Saint Francis Read Online Free

Lord, aid my memory, enlighten my mind, do not permit me to utter a single word I might later regret. Arise and bear witness, mountains and plains of Umbria; arise, stones sprinkled with his martyr's blood, dusty, bemired roads of Italy, black caves, snow- covered peaks; arise, ship that took him to the savage East; arise, lepers and wolves and bandits; and you, birds who heard his preaching, arise--Brother Leo needs you. Come, stand on my right, on my left; help me to tell the truth, the whole truth. Upon this hangs the salvation of my soul.

    I tremble, because many times I find I cannot distinguish what is true from what is false. Francis runs in my mind like water. He changes faces; I am unable to pin him down. Was he short? Was he immensely tall? I cannot put my hand over my heart and say with certainty. He often seemed squat to me, all skin and bones, with a face which bore witness to his penury--scant chestnut-colored beard, thick protruding lips, huge hairy ears erect like a rabbit's and listening intently to both the visible and invisible worlds. His hands, though, were delicate, his fingers slender--indications of descent from a noble line. . . . But whenever he spoke, prayed, or thought he was alone, his squat body shot forth flames which reached the heavens: he became an archangel with red wings which he beat in the air. And if this happened at night when the flames were visible, you recoiled in terror to keep from being burned.

    "Put yourself out, Brother Francis," I used to cry. "Put yourself out before you burn up the world."

    Then, lifting my eyes, I would watch him as he headed directly for me, calm and smiling, his face once again characterized by human joy, bitterness, and penury. . . .

    I remember once asking him, "Brother Francis, how does God reveal Himself to you when you are all alone in the darkness?"

    And he answered me: "Like a glass of cool water, Brother Leo; like a glass of water from the fountain of everlasting youth. I'm thirsty, I drink it, and my thirst is quenched for all eternity."

    "God like a glass of cool water?" I cried, astonished.

    "And what did you think, Brother Leo? Why be alarmed? There is nothing simpler than God, nothing more refreshing, more suited to the lips of man."

    But a few years later when Francis was a doubled-over lump of hair and bones, devoid of flesh, nearly breathing his last, he bent forward so that the friars would not hear him, and said to me, trembling, "God is a conflagration, Brother Leo. He burns, and we burn with Him."

    As far as I can gauge his height in my mind, I can say only this with certitude: from the ground trodden by his feet, from there to his head, his stature was short; but from the head upward it was immense.

    There are two parts of his body, however, which I do remember with perfect clarity: his feet and his eyes. I was a beggar, had spent my entire life among beggars, had seen thousands of feet which passed every day of their existence walking unshod over rocks, in dust, mud, upon the snow. But never in my life had I seen feet so distressed, so melancholy, feeble, gnawed away by journeys, so full of open wounds-- as his. Sometimes when Father Francis lay sleeping I used to bend down stealthily and kiss them, and I felt as though I were kissing the total suffering of mankind.

    And how could anyone forget his eyes after having once seen them? They were large, almond-shaped, black as pitch. They made you exclaim that you had never viewed eyes so tame, so velvety; but scarcely had you completed your thought when the eyes suddenly became two open trapdoors enabling you to look down at his vitals--heart, kidneys, lungs; whereupon you discovered that they were ablaze. He would often stare at you without seeing you. What did he see? Not your skin and flesh, not your head--but your skull. One day he caressed my face slowly with the palm of his hand. His eyes had become filled with compassion and sweetness, and he said, "I like you, Brother