Read Online Saint Francis by Nikos Kazantzakis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nikos Kazantzakis
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No, heaven must also have donkeys, oxen, and birds!"
I laughed.
"And a lion: you, Brother Leo!"
"And a troubadour: you, Francis," I said, and I stroked the long hair that flowed over his shoulders.
We started walking again. The downward slope aided us, and we began to run. Suddenly Francis stopped. "Where are we going?" he asked with surprise. "Why are we running?"
"But my young lord, aren't we going to San Damiano's? Have you forgotten?"
Francis shook his head. His voice now was bitter, melancholy:
"And I thought we were running because we had set out to deliver the Holy Sepulcher."
"Just the two of us?" I asked waggishly.
"We are not two," Francis objected, his face suddenly catching fire. "We are not two, we are three."
I shuddered. It was true: we were three. That explained why we felt so much joy and assurance. And it also explained the assault--because, so help me God, this expedition was not a peaceful one; instead, it seemed that war had broken out, that we were an army--the rich young lord and the beggar--and that with God in the lead we were running to the assault.
How many years have passed since then! Francis has risen to heaven, but I still have not been deemed worthy of quitting this life. I have grown old. My hair and teeth have fallen out, my knees have swelled, my arteries are as hard as wood. At this moment my hand trembles as it holds the quill; the paper is already smudged and covered with the tears that have been flowing from my eyes. But even so, now that I recall the departure that morning I feel like springing to my feet, taking my staff, and climbing up the hill to ring the bells and rouse the world. . . . Truly, Father Francis, you are right: there is no such thing as the body. The only thing that exists is the soul --it is in command. Rise up, my soul, recall that morning when we flew toward San Damiano's, and relate everything. Everything, without being afraid of cowardly unbelievers!
As we were running we suddenly heard the squeals and laughter of young girls. We quickened our pace and arrived at the ruins of San Damiano's. The walls were leaning outward; the yellow starwort had already embraced the stones, shifting them; the tiny bell tower had collapsed and its blocks still lay in the courtyard, the small, mute bell next to them. We heard laughter and shrill voices on all sides, but saw no trace of a human being. Francis turned and cast a look of surprise at me.
"The whole ruin is laughing. There must be angels here."
"And what if they're devils?" I asked. I had begun to grow uneasy. "Come, let's go back."
"Devils don't laugh like that, Brother Leo. They're angels. You wait here. I'll enter the church by myself if you're afraid."
"No, I'll come with you," I said, ashamed. "Brother Leo is not afraid!"
The door was hanging off its hinges. We crossed the grass- covered threshold and entered. Two pigeons darted out through the tiny windows and disappeared. At first we could see nothing in the half-light, but soon we made out a huge, ancient cross hanging above the altar, and on it we divined, we did not see, a pale body, floating buoyantly--like a ghost. At its feet stood the image of San Damiano, and a glass lamp, unlit.
We advanced slowly, with difficulty. The air seemed to be filled with wings.
"San Damiano is going to appear now on his crutches," Francis said softly. He wanted to display his hardihood, but his voice was shaking.
We advanced further. Through the narrow transom of the sanctuary we were able to perceive greenery: evidently the church's tiny garden. We smelled rosemary and woodbine.
"Let's go out into the garden," said Francis. "We'll suffocate if we stay here."
But the moment we were about to cross the threshold we heard panting behind the altar, and the rustle of silk clothes, or--as it seemed--of wings. Francis clutched my arm.
"Did you hear? Did you hear? It seemed to me like--"
But before he was able to finish his thought, three
I laughed.
"And a lion: you, Brother Leo!"
"And a troubadour: you, Francis," I said, and I stroked the long hair that flowed over his shoulders.
We started walking again. The downward slope aided us, and we began to run. Suddenly Francis stopped. "Where are we going?" he asked with surprise. "Why are we running?"
"But my young lord, aren't we going to San Damiano's? Have you forgotten?"
Francis shook his head. His voice now was bitter, melancholy:
"And I thought we were running because we had set out to deliver the Holy Sepulcher."
"Just the two of us?" I asked waggishly.
"We are not two," Francis objected, his face suddenly catching fire. "We are not two, we are three."
I shuddered. It was true: we were three. That explained why we felt so much joy and assurance. And it also explained the assault--because, so help me God, this expedition was not a peaceful one; instead, it seemed that war had broken out, that we were an army--the rich young lord and the beggar--and that with God in the lead we were running to the assault.
How many years have passed since then! Francis has risen to heaven, but I still have not been deemed worthy of quitting this life. I have grown old. My hair and teeth have fallen out, my knees have swelled, my arteries are as hard as wood. At this moment my hand trembles as it holds the quill; the paper is already smudged and covered with the tears that have been flowing from my eyes. But even so, now that I recall the departure that morning I feel like springing to my feet, taking my staff, and climbing up the hill to ring the bells and rouse the world. . . . Truly, Father Francis, you are right: there is no such thing as the body. The only thing that exists is the soul --it is in command. Rise up, my soul, recall that morning when we flew toward San Damiano's, and relate everything. Everything, without being afraid of cowardly unbelievers!
As we were running we suddenly heard the squeals and laughter of young girls. We quickened our pace and arrived at the ruins of San Damiano's. The walls were leaning outward; the yellow starwort had already embraced the stones, shifting them; the tiny bell tower had collapsed and its blocks still lay in the courtyard, the small, mute bell next to them. We heard laughter and shrill voices on all sides, but saw no trace of a human being. Francis turned and cast a look of surprise at me.
"The whole ruin is laughing. There must be angels here."
"And what if they're devils?" I asked. I had begun to grow uneasy. "Come, let's go back."
"Devils don't laugh like that, Brother Leo. They're angels. You wait here. I'll enter the church by myself if you're afraid."
"No, I'll come with you," I said, ashamed. "Brother Leo is not afraid!"
The door was hanging off its hinges. We crossed the grass- covered threshold and entered. Two pigeons darted out through the tiny windows and disappeared. At first we could see nothing in the half-light, but soon we made out a huge, ancient cross hanging above the altar, and on it we divined, we did not see, a pale body, floating buoyantly--like a ghost. At its feet stood the image of San Damiano, and a glass lamp, unlit.
We advanced slowly, with difficulty. The air seemed to be filled with wings.
"San Damiano is going to appear now on his crutches," Francis said softly. He wanted to display his hardihood, but his voice was shaking.
We advanced further. Through the narrow transom of the sanctuary we were able to perceive greenery: evidently the church's tiny garden. We smelled rosemary and woodbine.
"Let's go out into the garden," said Francis. "We'll suffocate if we stay here."
But the moment we were about to cross the threshold we heard panting behind the altar, and the rustle of silk clothes, or--as it seemed--of wings. Francis clutched my arm.
"Did you hear? Did you hear? It seemed to me like--"
But before he was able to finish his thought, three
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