But while I was feeding him, an odd, breathless passer-by entered the hut and looked all around as though he had lost something and was searching for it.
"Hey, idiot, what are you looking for?" I shouted at him in a rage. "Where are your eyes? There's someone sick here."
"I beg your pardon, brother monk," he replied. "Isn't this Jerusalem? I scented a sacred odor and said to myself, This is Jerusalem, let me enter and do worship. . . . But where is it, I don't see it."
Francis heard, and opened his eyes.
"You are insane, my brother," he said, smiling.
"No more insane than you," retorted the strange passerby; "no, no more insane than you who wish to enter Paradise and who eat chicken during Lent."
Francis uttered a cry and fainted. I got up to chase away the brazen visitor, but he had vanished.
The next day Francis gave me a reproachful look.
"You deceived me, Brother Leo. You made me commit a mortal sin."
"I take it upon myself, Father Francis. May God punish me, not you."
"You can't take the sins of others upon yourself. Only God can do that. We human beings are responsible only for our own sins."
"God's loving-kindness is greater, Father Francis," I replied, recalling something he had once told me. "God's loving-kindness is greater than His justice; therefore it is in this that we must place our hopes."
"Yes, you are right," said Francis. "It is in God's loving- kindness that we must place our hopes. Woe to us, if He were only just!"
The days went by, with Francis suspended halfway between life and death. The brothers came to see him often; from time to time the bishop sent his deacon to inquire about the state of Francis' health and also to deliver a message requesting him to come to Assisi. "Come, my child," the bishop wrote, "come, stay in my house. Man's body is a sacred gift from God, and you are murdering it, acting as you are. Yes, you are committing murder, Francis, my child. You are transgressing God's mighty commandment: Thou shalt not kill!"
Francis always listened to the bishop's message without replying. But one day when the deacon had come to invite him once again, he turned to me and said, "Yes, the bishop is right: it is murder. I shall celebrate Easter at San Damiano's, and after that I shall stay at the bishop's palace. I want to see Assisi once more--to bid it farewell."
Holy Week came, and Francis devoted himself to remembrance of Christ's Passion. Each day he had me sit down at his side and read the Gospel to him. He followed Jesus' steps, marched just behind him, and was betrayed, condemned, scourged, and crucified with Him. On Good Friday, his five wounds, which had been closed for such a long time, opened again; the little blood that remained to him began to flow. On the morning of Holy Saturday he recovered.
"Brother Leo," he said, grasping my hand, "if I, miserable sinner that I am, had been deemed worthy of becoming an Evangelist, I would not have had the lion next to me, nor the ox, nor the eagle, nor the angel. No, my companion would have been a lamb with a red ribbon around its neck, and on the ribbon would have been the legend: 'When will Easter come, Lord, so that Thou canst slaughter me?' "
On Easter Day, after the Resurrection, the sisters arrived with lighted candles to kiss his hand. He sat up and blessed them, extending his arms above their heads.
"My sisters," he whispered, extremely moved, "my sisters, my mothers, wise virgins, brides of Christ. . ."
He wept, and Sister Clara and Sister Pica and all the other nuns wept with him. The brightly illuminated hut was filled with wailing.
"Now we await your resurrection, Father Francis!" Sister Clara said to him. But he was sobbing loudly and did not hear.
Gifts--praise the Lord!--had flowed in from Assisi. I ate well and really felt that Christ had been resurrected on this day. Retiring early, I fell asleep at once.
"Do not blow out the lamp tonight," Francis had instructed me. "Let it burn all night long--it too must rejoice at Christ's Resurrection."
I slept, fully satisfied, and in my sleep I continued to experience the Resurrection deep down within me. I felt that every soul in this world must follow Christ's tracks to the best of his ability, sharing His Passion, Crucifixion, and then finally His Resurrection; because I realized--and the longer I lived with Francis, the more profoundly was I convinced of this--because I realized that the final fruit of death is immortality.
I was still asleep when the Lord brought light back to the world. The goldfinch had already awakened and begun to sing; but I, completely given over to the joys of slumber, did not open my eyes. Suddenly I heard Francis' voice in my sleep. I sprang to my feet and discovered him sitting up in bed, singing to the accompaniment of his two pieces of wood, which he was playing again like a viol. I shall never forget the verses, and even more than the verses, the triumphant, joyful melody. So very many years have gone by, and yet I remember those verses perfectly: I seem to hear them this very moment as, old and decrepit, I sit in this peaceful monastery and write them down:
Most High, omnipotent, good Lord,
To Thee belong the praises, the glory, the honor and every
blessing.
To Thee alone, Most High, are they suited, And no man is
worthy of pronouncing Thy name.
BE THOU PRAISED, my Lord, with all Thy creatures,
Especially Sior Brother Sun, Who brings us the day, and through whom Thou givest
light;
And he is beautiful and radiant with great splendor;
He signifies Thee to us, Most High!
BE THOU PRAISED, my Lord, for Sister Moon and the stars;
Thou hast formed them bright, precious and fair in the
sky.
BE THOU PRAISED, my Lord, for Brother Wind
And for air and cloud, calms and all weather Thou hast
granted us.
BE THOU PRAISED, my Lord, for Sister Water,
Who is humble and dear and pure.
BE THOU PRAISED, my Lord, for Brother Fire,
Through whom Thou dost illumine the night;
And he is beautiful, strong, and merry.
BE THOU PRAISED, my Lord, for our sister Mother Earth,
Who sustains us and holds us to her breast
And produces abundant fruits, flowers, and trees.
Praise ye and bless my Lord; give thanks unto Him
And serve Him with great humility.
I had crept to him ever so softly, afraid that if he heard me he might interrupt his song, and had listened with my arms thrown round his legs. Above us, the goldfinch stopped its peeping and listened too. Sun, moon, fire, and water entered the humble shelter, encircled Francis, and listened; and it seemed to me that Death entered with them also, last of all, and listened with bated breath. But Francis did not see anything or anyone. He sang with his head thrown back, and the prison bars gave way, and his soul prepared to flee.
God brought light to the world once more. The rising day found Francis leaning back against the wall, a smile upon his lips. He was exhausted: it was just as though the song had been his blood, as though he had been drained dry.
Toward midday he called me and said, "Brother Leo, I long to see Assisi again. Have two robust brothers--Juniper and Masseo--come to carry me in their arms. My legs are too weak: I have already walked for the last time."
I went outside and sent word to Juniper and Masseo at the Portiuncula. I also sent men to inform the bishop that Francis was coming and that he ought to dispatch an armed escort for us because the area was full of bandits from Perugia, wild men who were just waiting to carry Francis off.
When I re-entered the hut, I found Francis playing the viol again and rapturously singing the Laud of the previous night. As soon as he had finished, he cried, "Oh, I forgot to thank God for Sister Sickness."
Placing the two pieces of wood on the ground, he raised his hands to heaven. BE THOU PRAISED, my Lord, for Sister Sickness.
She is severe, and good; she takes pity on man
And helps the soul to escape the flesh.
I listened, forcibly restraining my tears. O my soul, I repeated again and again to myself, O my soul, say farewell to him, farewell forever. You will never see him again. . . . Farewell, farewell forever. . . .
It was evening when Juniper and Masseo arrived. They seated themselves in silence at Francis' feet. Sister Clara came, knelt, kissed his hands, his feet, and sat down at his right, also in silence. Sister Pica entered, staggering. Her white hair was visible outside her wimple; she gathered it up, then prostrated herself before her son, and sat down in silence at his left. Francis, plunged in ecstasy, neither heard nor saw anything. He was lying on his back, his arms crossed over his breast, and his face was radiant with happiness.
Suddenly a feeble sob broke the hush, but Sister Pica bit her lips, and the sob vanished.
"He's sleeping," Juniper said softly. "We had better wake him and go. It's getting dark."
No one replied.
A springtime breeze entered through the doorway. The flowers in the courtyard had opened; their perfume suffused the little hut. A lamb appeared at the threshold, bleated mournfully, then scampered off. It must have been looking for its mother. None of us moved or spoke; we all had our eyes riveted upon Francis. Suddenly he appeared to me just like the figure of the dead Christ: it seemed that we had lowered Him from the cross, laid Him upon the ground which was all covered with springtime flowers, and begun to weep over His lifeless body.
As soon as it was dark out, Sister Clara rose. "Let us go, Sister Pica," she said. "We have made our farewells. The brothers will take him now. This is a good time, because night has come, and the wild men from Perugia will not be on the road waiting to snatch him from us."
Sister Pica got up, wiping her eyes.
"My child--" she began.
But Sister Clara put her arm around the mother's waist, and together, with unsteady steps, they crossed the threshold. All of a sudden I heard clamorous wailing in the courtyard: the two women were finally giving voice to their laments.
Francis opened his eyes and smiled when he saw the two brothers.
"Are we there?" he asked.
"We haven't even started yet, Father Francis," replied Juniper.
"And just now I was in Assisi," Francis sighed; "I was in the church of San Ruffino admiring the colorful stained-glass windows, and it seemed to me that I saw the Christ story recorded there. Our Savior had smashed the tombstone and was ascending to heaven grasping a white ribbon in His hand, and on this ribbon, written in azure letters, were the words Pax et bonum!"
I rose. "Let's go--in the name of the Lord!" I said.
Masseo and Juniper interlocked their hands to form a seat, upon which they placed Francis. He thrust an arm round each of the brothers' necks. We went outside.
"Is it nighttime?" he asked.
"Yes, Father Francis. The stars are out."
"How wonderful the air smells! Where are we?"
"In the courtyard of San Damiano's, Father Francis, and it's spring," answered Masseo. "Don't you want to say goodbye to the sisters?"
"Parting is bitter, Brother Masseo, extremely bitter. It will be better if we steal away like thieves."
We began the climb to Assisi. Two women were standing outside the cloister, under a tree. As soon as they saw us, one rushed forward with outstretched arms, but the other held her back. I heard a shrill cry beneath the tree; then everything became calm. We proceeded. I kept throwing anxious glances in all directions, on the chance that I might glimpse the Perugian mercenaries in the darkness. At a turn in the road five or six shadows sprang out in front of us, and arms glittered in the starlight. We're lost! was the first thought which came to my mind. I ran forward to investigate, and found, thank God, that they were the soldiers dispatched by the bishop. They ran up to Francis and kissed his hand.
"Why the weapons?" he asked in astonishment. "A curse upon them!"
"We were afraid that bandits from Perugia might seize you, Father Francis," answered one, the leader.
"Seize me? And what would they do with me?"
"Don't you know?" replied the leader with a chuckle. "A saint is a great treasure. Just think: festivals, candles, incense, thousands of pilgrims!"
"Brother Leo," cried Francis, as though calling for help, "Brother Leo, where are you? Did you hear what he said? Is it true?"
"People are capable of anything," I answered him. "It's possible to save oneself from Satan, Father Francis, but from men--never!"
"O God, take me!" Francis cried in despair; and he did not open his mouth again until we reached Assisi.
The bishop was standing in the doorway of the episcopal palace, waiting. He helped us lower Francis from the seat; then he leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead.
"Welcome, my child," he said. "Place your hopes in God. Your hour has not yet come."
"I do have my hopes in God, I do," answered Francis. "My hour has come."