After a pause, he continued: "I still have one tiny song remaining in my heart, Brother Leo. I don't want to take it with me to the grave, so lift your quill, and write:
"When God had finally completed the creation of the world and had washed the mud off his hands, He sat down beneath one of the trees in Paradise, and closed his eyes. 'I am tired,' He murmured; 'why shouldn't I rest for a minute or two?' He commanded sleep to visit him; but at that instant a goldfinch with red claws came, perched above Him, and began to cry. 'There is no rest, no peace; do not sleep! I shall sit above Thee night and day, crying, There is no rest, no peace; do not sleep! I will not allow Thee to sleep, for I am the human heart.' "
Francis fell down on his back, panting.
"How did you like it, Brother Leo?" he murmured.
I was at a loss. What could I say? How could the heart of man speak to God so impertinently?
Francis divined my thought, and smiled.
"Do not be afraid, little lion of God. Yes, man's insolence is limitless, but that is the way God created our hearts; that is just what He wanted them to do--to stand up to Him and resist!"
DURING THOSE DAYS at San Damiano's his body suffered more than it ever had before, but his soul had never been plunged in such profound beatitude. Although none of his five wounds bled any longer, the pains had begun to spread treacherously Within him. Blood flowed now only from his eyes: blood mixed with tears.
I spent the nights at his feet, lying awake with him, trying desperately to keep him from departing this world just yet. One day his ears ceased buzzing and he heard the goldfinch. He listened for a long time, his mouth hanging open, his eyes pinned on the cage. An expression of great rapture had spread across his face.
"What bird do I hear, what is this celestial music?" he asked me. "Are we in heaven already?"
He cocked his ear again and listened intently, his face constantly submerged in bliss.
"Oh, if you only knew what it was saying, Brother Leo!" he exclaimed joyously. "What a miracle is hidden within this tiny feathered breast!"
The goldfinch had grown accustomed to us now; each day it began to twitter at the very break of dawn. It would swell out its throat and fix its tiny round eyes on the light outside; and its beak would bleed, so extravagantly did the creature sing. Indeed, it became drunk with song. Sometimes it would stop abruptly and peck at the bars of its cage, overcome by a yearning to escape: it had just glimpsed a sparrow sitting in freedom on a branch outside, and it wished to join it. But before long it would hop back onto the strip of reed that was suspended in the middle of the cage, and resume its song. Lady Pica used to come secretly to observe her son through the slits in the wall of interwoven branches. She would gaze at him for a long time, her palm over her mouth, and would then return in silence to her cell. And Sister Clara passed many nights of vigil on the threshold of the shelter, not daring to enter. She heard the moribund's joyful verses, for Francis had lately given himself up to song. His soul was gleeful, just like the goldfinch, and the old troubadour lays he had sung beneath closed windows in his youth, when he spent the nights roaming the city with his friends, came once more to his lips.
"If only Brother Pacifico were here to play the lute for me," he said again and again. "He's right when he says the lute is man's angelic mouth, because surely when the angels speak they must fly in the air and converse in song."
One morning he sat up in bed and clapped his hands with elation. "Do you know what I've been thinking all night long, Brother Leo?" he shouted to me. "That every piece of wood is a lute or violin; that it has a voice and glorifies the Lord. . . . If you want my blessing, Brother Leo, bring me two pieces of wood."
I brought them. He placed the first on his shoulder and slid the other over it with rapid bowlike motions. Seated on his mattress, he played and sang endlessly, beside himself with joy. His eyes were closed, his head thrown back: he was in ecstasy.
"Do you hear the pieces of wood, do you hear them singing?" he asked me. "Listen!"
At first I heard nothing but the two sticks rubbing and grating against each other. But gradually my ear became attuned, my soul awoke, and I began to hear an infinitely sweet melody coming from the two dry branches. In Francis' hands the mute wood had become a viol.
"Do you hear, Brother Leo? Do you hear? Cast aside your mind and leave your heart free to listen. When a person believes in God there is no such thing as a mute piece of wood, or pain unaccompanied by exultation, or ordinary everyday life without miracles!"
One day as he was playing his viol his face suddenly grew dark, as though a dense shadow had fallen over him. He stared through the open door with protruding eyes and uttered a cry--whether a happy cry or a doleful one I could not tell, for that cry had within it all the joys and sorrows of mankind. I turned in order to discover who he had seen, who had caused the outcry. But there was no one outside. In the deserted convent garden the last leaves were falling to the ground, swept off their branches by a powerful wind. The nuns were gathered to hear Mass. They were like an assembly of birds, and we heard their tender voices chanting the Lord's praises. But in the distance, in every village house, the frightened dogs were barking.
"What did you see, Father Francis?" I asked. "Who did you see? Why did you cry out?"
It was some time before he answered me. He had abandoned the two pieces of wood on the bed, and was still staring outside with gaping eyes.
"Who is it?" I asked again. "What do you see?"
His lips were moving. "O Brother Death . . . Brother Death . . ." he murmured over and over again, his arms spread wide as though he wished to embrace the apparition.
I said nothing. I understood: he had seen the black Archangel. The dogs had seen him too; that was why they were so afraid. Going outside in order to hide my tears, I circled the hut, but found no one. The hibernal sun had freed itself from the clouds that morning and had dispelled the frost which lay over the plain, making the winter laugh like spring. The sisters emerged from the chapel, scattered throughout the cloister, and convened again in the refectory to eat their breakfast: a mouthful of bread and a cup of water. As soon as Sister Clara saw me, she came close and asked in an uneasy tone, "Why ace you weeping, Brother Leo? Father Francis--"
"Father Francis saw the black Archangel. He cried out, and then opened his arms to embrace him. . . ."
Sister Clara bit into the edge of her wimple to hold back her tears.
"What did he say? Was he glad?"
"I don't know, Sister Clara. He kept murmuring, 'O Brother Death, O Brother Death . . .' That was all."
"Listen, Brother Leo," she said, lowering her voice, "there's one thing I'm still afraid of. You must be careful, because the last few days some inquisitive, disquieting men have been prowling round the convent. Wild men! One of the sisters recognized them: she says they are bandits from Perugia. The people there must have learned that Father Francis is gravely ill and have decided to send these bandits to snatch him away from us. There's no need for me to tell you what having a saint means to a city in terms of wealth. So, Brother Leo, be careful!"
Hiding her face, she left me hastily and was engulfed by the church.
I'll send word to the bishop, I said to myself. I'll tell him to dispatch soldiers from Assisi to guard Francis.
When I entered the hut I found Francis sitting up on his mattress, his back against the wall. His face appeared tranquil and content.
"Fetch your quill, Brother Leo," he said, happy that I had come. "I want you to record my final instructions, a pastoral letter that is to be read by all the brothers and all the sisters no matter where they are. When you finish, I shall affix my seal: a cross."
I took up the quill and knelt down next to him. He began to dictate, calmly, slowly, weighing each word:
"My brothers, my sisters: Today God sent his black Archangel to bring me the great invitation. I am departing. However, I could not bear the thought of going far from you without having first left you my final instructions. My children, may Poverty, Love, Chastity, and Obedience-- God's four great daughters--be with you now and evermore! You must not forget, not even for an instant, that the black Archangel is at your sides, has been at your sides from the very day of your birth--waiting! Each moment you must say, This is my last hour, let me therefore be prepared. . . . And take care never to place your faith in man, but only in God. The body sickens; death approaches. Friends and relatives lean over the patient and say to him, 'Put your house in order, distribute your wealth, for you are dying.' And the poor man's wife, children, friends, and neighbors crowd round him and pretend to be weeping; and he, deluded by their wailing and lamentations, calls up all his strength and says, 'Yes, I have placed myself, body and soul, in your faithful hands, together with all my belongings.' Then, without losing a moment, the friends and relatives summon the priest to come and administer the sacrament to him. 'Do you wish to do penance for all your sins?' asks the priest. 'Yes, I do,' he replies. 'Do you wish to restore all that you unlawfully seized during your lifetime?' 'No, I can't do that!' 'Why not?' 'Because I've given all to my family and friends.' With this he loses the power of speech, and dies without having redeemed his sins. Then the devil, who has been hovering all the while above the man's pillow, laughing uproariously, takes immediate possession of his soul and hurls it down into hell; and all his gifts, all the power, wealth, beauty, wisdom that he was so proud of--they all go to waste, plunging down with him into the abyss. Meanwhile the family and friends divide his goods, cursing him and saying, 'May his bones roast in tar and brimstone! He should have amassed more to leave to us.' And thus he is denied by both heaven and earth. What is left for him? The Inferno: there, in the boiling, bubbling tar, he is punished for all eternity.
"I, Brother Francis, your tiny servant, the great sinner, pray and beseech you, my brothers and sisters, in the name of Love, which is God Himself, and I kiss your feet, adjuring you to accept Christ's words with humility and love. And all those who accept these holy words and turn them into action and become examples to others, may they be blessed for all eternity!
"And to you, Brother Leo, my fellow voyager, greetings from your brother Francis. If you wish to have my blessing, my brother, do not forget the things we said on the road as we journeyed together. Try as much as you can, and in the way which is best suited to you, to please Christ and to follow in His footsteps; also to follow our noble Lady Poverty, and also holy Obedience. And whatever else you desire to ask me, ask it now, freely, while I still have lips and am able to speak. Farewell, my brothers and sisters, my children. Farewell, Brother Leo, my companion in voyage, my companion in struggle!"
He had grown tired. Closing his eyes, he curled up into a ball on the mattress. His pain must have been excruciating, for his face had suddenly become all contorted. "Are you in pain, Brother Francis?" I asked.
He opened his eyes for an instant. "There is only one thing I am sure of, Brother Leo, and that is that I am happy-- exultant! Victory! Victory! We have won, Brother Leo! From the day of my birth there was someone inside me who hated God, and now--how can I avoid rejoicing? --now he has vanished."
"Who, Father Francis?"
"The flesh," he replied, closing his eyes again, exhausted.
He was delirious that entire night. He kept seeing the Archangel and conversing with him, telling him reproach fully that he had delayed his coming far too long, that he-- Francis--had been waiting for him for years. Why had he kept him so long in exile? Didn't he know that the earth had a seductive attraction for men, and that a blade of grass, a goldfinch, a lighted lamp, a sweet aroma were enough to make us never want to abandon this world of clay? Francis raved on and on in this reproachful manner, and Death must have answered him, because eventually he grew calm, ceased his complaints, and began to laugh.
The next morning his temples were on fire. He was plunged in a great torpor, unable to raise his eyelids, and his body had grown stiff. Frightened, I raced to find Sister Clara.
She was in the kitchen. "A good Christian has given us a chicken," she said to me. "He learned of Francis' illness and sent it to him as a gift. I was just preparing the broth: it will give him some strength."
"Lent has started, Sister Clara. He won't want to soil his lips with meat."
"If God decides not to take him right away, Brother Leo, he'll drink this broth in order to stay with us a little longer. Wait a moment so that you can bring it to him, and may God come to our aid!"
I held the cup of broth while Sister Clara added an egg yolk. Then I took it to him together with the chicken. I found Francis stretched out on his back, gasping for breath.
"Father Francis," I said, going up to him. "Sister Clara falls at your feet and implores you in the name of holy Love to drink this broth and not abandon your body just yet. . . . If you love me, Father Francis, open your mouth."
"In the name of holy Love . . . in the name of holy Love . . ." he whispered.
He opened his mouth, keeping his eyes still closed. He drank a sip, found it satisfying, opened his mouth again, and drank another sip and then another, until gradually he finished all the broth. Then I began to feed him a little meat. His mind must have been elsewhere: he was not aware of what he was eating, and he swallowed without resistance.