I could have asked for nothing better. I closed my eyes and dropped off immediately. When I woke in the morning I saw Francis kneeling on the threshold, listening in ecstasy to the awakening world.
EVEN NOW after so many years, I grow dizzy when I think of the Holy City. I can still see Francis seated on a low stool in the pope's antechamber waiting to be allowed to go in. From morning till night we waited, both of us together: one day, two days, three. We were barefooted, tired, hungry. Cardinals in brilliant robes paraded in and out, as did great noble ladies; while Francis, seated on his humble stool, prayed and waited.
"We'd find it easier to see Christ Himself," I said to him disgustedly on the third day.
"The pope's countenance stands high above us, far far away," he replied. "We have been climbing for three days; tomorrow we shall face him. I know because I had a dream. Patience, Brother Leo!"
And true enough, on the fourth day the young priest who served as doorkeeper nodded to us, and the huge portals opened. Francis crossed himself, but then hesitated a moment, his knees sagging.
"Courage, Brother Francis," I said to him softly. "Don't forget that Christ is sending you. Stop shaking." "I'm not shaking, Brother Leo," he murmured, and he strode resolutely across the threshold.
We entered a long narrow chamber decorated everywhere in gold, with Christ's Passion painted on the walls, and statues of the twelve Apostles on either side. At the far end, seated on a high throne, a bulky old man was meditating, his head resting on his palm, his eyes closed. Apparently he had failed to hear us enter, because he did not move. I remained near the door while Francis went forward with trembling steps, approached the throne, knelt, and lowered his forehead to the floor.
For a long moment there was silence. We could hear the old man's heavy, fitful breaths--breaths which sounded just like sighs. Was he sleeping, praying, or observing us furtively with eyes that were only half-closed? I felt he was like a dangerous beast simulating sleep and ready to pounce upon us at any minute.
"Holy Father . . ."--Francis' voice was low, controlled, supplicating--"Holy Father . . ."
The pope raised his head slowly, then looked down and saw Francis. His nostrils were quivering.
"What a stench!" he exclaimed, his eyebrows vibrating with anger. "What are those rags, those bare feet! Who do you think you are?"
Francis replied with his face still against the floor: "I am a humble servant of God from Assisi, Holy Father." "What pigsty did you come from? I suppose you think you're duplicating the aroma of Paradise--is that it? Couldn't you have washed and dressed yourself for your appearance before me? All right, what do you want?"
In the course of so many sleepless nights, Francis had memorized what he was going to say to the pope. He had pieced together the entire speech with extreme skill, giving it a beginning, a middle, and an end in order to prevent the pope from thinking he did not know what he was about. But now that he found himself before God's shadow, his mind failed him. He opened his mouth two or three times but was unable to utter human speech. Instead, he bleated like a lamb.
The pope frowned. "Can't you talk? Tell me what you want."
"I have come to fall at your feet, Holy Father, and to request a favor of you."
"What favor?"
"A privilege."
"You--a privilege? What privilege?"
"The privilege of absolute Poverty, Holy Father."
"You ask a good deal!"
"We are several friars who wish to marry Poverty. I have come to ask you to bless our marriage, Holy Father, and to grant us permission to preach."
"To preach what?"
"Perfect Poverty, perfect Obedience, perfect Love." "We have no need of you, seeing that we preach all those things ourselves. Go, if you'll be so kind!"
Francis lifted his eyes from the floor and jumped to his feet. "Forgive me, Holy Father," he said, his voice steady now, "but I'm not going. God commanded me to make this journey to speak with you--and I have come. I beg you to hear me out. We are poor and illiterate; when we walk through the streets dressed in our rags we are battered with stones and lemon peels. People fly out of their homes and workshops to jeer at us. That--praise the Lord--is how our journey has begun. On this earth, doesn't every great Hope always start in the same way? All our trust is in our poverty, our ignorance, and in our hearts, which have caught fire. Before I left to come here and find you, Holy Father, I had drawn up clearly in my mind exactly what I intended to lay before you to make you say yes and affix your seal. But now I've forgotten everything. I look at you, and behind you I see Christ Crucified, and behind Christ Crucified, the Resurrection of our Lord, and behind the Resurrection of our Lord, the resurrection as well of the entire forsaken, totally forsaken world. What joy I see before me, Holy Father! How could it fail to bewilder a man's mind? It has bewildered mine; I am all confused, I don't know where to begin or what is the beginning, what the middle, what the end. Everything is the same now; everything is a sigh, Holy Father, a dance, a great cry that is hopeless and yet full of every hope. Oh, if you could only allow me to sing, Holy Father--then I would be able to convey what I wish to ask of you!"
I watched Francis from my corner and trembled as I heard his words. His feet began to shift impatiently, agitatedly, darting out one step to the right, one step to the left, sometimes slowly, sometimes hastily, like those of skilled dancers who establish their rhythm prior to throwing themselves heart and soul into the sacred intoxication of the dance. Without a doubt, the spirit of God was twirling him around. He would begin clapping his hands at any moment and dancing, whereupon the pope would have us both thrown out.
And in truth, while this thought was passing through my mind, Francis lifted his hands. "You mustn't take this in the wrong spirit, Holy Father," he said. "I simply have a great desire to let out a piercing shout, clap my hands, and begin to dance. God is blowing all around me above, below, to the right, to the left--and spinning me about like a dry leaf."
I approached on tiptoe. "Francis, my brother," I whispered, "you are in front of the pope. Where is your sense of respect?"
"I am in front of God," he bellowed. "How else do you expect me to approach Him, if not dancing and singing? Make room--I'm going to dance!"
He bent his head to one side, stretched out his arms, advanced one foot, then the other, flexed his knees, leaped into the air, flexed his knees again, squatted down as far as the floor, and the moment he touched it lashed out with his legs and sprang into the air, his arms outstretched on either side--so that it seemed a crucified man was dancing before us.
I fell at the pope's feet. "Forgive him, Holy Father," I implored. "He is drunk with God and doesn't know where he is. He always dances when he prays."
The pope bounded off his throne, restraining his rage with difficulty. "That's enough!" he screamed at Francis, seizing him by the shoulder. "God isn't wine for you to use to make yourself drunk. Go to a tavern if you want to dance."
Francis stopped and leaned against the wall panting. After a glance around the chamber, he came to himself.
"Leave!" the pope commanded, and he reached out to sound the bell for the doorkeeper.
But Francis drew himself away from the wall. He had regained his composure.
"Be patient, Holy Father. I want to leave, but I must not. I still have one more thing to tell you. Last night I had a dream."
"A dream? Look here, monk, I have immense concerns; I support the entire universe on my shoulders, and I have no time to listen to dreams."
"I fall and worship Your Holiness: this dream may be a message from heaven. Night is God's great messenger. You must deign to hear it."
"Yes, night is God's great messenger," said the pope. "Speak."
He seated himself once more upon his throne, a thoughtful expression on his face.
"It seemed that I was standing on a high, deserted rock and gazing at the Lateran Church, which is the mother of all churches. And as I was gazing at it, suddenly I saw it totter. The campanile began to lean, the walls to crack, and I heard a voice in the air: 'Francis, help!' "
The pope clutched the arms of his throne and thrust the upper part of his body vehemently forward as though he wanted to pounce on Francis.
"And then, then? Don't stop!" His voice had become harsh; he was gasping.
"That was all, Holy Father. The dream fled and I awoke."
The pope jumped down from his throne and, leaning over, seized Francis by the nape of the neck.
"Don't hide your face!" he ordered. "Lift your head and let me see you."
"I'm ashamed, Holy Father. I am just a lowly worm."
"Take off your hood; lift up your face so that I can see you!" the pope ordered.
"Here, Holy Father," said Francis, and he lowered the hood, revealing his face.
A ray of sunlight came through the window and fell upon his features, illuminating the ravaged cheeks, the withered mouth, the large, tear-filled eyes. The pope uttered a cry. "You!" he shouted. "You? No, no, I refuse to admit it! When did you have your dream?"
"This morning, at dawn."
"I too, I too," roared the pope; "this morning at dawn." He went to the window and opened it. He was suffocating. The hum of the city spurted inside. He closed the window again and returned to Francis with hurried steps.
"You--did you ever see God?" he asked angrily, scornfully, shaking him by the shoulder.
"Forgive me, Holy Father: yes, last night."
"Did He talk to you?"
"We stayed together the whole night without talking. Every so often, however, I said 'Father!' to Him, and He answered me: 'My child.' Nothing else. At dawn I had my dream."
The pope leaned over Francis, examining his face with great perturbation, insatiably. "The designs of the Most High are an abyss, an abyss. . . . Today at dawn when the dream left you, monk, it came and found me. I too saw the church lean and begin to collapse. But I also saw something else, something which you did not see: a monk with an ugly face, dressed all in rags."
He paused; he was gasping for breath.
"No, no!" he roared after a moment, "it's too humiliating! Does this mean the pope is inadequate? Am I not the one who holds the two keys that open heaven and earth? Lord, why dost Thou wrong me like this? Was it not I who annihilated those unlawful, savage heretics, the Cathari, and buttressed the faith in Provence? Didn't I knock the bottom out of that cursed wasps' nest, the city of Constantine; and didn't I transport her indescribable riches--gold, dalmatics, icons, manuscripts, male and female slaves--to Thy court? Haven't I nailed the cross to all the citadels of Italy? Haven't I been fighting to rouse Christendom to deliver Thy Holy Sepulcher? Why then didst Thou not call me instead of having a ragged monk with an ugly face come to lean his back against the walls of the tottering Church to buttress them?"
He seized Francis again by the nape of the neck and dragged him to the window, into the light. Then he pushed back his head and leaned over him.
"Can you be the one?" he asked in a startled voice. "The face of the ragged monk was just like your face! Does this mean you are the one who is going to save the Church? No, no, it can't be possible! Lord, I am Thy shadow upon earth: do not humiliate me!"
He shook Francis' head violently, then extended his arm toward the door.
"Leave!"
"Holy Father," said Francis, "I hear a voice inside me saying 'Do not leave!' "
"It is the voice of Satan, rebel!" "I recognized it as the voice of Christ, Holy Father. It is commanding me not to leave. 'Open your heart to My vicar on earth,' it says. 'His heart is filled with mercy; he will help you.' "
The pope bowed his massive head, returned with slow steps to his throne, and sat down. Gleaming on the back of the throne just above his head were two gigantic painted keys, one gold, the other silver.
"Speak," he said, his voice no longer harsh. "I have not been able to reach a decision yet. I am listening. Tell me what you want."
"I don't know where to begin, Holy Father, or what to say, or how to place my heart beneath the blessed soles of your feet. I am God's buffoon; I hop, dance, and sing in order to bring laughter to His lips for a moment. That is all I am; that is all I am capable of doing. Holy Father, give me permission to sing and dance in cities and villages, and to be ragged and barefooted, and to possess nothing to eat."
"Why do you have such a great longing to preach?"
"Because I feel that we have reached the edge of the abyss. Give me permission to cry, 'We are hurling downward!' That is all I ask of you: to be allowed to cry, 'We are hurling downward!' "
"And you believe, monk, that with this shout you will save the Church?"
"God forbid! Who am I to save the Church? Doesn't it have the pope to defend it, and the cardinals and bishops, and Christ Himself? As for me, I ask only one thing, as you know, and that is to be allowed to cry, 'We are hurling downward!' "
He reached beneath his frock, brought out the Rule which I had written out from his dictation, and crept with it to the throne.