Saint-Francis-by-Nikos-Kazantzakis

by Saint Francis (epub)

  "Holy humility requires that you hold out your hand to beg and that you accept what is given you, Brother Leo. The rest is arrogance. The rich have an obligation to the poor; let them fulfill their obligation. . . . But that's enough now. Don't ask anything else. Go to sleep; you're tired and so am I. Good night."

  I realized that Francis was anxious to remain alone with God, so I stopped chattering, and closed my eyes. The whole night long it seemed to me in my sleep that I heard him talking, and sometimes laughing, sometimes weeping. The next morning we both stood in front of the gate and waited for the doorkeeper to come and open up. Peering through the grating into the courtyard, which was light now, we saw the garden with its laurels and cypresses, the marble well in its center, the rows of vaulted cells on all sides; and in the background the celebrated church which had been constructed and ornamented by strange, masterful artisans from the Orient.

  The sun came up; the doorkeeper appeared with his keys. He was gaunt and sullen, barefooted, had a small, curly white beard, and was munching something between his toothless gums. As soon as he saw us his expression grew savage.

  "Beggars?" he asked angrily. "The monastery hasn't any bread for the likes of you, you loafers!"

  "We aren't loafers, Father Major-domo," answered Francis pleasantly. "We work, just as you do. We also have keys, and we lock and unlock."

  "Lock and unlock what, swindlers!"

  "The Inferno."

  "The Inferno?"

  "Yes, the Inferno: our hearts."

  The doorkeeper growled like a vicious dog, but said nothing. Taking the key, he twisted it in the lock, drew back the bolt, and allowed us to enter. The monks were not in their cells--matins had begun; we could hear the sweet psalmody. The daylight had descended now and fully invaded the cloister garden; the birds were awake; a young monk was drawing water, leaning over the well. Standing like archangels on either side of the church were two tall cypresses, as slender and straight as swords; and in the center of the courtyard, bathed in fragrance, was a luxuriant laurel.

  Francis pulled off a leaf and kissed it. Holding it upright in his hand like a lighted candle, he pushed open the church door and entered. I was thirsty, and I paused long enough for the young monk to pull up the bucket so that I could take a drink. When I had refreshed myself I made the sign of the cross, gave thanks to God for sending us thirst and water, and strode across the threshold.

  The monks were seated in their stalls, chanting. The air smelled of sweet incense. The sun, entering through the stained-glass windows, was tinted red, green, and blue. I spied Francis kneeling on the flagstones with his gaze fixed ecstatically on the vault above the altar.

  I lifted my eyes too. What was this miracle T saw before me? Was it Paradise? I beheld a gigantic mosaic, green, white, and gold, with Saint Apollinarius in the middle wearing his golden stole, his arms raised in prayer. Flanking him were cypresses, angels, snowy-white sheep, and trees loaded with fruit. O God, what was this greenery, this freshness, sweetness? What untroubled immortal calm; what a verdant meadow for the soul to graze in until the end of time! Even I, peasant that I am, was unable to restrain my emotion. I knelt down next to Francis and began to sob. "Quiet," Francis said softly. "Don't cry, don't laugh, don't talk. Just surrender yourself."

  It seems to me that neither of us breathed a word that whole day. I don't remember how we left the church, or if the monks gave us a piece of bread, or when we entered the city. The only thing I remember is that we roamed up and down the streets looking at the people, towers, palaces and seeing nothing but a green meadow and in the middle a saint with white sheep running happily to greet him, and above, an immense cross spreading its arms and embracing the air.

  Toward evening we halted at a large square, the one in whose center is the statue of Christ bearing a young sheep on his shoulders--the lost sheep which He is returning to the fold. The breadwinners were closing their workshops; the young boys and girls were arriving from their different neighborhoods to see and be seen. The rain had stopped; there was a scent of pine in the freshly bathed air. Francis grasped the ram's bell for a moment as though wanting to call the people to hear about the new madness, but he immediately changed his mind. His thoughts must have been elsewhere. He suspended the bell from the knotted cord which bound his waist and, sitting down on the ground, began to watch the inhabitants as they paraded by.

  I squatted next to him. Suddenly he turned to me.

  "Brother Leo, I've seen that meadow somewhere before, the green meadow where Saint Apollinarius and his herdsmen the angels graze their sheep. But where? When? I'm fighting to remember, but I can't. Was it in a dream?"

  He fell silent; but suddenly he clapped his hands with delight.

  "I've found it!" he exclaimed. "I've found it, praise the Lord! This worry about where and when has been bothering me for hours, but now I've found the answer." His face became suddenly radiant; his eyes filled with emeralds.

  "Inside me!" he murmured happily.

  Darkness was falling, and as the night advanced we heard Ravenna's many voices ever more clearly. The city was stretched out in the blackness like a myriad-headed, satiated beast, laughing, barking, neighing, singing with innumerable human, canine, and equestrian mouths, with innumerable mouths shaped like lutes and guitars. And as night overwhelmed us, for an instant it seemed to me that Christ was standing in the middle and that it was not a lamb He was carrying back to the fold: it was Ravenna.

  "What are you thinking about?" asked Francis, seeing me with my eyes riveted on the stone statue of Jesus.

  "I was thinking, Brother Francis, that it isn't a lamb He's holding, but Ravenna."

  "It isn't Ravenna, Brother Leo; no, it isn't Ravenna. It's the world--the entire world."

  We fell silent once more; and then an old man with a fierce expression came and stood before us. He was huge, with a clean-shaven upper lip and a long, tortuous white beard. In the gleam thrown out by the lanterns inside the taverns we were able to see that his sunburned face had been slashed by sword blows.

  He sat down cross-legged next to us. He had overheard our last words.

  "Pardon me," he said, "but I've seen you roaming, without talking, your sack empty, as though you're beggars and aren't beggars at the same time. A moment ago I finally heard you speak, and I liked what you said. For some time now I've been wondering what you might be: beggars, lazy idlers, invalids, saints? I can't seem to tell which."

  Francis laughed. Raising his finger, he pointed to the statue of Christ above us.

  "Look. We are the lost sheep, and we're bleating and searching everywhere for Christ. Christ is not looking for us, Father; we are looking for Him."

  "And you came to find Him here in Ravenna?" the old man inquired sarcastically.

  "Our Gracious Lord is everywhere," Francis replied, "but we never know where He will condescend to reveal Himself to us. Perhaps even in Ravenna."

  The old man shook his white-haired head. "I was once looking for Him also," he said in a low voice, slowly stroking his white beard. "I found Him far far away at the other end of the earth, amid the hubbub of war; but to reveal Himself to me He had taken on the face of man--of a great king." He sighed: it was as though his heart were being rent in two. Francis slid over and placed his hand on the old man's knee.

  "Father," he said, "I implore you in the name of Christ who is above us: tell us how and when; help us to find Him also."

  The old man lowered his head and for some time did not speak. You could sense that he was silently choosing what to say and where to start, for he opened his mouth several times, but closed it again and continued his silence.

  "It was in the East more than twenty years ago," he began finally; "in the holy city of Jerusalem, a strange Oriental world of perfumes and stenches. There are date palms like the ones we see on the paintings of the saints, and other trees even stranger, and a type of grapevine that grows to a man's height. The women are covered from head to foot like ghosts, and if thei
r toenails ever happen to appear, you find that they are colored with red paint, as are their palms, and also the soles of their feet. I know because we captured a few of them alive in the war, and uncovered them and saw. . . . As for the men, the lawless Saracens: the moment they mount their horses they become one body with them and it's impossible to discover where the horse ends and the man begins. Two heads, six legs, one soul! And Sultan Saladin, their king, he's a stalwart if there ever was one. Dressed all in gold and pearls, he leaps on his horse while the animal is racing at a full gallop. His palace is full of women, fountains, yataghans, and he sits cross-legged upon the Holy Sepulcher twisting his mustache and threatening all Christendom."

  Francis sighed.

  "And we," he said, "my God, shame on us! We sit here idle in Ravenna, walking the streets and begging instead of rising up to deliver the Holy Sepulcher! Up, up, Brother Leo! Why are you sitting? Do you want to liberate your soul? Then liberate the Holy Sepulcher!"

  "If you want to liberate the Holy Sepulcher," I objected, "then liberate your soul!"

  The old man shook his head.

  "That's youth for you. It thinks that if it rises up in arms it can conquer the world. I myself once did just that. I was an established citizen here in Ravenna, with children, fields, sheep, and a white horse which I loved like my own child. I abandoned everything except the horse--her I took with me. I cut two strips of red cloth, sewed them on my back to make a cross, and set out to deliver the Holy Sepulcher."

  He stopped for a moment and made a gesture with his hand.

  "Where to begin?" he said, unable to choose. "My head was full of seas, deserts, huge fortified towers with ravelins, and in the very center of my mind stood Holy Jerusalem. I journeyed on and on, sometimes by boat, sometimes on my horse, and I encountered swarms of wild savage men, men of all kinds speaking every conceivable language. My route took me through the celebrated city of Constantinople, which stretches over the world's two great land areas, Europe and Asia Minor. Seeing it, I went out of my mind. What are dreams in comparison? The mind of man is too small to contain such a miracle; sleep is too poor--where could it ever find such a dream to bring to us? I wandered throughout the city, gazing insatiably upon its palaces, churches, festivals, women. Forgive me, Lord, but I forgot completely about the Holy Sepulcher, and when I finally arrived in Jerusalem it had already fallen into the hands of the Christians, and the king of Jerusalem was--"

  He grasped his beard and folded it up upon itself, covering his face. It was some time before he found his voice again:

  "The king was a twenty-year-old boy. People called him Baudouin, but it did not take me long to realize that he was not simply a human being, but something else entirely. Was he, I asked myself (begging God's forgiveness for my audacity) was he the One I was seeking? When I first saw him, I shuddered. The Saracens were attacking once more on their horses and camels in an attempt to win back Jerusalem. The king uttered a cry, the trumpets blared, the labarum of war was hoisted into the air. We got into our armor and assembled on the plain outside Jerusalem, thousands of infantrymen and cavalry all awaiting the king's appearance.

  "And then--oh, how can I recall it without my heart splitting in two?--then I saw him for the first time, then I realized that man's soul is omnipotent, that God, God in His entirety, sits inside man, and that it is unnecessary for us to run to the ends of the earth in His pursuit. All we have to do is gaze into our own hearts.

  "They were carrying the king in a litter. His face had rotted away until only half was left; he had no fingers at all, no toes either. He couldn't walk--how could he possibly walk?--so they were carrying him. The leprosy had eaten away his eyes too and made him blind. I happened to be near him. I leaned forward to see him, but had to pinch my nostrils, the stench was so bad.

  "This king was a shovelful of putrid flesh, but inside this shovelful of flesh his soul stood erect and immortal. How is it that God did not find it disgusting to be enthroned in such putrescence? The terrible sultan was besieging the impregnable fortress of Crac in the Moab desert, beyond the Dead Sea. The king went in the lead. He crossed the desert in the unbearable heat and we followed behind him, gasping for breath. Spurting out from within the litter was a force, a flame; the air crackled like a pine tree that has caught fire."

  The old man stopped, not wishing--or perhaps unable--to speak further. I placed my palm on the aged warrior's knee and begged him to continue, but he clasped his hand around his throat, apparently trying to stifle the sobs which were rising there.

  "When I recall that sight," he said finally, "my heart seethes, my mind grows fierce. Never have I seen the Mystery of God so clearly, so palpably. I was there in Jerusalem when the king died, aged twenty-four; I was there in the great palace where he gave up the ghost. Standing above him were his insatiable, demented mother and his sister Sybil--vain, beautiful, given over to the joys of the flesh. The rest of the room was filled with bloodthirsty noblemen--barons, counts, marquises all waiting breathlessly for the king to breathe his last so that they could throw themselves like so many famished, raving dogs upon the kingdom of Jerusalem and tear it to shreds, each taking away a piece in his teeth. And all the while the twenty-four- year-old king, that paragon of noble courtesy, was tranquilly, silently rendering up his soul to God, a crown of thorns on his putrescent head."

  The aged warrior bit into his mustache. Huge teardrops were running down his sun-baked cheeks. Francis lowered his head to his knees and suddenly, in the darkness, he too broke out into lamentations.

  Angrily, the old man wiped away his tears, ashamed at having wept. Then, pushing his hands against the ground for support, he rose, his aged bones creaking. Without nodding goodbye to us, without uttering a word, he disappeared.

  Francis continued to weep.

  "There you see what the soul really is," he said finally, raising his head, "and what God is, and what it really means to be a man. From now on this leper shall take the lead and show us the way. Get up, Brother Leo; let's be off!"

  "Where to, in God's name?" "Back to Assisi. That is where we shall gather momentum so that we can take our leap. Come, you lazybones of God, up with you!"

  "Now, in the middle of the night?"

  "Now! Do you think the Lord can wait till morning?"

  THE ROYAL LEPER went in the lead and guided us for the entire return journey. It rained and rained; the rivers had overflowed, the roads had been flooded, and we sank up to our knees in mud. We were cold, we were hungry. In many of the villages we found ourselves greeted with a bombardment of stones and driven away. When Francis shouted, "Love! Love! Love!" the peasants turned their dogs on us, and we were bitten.

  "What are these trifles we are undergoing for Christ's sake?" Francis would say to comfort me. "Games! Remember the leper-king!"

  One night when we were drenched to the bone and nearly dropping from hunger and cold, we saw the lights of a monastery in the distance. We began to run. Perhaps the monks would be moved by compassion to bring us inside, give us a little bread to eat, and let us sit next to the hallowed fire to get warm. It was pitch dark outside and pouring. We ran, fell into the potholes, got up, began to run again. I cursed the rain, the darkness, the cold; but Francis, ahead of me, was composing lyrics in his head and singing them.

  "What miracles we see here!" he sang. "Behold! Wings in the mud, God in the air! As soon as the caterpillars think of Thee, Lord, they are transformed into butterflies!"

  Spreading his arms again and again, he joyfully embraced the rain and the air. "Sister Mud," he called, sloshing through the potholes. "Brother Wind!"

  Suddenly he stopped and waited for me to catch up. I had fallen into a ditch again and was dragging myself along, limping.

  "I've just finished composing a little song, Brother Leo," he said to me. "Do you want to hear it?"

  "Is this the time for songs?" I replied with irritation.

  "If we don't make up songs now, Brother Leo, when shall we ever do so? Listen: the ver
y first animal to appear at the gates of heaven was the snail. Peter bent forward, patted it with his staff, and asked, 'What are you looking for here, my fine little snail?'

  " 'Immortality,' the snail answered.

  "Peter howled with laughter. 'Immortality! And what do you plan to do with immortality?'

  " 'Don't laugh,' the snail countered. 'Aren't I one of God's creatures? Aren't I a son of God just like the Archangel Michael? Archangel Snail, that's who I am!' " 'Where are your wings of gold, your scimitar, the scarlet sandals betokening your regality?'

  " 'Inside me, asleep and waiting.'

  " 'Waiting for what?'

  " 'The Great Moment.'

  " 'What Great Moment?'

  " 'This one--now!'

  "And before he had finished saying 'Now' he took a great leap, as though he had sprouted wings, and he entered Paradise. . . .