"Disperse now, my brothers, my children, disperse with my blessing to the four corners of the earth. The entire world is God's field. Plough it and then sow poverty, love, and peace. Strengthen the world that is tottering and about to fall: strengthen your souls. And elevate your hearts above wrath, ambition, and envy. Do not say: 'Me! Me!' Instead, make the self, that fierce insatiable beast, submit to God's love. This 'me' does not enter Paradise, but stands outside the gates and bellows. Listen now to the parable I shall tell you before we part. Remember it well, and let it be a remembrance of me, my children.
"Once there was an ascetic who struggled his whole life to reach perfection. He distributed all his goods to the poor, withdrew into the desert, and prayed to God night and day. Finally the day came when he died. He ascended to heaven and knocked on the gates. 'Who is there?' came a voice from within.
" 'It's me!' answered the ascetic.
" 'There isn't room for two here,' said the voice. 'Go away!'
"The ascetic went back down to earth and began his struggle all over again: poverty, fasting, uninterrupted prayer, weeping. His appointed hour came a second time, and he died. Once more he knocked at the gates of heaven. 'Who's there?' came the same voice.
" 'Me!'
" 'There isn't room for two here. Go away!'
"The ascetic plummeted down to earth and resumed his struggle to attain salvation even more ferociously than before. When he was an old man, a centenarian, he died and knocked once again on the gates of heaven. 'Who's there?' came the voice.
" 'Thou, Lord, Thou!'
"And straightway the gates of heaven opened, and he entered."
SUMMERTIME. Broiling sun, the sea sparkling, to our left the Greek islands; the boat filled with warriors in armor --adolescents, mature men, ancient graybeards all going like so many others to deliver the Holy Sepulcher. The crusaders had been besieging Damietta for months, but Sultan Melek- el-Kamil, a capable ruler and brave warrior, had not allowed the city to fall.
At Cape Malea we were caught in a fierce tempest. A myriad-headed, myriad-mouthed sea sprang up to devour us, and the stalwarts on board turned white, then green, and sighed as they gazed longingly at the coastline. Oh, if they could only jump, catch hold of a branch on dry land, and recover their manliness! The few women who were traveling with them began to scream. Francis went from man to man, woman to woman; he spoke to them of God, and they listened and were comforted. Night fell; a black, cloud-filled sky hung just above the sea, and between water and firmament the ship bounced, creaked, seemed ready to break apart. Francis had gone to the bow, where he had knelt down among the folded sails and begun to pray.
I approached him, but he neither saw nor heard me. His head extended toward the sea, he was chanting melismatically in a hushed, vibrato voice, as though casting a spell.
"O sea, sea, daughter of God, take pity on these men, thy brothers. They are not merchants or pirates; their aim is a noble one: they are proceeding to the Holy Sepulcher. Dost thou not see the red cross on their breasts? They are crusaders, soldiers of God. Take pity on them. Remember Christ, who one day called thee to be calm, and thou obeyedst. In Christ's name, I, His humble servant, adjure thee now to become calm!"
I had fallen face down on top of the sails. I heard the bellowing water, the wailing of the people inside the boat, and between people and frenzied sea, Francis interceding gently, supplicatingly, imploring the waters to grow calm. It was then I understood for the first time the man's true worth: at the height of desperation, at a time when the world was crumbling to pieces, he prayed. I was certain the sea heard Francis' words, that God heard them too, as did Death--they had all pricked up their ears to listen. And then--I swear it by the soul I shall render up to God--then the miracle took place; no, it was not a miracle, it was the simplest, most natural thing in the world: the sea became calm. At first it lowered its bellowing slightly, but still remained angry; it was balking before the yoke, trying to avoid subjection. But little by little it submitted, grew gentle, and by midnight it no longer beat maniacally against the ship, but stretched out peacefully around it, humble and becalmed. Unbelievers may deny that the soul can speak to the sea and command it, but as for me, thanks to Francis I know the secret: the soul is more powerful than the sea, more powerful than death; it is able to spring out of man's body and buttress the crumbling world. . . .
I crept to Francis and kissed his bloodstained feet. But he was unaware of me; his entire soul was out over the black waters, awake and vigilant lest the sea lift its head in rebellion once again.
The next morning water and sky were gleaming, laughing, and so were the people on board. Francis, yellow and exhausted from his ordeal, was still at the bow, squatting, his eyes closed. He had performed his work well, and now he allowed sleep to descend upon him.
The days and nights went by. The moon had been a thin sickle when we departed from Ancona; it grew larger and larger, became fully round, and then began once more to melt away and disappear. Everyone kept his eyes riveted southward, searching for a glimpse of the accursed Moslem coast. Little by little the water around us turned green. "The sea is mixing with the waters of the Nile," the captain explained; "we are nearly there." And indeed, the following morning we could clearly see the outline of the land at the center-point of the horizon. It was low, sandy, and colored rose by the first rays of the sun.
We anchored in an isolated cove. Francis fell prostrate on the beach, did worship, and traced a cross in the sand. The warriors set off to join the rest of Christ's troops, leaving Francis and me alone on the deserted shore. Far in the distance we were able to discern towers and minarets. Francis looked at me compassionately. "Brother Leo, lamb of God," he said, "we have entered the lion's mouth. Are you afraid?"
"Yes, I am afraid, Brother Francis," I replied. "But I pretend not to be, and wherever you go, I'll go too."
He laughed. "Even to Paradise, Brother Leo?"
"Even to Paradise, Brother Francis."
He raised his hand and pointed to the distant minarets. "Well then, let's go. This is the way to Paradise!"
He set out, walking in the lead. The sand burned our feet, but we began to sing, and thus forgot the pain. From time to time Francis halted and squeezed my arm to encourage me. Then he started out again at once, resuming his song.
"Ah, if only Brother Pacifico were here with his lute so that we could make our appearance before the Sultan like three intoxicated friars, three friars drunk with too much God!" "I'm hungry, Brother Francis," I said, unable to contain myself any longer.
"Patience, Brother Leo. Look, the minarets are getting bigger and bigger. We're almost there. Don't worry, the moment the Sultan sees us he'll give orders for the pots to be put in the oven!"
As we were talking, we heard savage cries, and two Negroes leapt out in front of us, swords drawn.
"Sultan! Sultan!" cried Francis, pointing to the minarets.
They thrashed us soundly, then placed us between them and, doubled over with laughter, pushed us to the Sultan's palace and threw us down at his feet. By this time it was already evening.
The Sultan laughed as soon as he saw us. Poking us with his foot, he asked (he was accomplished in our language) : "Well, and who are you, my wine-loving monks? Why have you entered the lion's den? What do you want?"
I raised my eyes and saw him. A beautiful person, he had a curly black beard, slender hooked nose, and large, deep-black eyes. On his head was a wide turban, green, with a half-moon made of coral pinned on it. An immense Negro armed with a yataghan stood at his side: the executioner!
"Who are you and what do you want?" the Sultan asked again. "Get up!"
We rose. "We are Christians," said Francis, crossing himself. "Christ sent us because he took pity on you, illustrious Sultan. He wants to save your soul."
"To save my soul!" exclaimed the Sultan, struggling to hold back his laughter. "And how is it to be saved, monk?"
"By means of perfect Poverty, perfect Love, perfect Chastity, Sultan, my lord."
The Sultan stared at him with protruding eyes. "Are you in your right mind?" he shouted. "What is this nonsense you're talking about, monk? Do you mean to say I should abandon my wealth, palaces, wives, and become a ragamuffin like yourself to knock on doors and beg? Do you mean I should never touch a woman? But then what would be the use of living--can you tell me that? Why did God give us a key which opens women and lets us in? In other words I should become a eunuch--is that what you want?"
"Women are--" began Francis, but the Sultan extended his hand angrily.
"Shut your mouth, monk. Don't say anything bad about women, or I'll have your tongue cut out! Think of your mother, think of your sister if you have one; and above all, you who are a Christian, think of Mary the mother of Christ!"
Francis bowed his head and did not reply.
"And tell me, if you please, what you mean by perfect love," said the Sultan, nodding to the executioner to approach.
"To love your enemies, Sultan, my lord."
"Love my enemies!" exclaimed the Sultan, bursting into laughter. He addressed the executioner:
"Sheathe the yataghan. They're insane, poor wretches, completely insane. We won't kill them."
Then he turned again to Francis. This time he spoke more tenderly, as though addressing someone who was ill. "This heaven of yours: what is it like? Let's see if it's worth my while to go."
"Our heaven is full of angels and the spirits of the saints, and God sits at the very top."
"And what does one eat and drink up there? Who does one go to bed with?"
"Do not blaspheme. The inhabitants of Paradise do not eat, drink, or couple. They are spirits."
The Sultan laughed once more. "Spirits? In other words: air--is that what you're saying? Our heaven is a thousand times better. Mountains of rice, rivers of milk and honey, and beautiful girls who never fail to become virgins again the moment after you've slept with them. I'd have to be insane, monk, to go to your heaven. . . . Leave me in peace."
Francis grew angry. Forgetting where he was and that the Sultan, with a nod, could deprive him of his head, he began fearlessly to preach Christ's Passion, Resurrection, the Second Coming, and also the Inferno, where all Moslems will burn forever and ever. So carried away was he in preaching the word of God, that he became drunk and began to clap his hands and dance, laugh, sing, whistle. Without a doubt he had gone out of his senses for the moment. Chuckling, the Sultan watched him, and then he too began to clap, whistle, and shout in order to encourage the enkindled monk to continue.
Francis suddenly stopped. The sweat was gushing from his steaming body.
"Bless you, monk," said the Sultan. "I haven't laughed for ages. But now be still, because it's my turn to speak to you. Our Prophet loved perfumes, women, flowers; in his belt he kept a small mirror, and a comb for combing his hair. He also loved beautiful clothes very very much. Your prophet, so I'm told, walked barefooted, unwashed, uncombed, and his robe was made of thousands of patches. It's said that every poor man he encountered gave him one patch. Is that true?"
"True! True! He took upon Himself the suffering of every poor man in the entire world," cried Francis, carried away.
The Sultan stroked his beard. Presently he removed a tiny mirror from his waistband, twisted his mustache, and reached for his long amber-tipped chibouk. A small boy knelt and lit it for him. The Sultan took several soothing puffs and then tranquilly closed his eyes.
"This is an excellent time for us to be killed, Brother Leo," whispered Francis, turning to me. "Are you ready? I hear the gates of heaven opening."
"Why be killed so soon, Brother Francis?" I replied. "Wait awhile." The Sultan opened his eyes. "Mohammed--great is his name!--was not only a prophet, he was also a man. He loved what men love, hated what men hate. That's why I bow down and worship him; that's why I struggle to resemble him. Your prophet was made of stone and air. I don't care for him at all."
He turned to me. "And what about you, monk: aren't you going to talk? Say something; let us hear your voice."
"I'm hungry!" I cried.
The Sultan laughed. He clapped his hands, and the two Negroes who had captured us came forward.
"Remove a pan from the oven and give them something to eat," he commanded. "Then take them away and let them go find their image-worshiping coreligionists. The poor wretches are insane, insane, and we ought to respect them."
The city was overrun by eastern troops. It reeked with the stench of the dead soldiers and disemboweled horses that lay unburied in the streets. Dervishes, dancing outside the mosques, slashed their heads with long knives until the blood ran down their white jelabs. In the cafes, chubby boys sang languorous Oriental songs, accompanying themselves on strange oblong instruments--tambouras. Women passed, veiled from head to toe, and for a moment the ill-smelling air was perfumed with musk.
Pinching our noses against the accursed stench, we followed the two Negroes rapidly through the narrow lanes until we came to the edge of the city. Here our guides halted and pointed toward a spot far in the distance, behind a low sand dune. "The Christians are there!" they growled, their brilliantly white teeth glistening in the sun. They gave us two strong punches in the back as a parting gesture and then retraced their steps at a run.