Saint Francis

by Nikos Kazantzakis

  "And holy Love?"

  "The brothers have dispersed, some this way, some that. The old ones, our first brothers, refuse to obey the new shepherds; and when the new ones meet them on the road they laugh at their torn frocks and bare feet, and instead of addressing them as brothers they call them 'the barefooted ones.' "

  "And holy Simplicity?"

  "She's dead as well, Brother Francis. They've opened new schools. Some of them run to Bologna, others to Paris, and they study until they're so horribly clever they can shoe a flea. They collect thick tomes and mount the pulpit and give discourses, toiling and moiling to prove that Christ is God, that He was crucified, and that on the third day He rose from the dead. And they mix everything up so much that your mind turns upside down and your heart to ice. The day the wise men began to speak was the last day Christ was ever resurrected."

  Suddenly--before we had time to prevent him--Francis fell face down on the ground. He remained there for a long time without speaking, except that every so often we heard a reproachful murmur: "God, O God, why? Why? It's my fault!" Then he would relapse into silence and begin to beat his forehead against the ground. We raised him up by force. He looked around.

  "Brother Leo!"

  "Here, Brother Francis, at your command."

  "Open the Gospel, let your finger fall on a verse, and read."

  I took the Gospel, opened it, and let my finger come down in the middle of the page. Then I went to the doorway, where there was more light.

  "Read!"

  Leaning over, I read: "The hour is coming, indeed it has come, when you will be scattered, every man to his home, and will leave me alone."

  "More!" ordered Francis in an anguished voice. "What else does it say?"

  "Yet I am not alone, because the Father is with me."

  "Enough!"

  He took Father Silvester's hand.

  "You heard Christ's voice, my brother. Though the friars have scattered, you must not feel sad. I myself allowed the pain to overwhelm me for an instant; but, as you see, we are not alone. The Father is with us, so why should we be afraid? He shall lead the sheep back along the uphill road; He shall nurture His flock with hunger once again." A long silence followed. Francis was plunged in despair, but also in hope. We could sense that he was extremely far from us, far away in the future. Now and then strange sounds passed from his mouth into the deep silence, sounds like barking from a remote corner of the earth. It was as though he were a sheep dog barking at the flock to make them reassemble and return to the fold. Presently he fell asleep for an instant, but opened his eyes immediately and looked at us, smiling.

  "I just had a very odd dream, my brothers. Listen: The friars were gathered in the Portiuncula and Elias was portioning out the world among them. A ragged, barefooted monk came by. Seeing them, he stopped and shook his head. One of the brothers was moved to anger. 'What are you doing, staring at us like that and shaking your head?' he shouted. 'Why do you go about barefooted, with a frock full of holes, your hair uncut, your unwashed body splattered with mud? Don't you know that our new general has expelled Poverty from the order? Go to your monastery and take a bath and get yourself some sandals and a clean frock so that you won't put the rest of us to shame.' 'I refuse!' 'You refuse, do you?' shrieked Elias, jumping to his feet. 'I'll have you lashed--forty strokes!' 'Go ahead.' 'What is your name?' 'First let me have the forty strokes.' When the ragged monk had been whipped, and the blood was flowing, Elias repeated: 'Now tell us your name.' 'Francis,' the other replied, 'Francis of Assisi.' " He looked at us. The smile had disappeared from his face.

  "They thrash me, they expel me even in my sleep," he murmured. And then: "Glory be to God."

  He closed his eyes. We realized that he had already departed and was far far away from us.

  Father Silvester glanced in my direction, as though hoping I would give him the courage to speak to Francis.

  "Brother Francis," I said, "come back from wherever you are, and listen. Father Silvester has a sad message for you. Command him to speak."

  Francis pricked up his ears; he was struggling to hear me.

  "What did you say, Brother Leo? A message? What message?"

  "Ask Father Silvester. He's the one who will deliver it to you."

  "Silvester, my brother," he said, clasping the priest's hand, "my heart can bear whatever message you bring. What is this message? Who is it from?"

  "From your father, Brother Francis; from Sior Bernardone."

  Francis crossed his arms and lowered his head, saying nothing.

  "From your father," repeated Father Silvester. "He sent me to tell you to come so that he can see you and speak to you before he delivers up his soul to God." Francis remained motionless.

  "Your mother is inconsolable. She lies fallen on his pillow, weeping and lamenting. She is waiting for you, only for you, Brother Francis; she is waiting for you to come so that she may see you and be comforted. . . . Come!"

  Francis neither spoke nor moved.

  "Didn't you hear? What answer shall I give?"

  Suddenly Francis rose, stretched his arm out toward Assisi, and traced the sign of the cross in the air.

  "Farewell, Father," he whispered. "Forgive me!"

  He turned to Silvester. "If you reach him in time, my brother, tell him I cannot leave this mountain. You know how a lion seizes a hare and bangs him playfully against the ground, don't you? Well, God has seized me in the same way. I cannot escape; I am writhing in God's claws and cannot escape. . . . Say to my father: 'Till we meet again!' "

  "And to your mother?"

  "The same: 'Till we meet again!' "

  "Have you no pity for them?" Father Silvester asked hesitatingly. "They're your parents! Request God's permission. His goodness is infinite; He'll grant your request."

  "I already asked Him once."

  "And what was His reply?"

  " 'I am your mother and father': that was His reply." Father Silvester bowed and kissed Brother Francis' hand.

  "Farewell, Brother Francis. Act as God guides you."

  "Until we meet again, my brother," answered Francis, and he closed his eyes.

  He wished to remain alone. We both left and went to my hut, where Father Silvester stopped for a moment to look around him. Stones, huge rocks, a few desiccated brambles were all that he saw on the ground; in the sky, two circling hawks.

  "God wears a different expression below on the plain," he murmured. "Jehovah inhabits this peak; Christ lives below and promenades over the fields. How can you bear it here, Brother Leo?"

  "I can't, but Francis bears it for both of us," I replied. Then I went into my hut to fetch him some bread.

  "For your trip. You'll be hungry."

  We embraced.

  "Watch carefully over Francis," he admonished me in parting. "God is tearing him to shreds and will eat him. Don't you see: only his two wounded eyes are still alive--nothing else. If they are extinguished as well, Brother Leo, the light will go out of the world."

  Once again the moon rose, set, rose, set. First spring, then summer came and went. From our elevation we watched the change in the earth's face. The green wheat on the plain turned yellow and was reaped; vines that had been mere black stumps gave forth leaves and buds, then hanging grapes, and were vintaged. All this time our mountain remained as it was: flowerless and desolate. September arrived, autumn: Francis' favorite feast day was drawing near. He now ate nothing but a single mouthful of bread, drank only a single sip of water, abstaining for the sake of the True Cross. This adoration had begun years earlier, and he had written in the Rule, with his own hand: "We worship Thee, Lord, we sing Thy praises, because with Thy Holy Cross Thou didst deign to redeem the sins of the world." And now as the fourteenth of September, the date of the Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross, drew nearer, Francis was like a rapidly melting candle in front of a crucifix. He was unable to sleep any more. Night and day he kept his eyes fixed on heaven, as though expecting the thrice-hallowed symbol to appear am
idst lightning flashes and angelic wings. Once he took me by the hand and pointed to the sky.

  "You look too, Brother Leo. Maybe you'll see it. Scripture says that the Cross will loom in the heavens when the Lord comes to judge. Brother Leo, I have a premonition that the Lord is coming to judge--now!"

  He glanced at his hands and feet.

  "Man's body is a cross, Brother Leo. Spread your arms and you'll see. And upon this cross God is crucified."

  He raised his arms toward heaven.

  "Christ, my beloved," he murmured, "one favor I ask of Thee, one favor before I die. Let me feel Thy sufferings and holy Passion in my body and soul, let me feel them as intensely as is possible for a sinful mortal. . . . Thy sufferings and holy Passion, Lord . . ." he kept repeating over and over again, as though delirious.

  He wrapped his hands and feet in his frock.

  "They hurt!" he whispered. "Go, Brother Leo. Leave me alone with my pain. You have my blessing."

  I departed, feeling extremely uneasy. Lord, how was his flame ever going to subside and avoid reducing him to ashes! As the feast of the Cross approached I saw the extent to which Francis was being daily wasted away by his joy, anguish, and pain. He tried to conceal his torments, but I sensed that the pains in his hands and feet were unbearable. He was struggling with his feeble, exhausted body to relive Christ's Passion, to endure its superhuman suffering. Would human flesh be able to withstand such affliction?

  My anxiety made me creep stealthily each day to a place behind a rock which stood opposite his shelter. In this way I was able to watch him unobserved. He did not go to his cave any more, but instead climbed the ledge outside his hut, where he remained the entire day with his arms uplifted in prayer, mute and immobile, as though he were petrified. Toward evening a splendor began to lick his features, and the hair of his head caught fire.

  On the vigil of the Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross I was unable to sleep. I knelt down shortly before midnight to pray, but I could not get Francis out of my mind. The air in the vicinity smelled as though it were burning, as though a terrible thunderbolt had fallen on Francis' head. I rose and went outside. The sky above me had caught fire. Stars were jumping like sparks and plunging toward the earth. The Milky Way shone brightly; the night was transparent, the rocks luminous. Goatsuckers flew from tree to tree uttering piercing cries; a warm, gentle breeze blowing, a springtime breeze, the sort that induces buds to open. Unable to comprehend where such sweetness and calm were coming from, I stood motionless and looked around me. The sky was filled with swords, while the earth below was all kindness and obedience, like a compliant wife.

  The closer I came to Francis' hut, the more my heart trembled: it was on such nights, when the heavens were infuriated and the earth submissive, when a springtime breeze like this one was blowing--it was on such nights that miracles took place. I entrenched myself behind my rock, and looked. Francis was kneeling in front of his hut, given over to prayer. A quivering disk of fire licked his face and palms. I could clearly see his hands and feet beaming in the glare from the lightning flashes--no, not beaming: burning!

  I watched him for a long time, crouching motionless behind my rock. The breeze had subsided; not a leaf stirred. The eastern sky began to shine bluish white. The largest of the stars were still flashing and dancing in the sky. The first songbird chirped in a distant tree. The night was collecting its stars and darkness, preparing to leave, when suddenly there was a vehement, brilliantly red flash in the heavens. I lifted my eyes. A seraph with six wings of fire was descending, and in the midst of the fire, wrapped in the plumes, was Christ Crucified. Two of the wings embraced His head, two others His body, and the last two, one on each side, enwrapped His arms. Alvernia was encircled by a ring of flames whose glow descended, irradiating the plain below. The winged figure of the Crucified rushed down upon Francis with a hiss and touched him for the space of a lightning flash. Francis uttered a heartrending cry as though nails were being driven into him, and, spreading his arms, stood crucified in the air. Then I heard the six-winged seraph utter several words, rapidly, melodiously, as though it were a bird. I was unable to make out what these words were, but I distinctly heard Francis shout, "More! More! I want more!" and after that the divine voice replying, "Do not ask to go further. Here, at the Crucifixion, man's ascent comes to an end." Then Francis cried again, desperately: "I want more, more--the Resurrection!" And the voice of Christ replied from amid the seraph's wings, "Beloved Francis, open your eyes and look! Crucifixion and Resurrection are identical." "And Paradise?" cried Francis. "Crucifixion, Resurrection, and Paradise are identical," said the voice, and as it pronounced these final words there was a clap of thunder in the heavens, as though another voice were commanding the vision to return to God's bosom; and all at once the six-winged conflagration rose like a red and green lightning flash and mounted with a hiss into the sky.

  Francis lay stretched on the ground now, face down, writhing convulsively. I bolted out from behind my rock and ran to him. His hands and feet were bleeding profusely. Lifting him up and opening his frock, I saw that blood was also flowing from a deep open wound in his side, a wound which seemed to have been made by a lance.

  "Father Francis, dearest Father Francis . . ." I murmured, sprinkling him with water to bring him to. I was no longer able to address him as "Brother." I didn't dare, for he stood now far above the heads of the brothers, fax above the heads of all mankind.

  He could not hear me, so submerged was he in complete unconsciousness. Only his face continued to move, twisting and turning from terror.

  I washed his wounds, but they immediately opened again and the flow of blood recommenced. I began to weep. His body will be drained dry, I was thinking; he'll lose all his blood and will die. God fell upon him too heavily. The divine grace was excessive. He will die. . . .

  Suddenly he opened his eyes and recognized me.

  "Did you see anything, Brother Leo?" he asked breathlessly.

  "Yes, Father."

  "Did you hear anything?"

  "Yes." "Do not reveal the secret, Brother Leo. Swear!"

  "I swear. . . . How did you feel, Father Francis?"

  "Afraid!"

  "You weren't overcome with joy?"

  "No, I was afraid!"

  He touched my shoulder. "Get ready to leave now, Brother Leo. The journey is over; we are going to return to the Portiuncula. I shall die where I was born."

  "Do not talk about death, Father Francis."

  "And what else should men talk about, Brother Leo? About life? Be still and do not weep. We shall part for an instant, my brother, but then shall be reunited for all eternity. God bless Brother Death!"

  I laid him down and bound his wounds with strips torn from my frock. After I had prostrated myself before his hands and feet, I left the shelter, weeping. Day was about to break.

  I sat down in front of my hut, my tears flowing. The journey is over, I murmured to myself, the journey is over. Francis reached the highest peak of the ascent: he reached the Crucifixion. Man can go no higher. Now he has no further need of his body. He has arrived and is dismounting; he has arrived. . . . And me, what will become of me? Where will I go? I shall be lost!

  Captain Wolf appeared with our daily alms. He was surprised to find me weeping.

  "What's the matter?" he asked. "Francis wants to return to his birthplace. I'm afraid, my brother, that he is going there to die."

  Captain Wolfs face grew dark. "A bad sign, a bad sign. One breed of sheep I know of break their ropes the moment they sense death approaching, vault the walls of the sheepfold, and race off to their birthplace. . . . Poor Brother Francis!"

  "Don't feel sad, my brother. Francis has no fear of death. He says it isn't the end but the beginning, and that a man's true life commences only after he dies."

  "It might be the beginning for him, but for you and me it's the end. I've grown used to coming up to your hideaway to bring you a few scraps of bread. It made me happy: I felt I was doing a
good deed. But now . . ."

  He wiped his eyes.

  "All right," he said, swallowing hard, "I'll go find a donkey for him to ride on, and a blanket to keep the pack- saddle from bruising him. Make him ready; I'll be back!"

  He twirled round and began to descend the mountain. For a long time I could hear the stones as they shifted beneath his feet.

  An hour later the donkey was standing in front of Francis' hut. A thick red blanket covered the saddle. Francis was in great pain, and we lifted him as carefully as we knew how. His blood, which had soaked through the strips I had used to bind his wounds, was flowing freely again. "Brother Lamb," he said, placing his blood-soaked hand on the unruly head, "God grant that one day you and this donkey and the red blanket you brought to keep the saddle from bruising me may all enter Paradise together."