Saint Francis (48 page)

I sat down at the edge of the fountain and watched Francis, watched him as he departed, vanished without even turning to look at me. God and God alone occupied his heart now. My journey was ended as well--finished! I was left midway. I would never be able to reach him. We would never meet again; I would never again journey at his side.

I sighed. Francis turned and looked at me for a long time, a bitter smile quivering round the edge of his lips.

"Brother Leo," he said finally, "can you find a piece of paper and a quill?"

I ran to the village priest and returned with the quill and paper. "I've brought them, Father Francis."

"Write!"

I leaned over the paper and waited, quill in hand.

"Are you ready, Brother Leo?"

"Ready."

"Write!"

Thou art holy, Lord God. Thou art the God of gods, Who

alone workest miracles.

Thou art strong, Thou art great, Thou art most high!

Thou art good, every good, the highest good.

Thou art love, wisdom, humility, patience.

Thou art beauty, certitude, peace, joy.

Thou art our hope, Thou art justice, Thou art all our

wealth.

Thou art our protector, Thou art the guardian and

defender.

Thou art the great sweetness of our souls!

As he dictated to me he became more and more carried away. First he began to tap with his hands and feet; then all of a sudden he attempted to stand up and dance. But his legs would not support him, and he sank back to the ground.

"What joy this is, what happiness!" he exclaimed. "The heavens have come down to earth. These beings all around me are not men, but stars. . . . Did you write everything down, Brother Leo? Everything?"

"Yes, Father Francis, everything," I replied, and as I said this I felt a serpent biting my heart. My soul was embittered, for I did not share the happiness he spoke about. I looked around me, but saw no one. Even Francis had left me, had gone far far away--forever.

"Write some more, Brother Leo. Write underneath, in capitals: THE LORD turn His countenance to thee, that thy face may be cleansed and radiant, BROTHER LEO. THE LORD place His hand upon thy heart, BROTHER LEO, and give thee peace.

"Did you write that?"

"Yes, Father Francis," I replied, my eyes filling with tears.

"Give me the paper and the quill. I want to add something myself."

He tried to clasp the quill, but he was unable to close his hand. With great effort he managed to trace a skull at the bottom of the paper, and above the skull a cross, and above the cross a star.

'Take this sheet and keep it always with you, Brother Leo. And whenever you are overcome with grief, remove it from beneath your frock and read it in order to remember me--to remember how much I loved you." THE MORE I RECALL those days when we journeyed back to our native soil, the more certain am I that Giles was right: the saint does emit an odor which makes its way into the homes of men. Penetrating mountains and forests, it takes each man by surprise, overwhelming him with fear and anxiety. All his sins bound into his mind: every instance of cowardice, of villainy, of faintness of soul he thought he had forgotten, thought that time had erased. The jaws of hell suddenly open wide beneath his feet, and he, his heart in turmoil, sniffs the air, turns his face in the direction the odor is coming from, and sets out with trembling steps to find its source.

The friars--all who remained faithful--ran to the Portiuncula. Francis had lost almost all his blood. We laid him down in his hut, on the ground, and the brothers crowded around him, kissing him repeatedly and begging him without respite to describe how he had received his wounds, and the brilliance of the figure of Christ nailed upon the wings, and what were the secret words which the Son of God had confided to him. Francis, keeping his hands and feet hidden, wept and laughed in turn, so great was his joy. He had conquered pain: he felt that someone was in pain, but someone else, not him. He had already departed this world, and he looked upon all the rest of us with compassion.

Pilgrims from the large cities and from distant villages kept arriving continually, having been guided to our hut by the odor of sainthood. Some had diseases of the soul, some of the body. They touched Francis, kissed his feet, and he spoke to them using simple words, but ones they had forgotten: love, concord, humility, hope, poverty. And these simple words, when pronounced by his lips, took on for the first time a deep significance full of mystery and certitude. The people were comforted. They were astonished to find how easy beatitude was, how close to them, and many returned to their homes so changed, so sweetened, that their families no longer recognized them. Thus more and more ran to drink a drop of the immortal water which flowed from the Saint's mouth.

One day Francis had closed his eyes: he was exhausted. It was terribly hot, and I, seated cross-legged next to him, was cooling him with a fan of sycamore leaves when an elderly, aristocratically dressed lady approached, walking on tiptoe in order not to disturb him. She knelt at his side and, without speaking, bent to kiss his hands and feet; then she caressingly grazed his hair, which was drenched with sweat. So tender was her caress that I looked up, trying to discover the identity of this majestic woman who was so tightly wrapped in her black wimple. She stared at Francis, did not take her eyes from him. Suddenly her lips moved:

"My child . . ." And she burst into tears.

I jumped to my feet. I had understood.

"Lady Pica, noble Lady Pica," I whispered. She parted her wimple slightly, revealing her face. It was aged, full of wrinkles, deathly pale. She shook her head.

"Oh, Brother Leo, I delivered my son up to your care, and now look how you are returning him to me!"

"Not I, Lady Pica--God."

She lowered her head. "Yes," she murmured, "God . . ." and she fixed her tearful eyes once more upon her son.

Truly, this son, this darling son, was now nothing more than a tatter: one huge wound lying on the ground in a pool of blood.

"Is this my boy?" she whispered. "Is this my Francis?" She stared at him through her tears, struggling to recognize him.

Francis heard the whisper. Opening his eyes, he saw his mother and knew her immediately.

"Mother, Mother, you've come!" He held out his hands to her.

"My son . . . my father--I don't know what to call you any more--I kiss the five wounds which the Lord gave you. I have come to ask a favor. Remember the milk you drank from my breast, and do not refuse me."

"I do, I do, Mother; I remember everything, and I shall take all my memories with me and bring them to God so that He may sanctify them. What favor do you wish to ask?"

"Cut off my hair, call me Sister Pica; let me flee to San Damiano's. I have lost my husband, lost my son: I have no further use for the world."

"To have no further use for the world is not enough, Mother. You must have a use for God. You should say, 'I have lost my husband, lost my son--praise the Lord! But I have not lost God; I still possess everything, and I wish to enter San Damiano's not because I hate the world but because I love Almighty God.' "

"I wish to enter San Damiano's because I love Almighty God," repeated Lady Pica, struggling to restrain her sobs. "Give me your blessing, Father Francis!"

Francis raised himself up painfully. With my help he leaned back against the stone which served as his pillow.

"Have you distributed your belongings among the poor? Have you bowed, prostrated yourself before our noble Lady Poverty? Have you abandoned your magnificent house with a feeling of relief and joy, just as though you had recovered from a serious illness? Have you parted with everything?"

"Everything, everything, Father Francis."

"Then you have my blessing, Sister Pica," he said, placing his hand on his mother's head. "Go to Sister Clara's; she will cut off your hair and give you a frock. And farewell! We may never see each other again."

Lady Pica fell tearfully upon her son's breast and kissed it with reverence. Spreading her arms, she lifted him up, embraced him tightly, tenderly, as though he were an infant. Then she wrapped her black wimple securely around her again and set off in the direction of San Damiano's.

Francis glanced at me.

"Brother Leo, how can those who do not believe in God leave their mothers, leave them forever, without having their hearts break in two? How can they bear the sorrow, the unbearable sorrow of parting? Even the sight of an ordinary lamp flickering and about to die is enough to make one sick at heart. . . . What do you think, Brother Leo?"

I was completely bewildered. What could I say--that whoever loves God does not love anything else, does not pity anything in the world; that his soul is burning, and that even mother, father, brothers and sisters are enveloped in its flames and consumed, as are joy, suffering, wealth-- everything?

"I remember the time in Assisi," I offered by way of reply, "when the night watchman began to shout 'Fire!' It was midnight. The bells tolled; the half-naked inhabitants dashed into the streets. But it wasn't a fire that was burning, it was your soul. Your soul, Father Francis, and the whole of creation was being consumed within it. Look how your mother was just reduced to ashes."

He said nothing. Deathly pale, he kept looking at his hands and feet, biting his lips.

"Are you in pain, Father Francis?"

"Yes, someone is in pain, Brother Leo," he replied.

Exerting all his strength, he raised himself up. "Let him suffer, let him groan in the flames. As for us, we shall hold our heads high! Do you remember the song the three children Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah sang in the fiery furnace where they had been thrown by the Babylonian tyrant? Ready, little lion of God, let's clap our hands and sing it too. Oh, if I could only stand on my feet and dance! I'll begin; you keep time."

Clapping his hands, he commenced to sing in a firm, jubilant voice:

All ye works of the Lord, bless the Lord: praise and exalt

Him forever.

O all ye waters that are above the heavens, and all ye

powers of the Lord, bless the Lord: praise and exalt

Him forever.

O ye sun and moon and ye stars of heaven, bless the Lord:

praise and exalt Him forever.

O ye light and darkness, and ye nights and days, bless the

Lord: praise and exalt Him forever.

O every shower and dew, and all ye spirits of God, bless

the Lord: praise and exalt Him forever.

O ye fire and heat, and ye cold and warmth, bless the

Lord: praise and exalt Him forever.

O ye dews and falling snow, and ye ice and cold, bless the

Lord: praise and exalt Him forever.

O ye frost and snow, and ye lightnings and clouds, bless the Lord: praise and exalt Him forever.

O let the earth bless the Lord: let it praise and exalt Him

forever.

O ye mountains and hills, and all things that spring up in

the earth, bless the Lord: praise and exalt Him forever.

O ye fountains, and ye seas and rivers, whales and all that

move in the waters, bless the Lord: praise and exalt

Him forever.

He clapped his hands; his quivering feet swung back and forth of their own accord, beyond his control. He wanted to dance but could not. Never had I seen Francis so happy. The flame which licked and devoured his face had turned to light. He had felt unburdened ever since the celestial Christ had come down upon him, and now his heart brimmed with assurance.

I remained at his side constantly, night and day. One morning as I opened my eyes at dawn I saw him leaning against his stone pillow, smiling.

"Your face is beaming, Father Francis. Did you have a pleasant dream?"

"How can you expect dreams to make me smile, Brother Leo, when you see the blood flowing from me like this? Until now I wept, beat my breast, and cried out my sins to God. But now I understand: God holds a sponge. If I were asked to paint God's loving-kindness, I would depict Him with a sponge in His hand. . . . All sins will be erased, Brother Leo; all sinners will be saved--even Satan himself, Brother Leo; for hell is nothing more than the ante-chamber of heaven."

"But then--" I began.

But Francis held out his hand and covered my mouth.

"Quiet!" he said. "Do not diminish the grandeur of God."

The earth's wheel continued to turn. The rains began, and Francis closed his eyes in order to listen to the waters of heaven as they descended to earth. His face glistening like a rain-washed stone, he requested me to carry him to the doorway of the hut so that he could hold out his palms and receive the drops.

"These are the last alms I shall ever beg," he said as he watched his palms fill with water. Bending forward, he drank joyously, gratefully.

In this state of uninterrupted joy his body continued to waste away, each day half of him sinking further into the earth while the other half mounted toward heaven. You could see unmistakably now that the two elements which formed him had begun to separate.