaden the virtues on which you built our order so that they may be enjoyed no longer by only three or four brothers, but by thousands. And this humble Portiuncula I shall transform --I give you my oath--into a mighty fortress and palace of God."

  When he had said this, he commanded that two stools be placed before the fire. Taking Francis by the hand, he had him sit down on one, while he himself sat down next to him on the other. Then, one by one, the brothers filed by, followed by the novices; everyone kissed first Francis' hand, then Elias'. Francis' face was calm and sorrowful; Elias' beamed triumphantly, and authority promenaded over his lips, eyebrows, and imposing lower jaw.

  THE NEXT DAY Francis bent down and kissed the threshold of the Portiuncula. Then, groping in the air, he found my hand. "Come, poor Brother Leo. We are being driven out of our home."

  He started along the path through the woods, stumbling every few steps. I had to keep a tight grip on his hand to prevent him from bumping into the trees. As soon as we finally reached the hut of branches which he had built in the forest with his own hands, he sat down on the ground and swept his gaze around him. "Has the world grown dark, Brother Leo," he cried, "or have I become completely blind? I don't see anything, Brother Leo, I don't see anything!"

  "Father Silvester knows many secret cures," I replied. "Among other things he can heal eye diseases, or so I've heard. I'll go call him."

  "No, no, Brother Leo, let me be. I'm fine here in the darkness. True, I don't see the world about me, but I'm able all the better to see its Creator."

  He fell silent. His pains had grown continually more acute, and in order to forget them for an instant he directed his thoughts elsewhere. "How is Sister Clara?" he inquired, asking me to come close to him because he was unable to raise his voice. "How is she? I almost forgot her, it's been such a long time now. But God, I'm sure, did not forget her. Tell me, what has become of her?"

  "She followed your instructions, Brother Francis, and went to San Damiano's to lead the life of an ascetic. As soon as the ladies of Assisi heard about it they started coming to ask questions, and many were reluctant to return home, for Clara's life seemed extraordinarily sweet to them. They all revere her. The very first who ran to remain at her side was her sister Agnes: she too entered the convent, cut off her hair, and donned the robe. And there were also others who looked with favor upon the Bridegroom--unmarried girls, and even two or three married women. Clara is like a drop of honey. The bees arrive from all directions, distribute their possessions to the poor, bid farewell to the tumult of the world, and come to find the peace of God at San Damiano's."

  "May God assist them," said Francis. "Women are wild, savage beasts. Only God Almighty is capable of subduing them. Only He!"

  "You may rest assured, Brother Francis, that Clara is following in your footsteps--one by one. Like you, she visits the lepers, and washes and feed
s them; like you, she throws ashes onto her dish to prevent her food from being tasty and giving pleasure to the flesh. All night long she lies awake, praying. Her body has grown old already, her cheeks have withered, her eyes are dimmed with tears. In this way she is preparing to appear before God. Father Silvester is the only one among all the friars who goes from time to time to learn what is happening at her convent. And if any of the sisters wishes to receive Holy Communion, he hears her confession."

  I hesitated for a moment, but finally decided to go on.

  "Brother Francis, with your permission I am going to say something else to you: The life at San Damiano's is holier than the life at the Portiuncula. Why? Because Sister Clara keeps a firm grip on the reins, while you surrendered them-- and to whom: to Elias!"

  "Not I," Francis protested, "not I, but God. I heard His voice. He commanded me to do it."

  I shook my head. "You know very well, Brother Francis, that Satan is able to counterfeit God's voice in order to ensnare mankind."

  A shudder passed through Francis' body. "Be still!" he cried. "You're tearing my heart in two. If it wasn't God's voice, I'm doomed!"

  The discharge from his eyes began to flow again; the excruciating pains recommenced. Moved by pity for him, I approached and threw my arms around him.

  "Forgive me, Brother Francis. Yes, yes, it was God's voice. Do not cry."

  He said nothing. He had covered his eyes with his palms and was groaning with pain.

  That night he could not sleep. He kept stepping outside so that his moans would not wake me--but how could I even close my eyes! It broke my heart to hear him. As soon as daylight came I went to find Father Silvester.

  "Go back and light a fire," he instructed me. "I'll follow presently with the cautery--and may God come to our aid!"

  I found Francis seated in front of the doorway with his head wedged between his knees, as was his custom, and his arms and legs squeezed into a ball. He was sleeping. Walking on tiptoe, I entered the hut and lighted a fire. Then I sat down next to him to wait for Father Silvester. Francis sighed from time to time: he must have been dreaming. His knees were quivering; his head kept falling lower and lower. A little more and it would have touched the ground. The sound of Father Silvester's footsteps behind the trees disturbed him, and he awoke. Stretching out his hand, he found me.

  "Is that you, Brother Leo?"

  "Yes, Brother Francis. Set your mind at ease. Why are you trembling so?"

  "Kneel down, Brother Leo, kneel down and join me in calling Brother Death to come. I can't go on."

  As he was talking, Father Silvester appeared before us holding a long piece of iron in his hand.

  "Who are you?" asked Francis, apprehensively.

  "It's me, Father Silvester. I've come to heal your eyes. With God's help, I'm going to make your pain go away so that you can devote yourself to prayer again."

  "Pain is prayer too, Father Silvester; it too is prayer. . . ." Sighing, he lay down supine on the ground.

  Father Silvester crossed himself and thrust the iron into the fire, leaving it there until it became red-hot. Then he removed it and approached. Francis was able to discern the priest's shadow above him, and also the red-hot iron he had in his hand. He stretched forth his arms.

  "Brother Red-hot Iron," he said imploringly, "do not force me to suffer too much, I beg of you. I am made of flesh, not of iron like you, and my endurance is not very great."

  "Call upon God to give you courage, Brother Francis," said Father Silvester. "Clench your teeth and cling to your soul for dear life. This is going to be painful."

  But before Francis had time to call upon God, Father Silvester had already applied the red-hot iron to the sick man's temples. Francis uttered a heart-rending cry and fainted. We threw some water over his face, then lifted him up, brought him inside the hut, and laid him down on his mat. He began to twist and turn, to writhe convulsively, screaming for Brother Death to come and release him.

  Father Silvester remained at his side, praying. I sank to the ground and began to weep.

  When Francis recovered from his fit and raised his head, I shuddered. His temples were two deep wounds, his eyes two fountains of blood. He stretched out his hand to find my arm, and clung to it desperately.

  "Brother Leo, Brother Leo," he gasped, "tell me that God is infinitely merciful; otherwise my mind shall sink into chaos. Tell me He is infinitely merciful: give me the strength to go on!"

  "Think of Christ on the cross," I replied. "Think of the nails in His hands and feet, the blood that ran from His side."

  Francis shook his head. "He was God; I am only clay!"

  He sat up on the mat, thrust his head between his knees as before, and did not utter another word that entire day.

  Toward nightfall I ran to the Portiuncula to beg a few pieces of bread from the brothers. It was a turbulent evening. The object plummeting down behind the trees was not the sun, it was a huge fiery cannonball that ignited the forest as it passed--the forest, stones, and, in the distance, the high citadel of Assisi: all were encased in flame. I ran, suddenly overwhelmed by a strange fear. This sun, the flaming trees, and, inside me, my heart: everything seemed to have caught fire, and I was running lest the conflagration engulf me as well. The moment I stood in front of the Portiuncula, however, I felt calm. The sight of our order's beloved, orphaned cradle made me recall the hours we had spent there, hours sweet beyond description: the holy prayers, the holy conversations, the holy dinners where one dry crust of bread satisfied our hunger; and Francis beaming among us like a kindly sun. . . . I stood still for a few minutes to catch my breath. Inside I could hear the friars laughing heartily. One of them was mimicking Francis' voice while the others split their sides. But as soon as I entered and they saw me, they fell silent. The original brothers were absent, the new ones busy eating their dinner, which was spread before them on the ground.

  "What's become of the sweet little pauper?" one of them asked. "Doesn't he sing and dance any more?"

  "We could hear his screams even here," replied another. "Father Silvester went to extract his eyes, I think."

  I did not answer them. My heart had risen up threateningly and begun to hiss inside me like a viper, full of venom. I knew that insults and curses would come out of my mouth if I opened it, and since I feared God, I held my peace. Taking the scrap of bread they threw me, I left.

  Because of Francis' illness, we could no longer think of going away. Father Silvester came daily, and one morning he brought Francis a message from San Damiano's.

  "Sister Clara kisses your hand, Brother Francis, and begs you to visit her. She says you still have not been to her convent to bless the sisters; that they still have not had a chance to see you and to hear a comforting word from your lips. They are women after all, and though they are safe in God's bosom, they still have need of comforting. . . . Sister Clara sends the following message through my mouth: 'Bestow upon us the gift of your presence at San Damiano's, Brother Francis, so that we may see you, listen to you, and be comforted.' "

  Francis shook his head. "What do you think, Father Silvester? Should I go?"

  "Yes, Brother Francis. They're women. Take pity on them."

  "Father Silvester, once more I am going to speak by means of parables. Brother Leo, you listen too. Oh, if only all the friars were here to listen!

  "One day, the father superior of a monastery expelled one of the monks for having touched a woman's hand. 'But she was a devout woman and her hand was pure,' protested the monk. The father superior replied: 'The rain is pure also, and so is the earth, but when they join they become mud. It is the same when a man's hand touches the hand of a woman.' "

  "Those are hard words, Brother Francis," said Father Silvester, "hard for women to hear."

  "They're even harder for men," I said, fearfully recalling all the young ladies I had seen in my life: all the hands I had desired to touch. Thousands!

  "Think of the Blessed Virgin," suggested Father Silvester.

>   "No one touched her hand, not even Joseph," Francis replied, crossing himself repeatedly. "You seem to have forgotten Eve!"

  "Well, in any case, what answer should I give Sister Clara? She'll be standing at the door of San Damiano's waiting for me. What shall I tell her?"

  "Tell her I'll come when the road from the Portiuncula to San Damiano's is covered with white flowers."

  "In other words, never--is that what you mean?"

  "Never and always, Father Silvester, are two words which only God may utter. It's possible that right now, now while we are talking, God has paved the road with white flowers. Brother Leo, go and look!"

  Father Silvester shook his head skeptically, but I got up and rushed outside, my heart thumping. I started along the path through the woods. It was still morning, and so cold out that you would have thought the ground covered with snow. My heartbeats seemed to ascend to my throat. I was certain of the miracle: I smelled it in the air. Francis' bloodstained face had beamed when he turned and said to me, "Brother Leo, go and look!"--for in his mind the road had already blossomed.