The nurse followed behind her, old and dignified. Seeing her mistress stop, she stopped too, and waited. The morning was bathed in sunlight and they had taken the longest possible route back from church so that they could reach the great house as late as possible and thus delay enclosing themselves within.
As soon as Clara saw Francis her knees gave way beneath her. She wanted to turn back, but was too ashamed. Forcing herself to be brave, she raised her eyes and gazed directly into his with a severe, melancholy look. Then she took a step toward him, stretched her head forward, and stared at his rags, his naked bespattered feet, his starved face. She shook her head scornfully.
"Aren't you ashamed?" she asked him in a stifled, despairing voice.
"Ashamed? Ashamed in front of whom?"
"Your father, your mother, me. Why do you go to the places you do? Why do you shout what you shout? Why do you dance in the middle of the street like a carnival acrobat?"
Francis listened with bowed head, stooped, half-kneeling. He did not speak. Clara leaned over him, her eyes brimming with tears.
"I feel sorry for you," she said fervently. "When I think of you my heart breaks."
"Mine too . . ." said Francis, but so softly that only I, supporting him as I was to keep him from falling, managed to hear.
Clara gave a start. Her face became radiant. From the motion of Francis' lips she had divined his words.
"Francis . . . you think of me too?" she asked, her bosom swelling.
Francis raised his head.
"Never!" he cried, and he extended his arm as though to direct her to one side so that he could pass.
The girl uttered a shrill cry. The nurse ran to support her, but Clara pushed the old lady away. Her eyes flashing, she raised her hand:
"Accursed is he who acts contrary to the will of God," she said in a fierce voice. "Accursed is he who preaches that we should not marry, should not have children and build a home; who preaches that men should not be real men, loving war, wine, women, glory; that women should not be real women, loving love, fine clothes, all the comforts of life. . . . Forgive me for telling you this, my poor Francis, but that is what it means to be a true human being."
Yes, yes, that is what it means to be a true human being, my poor Brother Leo, and forgive me for telling you, I repeated in my turn (to myself) rejoicing in the girl's splendid words, and in her ferocity and beauty.
The nurse approached and put her arm around her mistress' waist. "Come, my child," she said. "People will see you."
The girl laid her head on the old woman's breast and suddenly began to cry. God knows how many months she had been spinning those words in her heart and longing to see Francis and speak them out to him in order to relieve herself. And now, now that she had finally spoken, she had found no relief at all. Her heart was thumping, ready to burst.
The nurse drew her along calmly, gently, but the moment they were about to turn into the next lane, Clara halted. Unpinning the red rose from her bosom, she spun around, saw Francis still stooped over toward the ground, and threw it to him.
"Take it," she said. "Take it, poor, wretched Francis, as a remembrance of me--a remembrance of this world!"
The rose landed at Francis' feet.
"Come," the girl said to her nurse. "Everything is over now!"
Francis remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the pavement. Gradually he raised his head and looked around him fearfully. Then he squeezed my hand.
"Is she gone?" he asked softly.
"She's gone," I answered, and I picked up the rose.
"Don't touch it!" said Francis, terrified. "Put it at the edge of the street so that no one will step on it. Come, and don't look behind you!"
"Where? Still to Assisi? This meeting was a bad omen, Brother Francis. Let's change our plans."
"To Assisi!" he said, and he began to run. "Take the ram's bell, ring it! Good God, to marry, have children, build a home --I spit on them all!"
"Alas the day, Brother Francis, I believe--forgive me, Lord, for thinking so--I believe the girl was right. A true human being--"
"A true human being is someone who has surpassed what is human--that's what I say! I implore you, Brother Leo, be quiet!"
I held my tongue. What could I reply? The longer I had been living with Francis the more clearly I sensed that there were two roads which led to God: the straight, level road, that of man, where you reached God married, with children, freshly shaved, full of food and smelling of wine; and the uphill road, that of the saint, where you reached Him a tattered rag, a handful of hair and bones, smelling of uncleanliness and incense. I was suited to the first of these, but who ever bothered to ask my opinion! So, I took the uphill road--and may God grant me the strength to endure!
We reached the center of the city. I went ahead of Francis and rang the bell, crying, "Come, come one and all to hear the new madness!" The people in the streets stopped. Now they'll pick up stones and start pelting us, I said to myself; now the children will emerge from every lane and begin to jeer at the top of their lungs. . . . But nothing happened. Silence. I became frightened. Was this the way we were going to be received now--without being hooted or booed?
No one lifting a hand to stop us, we continued on. Bernardone was standing outside his shop. His shoulders were rounded now, his skin had become yellow. When Francis saw him he turned coward for a moment and started to reverse his steps in order to find another route.
"Courage, Brother Francis," I said to him softly, taking hold of his arm. "This is where you are going to show us how brave you are."
Bernardone turned and saw us. At first a shudder ran through his body, but then he ran quickly inside, got his staff, and descended upon us, bellowing. Francis stepped forward and pointed to me.
"Here is my father, Sior Bernardone. He gives me his blessing; you give me your curse. He is my father!"
He took my hand and kissed it.
Bernardone's eyes filled with tears which he wiped away with the edge of his wide cuff. A considerable number of passers-by had halted to stare hatefully at the rich merchant and his ragamuffin of a son. Father Silvester of the parish of San Niccolo was also passing by. He was about to intervene in an attempt to reconcile father and son, but he immediately changed his mind. "Let them settle their own affairs!" he murmured, and he went off toward his church.
Bernardone lowered his head and did not breathe a word. But his face had suddenly become covered with wrinkles. Feeling his knees begin to give way beneath him, b^ leaned on his staff for support and regarded his son for a considerable time, still not speaking. Finally, his voice full of complaint, he asked, "Have you no pity for your mother?"
Francis turned pale. He opened his mouth to reply, but his jaw began to tremble.
"Have you no pity for your mother?" Bernardone asked again. "She weeps all day and all night. Come home; let her see you."
"I must first ask God," Francis managed to answer.
"A God who can prevent you from seeing your mother: what kind of God is that?" said Bernardone, looking at his son imploringly.
"I don't know," Francis answered. "Let me ask Him."
He set off toward the upper part of the city, toward the citadel. I looked back for a moment and saw Bernardone still standing in the middle of the street, seemingly turned to stone. He was squeezing his throat with his left hand, as though attempting to stifle his curses or sobs.
Truly, what kind of God was that? I asked myself, remembering my poor, unfortunate mother, long since dead. What kind of God was capable of separating son from mother?
I gazed at Francis, who was in front of me striding hurriedly up the hill. He had already reached the fortress. I sensed that inside his feeble, half-dead body there was hidden a merciless and inhuman force which did not concern itself with mother and father, which perhaps even rejoiced at abandoning them. What kind of God was that--really! I did not understand! If it had only been possible for me to turn into some out-of-the-way lane and escape! Ah, to go into a tavern, sit down at a table, clap my hands and say: Waiter, bring me bread, wine, meat--I'm starved! On the double! I'm fed up with being hungry! And if Francis the son of Bernardone comes and asks if you've seen Brother Leo, tell him you haven't.
Francis knew of a deep cave in the mountainside. There he hid himself.
"Brother Leo," he said, bidding me goodbye, "I must remain here by myself for three days. Farewell. I have many things to ask God, and He and I must be alone. Farewell. In three days we shall come together again."
As he spoke he grew thinner and thinner, melted away, became one with the half-light of the cave--disappeared, air into air. Kneeling at the entranceway, he thrust his arms up toward heaven and uttered a heart-rending cry: he seemed to be summoning God to appear. I stood still for some time, looking at him and silently saying goodbye. Who could tell if he would ever issue from the prayer alive! I had a presentiment that the coming struggle was to be a terrible one, and that Francis' life was in danger.
For three days I wandered through Assisi, begging. Each evening I brought whatever alms the good Christians gave me and placed them on a stone outside the cave. Then I left quickly lest Francis see me and his meditations crash down to earth. But the following day I always found the food still on the stone, untouched.
On one of the days, I passed Bernardone's house. Lady Pica noticed me from the window, came downstairs, and brought me inside. She wanted to speak to me, to question me, but she was overcome with tears, and all she could do was gaze at me in silence.
How she had changed, aged! Her rosy cheeks had faded; the wrinkles around her mouth had deepened; her eyes were red.
"Where is he?" she managed to say, wiping away the tears with her tiny handkerchief. "What is he doing?"
"He's in a cave, Lady Pica--praying."
"And can't God allow him to come so that I may see him?"
"I don't know, ma'am. He's praying, asking Him. But he hasn't received an answer yet."
"Take a stool and sit down. Tell me everything. A mother's pain is large, as large--forgive me, Lord--as large as God Himself. Take pity on me and speak."
I related everything to her, starting with the day her son undressed himself in front of the bishop and continuing to the encounter on the road with the leper who was Christ, to Ravenna, where we had found the ancient warrior, to the monastery where we were thrashed, and last of all to the nobleman's daughter Clara and her sorrow.
Lady Pica listened, the tears streaming down her cheeks and onto her white collar. As soon as I had finished, she got up, went to the window, and inhaled deeply. A terrible question was on the tip of her tongue, but she dared not utter it. I understood, and felt sorry for her.
"Ma'am," I said, divining her question, "your son is mounting the stairs, one by one, with sure, firm steps. He is climbing toward God. Perhaps a volcano is erupting inside him and causing the world of the flesh to crumble in ruins, but his mind--I swear to you, Lady Pica, by the soul I shall render up to God--his mind remains clear and unshaken."
When Lady Pica heard these words she raised her head animatedly. Her lackluster eyes began once more to flash. She had become young again.
"Glory be to God," she murmured, crossing herself. "I seek no other gift from Thee, Lord."
She called the nurse.
"Take his sack and fill it."
The she turned to me again. "Is he cold?" she asked. "If I give you some woolen clothes for him, will he wear them?"
"No, ma'am, he won't," I answered.
"Isn't he cold?"
"No. He says he wears God next to his skin. That keeps him warm."
"And what about you? Aren't you cold? Let me give you something warm to put on."
"Yes, I'm ashamed to admit it, ma'am, but I am cold. I'll also be ashamed, however, to wear the clothes you give me."
"Ashamed in front of whom?"
"How should I know, ma'am? Maybe Francis, maybe myself; maybe even God. Alas, the road I've taken doesn't tolerate any comforts."
I sighed. Oh, how much I should have liked to possess a warm flannel undershirt and thick woolen stockings and good sandals so that I would stop cutting my feet--and a coat that was heavier and had fewer holes!
The nurse came with the sack filled to the top.
"Go now, and may God be with you both," said Lady Pica, rising. "And tell my son that my great wish is for him to succeed in doing what I once tried and was unable to do. Tell him he has my blessing!"
The three days came to an end. On the fourth I climbed up to the cave early in the morning and stood outside, waiting. Thanks to Lady Pica's heart and larder, my sack was full of mouth-watering delicacies. I felt delighted, but above and beyond this I was trembling at the thought of seeing Francis. To talk three days with the Almighty was to expose yourself to immense danger. God might hurl you into a terrible chasm where He was able to survive but a man was not. Who could tell into what chasms this secret three-day conversation would throw even me! Courage, my soul! I repeated to myself. I'll cling to Francis' robe--and then who cares if I fall. . . .