Read Online Saint Francis by Nikos Kazantzakis - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Nikos Kazantzakis
Ads: Link
victim from peak to peak even if he break into a thousand pieces. That was why, seeing Francis rise joyfully from his bed, I was overcome by fear.
The next morning I found him already up. Leaning on his mother's arm, he was taking his first tentative steps throughout the house. With joyful, protruding eyes he had been viewing the spacious rooms as though for the first time --the carved trunks, the pictures of the saints on the triptych; and at this particular moment he was standing in the doorway which led to the courtyard and admiring the stone statue in the corner next to the street door, a representation of the Virgin of Avignon holding the infant God in her arms; also the well with its marble brim surrounded by the fragrant potted plants--basil, marjoram, and marigolds--which reminded Lady Pica of her beloved, sun-drenched homeland.
"Welcome, lion of God," he said with a laugh as soon as he saw me. "This is the lion that goes to the lambs and instead of eating them, asks for alms."
He turned to his mother.
"Mother, which of the Evangelists had the lion as his companion? Luke?"
"No, my child, it was Mark," answered Lady Pica with a sigh. "You go to church so seldom, how could you be expected to know!"
"Well then, I am Mark and here is my lion," said Francis, coming to my side and leaning on me. "Let's go!"
"Where are you going, my child?" the mother cried. "Don't you realize you're still hardly able to stand on your feet?"
"You need have no fears, Mother. I have the lion with me, don't you see?"
He took me by the arm. "In God's name!" he said, crossing himself and proceeding as far as the street door.
"Mother, what day is it today?"
"Sunday, my child."
"But what month, what date?"
"September twenty-fourth, my child. Why do you ask?"
"Go inside, Mother, take the triptych, and write on back of the painting of the Crucified: 'On Sunday the twenty-fourth day of September in the year 1206 after the birth of our Lord, my son Francis was reborn.' "
WHAT A DEPARTURE that morning! What were the wings that brought us through the narrow lanes of Assisi! We reached the Piazza San Giorgio, passed through the fortress gate and started along the road which leads down to the plain.
It was a perfect autumn morning. A light mist hovered above the olive trees and vineyards. The grapes hung down awaiting the vintagers, some clusters even touching the ground. The last figs were ripening to the consistency of honey upon the fig trees, above which the golden orioles circled hungrily. The olive trees were heavy with fruit, and a drop of light quivered on each tiny leaf. Below, the plain was still asleep: the tender morning fog had not yet risen. The fields were gilded with mown wheat, and between the stalks the last poppies glistened, dressed in purple like queens, each with a black cross at its heart.
What joy! How our hearts leapt! And not only our hearts, but those of the whole world.
Francis was unrecognizable. Where had he found such strength, such glee! He had no further need of my support, but led the way himself, singing troubadour songs in his mother's native tongue. As lithe and buoyant as an angel, he was viewing the world about him for the very first time.
Two sacred oxen passed, swinging their gleaming necks coyly to the left and right and licking their moist nostrils with rough tongues. They were spotlessly white, had fat, powerful necks, and were crowned with ears of grain. Francis was astonished; he halted to admire them, and held out his hand in greeting.
"What nobility!" he murmured. "What great warriors they are, these fellow workers of God's!"
Approaching them, he patted their wide, snow-white rumps. The oxen turned and gazed at him gently, benevolently, like humans.
"If I were the Almighty," he said to me with a laugh, "I would install oxen in heaven along with the saints. Can you imagine heaven without donkeys, oxen, and birds, Brother Leo? I can't. Angels and saints aren't enough.
The next morning I found him already up. Leaning on his mother's arm, he was taking his first tentative steps throughout the house. With joyful, protruding eyes he had been viewing the spacious rooms as though for the first time --the carved trunks, the pictures of the saints on the triptych; and at this particular moment he was standing in the doorway which led to the courtyard and admiring the stone statue in the corner next to the street door, a representation of the Virgin of Avignon holding the infant God in her arms; also the well with its marble brim surrounded by the fragrant potted plants--basil, marjoram, and marigolds--which reminded Lady Pica of her beloved, sun-drenched homeland.
"Welcome, lion of God," he said with a laugh as soon as he saw me. "This is the lion that goes to the lambs and instead of eating them, asks for alms."
He turned to his mother.
"Mother, which of the Evangelists had the lion as his companion? Luke?"
"No, my child, it was Mark," answered Lady Pica with a sigh. "You go to church so seldom, how could you be expected to know!"
"Well then, I am Mark and here is my lion," said Francis, coming to my side and leaning on me. "Let's go!"
"Where are you going, my child?" the mother cried. "Don't you realize you're still hardly able to stand on your feet?"
"You need have no fears, Mother. I have the lion with me, don't you see?"
He took me by the arm. "In God's name!" he said, crossing himself and proceeding as far as the street door.
"Mother, what day is it today?"
"Sunday, my child."
"But what month, what date?"
"September twenty-fourth, my child. Why do you ask?"
"Go inside, Mother, take the triptych, and write on back of the painting of the Crucified: 'On Sunday the twenty-fourth day of September in the year 1206 after the birth of our Lord, my son Francis was reborn.' "
WHAT A DEPARTURE that morning! What were the wings that brought us through the narrow lanes of Assisi! We reached the Piazza San Giorgio, passed through the fortress gate and started along the road which leads down to the plain.
It was a perfect autumn morning. A light mist hovered above the olive trees and vineyards. The grapes hung down awaiting the vintagers, some clusters even touching the ground. The last figs were ripening to the consistency of honey upon the fig trees, above which the golden orioles circled hungrily. The olive trees were heavy with fruit, and a drop of light quivered on each tiny leaf. Below, the plain was still asleep: the tender morning fog had not yet risen. The fields were gilded with mown wheat, and between the stalks the last poppies glistened, dressed in purple like queens, each with a black cross at its heart.
What joy! How our hearts leapt! And not only our hearts, but those of the whole world.
Francis was unrecognizable. Where had he found such strength, such glee! He had no further need of my support, but led the way himself, singing troubadour songs in his mother's native tongue. As lithe and buoyant as an angel, he was viewing the world about him for the very first time.
Two sacred oxen passed, swinging their gleaming necks coyly to the left and right and licking their moist nostrils with rough tongues. They were spotlessly white, had fat, powerful necks, and were crowned with ears of grain. Francis was astonished; he halted to admire them, and held out his hand in greeting.
"What nobility!" he murmured. "What great warriors they are, these fellow workers of God's!"
Approaching them, he patted their wide, snow-white rumps. The oxen turned and gazed at him gently, benevolently, like humans.
"If I were the Almighty," he said to me with a laugh, "I would install oxen in heaven along with the saints. Can you imagine heaven without donkeys, oxen, and birds, Brother Leo? I can't. Angels and saints aren't enough.
Similar Books
