"Put yourself out, Brother Francis," I used to cry. "Put yourself out before you burn up the world."
Then, lifting my eyes, I would watch him as he headed directly for me, calm and smiling, his face once again characterized by human joy, bitterness, and penury. . . .
I remember once asking him, "Brother Francis, how does God reveal Himself to you when you are all alone in the darkness?"
And he answered me: "Like a glass of cool water, Brother Leo; like a glass of water from the fountain of everlasting youth. I'm thirsty, I drink it, and my thirst is quenched for all eternity."
"God like a glass of cool water?" I cried, astonished.
"And what did you think, Brother Leo? Why be alarmed? There is nothing simpler than God, nothing more refreshing, more suited to the lips of man."
But a few years later when Francis was a doubled-over lump of hair and bones, devoid of flesh, nearly breathing his last, he bent forward so that the friars would not hear him, and said to me, trembling, "God is a conflagration, Brother Leo. He burns, and we burn with Him."
As far as I can gauge his height in my mind, I can say only this with certitude: from the ground trodden by his feet, from there to his head, his stature was short; but from the head upward it was immense.
There are two parts of his body, however, which I do remember with perfect clarity: his feet and his eyes. I was a beggar, had spent my entire life among beggars, had seen thousands of feet which passed every day of their existence walking unshod over rocks, in dust, mud, upon the snow. But never in my life had I seen feet so distressed, so melancholy, feeble, gnawed away by journeys, so full of open wounds-- as his. Sometimes when Father Francis lay sleeping I used to bend down stealthily and kiss them, and I felt as though I were kissing the total suffering of mankind.
And how could anyone forget his eyes after having once seen them? They were large, almond-shaped, black as pitch. They made you exclaim that you had never viewed eyes so tame, so velvety; but scarcely had you completed your thought when the eyes suddenly became two open trapdoors enabling you to look down at his vitals--heart, kidneys, lungs; whereupon you discovered that they were ablaze. He would often stare at you without seeing you. What did he see? Not your skin and flesh, not your head--but your skull. One day he caressed my face slowly with the palm of his hand. His eyes had become filled with compassion and sweetness, and he said, "I like you, Brother Leo, I like you because you leave the worms free to stroll over your lips and ears; you do not chase them away."
"What worms, Father Francis? I don't see any worms."
"Surely you do see them when you are praying, or asleep and dreaming about Paradise. You see them but do not chase them away because you know full well, Brother Leo, that they are emissaries of God, of the Great King. God is holding a wedding in heaven, and he sends them with invitations for us: 'Greetings from the Great King, who awaits you. Come!' "
When Francis was among men he would laugh and frolic --would spring suddenly into the air and begin to dance, or would seize two sticks and play the "viol" while singing sacred songs he himself had composed. Doubtlessly he did so to encourage his companions, realizing perfectly well that the soul suffers, the body hungers, that man's endurance is nil. When he was alone, however, his tears began to flow. He would beat his chest, roll in the thorns and nettles, lift his hands to heaven and cry, "All day long I search for Thee desperately, Lord; all night long while I am asleep Thou searchest for me. O Lord, when, when, as night gives way to day, shall we meet?"
Another time I heard him cry, his eyes pinned on heaven: "I don't want to live any more. Undress me, Lord. Save me from my body. Take me!"
Each dawn, when the birds begin to sing again, or at midday when he plunged into the cooling shade of the forest, or at night, sitting in the moonlight or beneath the stars, he would shudder from inexpressible joy and gaze at me, his eyes filled with tears. "What miracles these are, Brother Leo!" he would say. "And He who created such beauty-- what then must He be? What can we call Him?"
"God, Brother Francis," I answered.
"No, not God, not God," he cried. "That name is heavy, it crushes bones. . . . Not God--Father!"
One night Francis was roaming the lanes of Assisi. The moon had come up fully round and was suspended in the center of the heavens; the entire earth was floating buoyantly in the air. He looked, but could see no one standing in the doorways to enjoy the great miracle. Dashing to the church, he ascended the bell tower and began to toll the bell as though some calamity had taken place. The terrified people awoke with a start thinking there must be a fire, and ran half- naked to the courtyard of San Rufifino's, where they saw Francis ringing the bell furiously.
"Why are you ringing the bell?" they yelled at him. "What's happened?"
"Lift your eyes, my friends," Francis answered them from the top of the bell tower. "Lift your eyes; look at the moon!"
That was the kind of man Blessed Francis was; at least that was the way he appeared to me. I say this, but I am really not sure. How can I ever know what he was like, who he was? Is it possible that he himself did not know? I remember one wintry day when he was at the Portiuncula, sitting on the threshold sunning himself. A young man arrived, out of breath, and stood before him. "Where is Francis, Bernardone's son?" he asked, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. "Where can I find the new saint so that I may fall at his feet? For months now I have been roaming the streets looking for him. For the love of Christ, my brother, tell me where he is." "Where is Francis, Bernardone's son?" replied Francis, shaking his head. "Where is Francis, Bernardone's son? What is this Francis? Who is he? I am looking for him also, my brother. I have been looking for him now for years. Give me your hand and let us go find him!"
He rose, took the young man by the hand, and they departed.
That night when we first came together in Assisi how could I possibly have known what this youth was destined to become--this youth whom I had found serenading his lady, the long red feather in his cap? He held me tightly by the hand and we strode hurriedly across the city until we reached Bernardone's house.
We entered holding our breath lest the ogre hear us. Francis gave me food and I ate; he made up a bed for me and I slept. Awakening at dawn, I opened the front door noiselessly and slipped outside. It was Sunday. There was to be a High Mass at San Ruffino's and I went there in order to beg.
I seated myself on top of the stone lion, the one to the left as you face the church, and waited for the multitudes of Christians to appear. They had Sunday souls today. Heaven and hell were passing through their minds: they had fears, expectations--and they would open their purses to give to the poor. I had removed my cap. From time to time coins fell into it with a tinkle. A half-crazy, aristocratic old lady bent over and asked me who I was, where I came from, and if I had seen her son. The Sienese cavalry--curse them!--had captured him during the wars.
But as I was about to open my mouth to answer, there in front of me was Sior Bernardone, Francis' father. I had known him for years, and never in his life had he given me anything. "You have arms and legs," he would scream at me. "Work!"
"I'm searching for God," I answered him one day.
"May the devil take you!" he thundered, and his clerks broke into peals of laughter.
Accompanied by his wife, Lady Pica, and advancing at a slow, majestic pace, he was coming to church now to attend the service. Good Lord, what a ferocious beast he was! He had on a long silk robe, dark scarlet with silver borders, a skullcap of black velvet, and black shoes with long, pointed toes. His left hand was raised to his breast, where it played with a cross which hung from a delicate golden chain. He was well preserved, vigorous, large-boned, so tall he scraped the ceiling, and had a heavy jawbone, double chins, a fat, crooked nose, and eyes that were gray and cold, like a hawk's.
As soon as I saw him I curled up into a ball so that he would not catch sight of me. Following behind him were five mules overloaded to the point of collapse with expensive merchandise: silks, velvet, gold piping, marvelous embroideries. The five muleteers who led them were armed because the roads had become thick with brigands. In other words, Bernardone was coming to church together with his goods so that they too could attend Mass, be seen by the statue of Saint Ruffino and thus be known to the Saint should they subsequently fall into danger. As was his custom before every journey, Bernardone was going to kneel before the Saint and haggle with him--you give me such and such and I'll give you such and such in return: you protect my merchandise, and I'll bring you a silver lamp from Florence, a heavy embossed one which will make you the envy of the other saints, who have nothing but tiny lamps made of glass.
At his side, walking with a proud gait, her hands crossed upon her abdomen, her eyes lowered, her hair covered with a sea-blue veil of silk, was Lady Pica, his French wife. She was beautiful, cheerful, sweetness itself; her face was the kind that gives alms. I held out my hand, but she did not see me--did not see me, or else was so afraid of the ogre at her side that she dared not give me anything. Husband and wife crossed the threshold, entering the church through the large central door, and disappeared.
Years later, when we were setting out one morning for a trip around the villages to preach love, Francis recalled his parents and sighed: "Alas, I still have not managed to reconcile them."
"Who? Who are you talking about, Brother Francis?" "About my mother and father, Brother Leo. The two of them have been wrestling inside me for ages. This struggle has lasted my whole life--I want you to realize that. They may take on different names--God and Satan, spirit and flesh, good and bad, light and darkness--but they always remain my mother and father. My father cries within me: 'Earn money, get rich, use your gold to buy a coat of arms, become a nobleman. Only the rich and the nobility deserve to live in the world. Don't be good; once good, you're finished! If someone chips one tooth in your mouth, break his whole jaw in return. Do not try to make people love you; try to make them fear you. Do not forgive: strike!' . . . And my mother, her voice trembling within me, says to me softly, fearfully, lest my father hear her: 'Be good, dear Francis, and you shall have my blessing. You must love the poor, the humble, the oppressed. If someone injures you, forgive him!' My mother and my father wrestle within me, and all my life I have been struggling to reconcile them. But they refuse to become reconciled; they refuse to become reconciled, Brother Leo, and because of that, I suffer."
And truly, Sior Bernardone and Lady Pica had joined together inside Francis' breast and were tormenting him. But outside their son's breast each had his own separate body, and this Sunday, one next to the other, they had just entered church to do worship.
I closed my eyes. From within the building I could hear the fresh voices of the choirboys against the sound of the organ pouring forth from the heights of the choir loft and convulsing the air. This is God's voice, I was thinking; God's voice, and the severe, all-powerful voice of the people. . . . I continued to listen, happy, my eyes closed; and thus, astride the marble Hon as I was, it seemed to me that I was a horseman entering Paradise. What else can Paradise be but gentle psalmody, sweet incense, and your sack filled with bread, olives, and wine? What else--because I, and may God forgive me for saying so, understand nothing of what the wise theologians declare about wings, spirits, and souls without bodies. If so much as a crumb falls to the ground, I bend over, pick it up, and kiss it because I know positively that this crumb is a little bit of Paradise. But only beggars can understand this, and it is to beggars that I am addressing myself.
While I was ambling through Paradise astride the marble lion, a shadow fell across me. I opened my eyes and saw Francis standing before me. The Mass was finished. I must have fallen asleep: the mules with their precious merchandise had vanished from the square in front of the church.
Francis stood before me livid, panic-stricken, his lips trembling, his eyes filled with visions. I heard his hoarse voice:
"Come, I need you."
He went in the lead, supporting himself on an ivory-hilted cane. From time to time his knees gave way beneath him and he had to cling to a wall.
"I'm ill," he said, turning. "Hold me up so that I can reach home and lie down. And stay near me; I have something to ask you."
In the square the tightrope walkers had finished driving their poles and stretching out their ropes. They were dressed in motley and had pointed red caps with bells. Today being Sunday they were preparing to display their skill and then to pass the hat. Old men and simple peasant women, their baskets in their laps, were sitting cross-legged on the ground and selling chickens, eggs, cheese, medicinal herbs, balms for wounds, amulets against the evil eye. One crafty graybeard offered to tell your fortune by means of a white mouse he had in a cage.
"Stop and have your fortune read, Sior Francis," I said. "I've heard these mice come from Paradise--even Paradise has mice, you know, which explains why they're white. They know many secrets."
But Francis was clutching one of the poles, breathing with difficulty. I supported him on my arm and we reached Sior Bernardone's house.
Good Lord, how can the rich bear to die! What marble staircases, what rooms, all with gilded ceilings, what sheets of linen and silk! I laid him down on his bed and he closed his eyes at once, exhausted.
As I bent over him I saw alternate flashes of light and shadow cross his pale face; his eyelids kept fluttering as though being wounded by an intense brightness. I had a premonition that some terrifying, visible presence was above him.
Finally he uttered a cry, opened his eyes, and sat up in bed, horror-stricken. I quickly got a feather pillow which I placed behind him as a support for his back. I had begun to part my lips to ask him what was wrong, what had frightened him so, but he reached out his hand and placed it over my mouth.