"Well, what do you think?" asked Francis, gazing compassionately at his friend.
"No, Brother Francis," Ruffino said softly, hopelessly, "I can't, I can't do it."
Francis sprang up and clasped his friend to his breast.
"You can, you can! You had the courage to say you couldn't, and that means you can! The heart is closer to God than the mind is, so abandon the mind and follow your heart: it and it alone knows the way to Paradise. And now undress yourself and don the robe. You remember the coats you gave us, don't you, the ones used by your shepherd? We modeled our frocks after them--they are the color of clay. Brother Ruffino, dress yourself in clay!"
On another occasion, as Francis was passing through a village he encountered a swashbuckler complete with sword, spurs, feathers in his hat, a suit of velvet, and curly, freshly washed hair which smelled of scented soap.
"Hello there, my stalwart!" cried Francis. "Aren't you tired of adorning yourself and twisting your mustache? It's time for you to tie the cord around your waist, place the hood over your head, and walk barefooted in the mud. Follow me, and I shall ordain you a chevalier of God."
The swashbuckler stroked his mustache, gazed at the tatterdemalion who was addressing him, and laughed. "Wait till I take leave of my senses," he replied. "Then I'll follow you."
Three days later, there he was at the Portiuncula! As giddy as a bird being enticed by a snake, Angelo Tancredi came and fell into God's nest.
"I have come," he said, kneeling to kiss Francis' hand. "I grew weary of dressing, adorning myself, and twisting my mustache. Take me!"
But the one monstrous, snapping shark who fell into God's net did not appear until several days later. Francis and I were sitting on the doorstep of the Portiuncula. The sun still had not set, the friars had not returned from their begging. Of them, only Bernard had remained inside the Portiuncula, and soon he had left also, but not until he had fallen at Francis' feet to seek absolution. He did this each time he went to pray, because he never knew if he would issue from the prayer alive.
Francis sat gazing mutely at his hands and feet, rapt in contemplation. Finally, after a long silence, he sighed and said to me, "Brother Leo, when I think of Christ's Passion, my soles and palms ache to be pierced. But where are the nails, the blood; where is the cross? I remember going once to the courtyard of San Ruffino's on Good Friday when the traveling players who presented the Passion during the Easter season had come to Assisi. The man who portrayed Christ gasped as he carried his cross, and they pretended to crucify him, pouring red paint over his hands and feet to simulate flowing blood. When he uttered his heart-rending cry, 'Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani,' my tears began to flow. The men groaned, the women shrieked and wailed; the performance drew to a close. Then the actor came to our house, where my mother had prepared dinner for him. He began to laugh and joke, and some luke-warm water was brought him so that he could wash away the paint. I was small; I did not understand. 'But you were crucified, weren't you?' I asked him. He laughed. 'No, no, my boy. All that was a show--understand? --a game. I only pretended to be crucified.' I turned red with anger. 'In other words you're a liar!' I shouted at him. But my mother took me on her knee, saying, 'Quiet, my child, you're still too young to understand.' But now I've grown older, Brother Leo, I've grown older, and I do understand. Instead of being crucified, I simply think about the crucifixion. Is it possible, Brother Leo, that we too are actors?"
He sighed.
"Look at my hands, look at my feet. Where are the nails? In other words, is all this anguish just a game?"
At that moment a huge giant emerged from behind a tree. He walked with heavy steps, was about thirty years old, hatless, solidly built, with high, arched forehead and a long, lion-like mane. Stopping in front of Francis, he placed his hand over his heart and saluted him.
"I'm looking for Francis of Assisi, the one who is gathering friars together to form an order. I am Elias Bombarone, from Cortona, a graduate of the University of Bologna. I find, however, that books constrict me too much; I want to engage in great deeds."
"I'm the one you're looking for, my friend," replied Francis. "I'm not gathering friars around me to found an order, but so that all of us may struggle together to save our souls. We are simple, illiterate people. What business do you have among us--you who are educated?"
"I want to save my soul also, Brother Francis, and it isn't going to be saved by means of education. I've learned a good deal about your life, and I like what I've learned. Sometimes the simple, illiterate man, by following his heart, finds what the mind will never be able to find. But the mind is needed too, Brother Francis. It too is a divine gift, and one which God presented to His most beloved creature, man. Who then is the perfect man? He who blends heart and mind harmoniously. What is the perfect order? That which has the heart for its foundation and allows the mind to build freely upon this foundation."
"You speak exquisitely, my unexpected friend; your mind spins out its arguments with incalculable skill. In short, I'm afraid of you! Please seek your salvation somewhere else."
"Brother Francis, you have no right to drive away a soul that wants to proceed along the road to salvation that you have laid out. For whom did you do this? Only for illiterates? The educated--have you not said so yourself?--have an even greater need to be saved. They are led astray by their minds, which want so many things, lay out so many roads, and do not know which to follow. Brother Francis, I have confidence in your road."
Francis said nothing. He was digging into the ground with his foot. Without asking permission, Elias sat down next to him on the doorstep.
"What solitude!" he murmured. "What peace!"
The sun was setting now. The tree trunks were rosy; the birds had begun to return to their nests, the brothers to come back from their begging. Juniper squatted before the hearth and lit a fire to begin the meal--he had been our cook ever since the day of his arrival. Bernard emerged in his turn from the clump of trees, having once more issued alive from his time of prayer. His eyes, though, were sunken and hollow, and he walked like a blind man. Looking at us, but not seeing us, he went inside.
"What solitude, what peace!" Elias murmured once more, watching the sun go down.
Francis turned and looked at the new visitor. I sensed that a great struggle was taking place inside him; he seemed to have some foreboding that this weighty giant would bring turmoil to the peaceful brotherhood.
There was a long silence. Suddenly Juniper rose to his feet and clapped his hands.
''The lentils are ready, brothers," he called. "Come and eat, in God's name!"
Francis stood up and extended his hand to the newcomer. "We are glad to have you with us, Brother Elias," he said, and leading him by the hand, he brought him inside.
"Brothers, God has sent us new strength, a new brother, Elias Bombarone, from Cortona. Stand up and greet him."
We all went inside and knelt down on the ground, Francis placing himself next to the fireplace. Juniper brought the food and served it. We were hungry and we began eating with hearty appetites. All of a sudden Francis put down his spoon.
"My brothers," he said, "these lentils are too delicious, and the flesh is enjoying itself far too much: it is a great sin. I am going to add a handful of ashes."
As soon as he had said this he scooped up some ashes from the fireplace, threw them onto his plate, and began once more to eat.
"Forgive me, my brothers," he said. "It is not that I am better than you--no, no. But my flesh is more sinful, and I must not allow it to become rebellious."
"Why should we fear the flesh so much, Brother Francis?" asked Elias. "In other words, don't we have sufficient faith in our spiritual strength?"
"No, Brother Elias, we don't!" answered Francis, and he threw still another fistful of ashes over his lentils.
"The mouths that are preaching the word of God are multiplying," Francis said to me happily the next day.
"The mouths that want to eat are multiplying also, B
rother Francis," I answered him. "How are you going to feed them?"
Truthfully, the people of Assisi had begun to grumble: they were tired of feeding so many mendicant friars. One morning a messenger came to tell Francis that the bishop wished to speak with him and that he should come. "I'm at his service," Francis answered, crossing himself. Then, turning to me:
"I have a feeling he wants to scold me, Brother Leo. You come too."
We found the bishop seated in his armchair telling the black beads of his rosary. Piled on top of him were the cares of heaven and earth. It was his duty to divide his soul in two. First, he was a shepherd of men. It was necessary for him to keep sharp watch over the sheep that God had entrusted to him: scabies was contagious, and if one sheep should fall ill, he had to be careful that all the others did not catch the disease as well. But at the same time it was necessary for him to be concerned about his own soul. He, obviously, was also one of God's sheep, and his duty was to follow the Great Shepherd.
When he saw Francis he tried to frown, but was unable to, for he greatly loved this saintly rebel who had abandoned what men most esteem in this world and had embraced what they most hate and fear: solitude and poverty. He had even conquered the scorn of his fellow men, and went about barefooted, preaching love. He extended his plump episcopal hand. Francis knelt to kiss it, then rose and stood with crossed arms, waiting.
"I have reason to chide you, Francis, my son," said the bishop, fighting to make his voice sound severe. "I have heard a great deal about you, and all of it good; there is one thing, one thing only, that displeases me."
"Let me hear it, Your Excellency, and if it is God's wish that your will be done, it shall be done. Holy Obedience is a precious daughter of God."
The bishop coughed, hesitating in order to work out beforehand what to say and how to say it so that Francis would not be infuriated.
"I've been told," he began finally, "that the faithful who are following in your train grow more numerous every day and that they have been pouring into this city and the nearby villages, knocking on doors to ask for alms. This is not as it should be! Everyone here is poor. How long do you expect such people to have extra bread to give to you and your followers?"
Francis lowered his head without answering. The bishop extended his hand and brought it down heavily on the Bible, which lay opened next to him.
"Besides, you forget what the Apostle says: If any will not work, neither should he eat." His voice was angry now.
"We pray, we preach--that is work too," Francis murmured, but the bishop did not hear. "Therefore, both as your bishop and as a father who loves you," he continued, "I have two requests to ask of you: first, that you put all your followers to work so that they shall no longer expect to live from the sweat of others; second, that you have something in reserve--a small property, a field, a vineyard or olive grove--and that you work it and lay up each year whatsoever God grants to the farmers. I am not saying you should work in order to become rich--God forbid!--but that you should do so in order not to be a burden on our brothers who have homes and children and who, even though they may desire to give alms to beggars, have no extra provisions with which to do so. Absolute poverty, my child, goes against both God and man. . . . That's what I wanted to say to you, and why I called you. Now consider well all that you have heard, and give me your answer."
Talking had fatigued him. He closed his eyes and leaned against the back of the armchair, his head drooping. The rosary slipped out of his fingers; I bent down and gave it to him. His hands were white and soft; they smelled of incense.
Francis raised his head. "With your permission, Bishop, I shall speak."
"I am listening, Francis, my child. Speak freely."
"One night when I was weeping, imploring God to enlighten my mind so that I could decide whether or not we should have something for the hour of need--a small field, a tiny house, a purse with an irreducible minimum of money, something to which we could say, 'You are mine!'--God answered me, 'Francis, Francis, he who has a house becomes a door, a window; he who has a field becomes soil, and he who has a delicate gold ring finds that the ring turns into a noose which seizes him around the neck and strangles him!' That, Bishop, is what God told me!"
The bishop blushed. He wanted to answer, but the words became tangled in his toothless mouth. The veins of his neck began to swell, and a young priest who was standing with crossed arms in the corner ran and brought him a glass of water. The bishop recovered his composure. He turned to Francis:
"Who can guarantee it was God who spoke to you? Many times when we pray we hear our own voice and think it is the voice of God; many times, also, the Tempter assumes God's face and voice and then comes and leads our souls astray. Can you place your hand on the Gospel and tell me which of the words you hear when you pray are your own and which are God's?"
Francis turned pale. His lips began to tremble.
"No, I can't. . ." he murmured.
His knees gave way beneath him and he sank noiselessly to the floor.
"With your permission, Bishop, I shall begin to weep and wail. Your words are knives which have penetrated to my heart. How shall I ever be able to distinguish God from Francis now, or Francis from Satan?"
He hid his face in his palms and burst into lamentations.
Pitying him, the bishop bent forward in his armchair, took hold of him under the arms, and raised him up.
He turned to the young priest: "Bring, a glass of wine for our visitor, my child. Bring three glasses so that we can all drink to his health."
Francis had collapsed onto a stool now and was wiping the tears from his cheeks and beard.
"Forgive me, Bishop. I have no resistance."
The young priest brought the three glasses of wine on a wooden tray. The bishop raised his glass.
"Wine is a sacred drink, my child," he said. "When consecrated by a priest it can become the blood of Christ. I drink to your health, Francis. Go now, and may God bless you. I do not want you to give me your answer right away. Think over what we have said, think it over well, and then come and tell us your decision. Poverty is good, but only up to a point; wealth is good, but only up to a point. Moderation in all, my child, even in kindness, in piety, even in scorn for worldly possessions. The more immoderate these things become, the more danger of falling into Satan's grasp--so beware! Goodbye now, and good luck."
Francis was about to stoop to kiss the bishop's hand again and take his leave, but he restrained himself. A voice had risen within him: Do not go! it called. Do not be afraid of him. Give him an answer!
"Bishop," he said, "a voice is calling within me and preventing me from leaving."
"A voice, my child? Perhaps it is the voice of the rebel, of Lucifer. What does it say?"
"It says that the devil rejoices when he sees men afraid of poverty. . . . To have nothing, absolutely nothing: that is the road which leads to God. There is none other."
This made the bishop wild with rage. He banged his fist down on the Gospels.
"The devil rejoices, Francis, when he sees you oppose my will! Do not say a single word more, but go! And may God take pity on you and extend His hand over your head to cure you. You are sick."
Francis knelt, kissed the bishop's hand, and we departed.
We left Assisi, passed San Damiano's, and continued on toward the Portiuncula, not breathing a word the entire way. Finally Francis halted at a fork in the road. "The bishop's words were harsh," he said. "I want to be alone, Brother Leo. I'll go left to the riverbank and follow it until I reach the first hamlet, the one in the forest."
"The people there are wild and savage, Brother Francis. They will attack you. I'm afraid for your safety."
"But that's precisely why I'm going, lamb of God. I can't stand this easy life any more." I returned alone to the Portiuncula. I had lost my zest for begging. The bishop's words seemed harsh to me also, harsh and--God forgive me--correct. Yes, I reflected, if anyone doesn't work, he shouldn't eat either. We ough
t to knuckle down to work like everyone else and earn our bread by the sweat of our brows--the way God commands.
I collapsed onto the threshold of the Portiuncula and began to wait for nightfall, when the brothers, and also Francis, would return. I was worried; my heart felt uneasy. I knew I oughtn't to have left him alone, because wild brutes lived in the hamlet where he was going--men who denied Christ. They might strike him.
I jumped to my feet. The sun still had not gone down. I sped along the riverbank, reached the savage village, and entered it. The streets were deserted, but soon I heard dogs barking and also tumultuous laughter and shouting. I ran toward the noise, and what should I see but a crowd of men, women, and children. They had driven Francis to the brim of a well, where they were bombarding him furiously with stones. And he stood there with crossed arms, the blood flowing from his head. From time to time he spread his arms and whispered, "Thank you, children, God bless you all!" and then he crossed his hands once more over his breast.