"Lately," one of them said to Elias, "you hear nothing but singing from the bishop's palace. You'd think it was a tavern."
Elias entered the room incensed. Francis saw him, and abruptly cut short his song.
"Brother Francis," said Elias, forcibly controlling his rage, "excuse me for saying this, but it is unfitting your fame as a saint for you to play the lute and sing so that everyone who passes can hear you. What will people say? What will they say of you, and of the order? Is this the strict, saintly life that we preach? Is this the manner in which we shall guide souls to Paradise?"
"And how else, Brother Elias?" asked Francis in a timid voice, like a child who has just been scolded by his teacher.
"By singing? I'm afraid this troubadour is responsible!" said Elias, and he pointed scornfully to Pacifico, who was trying in vain to hide the lute behind his back. But the blood rose to Francis' cheeks.
"I am responsible! I am responsible for what Brother Pacifico does! And I am responsible for Brother Leo also, and for you, Brother Elias, and for the entire order! I am the one who shall render account to God for all of you. And if I sing, it is because God commanded me to sing. 'Francis,' He said to me, 'you are no longer of any use: Elias assumed your authority and threw you out of the brotherhood. Take the lute, therefore; retire into solitude, and sing!' "
"Ah, God commanded you to sing in solitude--you just said so yourself!" retorted Elias. "In solitude, and not here in the heart of Assisi, practically in the middle of the street. I'm sorry, Brother Francis, but I am the General of the order and I have my responsibilities."
Francis spread his arms, then brought them back to his side. He wanted to reply; the press of words was strangling him. Finally he turned to me.
"Brother Leo, we are being driven away even from here . . . even from here. Where can we go? What shall become of us? Come, get up; we shall depart."
"Where to, Father Francis? It's dark out already."
"We are being driven away even from here . . . even from here . . ." he kept murmuring, opening and closing his arms in despair.
"Stay until morning, Brother Francis," said Elias. "No one is forcing you to leave; all you have to do is stop singing. Tomorrow morning, act as God inspires you."
He bowed, kissed Francis' hand, and left.
The terror-stricken Pacifico had slipped out in the interim. The two of us remained alone.
"What was it you said, Brother Leo?"
"Nothing, Father Francis. I didn't speak."
"Yes, you did. You said that whoever dwells among wolves must be a wolf and not a lamb. That's what you said, Brother Leo; that's what all sensible people say. But God presented me with a madness, a new madness, and I say that whoever dwells among wolves must be a lamb--and not care a jot if they eat him! What is the name, Brother Leo, of that part of us which is immortal?"
"The soul."
"Exactly--and that, Brother Leo, cannot be eaten!"
The next morning Francis awoke at dawn in a joyful mood. "Listen, Brother Leo," he said, "I don't need Pacifico or his lute any more; I don't need the two pieces of wood you brought me. Last night, for the very first time, I understood the real meaning of music and song. You were asleep and snoring, but this ramshackle being that people call Francis lay awake because of its pains. The poor fellow's blood had begun to form puddles on his mattress again; he was really suffering. . . . I heard the last people go by in the street; I heard dogs barking, doors and windows being closed; then quiet, motionless sweetness--unspeakable joy! All of a sudden there was someone playing the guitar beneath my window. The music lasted for a long time, and sometimes it was near me, sometimes it came from a short distance, sometimes from far far away, as though the guitarist were going back and forth between one end of the city and the other. Never in my life, Brother Leo, have I felt greater joy-- no, not joy: beatitude. More than beatitude! It seemed to me that I was buried in God's bosom, that I had given myself up to Him completely."
Francis paused for a moment, and then: "If that music had lasted only a little while longer, Brother Leo, I would have died of happiness." Then, after another pause, he smiled, and added: "Elias did not want me to play the lute or sing. Now God has sent me an angel to sing serenades beneath my window. Serves Elias right!"
He attempted to rise to his feet, but could not find the strength. "Come, help me, Brother Leo," he said. "Let's leave; let's go where we shall be free to sing--to our little hut near the Portiuncula."
I called Pacifico. We lifted Francis in our arms and carried him to the street door. The bishop was away, having gone out to make a circuit of the villages. The news that the Saint was leaving, was going back to the Portiuncula, spread like a flash from mouth to mouth, until it was known everywhere in the city; and as we proceeded through the narrow lanes, the men issued from their homes and workshops, the women ran to join them, and the children, waving branches of myrtle and laurel, darted past us to lead the procession.
We passed beneath the fortified gate, traversed the olive grove, and began the descent. It was August, extremely hot. The fig trees were heavy with fruit; clusters of grapes hung from the vines; the fields had been mowed; the plain smelled of parched grass and fig leaves yellowed by the sun.
"Go slowly, do not hurry," Francis begged. "You will see this beloved soil again; I will not. If you want my blessing, go slowly."
He was fighting with his beclouded eyes to see Assisi, the olive grove, the vineyards--everything--and to take them with him to heaven. When the beloved city had nearly disappeared behind us, Francis cried, "Stop! Let me see it for the last time and bid it goodbye."
Halting, we turned his face toward the city. The people behind us halted in their turn and stood in silence, waiting. Francis gazed, gazed endlessly at the houses, churches, towers, and the half-ruined citadel which crowned them. Just then, the bells began to sound the death knell.
"Why are the bells tolling?" he asked.
"We don't know . . . we don't know . . ." we all answered him.
But everyone knew they were bidding farewell to Francis, who was going away to die. He, wiping his rapidly failing eyes, struggled not to lose sight of Assisi and, behind it, of the olive-covered slopes of Mount Subasio with the caves where he had first taken refuge in order to call upon the Lord.
Raising his arm slowly, he traced a cross above the beloved city.
"Farewell, Mother Assisi," he murmured. "Be Thou praised, my Lord, for this graceful city with its houses, people, vine arbors, the pots of basil and marjoram beneath its windows; and with Sior Pietro Bernardone and Lady Pica; also their son Francis the little pauper. O Assisi, if I could only lift you up intact in my hand and deposit you at the feet of the Lord! But I cannot, I cannot, beloved--and so: farewell!"
Tears fell from his eyes; he lowered his head upon his breast, exhausted.
"Farewell," he whispered once again. "Farewell. . . ."
Behind us, the weeping people had begun to intone the dirge. We all set out together, walking hastily now, anxious to arrive. When we reached the hut we laid Francis gently on the ground: without our realizing it, he had fainted in our arms. The crowd dispersed; those brothers who were at the Portiuncula--Juniper, Ruffino, Masseo, Giles, Bernard--ran to kiss him, but he lay unconscious and did not feel their lips upon his hand.
One week passed, two, three. The vintage came and went, the vine leaves began to redden; the figs grew syrupy; the olives were glistening. The first cranes passed over our hut, sailing toward the south, and the swallows prepared once again to depart.
When Francis heard the cries overhead, he opened his eyes. "The cranes are taking the swallows south with them," he said.
He raised his arms toward the sky.
"Have a good trip, swallows, my sisters. Soon a large crane will come so that I too may depart."
Sometimes when he opened his eyes he used to lie still, his hand in mine; at other times I helped him to sit up, and he spoke to us of Poverty, Peace, and Love, his eternal lad
ies, while gazing tenderly at each of the five or six brothers who sat around him struggling not to miss a single word. These were his final instructions, we told ourselves; they were not only for us, but for all the friars who were absent, and for all the brothers and sisters yet to be born. It was our duty, therefore, to engrave them deeply in our minds so that they would not be lost.
"What is love, my brothers?" he asked, opening his arms as though he wished to embrace us. "What is love? It is not simply compassion, not simply kindness. In compassion there are two: the one who suffers and the one who feels compassion. In kindness there are two: the one who gives and the one who receives. But in love there is only one; the two join, unite, become inseparable. The 'I' and the 'you' vanish. To love means to lose oneself in the beloved." One day he reached out and placed his hand in mine.
"Brother Leo, before I die I would like to see Brother Jacopa so that I may say goodbye to her. Do me this favor, please: take some paper and write: 'Brother Francis, God's little pauper, to Brother Jacopa: I have to inform you, dearest Jacopa, that the end of my life is drawing near. Therefore, if you wish to see me once again here upon this earth, lose no time, but as soon as you receive this message speed to the Portiuncula. If you delay even a little, you will not arrive in time to find me alive. Bring with you a coarsely woven shroud to wrap around my body; also candles for my funeral."
He turned to the brother who was kneeling at his side, and saw that it was Juniper.
"Brother Juniper, this is the last favor I shall ask of you. Take this message and--"
He fell suddenly silent. He had raised his head; he seemed to be listening to something. A sweet smile spread across his face.
"There is no need for you to go to Rome now, Brother Juniper, glory be to God! Thank you anyway."
As soon as he had said this he turned toward the entrance- way. We all riveted our eyes upon the door as though we had been expecting someone.
It was then that we heard steps outside. I ran to see who it was, but before I could reach the door I let out a cry: Brother Jacopa was standing in front of me! The noblewoman entered, fell at Francis' feet, and began to kiss his wounds.
"Father Francis . . . Father Francis . . ." she whispered tearfully as she caressed his hands.
Francis placed his palm on her hair. "Welcome, welcome, Brother Jacopa. I am glad you came, very glad. . . . Who brought you the message?"
"The Blessed Virgin came to me in my sleep. 'Francis is dying,' she said. 'Run to him, and take the shroud you wove, and also candles for his funeral.' "
She laid the shroud at Francis' feet.
"I wove it with my own hands from the wool of the lamb you gave me."
Francis sat up. He looked at his feet and hands, fingered his sunken bloodstained chest--and sighed.
"Forgive me, Brother Donkey," he said; "forgive me, my old ramshackle body, for having tormented you so much."
He smiled bitterly.
"And you, my revered Mother Earth: you must forgive me also. You gave me a splendid, radiant body, and now look what mud and filth I am returning to you!"
But as he was speaking, his eyes suddenly protruded from their sockets. Extending his arm, he pointed toward the door.
"Look, there he is!"
"Who?" "The Beggar! The Beggar, Brother Leo. He's at the door; he just lifted his pierced hand and greeted me. Now he's lowering the hood from his head--Oh, no! No!"
"Father Francis, Father Francis, stop trembling!"
"It's me, me, me! I see my face, the cross on the forehead, the scars from the white-hot iron on my temples. . . . He entered, he's coming nearer . . ."
Francis hid his eyes behind the sleeve of his robe.
"He's coming . . . coming . . ." he murmured, trembling. "Look, he's smiling happily and holding out his arms to me!"
He placed the other sleeve over his eyes now, but he still continued to see.
"He's here, here," he shrieked. "He just lay down next to me on my mat. There he is! Help, Brother Leo, help!"
Reaching out, he embraced me. Then he extended his hands and searched to the right, to the left; also behind my head.
"No one," he murmured. "No one!"
But a moment later, thoughtfully:
"The two of us have united, have become one. The journey is finished."
The end was indeed drawing near. The friars kept arriving from all directions to bid Francis goodbye. Elias raced from village to village assembling the inhabitants in order to announce that the Saint was dying and that everyone should be prepared to speed with lighted candles to the funeral. He had also made sure that the bishop would instruct the sexton of San Ruffino's to have the death knell tolled day and night. At San Damiano's the sisters knelt before the crucifix imploring God not to take Francis from them yet; and Captain Wolf descended his mountain, journeyed to the Portiuncula, and approached Francis on tiptoe, bringing him a gift of a basket of grapes and figs. Francis opened his eyes, and recognized him.
"Brother Lamb! Welcome! The wild hawks of Alvernia must have delivered the message that I was dying. Goodbye, my brother."
"It is not you who are dying, Father Francis," replied the savage brother; "it is not you, but us. Forgive me for everything I have done."
"God will forgive you, Brother Lamb, not I. If you are saved, everything will be saved with you, even the lambs you ate when you were a wolf."
Brother Wolf took the basket he had brought and placed it in the moribund's hands.
"Here are a few figs and grapes I brought so that you could say goodbye to them, Father Francis. You can eat them with a clear conscience: they weren't stolen!"
Francis laid his palm over the ripe fruit, rejoicing at the cool freshness. Then he plucked a grape from the cluster and placed it in his mouth. Next, he took a fig and sucked in the honey that was dripping from it. "Goodbye, figs and grapes, my brothers. Goodbye for the last time. I shall never see you again!"
September drew to a close. One day early in October the sky darkened and the first autumn drizzles commenced to fall. A thin, tender mist unfurled above olive trees and pines: an inexpressible sweetness flooded the world, and the soil reclined fertile and content in the humid air. Francis opened his eyes. The hut was filled with brothers who had come from all directions, arriving early in the morning. Many had squatted down on the ground; others remained standing. They were all gazing at him, mutely, no one daring to break the hallowed silence. From time to time they wiped their eyes and stepped outside in order to breathe. Francis extended his arm, greeting them.
"You are departing, Father Francis," said Bernard, kneeling and kissing his hand; "you are departing; soon you shall ascend to heaven. Open your mouth for the last time and speak to us."
Francis shook his head.
"My children, my brothers, my fathers: whatever I had to say to you I have already said. Whatever blood I possessed in my heart, I have already given to you. Now I have no more words to speak or blood to give. If I had, God would keep me longer upon this earth."
"Don't you have anything, anything at all to say to us?" cried Giles from the corner where he was standing and weeping.
"Poverty, Peace, Love--nothing else, my brothers. . . . Poverty, Peace, Love."
He tried to sit up, but could not.
"Undress me, my brothers. Lay me naked upon the ground so that I may touch the earth and it may touch me."
Weeping, we undressed him, laid him upon the ground, and knelt around him. All of us sensed the presence of the Archangel above his body.
Sister Clara had come; unseen by any of us, she had been listening at the doorway. Suddenly we heard a sob. We turned and saw her huddled on the threshold, weeping, her face tightly wrapped in her wimple. All at once, everyone began to wail and lament.
"Why are you weeping, my brothers?" asked Francis, surprised.
No one replied.
"Do you really believe this life to be so sweet? Where is your faith in the life everlasting, my brothers? Is it so very sl
ight? Brother Death, you who are standing just beyond the door: forgive mankind. Men do not know your lofty message, and that is why they fear you."
Saint-Francis-by-Nikos-Kazantzakis Page 44
