"I must first ask God," Francis managed to answer.
"A God who can prevent you from seeing your mother: what kind of God is that?" said Bernardone, looking at his son imploringly.
"I don't know," Francis answered. "Let me ask Him."
He set off toward the upper part of the city, toward the citadel. I looked back for a moment and saw Bernardone still standing in the middle of the street, seemingly turned to stone. He was squeezing his throat with his left hand, as though attempting to stifle his curses or sobs.
Truly, what kind of God was that? I asked myself, remembering my poor, unfortunate mother, long since dead. What kind of God was capable of separating son from mother?
I gazed at Francis, who was in front of me striding hurriedly up the hill. He had already reached the fortress. I sensed that inside his feeble, half-dead body there was hidden a merciless and inhuman force which did not concern itself with mother and father, which perhaps even rejoiced at abandoning them. What kind of God was that--really! I did not understand! If it had only been possible for me to turn into some out-of-the-way lane and escape! Ah, to go into a tavern, sit down at a table, clap my hands and say: Waiter, bring me bread, wine, meat--I'm starved! On the double! I'm fed up with being hungry! And if Francis the son of Bernardone comes and asks if you've seen Brother Leo, tell him you haven't.
Francis knew of a deep cave in the mountainside. There he hid himself.
"Brother Leo," he said, bidding me goodbye, "I must remain here by myself for three days. Farewell. I have many things to ask God, and He and I must be alone. Farewell. In three days we shall come together again."
As he spoke he grew thinner and thinner, melted away, became one with the half-light of the cave--disappeared, air into air. Kneeling at the entranceway, he thrust his arms up toward heaven and uttered a heart-rending cry: he seemed to be summoning God to appear. I stood still for some time, looking at him and silently saying goodbye. Who could tell if he would ever issue from the prayer alive! I had a presentiment that the coming struggle was to be a terrible one, and that Francis' life was in danger.
For three days I wandered through Assisi, begging. Each evening I brought whatever alms the good Christians gave me and placed them on a stone outside the cave. Then I left quickly lest Francis see me and his meditations crash down to earth. But the following day I always found the food still on the stone, untouched.
On one of the days, I passed Bernardone's house. Lady Pica noticed me from the window, came downstairs, and brought me inside. She wanted to speak to me, to question me, but she was overcome with tears, and all she could do was gaze at me in silence.
How she had changed, aged! Her rosy cheeks had faded; the wrinkles around her mouth had deepened; her eyes were red.
"Where is he?" she managed to say, wiping away the tears with her tiny handkerchief. "What is he doing?"
"He's in a cave, Lady Pica--praying."
"And can't God allow him to come so that I may see him?"
"I don't know, ma'am. He's praying, asking Him. But he hasn't received an answer yet."
"Take a stool and sit down. Tell me everything. A mother's pain is large, as large--forgive me, Lord--as large as God Himself. Take pity on me and speak."
I related everything to her, starting with the day her son undressed himself in front of the bishop and continuing to the encounter on the road with the leper who was Christ, to Ravenna, where we had found the ancient warrior, to the monastery where we were thrashed, and last of all to the nobleman's daughter Clara and her sorrow.
Lady Pica listened, the tears streaming down her cheeks and onto her white collar. As soon as I had finished, she got up, went to the window, and inhaled deeply. A terrible question was on the tip of her tongue, but she dared not utter it. I understood, and felt sorry for her.
"Ma'am," I said, divining her question, "your son is mounting the stairs, one by one, with sure, firm steps. He is climbing toward God. Perhaps a volcano is erupting inside him and causing the world of the flesh to crumble in ruins, but his mind--I swear to you, Lady Pica, by the soul I shall render up to God--his mind remains clear and unshaken."
When Lady Pica heard these words she raised her head animatedly. Her lackluster eyes began once more to flash. She had become young again.
"Glory be to God," she murmured, crossing herself. "I seek no other gift from Thee, Lord."
She called the nurse.
"Take his sack and fill it."
The she turned to me again. "Is he cold?" she asked. "If I give you some woolen clothes for him, will he wear them?"
"No, ma'am, he won't," I answered.
"Isn't he cold?"
"No. He says he wears God next to his skin. That keeps him warm."
"And what about you? Aren't you cold? Let me give you something warm to put on."
"Yes, I'm ashamed to admit it, ma'am, but I am cold. I'll also be ashamed, however, to wear the clothes you give me."
"Ashamed in front of whom?"
"How should I know, ma'am? Maybe Francis, maybe myself; maybe even God. Alas, the road I've taken doesn't tolerate any comforts."
I sighed. Oh, how much I should have liked to possess a warm flannel undershirt and thick woolen stockings and good sandals so that I would stop cutting my feet--and a coat that was heavier and had fewer holes!
The nurse came with the sack filled to the top.
"Go now, and may God be with you both," said Lady Pica, rising. "And tell my son that my great wish is for him to succeed in doing what I once tried and was unable to do. Tell him he has my blessing!"
The three days came to an end. On the fourth I climbed up to the cave early in the morning and stood outside, waiting. Thanks to Lady Pica's heart and larder, my sack was full of mouth-watering delicacies. I felt delighted, but above and beyond this I was trembling at the thought of seeing Francis. To talk three days with the Almighty was to expose yourself to immense danger. God might hurl you into a terrible chasm where He was able to survive but a man was not. Who could tell into what chasms this secret three-day conversation would throw even me! Courage, my soul! I repeated to myself. I'll cling to Francis' robe--and then who cares if I fall. . . .
And while I was mulling all this over in my mind, my body trembling, Francis suddenly emerged from the cave. He was radiant--a gleaming cinder. Prayer had eaten away his flesh again but what remained shone like pure soul. He held out his hand to me. A peculiar expression of joy was promenading over his face.
"Well, Brother Leo, are you ready?" he called. "Have you donned your warlike armor: your coat of mail, the iron genouill�res and beaver, the bronze helmet with its blue feather?"
He seemed delirious. His eyes were inflamed and as he came closer I descried angels and phantoms within the pupils. I was terrified. Could he have taken leave of his senses?
He understood, and laughed. But his fire did not subside.
"People have enumerated many terms of praise for the Lord up to now," he said. "But I shall enumerate still more. Listen to what I shall call Him: the Bottomless Abyss, the Insatiable, the Merciless, the Indefatigable, the Unsatisfied. He who never once has said to poor, unfortunate mankind: 'Enough!' " Coming still closer, he placed his lips next to my ear and cried in a thunderous voice:
" 'Not enough!' That is what He screamed at me. If you ask, Brother Leo, what God commands without respite, I can tell you, for I learned it these past three days and nights in the cave. Listen! 'Not enough! Not enough!' That's what He shouts each day, each hour to poor, miserable man. 'Not enough! Not enough!' 'I can't go further!' whines man. 'You can!' the Lord replies. 'I shall break in two!' man whines again. 'Break!' the Lord replies."
Francis' voice had begun to crack. A large tear rolled down his cheek.
I became angry: an injustice was being done. I felt overwhelming compassion for Francis.
"What more does He expect from you?" I asked. "Didn't you restore San Damiano's?"
"Not enough!"
"Didn't you ab
andon your mother and father?"
"Not enough!"
"Didn't you kiss the leper?"
"Not enough!"
"Well, what more does He expect?"
"I asked Him, Brother Leo. 'What else dost Thou want from me, Lord?' I said, and He answered: 'Go to My church the Portiuncula. I shall tell you there.' So, Brother Leo, let's go down and see what He wants. Cross yourself; tighten the rope around your waist. We're dealing with God, and from Him there is no escape!"
We descended the mountain at a run, traversed Assisi without stopping, reached the plain. It was February: biting cold, the trees still bare, the ground covered with morning hoarfrost, making one feel that snow had fallen.
We passed San Damiano's, left the olive groves behind us, and entered a small wood of pine trees and oaks charged with acorns. The sun's rays had struck the pine needles, embalming the air. Francis stopped and took in a deep breath.
"What solitude!" he murmured happily. "What perfume, what peace!"
And as he spoke, a tiny rabbit hopped out from the undergrowth, pricked up its ears, then turned and saw us. It did not become frightened, but looked at us calmly, erect on its hind legs as though it wanted to dance. Soon it vanished again into the bushes.
"Did you see it, Brother Leo?" asked Francis, extremely moved. "Our little brother rabbit was glad to see us. He shook his tiny legs and greeted us. A good sign! I have a premonition, Brother Leo, that we have arrived."
We advanced a little, and there between the oaks, isolated and charming, stood the tiny church of Santa Maria degli Angeli--the Portiuncula. It was built of aged marble; round about it were two or three crumbling cells which the ivy and woodbine had embraced. And then, suddenly rising before us --we hadn't seen it, it seemed to have stepped out of the church in order to receive us--was a young almond tree, covered everywhere with blossoms.
"This is Santa Maria degli Angeli," murmured Francis.
Our eyes filled with tears. We crossed ourselves.
"Sweet sister almond tree, our sweet little sister," said Francis, spreading his arms, "you dressed yourself, donned your finery. Now we have come. How nice to see you!"
Approaching the tree, he stroked its trunk.
"Blessed is the hand that planted you, blessed the almond that gave birth to you. You step fearlessly out in front, my little sister: you are the first to dare stand up against winter, the first to blossom. One day, God willing, the first brothers will come to sit here beneath your flowering branches."
We pushed open the door and entered. The church smelled of earth and mildew. The tiny window was hanging askew; bits of cement and wood had fallen from the roof; the spiders had spun a thick, delicately worked web around the statue of Santa Maria.
We pushed the cobwebs aside and approached the statue in order to do worship. Above us was a fresco on which we were able to perceive the Blessed Mother, dressed in blue, her bare feet resting on a slim half-moon. Swarms of chubby angels with strong arms and black fuzz on their cheeks were supporting her and drawing her up to heaven.
Lying open on the altar was the Holy Gospel--old, soiled everywhere by repeated fingering, eaten away by vermin, green with mildew.
Francis seized my arm. "Look, Brother Leo, there's God's sign to us! Go read the verses you find before you. God opened the Gospel as a way of revealing His will to us. Read loudly so that Santa Maria degli Angeli may resound again after so many years, resound and rejoice."
The sun's rays, entering through the shattered window, fell upon the gospel. I leaned over and read in a loud voice: "Going forth, preach, saying, The kingdom of heaven is at hand. . . . Take no gold nor silver nor copper in your belts, no sack for your journey, nor two tunics, nor sandals, nor a staff. . . ."
Suddenly I heard a loud screech behind me. Turning, I saw Francis kneeling on the dirt floor amid the bits of fallen plaster. He had begun to shout in a strident, hawk-like voice:
"Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! We'll take nothing with us, Lord. Thy will be done! Nothing! Only our eyes, hands, feet, and mouths so that we can proclaim: 'The kingdom of heaven is at hand!' "
He dragged me forcefully outside. There he threw away his staff and sandals.
"Throw yours away too," he commanded me. "Didn't you hear: 'Nor sandals, nor a staff!' "
"This too?" I asked, anxiously hugging the full sack.
"The sack too! Didn't you hear: 'No sack!' " "God expects a great deal from man," I murmured fretfully as I slowly removed the sack from my shoulder. "Why does He behave so inhumanly toward us?"
"Because He loves us," Francis answered. "Stop complaining."
"I'm not complaining, Brother Francis, I'm hungry. And just today our sack happens to be full of delicacies. At least let's eat first."
Francis looked at me sympathetically.
"You eat, Brother Leo," he said, smiling. "I can wait."
I knelt on both knees, opened the sack, and attacked the food. There was a small jug of wine inside too, and this I drank to the bottom. I ate and drank as much as I could-- more than I could--like a camel preparing to cross the desert.
Francis, meanwhile, had knelt at my side and begun to talk to me.
"You realize, of course, Brother Leo, that God is right. Until now we have looked after only our own precious little selves, our own souls; all we've cared about is how we were to be saved. Not enough! We must fight to save everyone else as well, Brother Leo. If we do not save others, how can we be saved? 'In what way are we going to fight, Lord?' I cried to God, and He replied: 'Go to My church the Portiuncula and I shall tell you. There you shall hear My command.' Now I've heard it--you heard it too, Brother Leo, with your own ears: 'Going forth, preach, saying, The kingdom of heaven is at hand!' Here is our new duty, my brother and fellow warrior: to preach! To mobilize as many brothers as we can around us, as many more mouths to preach as possible, as many more hearts to love, feet to endure the long marches. To become the new crusaders, and to set off all together to deliver the Holy Sepulcher. What Holy Sepulcher, Brother Leo? The soul of man!"
He was silent for a moment, and then:
"This is the true Holy Sepulcher, Brother Leo. The crucified Christ lies inside man's body. We are departing to reach the soul, Brother Leo--not ours alone, but the soul of all mankind. Forward! You've eaten, you've quenched your thirst; let us go now to select our new companions. Two are no longer enough. We need thousands. . . . Forward, in God's name!"
He turned toward Assisi. The sun had risen above the citadel: the city gleamed like an open rose. Francis crossed himself and took me by the hand.
"Let's go," he said. "Who prevented me until now from joining with God? Francis! I pushed him aside. You do the same: push aside Brother Leo. A new struggle is beginning."
I held my tongue and followed. The abyss is beginning, I was thinking to myself, and I clung to Francis' robe. . . .
We climbed to Assisi and stood ourselves in the middle of the square. Francis unhooked the ram's bell from his waist and began to ring it to call the people to approach. A considerable number of passers-by stopped and formed a circle around him. They were joined by others who hurried out of the taverns where they had already begun (it was Sunday) to spend their morning leisurely sipping wine. Francis stretched out his arms to greet them.
"Peace be unto you!" he said to each person who approached. "Peace be unto you!"
When a great number had assembled and the square was full, he spread his arms.
"Peace," he shouted, "peace be unto your hearts, your houses, your enemies. Peace be to the world! The kingdom of heaven is at hand!"
His voice broke continually. He said the same things over and over again, and whenever he could no longer speak, he began to weep. "Peace, peace," he cried, exhorting his listeners to make peace with God, with men, with their hearts. How? There was but one way: by loving.
"Love! Love!" he shouted, and then he began to weep once again.
Women began to appear in their doorways or to climb up to the roofs o
f their houses in order to listen. The crowd did not laugh now, did not make fun of him, and each day Francis wandered through the streets of Assisi and preached the same words--always the same words, the same tears. I stood at his side and wept too, but did not speak. Early each morning I took the ram's bell and raced through the streets crying, "Come one, come all, Francis is going to speak!"
One evening as the preaching ended and we were about to climb to our cave to pass the night, a merchant named Bernard of Quintavalle came up to Francis. He dealt in cloth just as Sior Bernardone did, and was slightly older than Francis, with pensive features and blue, thoughtful eyes. He had never accompanied Francis on his all-night revels, but, as he subsequently confided to me, used to sit up long hours into the night studying the scriptures. The fierceness of Jehovah in the Old Testament frightened him, and when he reached Jesus, his heart filled with a mixture of sadness and joy.
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