But suddenly his laughter gave way to ferocity. He lifted his hand toward heaven. At the instant he did so the sun appeared, the mountain began to gleam; below, far in the distance, Assisi hovered weightlessly in the air, uncertainly, as though composed of fancy and morning frost.
"Lord, Lord," Francis cried in a heart-rending voice, "command the sun to beat down upon my family and melt them! I want to escape!"
He sank to the ground and began to weep. I went to him, wrapped his robe around him, then picked up the knotted cord, which was all covered with blood, and tied it about his waist.
"Come, Brother Francis," I said, taking him by the hand and lifting him up, "we'll go to the Portiuncula and let the brothers light a fire to warm you--to warm both of us. If we stay here we'll die of cold. Besides, as you undoubtedly see for yourself, we still are not ready to appear before God."
Francis stumbled forward, his knees constantly giving way beneath him, his hand trembling in my grasp. We did not talk. The sun grew continually stronger; it embraced us, warmed us compassionately, as though it were God's eye and had seen us and decided to take pity upon us. As I gazed at it I forgot myself for a moment and allowed Francis' hand to slip out of my own. He took two steps, three, then stumbled and fell on his face. I ran to lift him up. Blood was flowing from his head. Two sharp stones had incised a deep wound on his forehead--in the shape of a cross. Raising his hand to investigate the wound, he suddenly quivered with fright.
"What's the matter, Brother Francis? Why are you shaking?"
"What shape is the mark on my forehead?"
"A cross."
"A cross!"
His whole body was trembling. Suddenly he parted his lips, was about to speak. But I had already understood.
"Quiet, Brother Francis," I shouted. "Quiet! I understand."
I was shaking too. I took him by the hand again, and we resumed our descent in silence.
Good Lord, drooping as we were from cold, hunger, and despondency, how were we ever able to go down the mountain and traverse the plain without collapsing to the ground! Where did we find the strength? Assisi stood at the center of the horizon and grew continually more stable, continually larger. We felt that it was no longer made of dreams and fancy, but of stones and cement, and we were able to distinguish the citadel, and the various towers and churches. I believe it was this view of Assisi coming ever closer that gave us the strength to continue. Francis himself was not able to see it--his eyes pained him and gave off a never-ceasing discharge. But I stopped every few moments and explained what was happening:
"It's coming closer. Now the towers are clearly visible, and I can see the dome of San Ruffino's. . . ."
Francis would listen and be encouraged to quicken his pace.
"I'm afraid, afraid," he said over and over again. "Remember the dream, Brother Leo. . . . In what condition will we find the brothers? How many of them will the hawk have snatched away from us? I'm racing because I want to reach them quickly, but at the same time I say to myself: Oh, if I could only never arrive!"
When we got to the Portiuncula the sun was about to set. Our hearts were beating wildly: we felt as though we had been away for countless years and that the Portiuncula was a living thing: our mother. . . . Advancing quietly, without speaking, we pushed aside the branches noiselessly, and approached. The door was open, the yard deserted. Not hearing any voices, we became frightened. What had happened to the friars? It was dark now and they should have been back. We went inside. A lamp was burning in the corner, and we were able to make out Brother Masseo crouching in front of the hearth, blowing on the fire. The wood he had used was wet, and the smoke made Francis choke and begin to cough. Masseo turned, saw him, and fell into his arms. "Brother Francis! Welcome, welcome!" he cried, kissing his knees, hands, shoulders. "We were told you died far away in Africa. The brothers began to quarrel. They grew tired of living together, and decided to disperse. Most of them--all the young ones--went with Elias; they're combing the villages now, collecting gold for the huge church they say they intend to build. Bernard and Pietro are living in solitude in the forest, praying. Father Silvester took the original brothers with him and is preaching in the nearby villages. They return here from time to time, then leave again. I was the only one who stayed. I've been sitting here, lighting the fire every night, and waiting for you. . . . Welcome, a thousand times welcome, Brother Francis!"
He covered him once again with kisses and endearments.
Without uttering a word, Francis sank down in front of the fire. He watched the flames devour the wood, and held out his palms to become warm. From time to time he parted his lips and murmured, "Sister Fire, Sister Fire." Then he resumed his silence.
"Aren't you going to say anything, Brother Francis?" asked Masseo, who yearned to hear him speak. "Would you like me to go and gather together all the brothers and bring them to you? I've grown tired of staying here doing nothing. Command me!"
"What can I say, Brother Masseo? What can I command? I shall simply sit here in front of the fire and wait. That's what a voice inside me tells me to do." Squatting before the fire in my turn, I heated some water and washed Francis' feet. Then I dipped a fresh cloth into lukewarm water and cleaned his eyes, which had been sealed by their discharge.
None of us spoke. Masseo and I felt a profound calm in our hearts, a sense of security now that Francis was together with us in our house. Outside, a strong wind had risen. The trees knocked against each other and groaned. Far in the distance dogs were barking.
Masseo had put the pot on the fire to cook us a hearty dinner. During our absence he had sold baskets woven from cane and osier which he cut along the river-bank; thus he had maintained himself by working. Francis kept his hands continually extended toward the fire, as though praying. You could tell from his face that he was plunged in a state of inexpressible sweetness: he had forgotten earthly things, and it seemed to me for a moment that he was hovering in the air above the hearth. (I had always heard that when saints think of God they conquer the weight of the body and hang suspended in midair.) Then I saw him descend ever so slowly and resume his position, leaning tranquilly forward toward the flames. . . . None of us spoke. We were happy, and we sat in silence while the night advanced.
Suddenly Masseo and I turned our heads toward the door. Someone had knocked.
"It must be one of the brothers," said Masseo. "I'll let him in." He rose, his immense body coming within a hair's breadth of touching the cane-lathed ceiling. He opened the door, and right away we heard a loud cry: "Oh!" followed by, "What do you want? No woman is allowed near here. These are sacred precincts, my lady."
I got up, astonished. A woman was standing on the threshold, her head so completely muffled that I saw nothing but her eyes.
"Let me come in, my brother," she said in her sweet voice. "I want to see Brother Francis--it's absolutely necessary for me to see him."
The sound of this voice threw Francis into turmoil. He buried his face in his hands as though trying to hide. I had recognized the voice too, and I went up to him and said softly, "It's Clara, Brother Francis."
He seized my arm. "I don't want to see her!" he groaned in terror. "Have pity on me Brother Leo: I don't want to see her! Melt her, Sister Flame," he murmured, turning his face toward the fire. "She's made of snow--melt her! Let her become water and go away, let her flow into God's ocean."
But the young woman had already stepped across the threshold and had knelt at Francis' feet. She removed her wimple, exposing her features, but Francis kept his face hidden behind his palms and did not turn to see her.
"Have pity on me, Father Francis," said the girl, her voice a blend of sweetness and complaint. "Lift your head and look at me." "If you are truly Clara, the noble daughter of Count Scifi, and if you love God, if you fear God--go away!"
Lowering his hands, he revealed his face. It was gouged, wasted away, covered with stains from the blood which was running from his eyes.
"Look at me if it does not disgust you," he said. "As for me, I am blind and cannot see you--glory be to God!"
"Father Francis," answered the girl, pressing her face against his feet, "have no fears: I am not going to raise my eyes to look at you; nor do I want you to look at me. All I want is for you to listen. Please!"
Francis crossed himself. "In the name of Christ Crucified, I'm listening."
"Father Francis," the girl began, her voice deep and assured, "do you remember the day I encountered you as you were walking barefooted and in rags through one of the lanes of Assisi? Ever since then my soul has found my body too narrow, too constricting: it wants to escape. I've melted away like a candle. If you look down at me, Father Francis, you will be frightened. But if you could see my soul you would rejoice, because it too is wearing a robe with cowl and knotted cord, just like your robe; it too is barefooted. My life with my parents and girl friends no longer gives me any pleasure. I want to leave the world of men: it has grown too narrow, too small for me! Cut off my hair, Father Francis, and throw it into the fire. Wrap me in your robe, tie the knotted cord about my waist. Let me go to the wilderness to roost on a rocky ledge like a martin. I want to flee, to flee the soil!"
She had begun to chirp, truly like a martin. Masseo and I had lowered our eyes; we were weeping, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the soul's yearning to become one with God! Francis, his face immobile, hard as stone, listened as the girl continued to speak. She lay prostrate at his feet, her hair covered with ashes from the fireplace, and she stopped frequently, waiting for him to reply. She waited, waited, but he remained mute, and his features grew continually harder.
"Do not turn away your face, Father Francis," she cried, "do not become angry. Don't you walk barefooted through the streets and dance and sing and call all souls to come? Don't you say, 'I am the road that leads to God. Follow me'? I heard your voice, abandoned my parents, home, fortune, my youth, my beauty, the hope of having children--and came. You are responsible, and therefore you shall hear me out whether you like it or not. Listen: today I bade farewell to the world. I dressed in my most expensive clothes, combed my blond hair for the last time, put on my golden earrings and bracelets, my string of huge pearls, and went to church. I wanted the fashionable world to see me, to see my beauty and bid it farewell; for my part, I wanted to see this world's ugliness for the last time. Next, I visited my girl friends, also for the last time. I jumped with joy, laughed, and my astonished friends asked me, 'What has happened to make you so happy, Clara? Are you going to be married?' 'Yes, I'm going to be married,' I answered them, 'and my bridegroom is more beautiful than the sun, more powerful than a king.' 'And when in God's name is the wedding?' 'Tonight,' I said with a laugh. 'Tonight!' Then I returned home and gazed in silence at my father, mother, and sisters, gazed at them for a long time, bidding them an unspoken farewell. I could already hear the wailing and lamentations that would come from the house in a few hours' time when I would be gone and they would be looking for me and unable to find me. How could they possibly find me, since I would be in God's bosom! As soon as it was dark outside I came down quietly from my room, set out along the road, flew through the olive grove, past San Damano's, and reached your sacred retreat. You called me and I came."
"I? I called you?"
"Yes, Father Francis, it was you--last night while I was sleeping. You know very well that when we go to bed only the body sleeps: the soul lies awake. Last night I heard you calling me by name. It was you, Father Francis. You were standing beneath my window once more and calling me. 'Come! Come! Come!' you said. So, I came."
Francis uttered a cry and started to rise in an effort to escape. But he immediately sat down again. Groping with his hand, he found a log, which he threw into the fire. Then he buried his face once more in his palms and remained this way for a considerable time, without speaking.
The girl waited and waited, but when his voice did not come, she grew angry. With a brusque movement she sat up on her haunches, her torso erect, her fists clenched.
"I spoke, Father Francis," she said; "I poured out my heart at your feet. Why don't you answer? It is your duty to answer!"
Silence. Outside, a fierce wind rattled the door. Francis extended his arms, glanced around him, managed to see us. "Brother Leo, Brother Masseo, come near me!" he shouted as though he were in danger and calling for help.
Filling his hand with ashes, he rubbed them furiously into his hair and against his face. They entered his eyes.
"Don't you feel sorry for her, Brother Francis?" I pleaded. "Take pity on the girl."
"No!" he cried, and it was the first time I had ever detected such rigidity, such bitterness in his voice.
He wrenched his hand away from my shoulder. "No! No!" he cried again. "No!"
Clara sprang to her feet, frowning. Her expression had grown harsh. Deep within her the proud lineage of her father had been wounded.
"I'm not going to implore you," she said; "I'm not going to grovel at your feet. Lift your eyes and listen to me! I am an immortal soul, just as you are, and I'm in danger. You go the rounds of cities and villages proclaiming you shall save the world. Well then, save me! You have an obligation to do so. If you don't--if you refuse--my soul shall hang itself around your neck and drag you down into hell. Stand up, I tell you, give me the robe which I ask of you, cut off my hair and throw it like so much kindling into the fire. Then lay your hand on my shaven head, bless it, and address me as Sister Clara!"