"Excuse me, sir," I said, "but there was one thing I wanted to ask you, and it was this: You eat, drink, dress yourself in silks, sing beneath windows. Your life is one continuous party. Does this mean you lack nothing?"
The youth turned abruptly and drew his arm violently away to prevent me from touching him.
"That's right, I lack nothing," he replied with irritation. "Why do you ask? I don't like having people question me."
"Because I pity you, sir," I said in reply, fortifying my heart.
When the youth heard this he tossed his head arrogantly.
"You, you pity me!"
He laughed, but a moment later, in a low, panting voice: "Why do you pity me--why?"
I did not answer.
"Why?" he asked again, leaning forward and gazing into my eyes. "Who are you--dressed like that, like a beggar? And who sent you to find me here on the streets of Assisi in the middle of the night?"
He grew furious. "Confess the truth! Someone sent you. Who?" Then, receiving no answer, he stamped his foot on the ground:
"I lack nothing! I don't want to be pitied, I want to be envied. . . . I lack nothing, I tell you!"
"Nothing?" I asked. "Not even heaven?"
He lowered his head and was silent. But after a moment:
"Heaven is too high for me. The earth is good, exceptionally good--and near me!"
"Nothing is nearer to us than heaven. The earth is beneath our feet and we tread upon it, but heaven is within us."
The moon had begun to set; a few stars hung in the sky; the sound of impassioned serenades came thinly from the distant neighborhoods; down below, the square was buzzing. The air of this summer night was filled with aromas and with love.
"Heaven is within us, my young lord," I repeated. "How do you know?" he asked, giving me a startled look.
"I suffered, went hungry, thirsty--and learned." He took me by the arm. "Come home with me. I'll feed you and give you a bed to sleep on. But don't talk to me about heaven--it may be within you, but it's not within me."
His eyes flashed with anguish; his voice had grown hoarse.
We went down to the market place, where the taverns were still roaring. Drunken young men were streaming in and out of one of the low houses, in front of which was a small red lantern. Donkeys laden with vegetables and fruit had begun to arrive from the villages. Men were setting up tables and arranging bottles of wine, brandy, and rum on them. Two tightrope walkers had started to drive in poles and stretch their string. The preparations for the Sunday bazaar had already begun.
Two drunks spied Francis in the moonlight and began to laugh clandestinely. One of them removed his guitar from his shoulder. Glaring at Francis derisively, he started to sing:
You build your nest so high in vain:
The bough will break,
You'll lose the bird,
And be left with only the pain.
Francis listened, motionless, his head bowed.
"He's right," he murmured, "he's right."
Courtesy demanded I remain quiet, but, bumpkin that I am, I opened my mouth and asked: "What bird?"
Francis turned and looked at me. So much suffering was in that gaze, I could not keep myself from clasping his hand and kissing it. "Forgive me," I said.
His expression sweetened. "What bird? Is it possible I know?" He sighed deeply.
"No, I don't, I don't know," he groaned. "Stop asking me questions! Come!"
And he grasped my hand tightly, as though afraid I might leave him.
But I, how could I leave him? Where could I go? From that moment on, I was constantly at his side. Father Francis, was it you I had been seeking year after year? Was that why I had been born: to follow you and listen to you? I had ears, but no tongue--so I listened. You told me what you told no one else. You took me by the hand, we went into the forests, scrambled up mountains, and you spoke.
You used to say to me, "Brother Leo, if you weren't with me I would tell it all to a stone, an ant, a tender olive leaf-- because my heart is overflowing, and if it does not open and spill forth, it may break into a thousand pieces."
I know things about you, therefore, that no other person knows. You committed many more sins than people imagine; you performed many more miracles than people believe. In order to mount to heaven, you used the floor of the Inferno to give you your momentum. "The further down you gain your momentum," you often used to tell me, "the higher you shall be able to reach. The militant Christian's greatest worth is not his virtue, but his struggle to transform into virtue the impudence, dishonor, unfaithfulness, and malice within him. One day Lucifer will be the most glorious archangel standing next to God; not Michael, Gabriel, or Raphael--but Lucifer, after he has finally transubstantiated his terrible darkness into light."
I listened to you, mouth agape, thinking what sweet words these were and asking myself if this meant that sin, even sin, could become a path to lead us to God; if even the sinner, therefore, could have hopes of salvation.
I am the only one, also, who knows about your carnal love for Count Favorini Scifi's daughter Clara. All the others, because they are afraid of their own shadows, think you loved only her soul. But it was her body that you loved earliest of all; it was from there that you set out, got your start. Then, after struggle, struggle against the devil's snares, you were able with God's help to reach her soul. You loved that soul, but without ever denying her body, and without ever touching it either. And not only did this carnal love for Clara not hinder you from reaching God, it actually helped you greatly, because it was this love that unveiled for you the great secret: in what manner, and by what kind of struggle the flesh becomes spirit. All love is one; it is exactly the same whether it be for wife, son, mother, fatherland, or for an idea, or God. A victory, even though on love's lowest rung, helps form the road which will lead us to God. So, you fought the flesh, vanquished it mercilessly, then kneaded it with your blood and tears and after a terrible struggle which lasted many years, transformed it into spirit. And didn't you do exactly the same with all your virtues and all your vices? They too were flesh, were Clara. Weeping, laughing, tearing your heart in two, you turned them into spirit. This is the road; there is none other. You led the way and I, panting, followed you.
One day as I watched you rise from the bloodstained rocks, moaning, your body one great wound, my heart took pity on you. I ran to you and clasped your knees. "Brother Francis, why do you torture your body so?" I cried. "It too is one of God's creatures and must be revered. Don't you feel sorry for your blood, your blood which is being spilled?"
But you shook your head and answered me, "Brother Leo, with the world in the state it is today, whoever is virtuous must be so to the point of sainthood, and even beyond; whoever is a sinner must be so to the point of bestiality, and even beyond. Today, the middle road is no more."
And on another occasion when in desperation you looked to the earth and it wanted to devour you, to heaven, and it refused to help you, once again you turned to me, and I shuddered when I heard your words:
"Listen, Brother Leo," you said. "I'm going to tell you something very grave. If you cannot bear it, lamb of God, then forget it. Are you listening?"
"I'm listening, Father Francis," I answered. I had already begun to tremble. You placed your hand on my shoulder as though trying to steady me and prevent me from falling.
"Brother Leo, to be a saint means to renounce not only everything earthly but also everything divine."
But as soon as you uttered those blasphemous words, you became terrified. Bending down, you seized a handful of dirt and thrust it into your mouth. Then, placing your finger over your lips, you glared at me in horror. A few moments later you cried:
"What have I said? Did I speak? . . . Quiet!"
And you burst into tears.
Every evening beneath the light of the lamp I took aim at each of your words, each of your acts, and pinned them down securely one by one so that they would not perish. A single word from your lips, I said to myself, may save a soul. If I fail to record it, fail to reveal it to mankind, that soul will not be saved, and I will be to blame.
I had taken up my quill to begin writing many times before now, but I always abandoned it quickly: each time I was overcome with fear. Yes, may God forgive me, but the letters of the alphabet frighten me terribly. They are sly, shameless demons--and dangerous! You open the inkwell, release them: they run off--and how will you ever get control of them again! They come to life, join, separate, ignore your commands, arrange themselves as they like on the paper--black, with tails and horns. You scream at them and implore them in vain: they do as they please. Prancing, pairing up shamelessly before you, they deceitfully expose what you did not wish to reveal, and they refuse to give voice to what is struggling, deep within your bowels, to come forth and speak to mankind. As I was returning from church this past Sunday, however, I felt emboldened. Had not God squeezed those demons into place whether they liked it or not, with the result that they wrote the Gospels? Well then, I said to myself, Courage, my soul! Have no fear of them! Take up your quill and write! But I immediately grew fainthearted once again. The Gospels, to be sure, were written by Holy Apostles. One had his angel, the other his lion, the other his ox, and the last his eagle. These dictated, and the Apostles wrote. But I. . . ?
I had remained hesitant in this way for many years, carrying about your sayings faithfully transcribed one by one on skins, scraps of paper, the bark of trees. I kept repeating to myself, Oh, when shall I grow old? When, unable to walk any more, shall I settle down in a monastery and in the calm of my cell receive from God the power, Father Francis, to arrange your words and deeds on paper as a Saint's Legend, for the salvation of the world!
I was in a hurry because I felt the words coming to life and jostling each other on the bits of skin, the scraps of paper, the bark of the trees. They were being smothered, and had begun to revolt in an effort to escape. I felt Francis too, felt him prowling outside my monastery, homeless and exhausted, his hand outstretched like a beggar's; felt him slip into the cloister, unperceived by anyone but me, and enter my cell. Just the other evening, as I was bent over an ancient parchment reading the lives of the saints, I felt someone in back of me. The north wind was blowing; it was cold, and I had lighted my earthenware brazier, the Holy Superior having given me permission to keep a bit of fire in my cell because I had grown old, and lost my endurance. The saints' miracles had encircled me, were licking me as though they were flames. I no longer touched the earth; I was hanging in the air. It was then that I felt someone in back of me. Turning, I saw Francis huddled over the brazier.
"Father Francis, have you abandoned Paradise?" I cried, jumping to my feet.
"I am cold, I am hungry," he answered. "I have nowhere to lay my head."
There was bread and honey in the cell. I ran quickly in order to give him some and calm his hunger. But when I turned, I saw no one.
It was a sign from God, a visible message: Francis roams homeless over the earth; build him a home! But once again I was carried away by fear. I struggled within myself for a long time and then, having grown weary, leaned my head against the parchment and fell asleep. I had a dream. It seemed I was lying under a blossoming tree with God blowing over me like a fragrant breeze. The tree was the tree of Paradise, and it had blossomed! As I gazed at the sky through the flowering branches suddenly a group of minute birds, just like letters of the alphabet, came and perched in the tree, one on each branch. They began to chirp, at first singly, one by one, then in pairs, then three together. Afterwards, hopping from branch to branch, they formed groups of two or three or five and twittered away ecstatically. The whole tree had become a song, a sweet tender song full of passion, desire, and great affliction. It seemed as though I were already deeply buried beneath the springtime soil, my arms crossed upon my breast, and that this flowering tree were issuing from my bowels, the roots invading my entire body and suckling it. And all the joys and sorrows of my life had become birds, and were singing.
I awoke. I still felt the chirping within my bowels; God was still blowing over me.
It was dawn. I had slept the entire night with my head on the parchment. Rising, I washed and changed to clean clothes. The bell was ringing for matins. I made the sign of the cross and went to the chapel, where I glued my forehead, mouth, breast to the floor, and received the sacrament. When Mass was over I scampered back to my cell, not speaking to anyone lest I soil my breath. I flew: angels were holding me up. I did not see them, but I could hear the rustle of their wings to my right and left. I took up my quill, crossed myself --
And began, Father Francis, to record your Life and Times.
May the Lord help me and be my guide! I SWEAR I shall tell the truth. Lord, aid my memory, enlighten my mind, do not permit me to utter a single word I might later regret. Arise and bear witness, mountains and plains of Umbria; arise, stones sprinkled with his martyr's blood, dusty, bemired roads of Italy, black caves, snow- covered peaks; arise, ship that took him to the savage East; arise, lepers and wolves and bandits; and you, birds who heard his preaching, arise--Brother Leo needs you. Come, stand on my right, on my left; help me to tell the truth, the whole truth. Upon this hangs the salvation of my soul.
I tremble, because many times I find I cannot distinguish what is true from what is false. Francis runs in my mind like water. He changes faces; I am unable to pin him down. Was he short? Was he immensely tall? I cannot put my hand over my heart and say with certainty. He often seemed squat to me, all skin and bones, with a face which bore witness to his penury--scant chestnut-colored beard, thick protruding lips, huge hairy ears erect like a rabbit's and listening intently to both the visible and invisible worlds. His hands, though, were delicate, his fingers slender--indications of descent from a noble line. . . . But whenever he spoke, prayed, or thought he was alone, his squat body shot forth flames which reached the heavens: he became an archangel with red wings which he beat in the air. And if this happened at night when the flames were visible, you recoiled in terror to keep from being burned.