Saint Francis (33 page)

Jumping up, Francis threw a glance at the door and started toward it, apparently attempting to flee. Masseo and I rose to block his path. He stopped. His entire body was trembling, as it always did when he was forced to make some great decision against his will. Bowing his head, he staggered back to the hearth and leaned against the jamb. The reflections of the flames danced upon his body; his face seemed to be ablaze. Suddenly we heard a taunting heart-rending voice:

"Can you, the young countess, the daughter of the great lord Favorino Scifi, can you walk with bare feet?"

"I can," the girl answered in a firm, proud tone.

"Can you endure hunger, and can you knock on doors and beg for your food?"

"I can."

"Can you bathe lepers, and rinse them, and kiss them on the mouth?"

"I can."

"Can you who are so lovely agree to become ugly? And when the children of the street run behind you shouting, 'Humpback! Bowlegged hag!' can you rejoice that you who used to be so beautiful have fallen now to the state of being a humpbacked, bowlegged harridan--all for Christ's sake?"

"I can, I can," repeated the girl, and she raised her hand as though taking an oath.

"You cannot!"

"I can! The daughter of Count Scifi is able to bear not only the rigors of affluence, but also those of poverty, nakedness, and ridicule. She can do whatever the others do."

"I don't trust you women. Eve's serpent has been licking your ears and lips for too many centuries. Do not lead me into temptation. Other ladies will gather round you, and you'll all climb up to the convent roof to ogle the brothers, who in turn will climb up to the roof of their monastery to gaze at the sisters--and presently a robust, well-nourished devil of the flesh will shuttle back and forth between the two cloisters. No, get up and return home. We don't want women!"

"Women are God's creatures just as men are, and have souls, and want them to be saved."

"Women must take a different road if they wish to reach God. They must marry and have children, allow their virtue to flower and bear fruit not in desert solitude, but in the very midst of the world of men."

"It's in vain that you try to assign boundaries to virtue. Virtue is capable of flowering and bearing fruit wherever it wants to--and its great preference is for solitude."

"Intelligence, in women, is an impertinence! Who taught you how to find a retort for everything that is said?"

"My heart."

Suddenly Francis abandoned the wall he was leaning against and began to pace back and forth, stumbling every few steps. I ran to take his hand.

"Leave me alone," he shouted. "Don't touch me!"

He turned abruptly, and with one stride was in front of the fireplace. Stooping, he clutched a handful of ashes and then brought them down heavily over the girl's head. He rubbed the ashes against her hair, her face, her neck, and thrust a mouthful between her lips. He was murmuring something-- we could see his lips moving, but neither of us could distinguish a full word. He growled, lowed, bleated like a lamb, howled like a wolf. Gradually, after much toil, his voice regained its human characteristics, and we were able to hear two words in the fierce silence, two human words, and only two:

"Sister Clara . . . Sister Clara . . ."

The fire flared up; the reflections of the flames danced upon the faces of Francis and Clara, both smeared with ashes.

The lamp began to sputter and die, but no one rose to add more oil: we had all turned to stone. And when the lamp went out and we remained alone with only the gleam of the fire, Francis' voice was heard again, calm and peaceful now, gentle, completely human: "Sister Clara, welcome to our order!"

In no time the news spread from mouth to mouth throughout Assisi and the surrounding villages that Francis had returned from Egypt. He had done signs and wonders there, it was said. The Sultan had been converted, baptized, and had accordingly turned the city of Damietta over to the crusaders. Among those who heard the good news were the dispersed friars. Mortally ashamed, they converged upon their former sheepfold from every direction, and were received by Francis with open arms.

They all came. Soon the Portiuncula was full, and branches had to be brought and new shelters set up everywhere around it. Bernard and Pietro arrived still rapt in contemplation, their eyes half-closed; Capella silent and bareheaded; Pacifico with his lute slung over his shoulder. Last of all came Elias, severe, fierce, with his robust body, his brambly eyebrows, his clean-shaven upper lip. He was accompanied by his followers, and in his hand he held a thick book.

"God's love for you is indeed great, Brother Francis," he said. "He preserved you, let you remain upon earth so that you might have time to reach your lofty goal. I imagine your feet still have a considerable amount of climbing ahead of them."

"It's time you learned, Brother Elias, that man's goal is God and that the only way we can reach this summit is by dying."

"Excuse me," objected Elias, "but I'm of the opinion that the only way we can reach our goal is by living."

The air changed, became turbulent. Everyone waited in silence for the squall to break out.

For three days Francis went among the friars, questioning them, talking to them, struggling to discover which roads they had taken during his absence in Egypt. Several had gone to renowned Bologna to preach. But the learned theologians there had quickly exposed their ignorance and, completely humiliated, the brothers had been forced to hold their peace. Stubbornly refusing to be discouraged, however, they opened a school in the arrogant city, a school where numerous new friars came to study Holy Scripture. They purchased enormous tomes and studied far into the night: they did not preach, did not pray or work--they studied.

Francis listened to this, his heart seething with grief and indignation.

"We are lost, Brother Leo, we are lost," he kept saying to me. "We sowed wheat, and behold, our field is now covered with brazen poppies and nettles. What are these scholars, these wolves that have entered our fold? I have no use for education or knowledge. Satan inhabits our minds, God our hearts. The heart is illiterate; it has never even opened a book. What is going to become of us, Brother Leo? Where are we headed? For the abyss!" The following day he came across a novice who was unknown to him. This novice was exceptionally pale, with shriveled cheeks and enormous eyes. He was bent forward, poring avidly over a book which he held in his hands. God, for him, had disappeared, the friars had disappeared, the entire population of the world had disappeared. Nothing remained between heaven and earth except this young man and his book.

Francis went up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. The youth gave a start.

"What's your name?"

"Antonio."

"Where are you from?"

"Portugal."

"Who gave you permission to have a book?"

"Brother Elias," answered the novice, squeezing the volume against his breast.

But Francis reached out and seized the book. "You don't have my permission!" he shouted angrily, and crying "Ashes! Ashes!" he hurled the book into the fire.

But when he saw the novice gazing at the flames with tearful eyes, he took pity on him. "Listen, my child," he said, "each year at Easter I used to watch Christ's Resurrection. All the faithful would gather around His tomb and weep, weep inconsolably, beating on the ground to make it open. And behold! In the midst of our lamentations the tombstone crumbled to pieces and Christ sprang from the earth and ascended to heaven, smiling at us and waving a white banner. There was only one year I did not see Him resurrected. That year a theologian of consequence, a graduate of the University of Bologna, came to us. He mounted the pulpit in church and began to elucidate the Resurrection for hours on end. He explained and explained until our heads began to swim; and that year the tombstone did not crumble, and, I swear to you, no one saw the Resurrection."

The novice grew bold and replied, "I, on the other hand, Brother Francis, never see the Resurrection unless I am entirely clear in my mind how and why Christ rose from the dead. I place my faith in nothing but man's mind."

Francis began to foam at the mouth. "That's precisely why you shall be damned," he cried, "precisely why as long as you live you shall never view the Resurrection. How and why! What impudence! The mind of man is accursed."

Brother Giles had stopped to listen. He had enjoyed Francis' words, and had been forced to put his hand over his mouth to hide his laughter. As soon as I took Francis' hand and began to lead him away, Giles ran up behind us.

"God speaks through your mouth, Brother Francis," he said. "You talk, and in me your words are immediately transformed into action. One Sunday while you were away this same novice, Antonio, came to me with a bundle of smudged papers under his arm and asked permission to go to San Ruffino's in Assisi to preach a sermon. 'I'll give you permission with pleasure,' I answered him, 'but on one condition: you must mount the pulpit and start crying "Baa! Baa!" like a sheep. Nothing else--just "Baa! Baa!"' The novice thought I was teasing him. He turned red with anger, took the sermon he had written, and thrust it beneath his robe. 'I. am not a sheep, Brother Giles,' he said to me haughtily, 'I am a man. I don't bleat, I talk. God gave man a great privilege: the ability to talk.' "

"And how did you answer him, Brother Giles?" asked Francis, seeing the other hesitant to continue.

"To tell you the truth, Brother Francis, I was completely confused. All I could do was cough: I hadn't the slightest idea what to say. Luckily I saw Brother Juniper returning from the forest with an armful of wood. I ran to help him unload, and thus I escaped."

"There is a better answer than that, Brother Giles," said Francis, laughing. "You shall see presently! Come, Brother Leo."

"Where are we going this time?" I asked, trembling lest he bring me again to the top of some snow-covered mountain.

"To Satan's wet nurse: Bologna."

He was silent for a moment, and then: "Our boat is shipping water, Brother Leo. I'm afraid it might sink. O Bologna, Bologna, it is you who are going to devour our Portiuncula!"

We walked--no, we did not walk, we ran. The weather was warm, delightful. The apple and pear trees had blossomed; the first poppies beamed in the fields; small white and yellow daisies covered the ground. A warm breeze was blowing, the kind that induces buds to open. It reached right down to my heart and made it open too. I don't know why, but during all those spring days I kept thinking of Sister Clara, rejoicing that Francis had interceded with the bishop in her behalf and induced him to grant her San Damiano's as a hermitage.

One morning we reached Bologna, a large majestic city with streets teeming with people, red streamers waving in front of the taverns, fruits and vegetables piled high in the market place, beautiful women passing on horseback, with multicolored feathers in their hair. Turning into a narrow lane, we arrived at a tree-lined square away from the center of the city. Francis glanced around him, then proceeded to the School of Theology which had been established by Elias with several of the new brothers. He knocked on the door, entered at a run, and found himself in a vast chamber with a long, narrow table round which sat five or six brothers, reading. The walls were covered with maps, and with shelves packed with books.

"Apostates!" shrieked Francis. "Apostate friars, what are you doing here among these tools of the devil? For shame!"

The startled friars jumped to their feet. Francis strode back and forth closing the books they were reading, and shouting, "Woe unto you, apostate brothers! You forget Christ's words: 'Blessed are the poor in spirit.' God commanded me to be simple and ignorant. He took me by the hand and said to me, 'Come, I shall guide you to heaven by the shortest path. You, in turn, take your brothers by the hand and guide them along the path which I am about to show you!' I took you all by the hand, but you slipped out of my grasp and started to follow the wide road which leads to Satan. Get up now, remove all these volumes from the shelves, and pile them in the yard. You, Brother Leo, run to find a torch! The rest of you: leave at once, return as quickly as you can to your mother, the Portiuncula. In the name of holy Obedience, go!"

He heaped the books, maps, and ancient manuscripts in the middle of the yard. I ran to him carrying a torch.

"Here, give me Sister Fire," said Francis.

He took the torch, crouched down, and wedged it into the bottom of the pile. "In Christ's name, and in the names of holy Humility and holy Poverty!" he said, crossing himself.

Then he turned to the brothers who had come to the school to study. "How many of you are there?"

"Seven."

"I see only six. Where's the other?"

"In his cell. He's ill."

"Make him get up. Take him on your shoulders and leave. I'll find the keys and lock up."

When everything had taken place as he wished and the six had set out, carrying their ailing comrade, and nothing remained of all the parchments and papers but a tiny pile of ashes in the middle of the yard, Francis bent down, took some of the ashes in his hand, and spread them over both palms.

"Look, Brother Leo. Read. What does this book say?"

"It says that man's knowledge is nothing but ashes, Brother Francis. 'Ceniza y nada! Ceniza y nada!' as that strange white-robed monk shouted at us, the one we met in Rome."