answered the Cardinal. "He is a troubadour, a vagrant minstrel, whose
lady is Poverty. His speech is serene, gay, charming. He knows how to
seize upon simple incidents of daily life, and use them as parables, so
that the poor and humble can understand; and all his teaching is full of
a lyrical emotion that is penetrated with the love of all things. He
burns with the love of God, and this divine flame is so strong in him
that it enlightens all the world. There is nothing about him, no bird,
beast, fish, or tree, which does not seem to him a part of the choir of
God, praising the Lord, and existing entirely for that praise. Beyond
these things he is a true son of the Church. These penitents, Holy
Father, are so simple: they have faith in some spark of divinity hidden
in the soul of man which may be awakened by a breath; they believe that
man can be made to see the beauty of holiness, and that once he has
grasped and recognised this beauty, as a thing existing in the world
about him, he will follow no more after the beauties of fleshly desires.
He bears the mockery of those who think him mad with so much patience
that they become ashamed. His simplicity draws folk to him."
"All these things are indeed admirable," said Innocent in his clear, low
speech; "but alas! how often have the most beautiful ideals led men into
abominable heresies and destroyed the peace of the Church. Would that
his dream might be realised, and that all men might seek their salvation
through poverty and obedience. But to us, most Reverend Father, in our
character as Supreme Pontiff, there are many responsibilities. We also,
if we might choose, would choose the one thing necessary; Mary's
unbounded loving adoration, in preference to Martha's many cares. Yet we
are content. The divine wisdom hath shown us that here also salvation
may be gained. We accept our office with humility, content to be the
servant of the servants of God. Our function is an ungrateful one, to
watch over the welfare of our flock, and guard them not only from their
enemies but from themselves. Saintly men have been the cause of mischief
in others, and even the greatest heretics have been men of holy lives.
It behoves us, therefore, to keep a strict and unceasing watch upon all
doctrines taught to the faithful. We cannot tolerate the teaching and
exposition of the Gospels by a preaching fraternity partly composed of
lay members. We cannot tolerate any action independent of the bishops.
We must insist that each brother receive the tonsure, and that they
choose one from among themselves who will be responsible to us; and
also, that none shall preach or direct any mission without the consent
of the bishop. Yet even now I am doubtful. Perchance this man may be
discouraged. It would be better if they entered some existing Order."
He paused, drank a little more lemon, and looked keenly at the Cardinal.
"Bring him to me," he said.
The Cardinal, having led Francis into the room, stood apart in the
embrasure of a window overlooking the courtyard. Innocent fixed his eyes
steadily upon the little poor man of Assisi. Even at their first meeting
he had been struck by the youthful, almost childish figure, the small,
round head, and the pallor of the lean face, illuminated with its large
patient eyes. It was like watching a timid wild thing approaching him.
Francis walked with slow, hesitating steps. His knees and fingers were
trembling, his eyes shone with tears, his face was paler than usual, but
a smile wavered upon it. He did not come in fear, but shaken with an
emotion that was partly hope and partly doubt. He looked toward the
seated figure in the chair, wearing a high tiara of damascened white
cloth rising above a simple pointed crown, and a white pallium with red
crosses. He hoped for some sign, but the Pope remained inflexible, his
hands laid upon his knees, his eyes motionless, a figure of impenetrable
reserve; and Francis could find no word to say. At last he knelt, still
trembling, with the tears streaming from his eyes. The Cardinal moved in
the window; and the slight noise seemed for a moment to give Francis
confidence.
"Father Pope," he began simply; but he could say no more.
"My son," said Innocent at last, moved by the suffering eyes, "why have
you come to us again?"
"Father Pope," answered Francis in a sweet, almost shrill voice, "when
you sent me from you, you did not bid me not to come again."
He smiled as he spoke, very simply, winningly, a smile that was almost a
caress. Some hint of softening in the eyes of the Pope gave him more
confidence.
"Most Holy Father," he began again, "I have come to you once more,
because you have not yet granted my request. You are a great person,
whom God has exalted above all men, and I think that perhaps you had not
time to listen to me, who am the meanest of God's creatures; so that you
did not understand the excellence of that life which the Lord hath
commanded us to follow. Or perchance it was that the Lord wished to try
my faith, and, lest I was over-confident in myself, to show me that
without his will I am capable of nothing, and to humiliate my pride.
Father Pope, I think this last is the true reason: for how could you not
see the excellence of the way God hath chosen for us, which is a pattern
of the way the disciples themselves followed?"
And the Pope, having no answer to this candour, sat immobile.
"It is a little thing that we ask of you," continued Francis; "only that
you should approve of our vow to follow a life like that which the
disciples led on the shores of the Lake of Galilee."
"My son," said Innocent, "search well your heart. Is it not pride which
makes you think that God hath chosen you for this work?"
And Francis lowered his head until it touched the floor.
"Why," continued Innocent, "should God have chosen you among the
multitudes of men?"
And Francis raised his head again.
"God looked down upon this earth," he answered humbly, "and he explored
all the ways thereof, and searched into all the souls of men. And in the
whole earth he found no man so poor in mind, so mean of stature, so foul
with sins, so weak and utterly worthless, as Francis, the son of Pietro
Bernardone; and for that reason he hath chosen me. For if folk see that
one so miserable as I am can be uplifted by the grace of God, they will
hope again for themselves; and many who are caught in the snares of
Satan and despair of their salvation will be freed by this means."
"Is it not pride, my son," the Pope asked of him after a pause, "that
hinders you from accepting the modifications which I suggest in your
rule?"
"I shall reason with you," answered Francis; "tell me one."
"That you should not be entirely without possessions, without a little
money."
"Father Pope," answered Francis sweetly, "if we were possessed of even
the meanest things, we should have to protect them; and if we had but a
few pence in our scrips there are those so poor that they would covet
them and desire to steal them; and if a man come with arms to rob us,
should we oppose violence with violence? Yea, and having a little we
shall not have enough, but each one will seek to have more than his
brother, and so shall discord and dissension grow among us. And how,
having sufficient, shall we go among those who have nothing and say to
them: 'Brothers, be not cast down, for the wealth of this world is but
dust and ashes. Seek not after it, but praise God for what he hath given
you; life, and this pleasant earth, the song of birds, freedom from
care, death, and a treasure in the skies'? Will they not mock at us? Or
how shall we go among thieves, hiding our gold in our bosoms, and saying
to them: 'Brothers, do not so wickedly, that which ye steal is but
dross, earth digged out of earth; but holiness is fine gold.' Will they
not mock at us, saying, 'Holiness is possible with a full belly'? Father
Pope, having no treasure to guard, we shall have no care; and those
among whom we shall go will not lay violent hands upon us, as thieves
and impostors."
The Pope hesitated.
"Will ye live by mendicancy alone? Will no idlers come in with you?"
"Nay," said Francis, "no man shall be idle. Each one shall work, and
their wage will be their daily bread."
He spoke no more, but knelt, waiting. Innocent had moved. He leant
forward a little, with bent head and knitted brows, looking fixedly at
the curious figure, with the head of a young faun, kneeling before him
in a coarse stuff cloak, girt with a rope like a halter. He could not
fathom that serene soul. At last he leaned back in his chair.
"My son," he said, in a gentler voice, "our task is hard. We have the
care and oversight of the whole Church, and all our vigilance is
directed to keeping the holy faith, as it has been handed down to us,
one, pure, and universal. My son, God hath poured his grace upon you,
and distinguished you with gifts of holiness. I am not worthy, there is
none less worthy than I, of the charge God has confided to me. Pray for
me, that I may be enlightened. On every side the Church is being
menaced: by subtle and dangerous enemies without, and by schisms and
heresies within. Therefore it is necessary for me to avoid the
multiplication of new fraternities, however sacred and inspired with
true zeal they may be; for each, through the peculiarity of their
nature, and their particular devotion to one aspect of the religious
life, is liable to be cut off from the main body of Holy Church; nay,
even to become an hindrance, an annoyance, a little sect separated from
the communion of the faithful. For all these reasons I can only advise
you, as I have before, to join some existing Order."
Francis rose from his knees. He had a sense of being crushed by a cruel
and superior force. His eyes were dry; but he saw nothing. He turned and
moved slowly toward the door. Innocent made a sudden gesture of
disappointment. Francis took a few more steps, hesitated, and then
turned.
"Father Pope," he said, "there was once in the desert a woman, very poor
but beautiful. A great king seeing her beauty desired to take her to
wife, that by her he might have beautiful children. So it was done; and
many children were born to him. And when the children were grown up,
their mother spoke to them, saying: 'My children, you have no reason to
be ashamed, for you are the sons of the king; go, therefore, to his
court, and he will give you all things that are necessary to you.' And
when they had arrived, the king admired their beauty, and finding in
them his own likeness, he spoke to them, saying: 'Whose sons are ye?'
And when they had answered that they were the sons of a poor woman
dwelling in the desert, the king embraced them with great joy, crying:
'Fear not, because you are mine own sons. If strangers eat at my table,
shall I turn away those who are my lawful children?' And the king
commanded the woman that she should send him all the sons whom she had
borne, in order that he might care for them."
He paused for a moment, and then continued:
"I am, Holy Father, that poor woman, whom God in his love has deigned to
make beautiful, and by whom it has pleased him to have lawful children.
The King of kings has told me that he will nourish all the children he
has by me, for if he nourishes bastards, how much more should he nourish
his lawful children?"
He spoke the last words vehemently, standing rigid before Innocent, with
blazing eyes; and the Pope sat immobile, watching him with inscrutable
calm.
"My son, come here," said Innocent at last.
The Cardinal turned from the window, and looked from one to another with
equal interest. He was a worldly man, and the mere contact with the
world had been sufficient to make him more human than the Pope:
unconsciously, disinterestedly, he was summing up the characters of the
two men before him. The fact that he was inferior to both fitted him to
judge them, made him swift to see the flaws and defects in their diverse
characters: Innocent's hard legalism and military instincts; the blithe
and elusive spirituality of Francis, a nature free as air, too diverse,
too liquid, too impracticable and fleeting, to have any but a momentary
effect. He smiled at the comedy; it was no more to him. Behind his
cynicism was a kind of tolerance, a charitable irony, a contemptuous
love. The fact that both these men recognised an ideal, and denied the
manifold pleasures of life to follow after it, baffled and perplexed
him. That ironical attitude from which, within himself, he considered
them, was the tribute which small imaginations pay to the great. He was
content to be a spectator, and was willingly amused by the readiness
with which each of these men detected the weak spot in the other, while
remaining blind to his own.
Innocent stretched out his hand to Francis and drew him toward the
chair. Francis knelt.
"My son, let us try to understand one another," said the Pope amicably,
as he laid his hand on the other's head. "How is it possible for us to
avoid seeing in thy courage and perseverance the directing hand of God?
Be assured that we have been moved solely by our desire to work for the
good of the Church, and the welfare of those who follow thee. We would
not have thee depart from us with bitterness in thy heart. Listen,
therefore, and be content with what we propose. Is not one condition of
thy rule obedience?"
"We shall be obedient to you in all things, save in any abrogation of
the rule, for that way was shown to us by the mercy of Christ himself."
"Thou dost yet mistrust us," said the Pope, smiling. "Know, then, that
thou hast our permission to follow that way of life which has been
revealed to you, to practise poverty and the evangelical virtues. Art
thou content?"
"Yea, I am content," answered Francis, with a radiant face.
"But," continued Innocent, checking him; "and herein thou shalt show thy
filial obedience to us: thou and thy companions shall receive the
tonsure at the hands of the Cardinal Giovanni di San Paolo, so that
henceforth ye may be identified with the Church; and, secondly, ye shall
choose one from among you who shall be responsible to us for all; and,
thirdly, in whatsoever place ye may be, ye shall be subject unto the
bishop, yielding him the most implicit obedience, and in no wise seeking
to preach without his leave. Art thou content?"
"Yea, I am content," answered Francis, "so that you approve our rule."
"We give thee permission to follow the rule, and to preach to the
people," said the Pope clearly, "and if thy fraternity becomes great,
and many flock to you, then thou shalt come to us again, and we shall
formally approve thine Order. Meanwhile thou hast the permission. Pray
for me, my son, that the Lord may reveal to me the way of righteousness.
Most Reverend Father, let my secretary be summoned."
As the Cardinal led Francis from the audience, the Pope watched them. He
sat for some time in thought. The secretary entered, and sitting at the
table began to sharpen a new pen. Then Innocent lifted his head. He
dismissed Francis from his mind as completely as if the little poor man
had never existed, and concerned himself with the question of the
heretical Albigeois, and the case of Count Raymond of Toulouse. The
Count had on a previous occasion objected to the appointment, as legate,
of the Abbot of Citeaux, who was notoriously his enemy; and it was now
the business of the Pope to console the powerful Abbot for the fact that
he could not be the direct representative of the Holy See at the Count's
approaching trial, nor in the final settlement of the whole question of
the Albigeois; and for the appointment in his room of Maître Thédise. He
was careful to point out that Thédise was not a legate, but a mere
delegate of the Church.
"He shall merely execute thy prescriptions," he dictated in his low,
clear voice. "He shall be thy tool, thy voice, the bait which covers the
hook of thy sagacity. Raymond is like a sick man, for whom a kindly
physician will help to sweeten the bitterness of his medicine; he would
take thy remedy more patiently from the hands of another."
And the secretary's quill scratched busily over the fine parchment.
* * * * *
When the companions of Francis saw him returning to them, they ran to
meet him, and seeing from afar the joy that shone upon his face, they
were glad and gave thanks to God. And when he had come up to them and
told them the conditions which he had agreed to with the Pope, with one
voice they chose him for their head, and kneeling before him made a vow
of obedience. And brother Egidio suddenly remembered the command and
duty which Francis had laid upon him, and he rose.
"Francis, son of Pietro Bernardone," he said, "because of thy doubt thou
art contemptible and in no wise worthy of God's mercy."
"It is true," said Francis, kneeling before him, and thanking him. Then
in a group they left the courtyard, he in the middle and the others
surrounding him, and presently one heard no sound but that of the
fountain singing in the sunlight.
III
It was with joy that Francis and his companions left Rome. As soon as
they had received the tonsure, and prayed together at the shrine of the
Apostles, they set out northward by the Porta Salaria, taking nothing
for the journey, neither staff, nor scrip, nor shoes, nor any money; but
trusting all things to God, whose children they were. At first they
passed little farms and inns, and in the distance saw a few flocks and
shepherds moving slowly over the plains; but in a little while the
houses became rare, and the only sounds were from the larks in the
skies. They had drawn their cowls over their heads to protect them from
the fierce sun, and the dust rising from their feet covered them with a
fine grey powder. But in the gaiety of their hearts they felt none of
these things, but were quickened with the joy of their triumph,
quickened also with the sense that they were returning homeward, to the
hills of Assisi and the sweet air of their fields. Their eyes followed
the larks into the skies, and they felt that their own souls sang like
that above the earth.
"Praised be thou, O Lord, for our brothers the larks," said Francis; "at
dawn they sing to thee, and at noon and at eve; their blithe singing
gladdens the heart of man."
Yet in that vast silence the voices of the larks seemed thin and small.
There was no motion in the air except the trembling of the heat, and the
straight road they followed stretched far away into the distance.
"Where shall we sleep to-night?" said Giovanni.
"Where God wills," answered Francis. "Our brother the body is a cell,
and the soul is a monk inhabiting it."
Their faces were thick with dust, and the sweat from their brows traced
runnels in it; their lips were parched, and their eyes ached from the
dazzling light. On all sides lay the great plains, and no trees rose out
of them.
"I thirst," said Angelo.
"Perhaps we shall pass a little stream," answered Francis. "Be not cast
down. At evening we shall look back on all that we have suffered for our
Lady Poverty, and we shall be glad. It will rejoice us that we have been
tried, and have not been found unworthy."
Yet the sun had not declined much from the zenith, and it was long until
the evening. Their feet dragged wearily.
"God hath forsaken us," said Giovanni.
"Cast that thought from thee, my brother," said Francis. "Though we
perish here in this desert place, God hath not forsaken us. Shall we
faint at a little suffering, we who were proud at dawn? Surely we should
suffer a little for his sake, who suffered so much for ours."
But they had grown feverish with the heat; they gasped and sobbed,
swaying like drunken men, muttering as if in a delirium; and a great
fear covered Francis, as he watched them.
"My God," he prayed silently, yet moving his parched lips, "if I have
done anything accounted worthy in thy sight, grant that I may suffer for
these. Let us not perish utterly."
They sank down one by one beside the dusty road, and the fierce heat
streamed down on them: one or two muttered, but most of them lay still.
"My God, why hast thou deserted me?" prayed Francis in a broken voice.
And Egidio, lying delirious upon the ground, looked at him with glazed,
unrecognising eyes, and muttered to him:
"Francis, son of Pietro Bernardone, because of thy doubt thou art
contemptible, and in no wise worthy of the mercy of God."
And Francis covered his face with his hands, and lay beside his
companions.
"If it be thy will, my Lord; if it be thy will."
* * * * *
He felt water sprinkled on his face, and a little wine poured between
his lips.
"Who are you who travel in this wise, through the fierce heat, without
food or drink, and half naked? If I had not seen you, and come to your
aid, you would have perished by the wayside."
The bottle was thrust between his lips again, and he swallowed a good
draught; as he swum back into consciousness, he heard the voice of
Egidio:
"We are penitents from Assisi, who have been to Rome that the Pope might
approve our rule, and we were returning homeward when the fierce heat
struck us down."
"From Rome," said the deep mellow voice. "Then you have been travelling
on foot through the hot noon. It is wonderful that you got so far. But
for my wine you would have lain there till the end of time. Art thou
stronger?"
The last words were to Francis, who had opened his eyes.
"Yea. Thanks to thee," answered Francis. "God will reward thee, my
brother."
"Doubtless," answered the other. "But who is to pay me for my wine? You
be twelve fools, without a wise man among you."
Francis looking about him saw that most of his companions were sitting
up eating bread, and looking at him stupidly. All were sick and weary.
The stranger who had helped them was a tall young man driving a hooded
wine-cart. He had a plump, handsome face, magnificent limbs, and a
general air of well-being.
"None of us can pay thee," answered Francis, "nay, not even for thy
wine, which was the least part of thy kindness. Shall we pay thee for
our lives with our lives? We have given them to God."
"I want no payment," said the young man, ashamed. "See, I shall leave
you this other small flask of wine. It hath grown cooler; the sun is
sinking, and an hour will bring you to Orte. Yea, indeed I see that you
are saintly livers, yet I have called you fools."
"It is right that you should call us fools, my brother," answered
Francis. "We are sinful men, who follow the way which God hath shown us,
and have no wisdom in worldly things. We are fools for Christ's sake.
Yea, we are the fools of God, and by our folly seek to draw men toward
him. But thy kindliness and mercy shown to us, my brother, is a good
deed, which like a seed thrown in the ground shall flourish and bear
fruit. Yea, though thou seest it not. And when thou goest before God at
the last, he will take two apples out of his robe, an apple of gold and
an apple of silver, and he will speak to thee, saying: 'Lo, here is thy
payment for that thou hast succoured my children on earth; these be the
fruit of the seed which thou then plantedst.'"
But the young man blushed shamefully.
"Suffer me now to go," he said. "Thou hast made me ashamed. Yet if thou
shouldst pray for me, pray also for my beloved, who is called Vanna."
He climbed into his cart, and continued on the way they had come, the
bells tinkling upon his mule. And after a little time, when they were
rested, they went their own way, with great weariness of body and in
silence because they were still dazed and giddy. But coming to Orte,
they entered into an ancient ruined tomb, where they determined to abide
for that night, and some peasants gave them enough food. Then sitting in
the starlight, they praised God for his mercy.
"Surely," said Francis, "he who succoured us was an angel sent from God,
for how else could we have been rescued from death?"
And they marvelled that they had not known him for an angel, and with
great joy they praised God.
* * * * *
"They were twelve fools," said the young man to Vanna; "but for me they
would have perished by the roadside."
"God was good to them," she answered simply; and again he was ashamed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_TO LAURENCE BINYON_
V
AT SAN CASCIANO
------------------------------------------------------------------------
V
AT SAN CASCIANO
Taking a pen from the table, he mended it to his own fashion, and wrote: