"The mouths that are preaching the word of God are multiplying," Francis said to me happily the next day.
"The mouths that want to eat are multiplying also, Brother Francis," I answered him. "How are you going to feed them?"
Truthfully, the people of Assisi had begun to grumble: they were tired of feeding so many mendicant friars. One morning a messenger came to tell Francis that the bishop wished to speak with him and that he should come. "I'm at his service," Francis answered, crossing himself. Then, turning to me:
"I have a feeling he wants to scold me, Brother Leo. You come too."
We found the bishop seated in his armchair telling the black beads of his rosary. Piled on top of him were the cares of heaven and earth. It was his duty to divide his soul in two. First, he was a shepherd of men. It was necessary for him to keep sharp watch over the sheep that God had entrusted to him: scabies was contagious, and if one sheep should fall ill, he had to be careful that all the others did not catch the disease as well. But at the same time it was necessary for him to be concerned about his own soul. He, obviously, was also one of God's sheep, and his duty was to follow the Great Shepherd.
When he saw Francis he tried to frown, but was unable to, for he greatly loved this saintly rebel who had abandoned what men most esteem in this world and had embraced what they most hate and fear: solitude and poverty. He had even conquered the scorn of his fellow men, and went about barefooted, preaching love. He extended his plump episcopal hand. Francis knelt to kiss it, then rose and stood with crossed arms, waiting.
"I have reason to chide you, Francis, my son," said the bishop, fighting to make his voice sound severe. "I have heard a great deal about you, and all of it good; there is one thing, one thing only, that displeases me."
"Let me hear it, Your Excellency, and if it is God's wish that your will be done, it shall be done. Holy Obedience is a precious daughter of God."
The bishop coughed, hesitating in order to work out beforehand what to say and how to say it so that Francis would not be infuriated.
"I've been told," he began finally, "that the faithful who are following in your train grow more numerous every day and that they have been pouring into this city and the nearby villages, knocking on doors to ask for alms. This is not as it should be! Everyone here is poor. How long do you expect such people to have extra bread to give to you and your followers?"
Francis lowered his head without answering. The bishop extended his hand and brought it down heavily on the Bible, which lay opened next to him.
"Besides, you forget what the Apostle says: If any will not work, neither should he eat." His voice was angry now.
"We pray, we preach--that is work too," Francis murmured, but the bishop did not hear. "Therefore, both as your bishop and as a father who loves you," he continued, "I have two requests to ask of you: first, that you put all your followers to work so that they shall no longer expect to live from the sweat of others; second, that you have something in reserve--a small property, a field, a vineyard or olive grove--and that you work it and lay up each year whatsoever God grants to the farmers. I am not saying you should work in order to become rich--God forbid!--but that you should do so in order not to be a burden on our brothers who have homes and children and who, even though they may desire to give alms to beggars, have no extra provisions with which to do so. Absolute poverty, my child, goes against both God and man. . . . That's what I wanted to say to you, and why I called you. Now consider well all that you have heard, and give me your answer."
Talking had fatigued him. He closed his eyes and leaned against the back of the armchair, his head drooping. The rosary slipped out of his fingers; I bent down and gave it to him. His hands were white and soft; they smelled of incense.
Francis raised his head. "With your permission, Bishop, I shall speak."
"I am listening, Francis, my child. Speak freely."
"One night when I was weeping, imploring God to enlighten my mind so that I could decide whether or not we should have something for the hour of need--a small field, a tiny house, a purse with an irreducible minimum of money, something to which we could say, 'You are mine!'--God answered me, 'Francis, Francis, he who has a house becomes a door, a window; he who has a field becomes soil, and he who has a delicate gold ring finds that the ring turns into a noose which seizes him around the neck and strangles him!' That, Bishop, is what God told me!"
The bishop blushed. He wanted to answer, but the words became tangled in his toothless mouth. The veins of his neck began to swell, and a young priest who was standing with crossed arms in the corner ran and brought him a glass of water. The bishop recovered his composure. He turned to Francis:
"Who can guarantee it was God who spoke to you? Many times when we pray we hear our own voice and think it is the voice of God; many times, also, the Tempter assumes God's face and voice and then comes and leads our souls astray. Can you place your hand on the Gospel and tell me which of the words you hear when you pray are your own and which are God's?"
Francis turned pale. His lips began to tremble.
"No, I can't. . ." he murmured.
His knees gave way beneath him and he sank noiselessly to the floor.
"With your permission, Bishop, I shall begin to weep and wail. Your words are knives which have penetrated to my heart. How shall I ever be able to distinguish God from Francis now, or Francis from Satan?"
He hid his face in his palms and burst into lamentations.
Pitying him, the bishop bent forward in his armchair, took hold of him under the arms, and raised him up.
He turned to the young priest: "Bring, a glass of wine for our visitor, my child. Bring three glasses so that we can all drink to his health."
Francis had collapsed onto a stool now and was wiping the tears from his cheeks and beard.
"Forgive me, Bishop. I have no resistance."
The young priest brought the three glasses of wine on a wooden tray. The bishop raised his glass.
"Wine is a sacred drink, my child," he said. "When consecrated by a priest it can become the blood of Christ. I drink to your health, Francis. Go now, and may God bless you. I do not want you to give me your answer right away. Think over what we have said, think it over well, and then come and tell us your decision. Poverty is good, but only up to a point; wealth is good, but only up to a point. Moderation in all, my child, even in kindness, in piety, even in scorn for worldly possessions. The more immoderate these things become, the more danger of falling into Satan's grasp--so beware! Goodbye now, and good luck."
Francis was about to stoop to kiss the bishop's hand again and take his leave, but he restrained himself. A voice had risen within him: Do not go! it called. Do not be afraid of him. Give him an answer!
"Bishop," he said, "a voice is calling within me and preventing me from leaving."
"A voice, my child? Perhaps it is the voice of the rebel, of Lucifer. What does it say?"
"It says that the devil rejoices when he sees men afraid of poverty. . . . To have nothing, absolutely nothing: that is the road which leads to God. There is none other."
This made the bishop wild with rage. He banged his fist down on the Gospels.
"The devil rejoices, Francis, when he sees you oppose my will! Do not say a single word more, but go! And may God take pity on you and extend His hand over your head to cure you. You are sick."
Francis knelt, kissed the bishop's hand, and we departed.
We left Assisi, passed San Damiano's, and continued on toward the Portiuncula, not breathing a word the entire way. Finally Francis halted at a fork in the road. "The bishop's words were harsh," he said. "I want to be alone, Brother Leo. I'll go left to the riverbank and follow it until I reach the first hamlet, the one in the forest."
"The people there are wild and savage, Brother Francis. They will attack you. I'm afraid for your safety."
"But that's precisely why I'm going, lamb of God. I can't stand this easy life any more." I returned alone to the Portiuncula. I had lost my zest for begging. The bishop's words seemed harsh to me also, harsh and--God forgive me--correct. Yes, I reflected, if anyone doesn't work, he shouldn't eat either. We ought to knuckle down to work like everyone else and earn our bread by the sweat of our brows--the way God commands.
I collapsed onto the threshold of the Portiuncula and began to wait for nightfall, when the brothers, and also Francis, would return. I was worried; my heart felt uneasy. I knew I oughtn't to have left him alone, because wild brutes lived in the hamlet where he was going--men who denied Christ. They might strike him.
I jumped to my feet. The sun still had not gone down. I sped along the riverbank, reached the savage village, and entered it. The streets were deserted, but soon I heard dogs barking and also tumultuous laughter and shouting. I ran toward the noise, and what should I see but a crowd of men, women, and children. They had driven Francis to the brim of a well, where they were bombarding him furiously with stones. And he stood there with crossed arms, the blood flowing from his head. From time to time he spread his arms and whispered, "Thank you, children, God bless you all!" and then he crossed his hands once more over his breast.
Just as I was darting forward to place myself in front of Francis in order to defend him, a savage roar was heard behind him. Everyone turned. An immense giant had made his way through the mob and had lifted Francis up in his arms like a baby.
"Where do you want me to take you, poor miserable Francis?" he said, bending down over him.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Masseo, and I'm a carter. Everyone knows me. Where do you want me to take you?"
"To the Portiuncula," answered Francis. "I'm a carter too, Brother Masseo. I take men from earth and transport them to heaven."
Masseo set out, carrying Francis in his arms. I ran behind them. When we arrived at the Portiuncula the sun had gone down. Masseo deposited Francis on the threshold and squatted at his side. Bernard was praying in a corner; Capella and Angelo were just returning from their rounds of begging. One by one the other friars appeared--barefooted, famished, the knotted cord around their waists, their faces radiant with happiness. All was peaceful, gentle. The shadows fell gradually; the birds chirped their farewells to the light. Hesperus could be seen throbbing in the sky. Giles watched in silence while I brought water and began to wash Francis' wounds. Brother Juniper had commenced to arrange kindling between two stones in order to start a fire; Ruffino and Sior Pietro had gone to the riverbank to collect laurel leaves, and now they were inside the church, adorning the statue of Santa Maria degli Angeli.
"We are holding a wedding tonight," Francis exclaimed suddenly. "Masseo, do you want to be best man?"
Everyone turned in surprise. Capella jumped gleefully into the air. He had been holding his velvet hat in his hand, dusting it.
"A wedding, Brother Francis?" he asked. "Whose wedding?"
"I chanced upon a widow along the road," replied Francis with a smile. "For years now she has been going about barefooted, in rags, hungry, and no one has opened his door to give her alms. We, my brothers, shall open the door to her."
"For God's sake speak so we can understand, Brother Francis," shouted the friars. "Whose widow?"
"Christ's, my brothers. Do not stare at me like that, your eyes popping out of your heads. Christ's widow--Poverty. For her first husband's sake, I am going to take her as my bride."
He got up and looked at himself.
"I am dressed as a bridegroom," he said. "There is no need to change anything--the patched robe, the coarse knotted cord, the muddy feet, the empty stomach: I lack nothing. Nor does the bride. So why not begin? Come, best man--offer me in marriage!"
Francis went first, with Masseo second and the rest of us behind. We filled the church.
"Where is Father Silvester?" asked Francis, turning to see if he could find him. "Let him come to bless the wedding."
"And where's the bride?" I said. "I don't see her."
"You don't see her, Brother Leo, because your eyes are open. Close them and you shall see her."
He knelt in front of the altar and turned to his right.
"Sister Poverty," he said, his voice full of emotion, "Sister Poverty, precious, revered, most beloved companion of Christ, you who throughout His life remained faithful to Him, a courageous ally in the struggle; you who accompanied Him on His journey right to the foot of the Cross, right to the grave--I hold out my hand, I gather you up from the streets and take you as my bride. My lady, give me your hand!"
He stretched his arm out into the air, to his right.
Fallen on our knees in front of the altar, we all listened with astonishment to the strange bridegroom's words and watched him extend his hand to the invisible bride.
I closed my eyes, and when I did so I saw a pale woman next to Francis, at his right. She was downcast, dressed in black rags, but noble and lofty, like a widowed queen. And standing before them was Masseo, and he was placing two crowns of thorns upon their heads; and Father Silvester, holding a lighted candle, was intoning the triumphant marriage hymns.