Life of St. Francis of Assisi
wanderings in the fields, was no longer of the least use to his father.
Months passed, and the distance between the two men grew ever wider; and
the gentle and loving Pica could do nothing to prevent a rupture which
from this time appeared to be inevitable. Francis soon came to feel only
one desire, to flee from the abode where, in the place of love, he found
only reproaches, upbraidings, anguish.
The faithful confidant of his earlier struggles had been obliged to
leave him, and this absolute solitude weighed heavily upon his warm and
loving heart. He did what he could to escape from it, but no one
understood him. The ideas which he was beginning timidly to express
evoked from those to whom he spoke only mocking smiles or the
head-shakings which men sure that they are right bestow upon him who is
marching straight to madness. He even went to open his mind to the
bishop, but the latter understood no more than others his vague,
incoherent plans, filled with ideas impossible to realize and possibly
subversive.[2] It was thus that in spite of himself Francis was led to
ask nothing of men, but to raise himself by prayer to intuitive
knowledge of the divine will. The doors of houses and of hearts were
alike closing upon him, but the interior voice was about to speak out
with irresistible force and make itself forever obeyed.
Among the numerous chapels in the suburbs of Assisi there was one which
he particularly loved, that of St. Damian. It was reached by a few
minutes' walk over a stony path, almost trackless, under olive trees,
amid odors of lavender and rosemary. Standing on the top of a hillock,
the entire plain is visible from it, through a curtain of cypresses and
pines which seem to be trying to hide the humble hermitage and set up
an ideal barrier between it and the world.
Served by a poor priest who had scarcely the wherewithal for necessary
food, the sanctuary was falling into ruin. There was nothing in the
interior but a simple altar of masonry, and by way of reredos one of
those byzantine crucifixes still so numerous in Italy, where through the
work of the artists of the time has come down to us something of the
terrors which agitated the twelfth century. In general the Crucified
One, frightfully lacerated, with bleeding wounds, appears to seek to
inspire only grief and compunction; that of St. Damian, on the contrary,
has an expression of inexpressible calm and gentleness; instead of
closing the eyelids in eternal surrender to the weight of suffering, it
looks down in self-forgetfulness, and its pure, clear gaze says, not "_I
suffer_," but, "_Come unto me_."[3]
One day Francis was praying before the poor altar: "Great and glorious
God, and thou, Lord Jesus, I pray ye, shed abroad your light in the
darkness of my mind.... Be found of me, Lord, so that in all things I
may act only in accordance with thy holy will."[4]
Thus he prayed in his heart, and behold, little by little it seemed to
him that his gaze could not detach itself from that of Jesus; he felt
something marvellous taking place in and around him. The sacred victim
took on life, and in the outward silence he was aware of a voice which
softly stole into the very depths of his heart, speaking to him an
ineffable language. Jesus accepted his oblation. Jesus desired his
labor, his life, all his being, and the heart of the poor solitary was
already bathed in light and strength.[5]
This vision marks the final triumph of Francis. His union with Christ is
consummated; from this time he can exclaim with the mystics of every
age, "My beloved is mine, and I am his."
But instead of giving himself up to transports of contemplation he at
once asks himself how he may repay to Jesus love for love, in what
action he shall employ this life which he has just offered to him. He
had not long to seek. We have seen that the chapel where his spiritual
espousals had just been celebrated was threatened with ruin. He believed
that to repair it was the work assigned to him.
From that day the remembrance of the Crucified One, the thought of the
love which had triumphed in immolating itself, became the very centre of
his religious life and as it were the soul of his soul. For the first
time, no doubt, Francis had been brought into direct, personal, intimate
contact with Jesus Christ; from belief he had passed to faith, to that
living faith which a distinguished thinker has so well defined: "To
believe is to look; it is a serious, attentive, and prolonged look; a
look more simple than that of observation, a look which looks, and
nothing more; artless, infantine, it has all the soul in it, it is a
look of the soul and not the mind, a look which does not seek to analyze
its object, but which receives it as a whole into the soul through the
eyes." In these words Vinet unconsciously has marvellously characterized
the religious temperament of St. Francis.
This look of love cast upon the crucifix, this mysterious colloquy with
the compassionate victim, was never more to cease. At St. Damian, St.
Francis's piety took on its outward appearance and its originality. From
this time his soul bears the stigmata, and as his biographers have said
in words untranslatable, _Ab illa hora vulneratum et liquefactum est
cor ejus ed memoriam Dominicae passionis._[6]
From that time his way was plain before him. Coming out from the
sanctuary, he gave the priest all the money he had about him to keep a
lamp always burning, and with ravished heart he returned to Assisi. He
had decided to quit his father's house and undertake the restoration of
the chapel, after having broken the last ties that bound him to the
past. A horse and a few pieces of gayly colored stuffs were all that he
possessed. Arrived at home he made a packet of the stuffs, and mounting
his horse he set out for Foligno. This city was then as now the most
important commercial town of all the region. Its fairs attracted the
whole population of Umbria and the Sabines. Bernardone had often taken
his son there,[7] and Francis speedily succeeded in selling all he had
brought. He even parted with his horse, and full of joy set out upon the
road to Assisi.[8]
This act was to him most important; it marked his final rupture with the
past; from this day on his life was to be in all points the opposite of
what it had been; the Crucified had given himself to him; he on his side
had given himself to the Crucified without reserve or return. To
uncertainty, disquietude of soul, anguish, longing for an unknown good,
bitter regrets, had succeeded a delicious calm, the ecstasy of the lost
child who finds his mother, and forgets in a moment the torture of his
heart.
From Foligno he returned direct to St. Damian; it was not necessary to
pass through the city, and he was in haste to put his projects into
execution.
The poor priest was surprised enough when Francis handed over to him the
whole product of his sale. He doubtless thought that a passing quarrel
had occurred between Bernardone and his son, and for greater prudence
refused the gift; but Francis so insisted upon remaining with him that
he finally gave him leave to do so. As to the money, now become useless,
Francis cast it as a worthless object upon a window-seat in the
chapel.[9]
Meanwhile Bernardone, disturbed by his son's failure to return, sought
for him in all quarters, and was not long in learning of his presence at
St. Damian. In a moment he perceived that Francis was lost to him.
Resolved to try every means, he collected a few neighbors, and furious
with rage hastened to the hermitage to snatch him away, if need were, by
main force.
But Francis knew his father's violence. When he heard the shouts of
those who were in pursuit of him he felt his courage fail and hurried to
a hiding-place which he had prepared for himself for precisely such an
emergency. Bernardone, no doubt ill seconded in the search, ransacked
every corner, but was obliged at last to return to Assisi without his
son. Francis remained hidden for long days, weeping and groaning,
imploring God to show him the path he ought to follow. Notwithstanding
his fears he had an infinite joy at heart, and at no price would he have
turned back.[10]
This seclusion could not last long. Francis perceived this, and told
himself that for a newly made knight of the Christ he was cutting a very
pitiful figure. Arming himself, therefore, with courage, he went one day
to the city to present himself before his father and make known to him
his resolution.
It is easy to imagine the changes wrought in his appearance by these
few weeks of seclusion, passed much of them in mental anguish. When he
appeared, pale, cadaverous, his clothes in tatters, upon what is now the
_Piazza Nuova_, where hundreds of children play all day long, he was
greeted with a great shout, "_Pazzo, Pazzo_!" (A madman! a madman!) "_Un
pazzo ne fa cento_" (One madman makes a hundred more), says the proverb,
but one must have seen the delirious excitement of the street children
of Italy at the sight of a madman to gain an idea how true it is. The
moment the magic cry resounds they rush into the street with frightful
din, and while their parents look on from the windows, they surround the
unhappy sufferer with wild dances mingled with songs, shouts, and savage
howls. They throw stones at him, fling mud upon him, blindfold him; if
he flies into a rage, they double their insults; if he weeps or begs for
pity, they repeat his cries and mimic his sobs and supplications without
respite and without mercy.[11]
Bernardone soon heard the clamor which filled the narrow streets, and
went out to enjoy the show; suddenly he thought he heard his own name
and that of his son, and bursting with shame and rage he perceived
Francis. Throwing himself upon him, as if to throttle him, he dragged
him into the house and cast him, half dead, into a dark closet. Threats,
bad usage, everything was brought to bear to change the prisoner's
resolves, but all in vain. At last, wearied out and desperate, he left
him in peace, though not without having firmly bound him.[12]
A few days after he was obliged to be absent for a short time. Pica, his
wife, understood only too well his grievances against Francis, but
feeling that violence would be of no avail she resolved to try
gentleness. It was all in vain. Then, not being able longer to see him
thus tortured, she set him at liberty.
He returned straight to St. Damian.[13]
Bernardone, on his return, went so far as to strike Pica in punishment
for her weakness. Then, unable to tolerate the thought of seeing his son
the jest of the whole city, he tried to procure his expulsion from the
territory of Assisi. Going to St. Damian he summoned him to leave the
country. This time Francis did not try to hide. Boldly presenting
himself before his father, he declared to him that not only would
nothing induce him to abandon his resolutions, but that, moreover,
having become the servant of Christ, he had no longer to receive orders
from him.[14] As Bernardone launched out into invective, reproaching
him with the enormous sums which he had cost him, Francis showed him by
a gesture the money which he had brought back from the sale at Foligno
lying on the window-ledge. The father greedily seized it and went away,
resolving to appeal to the magistrates.
The consuls summoned Francis to appear before them, but he replied
simply that as servant of the Church he did not come under their
jurisdiction. Glad of this response, which relieved them of a delicate
dilemma, they referred the complainant to the diocesan authorities.[15]
The matter took on another aspect before the ecclesiastical tribunal; it
was idle to dream of asking the bishop to pronounce a sentence of
banishment, since it was his part to preserve the liberty of the