Elias Bombarone was born at Beviglia, a small village about three miles to the northeast of Assisi. His mother was a woman of Assisi, his father a mattress maker. They were very poor and it is said that Elias had the wizened little body of a man who in childhood has gone hungry, but in compensation he had great force of character, a keen intellect, and an ambition that was perhaps a result of the bitterness of that early poverty and deformity. Like Francis he had his dreams, but when Francis was dreaming of knightly chivalry Elias was dreaming of power. He wanted power and he was a man to get what he wanted, for he was willing to toil and sweat for it. Apprenticed to his father he made mattresses by day and studied by night, to such purpose that while still only a boy he had moved to Assisi and was teaching in one of the schools there. Judging by his later character, he was gracious and charming to the boys who did what he wanted and brutal to those who opposed him; but there would have been few of these, so great was his power over others. Whether he met Francis at this time we do not know, but he was not in Assisi for long. Somehow, by some means, poor as he was, he managed to get to Bologna and studied in the famous schools, where he did brilliantly. He became a notary but he also studied the arts and it is said that he experimented in alchemy. His interest in science, and his skill in it, brought him to the notice of the Emperor Frederick II and they became friends.
In the year 1211, when Elias and Francis were both twenty-nine years old, they met at Cortona. It is a beautiful city on a mountaintop, girdled by Etruscan walls. Far down below is Lake Trasimene and from the city to the lake a stream tumbles down a great gorge, densely wooded with lime trees, chestnuts, oak, and ilex, with caves in the cliff rather like the caves of the Carceri. In these scenes of beauty, in the springtime, the two men met, and Elias became a Franciscan. At first sight that is the most extraordinary thing about him, for the lowliness of the Brothers Minor was something that cut right across his ambition, alien to the sort of man that he was. The explanation would seem to lie in Francis himself. Before he met Elias he had been spending the forty days of Lent on an island in Lake Trasimene. It is said that he took with him two loaves and ate half of one of them. He would have liked to have eaten nothing, like his Lord in the wilderness, but in his humility he did not dare to presume upon equality with Christ. He spent those forty days of suffering and prayer alone with God and from this tremendous experience he went to Cortona worn and exhausted but fulfilled with the joy of his Lord, his face shining with it, the breath of heaven’s peace about him, and met Elias. And Elias loved him. Possibly he had never loved anyone before, and never did again. It was a case of “thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.” Elias was a religious man and naturally ascetic, so to those who did not know him well it would have seemed that there was nothing to prevent him from following Francis all the way. The obstacle lay in his love of power, that was curled like a snake about the roots of his being. His gifts were rooted in it, his great intellect, his fine powers of drive and imagination, the affectionate pleasure he took in managing the lives of others. He could relinquish such worldly goods as he had with no trouble at all, but he could not uncover his snake that Christ might slay it for him, for he loved it more than Christ. He could not do the one thing needful. And so in the end his pride wrecked his life and, worse still, it caused incalculable suffering to Francis whom he loved. That was his tragedy.
Naturally he climbed swiftly in the little world of the Brothers Minor, as he would have done in any world. He was only about thirty-five when he was made minister provincial of Syria. From being vicar of the Portiuncula in place of Peter Cathanii it was only a short step to becoming minister general of the order in place of Francis, and from the point of view of organization and discipline he was an extremely fine minister general. After the death of Francis the order split into two, like a river dividing into two great streams, the friars of the Strict Observance remaining loyal to the ideals of Francis and living the old life of poverty in the hermitages and humble “places,” and the rest, the Conventual friars who were Elias’s men, carrying on in their convents, schools and hospitals the great works of learning and of mercy which his energy inaugurated.
But after the death of Francis there was a change in Elias. His love for Francis had sweetened and softened him, but when the gentle influence was gone he was, in his own words, “left in the very midst of night,” and a cruel despotism grew out of his pride. He scourged and imprisoned the friars who opposed him, even those whom Francis had loved the best, even Leo; though if it is true that Leo in a rage smashed the urn in which Elias was collecting offerings of money for the building of San Francesco, then Leo was not blameless. Even his own men had to suffer from his violent temper and his despotism, and the men of learning and ability whom he had attracted into the order were not of the gentle temper of the early Franciscans. Francis’s recipe for perfect joy would not have appealed to them at all. At last they could stand Elias no longer and they cast him out. He resigned and Pope Gregory IX, who had once been Cardinal Ugolino and his friend, but who had by this time suffered much from him, accepted his resignation.
He went straight to his old friend the Emperor Frederick, the pope’s enemy, and entered his service, and Gregory IX retaliated by excommunicating the emperor and Elias with him. Elias worked for the emperor until Frederick died, and was his trusted ambassador, but all the while, defiantly declaring himself still a Franciscan, excommunicate or no, he wore his habit and cord. After the emperor’s death he went back to Cortona, where he had first met Francis, and high up in the clouds at the summit of the city he built a convent and church which he called San Francesco. Here he lived proudly, called the Lord Elias by the Ghibelline burghers of Cortona and a band of friars who had thrown in their lot with him, and here at last he died.
But the defiance and the pride were not the whole of Elias; there was another man in him besides the despot, the gentle and tender man who had loved Francis and had been loved by him. We see a glimpse of the other Elias in a story of Agnes in the early days of the order. When she was sent to the Abbess of Monticelli at the age of twenty-two, and was sick with grief at parting with Clare, she wrote, “Beg Brother Elias come to comfort me in Jesus Christ often, very often.” Father Cuthbert points to two buildings which Elias created as representative of the two men in him. They are San Francesco at Assisi and the Celle of Cortona. San Francesco, comprising the two churches, the papal palace built for Gregory IX and the great convent, oppress by their scope and grandeur, but the Celle, the little hermitage that Elias built in the wooded ravine above the stream, where he must often have walked with Francis, is simple as his gentleness to a homesick girl, and as humble as his first love for Francis.
Is it not possible to see in San Francesco at Assisi not only a monument to the pride of Elias but to his remorse too? His cruelty to Francis during the last years of his life was something of which he was perhaps scarcely conscious at the time, for though he was trampling on all that Francis stood for he was also caring very tenderly for his bodily welfare. But when Francis died he would have seen it for what it was, and there is no misery like knowing too late how cruel you have been to those you love. Elias spared neither labor, money, strength, nor imagination in the rearing up of that great monument to the memory of the man he had loved, but still it was too late and the place seems to reflect something of the coldness of his grief. But the little Celle reflects the happiness that he had with Francis in the days when they were young together at Cortona.
The letter that Elias wrote to the order in the first flood of his grief when Francis died is, like the Celle, the best in him and the cadence of pure poetry is in its opening sentences. “The thing I feared has come to pass, for me and for you. Far from us has gone the consoler, and he who carried us like lambs in his arms has set forth a pilgrim into a far country. . . . The beloved of God and men has entered the mansions of exceeding light.” And the letter is signed, “Elias, sinner.”
At the end the humility of Fr
ancis conquered. Through all the years of his passion and pride as minister general, at the imperial court, as the Lord Elias of Cortona, the pure flame of his love for Francis must have burned on hidden within him. When he was old and ill and could no longer stride abroad on his great enterprises, and perhaps was too weak to dominate those about him as he had done, his pride began to crumble. In the convent high up above the Etruscan ramparts of Cortona, cloud-shadowed, the world fallen away, he would sit alone, and when the great winds were still he could hear the ripple of the water in the ravine far down below. The Celle was there and the air was fragrant about it. He would be for a while back in the past, living in the days when he had been a beloved son of Francis, one of the cheerful and gallant brotherhood. He would be once again kneeling with them in Santa Maria degli Angeli, joining in the chanting of the deep voices all about him, or walking with them up the steep path to Assisi, where all the bells were ringing on a feast day. Or he would take some trouble of his to Francis the consoler, and they would go together “into the wood” to pray about it. Suddenly a harsh sound would disturb him, the banging of a shutter in the rising wind, and he would be back in the desolate convent of Cortona. It was cold and he was alone. Such of his true brethren who still lived did not speak of him now, for he was excommunicate.
The thought of his excommunication weighed upon him intolerably and he would sit for hours at a time beating his breast, murmuring the same words over and over again. “Alas, how great a sinner I have been and am, and how vainglorious! Spare me, O Lord, and enter not into judgment with thy servant. Spare me, O Lord, spare me!” The days of his bitter penitence went on and on until at last there was no more pride left in him. And then, shriven and at peace, he died. His grave is still to be seen at Cortona, but no one seems to disturb its loneliness.
3
BUT ALL THIS was far in the future on that day of the opening of the Whitsun chapter of 1221. On that day Elias, as the vicar of the Portiuncula, welcomed the brethren to this happiest of meetings with all the graciousness and charm that made him so popular with so many. For to all the three thousand men tramping in to the Portiuncula this was a truly joyous occasion. Francis was alive. They had feared their father was dead and now here he was, older and frailer, but alive. Those who had been persecuted in his absence, and had felt like mariners riding out some frightening storm, felt now that it was all over and they were safe in the harbor of the Portiuncula. They crowded around Francis with joy and thanksgiving. Even those who disagreed with him thanked God for his safety. For now and through all the coming troubles there was never a man who wanted to get rid of Francis. They loved him far too well. What they wanted was that he should be amenable to progress. And if there were a very few who did not love him they still wanted him as the figurehead. They were well aware that his enormous prestige was of incalculable value to the order.
Cardinal Ugolino could not be present at this chapter, but another cardinal presided and a bishop sang the mass on the opening day, Francis assisting as deacon. Then he preached. At the Chapter of Mats his text had been a minstrel’s song, but now it was not a hand swept over the harpstrings that set the tone for this chapter but the blast of a trumpet. His text was the first verse of Psalm 143, “Blessed be the Lord my God, who teacheth my hands to fight,” and ill as he was his voice rang out as strongly as ever. As they listened to his sermon the hearts of the reformers must have sunk heavily, for it was not the sermon of a man who intends to allow himself to be used as a figurehead. Francis had appeared among them once more not to acquiesce in progress but to lay the old foundation stones all over again.
The chapter awaited the reading of the rewritten rule with trepidation. The young Caesar of Speyer had helped Francis with the work of revision but considering his record that was only an added reason for anxiety. The rule was read and the worst fears of the reformers were realized. Nothing was changed, only emphasized. They were still grounded on the strict gospel observance, still rooted in evangelical poverty. Two new regulations had been added to the rule. Francis had said no harsh words at the chapter on the subject of the persecution suffered by the loyal brothers in his absence, or about the building of the convent at Bologna, but the new regulations were a worse blow to the reformers than if he had lost his temper all over again, for they made sure that such things should not be repeated with his permission. No brother, said the first regulation, was bound to obey a minister who laid upon him a command “contrary to our life or against his soul . . . because that is not obedience in which a fault or sin is committed.” The second regulation forbade the collection of money for houses or “places.”
When the reading was over the disappointed ministers tried to talk it over with Francis. One minister was particularly distressed because his books, he told Francis, were valued at fifty pounds, and what was he to do? Francis cried out passionately, “O you brethren who wish to be called Friars Minor by the people and to appear to be observers of the gospel and yet in fact would have your treasure chests! But I am not going to lose the book of the gospel for the sake of your books. Do as you will; but never shall my permission be made a snare to the brethren.”
This now was to be his standpoint through the months that were coming. If they would not listen to him, would not obey him as they had promised the pope that they would do, he was not going to coerce them. “I am not minded to become an executioner to punish and scourge them like the magistrates of this world,” he said later. “My office is spiritual only, namely to overcome their vices and spiritually to correct them by my words and example.” But he was not going to condone what they did, he was not going to allow them the hypocrisy of appearing to live as his obedient sons in the eyes of the world when they were no such thing. If they would not obey then they must go their way and he would go his. For himself, he would follow Christ in the way of the gospel until he died.
The majority of the three thousand men present at the chapter probably remained unaware of the tension between Francis and the ministers until the time came to commission the brothers for their missionary work. Then they saw the change in him. He was so tired that he could not speak to them. Elias spoke to them in his place and Francis sat on the ground beside Elias, and when there was something he especially wanted Elias to say he tugged humbly at his habit, and Elias bent down and he whispered to him, for during all the heartbreaking arguments he had lost his voice as well as his strength. But not his passion for souls. He had been concerned about Germany ever since the Franciscan mission there had been such a failure. He thought they ought to try again. Sometimes he had seen bands of German pilgrims traveling to Rome, and the sight of them had deeply touched him. Tugging at Elias’s habit he whispered to him about them. Elias, who had been bending down to him, straightened himself and spoke to the assembled friars. “Brothers, our brother says there is a certain country, Germany, where dwell devout Christians, who as you know often pass through our country, with long staves in their hands and wearing great boots; and they sing the praises of God and the saints as they go along, perspiring in the heat, to visit the tombs of the apostles. But because when the brethren were sent to them once before they were treated badly, our brother does not wish to compel any brother to go thither again. Yet if any inspired by zeal for God and souls, be willing to go, he will give them a like obedience, nay, a more willing obedience, than he gives to those who go to the infidels beyond the seas. Let those who are willing stand up and draw apart.”
Francis did not appeal in vain and the difficult chapter ended in a sudden blazing up of the old authentic Franciscan spirit. The assembled brothers regarded a second mission to Germany as certain death, so fearful were the stories that the first missionaries had brought back with them, and at this chapter many of them had heard for the first time of the torturing and beheading of the Moroccan martyrs. Nevertheless ninety men immediately offered themselves with joy to die for Christ in Germany. The old courage was still there, unchanged, and sent a thrill of delight and pride th
rough the whole packed assembly.
And then came a twist of the familiar comedy, like a quirk to the tale of the grave and anxious proceedings. There was one man, an Umbrian named Giordano da Giano, who had no desire whatever to be a martyr, or even a missionary, but who like so many of us liked to associate himself with courage so long as it involved no personal commitment. He strolled over to the brave ninety and moved among them, chatting affably, asking this man and that man his name and birthplace so that he might boast in years to come that so-and-so and so-and-so had been friends of his, and he had been almost the last man at the chapter to speak to them alive. But retribution awaited him, for his questioning brought him to the side of a brother with a singularly penetrating eye. “Your name, brother?” he asked innocently. “Palmerio,” replied the other, “and since you are here you too are one of us and must go with us.” And then he grabbed hold of Giordano and would not let him go. In vain the poor man protested, Palmerio held on, and at last Giordano said miserably that he would ask Elias what he should do. Elias, appealed to, asked him if he wanted to go? And here Giordano showed that he was a true Franciscan after all. He had been trained to obedience and selflessness and the words “I don’t want to” were words that he never spoke. He said instead, “I wish neither to go nor not to go.” Elias said, “Then you had better go.” And Giordano went.
Only twenty-five of the ninety who had volunteered were chosen for the German mission. They were led by Caesar of Speyer and were a notable band of men, courageous and merry. Thomas of Celano was one of them and also an adventurous brother who was later in his life to explore Tartary. The second mission to Germany was a success and no one was martyred. Giordano da Giano lived safely through it all, came home and wrote a book about it. He was exactly the type that thoroughly enjoys putting pen to paper.