Saint-Francis-by-Nikos-Kazantzakis

by Saint Francis (epub)

  He had heard about Francis, and had laughed at first, thinking that all this calking of churches, kissing of lepers, undressing in public and returning the clothes he was wearing to his father was but a new series of pranks on the part of Bernardone's pampered son. And now here he was holding a bell and making the rounds of the streets preaching, as he said, a new madness. Bernard was unable to understand exactly what the "new madness" was. Each day he saw Francis shouting and weeping in the square. He said he was fighting to save men from sin. How could he save men from sin, he who until now had spent his nights carousing? But this madness had endured beyond expectation. Could it be that God was truly giving him the strength to resist hunger, nakedness, and scorn? If I wasn't ashamed, Bernard said to himself, I would go up to him and speak to him. I haven't been able to sleep for many nights now. He comes again and again into my mind and gestures to me. What is he signaling me to do?

  Finally, unable to restrain himself any longer, he had approached Francis.

  "Do you remember me, Sior Francis? I am Bernard of Quintavalle. Would you deign to sleep in my house tonight?"

  Francis looked at him; he perceived the affliction and great yearning that were in Bernard's eyes.

  "What miracle is this, Brother Bernard? I was dreaming about you just last night! God has sent you, my brother-- welcome! Your coming has some hidden meaning. All right, let's be off!"

  He nodded to me. "Brother Leo, you come too. You and I don't part!"

  We went to Bernard's mansion. The servants prepared a meal for us, and then, leaning against the door, listened while Francis spoke of God, love, the soul of man. The air had become filled with angels; gazing through the open window the servants saw heaven--verdant, brilliantly illuminated, the saints and angels chatting together as they promenaded hand in hand on the immortal grass, while above their heads the cherubim and seraphim glittered like stars.

  But when Francis stopped speaking, everything returned to normal. The courtyard with its potted flowers surrounding the rim of the well was once more visible through the window. A servant girl burst into tears. For a moment she had entered Paradise, but now she had returned to earth again and had once more become a servant.

  It was almost midnight. Bernard had listened with bowed head, enraptured by his visitor's words. Though Francis was no longer speaking, the host felt his guest's presence within him: barefooted, singing, dressed in tatters, he was marching in front and turning his head to signal. . . .

  "Sior Francis," he said, looking up, "the whole time I heard you speak, this world vanished and nothing remained but the soul over the abyss, the abyss of God--singing. But I can't tell which part is true and which part is a dream. It is said, Sior Francis, that night is the most beloved of God's messengers. Let us see what message it will bring me tonight."

  He got up. "Sior Francis, tonight you and I shall sleep in the same room."

  Then, laughing in order to hide his emotion:

  "People say that sainthood is a contagious disease. We shall see!"

  But Bernard had his motives: he wished to test Francis. As soon as he had lain down he began to snore, pretending he had fallen asleep. The deception was successful. When Francis believed Bernard to be fast asleep, he slid out of bed, knelt on the floor, crossed his hands, and began to pray in a low voice. Bernard pricked up his ears, but heard nothing except these words:

  "My God and my all! My God and my all!"

  This lasted until dawn, at which time Francis crept into bed and pretended to sleep. Bernard, whose tears had flowed the entire night as he listened to Francis, rose and went out into the courtyard. I was already up and drawing water from the well. I turned and looked at him. His eyes were inflamed.

  "What happened, Sior Bernard?" I asked. "Your eyes are all red."

  "Francis did not sleep the whole night. He was praying, and a great flame licked his face."

  "It wasn't a flame, Sior Bernard, it was God."

  Francis appeared, and Bernard fell immediately at his feet.

  "A thought has been tormenting me, Sior Francis," he said. "Take pity on me and soothe my heart."

  Francis clasped Bernard's hand and made him stand up.

  "I am listening, Brother Bernard. Not I, but God, will soothe your heart. Tell me your troubles."

  "A great nobleman gave me a large treasure to keep for him. I have guarded it for many years, but now I plan to go on a long, dangerous journey. What should I do with his treasure?"

  "You should return it to the man who entrusted it to you, Brother Bernard. Who is this great nobleman?"

  "Christ. All my wealth I owe to Him: it is His. How then can I return it to Him?"

  Francis fell deep into thought.

  "This is an extremely grave question, Brother Bernard," he said finally. "By myself I cannot give you an answer. But let us go to church and ask Christ in person."

  All three of us started for the street door. But at that moment someone knocked. Bernard ran to see who it was, and immediately uttered a happy cry.

  "Is it really you, Sior Pietro? Why so early? You're as pale as a corpse."

  Sior Pietro was a celebrated professor of law at the University of Bologna. A native of Assisi, he normally came home every so often to rest. This time, however, he had left Bologna because of the death of his most beloved student a few days before. He had been unable to restrain his sorrow, and had enclosed himself in his paternal home, refusing to see anyone.

  "Are you alone, Bernard?" he asked.

  "No. Sior Bernardone's son Francis is here too, and a friend of his."

  "It doesn't matter; I'll speak in front of them," said Pietro, and he stepped into the courtyard.

  He was a large-bodied, aristocratic man, with severe, grayish eyes and a short, curly beard. But studying long hours into the night had eaten away his cheeks, and his entire face was as dry and yellow as the expensive parchment used by monks to record Christ's Passion.

  He collapsed onto a stool, breathing with difficulty. The three of us stood around him and leaned over in order to hear.

  He took a deep breath.

  "Forgive me," he said, "if I start from the beginning. I had a student named Guido whom I loved like my own son. He never lifted his head from his books. At the age of twenty he had the good sense and erudition of an old man. And mixed with this brilliant mind was something which is found very seldom: passion, flaming passion. That is why I loved him. . . . A few days ago he died."

  He squeezed his lips together to hold back the rising sob, but two huge tears rolled down from his eyes. Bernard filled a cup with water and gave it to him. He drank.

  "On the day of his final agonies I bent over his pillow and said to him, 'Guido, my child, if God decides to call you near Him, I have a favor to ask of you.'

  "And he replied: 'What favor, my father? I'll do whatever you desire.'

  " 'I want you to visit me one night in my dreams and tell me what goes on in the other world.'

  " 'I shall come,' the youth murmured. He placed his hand in mine and then immediately gave up the ghost.

  "I left Bologna at once and came here to be alone while I waited for him to visit me in my sleep." Sior Pietro's voice broke and he was forced to stop again. Finally he managed to continue:

  "He came. Today, at dawn . . ."

  Bernard squatted next to him and clasped his hand.

  "Courage, Pietro," he said. "Take a deep breath and tell us what he said to you."

  Francis and I leaned further forward, anxious to hear.

  "He was dressed in a strange kind of robe. No, it wasn't a robe, it was hundreds of strips of paper sewn together around his body--all the manuscripts he had written during the course of his studies, and on them were all the problems, questions, the philosophic and legal perplexities, the theological concerns: how to be saved, how to escape from the Inferno, to rise to Purgatory, and from Purgatory to Paradise. . . . He was so weighted down with papers, try as he might he could not walk. A wind was blowing; it fl
uttered the manuscripts, and as it did so the boy's skeleton became visible, covered everywhere with mud and grass. 'Guido, my child,' I shouted at him, 'what are these papers around you, these scraps that are preventing you from walking?'

  " 'I've just come from the Inferno,' he answered me, 'and I am struggling to climb to Purgatory. But I can't. These scraps of paper are preventing me. . . .' When he had said this, one of his eyes turned into a tear and fell on me and burned my hand. Here, look!"

  He held out his right hand. On it we saw a red wound, perfectly circular, like an eyeball. Bernard and I were overcome with terror--but Francis just smiled calmly.

  Sior Pietro got up. "Everything is finished now," he said. "Before coming here I threw all my manuscripts into the fire and burned them--all my manuscripts, all my books. I am saved! Blessings upon my beloved student who brought me the message from the world below. A new life is beginning for me, glory be to God!"

  "And what road are you going to follow now, dear Pietro?" asked Bernard. "What is this new life you are beginning?"

  "I don't know yet, I don't know . . ." replied the savant pensively.

  "I know!" Francis interrupted at this point. He reached out his hand and opened the street door. "I know! Come with me, both of you!"

  Francis went in the lead. The two friends followed arm in arm, while I brought up the rear. These two souls are ready, I was thinking, ready to begin the ascent. . . .

  We passed San Ruffino's. Mass was in progress, the church full: we did not stop. Instead, we turned the corner and reached the tiny church of San Niccolo, which was deserted. Francis pushed open the door and we entered. Above the altar hung the crucifix, illuminated by a tiny lamp. The story of San Niccolo was depicted on the wall in back, with the saint surrounded by fish, boats, and endless seas. "Brother Bernard, you asked me a question," said Francis. "Kneel. Christ is going to give you the answer." He advanced to the altar, knelt, crossed himself, and took up the heavy Gospel, which was bound in silver.

  "This is the mouth of Christ," he said.

  He opened the Gospel, placed his finger on a verse, and read in a loud voice:

  "If you would be perfect, go, sell what you possess and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven."

  He closed the Gospel, opened it once more, and read:

  "If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me."

  Francis turned to Bernard, who had been listening on his knees, weeping.

  "Do you have any further doubts, Brother Bernard?" he asked. "Do you want Christ to open His mouth once more?"

  "No, no," shouted Bernard, carried away with emotion. He jumped to his feet. "I'm ready."

  "So am I," said a voice behind him. It was Sior Pietro. He had been listening, fallen prone on the flagstones.

  "Well then, let's go!" said Francis joyfully as he stepped between the two new converts and clasped each around the waist. "You, Sior Pietro, have already done what Christ instructed: you burned your wealth--manuscripts, books, pencils; you poured out all your ink and found relief. . . . Now it's your turn, Brother Bernard! Throw open your shop, call the poor, distribute the cottons you used to sell--clothe the naked! Smash your yardstick, open your coffers, distribute, distribute, find relief. Brother Bernard, it is necessary, absolutely necessary for us to restore to our poor brethren what we have borrowed from them. If a person withholds even a delicate gold chain, he will find it weighing down his soul, preventing it from rising and taking flight!"

  He turned to the altar, to the Crucified.

  "Christ, my Lord, how cheaply Thou sellest Thy goods to us! We give the contents of a tiny shop and with this we buy the kingdom of heaven. We burn a pile of old papers and receive everlasting life!"

  "Come, let's not lose any time," said Bernard. Removing the store key from his belt, he began to run.

  The faithful were emerging from Mass now; the churches were closing, the taverns opening. People flocked into the square.

  The clouds had scattered; the sun shone brightly. Poor February with its scant twenty-eight days was as warm as June. The trees had already begun to unfold their first tiny curled-up leaves.

  How many times in my life had I seen the arrival of spring! This, however, was the first time I realized its true meaning. This year, for the very first time, I knew (Francis had taught me) that all things are one, that the tree and the soul of man--all things--follow the same law of God. The soul has its springtime like the tree, and unfolds. . . .

  As soon as we reached the Piazza San Giorgio, Bernard inserted his key and opened the shop. Standing on the threshold, he cried: "Whoever is poor, whoever is unclothed --come! In the name of Christ, I am distributing all my goods."

  Francis placed himself to his right, Sior Pietro to his left, and I carried the rolls of cloth from the back of the store and made a pile in front of them.

  How the people ran! Women, girls, old men, ragamuffins: how their eyes shone, how avidly they stretched forth their hands in the Sunday air! And Bernard, laughing, enjoying himself, joked happily with this one, teased that one, while with the large pair of shears he held in his hand he cut the cloth and distributed his wealth.

  From time to time Francis turned to him. Bernard would sigh:

  "What joy this is, Brother Francis! What a relief!"

  Father Silvester happened to pass by. The sight of Bernard pillaging and scattering his possessions made the priest's heart break in two.

  "What a shame that such wealth should go to waste!" he murmured. "Without a doubt it's that lunatic Francis who's been putting ideas into his mind."

  He stopped and watched, shaking his head. Francis divined what he was thinking. "Father Silvester, you remember what Christ says, don't you? Forgive me if I remind you. 'If you want to be perfect, distribute your possessions to the poor, and you shall earn a great treasure in heaven.' So, why are you shaking your head?"

  Father Silvester coughed, turned fiery red, and went on his way.

  Francis felt distressed at having hurt him. "Father Silvester, Father Silvester!" he shouted.

  The priest turned.

  "I reminded you of Christ's words. Forgive me. You, the priest of God, know them better than I, the sinner."

  If Francis had been closer, he would have been able to see two tears well up in the priest's eyes.

  Evening came; the store was just four bare walls. Taking the yardstick, Bernard smashed it and tossed the pieces into the gutter. After he had thrown away the shears also, he crossed himself. "Glory be to God," he said. "I have found relief."

  He placed his arm around Sior Pietro, and the two of them followed Francis.

  All Assisi immediately buzzed with these strange doings on the part of a rich, sensible proprietor and a learned professor of law. We learned that the same night a large number of the older notables, all considerably shaken, gathered at the house of one of Bernard's uncles in order to determine how to exorcise this plague. The disease was obviously contagious, and most of all it attacked young people. Let's take care, they reasoned, lest it turn the heads of our sons as well and induce them to scatter among the ragged and barefooted the wealth that we and our forefathers amassed over so many years by the sweat of our brows. Here now is this new lunatic putting ideas into people's heads and undermining our houses. Let us expel him; let him depart the boundaries of our city--and go to the devil! Thus they decided to call upon the bishop and afterwards the council of village elders in order to request them to oust this scandal from Assisi.

  In the modest home of the widow Giovanna, meanwhile, a solidly built, sunburned, jovial colossus was sitting by the fire warming himself. He watched his old aunt as she made the sign of the cross and blessed the name of the new saint-- that was what people had recently begun to call Francis. As he himself confessed to us a few days later, he laughed at her and teased her, saying: "Bah, a playboy doesn't become a saint as easily as all that! I'll go and find this saint of yours, this Francis--yes, I'll
find him, or my name isn't Giles. And I'll take a bottle of wine with me, and some tender roast pork to whet his appetite, and you'll see if I don't get him stinking drunk on you. Then I'll slip a noose around his neck and lead him to the square. As soon as I clap my hands he'll start dancing like a trained bear!" Several days went by. Our group, now made up of four friars, left Assisi and found refuge in the deserted chapel, the Portiuncula. In front of the flowering almond tree we erected a hut made of branches coated with plaster--our first monastery.

  For hours on end we knelt and raised our eyes to heaven, praying. Francis spoke to us of love, poverty, of peace--both the peace of each man's soul and the peace of the world. And I, who until now had done nothing but ask questions and investigate everything, now with the coming of the new friars, I learned to keep quiet. One day Sior Pietro said something which I shall never forget as long as I live: "The mind does nothing but talk, ask questions, search for meanings; the heart does not talk, does not ask questions, does not search for meanings. Silently, it moves toward God and surrenders itself to Him. The mind is Satan's lawyer; the heart is God's servant It bows and says to the Lord, 'Thy will be done!' "