Saint-Francis-by-Nikos-Kazantzakis

by Saint Francis (epub)

  We entered holding our breath lest the ogre hear us. Francis gave me food and I ate; he made up a bed for me and I slept. Awakening at dawn, I opened the front door noiselessly and slipped outside. It was Sunday. There was to be a High Mass at San Ruffino's and I went there in order to beg.

  I seated myself on top of the stone lion, the one to the left as you face the church, and waited for the multitudes of Christians to appear. They had Sunday souls today. Heaven and hell were passing through their minds: they had fears, expectations--and they would open their purses to give to the poor. I had removed my cap. From time to time coins fell into it with a tinkle. A half-crazy, aristocratic old lady bent over and asked me who I was, where I came from, and if I had seen her son. The Sienese cavalry--curse them!--had captured him during the wars.

  But as I was about to open my mouth to answer, there in front of me was Sior Bernardone, Francis' father. I had known him for years, and never in his life had he given me anything. "You have arms and legs," he would scream at me. "Work!"

  "I'm searching for God," I answered him one day.

  "May the devil take you!" he thundered, and his clerks broke into peals of laughter.

  Accompanied by his wife, Lady Pica, and advancing at a slow, majestic pace, he was coming to church now to attend the service. Good Lord, what a ferocious beast he was! He had on a long silk robe, dark scarlet with silver borders, a skullcap of black velvet, and black shoes with long, pointed toes. His left hand was raised to his breast, where it played with a cross which hung from a delicate golden chain. He was well preserved, vigorous, large-boned, so tall he scraped the ceiling, and had a heavy jawbone, double chins, a fat, crooked nose, and eyes that were gray and cold, like a hawk's.

  As soon as I saw him I curled up into a ball so that he would not catch sight of me. Following behind him were five mules overloaded to the point of collapse with expensive merchandise: silks, velvet, gold piping, marvelous embroideries. The five muleteers who led them were armed because the roads had become thick with brigands. In other words, Bernardone was coming to church together with his goods so that they too could attend Mass, be seen by the statue of Saint Ruffino and thus be known to the Saint should they subsequently fall into danger. As was his custom before every journey, Bernardone was going to kneel before the Saint and haggle with him--you give me such and such and I'll give you such and such in return: you protect my merchandise, and I'll bring you a silver lamp from Florence, a heavy embossed one which will make you the envy of the other saints, who have nothing but tiny lamps made of glass.

  At his side, walking with a proud gait, her hands crossed upon her abdomen, her eyes lowered, her hair covered with a sea-blue veil of silk, was Lady Pica, his French wife. She was beautiful, cheerful, sweetness itself; her face was the kind that gives alms. I held out my hand, but she did not see me--did not see me, or else was so afraid of the ogre at her side that she dared not give me anything. Husband and wife crossed the threshold, entering the church through the large central door, and disappeared.

  Years later, when we were setting out one morning for a trip around the villages to preach love, Francis recalled his parents and sighed: "Alas, I still have not managed to reconcile them."

  "Who? Who are you talking about, Brother Francis?" "About my mother and father, Brother Leo. The two of them have been wrestling inside me for ages. This struggle has lasted my whole life--I want you to realize that. They may take on different names--God and Satan, spirit and flesh, good and bad, light and darkness--but they always remain my mother and father. My father cries within me: 'Earn money, get rich, use your gold to buy a coat of arms, become a nobleman. Only the rich and the nobility deserve to live in the world. Don't be good; once good, you're finished! If someone chips one tooth in your mouth, break his whole jaw in return. Do not try to make people love you; try to make them fear you. Do not forgive: strike!' . . . And my mother, her voice trembling within me, says to me softly, fearfully, lest my father hear her: 'Be good, dear Francis, and you shall have my blessing. You must love the poor, the humble, the oppressed. If someone injures you, forgive him!' My mother and my father wrestle within me, and all my life I have been struggling to reconcile them. But they refuse to become reconciled; they refuse to become reconciled, Brother Leo, and because of that, I suffer."

  And truly, Sior Bernardone and Lady Pica had joined together inside Francis' breast and were tormenting him. But outside their son's breast each had his own separate body, and this Sunday, one next to the other, they had just entered church to do worship.

  I closed my eyes. From within the building I could hear the fresh voices of the choirboys against the sound of the organ pouring forth from the heights of the choir loft and convulsing the air. This is God's voice, I was thinking; God's voice, and the severe, all-powerful voice of the people. . . . I continued to listen, happy, my eyes closed; and thus, astride the marble Hon as I was, it seemed to me that I was a horseman entering Paradise. What else can Paradise be but gentle psalmody, sweet incense, and your sack filled with bread, olives, and wine? What else--because I, and may God forgive me for saying so, understand nothing of what the wise theologians declare about wings, spirits, and souls without bodies. If so much as a crumb falls to the ground, I bend over, pick it up, and kiss it because I know positively that this crumb is a little bit of Paradise. But only beggars can understand this, and it is to beggars that I am addressing myself.

  While I was ambling through Paradise astride the marble lion, a shadow fell across me. I opened my eyes and saw Francis standing before me. The Mass was finished. I must have fallen asleep: the mules with their precious merchandise had vanished from the square in front of the church.

  Francis stood before me livid, panic-stricken, his lips trembling, his eyes filled with visions. I heard his hoarse voice:

  "Come, I need you."

  He went in the lead, supporting himself on an ivory-hilted cane. From time to time his knees gave way beneath him and he had to cling to a wall.

  "I'm ill," he said, turning. "Hold me up so that I can reach home and lie down. And stay near me; I have something to ask you."

  In the square the tightrope walkers had finished driving their poles and stretching out their ropes. They were dressed in motley and had pointed red caps with bells. Today being Sunday they were preparing to display their skill and then to pass the hat. Old men and simple peasant women, their baskets in their laps, were sitting cross-legged on the ground and selling chickens, eggs, cheese, medicinal herbs, balms for wounds, amulets against the evil eye. One crafty graybeard offered to tell your fortune by means of a white mouse he had in a cage.

  "Stop and have your fortune read, Sior Francis," I said. "I've heard these mice come from Paradise--even Paradise has mice, you know, which explains why they're white. They know many secrets."

  But Francis was clutching one of the poles, breathing with difficulty. I supported him on my arm and we reached Sior Bernardone's house.

  Good Lord, how can the rich bear to die! What marble staircases, what rooms, all with gilded ceilings, what sheets of linen and silk! I laid him down on his bed and he closed his eyes at once, exhausted.

  As I bent over him I saw alternate flashes of light and shadow cross his pale face; his eyelids kept fluttering as though being wounded by an intense brightness. I had a premonition that some terrifying, visible presence was above him.

  Finally he uttered a cry, opened his eyes, and sat up in bed, horror-stricken. I quickly got a feather pillow which I placed behind him as a support for his back. I had begun to part my lips to ask him what was wrong, what had frightened him so, but he reached out his hand and placed it over my mouth.

  "Quiet," he whispered, and he thrust himself into the feather pillow. He was shivering. The pupils of his eyes had disappeared; the eyeballs had rolled downward and were gazing fearfully into his very bowels. His jaw was trembling.

  At that point I understood at once. "You saw God," I cried. "You saw God!"

  He
seized my arm and gasped in anguish: "How do you know? Who told you?"

  "No one. But I see how you're shaking, and I know. When a person shakes that way it means he's either seen a lion in front of him, or God."

  He pulled his head forcefully up from the pillow. "No, I didn't see Him," he murmured. "I heard Him."

  He looked around him with frightened eyes. "Sit down," he said to me. "Don't put your hands on me, don't touch me!"

  "I'm not touching you. I'm afraid to touch you. If I had been touching you at that moment my hand would have been reduced to ashes."

  He shook his head and smiled. The pupils of his eyes had reappeared. "I have something to ask you," he said. "Has my mother returned from Mass?"

  "Not yet. She must be chatting with her friends."

  "So much the better. Shut the door." He remained silent for a moment, but then repeated: "I have something to ask you."

  "I'm at your command, sir. Proceed."

  "You told me that your whole life you've been searching for God. How have you done this? By calling, weeping, singing songs, fasting? Each man must have his own special route to lead him to God. What route did you take? That is my question."

  I lowered my head in thought. Should I tell him or shouldn't I? I had meditated on this many times and knew which my route was, but I was ashamed to reveal it. To be sure, I was still ashamed before men at that period, because I was not yet ashamed before God.

  "Why don't you answer me?" Francis complained. "I am passing through a difficult moment and seek your aid. Help me!"

  I felt sorry for him. With agitated heart I made the decision to tell him everything.

  "My route, Sior Francis--and don't be surprised when you hear it--my route when I set out to find God . . . was . . . laziness. Yes, laziness. If I wasn't lazy I would have gone the way of respectable, upstanding people. Like everyone else I would have studied a trade--cabinetmaker, weaver, mason-- and opened a shop; I would have worked all day long, and where then would I have found time to search for God? I might as well be looking for a needle in a haystack: that's what I would have said to myself. All my mind and thoughts would have been occupied with how to earn my living, feed my children, how to keep the upper hand over my wife. With such worries, curse them, how could I have had the time, or inclination, or the pure heart needed to think about the Almighty?

  "But by the grace of God I was born lazy. To work, get married, have children, and make problems for myself were all too much trouble. I simply sat in the sun during winter and in the shade during summer, while at night, stretched out on my back on the roof of my house, I watched the moon and the stars. And when you watch the moon and the stars how can you expect your mind not to dwell on God? I couldn't sleep any more. Who made all that? I asked myself. And why? Who made me, and why? Where can I find God so that I may ask Him? Piety requires laziness, you know. It requires leisure--and don't listen to what others say. The laborer who lives from hand to mouth returns home each night exhausted and famished. He assaults his dinner, bolts his food, then quarrels with his wife, beats his children without rhyme or reason simply because he's tired and irritated, and afterwards he clenches his fists and sleeps. Waking up for a moment he finds his wife at his side, couples with her, clenches his fists once more, and plunges back into sleep. . . . Where can he find time for God? But the man who is without work, children, and wife thinks about God, at first just out of curiosity, but later with anguish. Do not shake your head, Sior Francis. You asked and I answered. Forgive me."

  "Speak on, speak on, Brother Leo, don't stop. It's true then, is it, that the devil hoodwinks God, that laziness hoodwinks God? You're very encouraging, Brother Leo. Speak on."

  "What more can I tell you, Sior Francis? You know the rest. My parents had left me a little something; I exhausted it. Then I took to the road with my sack, began going from door to door, monastery to monastery, village to village, searching for God, asking 'Where is He?' . . . 'Who has seen Him?' . . . 'Where can I find Him?' as though He were some ferocious beast I had gone out to hunt. Some laughed, some threw stones at me, still others knocked me down and beat me to a pulp. But I always jumped to my feet again and set out once more in pursuit of God."

  "And did you find Him, did you find Him?" Francis gasped. I felt his warm breath upon my skin.

  "How could I possibly find Him, sir? I asked every kind of person: sages, saints, madmen, prelates, troubadours, centenarians. Each gave me advice: showed me a path, saying 'Take it and you'll find Him!' But each showed me a different path. Which was I to choose? I was going out of my wits. A sage from Bologna said to me, 'The road which leads to God is that of wife and children. Get married.' Someone else, a madman and saint from Gubbio, said, 'If you want to find God, don't look for Him. If you want to see Him, close your eyes; to hear Him, stop up your ears. That's what I do.' Having said this, he shut his eyes, stopped up his ears, crossed his hands, and began to weep. . . . And a woman who lived as a hermit in the forest ran stark naked under the pine trees striking her breasts and shouting, 'Love! Love! Love!' That was the only answer she was able to give.

  "Another day I came across a saint in a cave. Excessive weeping had blinded him; his skin was all scales, the result of sanctity and uncleanliness. He gave me the advice that was both most correct and most frightening. When I weigh it in my mind my hair stands on end."

  "What advice? I want to hear it!" said Francis, seizing my hand. He was trembling.

  "I bowed down, prostrated myself before him, and said, 'Holy ascetic, I have set out to find God. Show me the road.'

  " 'There isn't any road,' he answered me, beating his staff on the ground.

  " 'What is there, then?' I asked, seized with terror.

  " 'There is the abyss. Jump!'

  " 'Abyss?' I screamed. 'Is that the way?' " 'Yes, the abyss. All roads lead to the earth; the abyss leads to God. Jump!'

  " 'I can't, Father.'

  " 'Then get married and forget your troubles,' he said, and stretching forth his skeleton-like arm he motioned me to leave. As I departed I could hear his lamentations in the distance."

  "Did they all weep?" murmured Francis, terrified. "All? Those who had found God as well as those who had not?"

  "All."

  "Why, Brother Leo?"

  "I don't know. But they all wept."

  We remained silent. Francis had buried his face in the pillow; he was breathing fitfully.

  "Listen, Sior Francis, it seems to me that I did see a trace of Him once or twice," I said in order to comfort him. "Once, when I was drunk, I caught sight of His back for a moment. It was in a tavern where I was having a good time with my friends, and He had just opened the door to leave. Another time I was going through the woods; there was rain and lightning, and I just managed to catch a glimpse of the edge of His garment as it was illuminated by a lightning flash. But then the flash expired, the garment vanished. Or was it possible that the lightning itself was His garment? Still another time, last winter in fact, I saw His footprints in the snow atop a high mountain. A shepherd came by. 'Look, God's footprints!' I said to him. But he replied with a laugh: 'You're out of your mind, poor fellow. Those are a wolfs tracks; a wolf passed by here.' I kept quiet. What was I to say to this thickheaded bumpkin with his brain filled with sheep and wolves? How could he ever understand anything higher! As for me, I was certain those were God's footprints upon the snow. . . . I've been pursuing Him for twelve years, Sior Francis, but these are the only signs I've found. Forgive me."

  Lowering his head, Francis plunged deep into thought. "Do not sigh, Brother Leo," he murmured after a moment. "Who knows, perhaps God is simply the search for God."

  These words frightened me. They frightened Francis also. He hid his face in his hands.

  "What demon is speaking within me?" he growled in despair.

  I didn't breathe a word, but stood there trembling. To search for God, was that God? If so, woe unto us!

  Neither of us spoke. Francis' eyes had rolled in thei
r sockets again; I saw only the whites. His cheeks were flushed, his teeth chattering. I covered him with a thick woolen blanket, but he tossed it aside. "I want to be cold," he said. "Leave me! Don't stare at me; do your staring somewhere else!"

  I got up to depart, but his expression grew fierce. "Where are you going?" he said to me. "Sit down! Do you plan to leave me all alone like this when I'm in danger? You spoke, you found relief. Now I want to speak, I want to find relief. Where's your mind--on food? Eat then, go to the larder and eat. And drink some wine. What I'm going to tell you is very unpleasant. Fortify yourself so that you'll be able to listen. Do not desert me!"

  "I have no need to eat or drink," I answered, hurt. "What do you think I am, nothing but stomach? To listen--that's what I was born for, I want you to know; just for that: to listen. So go ahead and speak. No matter what you say, I'll be able to bear it."

  "Give me a glass of water. I'm thirsty."

  He drank, then leaned back on his pillow, cocked his ear, and listened intently, his mouth half open. The house was silent, empty. A rooster crowed in the courtyard.