"Enroll me in your order, Father Leo!" laughed Captain Wolf, letting me in his enthusiasm have a staggering punch on the back. "What do you say: I'll take along an immense string of sausages and a jug of wine, and we'll go find Francis and tell him about the new Rule."
Suddenly I felt afraid. Turning, I gazed toward the entrance of the cave. It seemed to me that Francis' shadow was flitting all about and that I had heard a deep sigh in the air. I got up.
"It's time for me to be going. What if Francis visits my hut and doesn't find me there?"
"Tell him you were praying, Brother Leo. And really, in accordance with the new order what else was all this--the partridges, rice, warmth--but prayer offered up to the Lord? Tell the truth: did you ever feel so close to God as you did tonight? That is the meaning of prayer!"
How could I sit down to explain to the bandit that prayer was something else, since I myself had never discovered what it was?
Captain Wolf accompanied me for a good part of the way. He was in a fine mood, and did not stop chattering.
"Once, when I was a bandit (I still am, but don't tell Francis: it might disturb him--he's a bit naive, you know); as I was saying, once when I was a bandit, some poor devil of a priest wanted to confess me. 'Do you pray?' he asked. 'Of course! But in my own manner,' I told him. 'That is to say . . .' 'By stealing.' 'And you have no intention of repenting, miserable wretch?' 'There's plenty of time. I'm only thirty-five years old. When I become a decrepit old graybeard unable to stand on my legs any more, then I'll repent. Everything in its due time, my friend. When you're young: steal. When you're old: repent.' The priest flew into a rage. 'Take it easy, old man,' I said to him. 'Don't you realize I'm closer to Christ than Your Holiness is?' 'You?' 'Me. I'm the thief who was crucified next to Christ, on his right side.' "That, my dear Brother Leo, is the whole trick, and don't you forget it. At the last instant, when death is approaching, you have to find a way to get on Christ's right side, not on the left. On the right, poor miserable Brother Leo, or else you're done for!"
I was in a hurry to flee as far as possible from this bandit chief. Some demon inside me was enjoying everything he said. God, the devil, Francis, the life of ease--these were all in a flutter within me. Oh, when would I be by myself so that I could put everything back in order!
"Farewell, my brother. May God repay you for the good you have done me, and forgive you for the bad."
He squeezed my hand, nearly breaking it. "Don't forget to write the new Rule," he called after me. "Don't forget now-- remember, it's for your own good!"
I talked and gesticulated to myself the whole way back. It was nighttime when I reached my hut. How cold I found it inside, good God, how lonely! I had fled from heaven and returned to hell. Wrapping myself tightly in my robe, I lay down. The wind was whistling through the trees outside; wolves were howling in the distance. I found it impossible to close my eyes; nor did I feel my heart pure enough to allow me to pray. Finally, shortly before daybreak, a heavy sleep full of nightmares overwhelmed me. The moment my sight filled with darkness I dreamed that I was in Egypt, at Thebes, where the great desert hermits had set up their huts. I was a hermit also--Arsenius by name--and while I was kneeling in prayer and thinking of my father Nilus, a centenarian anchorite whose hermitage was five miles away, a monk ran up to me. "Hurry, Brother Arsenius," he cried, "your father is asking for you. He's dying, and he says you should come quickly so that he can give you his blessing." I jumped to my feet and set out as fast as I could, weeping as I ran. The sun was frightful. A camel caravan was proceeding along the main road in the distance, and I could hear the sad, monotonous song of the drivers. Finally, about noontime, I reached my father's retreat. I saw him laid out on the sand surrounded by five or six monks who were undressing him and washing the body while chanting continually. One of them turned to me. "He rendered up his soul to God just a moment ago," he said. "He never stopped pronouncing your name and calling you, but you came too late," said another. As they spoke, however, the dead man seemed to hear, for he moved. The monks took to their heels, terror-stricken. My father's lips stirred; he opened his eyes and gazed at me. "Bend down, my son," he murmured. "Can anyone hear us?" His eyes were laden with fear; his beard, ears, lips, hair were all covered with earth.
"No one, Father. We're alone."
"Bend down. I have a terrible secret to confide to you. Bend down further." I did, and he placed his mouth against my ear. His voice was weak, faltering, as though it were coming from far far away or rising from a deep, empty well: "Arsenius, my son, we have been duped. We have been duped, and now it's too late! There is no heaven, and no hell either!"
"What is there then--chaos?"
"No, not even chaos."
"But what, then?"
"Nothing!"
Raising himself up, he clawed my neck, nearly strangling me. Then, all at once, he rolled onto the sand. . . .
I uttered a piercing cry and awoke, grasping my head between my hands for fear it would split. The ascetic's lips were still against my ear, his words were still bounding from organ to organ: from my heart to my kidneys, kidneys to lungs, lungs to throat--strangling me. "We've been duped. . . ." If it was true, what then? "Brother Francis," I cried, "Brother Francis. Help! Help!"
Getting up, I went to the door and stood there, gazing outside. Snow everywhere. The dawn had begun to mount from the horizon; it groped its way along the snow, sometimes disappeared, fell like a man, but then lifted itself back up again: it was holding the daylight in a dim lantern and struggling to illumine the world. I could not bear to look; it made me sick at heart. Sinking to the ground, I curled up into a shivering ball and began to bang my head against the rocky floor. Blood ran over my face, but instead of suffering, I felt somewhat calmed. I got up. A sign will appear to me, I said to myself, a sign which will make me understand; some signal from God: a bird, a thunderclap, a voice--who could tell? God's tongue was rich and varied. He would speak to me and give some explanation of my suffering.
It had been days since I'd seen Francis, so I set off toward his shelter. I began to climb, plunging into the snow with my bare feet. I had to exert all my strength to keep from cursing. Do you call this living? I cried out to myself. Even the wild beasts have something, they have fur to wear--while we, we're just two slugs, two snails without shells. . . . I grumbled in this way until I finally reached the ridge from where Francis' hut could be seen. I glanced in every direction. Suddenly I saw Francis at the top of a high ledge with his arms stretched out on either side so that it seemed, amid all the snow, that a black cross was nailed to the rock. Fearing that he might freeze to death up there, I rushed forward as fast as I could in order to climb the rock, take him in my arms, bring him back to his hut and then--whether he agreed or not--light a fire and revive him. But before I had scrambled even halfway up the rock, I uttered a loud cry. Francis was suspended a full arm's span above the top of the ledge, hovering tranquilly, delicately in the air, his arms constantly outstretched to form a cross. Terrified at the thought that he might fly away, I exerted all my strength, climbed to the summit, and reached out to catch hold of him by the hem of his frock. But he, calmly, delicately as before, came down and sat upon the rock. He glanced at me as though not knowing who I was, as though astonished at the sight of a human being. I took him in my arms and stumbled down the ledge, falling and pulling myself up again until I was completely exhausted. But I managed to reach his shelter. I made a fire, brought Francis next to the hearth, and began to massage him vigorously in order to thaw out his blood. Little by little he came back to life. Opening his eyes, he recognized me.
"Why did you bring me down, Brother Leo?" he murmured. "It was better for me up there."
"Forgive me, Brother Francis, but you would have died."
"But didn't you see how I was rising into the air? I had begun to die. Why did you bring me down?"
He looked at his palms and at his swollen, bloody feet.
"They hurt!" he murmured breathlessly, clasping me in his arms. "They hurt, Brother Leo! My hands and feet feel as though someone had driven nails through them. At night I can't close my eyes, they hurt so much."
He was silent for a moment, and then:
"Forgive me, O my faithful donkey. Your torments have still not come to an end. We have not arrived yet, but we are coming close. Follow me--and do not lose heart!"
He placed his hand on my head.
"Bless you, little lion of God. Go now to your hut. I want to be alone." I returned to my shelter, not knowing what to think. Could this be the sign I had been seeking from God, I wondered. This--Francis rising in the air? Yes, God's tongue was exceedingly rich, and He had answered me with this vision. At night God had sent the dream to jar me; the next day He had dispatched the vision to steady me again. He plays with us as a father with his small children when he wishes to teach them to suffer, love, and endure. When I entered my desolate, icy hut at last, my mind had grown calm.
One sin, however, was still weighing upon my heart: the partridges, the warmth, the rice. I crossed myself and resolved to go to Francis in the morning and confess so that this burden could also be lifted from me. In a short time winter was going to be over and I would embark on the new spring free of cares--pure, my heart filled with swallows.
The next day found me at Francis' feet. I confessed my transgression to him; then I lowered my forehead to the ground in front of his feet, and waited. Francis did not speak, did not sigh. I was aware of nothing except a tremor in the big toe of each of his feet. I waited and waited. Finally I could not endure so much silence any longer.
"Well, Brother Francis?" I asked. "What penance are you going to give me?"
"Your sin is a grave one, my child. For three days and nights I shall put neither bread nor water into my mouth."
"But it wasn't you who sinned," I cried, "it was me. I'm the one you must punish!" "What difference does it make, Brother Leo? Aren't we all one? I sinned with you; you fasted with me. We've lived together such a long time: how is it possible you still have not understood this? Go now, with God's blessing!"
He stooped to raise me up. I kissed his hand, and was suddenly overcome with tears.
"Never again," I cried, sobbing. "I swear it, Brother Francis, never again."
"I told you once before, didn't I, that 'never' and 'always' are words which belong to God. Only He may pronounce them. . . . Go. But take care, lamb of God: you just came within a hair's breadth of being gobbled up by a wolf!"
The snows had begun to melt. The sky cleared; beneath the snow, the brooks commenced to flow along the ground, descending toward the plain. Bushes lifted their heads and issued into the light; each time a breeze blew, the flakes that were still sitting on the trees crumbled noiselessly and fell to earth. The first cuckoos could be heard whistling in the forest, ejecting winter with their cries. And man's heart heard its brother the cuckoo and replied joyfully from its very depths. It was evident that both belonged to the same order, the order of Spring.
Heaven and earth alike became gentle, no longer afflicting mankind so severely; and sometimes when I went and placed the daily ration of bread outside Francis' shelter I would see an imperceptible smile on his withered lips.
"Spring is coming, Brother Leo," he kept saying to me in a joyous voice, "Spring, the earth's Blessed Lady Full of Grace. Behold, wherever she places her foot, the snow melts."
"The almond trees must already have begun to blossom on the plain," I answered him one day.
"If you want my blessing, Brother Leo, do not think about blossoming almond trees, for the Tempter crouches in their branches, nodding to us. Instead, turn your eyes inward and gaze at the almond tree within you--your soul--as it blossoms."
I used to sit for hours in the doorway of my hut, watching spring come; I felt that this very act was an unspoken prayer, a prayer full of gratitude rendered up to God. With the turn in the weather I had begun to go down to the foot of the mountain to cut cane and osier in order to weave baskets. During the day I would weave for hours on end, and in the course of my work I found my thoughts turning to God-- much more rapidly, more surely, than when I knelt down with the express purpose of praying. I rejoiced that I was able in this way to blend manual work with prayer.
One day as I was sitting outside my hut weaving my baskets, I heard someone stamping over the rocks, breathing heavily. I knew it could not be Brother Wolf, since he never panted and always approached with inaudible footsteps. I got up, ran toward the sound--and who should I see but Father Silvester!
"Welcome, welcome!" I cried.
My heart leapt with joy to behold one of the friars after so many months: I embraced him and sat him down next to me.
"I haven't a thing to offer you, my brother. Only bread and water."
But Father Silvester's mind was not on food. "How is Brother Francis?" he asked in an anguished voice.
"Alive and suffering. You won't recognize him, he's so eaten away by fasting and prayer. Every morning before daybreak, just at the hour he falls asleep for a few moments, a hawk comes and wakes him up. You would think God had ordered even the birds to torture him."