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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..37cfc64 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #63084 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/63084) diff --git a/old/63084-0.txt b/old/63084-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 5d9769a..0000000 --- a/old/63084-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4248 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of St. Francis of Assisi, by G. K. Chesterton - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: St. Francis of Assisi - -Author: G. K. Chesterton - -Release Date: August 31, 2020 [EBook #63084] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI *** - - - - -Produced by Tim Lindell, Chris Pinfield and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries). - - - - - -Transcriber's Note: - -Obvious printer errors have been corrected. Hyphenation has been -rationalised. - -Small capitals have been replaced by full capitals. Italics are -indicated by _underscores_. - -A list of other books from the same publisher, and a preface to them, -have been moved to the end of the book. - - - - - ST. FRANCIS OF - ASSISI - - BY - G. K. CHESTERTON - - [Illustration: H&S] - - HODDER AND STOUGHTON LTD. - LONDON - TORONTO - - - - - _Contents_ - - PAGE - CHAPTER I - THE PROBLEM OF ST. FRANCIS 7 - - CHAPTER II - THE WORLD ST. FRANCIS FOUND 18 - - CHAPTER III - FRANCIS THE FIGHTER 40 - - CHAPTER IV - FRANCIS THE BUILDER 58 - - CHAPTER V - LE JONGLEUR DE DIEU 74 - - CHAPTER VI - THE LITTLE POOR MAN 94 - - CHAPTER VII - THE THREE ORDERS 113 - - CHAPTER VIII - THE MIRROR OF CHRIST 133 - - CHAPTER IX - MIRACLES AND DEATH 153 - - CHAPTER X - THE TESTAMENT OF ST. FRANCIS 172 - - - - - _Chapter I_ - _The Problem of St. Francis_ - - -A sketch of St. Francis of Assisi in modern English may be written in -one of three ways. Between these the writer must make his selection; and -the third way, which is adopted here, is in some respects the most -difficult of all. At least, it would be the most difficult if the other -two were not impossible. - -First, he may deal with this great and most amazing man as a figure in -secular history and a model of social virtues. He may describe this -divine demagogue as being, as he probably was, the world's one quite -sincere democrat. He may say (what means very little) that St. Francis -was in advance of his age. He may say (what is quite true) that -St. Francis anticipated all that is most liberal and sympathetic in the -modern mood; the love of nature; the love of animals; the sense of -social compassion; the sense of the spiritual dangers of prosperity and -even of property. All those things that nobody understood before -Wordsworth were familiar to St. Francis. All those things that were -first discovered by Tolstoy had been taken for granted by St. Francis. -He could be presented, not only as a human but a humanitarian hero; -indeed as the first hero of humanism. He has been described as a sort of -morning star of the Renaissance. And in comparison with all these -things, his ascetical theology can be ignored or dismissed as a -contemporary accident, which was fortunately not a fatal accident. His -religion can be regarded as a superstition, but an inevitable -superstition, from which not even genius could wholly free itself; in -the consideration of which it would be unjust to condemn St. Francis for -his self-denial or unduly chide him for his chastity. It is quite true -that even from so detached a standpoint his stature would still appear -heroic. There would still be a great deal to be said about the man who -tried to end the Crusades by talking to the Saracens or who interceded -with the Emperor for the birds. The writer might describe in a purely -historical spirit the whole of that great Franciscan inspiration that -was felt in the painting of Giotto, in the poetry of Dante, in the -miracle plays that made possible the modern drama, and in so many other -things that are already appreciated by the modern culture. He may try to -do it, as others have done, almost without raising any religious -question at all. In short, he may try to tell the story of a saint -without God; which is like being told to write the life of Nansen and -forbidden to mention the North Pole. - -Second, he may go to the opposite extreme, and decide, as it were, to be -defiantly devotional. He may make the theological enthusiasm as -thoroughly the theme as it was the theme of the first Franciscans. He -may treat religion as the real thing that it was to the real Francis of -Assisi. He can find an austere joy, so to speak, in parading the -paradoxes of asceticism and all the holy topsy-turvydom of humility. He -can stamp the whole history with the Stigmata, record fasts like fights -against a dragon; till in the vague modern mind St. Francis is as dark a -figure as St. Dominic. In short he can produce what many in our world -will regard as a sort of photographic negative, the reversal of all -lights and shades; what the foolish will find as impenetrable as -darkness and even many of the wise will find almost as invisible as if -it were written in silver upon white. Such a study of St. Francis would -be unintelligible to anyone who does not share his religion, perhaps -only partly intelligible to anyone who does not share his vocation. -According to degrees of judgment, it will be regarded as something too -bad or too good for the world. The only difficulty about doing the thing -in this way is that it cannot be done. It would really require a saint -to write the life of a saint. In the present case the objections to such -a course are insuperable. - -Third, he may try to do what I have tried to do here; and, as I have -already suggested, the course has peculiar problems of its own. The -writer may put himself in the position of the ordinary modern outsider -and enquirer; as indeed the present writer is still largely and was once -entirely in that position. He may start from the standpoint of a man who -already admires St. Francis, but only for those things which such a man -finds admirable. In other words he may assume that the reader is at -least as enlightened as Renan or Matthew Arnold; but in the light of -that enlightenment he may try to illuminate what Renan and Matthew -Arnold left dark. He may try to use what is understood to explain what -is not understood. He may say to the modern English reader: "Here is an -historical character which is admittedly attractive to many of us -already, by its gaiety, its romantic imagination, its spiritual courtesy -and camaraderie, but which also contains elements (evidently equally -sincere and emphatic) which seem to you quite remote and repulsive. But -after all, this man was a man and not half a dozen men. What seems -inconsistency to you did not seem inconsistency to him. Let us see -whether we can understand, with the help of the existing understanding, -these other things that seem now to be doubly dark, by their intrinsic -gloom and their ironic contrast." I do not mean, of course, that I can -really reach such a psychological completeness in this crude and curt -outline. But I mean that this is the only controversial condition that I -shall here assume; that I am dealing with the sympathetic outsider. I -shall not assume any more or any less agreement than this. A materialist -may not care whether the inconsistencies are reconciled or not. A -Catholic may not see any inconsistencies to reconcile. But I am here -addressing the ordinary modern man, sympathetic but sceptical, and I can -only rather hazily hope that, by approaching the great saint's story -through what is evidently picturesque and popular about it, I may at -least leave the reader understanding a little more than he did before of -the consistency of a complete character; that by approaching it in this -way, we may at least get a glimmering of why the poet who praised his -lord the sun, often hid himself in a dark cavern, of why the saint who -was so gentle with his Brother the Wolf was so harsh to his Brother the -Ass (as he nicknamed his own body), of why the troubadour who said that -love set his heart on fire separated himself from women, of why the -singer who rejoiced in the strength and gaiety of the fire deliberately -rolled himself in the snow, of why the very song which cries with all -the passion of a pagan, "Praised be God for our Sister, Mother Earth, -which brings forth varied fruits and grass and glowing flowers," ends -almost with the words "Praised be God for our Sister, the death of the -body." - -Renan and Matthew Arnold failed utterly at this test. They were content -to follow Francis with their praises until they were stopped by their -prejudices; the stubborn prejudices of the sceptic. The moment Francis -began to do something they did not understand or did not like, they did -not try to understand it, still less to like it; they simply turned -their backs on the whole business and "walked no more with him." No man -will get any further along a path of historical enquiry in that fashion. -These sceptics are really driven to drop the whole subject in despair, -to leave the most simple and sincere of all historical characters as a -mass of contradictions, to be praised on the principle of the curate's -egg. Arnold refers to the asceticism of Alverno almost hurriedly, as if -it were an unlucky but undeniable blot on the beauty of the story; or -rather as if it were a pitiable break-down and bathos at the end of the -story. Now this is simply to be stone-blind to the whole point of any -story. To represent Mount Alverno as the mere collapse of Francis is -exactly like representing Mount Calvary as the mere collapse of Christ. -Those mountains are mountains, whatever else they are, and it is -nonsense to say (like the Red Queen) that they are comparative hollows -or negative holes in the ground. They were quite manifestly meant to be -culminations and landmarks. To treat the Stigmata as a sort of scandal, -to be touched on tenderly but with pain, is exactly like treating the -original five wounds of Jesus Christ as five blots on His character. You -may dislike the idea of asceticism; you may dislike equally the idea of -martyrdom; for that matter you may have an honest and natural dislike of -the whole conception of sacrifice symbolised by the cross. But if it is -an intelligent dislike, you will still retain the capacity for seeing -the point of a story; of the story of a martyr or even the story of a -monk. You will not be able rationally to read the Gospel and regard the -Crucifixion as an afterthought or an anti-climax or an accident in the -life of Christ; it is obviously the point of the story like the point of -a sword, the sword that pierced the heart of the Mother of God. - -And you will not be able rationally to read the story of a man presented -as a Mirror of Christ without understanding his final phase as a Man of -Sorrows, and at least artistically appreciating the appropriateness of -his receiving, in a cloud of mystery and isolation, inflicted by no -human hand, the unhealed everlasting wounds that heal the world. - -The practical reconciliation of the gaiety and austerity I must leave -the story itself to suggest. But since I have mentioned Matthew Arnold -and Renan and the rationalistic admirers of St. Francis, I will here -give the hint of what it seems to me most advisable for such readers to -keep in mind. These distinguished writers found things like the Stigmata -a stumbling-block because to them a religion was a philosophy. It was an -impersonal thing; and it is only the most personal passion that provides -here an approximate earthly parallel. A man will not roll in the snow -for a stream of tendency by which all things fulfil the law of their -being. He will not go without food in the name of something, not -ourselves, that makes for righteousness. He will do things like this, or -pretty nearly like this, under quite a different impulse. He will do -these things when he is in love. The first fact to realise about -St. Francis is involved in the first fact with which his story starts; -that when he said from the first that he was a Troubadour, and said -later that he was a Troubadour of a newer and nobler romance, he was not -using a mere metaphor, but understood himself much better than the -scholars understand him. He was, to the last agonies of asceticism, a -Troubadour. He was a Lover. He was a lover of God and he was really and -truly a lover of men; possibly a much rarer mystical vocation. A lover -of men is very nearly the opposite of a philanthropist; indeed the -pedantry of the Greek word carries something like a satire on itself. A -philanthropist may be said to love anthropoids. But as St. Francis did -not love humanity but men, so he did not love Christianity but Christ. -Say, if you think so, that he was a lunatic loving an imaginary person; -but an imaginary person, not an imaginary idea. And for the modern -reader the clue to the asceticism and all the rest can best be found in -the stories of lovers when they seemed to be rather like lunatics. Tell -it as the tale of one of the Troubadours, and the wild things he would -do for his lady, and the whole of the modern puzzle disappears. In such -a romance there would be no contradiction between the poet gathering -flowers in the sun and enduring a freezing vigil in the snow, between -his praising all earthly and bodily beauty and then refusing to eat, -between his glorifying gold and purple and perversely going in rags, -between his showing pathetically a hunger for a happy life and a thirst -for a heroic death. All these riddles would easily be resolved in the -simplicity of any noble love; only this was so noble a love that nine -men out of ten have hardly even heard of it. We shall see later that -this parallel of the earthly lover has a very practical relation to the -problems of his life, as to his relations with his father and with his -friends and their families. The modern reader will almost always find -that if he could only feel this kind of love as a reality, he could feel -this kind of extravagance as a romance. But I only note it here as a -preliminary point because, though it is very far from being the final -truth in the matter, it is the best approach to it. The reader cannot -even begin to see the sense of a story that may well seem to him a very -wild one, until he understands that to this great mystic his religion -was not a thing like a theory but a thing like a love-affair. And the -only purpose of this prefatory chapter is to explain the limits of this -present book; which is only addressed to that part of the modern world -which finds in St. Francis a certain modern difficulty; which can admire -him yet hardly accept him, or which can appreciate the saint almost -without the sanctity. And my only claim even to attempt such a task is -that I myself have for so long been in various stages of such a -condition. Many thousand things that I now partly comprehend I should -have thought utterly incomprehensible, many things I now hold sacred I -should have scouted as utterly superstitious, many things that seem to -me lucid and enlightened now they are seen from the inside I should -honestly have called dark and barbarous seen from the outside, when long -ago in those days of boyhood my fancy first caught fire with the glory -of Francis of Assisi. I too have lived in Arcady; but even in Arcady I -met one walking in a brown habit who loved the woods better than Pan. -The figure in the brown habit stands above the hearth in the room where -I write, and alone among many such images, at no stage of my pilgrimage -has he ever seemed to me a stranger. There is something of harmony -between the hearth and the firefight and my own first pleasure in his -words about his brother fire; for he stands far enough back in my memory -to mingle with all those more domestic dreams of the first days. Even -the fantastic shadows thrown by fire make a sort of shadow pantomime -that belongs to the nursery; yet the shadows were even then the shadows -of his favourite beasts and birds, as he saw them, grotesque but haloed -with the love of God. His Brother Wolf and Brother Sheep seemed then -almost like the Brer Fox and Brer Rabbit of a more Christian Uncle -Remus. I have come slowly to see many and more marvellous aspects of -such a man, but I have never lost that one. His figure stands on a sort -of bridge connecting my boyhood with my conversion to many other things; -for the romance of his religion had penetrated even the rationalism of -that vague Victorian time. In so far as I have had this experience, I -may be able to lead others a little further along that road; but only a -very little further. Nobody knows better than I do now that it is a road -upon which angels might fear to tread; but though I am certain of -failure I am not altogether overcome by fear; for he suffered fools -gladly. - - - - - _Chapter II_ - _The World St. Francis Found_ - - -The modern innovation which has substituted journalism for history, or -for that tradition that is the gossip of history, has had at least one -definite effect. It has insured that everybody should only hear the end -of every story. Journalists are in the habit of printing above the very -last chapters of their serial stories (when the hero and heroine are -just about to embrace in the last chapter, as only an unfathomable -perversity prevented them from doing in the first) the rather misleading -words, "You can begin this story here." But even this is not a complete -parallel; for the journals do give some sort of a summary of the story, -while they never give anything remotely resembling a summary of the -history. Newspapers not only deal with news, but they deal with -everything as if it were entirely new. Tutankamen, for instance, was -entirely new. It is exactly in the same fashion that we read that -Admiral Bangs has been shot, which is the first intimation we have that -he has ever been born. There is something singularly significant in the -use which journalism makes of its stores of biography. It never thinks -of publishing the life until it is publishing the death. As it deals -with individuals it deals with institutions and ideas. After the Great -War our public began to be told of all sorts of nations being -emancipated. It had never been told a word about their being enslaved. -We were called upon to judge of the justice of the settlements, when we -had never been allowed to hear of the very existence of the quarrels. -People would think it pedantic to talk about the Serbian epics and they -prefer to speak in plain every-day modern language about the -Yugo-Slavonic international new diplomacy; and they are quite excited -about something they call Czecho-Slovakia without apparently having ever -heard of Bohemia. Things that are as old as Europe are regarded as more -recent than the very latest claims pegged out on the prairies of -America. It is very exciting; like the last act of a play to people who -have only come into the theatre just before the curtain falls. But it -does not conduce exactly to knowing what it is all about. To those -content with the mere fact of a pistol-shot or a passionate embrace, -such a leisurely manner of patronising the drama may be recommended. To -those tormented by a merely intellectual curiosity about who is kissing -or killing whom, and why, it is unsatisfactory. - -Most modern history, especially in England, suffers from the same -imperfection as journalism. At best it only tells half of the history of -Christendom; and that the second half without the first half. Men for -whom reason begins with the Revival of Learning, men for whom religion -begins with the Reformation, can never give a complete account of -anything, for they have to start with institutions whose origin they -cannot explain, or generally even imagine. Just as we hear of the -admiral being shot but have never heard of his being born, so we all -heard a great deal about the dissolution of the monasteries, but we -heard next to nothing about the creation of the monasteries. Now this -sort of history would be hopelessly insufficient, even for an -intelligent man who hated the monasteries. It is hopelessly insufficient -in connection with institutions that many intelligent men do in a quite -healthy spirit hate. For instance, it is possible that some of us have -occasionally seen some mention, by our learned leader-writers, of an -obscure institution called the Spanish Inquisition. Well, it really is -an obscure institution, according to them and the histories they read. -It is obscure because its origin is obscure. Protestant history simply -begins with the horrible thing in possession, as the pantomime begins -with the demon king in the goblin kitchen. It is likely enough that it -was, especially towards the end, a horrible thing that might be haunted -by demons; but if we say this was so, we have no notion why it was so. -To understand the Spanish Inquisition it would be necessary to discover -two things that we have never dreamed of bothering about; what Spain was -and what an Inquisition was. The former would bring in the whole great -question about the Crusade against the Moors; and by what heroic -chivalry a European nation freed itself of an alien domination from -Africa. The latter would bring in the whole business of the other -Crusade against the Albigensians, and why men loved and hated that -nihilistic vision from Asia. Unless we understand that there was in -these things originally the rush and romance of a Crusade, we cannot -understand how they came to deceive men or drag them on towards evil. -The Crusaders doubtless abused their victory, but there was a victory to -abuse. And where there is victory there is valour in the field and -popularity in the forum. There is some sort of enthusiasm that -encourages excesses or covers faults. For instance, I for one have -maintained from very early days the responsibility of the English for -their atrocious treatment of the Irish. But it would be quite unfair to -the English to describe even the devilry of '98 and leave out altogether -all mention of the war with Napoleon. It would be unjust to suggest that -the English mind was bent on nothing but the death of Emmett, when it -was more probably full of the glory of the death of Nelson. -Unfortunately '98 was very far from being the last date of such dirty -work; and only a few years ago our politicians started trying to rule by -random robbing and killing, while gently remonstrating with the Irish -for their memory of old unhappy far-off things and battles long ago. But -however badly we may think of the Black-and-Tan business, it would be -unjust to forget that most of us were not thinking of Black-and-Tan but -of khaki; and that khaki had just then a noble and national connotation -covering many things. To write of the war in Ireland and leave out the -war against Prussia, and the English sincerity about it, would be unjust -to the English. So to talk about the torture-engine as if it had been a -hideous toy is unjust to the Spanish. It does not tell sensibly from the -start the story of what the Spaniard did, and why. We may concede to our -contemporaries that in any case it is not a story that ends well. We do -not insist that in their version it should begin well. What we complain -of is that in their version it does not begin at all. They are only in -at the death; or even, like Lord Tom Noddy, too late for the hanging. It -is quite true that it was sometimes more horrible than any hanging; but -they only gather, so to speak, the very ashes of the ashes; the fag-end -of the faggot. - -The case of the Inquisition is here taken at random, for it is one among -any number illustrating the same thing; and not because it is especially -connected with St. Francis, in whatever sense it may have been connected -with St. Dominic. It may well be suggested later indeed that St. Francis -is unintelligible, just as St. Dominic is unintelligible, unless we do -understand something of what the thirteenth century meant by heresy and -a crusade. But for the moment I use it as a lesser example for a much -larger purpose. It is to point out that to begin the story of -St. Francis with the birth of St. Francis would be to miss the whole -point of the story, or rather not to tell the story at all. And it is to -suggest that the modern tail-foremost type of journalistic history -perpetually fails us. We learn about reformers without knowing what they -had to reform, about rebels without a notion of what they rebelled -against, of memorials that are not connected with any memory and -restorations of things that had apparently never existed before. Even at -the expense of this chapter appearing disproportionate, it is necessary -to say something about the great movements that led up to the entrance -of the founder of the Franciscans. It may seem to mean describing a -world, or even a universe, in order to describe a man. It will -inevitably mean that the world or the universe will be described with a -few desperate generalisations in a few abrupt sentences. But so far from -its meaning that we see a very small figure under so large a sky, it -will mean that we must measure the sky before we can begin to measure -the towering stature of the man. - -And this phrase alone brings me to the preliminary suggestions that seem -necessary before even a slight sketch of the life of St. Francis. It is -necessary to realise, in however rude and elementary a fashion, into -what sort of a world St. Francis entered and what has been the history -of that world, at least in so far as it affected him. It is necessary to -have, if only in a few sentences, a sort of preface in the form of an -Outline of History, if we may borrow the phrase of Mr. Wells. In the -case of Mr. Wells himself, it is evident that the distinguished novelist -suffered the same disadvantage as if he had been obliged to write a -novel of which he hated the hero. To write history and hate Rome, both -pagan and papal, is practically to hate nearly everything that has -happened. It comes very near to hating humanity on purely humanitarian -grounds. To dislike both the priest and the soldier, both the laurels of -the warrior and the lilies of the saint, is to suffer a division from -the mass of mankind for which not all the dexterities of the finest and -most flexible of modern intelligences can compensate. A much wider -sympathy is needed for the historical setting of St. Francis, himself -both a soldier and a saint. I will therefore conclude this chapter with -a few generalisations about the world that St. Francis found. - -Men will not believe because they will not broaden their minds. As a -matter of individual belief, I should of course express it by saying -that they are not sufficiently catholic to be Catholic. But I am not -going to discuss here the doctrinal truths of Christianity, but simply -the broad historical fact of Christianity, as it might appear to a -really enlightened and imaginative person even if he were not a -Christian. What I mean at the moment is that the majority of doubts are -made out of details. In the course of random reading a man comes across -a pagan custom that strikes him as picturesque or a Christian action -that strikes him as cruel; but he does not enlarge his mind sufficiently -to see the main truth about pagan custom or the Christian reaction -against it. Until we understand, not necessarily in detail, but in their -big bulk and proportion that pagan progress and that Christian reaction, -we cannot really understand the point of history at which St. Francis -appears or what his great popular mission was all about. - -Now everybody knows, I imagine, that the twelfth and thirteenth -centuries were an awakening of the world. They were a fresh flowering of -culture and the creative arts after a long spell of much sterner and -even more sterile experience which we call the Dark Ages. They may be -called an emancipation; they were certainly an end; an end of what may -at least seem a harsher and more inhuman time. But what was it that was -ended? From what was it that men were emancipated? That is where there -is a real collision and point at issue between the different -philosophies of history. On the merely external and secular side, it has -been truly said that men awoke from a sleep; but there had been dreams -in that sleep of a mystical and sometimes of a monstrous kind. In that -rationalistic routine into which most modern historians have fallen, it -is considered enough to say that they were emancipated from mere savage -superstition and advanced towards mere civilised enlightenment. Now this -is the big blunder that stands as a stumbling-block at the very -beginning of our story. Anybody who supposes that the Dark Ages were -plain darkness and nothing else, and that the dawn of the thirteenth -century was plain daylight and nothing else, will not be able to make -head or tail of the human story of St. Francis of Assisi. The truth is -that the joy of St. Francis and his Jongleurs de Dieu was not merely an -awakening. It was something which cannot be understood without -understanding their own mystical creed. The end of the Dark Ages was not -merely the end of a sleep. It was certainly not merely the end of a -superstitious enslavement. It was the end of something belonging to a -quite definite but quite different order of ideas. - -It was the end of a penance; or, if it be preferred, a purgation. It -marked the moment when a certain spiritual expiation had been finally -worked out and certain spiritual diseases had been finally expelled from -the system. They had been expelled by an era of asceticism, which was -the only thing that could have expelled them. Christianity had entered -the world to cure the world; and she had cured it in the only way in -which it could be cured. - -Viewed merely in an external and experimental fashion, the whole of the -high civilisation of antiquity had ended in the learning of a certain -lesson; that is, in its conversion to Christianity. But that lesson was -a psychological fact as well as a theological faith. That pagan -civilisation had indeed been a very high civilisation. It would not -weaken our thesis, it might even strengthen it, to say that it was the -highest that humanity ever reached. It had discovered its still -unrivalled arts of poetry and plastic representation; it had discovered -its own permanent political ideals; it had discovered its own clear -system of logic and of language. But above all, it had discovered its -own mistake. - -That mistake was too deep to be ideally defined; the short-hand of it is -to call it the mistake of nature-worship. It might almost as truly be -called the mistake of being natural; and it was a very natural mistake. -The Greeks, the great guides and pioneers of pagan antiquity, started -out with the idea of something splendidly obvious and direct; the idea -that if man walked straight ahead on the high road of reason and nature, -he could come to no harm; especially if he was, as the Greek was, -eminently enlightened and intelligent. We might be so flippant as to say -that man was simply to follow his nose, so long as it was a Greek nose. -And the case of the Greeks themselves is alone enough to illustrate the -strange but certain fatality that attends upon this fallacy. No sooner -did the Greeks themselves begin to follow their own noses and their own -notion of being natural, than the queerest thing in history seems to -have happened to them. It was much too queer to be an easy matter to -discuss. It may be remarked that our more repulsive realists never give -us the benefit of their realism. Their studies of unsavoury subjects -never take note of the testimony which they bear to the truths of a -traditional morality. But if we had the taste for such things, we could -cite thousands of such things as part of the case for Christian morals. -And an instance of this is found in the fact that nobody has written, in -this sense, a real moral history of the Greeks. Nobody has seen the -scale or the strangeness of the story. The wisest men in the world set -out to be natural; and the most unnatural thing in the world was the -very first thing they did. The immediate effect of saluting the sun and -the sunny sanity of nature was a perversion spreading like a pestilence. -The greatest and even the purest philosophers could not apparently avoid -this low sort of lunacy. Why? It would seem simple enough for the people -whose poets had conceived Helen of Troy, whose sculptors had carved the -Venus of Milo, to remain healthy on the point. The truth is that people -who worship health cannot remain healthy. When Man goes straight he goes -crooked. When he follows his nose he manages somehow to put his nose out -of joint, or even to cut off his nose to spite his face; and that in -accordance with something much deeper in human nature than -nature-worshippers could ever understand. It was the discovery of that -deeper thing, humanly speaking, that constituted the conversion to -Christianity. There is a bias in man like the bias in the bowl; and -Christianity was the discovery of how to correct the bias and therefore -hit the mark. There are many who will smile at the saying; but it is -profoundly true to say that the glad good news brought by the Gospel was -the news of original sin. - -Rome rose at the expense of her Greek teachers largely because she did -not entirely consent to be taught these tricks. She had a much more -decent domestic tradition; but she ultimately suffered from the same -fallacy in her religious tradition; which was necessarily in no small -degree the heathen tradition of nature-worship. What was the matter with -the whole heathen civilisation was that there was nothing for the mass -of men in the way of mysticism, except that concerned with the mystery -of the nameless forces of nature, such as sex and growth and death. In -the Roman Empire also, long before the end, we find nature-worship -inevitably producing things that are against nature. Cases like that of -Nero have passed into a proverb, when Sadism sat on a throne brazen in -the broad daylight. But the truth I mean is something much more subtle -and universal than a conventional catalogue of atrocities. What had -happened to the human imagination, as a whole, was that the whole world -was coloured by dangerous and rapidly deteriorating passions; by natural -passions becoming unnatural passions. Thus the effect of treating sex as -only one innocent natural thing was that every other innocent natural -thing became soaked and sodden with sex. For sex cannot be admitted to a -mere equality among elementary emotions or experiences like eating and -sleeping. The moment sex ceases to be a servant it becomes a tyrant. -There is something dangerous and disproportionate in its place in human -nature, for whatever reason; and it does really need a special -purification and dedication. The modern talk about sex being free like -any other sense, about the body being beautiful like any tree or flower, -is either a description of the Garden of Eden or a piece of thoroughly -bad psychology, of which the world grew weary two thousand years ago. - -This is not to be confused with mere self-righteous sensationalism about -the wickedness of the pagan world. It was not so much that the pagan -world was wicked as that it was good enough to realise that its paganism -was becoming wicked, or rather was on the logical high road to -wickedness. I mean that there was no future for "natural magic"; to -deepen it was only to darken it into black magic. There was no future -for it; because in the past it had only been innocent because it was -young. We might say it had only been innocent because it was shallow. -Pagans were wiser than paganism; that is why the pagans became -Christians. Thousands of them had philosophy and family virtues and -military honour to hold them up; but by this time the purely popular -thing called religion was certainly dragging them down. When this -reaction against the evil is allowed for, it is true to repeat that it -was an evil that was everywhere. In another and more literal sense its -name was Pan. - -It was no metaphor to say that these people needed a new heaven and a -new earth; for they had really defiled their own earth and even their -own heaven. How could their case be met by looking at the sky, when -erotic legends were scrawled in stars across it; how could they learn -anything from the love of birds and flowers after the sort of love -stories that were told of them? It is impossible here to multiply -evidences, and one small example may stand for the rest. We know what -sort of sentimental associations are called up to us by the phrase "a -garden"; and how we think mostly of the memory of melancholy and -innocent romances, or quite as often of some gracious maiden lady or -kindly old parson pottering under a yew hedge, perhaps in sight of a -village spire. Then, let anyone who knows a little Latin poetry recall -suddenly what would once have stood in place of the sun-dial or the -fountain, obscene and monstrous in the sun; and of what sort was the god -of their gardens. - -Nothing could purge this obsession but a religion that was literally -unearthly. It was no good telling such people to have a natural religion -full of stars and flowers; there was not a flower or even a star that -had not been stained. They had to go into the desert where they could -find no flowers or even into the cavern where they could see no stars. -Into that desert and that cavern the highest human intellect entered for -some four centuries; and it was the very wisest thing it could do. -Nothing but the stark supernatural stood up for its salvation; if God -could not save it, certainly the gods could not. The Early Church called -the gods of paganism devils; and the Early Church was perfectly right. -Whatever natural religion may have had to do with their beginnings, -nothing but fiends now inhabited those hollow shrines. Pan was nothing -but panic. Venus was nothing but venereal vice. I do not mean for a -moment, of course, that all the individual pagans were of this character -even to the end; but it was as individuals that they differed from it. -Nothing distinguishes paganism from Christianity so clearly as the fact -that the individual thing called philosophy had little or nothing to do -with the social thing called religion. Anyhow it was no good to preach -natural religion to people to whom nature had grown as unnatural as any -religion. They knew much better than we do what was the matter with them -and what sort of demons at once tempted and tormented them; and they -wrote across that great space of history the text: "This sort goeth not -out but by prayer and fasting." - -Now the historic importance of St. Francis and the transition from the -twelfth to the thirteenth century, lies in the fact that they marked the -end of this expiation. Men at the close of the Dark Ages may have been -rude and unlettered and unlearned in everything but wars with heathen -tribes, more barbarous than themselves, but they were clean. They were -like children; the first beginnings of their rude arts have all the -clean pleasure of children. We have to conceive them in Europe as a -whole living under little local governments, feudal in so far as they -were a survival of fierce wars with the barbarians, often monastic and -carrying a more friendly and fatherly character, still faintly imperial -in so far as Rome still ruled as a great legend. But in Italy something -had survived more typical of the finer spirit of antiquity: the -republic. Italy was dotted with little states, largely democratic in -their ideals, and often filled with real citizens. But the city no -longer lay open as under the Roman peace, but was pent in high walls for -defence against feudal war and all the citizens had to be soldiers. One -of these stood in a steep and striking position on the wooded hills of -Umbria; and its name was Assisi. Out of its deep gate under its high -turrets was to come the message that was the gospel of the hour, "Your -warfare is accomplished, your iniquity is pardoned." But it was out of -all these fragmentary things of feudalism and freedom and remains of -Roman Law that there was to rise, at the beginning of the thirteenth -century, vast and almost universal, the mighty civilisation of the -Middle Ages. - -It is an exaggeration to attribute it entirely to the inspiration of any -one man, even the most original genius of the thirteenth century. Its -elementary ethics of fraternity and fair play had never been entirely -extinct and Christendom had never been anything less than Christian. The -great truisms about justice and pity can be found in the rudest monastic -records of the barbaric transition or the stiffest maxims of the -Byzantine decline. And early in the eleventh and twelfth centuries a -larger moral movement had clearly begun. But what may fairly be said of -it is this, that over all those first movements there was still -something of that ancient austerity that came from the long penitential -period. It was the twilight of morning; but it was still a grey -twilight. This may be illustrated by the mere mention of two or three of -these reforms before the Franciscan reform. The monastic institution -itself, of course, was far older than all these things; indeed it was -undoubtedly almost as old as Christianity. Its counsels of perfection -had always taken the form of vows of chastity and poverty and obedience. -With these unworldly aims it had long ago civilised a great part of the -world. The monks had taught people to plough and sow as well as to read -and write; indeed they had taught the people nearly everything that the -people knew. But it may truly be said that the monks were severely -practical, in the sense that they were not only practical but also -severe; though they were generally severe with themselves and practical -for other people. All this early monastic movement had long ago settled -down and doubtless often deteriorated; but when we come to the first -medieval movements this sterner character is still apparent. Three -examples may be taken to illustrate the point. - -First, the ancient social mould of slavery was already beginning to -melt. Not only was the slave turning into the serf, who was practically -free as regards his own farm and family life, but many lords were -freeing slaves and serfs altogether. This was done under the pressure of -the priests; but especially it was done in the spirit of a penance. In -one sense, of course, any Catholic society must have an atmosphere of -penance; but I am speaking of that rather sterner spirit of penance -which had expiated the excesses of paganism. There was about such -restitutions the atmosphere of the death-bed; as many of them doubtless -were examples of death-bed repentance. A very honest atheist with whom I -once debated made use of the expression, "Men have only been kept in -slavery by the fear of hell." As I pointed out to him, if he had said -that men had only been freed from slavery by the fear of hell, he would -at least have been referring to an unquestionable historical fact. - -Another example was the sweeping reform of Church discipline by Pope -Gregory the Seventh. It really was a reform, undertaken from the highest -motives and having the healthiest results; it conducted a searching -inquisition against simony or the financial corruptions of the clergy; -it insisted on a more serious and self-sacrificing ideal for the life of -a parish priest. But the very fact that this largely took the form of -making universal the obligation of celibacy will strike the note of -something which, however noble, would seem to many to be vaguely -negative. The third example is in one sense the strongest of all. For -the third example was a war; a heroic war and for many of us a holy war; -but still something having all the stark and terrible responsibilities -of war. There is no space here to say all that should be said about the -true nature of the Crusades. Everybody knows that in the very darkest -hour of the Dark Ages a sort of heresy had sprung up in Arabia and -become a new religion of a military but nomadic sort, invoking the name -of Mahomet. Intrinsically it had a character found in many heresies from -the Moslem to the Monist. It seemed to the heretic a sane simplification -of religion; while it seems to the Catholic an insane simplification of -religion, because it simplifies all to a single idea and so loses the -breadth and balance of Catholicism. Anyhow its objective character was -that of a military danger to Christendom and Christendom had struck at -the very heart of it, in seeking to reconquer the Holy Places. The great -Duke Godfrey and the first Christians who stormed Jerusalem were heroes -if there were ever any in the world; but they were the heroes of a -tragedy. - -Now I have taken these two or three examples of the earlier medieval -movements in order to note about them one general character, which -refers back to the penance that followed paganism. There is something in -all these movements that is bracing even while it is still bleak, like a -wind blowing between the clefts of the mountains. That wind, austere and -pure, of which the poet speaks, is really the spirit of the time, for it -is the wind of a world that has at last been purified. To anyone who can -appreciate atmospheres there is something clear and clean about the -atmosphere of this crude and often harsh society. Its very lusts are -clean; for they have no longer any smell of perversion. Its very -cruelties are clean; they are not the luxurious cruelties of the -amphitheatre. They come either of a very simple horror at blasphemy or a -very simple fury at insult. Gradually against this grey background -beauty begins to appear, as something really fresh and delicate and -above all surprising. Love returning is no longer what was once called -platonic but what is still called chivalric love. The flowers and stars -have recovered their first innocence. Fire and water are felt to be -worthy to be the brother and sister of a saint. The purge of paganism is -complete at last. - -For water itself has been washed. Fire itself has been purified as by -fire. Water is no longer that water into which slaves were flung to feed -the fishes. Fire is no longer that fire through which children were -passed to Moloch. Flowers smell no more of the forgotten garlands -gathered in the garden of Priapus; stars stand no more as signs of the -far frigidity of gods as cold as those cold fires. They are all like -things newly made and awaiting new names, from one who shall come to -name them. Neither the universe nor the earth have now any longer the -old sinister significance of the world. They await a new reconciliation -with man, but they are already capable of being reconciled. Man has -stripped from his soul the last rag of nature-worship, and can return to -nature. - -While it was yet twilight a figure appeared silently and suddenly on a -little hill above the city, dark against the fading darkness. For it was -the end of a long and stern night, a night of vigil, not unvisited by -stars. He stood with his hands lifted, as in so many statues and -pictures, and about him was a burst of birds singing; and behind him was -the break of day. - - - - - _Chapter III_ - _Francis the Fighter_ - - -According to one tale, which if not true would be none the less typical, -the very name of St. Francis was not so much a name as a nickname. There -would be something akin to his familiar and popular instinct in the -notion that he was nicknamed very much as an ordinary schoolboy might be -called "Frenchy" at school. According to this version, his name was not -Francis at all but John; and his companions called him "Francesco" or -"The little Frenchman" because of his passion for the French poetry of -the Troubadours. The more probable story is that his mother had named -him John when he was born in the absence of his father, who shortly -returned from a visit to France, where his commercial success had filled -him with so much enthusiasm for French taste and social usage that he -gave his son the new name signifying the Frank or Frenchman. In either -case the name has a certain significance, as connecting Francis from the -first with what he himself regarded as the romantic fairyland of the -Troubadours. - -The name of the father was Pietro Bernardone and he was a substantial -citizen of the guild of the cloth merchants in the town of Assisi. It is -hard to describe the position of such a man without some appreciation of -the position of such a guild and even of such a town. It did not exactly -correspond to anything that is meant in modern times either by a -merchant or a man of business or a tradesman, or anything that exists -under the conditions of capitalism. Bernardone may have employed people -but he was not an employer; that is, he did not belong to an employing -class as distinct from an employed class. The person we definitely hear -of his employing is his son Francis; who, one is tempted to guess, was -about the last person that any man of business would employ if it were -convenient to employ anybody else. He was rich, as a peasant may be rich -by the work of his own family; but he evidently expected his own family -to work in a way almost as plain as a peasant's. He was a prominent -citizen, but he belonged to a social order which existed to prevent him -being too prominent to be a citizen. It kept all such people on their -own simple level, and no prosperity connoted that escape from drudgery -by which in modern times the lad might have seemed to be a lord or a -fine gentleman or something other than the cloth merchant's son. This is -a rule that is proved even in the exception. Francis was one of those -people who are popular with everybody in any case; and his guileless -swagger as a Troubadour and leader of French fashions made him a sort of -romantic ringleader among the young men of the town. He threw money -about both in extravagance and benevolence, in a way native to a man who -never, all his life, exactly understood what money was. This moved his -mother to mingled exultation and exasperation and she said, as any -tradesman's wife might say anywhere: "He is more like a prince than our -son." But one of the earliest glimpses we have of him shows him as -simply selling bales of cloth from a booth in the market; which his -mother may or may not have believed to be one of the habits of princes. -This first glimpse of the young man in the market is symbolic in more -ways than one. An incident occurred which is perhaps the shortest and -sharpest summary that could be given of certain curious things which -were a part of his character, long before it was transfigured by -transcendental faith. While he was selling velvet and fine embroideries -to some solid merchant of the town, a beggar came imploring alms; -evidently in a somewhat tactless manner. It was a rude and simple -society and there were no laws to punish a starving man for expressing -his need for food, such as have been established in a more humanitarian -age; and the lack of any organised police permitted such persons to -pester the wealthy without any great danger. But there was, I believe, -in many places a local custom of the guild forbidding outsiders to -interrupt a fair bargain; and it is possible that some such thing put -the mendicant more than normally in the wrong. Francis had all his life -a great liking for people who had been put hopelessly in the wrong. On -this occasion he seems to have dealt with the double interview with -rather a divided mind; certainly with distraction, possibly with -irritation. Perhaps he was all the more uneasy because of the almost -fastidious standard of manners that came to him quite naturally. All are -agreed that politeness flowed from him from the first, like one of the -public fountains in such a sunny Italian market place. He might have -written among his own poems as his own motto that verse of Mr. Belloc's -poem— - - 'Of Courtesy, it is much less - Than courage of heart or holiness, - Yet in my walks it seems to me - That the grace of God is in Courtesy.' - -Nobody ever doubted that Francis Bernardone had courage of heart, even -of the most ordinary manly and military sort; and a time was to come -when there was quite as little doubt about the holiness and the grace of -God. But I think that if there was one thing about which he was -punctilious, it was punctiliousness. If there was one thing of which so -humble a man could be said to be proud, he was proud of good manners. -Only behind his perfectly natural urbanity were wider and even wilder -possibilities, of which we get the first flash in this trivial incident. -Anyhow Francis was evidently torn two ways with the botheration of two -talkers, but finished his business with the merchant somehow; and when -he had finished it, found the beggar was gone. Francis leapt from his -booth, left all the bales of velvet and embroidery behind him apparently -unprotected, and went racing across the market place like an arrow from -the bow. Still running, he threaded the labyrinth of the narrow and -crooked streets of the little town, looking for his beggar, whom he -eventually discovered; and loaded that astonished mendicant with money. -Then he straightened himself, so to speak, and swore before God that he -would never all his life refuse help to a poor man. The sweeping -simplicity of this undertaking is extremely characteristic. Never was -any man so little afraid of his own promises. His life was one riot of -rash vows; of rash vows that turned out right. - -The first biographers of Francis, naturally alive with the great -religious revolution that he wrought, equally naturally looked back to -his first years chiefly for omens and signs of such a spiritual -earthquake. But writing at a greater distance, we shall not decrease -that dramatic effect, but rather increase it, if we realise that there -was not at this time any external sign of anything particularly mystical -about the young man. He had not anything of that early sense of his -vocation that has belonged to some of the saints. Over and above his -main ambition to win fame as a French poet, he would seem to have most -often thought of winning fame as a soldier. He was born kind; he was -brave in the normal boyish fashion; but he drew the line both in -kindness and bravery pretty well where most boys would have drawn it; -for instance, he had the human horror of leprosy of which few normal -people felt any need to be ashamed. He had the love of gay and bright -apparel which was inherent in the heraldic taste of medieval times and -seems altogether to have been rather a festive figure. If he did not -paint the town red, he would probably have preferred to paint it all the -colours of the rainbow, as in a medieval picture. But in this story of -the young man in gay garments scampering after the vanishing beggar in -rags there are certain notes of his natural individuality that must be -assumed from first to last. - -For instance, there is the spirit of swiftness. In a sense he continued -running for the rest of his life, as he ran after the beggar. Because -nearly all the errands he ran on were errands of mercy, there appeared -in his portraiture a mere element of mildness which was true in the -truest sense, but is easily misunderstood. A certain precipitancy was -the very poise of his soul. This saint should be represented among the -other saints as angels were sometimes represented in pictures of angels; -with flying feet or even with feathers; in the spirit of the text that -makes angels winds and messengers a flaming fire. It is a curiosity of -language that courage actually means running; and some of our sceptics -will no doubt demonstrate that courage really means running away. But -his courage was running, in the sense of rushing. With all his -gentleness, there was originally something of impatience in his -impetuosity. The psychological truth about it illustrates very well the -modern muddle about the word "practical." If we mean by what is -practical what is most immediately practicable, we mean merely what is -easiest. In that sense St. Francis was very unpractical, and his -ultimate aims were very unworldly. But if we mean by practicality a -preference for prompt effort and energy over doubt or delay, he was very -practical indeed. Some might call him a madman, but he was the very -reverse of a dreamer. Nobody would be likely to call him a man of -business; but he was very emphatically a man of action. In some of his -early experiments he was rather too much of a man of action; he acted -too soon and was too practical to be prudent. But at every turn of his -extraordinary career we shall find him flinging himself round corners in -the most unexpected fashion, as when he flew through the crooked streets -after the beggar. - -Another element implied in the story, which was already partially a -natural instinct, before it became a supernatural ideal, was something -that had never perhaps been wholly lost in those little republics of -medieval Italy. It was something very puzzling to some people; something -clearer as a rule to Southerners than to Northerners, and I think to -Catholics than to Protestants; the quite natural assumption of the -equality of men. It has nothing necessarily to do with the Franciscan -love for men; on the contrary one of its merely practical tests is the -equality of the duel. Perhaps a gentleman will never be fully an -egalitarian until he can really quarrel with his servant. But it was an -antecedent condition of the Franciscan brotherhood; and we feel it in -this early and secular incident. Francis, I fancy, felt a real doubt -about which he must attend to, the beggar or the merchant; and having -attended to the merchant, he turned to attend to the beggar; he thought -of them as two men. This is a thing much more difficult to describe, in -a society from which it is absent, but it was the original basis of the -whole business; it was why the popular movement arose in that sort of -place and that sort of man. His imaginative magnanimity afterwards rose -like a tower to starry heights that might well seem dizzy and even -crazy; but it was founded on this high table-land of human equality. - -I have taken this the first among a hundred tales of the youth of -St. Francis, and dwelt on its significance a little, because until we -have learned to look for the significance there will often seem to be -little but a sort of light sentiment in telling the story. St. Francis -is not a proper person to be patronised with merely "pretty" stories. -There are any number of them; but they are too often used so as to be a -sort of sentimental sediment of the medieval world, instead of being, as -the saint emphatically is, a challenge to the modern world. We must take -his real human development somewhat more seriously; and the next story -in which we get a real glimpse of it is in a very different setting. But -in exactly the same way it opens, as if by accident, certain abysses of -the mind and perhaps of the unconscious mind. Francis still looks more -or less like an ordinary young man; and it is only when we look at him -as an ordinary young man, that we realise what an extraordinary young -man he must be. - -War had broken out between Assisi and Perugia. It is now fashionable to -say in a satirical spirit that such wars did not so much break out as go -on indefinitely between the city-states of medieval Italy. It will be -enough to say here that if one of these medieval wars had really gone on -without stopping for a century, it might possibly have come within a -remote distance of killing as many people as we kill in a year, in one -of our great modern scientific wars between our great modern industrial -empires. But the citizens of the medieval republic were certainly under -the limitation of only being asked to die for the things with which they -had always lived, the houses they inhabited, the shrines they venerated -and the rulers and representatives they knew; and had not the larger -vision calling them to die for the latest rumours about remote colonies -as reported in anonymous newspapers. And if we infer from our own -experience that war paralysed civilisation, we must at least admit that -these warring towns turned out a number of paralytics who go by the -names of Dante and Michael Angelo, Ariosto and Titian, Leonardo and -Columbus, not to mention Catherine of Siena and the subject of this -story. While we lament all this local patriotism as a hubbub of the Dark -Ages, it must seem a rather curious fact that about three quarters of -the greatest men who ever lived came out of these little towns and were -often engaged in these little wars. It remains to be seen what will -ultimately come out of our large towns; but there has been no sign of -anything of this sort since they became large; and I have sometimes been -haunted by a fancy of my youth, that these things will not come till -there is a city wall round Clapham and the tocsin is rung at night to -arm the citizens of Wimbledon. - -Anyhow, the tocsin was rung in Assisi and the citizens armed, and among -them Francis the son of the cloth merchant. He went out to fight with -some company of lancers and in some fight or foray or other he and his -little band were taken prisoners. To me it seems most probable that -there had been some tale of treason or cowardice about the disaster; for -we are told that there was one of the captives with whom his -fellow-prisoners flatly refused to associate even in prison; and when -this happens in such circumstances, it is generally because the military -blame for the surrender is thrown on some individual. Anyhow, somebody -noted a small but curious thing, though it might seem rather negative -than positive. Francis, we are told, moved among his captive companions -with all his characteristic courtesy and even conviviality, "liberal and -hilarious" as somebody said of him, resolved to keep up their spirits -and his own. And when he came across the mysterious outcast, traitor or -coward or whatever he was called, he simply treated him exactly like all -the rest, neither with coldness nor compassion, but with the same -unaffected gaiety and good fellowship. But if there had been present in -that prison someone with a sort of second sight about the truth and -trend of spiritual things, he might have known he was in the presence of -something new and seemingly almost anarchic; a deep tide driving out to -uncharted seas of charity. For in this sense there was really something -wanting in Francis of Assisi, something to which he was blind that he -might see better and more beautiful things. All those limits in good -fellowship and good form, all those landmarks of social life that divide -the tolerable and the intolerable, all those social scruples and -conventional conditions that are normal and even noble in ordinary men, -all those things that hold many decent societies together, could never -hold this man at all. He liked as he liked; he seems to have liked -everybody, but especially those whom everybody disliked him for liking. -Something very vast and universal was already present in that narrow -dungeon; and such a seer might have seen in its darkness that red halo -of _caritas caritatum_ which marks one saint among saints as well as -among men. He might have heard the first whisper of that wild blessing -that afterwards took the form of a blasphemy; "He listens to those to -whom God himself will not listen." - -But though such a seer might have seen such a truth, it is exceedingly -doubtful if Francis himself saw it. He had acted out of an unconscious -largeness, or in the fine medieval phrase largesse, within himself, -something that might almost have been lawless if it had not been -reaching out to a more divine law; but it is doubtful whether he yet -knew that the law was divine. It is evident that he had not at this time -any notion of abandoning the military, still less of adopting the -monastic life. It is true that there is not, as pacifists and prigs -imagine, the least inconsistency between loving men and fighting them, -if we fight them fairly and for a good cause. But it seems to me that -there was more than this involved; that the mind of the young man was -really running towards a military morality in any case. About this time -the first calamity crossed his path in the form of a malady which was to -revisit him many times and hamper his headlong career. Sickness made him -more serious; but one fancies it would only have made him a more serious -soldier, or even more serious about soldiering. And while he was -recovering, something rather larger than the little feuds and raids of -the Italian towns opened an avenue of adventure and ambition. The crown -of Sicily, a considerable centre of controversy at the time, was -apparently claimed by a certain Gauthier de Brienne, and the Papal cause -to aid which Gauthier was called in aroused enthusiasm among a number of -young Assisians, including Francis, who proposed to march into Apulia on -the count's behalf; perhaps his French name had something to do with it. -For it must never be forgotten that though that world was in one sense a -world of little things, it was a world of little things concerned about -great things. There was more internationalism in the lands dotted with -tiny republics than in the huge homogeneous impenetrable national -divisions of to-day. The legal authority of the Assisian magistrates -might hardly reach further than a bow-shot from their high embattled -city walls. But their sympathies might be with the ride of the Normans -through Sicily or the palace of the Troubadours at Toulouse; with the -Emperor throned in the German forests or the great Pope dying in the -exile of Salerno. Above all, it must be remembered that when the -interests of an age are mainly religious they must be universal. Nothing -can be more universal than the universe. And there are several things -about the religious position at that particular moment which modern -people not unnaturally fail to realise. For one thing, modern people -naturally think of people so remote as ancient people, and even early -people. We feel vaguely that these things happened in the first ages of -the Church. The Church was already a good deal more than a thousand -years old. That is, the Church was then rather older than France is now, -a great deal older than England is now. And she looked old then; almost -as old as she does now; possibly older than she does now. The Church -looked like great Charlemagne with the long white beard, who had already -fought a hundred wars with the heathen, and in the legend was bidden by -an angel to go forth and fight once more though he was two hundred years -old. The Church had topped her thousand years and turned the corner of -the second thousand; she had come through the Dark Ages in which nothing -could be done except desperate fighting against the barbarians and the -stubborn repetition of the creed. The creed was still being repeated -after the victory or escape; but it is not unnatural to suppose that -there was something a little monotonous about the repetition. The Church -looked old then as now; and there were some who thought her dying then -as now. In truth orthodoxy was not dead but it may have been dull; it is -certain that some people began to think it dull. The Troubadours of the -Provençal movement had already begun to take that turn or twist towards -Oriental fancies and the paradox of pessimism, which always come to -Europeans as something fresh when their own sanity seems to be something -stale. It is likely enough that after all those centuries of hopeless -war without and ruthless asceticism within, the official orthodoxy -seemed to be something stale. The freshness and freedom of the first -Christians seemed then as much as now a lost and almost prehistoric age -of gold. Rome was still more rational than anything else; the Church was -really wiser but it may well have seemed wearier than the world. There -was something more adventurous and alluring, perhaps, about the mad -metaphysics that had been blown across out of Asia. Dreams were -gathering like dark clouds over the Midi to break in a thunder of -anathema and civil war. Only the light lay on the great plain round -Rome; but the light was blank and the plain was flat; and there was no -stir in the still air and the immemorial silence about the sacred town. - -High in the dark house of Assisi Francesco Bernardone slept and dreamed -of arms. There came to him in the darkness a vision splendid with -swords, patterned after the cross in the Crusading fashion, of spears -and shields and helmets hung in a high armoury, all bearing the sacred -sign. When he awoke he accepted the dream as a trumpet bidding him to -the battlefield, and rushed out to take horse and arms. He delighted in -all the exercises of chivalry; and was evidently an accomplished -cavalier and fighting man by the tests of the tournament and the camp. -He would doubtless at any time have preferred a Christian sort of -chivalry; but it seems clear that he was also in a mood which thirsted -for glory, though in him that glory would always have been identical -with honour. He was not without some vision of that wreath of laurel -which Cæsar has left for all the Latins. As he rode out to war the great -gate in the deep wall of Assisi resounded with his last boast, "I shall -come back a great prince." - -A little way along his road his sickness rose again and threw him. It -seems highly probable, in the light of his impetuous temper, that he had -ridden away long before he was fit to move. And in the darkness of this -second and far more desolating interruption, he seems to have had -another dream in which a voice said to him, "You have mistaken the -meaning of the vision. Return to your own town." And Francis trailed -back in his sickness to Assisi, a very dismal and disappointed and -perhaps even derided figure, with nothing to do but to wait for what -should happen next. It was his first descent into a dark ravine that is -called the valley of humiliation, which seemed to him very rocky and -desolate, but in which he was afterwards to find many flowers. - -But he was not only disappointed and humiliated; he was also very much -puzzled and bewildered. He still firmly believed that his two dreams -must have meant something; and he could not imagine what they could -possibly mean. It was while he was drifting, one may even say mooning, -about the streets of Assisi and the fields outside the city wall, that -an incident occurred to him which has not always been immediately -connected with the business of the dreams, but which seems to me the -obvious culmination of them. He was riding listlessly in some wayside -place, apparently in the open country, when he saw a figure coming along -the road towards him and halted; for he saw it was a leper. And he knew -instantly that his courage was challenged, not as the world challenges, -but as one would challenge who knew the secrets of the heart of a man. -What he saw advancing was not the banner and spears of Perugia, from -which it never occurred to him to shrink; not the armies that fought for -the crown of Sicily, of which he had always thought as a courageous man -thinks of mere vulgar danger. Francis Bernardone saw his fear coming up -the road towards him; the fear that comes from within and not without; -though it stood white and horrible in the sunlight. For once in the long -rush of his life his soul must have stood still. Then he sprang from his -horse, knowing nothing between stillness and swiftness, and rushed on -the leper and threw his arms round him. It was the beginning of a long -vocation of ministry among many lepers, for whom he did many services; -to this man he gave what money he could and mounted and rode on. We do -not know how far he rode, or with what sense of the things around him; -but it is said that when he looked back, he could see no figure on the -road. - - - - - _Chapter IV_ - _Francis the Builder_ - - -We have now reached the great break in the life of Francis of Assisi; -the point at which something happened to him that must remain greatly -dark to most of us, who are ordinary and selfish men whom God has not -broken to make anew. - -In dealing with this difficult passage, especially for my own purpose of -making things moderately easy for the more secular sympathiser, I have -hesitated as to the proper course; and have eventually decided to state -first of all what happened, with little more than a hint of what I -imagine to have been the meaning of what happened. The fuller meaning -may be debated more easily afterwards, when it was unfolded in the full -Franciscan life. Anyhow what happened was this. The story very largely -revolves round the ruins of the Church of St. Damian, an old shrine in -Assisi which was apparently neglected and falling to pieces. Here -Francis was in the habit of praying before the crucifix during these -dark and aimless days of transition that followed the tragical collapse -of all his military ambitions, probably made bitter by some loss of -social prestige terrible to his sensitive spirit. As he did so he heard -a voice saying to him, "Francis, seest thou not that my house is in -ruins? Go and restore it for me." - -Francis sprang up and went. To go and do something was one of the -driving demands of his nature; probably he had gone and done it before -he had at all thoroughly thought out what he had done. In any case what -he had done was something very decisive and immediately very disastrous -for his singular social career. In the coarse conventional language of -the uncomprehending world, he stole. From his own enthusiastic point of -view, he extended to his venerable father Peter Bernardone the exquisite -excitement and inestimable privilege of assisting, more or less -unconsciously, in the rebuilding of St. Damian's Church. In point of -fact what he did was first to sell his own horse and then to go off and -sell several bales of his father's cloth, making the sign of the cross -over them to indicate their pious and charitable destination. Peter -Bernardone did not see things in this light. Peter Bernardone indeed had -not very much light to see by, so far as understanding the genius and -temperament of his extraordinary son was concerned. Instead of -understanding in what sort of a wind and flame of abstract appetites the -lad was living, instead of simply telling him (as the priest practically -did later) that he had done an indefensible thing with the best -intentions, old Bernardone took up the matter in the hardest style; in a -legal and literal fashion. He used absolute political powers like a -heathen father, and himself put his son under lock and key as a vulgar -thief. It would appear that the cry was caught up among many with whom -the unlucky Francis had once been popular; and altogether, in his -efforts to build up the house of God he had only succeeded in bringing -his own house about his ears and lying buried under the ruins. The -quarrel dragged drearily through several stages; at one time the -wretched young man seems to have disappeared underground, so to speak, -into some cavern or cellar where he remained huddled hopelessly in the -darkness. Anyhow, it was his blackest moment; the whole world had turned -over; the whole world was on top of him. - -When he came out, it was only perhaps gradually that anybody grasped -that something had happened. He and his father were summoned in the -court of the bishop; for Francis had refused the authority of all legal -tribunals. The bishop addressed some remarks to him, full of that -excellent common sense which the Catholic Church keeps permanently as -the background for all the fiery attitudes of her saints. He told -Francis that he must unquestionably restore the money to his father; -that no blessing could follow a good work done by unjust methods; and in -short (to put it crudely) if the young fanatic would give back his money -to the old fool, the incident would then terminate. There was a new air -about Francis. He was no longer crushed, still less crawling, so far as -his father was concerned; yet his words do not, I think, indicate either -just indignation or wanton insult or anything in the nature of a mere -continuation of the quarrel. They are rather remotely akin to mysterious -utterances of his great model, "What have I to do with thee?" or even -the terrible "Touch me not." - -He stood up before them all and said, "Up to this time I have called -Pietro Bernardone father, but now I am the servant of God. Not only the -money but everything that can be called his I will restore to my father, -even the very clothes he has given me." And he rent off all his garments -except one; and they saw that that was a hair-shirt. - -He piled the garments in a heap on the floor and tossed the money on top -of them. Then he turned to the bishop, and received his blessing, like -one who turns his back on society; and, according to the account, went -out as he was into the cold world. Apparently it was literally a cold -world at the moment, and snow was on the ground. A curious detail, very -deep in its significance, I fancy, is given in the same account of this -great crisis in his life. He went out half-naked in his hair-shirt into -the winter woods, walking the frozen ground between the frosty trees; a -man without a father. He was penniless, he was parentless, he was to all -appearance without a trade or a plan or a hope in the world; and as he -went under the frosty trees, he burst suddenly into song. - -It was apparently noted as remarkable that the language in which he sang -was French, or that Provençal which was called for convenience French. -It was not his native language; and it was in his native language that -he ultimately won fame as a poet; indeed St. Francis is one of the very -first of the national poets in the purely national dialects of Europe. -But it was the language with which all his most boyish ardours and -ambitions had been identified; it was for him pre-eminently the language -of romance. That it broke from him in this extraordinary extremity seems -to me something at first sight very strange and in the last analysis -very significant. What that significance was, or may well have been, I -will try to suggest in the subsequent chapter; it is enough to indicate -here that the whole philosophy of St. Francis revolved round the idea of -a new supernatural light on natural things, which meant the ultimate -recovery not the ultimate refusal of natural things. And for the purpose -of this purely narrative part of the business, it is enough to record -that while he wandered in the winter forest in his hair-shirt, like the -very wildest of the hermits, he sang in the tongue of the Troubadours. - -Meanwhile the narrative naturally reverts to the problem of the ruined -or at least neglected church, which had been the starting point of the -saint's innocent crime and beatific punishment. That problem still -predominated in his mind and was soon engaging his insatiable -activities; but they were activities of a new sort; and he made no more -attempts to interfere with the commercial ethics of the town of Assisi. -There had dawned on him one of those great paradoxes that are also -platitudes. He realised that the way to build a church is not to become -entangled in bargains and, to him, rather bewildering questions of legal -claim. The way to build a church is not to pay for it, certainly not -with somebody else's money. The way to build a church is not even to pay -for it with your own money. The way to build a church is to build it. - -He went about by himself collecting stones. He begged all the people he -met to give him stones. In fact he became a new sort of beggar, -reversing the parable; a beggar who asks not for bread but a stone. -Probably, as happened to him again and again throughout his -extraordinary existence, the very queerness of the request gave it a -sort of popularity; and all sorts of idle and luxurious people fell in -with the benevolent project, as they would have done with a bet. He -worked with his own hands at the rebuilding of the church, dragging the -material like a beast of burden and learning the very last and lowest -lessons of toil. A vast number of stories are told about Francis at this -as at every other period of his life; but for the purpose here, which is -one of simplification, it is best to dwell on this definite re-entrance -of the saint into the world by the low gate of manual labour. There does -indeed run through the whole of his life a sort of double meaning, like -his shadow thrown upon the wall. All his action had something of the -character of an allegory; and it is likely enough that some -leaden-witted scientific historian may some day try to prove that he -himself was never anything but an allegory. It is true enough in this -sense that he was labouring at a double task, and rebuilding something -else as well as the church of St. Damian. He was not only discovering -the general lesson that his glory was not to be in overthrowing men in -battle but in building up the positive and creative monuments of peace. -He was truly building up something else, or beginning to build it up; -something that has often enough fallen into ruin but has never been past -rebuilding; a church that could always be built anew though it had -rotted away to its first foundation-stone, against which the gates of -hell shall not prevail. - -The next stage in his progress is probably marked by his transferring -the same energies of architectural reconstruction to the little church -of St. Mary of the Angels at the Portiuncula. He had already done -something of the same kind at a church dedicated to St. Peter; and that -quality in his life noted above, which made it seem like a symbolical -drama, led many of his most devout biographers to note the numerical -symbolism of the three churches. There was at any rate a more historical -and practical symbolism about two of them. For the original church of -St. Damian afterwards became the seat of his striking experiment of a -female order, and of the pure and spiritual romance of St. Clare. And -the church of the Portiuncula will remain for ever as one of the great -historic buildings of the world; for it was there that he gathered the -little knot of friends and enthusiasts; it was the home of many homeless -men. At this time, however, it is not clear that he had the definite -idea of any such monastic developments. How early the plan appeared in -his own mind it is of course impossible to say; but on the face of -events it first takes the form of a few friends who attached themselves -to him one by one because they shared his own passion for simplicity. -The account given of the form of their dedication is, however, very -significant; for it was that of an invocation of the simplification of -life as suggested in the New Testament. The adoration of Christ had been -a part of the man's passionate nature for a long time past. But the -imitation of Christ, as a sort of plan or ordered scheme of life, may in -that sense be said to begin here. - -The two men who have the credit, apparently, of having first perceived -something of what was happening in the world of the soul were a solid -and wealthy citizen named Bernard of Quintavalle and a canon from a -neighbouring church named Peter. It is the more to their credit because -Francis, if one may put it so, was by this time wallowing in poverty and -association with lepers and ragged mendicants; and these two were men -with much to give up; the one of comforts in the world and the other of -ambition in the Church. Bernard the rich burgher did quite literally and -finally sell all he had and give to the poor. Peter did even more; for -he descended from a chair of spiritual authority, probably when he was -already a man of mature years and therefore of fixed mental habits, to -follow an extravagant young eccentric whom most people probably regarded -as a maniac. What it was of which they had caught a glimpse, of which -Francis had seen the glory, may be suggested later so far as it can be -suggested at all. At this stage we need profess to see no more than all -Assisi saw, and that something not altogether unworthy of comment. The -citizens of Assisi only saw the camel go in triumph through the eye of -the needle and God doing impossible things because to him all things -were possible; only a priest who rent his robes like the Publican and -not like the Pharisee and a rich man who went away joyful, for he had no -possessions. - -These three strange figures are said to have built themselves a sort of -hut or den adjoining the leper hospital. There they talked to each -other, in the intervals of drudgery and danger (for it needed ten times -more courage to look after a leper than to fight for the crown of -Sicily), in the terms of their new life, almost like children talking a -secret language. Of these individual elements on their first friendship -we can say little with certainty; but it is certain that they remained -friends to the end. Bernard of Quintavalle occupies in the story -something of the position of Sir Bedivere, "first made and latest left -of Arthur's knights," for he reappears again at the right hand of the -saint on his death-bed and receives some sort of special blessing. But -all those things belong to another historical world and were quite -remote from the ragged and fantastic trio in their tumble-down hut. They -were not monks except perhaps in the most literal and archaic sense -which was identical with hermits. They were, so to speak, three -solitaries living together socially, but not as a society. The whole -thing seems to have been intensely individual, as seen from the outside -doubtless individual to the point of insanity. The stir of something -that had in it the promise of a movement or a mission can first be felt -as I have said in the affair of the appeal to the New Testament. - -It was a sort of _sors virgiliana_ applied to the Bible; a practice not -unknown among Protestants though open to their criticism, one would -think, as being rather a superstition of pagans. Anyhow it seems almost -the opposite of searching the Scriptures to open them at random; but -St. Francis certainly opened them at random. According to one story, he -merely made the sign of the cross over the volume of the Gospel and -opened it at three places reading three texts. The first was the tale of -the rich young man whose refusal to sell all his goods was the occasion -of the great paradox about the camel and the needle. The second was the -commandment to the disciples to take nothing with them on their journey, -neither scrip nor staff nor any money. The third was that saying, -literally to be called crucial, that the follower of Christ must also -carry his cross. There is a somewhat similar story of Francis finding -one of these texts, almost as accidentally, merely in listening to what -happened to be the Gospel of the day. But from the former version at -least it would seem that the incident occurred very early indeed in his -new life, perhaps soon after his breach with his father; for it was -after this oracle, apparently, that Bernard the first disciple rushed -forth and scattered all his goods among the poor. If this be so, it -would seem that nothing followed it for the moment except the individual -ascetical life with the hut for a hermitage. It must of course have been -a rather public sort of hermitage, but it was none the less in a very -real sense withdrawn from the world. St. Simeon Stylites on the top of -his pillar was in one sense an exceedingly public character; but there -was something a little singular in his situation for all that. It may be -presumed that most people thought the situation of Francis singular, -that some even thought it too singular. There was inevitably indeed in -any Catholic society something ultimate and even subconscious that was -at least capable of comprehending it better than a pagan or puritan -society could comprehend it. But we must not at this stage, I think, -exaggerate this potential public sympathy. As has already been -suggested, the Church and all its institutions had already the air of -being old and settled and sensible things, the monastic institutions -among the rest. Common sense was commoner in the Middle Ages, I think, -than in our own rather jumpy journalistic age; but men like Francis are -not common in any age, nor are they to be fully understood merely by the -exercise of common sense. The thirteenth century was certainly a -progressive period; perhaps the only really progressive period in human -history. But it can truly be called progressive precisely because its -progress was very orderly. It is really and truly an example of an epoch -of reforms without revolutions. But the reforms were not only -progressive but very practical; and they were very much to the advantage -of highly practical institutions; the towns and the trading guilds and -the manual crafts. Now the solid men of town and guild in the time of -Francis of Assisi were probably very solid indeed. They were much more -economically equal, they were much more justly governed in their own -economic environment, than the moderns who struggle madly between -starvation and the monopolist prizes of capitalism; but it is likely -enough that the majority of such citizens were as hard-headed as -peasants. Certainly the behaviour of the venerable Peter Bernardone does -not indicate a delicate sympathy with the fine and almost fanciful -subtleties of the Franciscan spirit. And we cannot measure the beauty -and originality of this strange spiritual adventure, unless we have the -humour and human sympathy to put into plain words how it would have -looked to such an unsympathetic person at the time when it happened. In -the next chapter I shall make an attempt, inevitably inadequate, to -indicate the inside of this story of the building of the three churches -and the little hut. In this chapter I have but outlined it from the -outside. And in concluding that chapter I ask the reader to remember and -realise what that story really looked like, when thus seen from the -outside. Given a critic of rather coarse common sense, with no feeling -about the incident except annoyance, and how would the story seem to -stand? - -A young fool or rascal is caught robbing his father and selling goods -which he ought to guard; and the only explanation he will offer is that -a loud voice from nowhere spoke in his ear and told him to mend the -cracks and holes in a particular wall. He then declares himself -naturally independent of all powers corresponding to the police or the -magistrates, and takes refuge with an amiable bishop who is forced to -remonstrate with him and tell him he is wrong. He then proceeds to take -off his clothes in public and practically throw them at his father; -announcing at the same time that his father is not his father at all. He -then runs about the town asking everybody he meets to give him fragments -of buildings or building materials, apparently with reference to his old -monomania about mending the wall. It may be an excellent thing that -cracks should be filled up, but preferably not by somebody who is -himself cracked; and architectural restoration like other things is not -best performed by builders who, as we should say, have a tile loose. -Finally the wretched youth relapses into rags and squalor and -practically crawls away into the gutter. That is the spectacle that -Francis must have presented to a very large number of his neighbours and -friends. - -How he lived at all must have seemed to them dubious; but presumably he -already begged for bread as he had begged for building materials. But he -was always very careful to beg for the blackest or worst bread he could -get, for the stalest crusts or something rather less luxurious than the -crumbs which the dogs eat, and which fall from the rich man's table. -Thus he probably fared worse than an ordinary beggar; for the beggar -would eat the best he could get and the saint ate the worst he could -get. In plain fact he was ready to live on refuse; and it was probably -something much uglier as an experience than the refined simplicity which -vegetarians and water-drinkers would call the simple life. As he dealt -with the question of food, so he apparently dealt with the question of -clothing. He dealt with it, that is, upon the same principle of taking -what he could get, and not even the best of what he could get. According -to one story he changed clothes with a beggar; and he would doubtless -have been content to change them with a scarecrow. In another version he -got hold of the rough brown tunic of a peasant, but presumably only -because the peasant gave him his very oldest brown tunic, which was -probably very old indeed. Most peasants have few changes of clothing to -give away; and some peasants are not specially inclined to give them -away until it is absolutely necessary. It is said that in place of the -girdle which he had flung off (perhaps with the more symbolic scorn -because it probably carried the purse or wallet by the fashion of the -period) he picked up a rope more or less at random, because it was lying -near, and tied it round his waist. He undoubtedly meant it as a shabby -expedient; rather as the very destitute tramp will sometimes tie his -clothes together with a piece of string. He meant to strike the note of -collecting his clothes anyhow, like rags from a succession of dust-bins. -Ten years later that make-shift costume was the uniform of five thousand -men; and a hundred years later, in that, for a pontifical panoply, they -laid great Dante in the grave. - - - - - _Chapter V_ - _Le Jongleur de Dieu_ - - -Many signs and symbols might be used to give a hint of what really -happened in the mind of the young poet of Assisi. Indeed they are at -once too numerous for selection and yet too slight for satisfaction. But -one of them may be adumbrated in this small and apparently accidental -fact: that when he and his secular companions carried their pageant of -poetry through the town, they called themselves Troubadours. But when he -and his spiritual companions came out to do their spiritual work in the -world, they were called by their leader the Jongleurs de Dieu. - -Nothing has been said here at any length of the great culture of the -Troubadours as it appeared in Provence or Languedoc, great as was their -influence in history and their influence on St. Francis. Something more -may be said of them when we come to summarise his relation to history; -it is enough to note here in a few sentences the facts about them that -were relevant to him, and especially the particular point now in -question, which was the most relevant of all. Everybody knows who the -Troubadours were; everybody knows that very early in the Middle Ages, in -the twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, there arose a civilisation -in Southern France which threatened to rival or eclipse the rising -tradition of Paris. Its chief product was a school of poetry, or rather -more especially a school of poets. They were primarily love-poets, -though they were often also satirists and critics of things in general. -Their picturesque posture in history is largely due to the fact that -they sang their own poems and often played their own accompaniments, on -the light musical instruments of the period; they were minstrels as well -as men of letters. Allied to their love-poetry were other institutions -of a decorative and fanciful kind concerned with the same theme. There -was what was called the "Gay Science," the attempt to reduce to a sort -of system the fine shades of flirtation and philandering. There were the -things called Courts of Love, in which the same delicate subjects were -dealt with with legal pomp and pedantry. There is one point in this part -of the business that must be remembered in relation to St. Francis. -There were manifest moral dangers in all this superb sentimentalism; but -it is a mistake to suppose that its only danger of exaggeration was in -the direction of sensualism. There was a strain in the southern romance -that was actually an excess of spirituality; just as the pessimist -heresy it produced was in one sense an excess of spirituality. The love -was not always animal; sometimes it was so airy as to be almost -allegorical. The reader realises that the lady is the most beautiful -being that can possibly exist, only he has occasional doubts as to -whether she does exist. Dante owed something to the Troubadours; and the -critical debates about his ideal woman are an excellent example of these -doubts. We know that Beatrice was not his wife, but we should in any -case be equally sure that she was not his mistress; and some critics -have even suggested that she was nothing at all, so to speak, except his -muse. This idea of Beatrice as an allegorical figure is, I believe, -unsound; it would seem unsound to any man who has read the _Vita Nuova_ -and has been in love. But the very fact that it is possible to suggest -it illustrates something abstract and scholastic in these medieval -passions. But though they were abstract passions they were very -passionate passions. These men could feel almost like lovers, even about -allegories and abstractions. It is necessary to remember this in order -to realise that St. Francis was talking the true language of a -troubadour when he said that he also had a most glorious and gracious -lady and that her name was Poverty. - -But the particular point to be noted here is not concerned so much with -the word Troubadour as with the word Jongleur. It is especially -concerned with the transition from one to the other; and for this it is -necessary to grasp another detail about the poets of the Gay Science. A -jongleur was not the same thing as a troubadour, even if the same man -were both a troubadour and a jongleur. More often, I believe, they were -separate men as well as separate trades. In many cases apparently the -two men would walk the world together like companions in arms, or rather -companions in arts. The jongleur was properly a joculator or jester; -sometimes he was what we should call a juggler. This is the point, I -imagine, of the tale about Taillefer the Jongleur at the battle of -Hastings, who sang of the death of Roland while he tossed up his sword -and caught it, as a juggler catches balls. Sometimes he may have been -even a tumbler; like that acrobat in the beautiful legend who was called -"The Tumbler of Our Lady," because he turned head over heels and stood -on his head before the image of the Blessed Virgin, for which he was -nobly thanked and comforted by her and the whole company of heaven. In -the ordinary way, we may imagine, the troubadour would exalt the company -with earnest and solemn strains of love and then the jongleur would do -his turn as a sort of comic relief. A glorious medieval romance remains -to be written about two such companions wandering through the world. At -any rate, if there is one place in which the true Franciscan spirit can -be found outside the true Franciscan story, it is in that tale of the -Tumbler of Our Lady. And when St. Francis called his followers the -Jongleurs de Dieu, he meant something very like the Tumblers of Our Lord. - -Somewhere in that transition from the ambition of the Troubadour to the -antics of the Tumbler is hidden, as under a parable, the truth of -St. Francis. Of the two minstrels or entertainers, the jester was -presumably the servant or at least the secondary figure. St. Francis -really meant what he said when he said he had found the secret of life -in being the servant and the secondary figure. There was to be found -ultimately in such service a freedom almost amounting to frivolity. It -was comparable to the condition of the jongleur because it almost -amounted to frivolity. The jester could be free when the knight was -rigid; and it was possible to be a jester in the service which is -perfect freedom. This parallel of the two poets or minstrels is perhaps -the best preliminary and external statement of the Franciscan change of -heart, being conceived under an image with which the imagination of the -modern world has a certain sympathy. There was, of course, a great deal -more than this involved; and we must endeavour however insufficiently to -penetrate past the image to the idea. It is so far like the tumblers -that it is really to many people a topsy-turvy idea. - -Francis, at the time or somewhere about the time when he disappeared -into the prison or the dark cavern, underwent a reversal of a certain -psychological kind; which was really like the reversal of a complete -somersault, in that by coming full circle it came back, or apparently -came back, to the same normal posture. It is necessary to use the -grotesque simile of an acrobatic antic, because there is hardly any -other figure that will make the fact clear. But in the inward sense it -was a profound spiritual revolution. The man who went into the cave was -not the man who came out again; in that sense he was almost as different -as if he were dead, as if he were a ghost or a blessed spirit. And the -effects of this on his attitude towards the actual world were really as -extravagant as any parallel can make them. He looked at the world as -differently from other men as if he had come out of that dark hole -walking on his hands. - -If we apply this parable of Our Lady's Tumbler to the case, we shall -come very near to the point of it. Now it really is a fact that any -scene such as a landscape can sometimes be more clearly and freshly seen -if it is seen upside down. There have been landscape-painters who -adopted the most startling and pantomimic postures in order to look at -it for a moment in that fashion. Thus that inverted vision, so much more -bright and quaint and arresting, does bear a certain resemblance to the -world which a mystic like St. Francis sees every day. But herein is the -essential part of the parable. Our Lady's Tumbler did not stand on his -head _in order_ to see flowers and trees as a clearer or quainter -vision. He did not do so; and it would never have occurred to him to do -so. Our Lady's Tumbler stood on his head to please Our Lady. If -St. Francis had done the same thing, as he was quite capable of doing, -it would originally have been from the same motive; a motive of a purely -supernatural thought. It would be _after_ this that his enthusiasm would -extend itself and give a sort of halo to the edges of all earthly -things. This is why it is not true to represent St. Francis as a mere -romantic forerunner of the Renaissance and a revival of natural -pleasures for their own sake. The whole point of him was that the secret -of recovering the natural pleasures lay in regarding them in the light -of a supernatural pleasure. In other words, he repeated in his own -person that historic process noted in the introductory chapter; the -vigil of asceticism which ends in the vision of a natural world made -new. But in the personal case there was even more than this; there were -elements that make the parallel of the Jongleur or Tumbler even more -appropriate than this. - -It may be suspected that in that black cell or cave Francis passed the -blackest hours of his life. By nature he was the sort of man who has -that vanity which is the opposite of pride; that vanity which is very -near to humility. He never despised his fellow creatures and therefore -he never despised the opinion of his fellow creatures; including the -admiration of his fellow creatures. All that part of his human nature -had suffered the heaviest and most crushing blows. It is possible that -after his humiliating return from his frustrated military campaign he -was called a coward. It is certain that after his quarrel with his -father about the bales of cloth he was called a thief. And even those -who had sympathised most with him, the priest whose church he had -restored, the bishop whose blessing he had received, had evidently -treated him with an almost humorous amiability which left only too clear -the ultimate conclusion of the matter. He had made a fool of himself. -Any man who has been young, who has ridden horses or thought himself -ready for a fight, who has fancied himself as a troubadour and accepted -the conventions of comradeship, will appreciate the ponderous and -crushing weight of that simple phrase. The conversion of St. Francis, -like the conversion of St. Paul, involved his being in some sense flung -suddenly from a horse; but in a sense it was an even worse fall; for it -was a war-horse. Anyhow, there was not a rag of him left that was not -ridiculous. Everybody knew that at the best he had made a fool of -himself. It was a solid objective fact, like the stones in the road, -that he had made a fool of himself. He saw himself as an object, very -small and distinct like a fly walking on a clear window pane; and it was -unmistakably a fool. And as he stared at the word "fool" written in -luminous letters before him, the word itself began to shine and change. - -We used to be told in the nursery that if a man were to bore a hole -through the centre of the earth and climb continually down and down, -there would come a moment at the centre when he would seem to be -climbing up and up. I do not know whether this is true. The reason I do -not know whether it is true is that I never happened to bore a hole -through the centre of the earth, still less to crawl through it. If I do -not know what this reversal or inversion feels like, it is because I -have never been there. And this also is an allegory. It is certain that -the writer, it is even possible that the reader, is an ordinary person -who has never been there. We cannot follow St. Francis to that final -spiritual overturn in which complete humiliation becomes complete -holiness or happiness, because we have never been there. I for one do -not profess to follow it any further than that first breaking down of -the romantic barricades of boyish vanity, which I have suggested in the -last paragraph. And even that paragraph, of course, is merely -conjectural, an individual guess at what he may have felt; but he may -have felt something quite different. But whatever else it was, it was so -far analogous to the story of the man making a tunnel through the earth -that it did mean a man going down and down until at some mysterious -moment he begins to go up and up. We have never gone up like that -because we have never gone down like that; we are obviously incapable of -saying that it does not happen; and the more candidly and calmly we read -human history, and especially the history of the wisest men, the more we -shall come to the conclusion that it does happen. Of the intrinsic -internal essence of the experience I make no pretence of writing at all. -But the external effect of it, for the purpose of this narrative, may be -expressed by saying that when Francis came forth from his cave of -vision, he was wearing the same word "fool" as a feather in his cap; as -a crest or even a crown. He would go on being a fool; he would become -more and more of a fool; he would be the court fool of the King of -Paradise. - -This state can only be represented in symbol; but the symbol of -inversion is true in another way. If a man saw the world upside down, -with all the trees and towers hanging head downwards as in a pool, one -effect would be to emphasise the idea of _dependence_. There is a Latin -and literal connection; for the very word dependence only means hanging. -It would make vivid the Scriptural text which says that God has hanged -the world upon nothing. If St. Francis had seen, in one of his strange -dreams, the town of Assisi upside down, it need not have differed in a -single detail from itself except in being entirely the other way round. -But the point is this: that whereas to the normal eye the large masonry -of its walls or the massive foundations of its watchtowers and its high -citadel would make it seem safer and more permanent, the moment it was -turned over the very same weight would make it seem more helpless and -more in peril. It is but a symbol; but it happens to fit the -psychological fact. St. Francis might love his little town as much as -before, or more than before; but the nature of the love would be altered -even in being increased. He might see and love every tile on the steep -roofs or every bird on the battlements; but he would see them all in a -new and divine light of eternal danger and dependence. Instead of being -merely proud of his strong city because it could not be moved, he would -be thankful to God Almighty that it had not been dropped; he would be -thankful to God for not dropping the whole cosmos like a vast crystal to -be shattered into falling stars. Perhaps St. Peter saw the world so, -when he was crucified head-downwards. - -It is commonly in a somewhat cynical sense that men have said, "Blessed -is he that expecteth nothing, for he shall not be disappointed." It was -in a wholly happy and enthusiastic sense that St. Francis said, "Blessed -is he who expecteth nothing, for he shall enjoy everything." It was by -this deliberate idea of starting from zero, from the dark nothingness of -his own deserts, that he did come to enjoy even earthly things as few -people have enjoyed them; and they are in themselves the best working -example of the idea. For there is no way in which a man can earn a star -or deserve a sunset. But there is more than this involved, and more -indeed than is easily to be expressed in words. It is not only true that -the less a man thinks of himself, the more he thinks of his good luck -and of all the gifts of God. It is also true that he sees more of the -things themselves when he sees more of their origin; for their origin is -a part of them and indeed the most important part of them. Thus they -become more extraordinary by being explained. He has more wonder at them -but less fear of them; for a thing is really wonderful when it is -significant and not when it is insignificant; and a monster, shapeless -or dumb or merely destructive, may be larger than the mountains, but is -still in a literal sense insignificant. For a mystic like St. Francis -the monsters had a meaning; that is, they had delivered their message. -They spoke no longer in an unknown tongue. That is the meaning of all -those stories, whether legendary or historical, in which he appears as a -magician speaking the language of beasts and birds. The mystic will have -nothing to do with mere mystery; mere mystery is generally a mystery of -iniquity. - -The transition from the good man to the saint is a sort of revolution; -by which one for whom all things illustrate and illuminate God becomes -one for whom God illustrates and illuminates all things. It is rather -like the reversal whereby a lover might say at first sight that a lady -looked like a flower, and say afterwards that all flowers reminded him -of his lady. A saint and a poet standing by the same flower might seem -to say the same thing; but indeed though they would both be telling the -truth, they would be telling different truths. For one the joy of life -is a cause of faith, for the other rather a result of faith. But one -effect of the difference is that the sense of a divine dependence, which -for the artist is like the brilliant levin-blaze, for the saint is like -the broad daylight. Being in some mystical sense on the other side of -things, he sees things go forth from the divine as children going forth -from a familiar and accepted home, instead of meeting them as they come -out, as most of us do, upon the roads of the world. And it is the -paradox that by this privilege he is more familiar, more free and -fraternal, more carelessly hospitable than we. For us the elements are -like heralds who tell us with trumpet and tabard that we are drawing -near the city of a great king; but he hails them with an old familiarity -that is almost an old frivolity. He calls them his Brother Fire and his -Sister Water. - -So arises out of this almost nihilistic abyss the noble thing that is -called Praise; which no one will ever understand while he identifies it -with nature-worship or pantheistic optimism. When we say that a poet -praises the whole creation, we commonly mean only that he praises the -whole cosmos. But this sort of poet does really praise creation, in the -sense of the act of creation. He praises the passage or transition from -nonentity to entity; there falls here also the shadow of that archetypal -image of the bridge, which has given to the priest his archaic and -mysterious name. The mystic who passes through the moment when there is -nothing but God does in some sense behold the beginningless beginnings -in which there was really nothing else. He not only appreciates -everything but the nothing of which everything was made. In a fashion he -endures and answers even the earthquake irony of the Book of Job; in -some sense he is there when the foundations of the world are laid, with -the morning stars singing together and the sons of God shouting for joy. -That is but a distant adumbration of the reason why the Franciscan, -ragged, penniless, homeless and apparently hopeless, did indeed come -forth singing such songs as might come from the stars of morning; and -shouting, a son of God. - -This sense of the great gratitude and the sublime dependence was not a -phrase or even a sentiment; it is the whole point that this was the very -rock of reality. It was not a fancy but a fact; rather it is true that -beside it all facts are fancies. That we all depend in every detail, at -every instant, as a Christian would say upon God, as even an agnostic -would say upon existence and the nature of things, is not an illusion of -imagination; on the contrary, it is the fundamental fact which we cover -up, as with curtains, with the illusion of ordinary life. That ordinary -life is an admirable thing in itself, just as imagination is an -admirable thing in itself. But it is much more the ordinary life that is -made of imagination than the contemplative life. He who has seen the -whole world hanging on a hair of the mercy of God has seen the truth; we -might almost say the cold truth. He who has seen the vision of his city -upside down has seen it the right way up. - -Rossetti makes the remark somewhere, bitterly but with great truth, that -the worst moment for the atheist is when he is really thankful and has -nobody to thank. The converse of this proposition is also true; and it -is certain that this gratitude produced, in such men as we are here -considering, the most purely joyful moments that have been known to man. -The great painter boasted that he mixed all his colours with brains, and -the great saint may be said to mix all his thoughts with thanks. All -goods look better when they look like gifts. In this sense it is certain -that the mystical method establishes a very healthy external relation to -everything else. But it must always be remembered that everything else -has for ever fallen into a second place, in comparison with this simple -fact of dependence on the divine reality. In so far as ordinary social -relations have in them something that seems solid and self-supporting, -some sense of being at once buttressed and cushioned; in so far as they -establish sanity in the sense of security and security in the sense of -self-sufficiency, the man who has seen the world hanging on a hair does -have some difficulty in taking them so seriously as that. In so far as -even the secular authorities and hierarchies, even the most natural -superiorities and the most necessary subordinations, tend at once to put -a man in his place, and to make him sure of his position, the man who -has seen the human hierarchy upside down will always have something of a -smile for its superiorities. In this sense the direct vision of divine -reality does disturb solemnities that are sane enough in themselves. The -mystic may have added a cubit to his stature; but he generally loses -something of his status. He can no longer take himself for granted, -merely because he can verify his own existence in a parish register or a -family Bible. Such a man may have something of the appearance of the -lunatic who has lost his name while preserving his nature; who -straightway forgets what manner of man he was. "Hitherto I have called -Pietro Bernardone father; but now I am the servant of God." - -All these profound matters must be suggested in short and imperfect -phrases; and the shortest statement of one aspect of this illumination -is to say that it is the discovery of an infinite debt. It may seem a -paradox to say that a man may be transported with joy to discover that -he is in debt. But this is only because in commercial cases the creditor -does not generally share the transports of joy; especially when the debt -is by hypothesis infinite and therefore unrecoverable. But here again -the parallel of a natural love-story of the nobler sort disposes of the -difficulty in a flash. There the infinite creditor does share the joy of -the infinite debtor; for indeed they are both debtors and both -creditors. In other words debt and dependence do become pleasures in the -presence of unspoilt love; the word is used too loosely and luxuriously -in popular simplifications like the present; but here the word is really -the key. It is the key of all the problems of Franciscan morality which -puzzle the merely modern mind; but above all it is the key of -asceticism. It is the highest and holiest of the paradoxes that the man -who really knows he cannot pay his debt will be for ever paying it. He -will be for ever giving back what he cannot give back, and cannot be -expected to give back. He will be always throwing things away into a -bottomless pit of unfathomable thanks. Men who think they are too modern -to understand this are in fact too mean to understand it; we are most of -us too mean to practise it. We are not generous enough to be ascetics; -one might almost say not genial enough to be ascetics. A man must have -magnanimity of surrender, of which he commonly only catches a glimpse in -first love, like a glimpse of our lost Eden. But whether he sees it or -not, the truth is in that riddle; that the whole world has, or is, only -one good thing; and it is a bad debt. - -If ever that rarer sort of romantic love, which was the truth that -sustained the Troubadours, falls out of fashion and is treated as -fiction, we may see some such misunderstanding as that of the modern -world about asceticism. For it seems conceivable that some barbarians -might try to destroy chivalry in love, as the barbarians ruling in -Berlin destroyed chivalry in war. If that were ever so, we should have -the same sort of unintelligent sneers and unimaginative questions. Men -will ask what selfish sort of woman it must have been who ruthlessly -exacted tribute in the form of flowers, or what an avaricious creature -she can have been to demand solid gold in the form of a ring; just as -they ask what cruel kind of God can have demanded sacrifice and -self-denial. They will have lost the clue to all that lovers have meant -by love; and will not understand that it was because the thing was not -demanded that it was done. But whether or no any such lesser things will -throw a light on the greater, it is utterly useless to study a great -thing like the Franciscan movement while remaining in the modern mood -that murmurs against gloomy asceticism. The whole point about -St. Francis of Assisi is that he certainly was ascetical and he -certainly was not gloomy. As soon as ever he had been unhorsed by the -glorious humiliation of his vision of dependence on the divine love, he -flung himself into fasting and vigil exactly as he had flung himself -furiously into battle. He had wheeled his charger clean round, but there -was no halt or check in the thundering impetuosity of his charge. There -was nothing negative about it; it was not a regimen or a stoical -simplicity of life. It was not self-denial merely in the sense of -self-control. It was as positive as a passion; it had all the air of -being as positive as a pleasure. He devoured fasting as a man devours -food. He plunged after poverty as men have dug madly for gold. And it is -precisely the positive and passionate quality of this part of his -personality that is a challenge to the modern mind in the whole problem -of the pursuit of pleasure. There undeniably is the historical fact; and -there attached to it is another moral fact almost as undeniable. It is -certain that he held on this heroic or unnatural course from the moment -when he went forth in his hair-shirt into the winter woods to the moment -when he desired even in his death agony to lie bare upon the bare -ground, to prove that he had and that he was nothing. And we can say, -with almost as deep a certainty, that the stars which passed above that -gaunt and wasted corpse stark upon the rocky floor had for once, in all -their shining cycles round the world of labouring humanity, looked down -upon a happy man. - - - - - _Chapter VI_ - _The Little Poor Man_ - - -From that cavern, that was a furnace of glowing gratitude and humility, -there came forth one of the strongest and strangest and most original -personalities that human history has known. He was, among other things, -emphatically what we call a character; almost as we speak of a character -in a good novel or play. He was not only a humanist but a humorist; a -humorist especially in the old English sense of a man always in his -humour, going his own way and doing what nobody else would have done. -The anecdotes about him have a certain biographical quality of which the -most familiar example is Dr. Johnson; which belongs in another way to -William Blake or to Charles Lamb. The atmosphere can only be defined by -a sort of antithesis; the act is always unexpected and never -inappropriate. Before the thing is said or done it cannot even be -conjectured; but after it is said or done it is felt to be merely -characteristic. It is surprisingly and yet inevitably individual. This -quality of abrupt fitness and bewildering consistency belongs to -St. Francis in a way that marks him out from most men of his time. Men -are learning more and more of the solid social virtues of medieval -civilisation; but those impressions are still social rather than -individual. The medieval world was far ahead of the modern world in its -sense of the things in which all men are at one: death and the daylight -of reason and the common conscience that holds communities together. Its -generalisations were saner and sounder than the mad materialistic -theories of to-day; nobody would have tolerated a Schopenhauer scorning -life or a Nietzsche living only for scorn. But the modern world is more -subtle in its sense of the things in which men are not at one; in the -temperamental varieties and differentiations that make up the personal -problems of life. All men who can think themselves now realise that the -great schoolmen had a type of thought that was wonderfully clear; but it -was as it were deliberately colourless. All are now agreed that the -greatest art of the age was the art of public buildings; the popular and -communal art of architecture. But it was not an age for the art of -portrait-painting. Yet the friends of St. Francis have really contrived -to leave behind a portrait; something almost resembling a devout and -affectionate caricature. There are lines and colours in it that are -personal almost to the extent of being perverse, if one can use the word -perversity of an inversion that was also a conversion. Even among the -saints he has the air of a sort of eccentric, if one may use the word of -one whose eccentricity consisted in always turning towards the centre. - -Before resuming the narrative of his first adventures, and the building -of the great brotherhood which was the beginning of so merciful a -revolution, I think it well to complete this imperfect personal portrait -here; and having attempted in the last chapter a tentative description -of the process, to add in this chapter a few touches to describe the -result. I mean by the result the real man as he was after his first -formative experiences; the man whom men met walking about on the Italian -roads in his brown tunic tied with a rope. For that man, saving the -grace of God, is the explanation of all that followed; men acted quite -differently according to whether they had met him or not. If we see -afterwards a vast tumult, an appeal to the Pope, mobs of men in brown -habits besieging the seats of authority, Papal pronouncements, heretical -sessions, trial and triumphant survival, the world full of a new -movement, the friar a household word in every corner of Europe, and if we -ask _why_ all this happened, we can only approximate to any answer to -our own question if we can, in some faint and indirect imaginative -fashion, hear one human voice or see one human face under a hood. There -is no answer except that Francis Bernardone had happened; and we must -try in some sense to see what we should have seen if he had happened to -us. In other words, after some groping suggestions about his life from -the inside, we must again consider it from the outside; as if he were a -stranger coming up the road towards us, along the hills of Umbria, -between the olives or the vines. - -Francis of Assisi was slight in figure with that sort of slightness -which, combined with so much vivacity, gives the impression of -smallness. He was probably taller than he looked; middle-sized, his -biographers say; he was certainly very active and, considering what he -went through, must have been tolerably tough. He was of the brownish -Southern colouring, with a dark beard thin and pointed such as appears -in pictures under the hoods of elves; and his eyes glowed with the fire -that fretted him night and day. There is something about the description -of all he said and did which suggests that, even more than most -Italians, he turned naturally to a passionate pantomime of gestures. If -this was so it is equally certain that with him, even more than with -most Italians, the gestures were all gestures of politeness or -hospitality. And both these facts, the vivacity and the courtesy, are -the outward signs of something that mark him out very distinctively from -many who might appear to be more of his kind than they really are. It is -truly said that Francis of Assisi was one of the founders of the -medieval drama, and therefore of the modern drama. He was the very -reverse of a theatrical person in the selfish sense; but for all that he -was pre-eminently a dramatic person. This side of him can best be -suggested by taking what is commonly regarded as a reposeful quality; -what is commonly described as a love of nature. We are compelled to use -the term; and it is entirely the wrong term. - -St. Francis was not a lover of nature. Properly understood, a lover of -nature was precisely what he was not. The phrase implies accepting the -material universe as a vague environment, a sort of sentimental -pantheism. In the romantic period of literature, in the age of Byron and -Scott, it was easy enough to imagine that a hermit in the ruins of a -chapel (preferably by moonlight) might find peace and a mild pleasure in -the harmony of solemn forests and silent stars, while he pondered over -some scroll or illuminated volume, about the liturgical nature of which -the author was a little vague. In short, the hermit might love nature as -a background. Now for St. Francis nothing was ever in the background. We -might say that his mind had no background, except perhaps that divine -darkness out of which the divine love had called up every coloured -creature one by one. He saw everything as dramatic, distinct from its -setting, not all of a piece like a picture but in action like a play. A -bird went by him like an arrow; something with a story and a purpose, -though it was a purpose of life and not a purpose of death. A bush could -stop him like a brigand; and indeed he was as ready to welcome the -brigand as the bush. - -In a word, we talk about a man who cannot see the wood for the trees. -St. Francis was a man who did not want to see the wood for the trees. He -wanted to see each tree as a separate and almost a sacred thing, being a -child of God and therefore a brother or sister of man. But he did not -want to stand against a piece of stage scenery used merely as a -background, and inscribed in a general fashion: "Scene; a wood." In this -sense we might say that he was too dramatic for the drama. The scenery -would have come to life in his comedies; the walls would really have -spoken like Snout the Tinker and the trees would really have come -walking to Dunsinane. Everything would have been in the foreground; and -in that sense in the footlights. Everything would be in every sense a -character. This is the quality in which, as a poet, he is the very -opposite of a pantheist. He did not call nature his mother; he called a -particular donkey his brother or a particular sparrow his sister. If he -had called a pelican his aunt or an elephant his uncle, as he might -possibly have done, he would still have meant that they were particular -creatures assigned by their Creator to particular places; not mere -expressions of the evolutionary energy of things. That is where his -mysticism is so close to the common sense of the child. A child has no -difficulty about understanding that God made the dog and the cat; though -he is well aware that the making of dogs and cats out of nothing is a -mysterious process beyond his own imagination. But no child would -understand what you meant if you mixed up the dog and the cat and -everything else into one monster with a myriad legs and called it -nature. The child would resolutely refuse to make head or tail of any -such animal. St. Francis was a mystic, but he believed in mysticism and -not in mystification. As a mystic he was the mortal enemy of all those -mystics who melt away the edges of things and dissolve an entity into -its environment. He was a mystic of the daylight and the darkness; but -not a mystic of the twilight. He was the very contrary of that sort of -oriental visionary who is only a mystic because he is too much of a -sceptic to be a materialist. St. Francis was emphatically a realist, -using the word realist in its much more real medieval sense. In this -matter he really was akin to the best spirit of his age, which had just -won its victory over the nominalism of the twelfth century. In this -indeed there was something symbolic in the contemporary art and -decoration of his period; as in the art of heraldry. The Franciscan -birds and beasts were really rather like heraldic birds and beasts; not -in the sense of being fabulous animals but in the sense of being treated -as if they were facts, clear and positive and unaffected by the -illusions of atmosphere and perspective. In that sense he did see a bird -sable on a field azure or a sheep argent on a field vert. But the -heraldry of humility was richer than the heraldry of pride; for it saw -all these things that God had given as something more precious and -unique than the blazonry that princes and peers had only given to -themselves. Indeed out of the depths of that surrender it rose higher -than the highest titles of the feudal age; than the laurel of Cæsar or -the Iron Crown of Lombardy. It is an example of extremes that meet, that -the Little Poor Man, who had stripped himself of everything and named -himself as nothing, took the same title that has been the wild vaunt of -the vanity of the gorgeous Asiatic autocrat, and called himself the -Brother of the Sun and Moon. - -This quality, of something outstanding and even startling in things as -St. Francis saw them, is here important as illustrating a character in -his own life. As he saw all things dramatically, so he himself was -always dramatic. We have to assume throughout, needless to say, that he -was a poet and can only be understood as a poet. But he had one poetic -privilege denied to most poets. In that respect indeed he might be -called the one happy poet among all the unhappy poets of the world. He -was a poet whose whole life was a poem. He was not so much a minstrel -merely singing his own songs as a dramatist capable of acting the whole -of his own play. The things he said were more imaginative than the -things he wrote. The things he did were more imaginative than the things -he said. His whole course through life was a series of scenes in which -he had a sort of perpetual luck in bringing things to a beautiful -crisis. To talk about the art of living has come to sound rather -artificial than artistic. But St. Francis did in a definite sense make -the very act of living an art, though it was an unpremeditated art. Many -of his acts will seem grotesque and puzzling to a rationalistic taste. -But they were always acts and not explanations; and they always meant -what he meant them to mean. The amazing vividness with which he stamped -himself on the memory and imagination of mankind is very largely due to -the fact that he was seen again and again under such dramatic -conditions. From the moment when he rent his robes and flung them at his -father's feet to the moment when he stretched himself in death on the -bare earth in the pattern of the cross, his life was made up of these -unconscious attitudes and unhesitating gestures. It would be easy to -fill page after page with examples; but I will here pursue the method -found convenient everywhere in this short sketch, and take one typical -example, dwelling on it with a little more detail than would be possible -in a catalogue, in the hope of making the meaning more clear. The -example taken here occurred in the last days of his life, but it refers -back in a rather curious fashion to the first; and rounds off the -remarkable unity of that romance of religion. - -The phrase about his brotherhood with the sun and moon, and with the -water and the fire, occurs of course in his famous poem called the -Canticle of the Creatures or the Canticle of the Sun. He sang it -wandering in the meadows in the sunnier season of his own career, when -he was pouring upwards into the sky all the passions of a poet. It is a -supremely characteristic work, and much of St. Francis could be -reconstructed from that work alone. Though in some ways the thing is as -simple and straightforward as a ballad, there is a delicate instinct of -differentiation in it. Notice, for instance, the sense of sex in -inanimate things, which goes far beyond the arbitrary genders of a -grammar. It was not for nothing that he called fire his brother, fierce -and gay and strong, and water his sister, pure and clear and inviolate. -Remember that St. Francis was neither encumbered nor assisted by all -that Greek and Roman polytheism turned into allegory, which has been to -European poetry often an inspiration, too often a convention. Whether he -gained or lost by his contempt of learning, it never occurred to him to -connect Neptune and the nymphs with the water or Vulcan and the Cyclops -with the flame. This point exactly illustrates what has already been -suggested; that, so far from being a revival of paganism, the Franciscan -renascence was a sort of fresh start and first awakening after a -forgetfulness of paganism. Certainly it is responsible for a certain -freshness in the thing itself. Anyhow St. Francis was, as it were, the -founder of a new folk-lore; but he could distinguish his mermaids from -his mermen and his witches from his wizards. In short, he had to make -his own mythology; but he knew at a glance the goddesses from the gods. -This fanciful instinct for the sexes is not the only example of an -imaginative instinct of the kind. There is just the same quaint felicity -in the fact that he singles out the sun with a slightly more courtly -title besides that of brother; a phrase that one king might use of -another, corresponding to "Monsieur notre frère." It is like a faint -half ironic shadow of the shining primacy that it had held in the pagan -heavens. A bishop is said to have complained of a Nonconformist saying -Paul instead of Saint Paul; and to have added "He might at least have -called him Mr. Paul." So St. Francis is free of all obligation to cry -out in praise or terror on the Lord God Apollo, but in his new nursery -heavens, he salutes him as Mr. Sun. Those are the things in which he has -a sort of inspired infancy, only to be paralleled in nursery tales. -Something of the same hazy but healthy awe makes the story of Brer Fox -and Brer Rabbit refer respectfully to Mr. Man. - -This poem, full of the mirth of youth and the memories of childhood, -runs through his whole life like a refrain, and scraps of it turn up -continually in the ordinary habit of his talk. Perhaps the last -appearance of its special language was in an incident that has always -seemed to me intensely impressive, and is at any rate very illustrative -of the great manner and gesture of which I speak. Impressions of that -kind are a matter of imagination and in that sense of taste. It is idle -to argue about them; for it is the whole point of them that they have -passed beyond words; and even when they use words, seem to be completed -by some ritual movement like a blessing or a blow. So, in a supreme -example, there is something far past all exposition, something like the -sweeping movement and mighty shadow of a hand, darkening even the -darkness of Gethsemane; "Sleep on now, and take your rest...." Yet there -are people who have started to paraphrase and expand the story of the -Passion. - -St. Francis was a dying man. We might say he was an old man, at the time -this typical incident occurred; but in fact he was only prematurely old; -for he was not fifty when he died, worn out with his fighting and -fasting life. But when he came down from the awful asceticism and more -awful revelation of Alverno, he was a broken man. As will be apparent -when these events are touched on in their turn, it was not only sickness -and bodily decay that may well have darkened his life; he had been -recently disappointed in his main mission to end the Crusades by the -conversion of Islam; he had been still more disappointed by the signs of -compromise and a more political or practical spirit in his own order; he -had spent his last energies in protest. At this point he was told that -he was going blind. If the faintest hint has been given here of what -St. Francis felt about the glory and pageantry of earth and sky, about -the heraldic shape and colour and symbolism of birds and beasts and -flowers, some notion may be formed of what it meant to him to go blind. -Yet the remedy might well have seemed worse than the disease. The -remedy, admittedly an uncertain remedy, was to cauterise the eye, and -that without any anæsthetic. In other words it was to burn his living -eyeballs with a red-hot iron. Many of the tortures of martyrdom, which -he envied in martyrology and sought vainly in Syria, can have been no -worse. When they took the brand from the furnace, he rose as with an -urbane gesture and spoke as to an invisible presence: "Brother Fire, God -made you beautiful and strong and useful; I pray you be courteous with -me." - -If there be any such thing as the art of life, it seems to me that such -a moment was one of its masterpieces. Not to many poets has it been -given to remember their own poetry at such a moment, still less to live -one of their own poems. Even William Blake would have been disconcerted -if, while he was re-reading the noble lines "Tiger, tiger, burning -bright," a real large live Bengal tiger had put his head in at the -window of the cottage in Felpham, evidently with every intention of -biting his head off. He might have wavered before politely saluting it, -above all by calmly completing the recitation of the poem to the -quadruped to whom it was dedicated. Shelley, when he wished to be a -cloud or a leaf carried before the wind, might have been mildly -surprised to find himself turning slowly head over heels in mid air a -thousand feet above the sea. Even Keats, knowing that his hold on life -was a frail one, might have been disturbed to discover that the true, -the blushful Hippocrene of which he had just partaken freely had indeed -contained a drug, which really ensured that he should cease upon the -midnight with no pain. For Francis there was no drug; and for Francis -there was plenty of pain. But his first thought was one of his first -fancies from the songs of his youth. He remembered the time when a flame -was a flower, only the most glorious and gaily coloured of the flowers -in the garden of God; and when that shining thing returned to him in the -shape of an instrument of torture, he hailed it from afar like an old -friend, calling it by the nickname which might most truly be called its -Christian name. - -That is only one incident out of a life of such incidents; and I have -selected it partly because it shows what is meant here by that shadow of -gesture there is in all his words, the dramatic gesture of the south; -and partly because its special reference to courtesy covers the next -fact to be noted. The popular instinct of St. Francis, and his perpetual -preoccupation with the idea of brotherhood, will be entirely -misunderstood if it is understood in the sense of what is often called -camaraderie; the back-slapping sort of brotherhood. Frequently from the -enemies and too frequently from the friends of the democratic ideal, -there has come a notion that this note is necessary to that ideal. It is -assumed that equality means all men being equally uncivil, whereas it -obviously ought to mean all men being equally civil. Such people have -forgotten the very meaning and derivation of the word civility, if they -do not see that to be uncivil is to be uncivic. But anyhow that was not -the equality which Francis of Assisi encouraged; but an equality of the -opposite kind; it was a camaraderie actually founded on courtesy. - -Even in that fairy borderland of his mere fancies about flowers and -animals and even inanimate things, he retained this permanent posture of -a sort of deference. A friend of mine said that somebody was the sort of -man who apologises to the cat. St. Francis really would have apologised -to the cat. When he was about to preach in a wood full of the chatter of -birds, he said, with a gentle gesture "Little sisters, if you have now -had your say, it is time that I also should be heard." And all the birds -were silent; as I for one can very easily believe. In deference to my -special design of making matters intelligible to average modernity, I -have treated separately the subject of the miraculous powers that -St. Francis most certainly possessed. But even apart from any miraculous -powers, men of that magnetic sort, with that intense interest in -animals, often have an extraordinary power over them. St. Francis's -power was always exercised with this elaborate politeness. Much of it -was doubtless a sort of symbolic joke, a pious pantomime intended to -convey the vital distinction in his divine mission, that he not only -loved but reverenced God in all his creatures. In this sense he had the -air not only of apologising to the cat or to the birds, but of -apologising to a chair for sitting on it or to a table for sitting down -at it. Anyone who had followed him through life merely to laugh at him, -as a sort of lovable lunatic, might easily have had an impression as of -a lunatic who bowed to every post or took off his hat to every tree. -This was all a part of his instinct for imaginative gesture. He taught -the world a large part of its lesson by a sort of divine dumb alphabet. -But if there was this ceremonial element even in lighter or lesser -matters, its significance became far more serious in the serious work of -his life, which was an appeal to humanity, or rather to human beings. - -I have said that St. Francis deliberately did not see the wood for the -trees. It is even more true that he deliberately did not see the mob for -the men. What distinguishes this very genuine democrat from any mere -demagogue is that he never either deceived or was deceived by the -illusion of mass-suggestion. Whatever his taste in monsters, he never -saw before him a many-headed beast. He only saw the image of God -multiplied but never monotonous. To him a man was always a man and did -not disappear in a dense crowd any more than in a desert. He honoured -all men; that is, he not only loved but respected them all. What gave -him his extraordinary personal power was this; that from the Pope to the -beggar, from the sultan of Syria in his pavilion to the ragged robbers -crawling out of the wood, there was never a man who looked into those -brown burning eyes without being certain that Francis Bernardone was -really interested in _him_; in his own inner individual life from the -cradle to the grave; that he himself was being valued and taken -seriously, and not merely added to the spoils of some social policy or -the names in some clerical document. Now for this particular moral and -religious idea there is no external expression except courtesy. -Exhortation does not express it, for it is not mere abstract enthusiasm; -beneficence does not express it, for it is not mere pity. It can only be -conveyed by a certain grand manner which may be called good manners. We -may say if we like that St. Francis, in the bare and barren simplicity -of his life, had clung to one rag of luxury; the manners of a court. But -whereas in a court there is one king and a hundred courtiers, in this -story there was one courtier, moving among a hundred kings. For he -treated the whole mob of men as a mob of kings. And this was really and -truly the only attitude that will appeal to that part of man to which he -wished to appeal. It cannot be done by giving gold or even bread; for it -is a proverb that any reveller may fling largesse in mere scorn. It -cannot even be done by giving time and attention; for any number of -philanthropists and benevolent bureaucrats do such work with a scorn far -more cold and horrible in their hearts. No plans or proposals or -efficient rearrangements will give back to a broken man his self-respect -and sense of speaking with an equal. One gesture will do it. - -With that gesture Francis of Assisi moved among men; and it was soon -found to have something in it of magic and to act, in a double sense, -like a charm. But it must always be conceived as a completely natural -gesture; for indeed it was almost a gesture of apology. He must be -imagined as moving thus swiftly through the world with a sort of -impetuous politeness; almost like the movement of a man who stumbles on -one knee half in haste and half in obeisance. The eager face under the -brown hood was that of a man always going somewhere, as if he followed -as well as watched the flight of the birds. And this sense of motion is -indeed the meaning of the whole revolution that he made; for the work -that has now to be described was of the nature of an earthquake or a -volcano, an explosion that drove outwards with dynamic energy the forces -stored up by ten centuries in the monastic fortress or arsenal and -scattered all its riches recklessly to the ends of the earth. In a -better sense than the antithesis commonly conveys, it is true to say -that what St. Benedict had stored St. Francis scattered; but in the -world of spiritual things what had been stored into the barns like grain -was scattered over the world as seed. The servants of God who had been a -besieged garrison became a marching army; the ways of the world were -filled as with thunder with the trampling of their feet and far ahead of -that ever swelling host went a man singing; as simply he had sung that -morning in the winter woods, where he walked alone. - - - - - _Chapter VII_ - _The Three Orders_ - - -There is undoubtedly a sense in which two is company and three is none; -there is also another sense in which three is company and four is none, -as is proved by the procession of historic and fictitious figures moving -three deep, the famous trios like the Three Musketeers or the Three -Soldiers of Kipling. But there is yet another and a different sense in -which four is company and three is none; if we use the word company in -the vaguer sense of a crowd or a mass. With the fourth man enters the -shadow of a mob; the group is no longer one of three individuals only -conceived individually. That shadow of the fourth man fell across the -little hermitage of the Portiuncula when a man named Egidio, apparently -a poor workman, was invited by St. Francis to enter. He mingled without -difficulty with the merchant and the canon who had already become the -companions of Francis; but with his coming an invisible line was -crossed; for it must have been felt by this time that the growth of that -small group had become potentially infinite, or at least that its -outline had become permanently indefinite. It may have been in the time -of that transition that Francis had another of his dreams full of -voices; but now the voices were a clamour of the tongues of all nations, -Frenchmen and Italians and English and Spanish and Germans, telling of -the glory of God each in his own tongue; a new Pentecost and a happier -Babel. - -Before describing the first steps he took to regularise the growing -group, it is well to have a rough grasp of what he conceived that group -to be. He did not call his followers monks; and it is not clear, at this -time at least, that he even thought of them as monks. He called them by -a name which is generally rendered in English as the Friars Minor; but -we shall be much closer to the atmosphere of his own mind if we render -it almost literally as The Little Brothers. Presumably he was already -resolved, indeed, that they should take the three vows of poverty, -chastity and obedience which had always been the mark of a monk. But it -would seem that he was not so much afraid of the idea of a monk as of -the idea of an abbot. He was afraid that the great spiritual -magistracies which had given even to their holiest possessors at least a -sort of impersonal and corporate pride, would import an element of -pomposity that would spoil his extremely and almost extravagantly simple -version of the life of humility. But the supreme difference between his -discipline and the discipline of the old monastic system was concerned, -of course, with the idea that the monks were to become migratory and -almost nomadic instead of stationary. They were to mingle with the -world; and to this the more old-fashioned monk would naturally reply by -asking how they were to mingle with the world without becoming entangled -with the world. It was a much more real question than a loose -religiosity is likely to realise; but St. Francis had his answer to it, -of his own individual sort; and the interest of the problem is in that -highly individual answer. - -The good Bishop of Assisi expressed a sort of horror at the hard life -which the Little Brothers lived at the Portiuncula, without comforts, -without possessions, eating anything they could get and sleeping anyhow -on the ground. St. Francis answered him with that curious and almost -stunning shrewdness which the unworldly can sometimes wield like a club -of stone. He said, "If we had any possessions, we should need weapons -and laws to defend them." That sentence is the clue to the whole policy -that he pursued. It rested upon a real piece of logic; and about that he -was never anything but logical. He was ready to own himself wrong about -anything else; but he was quite certain he was right about this -particular rule. He was only once seen angry; and that was when there -was talk of an exception to the rule. - -His argument was this: that the dedicated man might go anywhere among -any kind of men, even the worst kind of men, so long as there was -nothing by which they could hold him. If he had any ties or needs like -ordinary men, he would become like ordinary men. St. Francis was the -last man in the world to think any the worse of ordinary men for being -ordinary. They had more affection and admiration from him than they are -ever likely to have again. But for his own particular purpose of -stirring up the world to a new spiritual enthusiasm, he saw with a -logical clarity that was quite reverse of fanatical or sentimental, that -friars must not become like ordinary men; that the salt must not lose -its savour even to turn into human nature's daily food. And the -difference between a friar and an ordinary man was really that a friar -was freer than an ordinary man. It was necessary that he should be free -from the cloister; but it was even more important that he should be free -from the world. It is perfectly sound common sense to say that there is -a sense in which the ordinary man cannot be free from the world; or -rather ought not to be free from the world. The feudal world in -particular was one labyrinthine system of dependence; but it was not -only the feudal world that went to make up the medieval world nor the -medieval world that went to make up the whole world; and the whole world -is full of this fact. Family life as much as feudal life is in its -nature a system of dependence. Modern trade unions as much as medieval -guilds are interdependent among themselves even in order to be -independent of others. In medieval as in modern life, even where these -limitations do exist for the sake of liberty, they have in them a -considerable element of luck. They are partly the result of -circumstances; sometimes the almost unavoidable result of circumstances. -So the twelfth century had been the age of vows; and there was something -of relative freedom in that feudal gesture of the vow; for no man asks -vows from slaves any more than from spades. Still, in practice, a man -rode to war in support of the ancient house of the Column or behind the -Great Dog of the Stairway largely because he had been born in a certain -city or countryside. But no man need obey little Francis in the old -brown coat unless he chose. Even in his relations with his chosen leader -he was in one sense relatively free, compared with the world around him. -He was obedient but not dependent. And he was as free as the wind, he -was almost wildly free, in his relation to that world around him. The -world around him was, as has been noted, a network of feudal and family -and other forms of dependence. The whole idea of St. Francis was that -the Little Brothers should be like little fishes who could go freely in -and out of that net. They could do so precisely because they were small -fishes and in that sense even slippery fishes. There was nothing that -the world could hold them by; for the world catches us mostly by the -fringes of our garments, the futile externals of our lives. One of the -Franciscans says later, "A monk should own nothing but his harp"; -meaning, I suppose, that he should value nothing but his song, the song -with which it was his business as a minstrel to serenade every castle -and cottage, the song of the joy of the Creator in his creation and the -beauty of the brotherhood of men. In imagining the life of this sort of -visionary vagabond, we may already get a glimpse also of the practical -side of that asceticism which puzzles those who think themselves -practical. A man had to be thin to pass always through the bars and out -of the cage; he had to travel light in order to ride so fast and so far. -It was the whole calculation, so to speak, of that innocent cunning, -that the world was to be outflanked and outwitted by him, and be -embarrassed about what to do with him. You could not threaten to starve -a man who was ever striving to fast. You could not ruin him and reduce -him to beggary, for he was already a beggar. There was a very lukewarm -satisfaction even in beating him with a stick, when he only indulged in -little leaps and cries of joy because indignity was his only dignity. -You could not put his head in a halter without the risk of putting it in -a halo. - -But one distinction between the old monks and the new friars counted -especially in the matter of practicality and especially of promptitude. -The old fraternities with their fixed habitations and enclosed existence -had the limitations of ordinary householders. However simply they lived -there must be a certain number of cells or a certain number of beds or -at least a certain cubic space for a certain number of brothers; their -numbers therefore depended on their land and building material. But -since a man could become a Franciscan by merely promising to take his -chance of eating berries in a lane or begging a crust from a kitchen, of -sleeping under a hedge or sitting patiently on a doorstep, there was no -economic reason why there should not be any number of such eccentric -enthusiasts within any short period of time. It must also be remembered -that the whole of this rapid development was full of a certain kind of -democratic optimism that really was part of the personal character of -St. Francis. His very asceticism was in one sense the height of -optimism. He demanded a great deal of human nature not because he -despised it but rather because he trusted it. He was expecting a very -great deal from the extraordinary men who followed him; but he was also -expecting a good deal from the ordinary men to whom he sent them. He -asked the laity for food as confidently as he asked the fraternity for -fasting. But he counted on the hospitality of humanity because he really -did regard every house as the house of a friend. He really did love and -honour ordinary men and ordinary things; indeed we may say that he only -sent out the extraordinary men to encourage men to be ordinary. - -This paradox may be more exactly stated or explained when we come to -deal with the very interesting matter of the Third Order, which was -designed to assist ordinary men to be ordinary with an extraordinary -exultation. The point at issue at present is the audacity and simplicity -of the Franciscan plan for quartering its spiritual soldiery upon the -population; not by force but by persuasion, and even by the persuasion -of impotence. It was an act of confidence and therefore a compliment. It -was completely successful. It was an example of something that clung -about St. Francis always; a kind of tact that looked like luck because -it was as simple and direct as a thunderbolt. There are many examples in -his private relations of this sort of tactless tact; this surprise -effected by striking at the heart of the matter. It is said that a young -friar was suffering from a sort of sulks between morbidity and humility, -common enough in youth and hero-worship, in which he had got it into his -head that his hero hated or despised him. We can imagine how tactfully -social diplomatists would steer clear of scenes and excitements, how -cautiously psychologists would watch and handle such delicate cases. -Francis suddenly walked up to the young man, who was of course secretive -and silent as the grave, and said, "Be not troubled in your thoughts for -you are dear to me, and even among the number of those who are most -dear. You know that you are worthy of my friendship and society; -therefore come to me, in confidence, whensoever you will, and from -friendship learn faith." Exactly as he spoke to that morbid boy he spoke -to all mankind. He always went to the point; he always seemed at once -more right and more simple than the person he was speaking to. He seemed -at once to be laying open his guard and yet lunging at the heart. -Something in this attitude disarmed the world as it has never been -disarmed again. He was better than other men; he was a benefactor of -other men; and yet he was not hated. The world came into church by a -newer and nearer door; and by friendship it learnt faith. - -It was while the little knot of people at the Portiuncula was still -small enough to gather in a small room that St. Francis resolved on his -first important and even sensational stroke. It is said that there were -only twelve Franciscans in the whole world when he decided to march, as -it were, on Rome and found a Franciscan order. It would seem that this -appeal to remote headquarters was not generally regarded as necessary; -possibly something could have been done in a secondary way under the -Bishop of Assisi and the local clergy. It would seem even more probable -that people thought it somewhat unnecessary to trouble the supreme -tribunal of Christendom about what a dozen chance men chose to call -themselves. But Francis was obstinate and as it were blind on this -point; and his brilliant blindness is exceedingly characteristic of him. -A man satisfied with small things, or even in love with small things, he -yet never felt quite as we do about the disproportion between small -things and large. He never saw things to scale in our sense, but with a -dizzy disproportion which makes the mind reel. Sometimes it seems merely -out of drawing like a gaily coloured medieval map; and then again it -seems to have escaped from everything like a short cut in the fourth -dimension. He is said to have made a journey to interview the Emperor, -throned among his armies under the eagle of the Holy Roman Empire, to -intercede for the lives of certain little birds. He was quite capable of -facing fifty emperors to intercede for one bird. He started out with two -companions to convert the Mahomedan world. He started out with eleven -companions to ask the Pope to make a new monastic world. - -Innocent III., the great Pope, according to Bonaventura, was walking on -the terrace of St. John Lateran, doubtless revolving the great political -questions which troubled his reign, when there appeared abruptly before -him a person in peasant costume whom he took to be some sort of -shepherd. He appears to have got rid of the shepherd with all convenient -speed; possibly he formed the opinion that the shepherd was mad. Anyhow -he thought no more about it until, says the great Franciscan biographer, -he dreamed that night a strange dream. He fancied that he saw the whole -huge ancient temple of St. John Lateran, on whose high terraces he had -walked so securely, leaning horribly and crooked against the sky as if -all its domes and turrets were stooping before an earthquake. Then he -looked again and saw that a human figure was holding it up like a living -caryatid; and the figure was that of the ragged shepherd or peasant from -whom he had turned away on the terrace. Whether this be a fact or a -figure it is a very true figure of the abrupt simplicity with which -Francis won the attention and the favour of Rome. His first friend seems -to have been the Cardinal Giovanni di San Paolo who pleaded for the -Franciscan idea before a conclave of Cardinals summoned for the purpose. -It is interesting to note that the doubts thrown upon it seem to have -been chiefly doubts about whether the rule was not too hard for -humanity, for the Catholic Church is always on the watch against -excessive asceticism and its evils. Probably they meant, especially when -they said it was unduly hard, that it was unduly dangerous. For a -certain element that can only be called danger is what marks the -innovation as compared with older institutions of the kind. In one sense -indeed the friar was almost the opposite of the monk. The value of the -old monasticism had been that there was not only an ethical but an -economic repose. Out of that repose had come the works for which the -world will never be sufficiently grateful, the preservation of the -classics, the beginning of the Gothic, the schemes of science and -philosophies, the illuminated manuscripts and the coloured glass. The -whole point of a monk was that his economic affairs were settled for -good; he knew where he would get his supper, though it was a very plain -supper. But the whole point of a friar was that he did not know where he -would get his supper. There was always a possibility that he might get -no supper. There was an element of what would be called romance, as of -the gipsy or adventurer. But there was also an element of potential -tragedy, as of the tramp or the casual labourer. So the Cardinals of the -thirteenth century were filled with compassion, seeing a few men -entering of their own free will that estate to which the poor of the -twentieth century are daily driven by cold coercion and moved on by the -police. - -Cardinal San Paolo seems to have argued more or less in this manner: it -may be a hard life, but after all it is the life apparently described as -ideal in the Gospel; make what compromises you think wise or humane -about that ideal; but do not commit yourselves to saying that men shall -_not_ fulfil that ideal if they can. We shall see the importance of this -argument when we come to the whole of that higher aspect of the life of -St. Francis which may be called the Imitation of Christ. The upshot of -the discussion was that the Pope gave his verbal approval to the project -and promised a more definite endorsement, if the movement should grow to -more considerable proportions. It is probable that Innocent, who was -himself a man of no ordinary mentality, had very little doubt that it -would do so; anyhow he was not left long in doubt before it did do so. -The next passage in the history of the order is simply the story of more -and more people flocking to its standard; and as has already been -remarked, once it had begun to grow, it could in its nature grow much -more quickly than any ordinary society requiring ordinary funds and -public buildings. Even the return of the twelve pioneers from their -papal audience seems to have been a sort of triumphal procession. In one -place in particular, it is said, the whole population of a town, men, -women and children, turned out, leaving their work and wealth and homes -exactly as they stood and begging to be taken into the army of God on -the spot. According to the story, it was on this occasion that -St. Francis first foreshadowed his idea of the Third Order which enabled -men to share in the movement without leaving the homes and habits of -normal humanity. For the moment it is most important to regard this -story as one example of the riot of conversion with which he was already -filling all the roads of Italy. It was a world of wandering; friars -perpetually coming and going in all the highways and byways, seeking to -ensure that any man who met one of them by chance should have a -spiritual adventure. The First Order of St. Francis had entered history. - -This rough outline can only be rounded off here with some description of -the Second and Third Orders, though they were founded later and at -separate times. The former was an order for women and owed its -existence, of course, to the beautiful friendship of St. Francis and -St. Clare. There is no story about which even the most sympathetic -critics of another creed have been more bewildered and misleading. For -there is no story that more clearly turns on that simple test which I -have taken as crucial throughout this criticism. I mean that what is the -matter with these critics is that they will not believe that a heavenly -love can be as real as an earthly love. The moment it is treated as -real, like an earthly love, their whole riddle is easily resolved. A -girl of seventeen, named Clare and belonging to one of the noble -families of Assisi, was filled with an enthusiasm for the conventual -life; and Francis helped her to escape from her home and to take up the -conventual life. If we like to put it so, he helped her to elope into -the cloister, defying her parents as he had defied his father. Indeed -the scene had many of the elements of a regular romantic elopement; for -she escaped through a hole in the wall, fled through a wood and was -received at midnight by the light of torches. Even Mrs. Oliphant, in her -fine and delicate study of St. Francis, calls it "an incident which we -can hardly record with satisfaction." - -Now about that incident I will here only say this. If it had really been -a romantic elopement and the girl had become a bride instead of a nun, -practically the whole modern world would have made her a heroine. If the -action of the Friar towards Clare had been the action of the Friar -towards Juliet, everybody would be sympathising with her exactly as they -sympathise with Juliet. It is not conclusive to say that Clare was only -seventeen. Juliet was only fourteen. Girls married and boys fought in -battles at such early ages in medieval times; and a girl of seventeen in -the thirteenth century was certainly old enough to know her own mind. -There cannot be the shadow of a doubt, for any sane person considering -subsequent events, that St. Clare did know her own mind. But the point -for the moment is that modern romanticism entirely encourages such -defiance of parents when it is done in the name of romantic love. For it -knows that romantic love is a reality, but it does not know that divine -love is a reality. There may have been something to be said for the -parents of Clare; there may have been something to be said for Peter -Bernardone. So there may have been a great deal to be said for the -Montagues or the Capulets; but the modern world does not want it said; -and does not say it. The fact is that as soon as we assume for a moment -as a hypothesis, what St. Francis and St. Clare assumed all the time as -an absolute, that there is a direct divine relation more glorious than -any romance, the story of St. Clare's elopement is simply a romance with -a happy ending; and St. Francis is the St. George or knight-errant who -gave it a happy ending. And seeing that some millions of men and women -have lived and died treating this relation as a reality, a man is not -much of a philosopher if he cannot even treat it as a hypothesis. - -For the rest, we may at least assume that no friend of what is called -the emancipation of women will regret the revolt of St. Clare. She did -most truly, in the modern jargon, live her own life, the life that she -herself wanted to lead, as distinct from the life into which parental -commands and conventional arrangements would have forced her. She became -the foundress of a great feminine movement which still profoundly -affects the world; and her place is with the powerful women of history. -It is not clear that she would have been so great or so useful if she -had made a runaway match, or even stopped at home and made a _mariage de -convenance_. So much any sensible man may well say considering the -matter merely from the outside; and I have no intention of attempting to -consider it from the inside. If a man may well doubt whether he is -worthy to write a word about St. Francis, he will certainly want words -better than his own to speak of the friendship of St. Francis and -St. Clare. I have often remarked that the mysteries of this story are -best expressed symbolically in certain silent attitudes and actions. And -I know no better symbol than that found by the felicity of popular -legend, which says that one night the people of Assisi thought the trees -and the holy house were on fire, and rushed up to extinguish the -conflagration. But they found all quiet within, where St. Francis broke -bread with St. Clare at one of their rare meetings, and talked of the -love of God. It would be hard to find a more imaginative image, for some -sort of utterly pure and disembodied passion, than that red halo round -the unconscious figures on the hill; a flame feeding on nothing and -setting the very air on fire. - -But if the Second Order was the memorial of such an unearthly love, the -Third Order was as solid a memorial of a very solid sympathy with -earthly loves and earthly lives. The whole of this feature in Catholic -life, the lay orders in touch with clerical orders, is very little -understood in Protestant countries and very little allowed for in -Protestant history. The vision which has been so faintly suggested in -these pages has never been confined to monks or even to friars. It has -been an inspiration to innumerable crowds of ordinary married men and -women; living lives like our own, only entirely different. That morning -glory which St. Francis spread over earth and sky has lingered as a -secret sunshine under a multitude of roofs and in a multitude of rooms. -In societies like ours nothing is known of such a Franciscan following. -Nothing is known of such obscure followers; and if possible less is -known of the well-known followers. If we imagine passing us in the -street a pageant of the Third Order of St. Francis, the famous figures -would surprise us more than the strange ones. For us it would be like -the unmasking of some mighty secret society. There rides St. Louis, the -great king, lord of the higher justice whose scales hang crooked in -favour of the poor. There is Dante crowned with laurel, the poet who in -his life of passions sang the praises of the Lady Poverty, whose grey -garment is lined with purple and all glorious within. All sorts of great -names from the most recent and rationalistic centuries would stand -revealed; the great Galvani, for instance, the father of all -electricity, the magician who has made so many modern systems of stars -and sounds. So various a following would alone be enough to prove that -St. Francis had no lack of sympathy with normal men, if the whole of his -own life did not prove it. - -But in fact his life did prove it, and that possibly in a more subtle -sense. There is, I fancy, some truth in the hint of one of his modern -biographers, that even his natural passions were singularly normal and -even noble, in the sense of turning towards things not unlawful in -themselves but only unlawful for him. Nobody ever lived of whom we could -less fitly use the word "regret" than Francis of Assisi. Though there -was much that was romantic, there was nothing in the least sentimental -about his mood. It was not melancholy enough for that. He was of far too -swift and rushing a temper to be troubled with doubts and -reconsiderations about the race he ran; though he had any amount of -self-reproach about not running faster. But it is true, one suspects, -that when he wrestled with the devil, as every man must to be worth -calling a man, the whispers referred mostly to those healthy instincts -that he would have approved for others; they bore no resemblance to that -ghastly painted paganism which sent its demoniac courtesans to plague -St. Anthony in the desert. If St. Francis had only pleased himself, it -would have been with simpler pleasures. He was moved to love rather than -lust, and by nothing wilder than wedding-bells. It is suggested in that -strange story of how he defied the devil by making images in the snow, -and crying out that these sufficed him for a wife and family. It is -suggested in the saying he used when disclaiming any security from sin, -"I may yet have children"; almost as if it was of the children rather -than the woman that he dreamed. And this, if it be true, gives a final -touch to the truth about his character. There was so much about him of -the spirit of the morning, so much that was curiously young and clean, -that even what was bad in him was good. As it was said of others that -the light in their body was darkness, so it may be said of this luminous -spirit that the very shadows in his soul were of light. Evil itself -could not come to him save in the form of a forbidden good; and he could -only be tempted by a sacrament. - - - - - _Chapter VIII_ - _The Mirror of Christ_ - - -No man who has been given the freedom of the Faith is likely to fall -into those hole-and-corner extravagances in which later degenerate -Franciscans, or rather Fraticelli, sought to concentrate entirely on -St. Francis as a second Christ, the creator of a new gospel. In fact any -such notion makes nonsense of every motive in the man's life; for no man -would reverently magnify what he was meant to rival, or only profess to -follow what he existed to supplant. On the contrary, as will appear -later, this little study would rather specially insist that it was -really the papal sagacity that saved the great Franciscan movement for -the whole world and the universal Church, and prevented it from petering -out as that sort of stale and second-rate sect that is called a new -religion. Everything that is written here must be understood not only as -distinct from but diametrically opposed to the idolatry of the -Fraticelli. The difference between Christ and St. Francis was the -difference between the Creator and the creature; and certainly no -creature was ever so conscious of that colossal contrast as St. Francis -himself. But subject to this understanding, it is perfectly true and it -is vitally important that Christ was the pattern on which St. Francis -sought to fashion himself; and that at many points their human and -historical lives were even curiously coincident; and above all, that -compared to most of us at least St. Francis is a most sublime -approximation to his Master, and, even in being an intermediary and a -reflection, is a splendid and yet a merciful Mirror of Christ. And this -truth suggests another, which I think has hardly been noticed; but which -happens to be a highly forcible argument for the authority of Christ -being continuous in the Catholic Church. - -Cardinal Newman wrote in his liveliest controversial work a sentence -that might be a model of what we mean by saying that his creed tends to -lucidity and logical courage. In speaking of the ease with which truth -may be made to look like its own shadow or sham, he said, "And if -Antichrist is like Christ, Christ I suppose is like Antichrist." Mere -religious sentiment might well be shocked at the end of the sentence; -but nobody could object to it except the logician who said that Cæsar -and Pompey were very much alike, especially Pompey. It may give a much -milder shock if I say here, what most of us have forgotten, that if -St. Francis was like Christ, Christ was to that extent like St. Francis. -And my present point is that it is really very enlightening to realise -that Christ was like St. Francis. What I mean is this; that if men find -certain riddles and hard sayings in the story of Galilee, and if they -find the answers to those riddles in the story of Assisi, it really does -show that a secret has been handed down in one religious tradition and -no other. It shows that the casket that was locked in Palestine can be -unlocked in Umbria; for the Church is the keeper of the keys. - -Now in truth while it has always seemed natural to explain St. Francis -in the light of Christ, it has not occurred to many people to explain -Christ in the light of St. Francis. Perhaps the word "light" is not here -the proper metaphor; but the same truth is admitted in the accepted -metaphor of the mirror. St. Francis is the mirror of Christ rather as -the moon is the mirror of the sun. The moon is much smaller than the -sun, but it is also much nearer to us; and being less vivid it is more -visible. Exactly in the same sense St. Francis is nearer to us, and -being a mere man like ourselves is in that sense more imaginable. Being -necessarily less of a mystery, he does not, for us, so much open his -mouth in mysteries. Yet as a matter of fact, many minor things that seem -mysteries in the mouth of Christ would seem merely characteristic -paradoxes in the mouth of St. Francis. It seems natural to re-read the -more remote incidents with the help of the more recent ones. It is a -truism to say that Christ lived before Christianity; and it follows that -as an historical figure He is a figure in heathen history. I mean that -the medium in which He moved was not the medium of Christendom but of -the old pagan empire; and from that alone, not to mention the distance -of time, it follows that His circumstances are more alien to us than -those of an Italian monk such as we might meet even to-day. I suppose -the most authoritative commentary can hardly be certain of the current -or conventional weight of all His words or phrases; of which of them -would then have seemed a common allusion and which a strange fancy. This -archaic setting has left many of the sayings standing like hieroglyphics -and subject to many and peculiar individual interpretations. Yet it is -true of almost any of them that if we simply translate them into the -Umbrian dialect of the first Franciscans, they would seem like any other -part of the Franciscan story; doubtless in one sense fantastic, but -quite familiar. All sorts of critical controversies have revolved round -the passage which bids men consider the lilies of the field and copy -them in taking no thought for the morrow. The sceptic has alternated -between telling us to be true Christians and do it, and explaining that -it is impossible to do. When he is a communist as well as an atheist, he -is generally doubtful whether to blame us for preaching what is -impracticable or for not instantly putting it into practice. I am not -going to discuss here the point of ethics and economics; I merely remark -that even those who are puzzled at the saying of Christ would hardly -pause in accepting it as a saying of St. Francis. Nobody would be -surprised to find that he had said, "I beseech you, little brothers, -that you be as wise as Brother Daisy and Brother Dandelion; for never do -they lie awake thinking of to-morrow, yet they have gold crowns like -kings and emperors or like Charlemagne in all his glory." Even more -bitterness and bewilderment has arisen about the command to turn the -other cheek and to give the coat to the robber who has taken the cloak. -It is widely held to imply the wickedness of war among nations; about -which, in itself, not a word seems to have been said. Taken thus -literally and universally, it much more clearly implies the wickedness -of all law and government. Yet there are many prosperous peacemakers who -are much more shocked at the idea of using the brute force of soldiers -against a powerful foreigner than they are at using the brute force of -policemen against a poor fellow-citizen. Here again I am content to -point out that the paradox becomes perfectly human and probable if -addressed by Francis to Franciscans. Nobody would be surprised to read -that Brother Juniper did then run after the thief that had stolen his -hood, beseeching him to take his gown also; for so St. Francis had -commanded him. Nobody would be surprised if St. Francis told a young -noble, about to be admitted to his company, that so far from pursuing a -brigand to recover his shoes, he ought to pursue him to make him a -present of his stockings. We may like or not the atmosphere these things -imply; but we know what atmosphere they do imply. We recognise a certain -note as natural and clear as the note of a bird; the note of -St. Francis. There is in it something of gentle mockery of the very idea -of possessions; something of a hope of disarming the enemy by -generosity; something of a humorous sense of bewildering the worldly -with the unexpected; something of the joy of carrying an enthusiastic -conviction to a logical extreme. But anyhow we have no difficulty in -recognising it, if we have read any of the literature of the Little -Brothers and the movement that began in Assisi. It seems reasonable to -infer that if it was this spirit that made such strange things possible -in Umbria, it was the same spirit that made them possible in Palestine. -If we hear the same unmistakable note and sense the same indescribable -savour in two things at such a distance from each other, it seems -natural to suppose that the case that is more remote from our experience -was like the case that is closer to our experience. As the thing is -explicable on the assumption that Francis was speaking to Franciscans, -it is not an irrational explanation to suggest that Christ also was -speaking to some dedicated band that had much the same function as -Franciscans. In other words, it seems only natural to hold, as the -Catholic Church has held, that these counsels of perfection were part of -a particular vocation to astonish and awaken the world. But in any case -it is important to note that when we do find these particular features, -with their seemingly fantastic fitness, reappearing after more than a -thousand years, we find them produced by the same religious system which -claims continuity and authority from the scenes in which they first -appeared. Any number of philosophies will repeat the platitudes of -Christianity. But it is the ancient Church that can again startle the -world with the paradoxes of Christianity. _Ubi Petrus ibi Franciscus._ - -But if we understand that it was truly under the inspiration of his -divine Master that St. Francis did these merely quaint or eccentric acts -of charity, we must understand that it was under the same inspiration -that he did acts of self-denial and austerity. It is clear that these -more or less playful parables of the love of men were conceived after a -close study of the Sermon on the Mount. But it is evident that he made -an even closer study of the silent sermon on that other mountain; the -mountain that was called Golgotha. Here again he was speaking the strict -historical truth, when he said that in fasting or suffering humiliation -he was but trying to do something of what Christ did; and here again it -seems probable that as the same truth appears at the two ends of a chain -of tradition, the tradition has preserved the truth. But the import of -this fact at the moment affects the next phase in the personal history -of the man himself. - -For as it becomes clearer that his great communal scheme is an -accomplished fact and past the peril of an early collapse, as it becomes -evident that there already is such a thing as an Order of the Friars -Minor, this more individual and intense ambition of St. Francis emerges -more and more. So soon as he certainly has followers, he does not -compare himself with his followers, towards whom he might appear as a -master; he compares himself more and more with his Master, towards whom -he appears only as a servant. This, it may be said in passing, is one of -the moral and even practical conveniences of the ascetical privilege. -Every other sort of superiority may be superciliousness. But the saint -is never supercilious, for he is always by hypothesis in the presence of -a superior. The objection to an aristocracy is that it is a priesthood -without a god. But in any case the service to which St. Francis had -committed himself was one which, about this time, he conceived more and -more in terms of sacrifice and crucifixion. He was full of the sentiment -that he had not suffered enough to be worthy even to be a distant -follower of his suffering God. And this passage in his history may -really be roughly summarised as the Search for Martyrdom. - -This was the ultimate idea in the remarkable business of his expedition -among the Saracens in Syria. There were indeed other elements in his -conception, which are worthy of more intelligent understanding than they -have often received. His idea, of course, was to bring the Crusades in a -double sense to their end; that is, to reach their conclusion and to -achieve their purpose. Only he wished to do it by conversion and not by -conquest; that is, by intellectual and not material means. The modern -mind is hard to please; and it generally calls the way of Godfrey -ferocious and the way of Francis fanatical. That is, it calls any moral -method unpractical, when it has just called any practical method -immoral. But the idea of St. Francis was far from being a fanatical or -necessarily even an unpractical idea; though perhaps he saw the problem -as rather too simple, lacking the learning of his great inheritor -Raymond Lully, who understood more but has been quite as little -understood. The way he approached the matter was indeed highly personal -and peculiar; but that was true of almost everything he did. It was in -one way a simple idea, as most of his ideas were simple ideas. But it -was not a silly idea; there was a great deal to be said for it and it -might have succeeded. It was, of course, simply the idea that it is -better to create Christians than to destroy Moslems. If Islam had been -converted, the world would have been immeasurably more united and happy; -for one thing, three quarters of the wars of modern history would never -have taken place. It was not absurd to suppose that this might be -effected, without military force, by missionaries who were also martyrs. -The Church had conquered Europe in that way and may yet conquer Asia or -Africa in that way. But when all this is allowed for, there is still -another sense in which St. Francis was not thinking of Martyrdom as a -means to an end, but almost as an end in itself; in the sense that to -him the supreme end was to come closer to the example of Christ. Through -all his plunging and restless days ran the refrain: I have not suffered -enough; I have not sacrificed enough; I am not yet worthy even of the -shadow of the crown of thorns. He wandered about the valleys of the -world looking for the hill that has the outline of a skull. - -A little while before his final departure for the East a vast and -triumphant assembly of the whole order had been held near the -Portiuncula; and called The Assembly of the Straw Huts, from the manner -in which that mighty army encamped in the field. Tradition says that it -was on this occasion that St. Francis met St. Dominic for the first and -last time. It also says, what is probable enough, that the practical -spirit of the Spaniard was almost appalled at the devout -irresponsibility of the Italian, who had assembled such a crowd without -organising a commissariat. Dominic the Spaniard was, like nearly every -Spaniard, a man with the mind of a soldier. His charity took the -practical form of provision and preparation. But, apart from the -disputes about faith which such incidents open, he probably did not -understand in this case the power of mere popularity produced by mere -personality. In all his leaps in the dark, Francis had an extraordinary -faculty of falling on his feet. The whole countryside came down like a -landslide to provide food and drink for this sort of pious picnic. -Peasants brought waggons of wine and game; great nobles walked about -doing the work of footmen. It was a very real victory for the Franciscan -spirit of a reckless faith not only in God but in man. Of course there -is much doubt and dispute about the whole story and the whole relation -of Francis and Dominic; and the story of the Assembly of the Straw Huts -is told from the Franciscan side. But the alleged meeting is worth -mentioning, precisely because it was immediately before St. Francis set -forth on his bloodless crusade that he is said to have met St. Dominic, -who has been so much criticised for lending himself to a more bloody -one. There is no space in this little book to explain how St. Francis, -as much as St. Dominic, would ultimately have defended the defence of -Christian unity by arms. Indeed it would need a large book instead of a -little book to develop that point alone from its first principles. For -the modern mind is merely a blank about the philosophy of toleration; -and the average agnostic of recent times has really had no notion of -what he meant by religious liberty and equality. He took his own ethics -as self-evident and enforced them; such as decency or the error of the -Adamite heresy. Then he was horribly shocked if he heard of anybody -else, Moslem or Christian, taking _his_ ethics as self-evident and -enforcing _them_; such as reverence or the error of the Atheist heresy. -And then he wound up by taking all this lop-sided illogical deadlock, of -the unconscious meeting the unfamiliar, and called it the liberality of -his own mind. Medieval men thought that if a social system was founded -on a certain idea it must fight for that idea, whether it was as simple -as Islam or as carefully balanced as Catholicism. Modern men really -think the same thing, as is clear when communists attack their ideas of -property. Only they do not think it so clearly, because they have not -really thought out their idea of property. But while it is probable that -St. Francis would have reluctantly agreed with St. Dominic that war for -the truth was right in the last resort, it is certain that St. Dominic -did enthusiastically agree with St. Francis that it was far better to -prevail by persuasion and enlightenment if it were possible. St. Dominic -devoted himself much more to persuading than to persecuting; but there -was a difference in the methods simply because there was a difference in -the men. About everything St. Francis did there was something that was -in a good sense childish, and even in a good sense wilful. He threw -himself into things abruptly, as if they had just occurred to him. He -made a dash for his Mediterranean enterprise with something of the air -of a schoolboy running away to sea. - -In the first act of that attempt he characteristically distinguished -himself by becoming the Patron Saint of Stowaways. He never thought of -waiting for introductions or bargains or any of the considerable backing -that he already had from rich and responsible people. He simply saw a -boat and threw himself into it, as he threw himself into everything -else. It has all that air of running a race which makes his whole life -read like an escapade or even literally an escape. He lay like lumber -among the cargo, with one companion whom he had swept with him in his -rush; but the voyage was apparently unfortunate and erratic and ended in -an enforced return to Italy. Apparently it was after this first false -start that the great re-union took place at the Portiuncula, and between -this and the final Syrian journey there was also an attempt to meet the -Moslem menace by preaching to the Moors in Spain. In Spain indeed -several of the first Franciscans had already succeeded gloriously in -being martyred. But the great Francis still went about stretching out -his arms for such torments and desiring that agony in vain. No one would -have said more readily than he that he was probably less like Christ -than those others who had already found their Calvary; but the thing -remained with him like a secret; the strangest of the sorrows of man. - -His later voyage was more successful, so far as arriving at the scene of -operations was concerned. He arrived at the headquarters of the Crusade -which was in front of the besieged city of Damietta, and went on in his -rapid and solitary fashion to seek the headquarters of the Saracens. He -succeeded in obtaining an interview with the Sultan; and it was at that -interview that he evidently offered, and as some say proceeded, to fling -himself into the fire as a divine ordeal, defying the Moslem religious -teachers to do the same. It is quite certain that he would have done so -at a moment's notice. Indeed throwing himself into the fire was hardly -more desperate, in any case, than throwing himself among the weapons and -tools of torture of a horde of fanatical Mahomedans and asking them to -renounce Mahomet. It is said further that the Mahomedan muftis showed -some coldness towards the proposed competition, and that one of them -quietly withdrew while it was under discussion; which would also appear -credible. But for whatever reason Francis evidently returned as freely -as he came. There may be something in the story of the individual -impression produced on the Sultan, which the narrator represents as a -sort of secret conversion. There may be something in the suggestion that -the holy man was unconsciously protected among half-barbarous orientals -by the halo of sanctity that is supposed in such places to surround an -idiot. There is probably as much or more in the more generous -explanation of that graceful though capricious courtesy and compassion -which mingled with wilder things in the stately Soldans of the type and -tradition of Saladin. Finally, there is perhaps something in the -suggestion that the tale of St. Francis might be told as a sort of -ironic tragedy and comedy called The Man Who Could Not Get Killed. Men -liked him too much for himself to let him die for his faith; and the man -was received instead of the message. But all these are only converging -guesses at a great effort that is hard to judge, because it broke off -short like the beginnings of a great bridge that might have united East -and West, and remains one of the great might-have-beens of history. - -Meanwhile the great movement in Italy was making giant strides. Backed -now by papal authority as well as popular enthusiasm, and creating a -kind of comradeship among all classes, it had started a riot of -reconstruction on all sides of religious and social life; and especially -began to express itself in that enthusiasm for building which is the -mark of all the resurrections of Western Europe. There had notably been -established at Bologna a magnificent mission house of the Friars Minor; -and a vast body of them and their sympathisers surrounded it with a -chorus of acclamation. Their unanimity had a strange interruption. One -man alone in that crowd was seen to turn and suddenly denounce the -building as if it had been a Babylonian temple; demanding indignantly -since when the Lady Poverty had thus been insulted with the luxury of -palaces. It was Francis, a wild figure, returned from his Eastern -Crusade; and it was the first and last time that he spoke in wrath to -his children. - -A word must be said later about this serious division of sentiment and -policy, about which many Franciscans, and to some extent Francis -himself, parted company with the more moderate policy which ultimately -prevailed. At this point we need only note it as another shadow fallen -upon his spirit after his disappointment in the desert; and as in some -sense the prelude to the next phase of his career, which is the most -isolated and the most mysterious. It is true that everything about this -episode seems to be covered with some cloud of dispute, even including -its date; some writers putting it much earlier in the narrative than -this. But whether or no it was chronologically it was certainly -logically the culmination of the story, and may best be indicated here. -I say indicated for it must be a matter of little more than indication; -the thing being a mystery both in the higher moral and the more trivial -historical sense. Anyhow the conditions of the affair seem to have been -these. Francis and a young companion, in the course of their common -wandering, came past a great castle all lighted up with the festivities -attending a son of the house receiving the honour of knighthood. This -aristocratic mansion, which took its name from Monte Feltro, they -entered in their beautiful and casual fashion and began to give their -own sort of good news. There were some at least who listened to the -saint "as if he had been an angel of God"; among them a gentleman named -Orlando of Chiusi, who had great lands in Tuscany, and who proceeded to -do St. Francis a singular and somewhat picturesque act of courtesy. He -gave him a mountain; a thing somewhat unique among the gifts of the -world. Presumably the Franciscan rule which forbade a man to accept -money had made no detailed provision about accepting mountains. Nor -indeed did St. Francis accept it save as he accepted everything, as a -temporary convenience rather than a personal possession; but he turned -it into a sort of refuge for the eremitical rather than the monastic -life; he retired there when he wished for a life of prayer and fasting -which he did not ask even his closest friends to follow. This was -Alverno of the Apennines, and upon its peak there rests for ever a dark -cloud that has a rim or halo of glory. - -What it was exactly that happened there may never be known. The matter -has been, I believe, a subject of dispute among the most devout students -of the saintly life as well as between such students and others of the -more secular sort. It may be that St. Francis never spoke to a soul on -the subject; it would be highly characteristic, and it is certain in any -case that he said very little; I think he is only alleged to have spoken -of it to one man. Subject however to such truly sacred doubts, I will -confess that to me personally this one solitary and indirect report that -has come down to us reads very like the report of something real; of -some of those things that are more real than what we call daily -realities. Even something as it were double and bewildering about the -image seems to carry the impression of an experience shaking the senses; -as does the passage in Revelations about the supernatural creatures full -of eyes. It would seem that St. Francis beheld the heavens above him -occupied by a vast winged being like a seraph spread out like a cross. -There seems some mystery about whether the winged figure was itself -crucified or in the posture of crucifixion, or whether it merely -enclosed in its frame of wings some colossal crucifix. But it seems -clear that there was some question of the former impression; for -St. Bonaventura distinctly says that St. Francis doubted how a seraph -could be crucified, since those awful and ancient principalities were -without the infirmity of the Passion. St. Bonaventura suggests that the -seeming contradiction may have meant that St. Francis was to be -crucified as a spirit since he could not be crucified as a man; but -whatever the meaning of the vision, the general idea of it is very vivid -and overwhelming. St. Francis saw above him, filling the whole heavens, -some vast immemorial unthinkable power, ancient like the Ancient of -Days, whose calm men had conceived under the forms of winged bulls or -monstrous cherubim, and all that winged wonder was in pain like a -wounded bird. This seraphic suffering, it is said, pierced his soul with -a sword of grief and pity; it may be inferred that some sort of mounting -agony accompanied the ecstasy. Finally after some fashion the apocalypse -faded from the sky and the agony within subsided; and silence and the -natural air filled the morning twilight and settled slowly in the purple -chasms and cleft abysses of the Apennines. - -The head of the solitary sank, amid all that relaxation and quiet in -which time can drift by with the sense of something ended and complete; -and as he stared downwards, he saw the marks of nails in his own hands. - - - - - _Chapter IX_ - _Miracles and Death_ - - -The tremendous story of the Stigmata of St. Francis, which was the end -of the last chapter, was in some sense the end of his life. In a logical -sense, it would have been the end even if it had happened at the -beginning. But truer traditions refer it to a later date and suggest -that his remaining days on the earth had something about them of the -fingering of a shadow. Whether St. Bonaventura was right in his hint -that St. Francis saw in that seraphic vision something almost like a -vast mirror of his own soul, that could at least suffer like an angel -though not like a god, or whether it expressed under an imagery more -primitive and colossal than common Christian art the primary paradox of -the death of God, it is evident from its traditional consequences that -it was meant for a crown and for a seal. It seems to have been after -seeing this vision that he began to go blind. - -But the incident has another and much less important place in this rough -and limited outline. It is the natural occasion for considering briefly -and collectively all the facts or fables of another aspect of the life -of St. Francis; an aspect which is, I will not say more disputable, but -certainly more disputed. I mean all that mass of testimony and tradition -that concerns his miraculous powers and supernatural experiences, with -which it would have been easy to stud and bejewel every page of the -story; only that certain circumstances necessary to the conditions of -this narration make it better to gather, somewhat hastily, all such -jewels into a heap. - -I have here adopted this course in order to make allowance for a -prejudice. It is indeed to a great extent a prejudice of the past; a -prejudice that is plainly disappearing in days of greater enlightenment, -and especially of a greater range of scientific experiment and -knowledge. But it is a prejudice that is still tenacious in many of an -older generation and still traditional in many of the younger. I mean, -of course, what used to be called the belief "that miracles do not -happen," as I think Matthew Arnold expressed it, in expressing the -standpoint of so many of our Victorian uncles and great-uncles. In other -words it was the remains of that sceptical simplification by which some -of the philosophers of the early eighteenth century had popularised the -impression (for a very short time) that we had discovered the -regulations of the cosmos like the works of a clock, of so very simple a -clock that it was possible to distinguish almost at a glance what could -or could not have happened in human experience. It should be remembered -that these real sceptics, of the golden age of scepticism, were quite as -scornful of the first fancies of science as of the lingering legends of -religion. Voltaire, when he was told that a fossil fish had been found -on the peaks of the Alps, laughed openly at the tale and said that some -fasting monk or hermit had dropped his fish-bones there; possibly in -order to effect another monkish fraud. Everybody knows by this time that -science has had its revenge on scepticism. The border between the -credible and the incredible has not only become once more as vague as in -any barbaric twilight; but the credible is obviously increasing and the -incredible shrinking. A man in Voltaire's time did not know what miracle -he would next have to throw up. A man in our time does not know what -miracle he will next have to swallow. - -But long before these things had happened, in those days of my boyhood -when I first saw the figure of St. Francis far away in the distance and -drawing me even at that distance, in those Victorian days which did -seriously separate the virtues from the miracles of the saints—even in -those days I could not help feeling vaguely puzzled about how this -method could be applied to history. Even then I did not quite -understand, and even now I do not quite understand, on what principle -one is to pick and choose in the chronicles of the past which seem to be -all of a piece. All our knowledge of certain historical periods, and -notably of the whole medieval period, rests on certain connected -chronicles written by people who are some of them nameless and all of -them dead, who cannot in any case be cross-examined and cannot in some -cases be corroborated. I have never been quite clear about the nature of -the right by which historians accepted masses of detail from them as -definitely true, and suddenly denied their truthfulness when one detail -was preternatural. I do not complain of their being sceptics; I am -puzzled about why the sceptics are not more sceptical. I can understand -their saying that these details would never have been included in a -chronicle except by lunatics or liars; but in that case the only -inference is that the chronicle was written by liars or lunatics. They -will write for instance: "Monkish fanaticism found it easy to spread the -report that miracles were already being worked at the tomb of Thomas -Becket." Why should they not say equally well, "Monkish fanaticism found -it easy to spread the slander that four knights from King Henry's court -had assassinated Thomas Becket in the cathedral"? They would write -something like this: "The credulity of the age readily believed that -Joan of Arc had been inspired to point out the Dauphin although he was -in disguise." Why should they not write on the same principle: "The -credulity of the age was such as to suppose that an obscure peasant girl -could get an audience at the court of the Dauphin"? And so, in the -present case, when they tell us there is a wild story that St. Francis -flung himself into the fire and emerged scathless, upon what precise -principle are they forbidden to tell us of a wild story that St. Francis -flung himself into the camp of the ferocious Moslems and returned safe? -I only ask for information; for I do not see the rationale of the thing -myself. I will undertake to say there was not a word written of -St. Francis by any contemporary who was himself incapable of believing -and telling a miraculous story. Perhaps it is all monkish fables and -there never was any St. Francis or any St. Thomas Becket or any Joan of -Arc. This is undoubtedly a _reductio ad absurdum_; but it is a _reductio -ad absurdum_ of the view which thought all miracles absurd. - -And in abstract logic this method of selection would lead to the wildest -absurdities. An intrinsically incredible story could only mean that the -authority was unworthy of credit. It could not mean that other parts of -his story must be received with complete credulity. If somebody said he -had met a man in yellow trousers, who proceeded to jump down his own -throat, we should not exactly take our Bible oath or be burned at the -stake for the statement that he wore yellow trousers. If somebody -claimed to have gone up in a blue balloon and found that the moon was -made of green cheese, we should not exactly take an affidavit that the -balloon was blue any more than that the moon was green. And the really -logical conclusion from throwing doubts on all tales like the miracles -of St. Francis was to throw doubts on the existence of men like -St. Francis. And there really was a modern moment, a sort of high-water -mark of insane scepticism, when this sort of thing was really said or -done. People used to go about saying that there was no such person as -St. Patrick; which is every bit as much of a human and historical howler -as saying there was no such person as St. Francis. There was a time, for -instance, when the madness of mythological explanation had dissolved a -large part of solid history under the universal and luxuriant warmth and -radiance of the Sun-Myth. I believe that that particular sun has already -set, but there have been any number of moons and meteors to take its -place. - -St. Francis, of course, would make a magnificent Sun-Myth. How could -anybody miss the chance of being a Sun-Myth when he is actually best -known by a song called The Canticle of the Sun? It is needless to point -out that the fire in Syria was the dawn in the East and the bleeding -wounds in Tuscany the sunset in the West. I could expound this theory at -considerable length; only, as so often happens to such fine theorists, -another and more promising theory occurs to me. I cannot think how -everybody, including myself, can have overlooked the fact that the whole -tale of St. Francis is of Totemistic origin. It is unquestionably a tale -that simply swarms with totems. The Franciscan woods are as full of them -as any Red Indian fable. Francis is made to call himself an ass, because -in the original mythos Francis was merely the name given to the real -four-footed donkey, afterwards vaguely evolved into a half-human god or -hero. And that, no doubt, is why I used to feel that the Brother Wolf -and Sister Bird of St. Francis were somehow like the Brer Fox and Sis -Cow of Uncle Remus. Some say there is an innocent stage of infancy in -which we do really believe that a cow talked or a fox made a tar baby. -Anyhow there is an innocent period of intellectual growth in which we do -sometimes really believe that St. Patrick was a Sun-Myth or St. Francis -a Totem. But for the most of us both those phases of paradise are past. - -As I shall suggest in a moment, there is one sense in which we can for -practical purposes distinguish between probable and improbable things in -such a story. It is not so much a question of cosmic criticism about the -nature of the event as of literary criticism about the nature of the -story. Some stories are told much more seriously than others. But apart -from this, I shall not attempt here any definite differentiation between -them. I shall not do so for a practical reason affecting the utility of -the proceeding; I mean the fact that in a practical sense the whole of -this matter is again in the melting pot, from which many things may -emerge moulded into what rationalism would have called monsters. The -fixed points of faith and philosophy do indeed remain always the same. -Whether a man believes that fire in one case could fail to burn, depends -on why he thinks it generally does burn. If it burns nine sticks out of -ten because it is its nature or doom to do so, then it will burn the -tenth stick as well. If it burns nine sticks because it is the will of -God that it should, then it might be the will of God that the tenth -should be unburned. Nobody can get behind that fundamental difference -about the reason of things; and it is as rational for a theist to -believe in miracles as for an atheist to disbelieve in them. In other -words there is only one intelligent reason why a man does not believe in -miracles and that is that he does believe in materialism. But these -fixed points of faith and philosophy are things for a theoretical work -and have no particular place here. And in the matter of history and -biography, which have their place here, nothing is fixed at all. The -world is in a welter of the possible and impossible, and nobody knows -what will be the next scientific hypothesis to support some ancient -superstition. Three quarters of the miracles attributed to St. Francis -would already be explained by psychologists, not indeed as a Catholic -explains them, but as a materialist must necessarily refuse to explain -them. There is one whole department of the miracles of St. Francis; the -miracles of healing. What is the good of a superior sceptic throwing -them away as unthinkable, at the moment when faith-healing is already a -big booming Yankee business like Barnum's Show? There is another whole -department analogous to the tales of Christ "perceiving men's thoughts." -What is the use of censoring them and blacking them out because they are -marked "miracles," when thought-reading is already a parlour game like -musical chairs? There is another whole department, to be studied -separately if such scientific study were possible, of the well-attested -wonders worked from his relics and fragmentary possessions. What is the -use of dismissing all that as inconceivable, when even these common -psychical parlour tricks turn perpetually upon touching some familiar -object or holding in the hand some personal possession? I do not -believe, of course, that these tricks are of the same type as the good -works of the saint; save perhaps in the sense of _Diabolus simius Dei_. -But it is not a question of what I believe and why, but of what the -sceptic disbelieves and why. And the moral for the practical biographer -and historian is that he must wait till things settle down a little -more, before he claims to disbelieve anything. - -This being so he can choose between two courses; and not without some -hesitation, I have here chosen between them. The best and boldest course -would be to tell the whole story in a straightforward way, miracles and -all, as the original historians told it. And to this sane and simple -course the new historians will probably have to return. But it must be -remembered that this book is avowedly only an introduction to -St. Francis or the study of St. Francis. Those who need an introduction -are in their nature strangers. With them the object is to get them to -listen to St. Francis at all; and in doing so it is perfectly legitimate -so to arrange the order of the facts that the familiar come before the -unfamiliar and those they can at once understand before those they have -a difficulty in understanding. I should only be too thankful if this -thin and scratchy sketch contains a line or two that attracts men to -study St. Francis for themselves; and if they do study him for -themselves, they will soon find that the supernatural part of the story -seems quite as natural as the rest. But it was necessary that my outline -should be a merely human one, since I was only presenting his claim on -all humanity, including sceptical humanity. I therefore adopted the -alternative course, of showing first that nobody but a born fool could -fail to realise that Francis of Assisi was a very real historical human -being; and then summarising briefly in this chapter the superhuman -powers that were certainly a part of that history and humanity. It only -remains to say a few words about some distinctions that may reasonably -be observed in the matter by any man of any views; that he may not -confuse the point and climax of the saint's life with the fancies or -rumours that were really only the fringes of his reputation. - -There is so immense a mass of legends and anecdotes about St. Francis of -Assisi, and there are so many admirable compilations that cover nearly -all of them, that I have been compelled within these narrow limits to -pursue a somewhat narrow policy; that of following one line of -explanation and only mentioning one anecdote here or there because it -illustrates that explanation. If this is true about all the legends and -stories, it is especially true about the miraculous legends and the -supernatural stories. If we were to take some stories as they stand, we -should receive a rather bewildered impression that the biography -contains more supernatural events than natural ones. Now it is clean -against Catholic tradition, co-incident in so many points with common -sense, to suppose that this is really the proportion of these things in -practical human life. Moreover, even considered as supernatural or -preternatural stories, they obviously fall into certain different -classes, not so much by our experience of miracles as by our experience -of stories. Some of them have the character of fairy stories, in their -form even more than their incident. They are obviously tales told by the -fire to peasants or the children of peasants, under conditions in which -nobody thinks he is propounding a religious doctrine to be received or -rejected, but only rounding off a story in the most symmetrical way, -according to that sort of decorative scheme or pattern that runs through -all fairy stories. Others are obviously in their form most emphatically -evidence; that is they are testimony that is truth or lies; and it will -be very hard for any judge of human nature to think they are lies. - -It is admitted that the story of the Stigmata is not a legend but can -only be a lie. I mean that it is certainly not a late legendary -accretion added afterwards to the fame of St. Francis; but is something -that started almost immediately with his earliest biographers. It is -practically necessary to suggest that it was a conspiracy; indeed there -has been some disposition to put the fraud upon the unfortunate Elias, -whom so many parties have been disposed to treat as a useful universal -villain. It has been said, indeed, that these early biographers, -St. Bonaventura and Celano and the Three Companions, though they declare -that St. Francis received the mystical wounds, do not say that they -themselves saw those wounds. I do not think this argument conclusive; -because it only arises out of the very nature of the narrative. The -Three Companions are not in any case making an affidavit; and therefore -none of the admitted parts of their story are in the form of an -affidavit. They are writing a chronicle of a comparatively impersonal -and very objective description. They do not say, "I saw St. Francis's -wounds"; they say, "St. Francis received wounds." But neither do they -say, "I saw St. Francis go into the Portiuncula"; they say, "St. Francis -went into the Portiuncula." But I still cannot understand why they -should be trusted as eye-witnesses about the one fact and not trusted as -eye-witnesses about the other. It is all of a piece; it would be a most -abrupt and abnormal interruption in their way of telling the story if -they suddenly began to curse and to swear, and give their names and -addresses, and take their oath that they themselves saw and verified the -physical facts in question. It seems to me, therefore, that this -particular discussion goes back to the general question I have already -mentioned; the question of why these chronicles should be credited at -all, if they are credited with abounding in the incredible. But that -again will probably be found to revert, in the last resort, to the mere -fact that some men cannot believe in miracles because they are -materialists. That is logical enough; but they are bound to deny the -preternatural as much in the testimony of a modern scientific professor -as in that of a medieval monkish chronicler. And there are plenty of -professors for them to contradict by this time. - -But whatever may be thought of such supernaturalism in the comparatively -material and popular sense of supernatural acts, we shall miss the whole -point of St. Francis, especially of St. Francis after Alverno, if we do -not realise that he was living a supernatural life. And there is more -and more of such supernaturalism in his life as he approaches towards -his death. This element of the supernatural did not separate him from -the natural; for it was the whole point of his position that it united -him more perfectly to the natural. It did not make him dismal or -dehumanised; for it was the whole meaning of his message that such -mysticism makes a man cheerful and humane. But it was the whole point of -his position, and it was the whole meaning of his message, that the -power that did it was a supernatural power. If this simple distinction -were not apparent from the whole of his life, it would be difficult for -anyone to miss it in reading the account of his death. - -In a sense he may be said to have wandered as a dying man, just as he -had wandered as a living one. As it became more and more apparent that -his health was failing, he seems to have been carried from place to -place like a pageant of sickness or almost like a pageant of mortality. -He went to Rieti, to Nursia, perhaps to Naples, certainly to Cortona by -the lake of Perugia. But there is something profoundly pathetic, and -full of great problems, in the fact that at last, as it would seem, his -flame of life leapt up and his heart rejoiced when they saw afar off on -the Assisian hill the solemn pillars of the Portiuncula. He who had -become a vagabond for the sake of a vision, he who had denied himself -all sense of place and possession, he whose whole gospel and glory it -was to be homeless, received like a Parthian shot from nature, the sting -of the sense of home. He also had his _maladie du clocher_, his sickness -of the spire; though his spire was higher than ours. "Never," he cried -with the sudden energy of strong spirits in death, "never give up this -place. If you would go anywhere or make any pilgrimage, return always to -your home; for this is the holy house of God." And the procession passed -under the arches of his home; and he laid down on his bed and his -brethren gathered round him for the last long vigil. It seems to me no -moment for entering into the subsequent disputes about which successors -he blessed or in what form and with what significance. In that one -mighty moment he blessed us all. - -After he had taken farewell of some of his nearest and especially some -of his oldest friends, he was lifted at his own request off his own rude -bed and laid on the bare ground; as some say clad only in a hair-shirt, -as he had first gone forth into the wintry woods from the presence of -his father. It was the final assertion of his great fixed idea; of -praise and thanks springing to their most towering height out of -nakedness and nothing. As he lay there we may be certain that his seared -and blinded eyes saw nothing but their object and their origin. We may -be sure that the soul, in its last inconceivable isolation, was face to -face with nothing less than God Incarnate and Christ Crucified. But for -the men standing around him there must have been other thoughts mingling -with these; and many memories must have gathered like ghosts in the -twilight, as that day wore on and that great darkness descended in which -we all lost a friend. - -For what lay dying there was not Dominic of the Dogs of God, a leader in -logical and controversial wars that could be reduced to a plan and -handed on like a plan; a master of a machine of democratic discipline by -which others could organise themselves. What was passing from the world -was a person; a poet; an outlook on life like a light that was never -after on sea or land; a thing not to be replaced or repeated while the -earth endures. It has been said that there was only one Christian, who -died on the cross; it is truer to say in this sense that there was only -one Franciscan, whose name was Francis. Huge and happy as was the -popular work he left behind him, there was something that he could not -leave behind, any more than a landscape painter can leave his eyes in -his will. It was an artist in life who was here called to be an artist -in death; and he had a better right than Nero, his anti-type, to say -_Qualis artifex pereo_. For Nero's life was full of posing for the -occasion like that of an actor; while the Umbrian's had a natural and -continuous grace like that of an athlete. But St. Francis had better -things to say and better things to think about, and his thoughts were -caught upwards where we cannot follow them, in divine and dizzy heights -to which death alone can lift us up. - -Round about him stood the brethren in their brown habits, those that had -loved him even if they afterwards disputed with each other. There was -Bernard his first friend and Angelo who had served as his secretary and -Elias his successor, whom tradition tried to turn into a sort of Judas, -but who seems to have been little worse than an official in the wrong -place. His tragedy was that he had a Franciscan habit without a -Franciscan heart, or at any rate with a very un-Franciscan head. But -though he made a bad Franciscan, he might have made a decent Dominican. -Anyhow, there is no reason to doubt that he loved Francis, for ruffians -and savages did that. Anyhow he stood among the rest as the hours passed -and the shadows lengthened in the house of the Portiuncula; and nobody -need think so ill of him as to suppose that his thoughts were then in -the tumultuous future, in the ambitions and controversies of his later -years. - -A man might fancy that the birds must have known when it happened; and -made some motion in the evening sky. As they had once, according to the -tale, scattered to the four winds of heaven in the pattern of a cross at -his signal of dispersion, they might now have written in such dotted -lines a more awful augury across the sky. Hidden in the woods perhaps -were little cowering creatures never again to be so much noticed and -understood; and it has been said that animals are sometimes conscious of -things to which man their spiritual superior is for the moment blind. We -do not know whether any shiver passed through all the thieves and the -outcasts and the outlaws, to tell them what had happened to him who -never knew the nature of scorn. But at least in the passages and porches -of the Portiuncula there was a sudden stillness, where all the brown -figures stood like bronze statues; for the stopping of the great heart -that had not broken till it held the world. - - - - - _Chapter X_ - _The Testament of St. Francis_ - - -In one sense doubtless it is a sad irony that St. Francis, who all his -life had desired all men to agree, should have died amid increasing -disagreements. But we must not exaggerate this discord, as some have -done, so as to turn it into a mere defeat of all his ideals. There are -some who represent his work as having been merely ruined by the -wickedness of the world, or what they always assume to be the even -greater wickedness of the Church. - -This little book is an essay on St. Francis and not on the Franciscan -Order, still less on the Catholic Church or the Papacy or the policy -pursued towards the extreme Franciscans or the Fraticelli. It is -therefore only necessary to note in a very few words what was the -general nature of the controversy that raged after the great saint's -death, and to some extent troubled the last days of his life. The -dominant detail was the interpretation of the vow of poverty, or the -refusal of all possessions. Nobody so far as I know ever proposed to -interfere with the vow of the individual friar that he would have no -individual possessions. Nobody, that is, proposed to interfere with his -negation of private property. But some Franciscans, invoking the -authority of Francis on their side, went further than this and further I -think than anybody else has ever gone. They proposed to abolish not only -private property but property. That is, they refused to be corporately -responsible for anything at all; for any buildings or stores or tools; -they refused to own them collectively even when they used them -collectively. It is perfectly true that many, especially among the first -supporters of this view, were men of a splendid and selfless spirit, -wholly devoted to the great saint's ideal. It is also perfectly true -that the Pope and the authorities of the Church did not think this -conception was a workable arrangement, and went so far in modifying it -as to set aside certain clauses in the great saint's will. But it is not -at all easy to see that it _was_ a workable arrangement or even an -arrangement at all; for it was really a refusal to arrange anything. -Everybody knew of course that Franciscans were communists; but this was -not so much being a communist as being an anarchist. Surely upon any -argument somebody or something must be answerable for what happened to -or in or concerning a number of historic edifices and ordinary goods and -chattels. Many idealists of a socialistic sort, notably of the school of -Mr. Shaw or Mr. Wells, have treated this dispute as if it were merely a -case of the tyranny of wealthy and wicked pontiffs crushing the true -Christianity of Christian Socialists. But in truth this extreme ideal -was in a sense the very reverse of Socialist, or even social. Precisely -the thing which these enthusiasts refused was that social ownership on -which Socialism is built; what they primarily refused to do was what -Socialists primarily exist to do; to own legally in their corporate -capacity. Nor is it true that the tone of the Popes towards the -enthusiasts was merely harsh and hostile. The Pope maintained for a long -time a compromise which he had specially designed to meet their own -conscientious objections; a compromise by which the Papacy itself held -the property in a kind of trust for the owners who refused to touch it. -The truth is that this incident shows two things which are common enough -in Catholic history, but very little understood by the journalistic -history of industrial civilisation. It shows that the Saints were -sometimes great men when the Popes were small men. But it also shows -that great men are sometimes wrong when small men are right. And it will -be found, after all, very difficult for any candid and clear-headed -outsider to deny that the Pope was right, when he insisted that the -world was not made only for Franciscans. - -For that was what was behind the quarrel. At the back of this particular -practical question there was something much larger and more momentous, -the stir and wind of which we can feel as we read the controversy. We -might go so far as to put the ultimate truth thus. St. Francis was so -great and original a man that he had something in him of what makes the -founder of a religion. Many of his followers were more or less ready, in -their hearts, to treat him as the founder of a religion. They were -willing to let the Franciscan spirit escape from Christendom as the -Christian spirit had escaped from Israel. They were willing to let it -eclipse Christendom as the Christian spirit had eclipsed Israel. -Francis, the fire that ran through the roads of Italy, was to be the -beginning of a conflagration in which the old Christian civilisation was -to be consumed. That was the point the Pope had to settle; whether -Christendom should absorb Francis or Francis Christendom. And he decided -rightly, apart from the duties of his place; for the Church could -include all that was good in the Franciscans and the Franciscans could -not include all that was good in the Church. - -There is one consideration which, though sufficiently clear in the whole -story, has not perhaps been sufficiently noted, especially by those who -cannot see the case for a certain Catholic common sense larger even than -Franciscan enthusiasm. Yet it arises out of the very merits of the man -whom they so rightly admire. Francis of Assisi, as has been said again -and again, was a poet; that is, he was a person who could express his -personality. Now it is everywhere the mark of this sort of man that his -very limitations make him larger. He is what he is, not only by what he -has, but in some degree by what he has not. But the limits that make the -lines of such a personal portrait cannot be made the limits of all -humanity. St. Francis is a very strong example of this quality in the -man of genius, that in him even what is negative is positive, because it -is part of a character. An excellent example of what I mean may be found -in his attitude towards learning and scholarship. He ignored and in some -degree discouraged books and book-learning; and from his own point of -view and that of his own work in the world he was absolutely right. The -whole point of his message was to be so simple that the village idiot -could understand it. The whole point of his point of view was that it -looked out freshly upon a fresh world, that might have been made that -morning. Save for the great primal things, the Creation and the Story of -Eden, the first Christmas and the first Easter, the world had no -history. But is it desired or desirable that the whole Catholic Church -should have no history? - -It is perhaps the chief suggestion of this book that St. Francis walked -the world like the Pardon of God. I mean that his appearance marked the -moment when men could be reconciled not only to God but to nature and, -most difficult of all, to themselves. For it marked the moment when all -the stale paganism that had poisoned the ancient world was at last -worked out of the social system. He opened the gates of the Dark Ages as -of a prison of purgatory, where men had cleansed themselves as hermits -in the desert or heroes in the barbarian wars. It was in fact his whole -function to tell men to start afresh and, in that sense, to tell them to -forget. If they were to turn over a new leaf and begin a fresh page with -the first large letters of the alphabet, simply drawn and brilliantly -coloured in the early medieval manner, it was clearly a part of that -particular childlike cheerfulness that they should paste down the old -page that was all black and bloody with horrid things. For instance, I -have already noted that there is not a trace in the poetry of this first -Italian poet of all that pagan mythology which lingered long after -paganism. The first Italian poet seems the only man in the world who has -never even heard of Virgil. This was exactly right for the special sense -in which he is the first Italian poet. It is quite right that he should -call a nightingale a nightingale, and not have its song spoilt or -saddened by the terrible tales of Itylus or Procne. In short, it is -really quite right and quite desirable that St. Francis should never -have heard of Virgil. But do we really desire that Dante should never -have heard of Virgil? Do we really desire that Dante should never have -read any pagan mythology? It has been truly said that the use that Dante -makes of such fables is altogether part of a deeper orthodoxy; that his -huge heathen fragments, his gigantic figures of Minos or of Charon, only -give a hint of some enormous natural religion behind all history and -from the first foreshadowing the Faith. It is well to have the Sybil as -well as David in the Dies Irae. That St. Francis would have burned all -the leaves of all the books of the Sybil, in exchange for one fresh leaf -from the nearest tree, is perfectly true; and perfectly proper to -St. Francis. But it is good to have the Dies Irae as well as the -Canticle of the Sun. - -By this thesis, in short, the coming of St. Francis was like the birth -of a child in a dark house, lifting its doom; a child that grows up -unconscious of the tragedy and triumphs over it by his innocence. In him -it is necessarily not only innocence but ignorance. It is the essence of -the story that _he_ should pluck at the green grass without knowing it -grows over a murdered man or climb the apple-tree without knowing it was -the gibbet of a suicide. It was such an amnesty and reconciliation that -the freshness of the Franciscan spirit brought to all the world. But it -does not follow that it ought to impose its ignorance on all the world. -And I think it would have tried to impose it on all the world. For some -Franciscans it would have seemed right that Franciscan poetry should -expel Benedictine prose. For the symbolic child it was quite rational. -It was right enough that for such a child the world should be a large -new nursery with blank white-washed walls, on which he could draw his -own pictures in chalk in the childish fashion, crude in outline and gay -in colour; the beginnings of all our art. It was right enough that to -him such a nursery should seem the most magnificent mansion of the -imagination of man. But in the Church of God are many mansions. - -Every heresy has been an effort to narrow the Church. If the Franciscan -movement had turned into a new religion, it would after all have been a -narrow religion. In so far as it did turn here and there into a heresy, -it was a narrow heresy. It did what heresy always does; it set the mood -against the mind. The mood was indeed originally the good and glorious -mood of the great St. Francis, but it was not the whole mind of God or -even of man. And it is a fact that the mood itself degenerated, as the -mood turned into a monomania. A sect that came to be called the -Fraticelli declared themselves the true sons of St. Francis and broke -away from the compromises of Rome in favour of what they would have -called the complete programme of Assisi. In a very little while these -loose Franciscans began to look as ferocious as Flagellants. They -launched new and violent vetoes; they denounced marriage; that is, they -denounced mankind. In the name of the most human of saints they declared -war upon humanity. They did not perish particularly through being -persecuted; many of them were eventually persuaded; and the -unpersuadable rump of them that remained remained without producing -anything in the least calculated to remind anybody of the real -St. Francis. What was the matter with these people was that they were -mystics; mystics and nothing else but mystics; mystics and not -Catholics; mystics and not Christians; mystics and not men. They rotted -away because, in the most exact sense, they would not listen to reason. -And St. Francis, however wild and romantic his gyrations might appear to -many, always hung on to reason by one invisible and indestructible hair. - -The great saint was sane; and with the very sound of the word sanity, as -at a deeper chord struck upon a harp, we come back to something that was -indeed deeper than everything about him that seemed an almost elvish -eccentricity. He was not a mere eccentric because he was always turning -towards the centre and heart of the maze; he took the queerest and most -zigzag short cuts through the wood, but he was always going home. He was -not only far too humble to be an heresiarch, but he was far too human to -desire to be an extremist, in the sense of an exile at the ends of the -earth. The sense of humour which salts all the stories of his escapades -alone prevented him from ever hardening into the solemnity of sectarian -self-righteousness. He was by nature ready to admit that he was wrong; -and if his followers had on some practical points to admit that he was -wrong, they only admitted that he was wrong in order to prove that he -was right. For it is they, his real followers, who have really proved -that he was right and even in transcending some of his negations have -triumphantly extended and interpreted his truth. The Franciscan order -did not fossilise or break off short like something of which the true -purpose has been frustrated by official tyranny or internal treason. It -was this, the central and orthodox trunk of it, that afterwards bore -fruit for the world. It counted among its sons Bonaventura the great -mystic and Bernardino the popular preacher, who filled Italy with the -very beatific buffooneries of a Jongleur de Dieu. It counted Raymond -Lully with his strange learning and his large and daring plans for the -conversion of the world; a man intensely individual exactly as -St. Francis was intensely individual. It counted Roger Bacon, the first -naturalist whose experiments with light and water had all the luminous -quaintness that belongs to the beginnings of natural history; and whom -even the most material scientists have hailed as a father of science. It -is not merely true that these were great men who did great work for the -world; it is also true that they were a certain kind of men keeping the -spirit and savour of a certain kind of man, that we can recognise in -them a taste and tang of audacity and simplicity, and know them for the -sons of St. Francis. - -For that is the full and final spirit in which we should turn to -St. Francis; in the spirit of thanks for what he has done. He was above -all things a great giver; and he cared chiefly for the best kind of -giving which is called thanksgiving. If another great man wrote a -grammar of assent, he may well be said to have written a grammar of -acceptance; a grammar of gratitude. He understood down to its very -depths the theory of thanks; and its depths are a bottomless abyss. He -knew that the praise of God stands on its strongest ground when it -stands on nothing. He knew that we can best measure the towering miracle -of the mere fact of existence if we realise that but for some strange -mercy we should not even exist. And something of that larger truth is -repeated in a lesser form in our own relations with so mighty a maker of -history. He also is a giver of things we could not have even thought of -for ourselves; he also is too great for anything but gratitude. From him -came a whole awakening of the world and a dawn in which all shapes and -colours could be seen anew. The mighty men of genius who made the -Christian civilisation that we know appear in history almost as his -servants and imitators. Before Dante was, he had given poetry to Italy; -before St. Louis ruled, he had risen as the tribune of the poor; and -before Giotto had painted the pictures, he had enacted the scenes. That -great painter who began the whole human inspiration of European painting -had himself gone to St. Francis to be inspired. It is said that when -St. Francis staged in his own simple fashion a Nativity Play of -Bethlehem, with kings and angels in the stiff and gay medieval garments -and the golden wigs that stood for haloes, a miracle was wrought full of -the Franciscan glory. The Holy Child was a wooden doll or bambino, and -it was said that he embraced it and that the image came to life in his -arms. He assuredly was not thinking of lesser things; but we may at -least say that one thing came to life in his arms; and that was the -thing that we call the drama. Save for his intense individual love of -song, he did not perhaps himself embody this spirit in any of these -arts. He was the spirit that was embodied. He was the spiritual essence -and substance that walked the world, before anyone had seen these things -in visible forms derived from it: a wandering fire as if from nowhere, -at which men more material could light both torches and tapers. He was -the soul of medieval civilisation before it even found a body. Another -and quite different stream of spiritual inspiration derives largely from -him; all that reforming energy of medieval and modern times that goes to -the burden of _Deus est Deus Pauperum_. His abstract ardour for human -beings was in a multitude of just medieval laws against the pride and -cruelty of riches; it is to-day behind much that is loosely called -Christian Socialist and can more correctly be called Catholic Democrat. -Neither on the artistic nor the social side would anybody pretend that -these things would not have existed without him; yet it is strictly true -to say that we cannot now imagine them without him; since he has lived -and changed the world. - -And something of that sense of impotence which was more than half his -power will descend on anyone who knows what that inspiration has been in -history, and can only record it in a series of straggling and meagre -sentences. He will know something of what St. Francis meant by the great -and good debt that cannot be paid. He will feel at once the desire to -have done infinitely more and the futility of having done anything. He -will know what it is to stand under such a deluge of a dead man's -marvels, and have nothing in return to establish against it; to have -nothing to set up under the overhanging, overwhelming arches of such a -temple of time and eternity, but this brief candle burnt out so quickly -before his shrine. - - - - - HODDER AND STOUGHTON'S - PEOPLE'S LIBRARY - - GENERAL EDITOR: SIDNEY DARK - - 2/6 net each volume - - ST. PAUL'S HOUSE, WARWICK SQUARE, E.C.4 - - -ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI. By GILBERT K. CHESTERTON. - -VICTORIAN POETRY. By JOHN DRINKWATER. - -EVERYDAY BIOLOGY. By J. ARTHUR THOMSON. - -THE POETRY OF ARCHITECTURE. By FRANK RUTTER. - -THE STORY OF THE RENAISSANCE. By SIDNEY DARK. - -ATOMS AND ELECTRONS. By J. W. N. SULLIVAN. - -HOW TO READ HISTORY. By W. WATKIN DAVIES. - -OUR DEBT TO GREECE AND ROME. By E. B. OSBORN. - -HOW TO ENJOY THE COUNTRYSIDE. By MARCUS WOODWARD. - -HOW TO ENJOY LIFE. By SIDNEY DARK. - -HOW TO ENJOY THE BIBLE. By CANON ANTHONY C. DEANE, M.A. - - - _General Preface_ - -The object of HODDER AND STOUGHTON'S PEOPLE'S LIBRARY is to supply in -brief form simply written introductions to the study of History, -Literature, Biography and Science; in some degree to satisfy that -ever-increasing demand for knowledge which is one of the happiest -characteristics of our time. The names of the authors of the first -volumes of the Library are sufficient evidence of the fact that each -subject will be dealt with authoritatively, while the authority will not -be of the "dry-as-dust" order. Not only is it possible to have learning -without tears, but it is also possible to make the acquiring of -knowledge a thrilling and entertaining adventure. 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Chesteron - </title> - - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - - <style type="text/css"> - - body { - margin-left: 6%; - margin-right: 7%; - font-size: 100%; - } - - p { - margin-top: .5em; - text-indent: 1em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .5em; - line-height: 120%; - } - -h1 { - text-align: center; - clear: both; - font-weight: normal; - font-style: normal; - font-size: 125%; - line-height: 125%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 1em; - } - - h2 { - text-align: center; - clear: both; - font-weight: normal; - font-style: normal; - font-size: 115%; - line-height: 115%; - margin-top: 1.5em; - margin-bottom: 0.75em; - page-break-before: avoid; - } - - hr { - margin-left: 30%; - margin-right: 30%; - margin-top: 0.5em; - margin-bottom: 0.5em; - } - - /* styles for Transcriber's Note */ - #tnote { - background-color: #EEE; - color: inherit; - margin: 1em 30%; - padding: 0.5em 1em; - border: 0.1em solid gray; - font-size: small; - } - #tnote p { - text-indent: 0; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .75em; - margin-top: .25em; - } - - /* styles for front matter */ - .front { - margin: 2em 25%; - } - .front p { - margin-top: 1em; - margin-bottom: 1em; - text-indent: 0; - text-align: center; - line-height: 120%; - } - .image-center { - margin: 1.5em auto; - text-align: center; - } - - /* styles for table of contents */ - .toc { - border-collapse: separate; - border-spacing: 2px; - width: 90%; - max-width: 25em; - line-height: 95%; - font-size: 95%; - margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto; - margin-bottom: 2em; - } - .toc td.chap { - padding-top: 0.75em; - vertical-align: top; - text-align: center; - padding-bottom: 0.1em; - } - .toc td.titl { - padding-top: 0.25em; - padding-left: 0.5em; - vertical-align: top; - text-align: left; - font-variant: small-caps; - } - .toc td.pag { - width: 2.5em; - vertical-align: bottom; - text-align: right; - } - - /* styles for poetry */ - .poetry-container { - text-align: center; - } - .poetry { - display: inline-block; - text-align: left; - } - .poetry .verse { - font-size: small; - text-indent: -3em; - padding-left: 3em; - } - .poetry .quote1 { - text-indent: -3.25em; - } - - /* style for list of books */ - .books { - margin: 3em 15%; - padding: 0.5em 1em; - border: 0.1em solid gray; - font-size: small; - } - .books p { - text-align: center; - margin-bottom: .75em; - margin-top: .25em; - } - .books ul { - list-style-type: none; - } - - /* style for page numbers */ - .pagenum { - position: absolute; - right: 1.5%; - font-size: small; - font-style: normal; - font-weight: normal; - text-align: right; - } - - /* style for page-breaks */ - div.chapter { page-break-before: always; } - - /* other styles */ - .center { text-indent: 0; text-align: center; } - .nodent { text-indent: 0; } - .smc { font-variant: small-caps; } - .small { font-size: small; } - .gap-above2 { margin-top: 2em; } - - </style> - </head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of St. Francis of Assisi, by G. K. Chesterton - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: St. Francis of Assisi - -Author: G. K. Chesterton - -Release Date: August 31, 2020 [EBook #63084] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI *** - - - - -Produced by Tim Lindell, Chris Pinfield and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries). - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div id="tnote"> - -<p>Transcriber's Note:</p> - -<p>Obvious printer errors have been corrected. Hyphenation has been -rationalised.</p> - -<p>A list of other books from the same publisher, and a preface to them, -have been moved to the end of the book.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="front"> - -<h1>ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI</h1> - -<p><small>BY</small><br />G. K. CHESTERTON</p> - -<div class="gap-above2 image-center"> - <img src="images/hs.jpg" width="47" height="27" alt="hs" /> -</div> - -<p>HODDER AND STOUGHTON LTD.<br /><small>LONDON<br />TORONTO</small></p> - -</div> - -<hr /> - -<h2><i>Contents</i></h2> - -<table class="toc" summary="ToC"> - -<tr> - <td colspan="2" class="pag" style="font-size:50%">PAGE</td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td colspan="2" class="chap">CHAPTER I</td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td class="titl"><small>THE PROBLEM OF ST. FRANCIS</small></td> - <td class="pag"><a href="#Page_7">7</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td colspan="2" class="chap">CHAPTER II</td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td class="titl"><small>THE WORLD ST. FRANCIS FOUND</small></td> - <td class="pag"><a href="#Page_18">18</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td colspan="2" class="chap">CHAPTER III</td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td class="titl"><small>FRANCIS THE FIGHTER</small></td> - <td class="pag"><a href="#Page_40">40</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td colspan="2" class="chap">CHAPTER IV</td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td class="titl"><small>FRANCIS THE BUILDER</small></td> - <td class="pag"><a href="#Page_58">58</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td colspan="2" class="chap">CHAPTER V</td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td class="titl"><small>LE JONGLEUR DE DIEU</small></td> - <td class="pag"><a href="#Page_74">74</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td colspan="2" class="chap">CHAPTER VI</td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td class="titl"><small>THE LITTLE POOR MAN</small></td> - <td class="pag"><a href="#Page_94">94</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td colspan="2" class="chap">CHAPTER VII</td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td class="titl"><small>THE THREE ORDERS</small></td> - <td class="pag"><a href="#Page_113">113</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td colspan="2" class="chap">CHAPTER VIII</td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td class="titl"><small>THE MIRROR OF CHRIST</small></td> - <td class="pag"><a href="#Page_133">133</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td colspan="2" class="chap">CHAPTER IX</td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td class="titl"><small>MIRACLES AND DEATH</small></td> - <td class="pag"><a href="#Page_153">153</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td colspan="2" class="chap">CHAPTER X</td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td class="titl"><small>THE TESTAMENT OF ST. FRANCIS</small></td> - <td class="pag"><a href="#Page_172">172</a></td> -</tr> - -</table> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">{7}</a></span> - - <h2><i>Chapter I</i><br /> - <small><i>The Problem of St. Francis</i></small></h2> - -</div> - -<p><span class="smc">A sketch</span> of St. Francis of Assisi in modern -English may be written in one of three ways. -Between these the writer must make his selection; -and the third way, which is adopted here, is -in some respects the most difficult of all. At -least, it would be the most difficult if the other -two were not impossible.</p> - -<p>First, he may deal with this great and most -amazing man as a figure in secular history and -a model of social virtues. He may describe -this divine demagogue as being, as he probably -was, the world's one quite sincere democrat. -He may say (what means very little) that St. Francis -was in advance of his age. He may say -(what is quite true) that St. Francis anticipated -all that is most liberal and sympathetic in the -modern mood; the love of nature; the love of -animals; the sense of social compassion; the -sense of the spiritual dangers of prosperity and -even of property. All those things that nobody -understood before Wordsworth were familiar -to St. Francis. All those things that were -first discovered by Tolstoy had been taken for -granted by St. Francis. He could be presented, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">{8}</a></span> -not only as a human but a humanitarian hero; -indeed as the first hero of humanism. He has -been described as a sort of morning star of the -Renaissance. And in comparison with all these -things, his ascetical theology can be ignored or -dismissed as a contemporary accident, which -was fortunately not a fatal accident. His -religion can be regarded as a superstition, but -an inevitable superstition, from which not even -genius could wholly free itself; in the consideration -of which it would be unjust to condemn -St. Francis for his self-denial or unduly chide him -for his chastity. It is quite true that even -from so detached a standpoint his stature -would still appear heroic. There would still -be a great deal to be said about the man who -tried to end the Crusades by talking to the -Saracens or who interceded with the Emperor -for the birds. The writer might describe in a -purely historical spirit the whole of that great -Franciscan inspiration that was felt in the -painting of Giotto, in the poetry of Dante, in -the miracle plays that made possible the modern -drama, and in so many other things that are -already appreciated by the modern culture. -He may try to do it, as others have done, almost -without raising any religious question at all. -In short, he may try to tell the story of a saint -without God; which is like being told to write -the life of Nansen and forbidden to mention -the North Pole.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">{9}</a></span> -Second, he may go to the opposite extreme, -and decide, as it were, to be defiantly devotional. -He may make the theological enthusiasm as -thoroughly the theme as it was the theme of -the first Franciscans. He may treat religion -as the real thing that it was to the real Francis -of Assisi. He can find an austere joy, so to -speak, in parading the paradoxes of asceticism -and all the holy topsy-turvydom of humility. -He can stamp the whole history with the Stigmata, -record fasts like fights against a dragon; -till in the vague modern mind St. Francis is as -dark a figure as St. Dominic. In short he can -produce what many in our world will regard as -a sort of photographic negative, the reversal -of all lights and shades; what the foolish will -find as impenetrable as darkness and even many -of the wise will find almost as invisible as if -it were written in silver upon white. Such a -study of St. Francis would be unintelligible to -anyone who does not share his religion, perhaps -only partly intelligible to anyone who does not -share his vocation. According to degrees of -judgment, it will be regarded as something too -bad or too good for the world. The only difficulty -about doing the thing in this way is that it cannot -be done. It would really require a saint to -write the life of a saint. In the present case -the objections to such a course are insuperable.</p> - -<p>Third, he may try to do what I have tried -to do here; and, as I have already suggested, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">{10}</a></span> -the course has peculiar problems of its own. -The writer may put himself in the position of -the ordinary modern outsider and enquirer; -as indeed the present writer is still largely and -was once entirely in that position. He may -start from the standpoint of a man who already -admires St. Francis, but only for those things -which such a man finds admirable. In other -words he may assume that the reader is at least -as enlightened as Renan or Matthew Arnold; -but in the light of that enlightenment he may try -to illuminate what Renan and Matthew Arnold -left dark. He may try to use what is understood -to explain what is not understood. He -may say to the modern English reader: "Here is -an historical character which is admittedly attractive -to many of us already, by its gaiety, its -romantic imagination, its spiritual courtesy and -camaraderie, but which also contains elements -(evidently equally sincere and emphatic) which -seem to you quite remote and repulsive. But -after all, this man was a man and not half a dozen -men. What seems inconsistency to you did -not seem inconsistency to him. Let us see -whether we can understand, with the help of -the existing understanding, these other things -that seem now to be doubly dark, by their -intrinsic gloom and their ironic contrast." I do -not mean, of course, that I can really reach -such a psychological completeness in this crude -and curt outline. But I mean that this is the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">{11}</a></span> -only controversial condition that I shall here -assume; that I am dealing with the sympathetic -outsider. I shall not assume any more or any less -agreement than this. A materialist may not care -whether the inconsistencies are reconciled or not. -A Catholic may not see any inconsistencies to -reconcile. But I am here addressing the ordinary -modern man, sympathetic but sceptical, and I -can only rather hazily hope that, by approaching -the great saint's story through what is evidently -picturesque and popular about it, I may at least -leave the reader understanding a little more -than he did before of the consistency of a complete -character; that by approaching it in this way, -we may at least get a glimmering of why the -poet who praised his lord the sun, often hid -himself in a dark cavern, of why the saint who -was so gentle with his Brother the Wolf was -so harsh to his Brother the Ass (as he nicknamed -his own body), of why the troubadour who said -that love set his heart on fire separated himself -from women, of why the singer who rejoiced -in the strength and gaiety of the fire deliberately -rolled himself in the snow, of why the very song -which cries with all the passion of a pagan, -"Praised be God for our Sister, Mother Earth, -which brings forth varied fruits and grass and -glowing flowers," ends almost with the words -"Praised be God for our Sister, the death of -the body."</p> - -<p>Renan and Matthew Arnold failed utterly at -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">{12}</a></span> -this test. They were content to follow Francis -with their praises until they were stopped by -their prejudices; the stubborn prejudices of the -sceptic. The moment Francis began to do something -they did not understand or did not like, -they did not try to understand it, still less to -like it; they simply turned their backs on the -whole business and "walked no more with him." -No man will get any further along a path of -historical enquiry in that fashion. These sceptics -are really driven to drop the whole subject in -despair, to leave the most simple and sincere -of all historical characters as a mass of contradictions, -to be praised on the principle of the -curate's egg. Arnold refers to the asceticism of -Alverno almost hurriedly, as if it were an unlucky -but undeniable blot on the beauty of the story; -or rather as if it were a pitiable break-down -and bathos at the end of the story. Now -this is simply to be stone-blind to the whole -point of any story. To represent Mount Alverno -as the mere collapse of Francis is exactly like -representing Mount Calvary as the mere collapse -of Christ. Those mountains are mountains, -whatever else they are, and it is nonsense to say -(like the Red Queen) that they are comparative -hollows or negative holes in the ground. -They were quite manifestly meant to be culminations -and landmarks. To treat the Stigmata -as a sort of scandal, to be touched on tenderly -but with pain, is exactly like treating the original -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">{13}</a></span> -five wounds of Jesus Christ as five blots on His -character. You may dislike the idea of asceticism; -you may dislike equally the idea of martyrdom; -for that matter you may have an honest and -natural dislike of the whole conception of sacrifice -symbolised by the cross. But if it is an intelligent -dislike, you will still retain the capacity for -seeing the point of a story; of the story of a -martyr or even the story of a monk. You will -not be able rationally to read the Gospel and -regard the Crucifixion as an afterthought or an -anti-climax or an accident in the life of Christ; -it is obviously the point of the story like the -point of a sword, the sword that pierced the -heart of the Mother of God.</p> - -<p>And you will not be able rationally to read -the story of a man presented as a Mirror of -Christ without understanding his final phase -as a Man of Sorrows, and at least artistically -appreciating the appropriateness of his receiving, -in a cloud of mystery and isolation, inflicted -by no human hand, the unhealed everlasting -wounds that heal the world.</p> - -<p>The practical reconciliation of the gaiety and -austerity I must leave the story itself to suggest. -But since I have mentioned Matthew Arnold -and Renan and the rationalistic admirers of -St. Francis, I will here give the hint of what -it seems to me most advisable for such readers -to keep in mind. These distinguished writers -found things like the Stigmata a stumbling-block -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">{14}</a></span> -because to them a religion was a philosophy. -It was an impersonal thing; and it is only the -most personal passion that provides here an -approximate earthly parallel. A man will not -roll in the snow for a stream of tendency by which -all things fulfil the law of their being. He will -not go without food in the name of something, -not ourselves, that makes for righteousness. -He will do things like this, or pretty nearly like -this, under quite a different impulse. He will -do these things when he is in love. The first -fact to realise about St. Francis is involved -in the first fact with which his story starts; -that when he said from the first that he was a -Troubadour, and said later that he was a Troubadour -of a newer and nobler romance, he was -not using a mere metaphor, but understood -himself much better than the scholars understand -him. He was, to the last agonies of asceticism, -a Troubadour. He was a Lover. He was a -lover of God and he was really and truly a lover -of men; possibly a much rarer mystical vocation. -A lover of men is very nearly the opposite of a -philanthropist; indeed the pedantry of the Greek -word carries something like a satire on itself. -A philanthropist may be said to love anthropoids. -But as St. Francis did not love humanity but -men, so he did not love Christianity but Christ. -Say, if you think so, that he was a lunatic loving -an imaginary person; but an imaginary person, -not an imaginary idea. And for the modern -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">{15}</a></span> -reader the clue to the asceticism and all the rest -can best be found in the stories of lovers when -they seemed to be rather like lunatics. Tell -it as the tale of one of the Troubadours, and the -wild things he would do for his lady, and the -whole of the modern puzzle disappears. In -such a romance there would be no contradiction -between the poet gathering flowers in the sun -and enduring a freezing vigil in the snow, between -his praising all earthly and bodily beauty and -then refusing to eat, between his glorifying gold -and purple and perversely going in rags, between -his showing pathetically a hunger for a happy -life and a thirst for a heroic death. All these -riddles would easily be resolved in the simplicity -of any noble love; only this was so noble a -love that nine men out of ten have hardly even -heard of it. We shall see later that this parallel -of the earthly lover has a very practical relation -to the problems of his life, as to his relations -with his father and with his friends and their -families. The modern reader will almost always -find that if he could only feel this kind of love -as a reality, he could feel this kind of extravagance -as a romance. But I only note it here -as a preliminary point because, though it is -very far from being the final truth in the matter, -it is the best approach to it. The reader cannot -even begin to see the sense of a story that may -well seem to him a very wild one, until he understands -that to this great mystic his religion -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">{16}</a></span> -was not a thing like a theory but a thing like a -love-affair. And the only purpose of this -prefatory chapter is to explain the limits of this -present book; which is only addressed to that -part of the modern world which finds in St. Francis -a certain modern difficulty; which can -admire him yet hardly accept him, or which -can appreciate the saint almost without the -sanctity. And my only claim even to attempt -such a task is that I myself have for so long -been in various stages of such a condition. Many -thousand things that I now partly comprehend -I should have thought utterly incomprehensible, -many things I now hold sacred I should have -scouted as utterly superstitious, many things -that seem to me lucid and enlightened now they -are seen from the inside I should honestly have -called dark and barbarous seen from the outside, -when long ago in those days of boyhood my -fancy first caught fire with the glory of Francis -of Assisi. I too have lived in Arcady; but -even in Arcady I met one walking in a brown -habit who loved the woods better than Pan. -The figure in the brown habit stands above the -hearth in the room where I write, and alone among -many such images, at no stage of my pilgrimage -has he ever seemed to me a stranger. There is -something of harmony between the hearth and -the firefight and my own first pleasure in his -words about his brother fire; for he stands far -enough back in my memory to mingle with all -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">{17}</a></span> -those more domestic dreams of the first days. -Even the fantastic shadows thrown by fire make -a sort of shadow pantomime that belongs to -the nursery; yet the shadows were even then -the shadows of his favourite beasts and birds, -as he saw them, grotesque but haloed with the -love of God. His Brother Wolf and Brother -Sheep seemed then almost like the Brer Fox -and Brer Rabbit of a more Christian Uncle -Remus. I have come slowly to see many and -more marvellous aspects of such a man, but -I have never lost that one. His figure stands -on a sort of bridge connecting my boyhood with -my conversion to many other things; for the -romance of his religion had penetrated even -the rationalism of that vague Victorian time. -In so far as I have had this experience, I may -be able to lead others a little further along that -road; but only a very little further. Nobody -knows better than I do now that it is a road -upon which angels might fear to tread; but -though I am certain of failure I am not altogether -overcome by fear; for he suffered fools gladly.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">{18}</a></span> - - <h2><i>Chapter II</i><br /> - <small><i>The World St. Francis Found</i></small></h2> - -</div> - -<p><span class="smc">The</span> modern innovation which has substituted -journalism for history, or for that tradition that -is the gossip of history, has had at least one definite -effect. It has insured that everybody should -only hear the end of every story. Journalists are -in the habit of printing above the very last -chapters of their serial stories (when the hero -and heroine are just about to embrace in the last -chapter, as only an unfathomable perversity -prevented them from doing in the first) the rather -misleading words, "You can begin this story -here." But even this is not a complete parallel; -for the journals do give some sort of a summary -of the story, while they never give anything -remotely resembling a summary of the history. -Newspapers not only deal with news, but they -deal with everything as if it were entirely new. -Tutankamen, for instance, was entirely new. It -is exactly in the same fashion that we read that -Admiral Bangs has been shot, which is the first -intimation we have that he has ever been born. -There is something singularly significant in the -use which journalism makes of its stores of -biography. It never thinks of publishing the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">{19}</a></span> -life until it is publishing the death. As it deals -with individuals it deals with institutions and -ideas. After the Great War our public began -to be told of all sorts of nations being emancipated. -It had never been told a word about their being -enslaved. We were called upon to judge of the -justice of the settlements, when we had never -been allowed to hear of the very existence of -the quarrels. People would think it pedantic -to talk about the Serbian epics and they prefer -to speak in plain every-day modern language -about the Yugo-Slavonic international new diplomacy; -and they are quite excited about something -they call Czecho-Slovakia without apparently -having ever heard of Bohemia. Things -that are as old as Europe are regarded as more -recent than the very latest claims pegged out on -the prairies of America. It is very exciting; like -the last act of a play to people who have only -come into the theatre just before the curtain falls. -But it does not conduce exactly to knowing what -it is all about. To those content with the -mere fact of a pistol-shot or a passionate embrace, -such a leisurely manner of patronising the drama -may be recommended. To those tormented by -a merely intellectual curiosity about who is kissing -or killing whom, and why, it is unsatisfactory.</p> - -<p>Most modern history, especially in England, -suffers from the same imperfection as journalism. -At best it only tells half of the history of Christendom; -and that the second half without the first -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">{20}</a></span> -half. Men for whom reason begins with the -Revival of Learning, men for whom religion -begins with the Reformation, can never give a -complete account of anything, for they have to -start with institutions whose origin they cannot -explain, or generally even imagine. Just as we -hear of the admiral being shot but have never -heard of his being born, so we all heard a great -deal about the dissolution of the monasteries, -but we heard next to nothing about the creation -of the monasteries. Now this sort of history -would be hopelessly insufficient, even for an -intelligent man who hated the monasteries. -It is hopelessly insufficient in connection with -institutions that many intelligent men do in a -quite healthy spirit hate. For instance, it is -possible that some of us have occasionally seen -some mention, by our learned leader-writers, of -an obscure institution called the Spanish Inquisition. -Well, it really is an obscure institution, -according to them and the histories they read. -It is obscure because its origin is obscure. Protestant -history simply begins with the horrible -thing in possession, as the pantomime begins -with the demon king in the goblin kitchen. It -is likely enough that it was, especially towards -the end, a horrible thing that might be haunted -by demons; but if we say this was so, we have -no notion why it was so. To understand the -Spanish Inquisition it would be necessary to -discover two things that we have never dreamed -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">{21}</a></span> -of bothering about; what Spain was and what an -Inquisition was. The former would bring in the -whole great question about the Crusade against -the Moors; and by what heroic chivalry a -European nation freed itself of an alien domination -from Africa. The latter would bring in the whole -business of the other Crusade against the Albigensians, -and why men loved and hated that nihilistic -vision from Asia. Unless we understand that there -was in these things originally the rush and romance -of a Crusade, we cannot understand how they -came to deceive men or drag them on towards -evil. The Crusaders doubtless abused their -victory, but there was a victory to abuse. And -where there is victory there is valour in the field -and popularity in the forum. There is some sort -of enthusiasm that encourages excesses or covers -faults. For instance, I for one have maintained -from very early days the responsibility of the -English for their atrocious treatment of the -Irish. But it would be quite unfair to the English -to describe even the devilry of '98 and leave out -altogether all mention of the war with Napoleon. -It would be unjust to suggest that the English -mind was bent on nothing but the death of -Emmett, when it was more probably full of the -glory of the death of Nelson. Unfortunately -'98 was very far from being the last date of such -dirty work; and only a few years ago our politicians -started trying to rule by random robbing -and killing, while gently remonstrating with the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">{22}</a></span> -Irish for their memory of old unhappy far-off -things and battles long ago. But however badly -we may think of the Black-and-Tan business, -it would be unjust to forget that most of us were -not thinking of Black-and-Tan but of khaki; and -that khaki had just then a noble and national -connotation covering many things. To write -of the war in Ireland and leave out the war -against Prussia, and the English sincerity about -it, would be unjust to the English. So to talk -about the torture-engine as if it had been a -hideous toy is unjust to the Spanish. It does not -tell sensibly from the start the story of what the -Spaniard did, and why. We may concede to -our contemporaries that in any case it is not a -story that ends well. We do not insist that -in their version it should begin well. What we -complain of is that in their version it does not -begin at all. They are only in at the death; -or even, like Lord Tom Noddy, too late for the -hanging. It is quite true that it was sometimes -more horrible than any hanging; but they only -gather, so to speak, the very ashes of the ashes; -the fag-end of the faggot.</p> - -<p>The case of the Inquisition is here taken at -random, for it is one among any number illustrating -the same thing; and not because it is -especially connected with St. Francis, in whatever -sense it may have been connected with St. Dominic. It may well be suggested later indeed -that St. Francis is unintelligible, just as St. Dominic -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">{23}</a></span> -is unintelligible, unless we do understand -something of what the thirteenth century meant -by heresy and a crusade. But for the moment -I use it as a lesser example for a much larger -purpose. It is to point out that to begin the story -of St. Francis with the birth of St. Francis would -be to miss the whole point of the story, or rather -not to tell the story at all. And it is to suggest -that the modern tail-foremost type of journalistic -history perpetually fails us. We learn about -reformers without knowing what they had to -reform, about rebels without a notion of what -they rebelled against, of memorials that are -not connected with any memory and restorations -of things that had apparently never existed -before. Even at the expense of this chapter -appearing disproportionate, it is necessary to say -something about the great movements that led -up to the entrance of the founder of the Franciscans. -It may seem to mean describing a world, -or even a universe, in order to describe a man. -It will inevitably mean that the world or the -universe will be described with a few desperate -generalisations in a few abrupt sentences. But -so far from its meaning that we see a very small -figure under so large a sky, it will mean that we -must measure the sky before we can begin to -measure the towering stature of the man.</p> - -<p>And this phrase alone brings me to the preliminary -suggestions that seem necessary before even -a slight sketch of the life of St. Francis. It is -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">{24}</a></span> -necessary to realise, in however rude and elementary -a fashion, into what sort of a world St. Francis -entered and what has been the history -of that world, at least in so far as it affected him. -It is necessary to have, if only in a few sentences, -a sort of preface in the form of an Outline of -History, if we may borrow the phrase of Mr. -Wells. In the case of Mr. Wells himself, it is -evident that the distinguished novelist suffered -the same disadvantage as if he had been obliged -to write a novel of which he hated the hero. To -write history and hate Rome, both pagan and -papal, is practically to hate nearly everything -that has happened. It comes very near to hating -humanity on purely humanitarian grounds. To -dislike both the priest and the soldier, both the -laurels of the warrior and the lilies of the saint, -is to suffer a division from the mass of mankind -for which not all the dexterities of the finest -and most flexible of modern intelligences can -compensate. A much wider sympathy is needed -for the historical setting of St. Francis, himself -both a soldier and a saint. I will therefore -conclude this chapter with a few generalisations -about the world that St. Francis found.</p> - -<p>Men will not believe because they will not -broaden their minds. As a matter of individual -belief, I should of course express it by saying -that they are not sufficiently catholic to be -Catholic. But I am not going to discuss here -the doctrinal truths of Christianity, but simply -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">{25}</a></span> -the broad historical fact of Christianity, as it -might appear to a really enlightened and imaginative -person even if he were not a Christian. -What I mean at the moment is that the majority -of doubts are made out of details. In the course -of random reading a man comes across a pagan -custom that strikes him as picturesque or a -Christian action that strikes him as cruel; but -he does not enlarge his mind sufficiently to see -the main truth about pagan custom or the -Christian reaction against it. Until we understand, -not necessarily in detail, but in their big -bulk and proportion that pagan progress and that -Christian reaction, we cannot really understand -the point of history at which St. Francis appears -or what his great popular mission was all about.</p> - -<p>Now everybody knows, I imagine, that the -twelfth and thirteenth centuries were an awakening -of the world. They were a fresh flowering -of culture and the creative arts after a long spell -of much sterner and even more sterile experience -which we call the Dark Ages. They may be called -an emancipation; they were certainly an end; -an end of what may at least seem a harsher and -more inhuman time. But what was it that was -ended? From what was it that men were -emancipated? That is where there is a real -collision and point at issue between the different -philosophies of history. On the merely external -and secular side, it has been truly said that men -awoke from a sleep; but there had been dreams -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">{26}</a></span> -in that sleep of a mystical and sometimes of a -monstrous kind. In that rationalistic routine -into which most modern historians have fallen, -it is considered enough to say that they were -emancipated from mere savage superstition and -advanced towards mere civilised enlightenment. -Now this is the big blunder that stands as a -stumbling-block at the very beginning of our -story. Anybody who supposes that the Dark -Ages were plain darkness and nothing else, and -that the dawn of the thirteenth century was -plain daylight and nothing else, will not be able -to make head or tail of the human story of St. Francis -of Assisi. The truth is that the joy of -St. Francis and his Jongleurs de Dieu was not -merely an awakening. It was something which -cannot be understood without understanding -their own mystical creed. The end of the Dark -Ages was not merely the end of a sleep. It was -certainly not merely the end of a superstitious -enslavement. It was the end of something -belonging to a quite definite but quite different -order of ideas.</p> - -<p>It was the end of a penance; or, if it be preferred, -a purgation. It marked the moment when a -certain spiritual expiation had been finally worked -out and certain spiritual diseases had been finally -expelled from the system. They had been -expelled by an era of asceticism, which was the -only thing that could have expelled them. -Christianity had entered the world to cure the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">{27}</a></span> -world; and she had cured it in the only way in -which it could be cured.</p> - -<p>Viewed merely in an external and experimental -fashion, the whole of the high civilisation of -antiquity had ended in the learning of a certain -lesson; that is, in its conversion to Christianity. -But that lesson was a psychological fact as well -as a theological faith. That pagan civilisation -had indeed been a very high civilisation. It -would not weaken our thesis, it might even -strengthen it, to say that it was the highest that -humanity ever reached. It had discovered its -still unrivalled arts of poetry and plastic representation; -it had discovered its own permanent -political ideals; it had discovered its own clear -system of logic and of language. But above -all, it had discovered its own mistake.</p> - -<p>That mistake was too deep to be ideally -defined; the short-hand of it is to call it the -mistake of nature-worship. It might almost as -truly be called the mistake of being natural; -and it was a very natural mistake. The Greeks, -the great guides and pioneers of pagan antiquity, -started out with the idea of something splendidly -obvious and direct; the idea that if man walked -straight ahead on the high road of reason and -nature, he could come to no harm; especially -if he was, as the Greek was, eminently enlightened -and intelligent. We might be so flippant as to -say that man was simply to follow his nose, so -long as it was a Greek nose. And the case of -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">{28}</a></span> -the Greeks themselves is alone enough to illustrate -the strange but certain fatality that attends upon -this fallacy. No sooner did the Greeks themselves -begin to follow their own noses and their -own notion of being natural, than the queerest -thing in history seems to have happened to them. -It was much too queer to be an easy matter to -discuss. It may be remarked that our more -repulsive realists never give us the benefit of -their realism. Their studies of unsavoury subjects -never take note of the testimony which they bear -to the truths of a traditional morality. But if -we had the taste for such things, we could cite -thousands of such things as part of the case for -Christian morals. And an instance of this is -found in the fact that nobody has written, in -this sense, a real moral history of the Greeks. -Nobody has seen the scale or the strangeness of -the story. The wisest men in the world set out -to be natural; and the most unnatural thing in -the world was the very first thing they did. The -immediate effect of saluting the sun and the -sunny sanity of nature was a perversion spreading -like a pestilence. The greatest and even the -purest philosophers could not apparently avoid -this low sort of lunacy. Why? It would seem -simple enough for the people whose poets had -conceived Helen of Troy, whose sculptors had -carved the Venus of Milo, to remain healthy on -the point. The truth is that people who worship -health cannot remain healthy. When Man goes -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">{29}</a></span> -straight he goes crooked. When he follows his -nose he manages somehow to put his nose out of -joint, or even to cut off his nose to spite his face; -and that in accordance with something much -deeper in human nature than nature-worshippers -could ever understand. It was the discovery -of that deeper thing, humanly speaking, that -constituted the conversion to Christianity. There -is a bias in man like the bias in the bowl; and -Christianity was the discovery of how to correct -the bias and therefore hit the mark. There are -many who will smile at the saying; but it is -profoundly true to say that the glad good news -brought by the Gospel was the news of original sin.</p> - -<p>Rome rose at the expense of her Greek teachers -largely because she did not entirely consent to -be taught these tricks. She had a much more -decent domestic tradition; but she ultimately -suffered from the same fallacy in her religious -tradition; which was necessarily in no small -degree the heathen tradition of nature-worship. -What was the matter with the whole heathen -civilisation was that there was nothing for the -mass of men in the way of mysticism, except -that concerned with the mystery of the nameless -forces of nature, such as sex and growth and -death. In the Roman Empire also, long before -the end, we find nature-worship inevitably producing -things that are against nature. Cases -like that of Nero have passed into a proverb, -when Sadism sat on a throne brazen in the broad -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">{30}</a></span> -daylight. But the truth I mean is something -much more subtle and universal than a conventional -catalogue of atrocities. What had -happened to the human imagination, as a whole, -was that the whole world was coloured by dangerous -and rapidly deteriorating passions; by -natural passions becoming unnatural passions. -Thus the effect of treating sex as only one innocent -natural thing was that every other innocent -natural thing became soaked and sodden with -sex. For sex cannot be admitted to a mere -equality among elementary emotions or experiences -like eating and sleeping. The moment -sex ceases to be a servant it becomes a tyrant. -There is something dangerous and disproportionate -in its place in human nature, for whatever -reason; and it does really need a special purification -and dedication. The modern talk about -sex being free like any other sense, about the -body being beautiful like any tree or flower, -is either a description of the Garden of Eden -or a piece of thoroughly bad psychology, of which -the world grew weary two thousand years ago.</p> - -<p>This is not to be confused with mere self-righteous -sensationalism about the wickedness -of the pagan world. It was not so much that -the pagan world was wicked as that it was good -enough to realise that its paganism was becoming -wicked, or rather was on the logical high road -to wickedness. I mean that there was no future -for "natural magic"; to deepen it was only to -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">{31}</a></span> -darken it into black magic. There was no -future for it; because in the past it had only -been innocent because it was young. We might -say it had only been innocent because it was -shallow. Pagans were wiser than paganism; -that is why the pagans became Christians. -Thousands of them had philosophy and family -virtues and military honour to hold them up; -but by this time the purely popular thing called -religion was certainly dragging them down. -When this reaction against the evil is allowed -for, it is true to repeat that it was an evil that -was everywhere. In another and more literal -sense its name was Pan.</p> - -<p>It was no metaphor to say that these people -needed a new heaven and a new earth; for they -had really defiled their own earth and even -their own heaven. How could their case be -met by looking at the sky, when erotic legends -were scrawled in stars across it; how could they -learn anything from the love of birds and flowers -after the sort of love stories that were told of -them? It is impossible here to multiply -evidences, and one small example may stand for -the rest. We know what sort of sentimental -associations are called up to us by the phrase -"a garden"; and how we think mostly of the -memory of melancholy and innocent romances, -or quite as often of some gracious maiden lady -or kindly old parson pottering under a yew hedge, -perhaps in sight of a village spire. Then, let -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">{32}</a></span> -anyone who knows a little Latin poetry recall -suddenly what would once have stood in place -of the sun-dial or the fountain, obscene and -monstrous in the sun; and of what sort was -the god of their gardens.</p> - -<p>Nothing could purge this obsession but a -religion that was literally unearthly. It was -no good telling such people to have a natural -religion full of stars and flowers; there was not -a flower or even a star that had not been stained. -They had to go into the desert where they -could find no flowers or even into the cavern -where they could see no stars. Into that desert -and that cavern the highest human intellect -entered for some four centuries; and it was -the very wisest thing it could do. Nothing but -the stark supernatural stood up for its salvation; -if God could not save it, certainly the gods -could not. The Early Church called the gods -of paganism devils; and the Early Church was -perfectly right. Whatever natural religion may -have had to do with their beginnings, nothing -but fiends now inhabited those hollow shrines. -Pan was nothing but panic. Venus was nothing -but venereal vice. I do not mean for a moment, -of course, that all the individual pagans were -of this character even to the end; but it was as -individuals that they differed from it. Nothing -distinguishes paganism from Christianity so -clearly as the fact that the individual thing -called philosophy had little or nothing to do with -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">{33}</a></span> -the social thing called religion. Anyhow it -was no good to preach natural religion to people -to whom nature had grown as unnatural as any -religion. They knew much better than we do -what was the matter with them and what sort -of demons at once tempted and tormented them; -and they wrote across that great space of history -the text: "This sort goeth not out but by -prayer and fasting."</p> - -<p>Now the historic importance of St. Francis and -the transition from the twelfth to the thirteenth -century, lies in the fact that they marked the -end of this expiation. Men at the close of the -Dark Ages may have been rude and unlettered -and unlearned in everything but wars with -heathen tribes, more barbarous than themselves, -but they were clean. They were like children; -the first beginnings of their rude arts have all -the clean pleasure of children. We have to -conceive them in Europe as a whole living under -little local governments, feudal in so far as they -were a survival of fierce wars with the barbarians, -often monastic and carrying a more friendly -and fatherly character, still faintly imperial -in so far as Rome still ruled as a great legend. -But in Italy something had survived more typical -of the finer spirit of antiquity: the republic. -Italy was dotted with little states, largely democratic -in their ideals, and often filled with -real citizens. But the city no longer lay open -as under the Roman peace, but was pent in -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">{34}</a></span> -high walls for defence against feudal war and all -the citizens had to be soldiers. One of these -stood in a steep and striking position on the -wooded hills of Umbria; and its name was -Assisi. Out of its deep gate under its high -turrets was to come the message that was the -gospel of the hour, "Your warfare is accomplished, -your iniquity is pardoned." But it was out of -all these fragmentary things of feudalism and -freedom and remains of Roman Law that there -was to rise, at the beginning of the thirteenth -century, vast and almost universal, the mighty -civilisation of the Middle Ages.</p> - -<p>It is an exaggeration to attribute it entirely -to the inspiration of any one man, even the most -original genius of the thirteenth century. Its -elementary ethics of fraternity and fair play -had never been entirely extinct and Christendom -had never been anything less than Christian. -The great truisms about justice and pity can -be found in the rudest monastic records of the -barbaric transition or the stiffest maxims of the -Byzantine decline. And early in the eleventh -and twelfth centuries a larger moral movement -had clearly begun. But what may fairly be -said of it is this, that over all those first movements -there was still something of that ancient -austerity that came from the long penitential -period. It was the twilight of morning; but -it was still a grey twilight. This may be illustrated -by the mere mention of two or three of -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">{35}</a></span> -these reforms before the Franciscan reform. -The monastic institution itself, of course, was -far older than all these things; indeed it was -undoubtedly almost as old as Christianity. -Its counsels of perfection had always taken -the form of vows of chastity and poverty and -obedience. With these unworldly aims it had -long ago civilised a great part of the world. -The monks had taught people to plough and -sow as well as to read and write; indeed they -had taught the people nearly everything that -the people knew. But it may truly be said -that the monks were severely practical, in the -sense that they were not only practical but -also severe; though they were generally severe -with themselves and practical for other people. -All this early monastic movement had long ago -settled down and doubtless often deteriorated; -but when we come to the first medieval movements -this sterner character is still apparent. -Three examples may be taken to illustrate the -point.</p> - -<p>First, the ancient social mould of slavery -was already beginning to melt. Not only was -the slave turning into the serf, who was practically -free as regards his own farm and family life, -but many lords were freeing slaves and serfs -altogether. This was done under the pressure -of the priests; but especially it was done in the -spirit of a penance. In one sense, of course, -any Catholic society must have an atmosphere -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">{36}</a></span> -of penance; but I am speaking of that rather -sterner spirit of penance which had expiated -the excesses of paganism. There was about such -restitutions the atmosphere of the death-bed; -as many of them doubtless were examples of -death-bed repentance. A very honest atheist -with whom I once debated made use of the -expression, "Men have only been kept in slavery -by the fear of hell." As I pointed out to him, -if he had said that men had only been freed -from slavery by the fear of hell, he would at -least have been referring to an unquestionable -historical fact.</p> - -<p>Another example was the sweeping reform of -Church discipline by Pope Gregory the Seventh. -It really was a reform, undertaken from the -highest motives and having the healthiest results; -it conducted a searching inquisition against -simony or the financial corruptions of the clergy; -it insisted on a more serious and self-sacrificing -ideal for the life of a parish priest. But the -very fact that this largely took the form of -making universal the obligation of celibacy -will strike the note of something which, however -noble, would seem to many to be vaguely negative. -The third example is in one sense the strongest -of all. For the third example was a war; a -heroic war and for many of us a holy war; but -still something having all the stark and terrible -responsibilities of war. There is no space here -to say all that should be said about the true -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">{37}</a></span> -nature of the Crusades. Everybody knows that -in the very darkest hour of the Dark Ages a -sort of heresy had sprung up in Arabia and -become a new religion of a military but nomadic -sort, invoking the name of Mahomet. Intrinsically -it had a character found in many heresies -from the Moslem to the Monist. It seemed -to the heretic a sane simplification of religion; -while it seems to the Catholic an insane simplification -of religion, because it simplifies all to a -single idea and so loses the breadth and balance -of Catholicism. Anyhow its objective character -was that of a military danger to Christendom -and Christendom had struck at the very heart -of it, in seeking to reconquer the Holy Places. -The great Duke Godfrey and the first Christians -who stormed Jerusalem were heroes if there -were ever any in the world; but they were -the heroes of a tragedy.</p> - -<p>Now I have taken these two or three examples -of the earlier medieval movements in order to -note about them one general character, which -refers back to the penance that followed paganism. -There is something in all these movements -that is bracing even while it is still bleak, like -a wind blowing between the clefts of the mountains. -That wind, austere and pure, of which -the poet speaks, is really the spirit of the time, -for it is the wind of a world that has at last -been purified. To anyone who can appreciate -atmospheres there is something clear and clean -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">{38}</a></span> -about the atmosphere of this crude and often -harsh society. Its very lusts are clean; for -they have no longer any smell of perversion. -Its very cruelties are clean; they are not the -luxurious cruelties of the amphitheatre. They -come either of a very simple horror at blasphemy -or a very simple fury at insult. Gradually -against this grey background beauty begins -to appear, as something really fresh and delicate -and above all surprising. Love returning is -no longer what was once called platonic but -what is still called chivalric love. The flowers -and stars have recovered their first innocence. -Fire and water are felt to be worthy to be the -brother and sister of a saint. The purge of -paganism is complete at last.</p> - -<p>For water itself has been washed. Fire itself -has been purified as by fire. Water is no longer -that water into which slaves were flung to feed -the fishes. Fire is no longer that fire through -which children were passed to Moloch. Flowers -smell no more of the forgotten garlands gathered -in the garden of Priapus; stars stand no more -as signs of the far frigidity of gods as cold as -those cold fires. They are all like things newly -made and awaiting new names, from one who -shall come to name them. Neither the universe -nor the earth have now any longer the old sinister -significance of the world. They await a new -reconciliation with man, but they are already -capable of being reconciled. Man has stripped -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">{39}</a></span> -from his soul the last rag of nature-worship, -and can return to nature.</p> - -<p>While it was yet twilight a figure appeared -silently and suddenly on a little hill above the -city, dark against the fading darkness. For -it was the end of a long and stern night, a night -of vigil, not unvisited by stars. He stood with -his hands lifted, as in so many statues and -pictures, and about him was a burst of birds -singing; and behind him was the break of day.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">{40}</a></span> - - <h2><i>Chapter III</i><br /> - <small><i>Francis the Fighter</i></small></h2> - -</div> - -<p><span class="smc">According</span> to one tale, which if not true would -be none the less typical, the very name of St. Francis -was not so much a name as a nickname. -There would be something akin to his familiar -and popular instinct in the notion that he was -nicknamed very much as an ordinary schoolboy -might be called "Frenchy" at school. According -to this version, his name was not Francis at all -but John; and his companions called him "Francesco" -or "The little Frenchman" because of -his passion for the French poetry of the Troubadours. -The more probable story is that his -mother had named him John when he was born -in the absence of his father, who shortly returned -from a visit to France, where his commercial -success had filled him with so much enthusiasm -for French taste and social usage that he gave his -son the new name signifying the Frank or Frenchman. -In either case the name has a certain -significance, as connecting Francis from the first -with what he himself regarded as the romantic -fairyland of the Troubadours.</p> - -<p>The name of the father was Pietro Bernardone -and he was a substantial citizen of the guild -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">{41}</a></span> -of the cloth merchants in the town of Assisi. -It is hard to describe the position of such a man -without some appreciation of the position of such -a guild and even of such a town. It did not -exactly correspond to anything that is meant -in modern times either by a merchant or a man of -business or a tradesman, or anything that exists -under the conditions of capitalism. Bernardone -may have employed people but he was not an -employer; that is, he did not belong to an employing -class as distinct from an employed class. -The person we definitely hear of his employing -is his son Francis; who, one is tempted to guess, -was about the last person that any man of business -would employ if it were convenient to employ -anybody else. He was rich, as a peasant may -be rich by the work of his own family; but he -evidently expected his own family to work in a -way almost as plain as a peasant's. He was a -prominent citizen, but he belonged to a social -order which existed to prevent him being too -prominent to be a citizen. It kept all such people -on their own simple level, and no prosperity -connoted that escape from drudgery by which -in modern times the lad might have seemed -to be a lord or a fine gentleman or something -other than the cloth merchant's son. This is -a rule that is proved even in the exception. -Francis was one of those people who are popular -with everybody in any case; and his guileless -swagger as a Troubadour and leader of French -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">{42}</a></span> -fashions made him a sort of romantic ringleader -among the young men of the town. He threw -money about both in extravagance and benevolence, -in a way native to a man who never, -all his life, exactly understood what money was. -This moved his mother to mingled exultation -and exasperation and she said, as any tradesman's -wife might say anywhere: "He is more like a -prince than our son." But one of the earliest -glimpses we have of him shows him as simply -selling bales of cloth from a booth in the market; -which his mother may or may not have believed -to be one of the habits of princes. This first -glimpse of the young man in the market is symbolic -in more ways than one. An incident -occurred which is perhaps the shortest and sharpest -summary that could be given of certain curious -things which were a part of his character, long -before it was transfigured by transcendental -faith. While he was selling velvet and fine -embroideries to some solid merchant of the town, -a beggar came imploring alms; evidently in a -somewhat tactless manner. It was a rude and -simple society and there were no laws to punish -a starving man for expressing his need for food, -such as have been established in a more humanitarian -age; and the lack of any organised police -permitted such persons to pester the wealthy -without any great danger. But there was, I -believe, in many places a local custom of the guild -forbidding outsiders to interrupt a fair bargain; -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">{43}</a></span> -and it is possible that some such thing put the -mendicant more than normally in the wrong. -Francis had all his life a great liking for people -who had been put hopelessly in the wrong. On -this occasion he seems to have dealt with the -double interview with rather a divided mind; -certainly with distraction, possibly with irritation. -Perhaps he was all the more uneasy because of -the almost fastidious standard of manners that -came to him quite naturally. All are agreed -that politeness flowed from him from the first, -like one of the public fountains in such a sunny -Italian market place. He might have written -among his own poems as his own motto that verse -of Mr. Belloc's poem—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - - <div class="verse quote1">'Of Courtesy, it is much less</div> - <div class="verse">Than courage of heart or holiness,</div> - <div class="verse">Yet in my walks it seems to me</div> - <div class="verse">That the grace of God is in Courtesy.'</div> - -</div> -</div> - -<p class="nodent">Nobody ever doubted that Francis Bernardone -had courage of heart, even of the most ordinary -manly and military sort; and a time was to come -when there was quite as little doubt about the -holiness and the grace of God. But I think that -if there was one thing about which he was punctilious, -it was punctiliousness. If there was one -thing of which so humble a man could be said -to be proud, he was proud of good manners. -Only behind his perfectly natural urbanity were -wider and even wilder possibilities, of which we -get the first flash in this trivial incident. Anyhow -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">{44}</a></span> -Francis was evidently torn two ways with the -botheration of two talkers, but finished his business -with the merchant somehow; and when he had -finished it, found the beggar was gone. Francis -leapt from his booth, left all the bales of velvet -and embroidery behind him apparently unprotected, -and went racing across the market place -like an arrow from the bow. Still running, he -threaded the labyrinth of the narrow and crooked -streets of the little town, looking for his beggar, -whom he eventually discovered; and loaded -that astonished mendicant with money. Then -he straightened himself, so to speak, and swore -before God that he would never all his life refuse -help to a poor man. The sweeping simplicity -of this undertaking is extremely characteristic. -Never was any man so little afraid of his own -promises. His life was one riot of rash vows; -of rash vows that turned out right.</p> - -<p>The first biographers of Francis, naturally -alive with the great religious revolution that he -wrought, equally naturally looked back to his -first years chiefly for omens and signs of such -a spiritual earthquake. But writing at a greater -distance, we shall not decrease that dramatic -effect, but rather increase it, if we realise that -there was not at this time any external sign of -anything particularly mystical about the young -man. He had not anything of that early sense -of his vocation that has belonged to some of the -saints. Over and above his main ambition to -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">{45}</a></span> -win fame as a French poet, he would seem to -have most often thought of winning fame as a -soldier. He was born kind; he was brave in -the normal boyish fashion; but he drew the -line both in kindness and bravery pretty well -where most boys would have drawn it; for instance, -he had the human horror of leprosy of which few -normal people felt any need to be ashamed. He -had the love of gay and bright apparel which -was inherent in the heraldic taste of medieval -times and seems altogether to have been rather -a festive figure. If he did not paint the town red, -he would probably have preferred to paint it -all the colours of the rainbow, as in a medieval -picture. But in this story of the young man in -gay garments scampering after the vanishing -beggar in rags there are certain notes of his natural -individuality that must be assumed from first -to last.</p> - -<p>For instance, there is the spirit of swiftness. -In a sense he continued running for the rest of -his life, as he ran after the beggar. Because -nearly all the errands he ran on were errands of -mercy, there appeared in his portraiture a mere -element of mildness which was true in the truest -sense, but is easily misunderstood. A certain -precipitancy was the very poise of his soul. -This saint should be represented among the other -saints as angels were sometimes represented in -pictures of angels; with flying feet or even with -feathers; in the spirit of the text that makes -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">{46}</a></span> -angels winds and messengers a flaming fire. It -is a curiosity of language that courage actually -means running; and some of our sceptics will no -doubt demonstrate that courage really means -running away. But his courage was running, -in the sense of rushing. With all his gentleness, -there was originally something of impatience in -his impetuosity. The psychological truth about -it illustrates very well the modern muddle -about the word "practical." If we mean by -what is practical what is most immediately -practicable, we mean merely what is easiest. In -that sense St. Francis was very unpractical, -and his ultimate aims were very unworldly. But -if we mean by practicality a preference for prompt -effort and energy over doubt or delay, he was very -practical indeed. Some might call him a madman, -but he was the very reverse of a dreamer. Nobody -would be likely to call him a man of business; -but he was very emphatically a man of action. -In some of his early experiments he was rather -too much of a man of action; he acted too soon -and was too practical to be prudent. But at every -turn of his extraordinary career we shall find him -flinging himself round corners in the most unexpected -fashion, as when he flew through the -crooked streets after the beggar.</p> - -<p>Another element implied in the story, which -was already partially a natural instinct, before -it became a supernatural ideal, was something -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">{47}</a></span> -that had never perhaps been wholly lost in those -little republics of medieval Italy. It was something -very puzzling to some people; something -clearer as a rule to Southerners than to Northerners, -and I think to Catholics than to Protestants; -the quite natural assumption of the equality of -men. It has nothing necessarily to do with the -Franciscan love for men; on the contrary one -of its merely practical tests is the equality of the -duel. Perhaps a gentleman will never be fully -an egalitarian until he can really quarrel with -his servant. But it was an antecedent condition -of the Franciscan brotherhood; and we feel it -in this early and secular incident. Francis, I -fancy, felt a real doubt about which he must -attend to, the beggar or the merchant; and -having attended to the merchant, he turned to -attend to the beggar; he thought of them as two -men. This is a thing much more difficult to -describe, in a society from which it is absent, but -it was the original basis of the whole business; -it was why the popular movement arose in that -sort of place and that sort of man. His imaginative -magnanimity afterwards rose like a tower -to starry heights that might well seem dizzy and -even crazy; but it was founded on this high -table-land of human equality.</p> - -<p>I have taken this the first among a hundred -tales of the youth of St. Francis, and dwelt on -its significance a little, because until we have -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">{48}</a></span> -learned to look for the significance there will -often seem to be little but a sort of light sentiment -in telling the story. St. Francis is not a proper -person to be patronised with merely "pretty" -stories. There are any number of them; but -they are too often used so as to be a sort of sentimental -sediment of the medieval world, instead -of being, as the saint emphatically is, a challenge -to the modern world. We must take his real -human development somewhat more seriously; -and the next story in which we get a real glimpse -of it is in a very different setting. But in exactly -the same way it opens, as if by accident, certain -abysses of the mind and perhaps of the unconscious -mind. Francis still looks more or less -like an ordinary young man; and it is only when -we look at him as an ordinary young man, that -we realise what an extraordinary young man he -must be.</p> - -<p>War had broken out between Assisi and Perugia. -It is now fashionable to say in a satirical spirit -that such wars did not so much break out as -go on indefinitely between the city-states of -medieval Italy. It will be enough to say here -that if one of these medieval wars had really gone -on without stopping for a century, it might -possibly have come within a remote distance -of killing as many people as we kill in a year, -in one of our great modern scientific wars between -our great modern industrial empires. But the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">{49}</a></span> -citizens of the medieval republic were certainly -under the limitation of only being asked to die -for the things with which they had always lived, -the houses they inhabited, the shrines they -venerated and the rulers and representatives -they knew; and had not the larger vision calling -them to die for the latest rumours about remote -colonies as reported in anonymous newspapers. -And if we infer from our own experience that war -paralysed civilisation, we must at least admit -that these warring towns turned out a number of -paralytics who go by the names of Dante and -Michael Angelo, Ariosto and Titian, Leonardo -and Columbus, not to mention Catherine of Siena -and the subject of this story. While we lament -all this local patriotism as a hubbub of the Dark -Ages, it must seem a rather curious fact that -about three quarters of the greatest men who -ever lived came out of these little towns and were -often engaged in these little wars. It remains -to be seen what will ultimately come out of our -large towns; but there has been no sign of anything -of this sort since they became large; and -I have sometimes been haunted by a fancy of -my youth, that these things will not come till -there is a city wall round Clapham and the tocsin -is rung at night to arm the citizens of Wimbledon.</p> - -<p>Anyhow, the tocsin was rung in Assisi and the -citizens armed, and among them Francis the son -of the cloth merchant. He went out to fight -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">{50}</a></span> -with some company of lancers and in some fight -or foray or other he and his little band were taken -prisoners. To me it seems most probable that -there had been some tale of treason or cowardice -about the disaster; for we are told that there -was one of the captives with whom his fellow-prisoners -flatly refused to associate even in prison; -and when this happens in such circumstances, it -is generally because the military blame for the -surrender is thrown on some individual. Anyhow, -somebody noted a small but curious thing, -though it might seem rather negative than positive. -Francis, we are told, moved among his -captive companions with all his characteristic -courtesy and even conviviality, "liberal and -hilarious" as somebody said of him, resolved to -keep up their spirits and his own. And when -he came across the mysterious outcast, traitor -or coward or whatever he was called, he simply -treated him exactly like all the rest, neither with -coldness nor compassion, but with the same -unaffected gaiety and good fellowship. But if -there had been present in that prison someone -with a sort of second sight about the truth and -trend of spiritual things, he might have known -he was in the presence of something new and seemingly -almost anarchic; a deep tide driving -out to uncharted seas of charity. For in this -sense there was really something wanting in -Francis of Assisi, something to which he was -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">{51}</a></span> -blind that he might see better and more beautiful -things. All those limits in good fellowship and -good form, all those landmarks of social life that -divide the tolerable and the intolerable, all those -social scruples and conventional conditions that -are normal and even noble in ordinary men, all -those things that hold many decent societies -together, could never hold this man at all. He -liked as he liked; he seems to have liked everybody, -but especially those whom everybody -disliked him for liking. Something very vast -and universal was already present in that narrow -dungeon; and such a seer might have seen in -its darkness that red halo of <i>caritas caritatum</i> -which marks one saint among saints as well as -among men. He might have heard the first -whisper of that wild blessing that afterwards -took the form of a blasphemy; "He listens to -those to whom God himself will not listen."</p> - -<p>But though such a seer might have seen such -a truth, it is exceedingly doubtful if Francis -himself saw it. He had acted out of an unconscious -largeness, or in the fine medieval phrase largesse, -within himself, something that might almost -have been lawless if it had not been reaching out -to a more divine law; but it is doubtful whether -he yet knew that the law was divine. It is -evident that he had not at this time any notion -of abandoning the military, still less of adopting -the monastic life. It is true that there is not, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">{52}</a></span> -as pacifists and prigs imagine, the least inconsistency -between loving men and fighting them, if -we fight them fairly and for a good cause. But -it seems to me that there was more than this -involved; that the mind of the young man was -really running towards a military morality in -any case. About this time the first calamity -crossed his path in the form of a malady which -was to revisit him many times and hamper his -headlong career. Sickness made him more serious; -but one fancies it would only have made him -a more serious soldier, or even more serious about -soldiering. And while he was recovering, something -rather larger than the little feuds and raids -of the Italian towns opened an avenue of adventure -and ambition. The crown of Sicily, a considerable -centre of controversy at the time, was apparently -claimed by a certain Gauthier de Brienne, -and the Papal cause to aid which Gauthier was -called in aroused enthusiasm among a number -of young Assisians, including Francis, who proposed -to march into Apulia on the count's behalf; -perhaps his French name had something to do -with it. For it must never be forgotten that -though that world was in one sense a world of -little things, it was a world of little things concerned -about great things. There was more -internationalism in the lands dotted with tiny -republics than in the huge homogeneous impenetrable -national divisions of to-day. The legal -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">{53}</a></span> -authority of the Assisian magistrates might -hardly reach further than a bow-shot from their -high embattled city walls. But their sympathies -might be with the ride of the Normans through -Sicily or the palace of the Troubadours at Toulouse; -with the Emperor throned in the German forests or -the great Pope dying in the exile of Salerno. Above -all, it must be remembered that when the interests -of an age are mainly religious they must be universal. -Nothing can be more universal than the -universe. And there are several things about -the religious position at that particular moment -which modern people not unnaturally fail to -realise. For one thing, modern people naturally -think of people so remote as ancient people, and -even early people. We feel vaguely that these -things happened in the first ages of the Church. -The Church was already a good deal more than -a thousand years old. That is, the Church was -then rather older than France is now, a great -deal older than England is now. And she looked -old then; almost as old as she does now; possibly -older than she does now. The Church looked -like great Charlemagne with the long white -beard, who had already fought a hundred wars -with the heathen, and in the legend was bidden -by an angel to go forth and fight once more though -he was two hundred years old. The Church had -topped her thousand years and turned the corner -of the second thousand; she had come through -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">{54}</a></span> -the Dark Ages in which nothing could be done -except desperate fighting against the barbarians -and the stubborn repetition of the creed. The -creed was still being repeated after the victory -or escape; but it is not unnatural to suppose -that there was something a little monotonous -about the repetition. The Church looked old -then as now; and there were some who thought -her dying then as now. In truth orthodoxy -was not dead but it may have been dull; it is -certain that some people began to think it dull. -The Troubadours of the Provençal movement -had already begun to take that turn or twist -towards Oriental fancies and the paradox of -pessimism, which always come to Europeans as -something fresh when their own sanity seems to -be something stale. It is likely enough that after -all those centuries of hopeless war without and -ruthless asceticism within, the official orthodoxy -seemed to be something stale. The freshness -and freedom of the first Christians seemed then -as much as now a lost and almost prehistoric age -of gold. Rome was still more rational than -anything else; the Church was really wiser but -it may well have seemed wearier than the world. -There was something more adventurous and -alluring, perhaps, about the mad metaphysics -that had been blown across out of Asia. Dreams -were gathering like dark clouds over the Midi -to break in a thunder of anathema and civil war. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">{55}</a></span> -Only the light lay on the great plain round Rome; -but the light was blank and the plain was flat; -and there was no stir in the still air and the immemorial -silence about the sacred town.</p> - -<p>High in the dark house of Assisi Francesco -Bernardone slept and dreamed of arms. There -came to him in the darkness a vision splendid -with swords, patterned after the cross in the -Crusading fashion, of spears and shields and helmets -hung in a high armoury, all bearing the sacred -sign. When he awoke he accepted the dream -as a trumpet bidding him to the battlefield, and -rushed out to take horse and arms. He delighted -in all the exercises of chivalry; and was evidently -an accomplished cavalier and fighting man by -the tests of the tournament and the camp. He -would doubtless at any time have preferred a -Christian sort of chivalry; but it seems clear -that he was also in a mood which thirsted for -glory, though in him that glory would always -have been identical with honour. He was not -without some vision of that wreath of laurel -which Cæsar has left for all the Latins. As he -rode out to war the great gate in the deep wall -of Assisi resounded with his last boast, "I shall -come back a great prince."</p> - -<p>A little way along his road his sickness rose -again and threw him. It seems highly probable, -in the light of his impetuous temper, that he had -ridden away long before he was fit to move. And -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">{56}</a></span> -in the darkness of this second and far more -desolating interruption, he seems to have had -another dream in which a voice said to him, -"You have mistaken the meaning of the vision. -Return to your own town." And Francis trailed -back in his sickness to Assisi, a very dismal and -disappointed and perhaps even derided figure, -with nothing to do but to wait for what should -happen next. It was his first descent into a dark -ravine that is called the valley of humiliation, -which seemed to him very rocky and desolate, -but in which he was afterwards to find many -flowers.</p> - -<p>But he was not only disappointed and humiliated; -he was also very much puzzled and bewildered. -He still firmly believed that his two dreams -must have meant something; and he could not -imagine what they could possibly mean. It was -while he was drifting, one may even say mooning, -about the streets of Assisi and the fields outside -the city wall, that an incident occurred to him -which has not always been immediately connected -with the business of the dreams, but which seems -to me the obvious culmination of them. He -was riding listlessly in some wayside place, apparently -in the open country, when he saw a figure -coming along the road towards him and halted; -for he saw it was a leper. And he knew instantly -that his courage was challenged, not as the world -challenges, but as one would challenge who knew -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">{57}</a></span> -the secrets of the heart of a man. What he saw -advancing was not the banner and spears of -Perugia, from which it never occurred to him -to shrink; not the armies that fought for the -crown of Sicily, of which he had always thought -as a courageous man thinks of mere vulgar -danger. Francis Bernardone saw his fear coming -up the road towards him; the fear that comes from -within and not without; though it stood white -and horrible in the sunlight. For once in the -long rush of his life his soul must have stood still. -Then he sprang from his horse, knowing nothing -between stillness and swiftness, and rushed on -the leper and threw his arms round him. It was -the beginning of a long vocation of ministry among -many lepers, for whom he did many services; -to this man he gave what money he could and -mounted and rode on. We do not know how far -he rode, or with what sense of the things around -him; but it is said that when he looked back, -he could see no figure on the road.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">{58}</a></span> - - <h2><i>Chapter IV</i><br /> - <small><i>Francis the Builder</i></small></h2> - -</div> - -<p><span class="smc">We</span> have now reached the great break in the -life of Francis of Assisi; the point at which -something happened to him that must remain -greatly dark to most of us, who are ordinary -and selfish men whom God has not broken to -make anew.</p> - -<p>In dealing with this difficult passage, especially -for my own purpose of making things moderately -easy for the more secular sympathiser, I have -hesitated as to the proper course; and have -eventually decided to state first of all what -happened, with little more than a hint of what -I imagine to have been the meaning of what -happened. The fuller meaning may be debated -more easily afterwards, when it was unfolded -in the full Franciscan life. Anyhow what -happened was this. The story very largely -revolves round the ruins of the Church of St. Damian, -an old shrine in Assisi which was apparently -neglected and falling to pieces. Here -Francis was in the habit of praying before the -crucifix during these dark and aimless days of -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">{59}</a></span> -transition that followed the tragical collapse -of all his military ambitions, probably made -bitter by some loss of social prestige terrible -to his sensitive spirit. As he did so he heard -a voice saying to him, "Francis, seest thou not -that my house is in ruins? Go and restore it -for me."</p> - -<p>Francis sprang up and went. To go and do -something was one of the driving demands of -his nature; probably he had gone and done it -before he had at all thoroughly thought out -what he had done. In any case what he had -done was something very decisive and immediately -very disastrous for his singular social career. -In the coarse conventional language of the -uncomprehending world, he stole. From his -own enthusiastic point of view, he extended to -his venerable father Peter Bernardone the exquisite -excitement and inestimable privilege of assisting, -more or less unconsciously, in the rebuilding -of St. Damian's Church. In point of fact what -he did was first to sell his own horse and then -to go off and sell several bales of his father's -cloth, making the sign of the cross over them -to indicate their pious and charitable destination. -Peter Bernardone did not see things in this light. -Peter Bernardone indeed had not very much -light to see by, so far as understanding the -genius and temperament of his extraordinary -son was concerned. Instead of understanding -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">{60}</a></span> -in what sort of a wind and flame of abstract -appetites the lad was living, instead of simply -telling him (as the priest practically did later) -that he had done an indefensible thing with the -best intentions, old Bernardone took up the -matter in the hardest style; in a legal and -literal fashion. He used absolute political powers -like a heathen father, and himself put his son under -lock and key as a vulgar thief. It would appear -that the cry was caught up among many with -whom the unlucky Francis had once been popular; -and altogether, in his efforts to build up the -house of God he had only succeeded in bringing -his own house about his ears and lying buried -under the ruins. The quarrel dragged drearily -through several stages; at one time the wretched -young man seems to have disappeared underground, -so to speak, into some cavern or cellar -where he remained huddled hopelessly in the -darkness. Anyhow, it was his blackest moment; -the whole world had turned over; the whole -world was on top of him.</p> - -<p>When he came out, it was only perhaps -gradually that anybody grasped that something -had happened. He and his father were summoned -in the court of the bishop; for Francis -had refused the authority of all legal tribunals. -The bishop addressed some remarks to him, -full of that excellent common sense which the -Catholic Church keeps permanently as the background -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">{61}</a></span> -for all the fiery attitudes of her saints. -He told Francis that he must unquestionably -restore the money to his father; that no blessing -could follow a good work done by unjust methods; -and in short (to put it crudely) if the young -fanatic would give back his money to the old -fool, the incident would then terminate. There -was a new air about Francis. He was no longer -crushed, still less crawling, so far as his father -was concerned; yet his words do not, I think, -indicate either just indignation or wanton insult -or anything in the nature of a mere continuation -of the quarrel. They are rather remotely akin -to mysterious utterances of his great model, -"What have I to do with thee?" or even the -terrible "Touch me not."</p> - -<p>He stood up before them all and said, "Up -to this time I have called Pietro Bernardone -father, but now I am the servant of God. Not -only the money but everything that can be -called his I will restore to my father, even the -very clothes he has given me." And he rent -off all his garments except one; and they saw -that that was a hair-shirt.</p> - -<p>He piled the garments in a heap on the floor -and tossed the money on top of them. Then -he turned to the bishop, and received his blessing, -like one who turns his back on society; and, -according to the account, went out as he was -into the cold world. Apparently it was literally -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">{62}</a></span> -a cold world at the moment, and snow was on -the ground. A curious detail, very deep in its -significance, I fancy, is given in the same account -of this great crisis in his life. He went out -half-naked in his hair-shirt into the winter -woods, walking the frozen ground between the -frosty trees; a man without a father. He was -penniless, he was parentless, he was to all appearance -without a trade or a plan or a hope in the -world; and as he went under the frosty trees, -he burst suddenly into song.</p> - -<p>It was apparently noted as remarkable that -the language in which he sang was French, -or that Provençal which was called for convenience -French. It was not his native language; -and it was in his native language that he -ultimately won fame as a poet; indeed St. Francis -is one of the very first of the national -poets in the purely national dialects of Europe. -But it was the language with which all his most -boyish ardours and ambitions had been identified; -it was for him pre-eminently the language -of romance. That it broke from him in this -extraordinary extremity seems to me something -at first sight very strange and in the last analysis -very significant. What that significance was, -or may well have been, I will try to suggest in -the subsequent chapter; it is enough to indicate -here that the whole philosophy of St. Francis -revolved round the idea of a new supernatural -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">{63}</a></span> -light on natural things, which meant the ultimate -recovery not the ultimate refusal of natural -things. And for the purpose of this purely -narrative part of the business, it is enough to -record that while he wandered in the winter -forest in his hair-shirt, like the very wildest -of the hermits, he sang in the tongue of the -Troubadours.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile the narrative naturally reverts to -the problem of the ruined or at least neglected -church, which had been the starting point of -the saint's innocent crime and beatific punishment. -That problem still predominated in his -mind and was soon engaging his insatiable -activities; but they were activities of a new -sort; and he made no more attempts to interfere -with the commercial ethics of the town of -Assisi. There had dawned on him one of those -great paradoxes that are also platitudes. He -realised that the way to build a church is not to -become entangled in bargains and, to him, rather -bewildering questions of legal claim. The way -to build a church is not to pay for it, certainly -not with somebody else's money. The way to -build a church is not even to pay for it with your -own money. The way to build a church is to -build it.</p> - -<p>He went about by himself collecting stones. -He begged all the people he met to give him -stones. In fact he became a new sort of beggar, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">{64}</a></span> -reversing the parable; a beggar who asks not -for bread but a stone. Probably, as happened -to him again and again throughout his extraordinary -existence, the very queerness of the -request gave it a sort of popularity; and all -sorts of idle and luxurious people fell in with -the benevolent project, as they would have -done with a bet. He worked with his own -hands at the rebuilding of the church, dragging -the material like a beast of burden and learning -the very last and lowest lessons of toil. A -vast number of stories are told about Francis -at this as at every other period of his life; but -for the purpose here, which is one of simplification, -it is best to dwell on this definite re-entrance -of the saint into the world by the low -gate of manual labour. There does indeed run -through the whole of his life a sort of double -meaning, like his shadow thrown upon the wall. -All his action had something of the character -of an allegory; and it is likely enough that some -leaden-witted scientific historian may some day -try to prove that he himself was never anything -but an allegory. It is true enough in this sense -that he was labouring at a double task, and -rebuilding something else as well as the church -of St. Damian. He was not only discovering -the general lesson that his glory was not to be -in overthrowing men in battle but in building -up the positive and creative monuments of -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">{65}</a></span> -peace. He was truly building up something -else, or beginning to build it up; something -that has often enough fallen into ruin but has -never been past rebuilding; a church that could -always be built anew though it had rotted away -to its first foundation-stone, against which the -gates of hell shall not prevail.</p> - -<p>The next stage in his progress is probably -marked by his transferring the same energies -of architectural reconstruction to the little -church of St. Mary of the Angels at the Portiuncula. -He had already done something of the same -kind at a church dedicated to St. Peter; and -that quality in his life noted above, which made -it seem like a symbolical drama, led many of -his most devout biographers to note the numerical -symbolism of the three churches. There was at -any rate a more historical and practical symbolism -about two of them. For the original church -of St. Damian afterwards became the seat of -his striking experiment of a female order, and -of the pure and spiritual romance of St. Clare. -And the church of the Portiuncula will remain -for ever as one of the great historic buildings -of the world; for it was there that he gathered -the little knot of friends and enthusiasts; it -was the home of many homeless men. At this -time, however, it is not clear that he had the -definite idea of any such monastic developments. -How early the plan appeared in his own mind -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">{66}</a></span> -it is of course impossible to say; but on the face -of events it first takes the form of a few friends -who attached themselves to him one by one -because they shared his own passion for simplicity. -The account given of the form of their dedication -is, however, very significant; for it was that of an -invocation of the simplification of life as suggested -in the New Testament. The adoration of Christ -had been a part of the man's passionate nature -for a long time past. But the imitation of -Christ, as a sort of plan or ordered scheme of -life, may in that sense be said to begin here.</p> - -<p>The two men who have the credit, apparently, -of having first perceived something of what -was happening in the world of the soul were a -solid and wealthy citizen named Bernard of -Quintavalle and a canon from a neighbouring -church named Peter. It is the more to their -credit because Francis, if one may put it -so, was by this time wallowing in poverty -and association with lepers and ragged mendicants; -and these two were men with much -to give up; the one of comforts in the world -and the other of ambition in the Church. Bernard -the rich burgher did quite literally and finally -sell all he had and give to the poor. Peter did -even more; for he descended from a chair of -spiritual authority, probably when he was already -a man of mature years and therefore of fixed -mental habits, to follow an extravagant young -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">{67}</a></span> -eccentric whom most people probably regarded -as a maniac. What it was of which they had -caught a glimpse, of which Francis had seen -the glory, may be suggested later so far as it -can be suggested at all. At this stage we need -profess to see no more than all Assisi saw, and -that something not altogether unworthy of -comment. The citizens of Assisi only saw the -camel go in triumph through the eye of the -needle and God doing impossible things because -to him all things were possible; only a priest -who rent his robes like the Publican and not -like the Pharisee and a rich man who went -away joyful, for he had no possessions.</p> - -<p>These three strange figures are said to have -built themselves a sort of hut or den adjoining -the leper hospital. There they talked to each -other, in the intervals of drudgery and danger -(for it needed ten times more courage to look -after a leper than to fight for the crown of Sicily), -in the terms of their new life, almost like children -talking a secret language. Of these individual -elements on their first friendship we can say -little with certainty; but it is certain that -they remained friends to the end. Bernard of -Quintavalle occupies in the story something of -the position of Sir Bedivere, "first made and -latest left of Arthur's knights," for he reappears -again at the right hand of the saint on his death-bed -and receives some sort of special blessing. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">{68}</a></span> -But all those things belong to another historical -world and were quite remote from the ragged -and fantastic trio in their tumble-down hut. -They were not monks except perhaps in the -most literal and archaic sense which was identical -with hermits. They were, so to speak, -three solitaries living together socially, but not -as a society. The whole thing seems to have -been intensely individual, as seen from the -outside doubtless individual to the point of -insanity. The stir of something that had in -it the promise of a movement or a mission can -first be felt as I have said in the affair of the -appeal to the New Testament.</p> - -<p>It was a sort of <i>sors virgiliana</i> applied to the -Bible; a practice not unknown among Protestants -though open to their criticism, one would -think, as being rather a superstition of pagans. -Anyhow it seems almost the opposite of searching -the Scriptures to open them at random; but -St. Francis certainly opened them at random. -According to one story, he merely made the -sign of the cross over the volume of the Gospel and -opened it at three places reading three texts. -The first was the tale of the rich young man whose -refusal to sell all his goods was the occasion of -the great paradox about the camel and the -needle. The second was the commandment to -the disciples to take nothing with them on their -journey, neither scrip nor staff nor any money. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">{69}</a></span> -The third was that saying, literally to be called -crucial, that the follower of Christ must also -carry his cross. There is a somewhat similar -story of Francis finding one of these texts, almost -as accidentally, merely in listening to what -happened to be the Gospel of the day. But -from the former version at least it would seem -that the incident occurred very early indeed in -his new life, perhaps soon after his breach with -his father; for it was after this oracle, apparently, -that Bernard the first disciple rushed forth and -scattered all his goods among the poor. If -this be so, it would seem that nothing followed -it for the moment except the individual ascetical -life with the hut for a hermitage. It must of -course have been a rather public sort of hermitage, -but it was none the less in a very real sense -withdrawn from the world. St. Simeon Stylites -on the top of his pillar was in one sense an exceedingly -public character; but there was something -a little singular in his situation for all -that. It may be presumed that most people -thought the situation of Francis singular, that -some even thought it too singular. There was -inevitably indeed in any Catholic society something -ultimate and even subconscious that was -at least capable of comprehending it better -than a pagan or puritan society could comprehend -it. But we must not at this stage, I think, -exaggerate this potential public sympathy. As -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">{70}</a></span> -has already been suggested, the Church and all -its institutions had already the air of being old -and settled and sensible things, the monastic -institutions among the rest. Common sense -was commoner in the Middle Ages, I think, than -in our own rather jumpy journalistic age; but -men like Francis are not common in any age, -nor are they to be fully understood merely by -the exercise of common sense. The thirteenth -century was certainly a progressive period; -perhaps the only really progressive period in -human history. But it can truly be called -progressive precisely because its progress was -very orderly. It is really and truly an example -of an epoch of reforms without revolutions. -But the reforms were not only progressive but -very practical; and they were very much to -the advantage of highly practical institutions; -the towns and the trading guilds and the manual -crafts. Now the solid men of town and guild -in the time of Francis of Assisi were probably -very solid indeed. They were much more economically -equal, they were much more justly -governed in their own economic environment, -than the moderns who struggle madly between -starvation and the monopolist prizes of capitalism; -but it is likely enough that the majority -of such citizens were as hard-headed as peasants. -Certainly the behaviour of the venerable Peter -Bernardone does not indicate a delicate sympathy -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">{71}</a></span> -with the fine and almost fanciful subtleties of -the Franciscan spirit. And we cannot measure -the beauty and originality of this strange spiritual -adventure, unless we have the humour and -human sympathy to put into plain words how -it would have looked to such an unsympathetic -person at the time when it happened. In the -next chapter I shall make an attempt, inevitably -inadequate, to indicate the inside of this -story of the building of the three churches and -the little hut. In this chapter I have but outlined -it from the outside. And in concluding -that chapter I ask the reader to remember and -realise what that story really looked like, when -thus seen from the outside. Given a critic -of rather coarse common sense, with no feeling -about the incident except annoyance, and how -would the story seem to stand?</p> - -<p>A young fool or rascal is caught robbing his -father and selling goods which he ought to -guard; and the only explanation he will offer -is that a loud voice from nowhere spoke in his -ear and told him to mend the cracks and holes -in a particular wall. He then declares himself -naturally independent of all powers corresponding -to the police or the magistrates, and takes refuge -with an amiable bishop who is forced to remonstrate -with him and tell him he is wrong. He -then proceeds to take off his clothes in public -and practically throw them at his father; -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">{72}</a></span> -announcing at the same time that his father is -not his father at all. He then runs about the -town asking everybody he meets to give him -fragments of buildings or building materials, -apparently with reference to his old monomania -about mending the wall. It may be an excellent -thing that cracks should be filled up, but preferably -not by somebody who is himself cracked; -and architectural restoration like other things -is not best performed by builders who, as -we should say, have a tile loose. Finally the -wretched youth relapses into rags and squalor and -practically crawls away into the gutter. That is -the spectacle that Francis must have presented to -a very large number of his neighbours and friends.</p> - -<p>How he lived at all must have seemed to them -dubious; but presumably he already begged for -bread as he had begged for building materials. -But he was always very careful to beg for the -blackest or worst bread he could get, for the -stalest crusts or something rather less luxurious -than the crumbs which the dogs eat, and which -fall from the rich man's table. Thus he probably -fared worse than an ordinary beggar; for the -beggar would eat the best he could get and the -saint ate the worst he could get. In plain fact -he was ready to live on refuse; and it was probably -something much uglier as an experience than the -refined simplicity which vegetarians and water-drinkers -would call the simple life. As he dealt -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">{73}</a></span> -with the question of food, so he apparently -dealt with the question of clothing. He dealt -with it, that is, upon the same principle of taking -what he could get, and not even the best of what -he could get. According to one story he changed -clothes with a beggar; and he would doubtless -have been content to change them with a scarecrow. -In another version he got hold of the -rough brown tunic of a peasant, but presumably -only because the peasant gave him his very -oldest brown tunic, which was probably very -old indeed. Most peasants have few changes of -clothing to give away; and some peasants are -not specially inclined to give them away until it -is absolutely necessary. It is said that in place -of the girdle which he had flung off (perhaps with -the more symbolic scorn because it probably -carried the purse or wallet by the fashion of the -period) he picked up a rope more or less at random, -because it was lying near, and tied it round his -waist. He undoubtedly meant it as a shabby -expedient; rather as the very destitute tramp -will sometimes tie his clothes together with a -piece of string. He meant to strike the note -of collecting his clothes anyhow, like rags from -a succession of dust-bins. Ten years later that -make-shift costume was the uniform of five -thousand men; and a hundred years later, in -that, for a pontifical panoply, they laid great -Dante in the grave.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">{74}</a></span> - - <h2><i>Chapter V</i><br /> - <small><i>Le Jongleur de Dieu</i></small></h2> - -</div> - -<p><span class="smc">Many</span> signs and symbols might be used to -give a hint of what really happened in the mind -of the young poet of Assisi. Indeed they are at -once too numerous for selection and yet too -slight for satisfaction. But one of them may be -adumbrated in this small and apparently accidental -fact: that when he and his secular companions -carried their pageant of poetry through -the town, they called themselves Troubadours. -But when he and his spiritual companions came -out to do their spiritual work in the world, they -were called by their leader the Jongleurs de -Dieu.</p> - -<p>Nothing has been said here at any length of -the great culture of the Troubadours as it appeared -in Provence or Languedoc, great as was their influence -in history and their influence on St. Francis. -Something more may be said of them when we -come to summarise his relation to history; it is -enough to note here in a few sentences the facts -about them that were relevant to him, and -especially the particular point now in question, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">{75}</a></span> -which was the most relevant of all. Everybody -knows who the Troubadours were; everybody -knows that very early in the Middle Ages, in the -twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, there arose -a civilisation in Southern France which threatened -to rival or eclipse the rising tradition of -Paris. Its chief product was a school of poetry, -or rather more especially a school of poets. They -were primarily love-poets, though they were often -also satirists and critics of things in general. -Their picturesque posture in history is largely -due to the fact that they sang their own poems -and often played their own accompaniments, on -the light musical instruments of the period; they -were minstrels as well as men of letters. Allied -to their love-poetry were other institutions of a -decorative and fanciful kind concerned with the -same theme. There was what was called the -"Gay Science," the attempt to reduce to a sort of -system the fine shades of flirtation and philandering. -There were the things called Courts of -Love, in which the same delicate subjects were -dealt with with legal pomp and pedantry. There -is one point in this part of the business that must -be remembered in relation to St. Francis. There -were manifest moral dangers in all this superb -sentimentalism; but it is a mistake to suppose -that its only danger of exaggeration was in the -direction of sensualism. There was a strain in -the southern romance that was actually an excess -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">{76}</a></span> -of spirituality; just as the pessimist heresy it -produced was in one sense an excess of spirituality. -The love was not always animal; sometimes it -was so airy as to be almost allegorical. The -reader realises that the lady is the most beautiful -being that can possibly exist, only he has occasional -doubts as to whether she does exist. Dante owed -something to the Troubadours; and the critical -debates about his ideal woman are an excellent -example of these doubts. We know that Beatrice -was not his wife, but we should in any case be -equally sure that she was not his mistress; and -some critics have even suggested that she was -nothing at all, so to speak, except his muse. This -idea of Beatrice as an allegorical figure is, I -believe, unsound; it would seem unsound to any -man who has read the <i>Vita Nuova</i> and has been in -love. But the very fact that it is possible to suggest -it illustrates something abstract and scholastic -in these medieval passions. But though they were -abstract passions they were very passionate -passions. These men could feel almost like lovers, -even about allegories and abstractions. It is -necessary to remember this in order to realise -that St. Francis was talking the true language of -a troubadour when he said that he also had a -most glorious and gracious lady and that her -name was Poverty.</p> - -<p>But the particular point to be noted here is -not concerned so much with the word Troubadour -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">{77}</a></span> -as with the word Jongleur. It is especially concerned -with the transition from one to the other; -and for this it is necessary to grasp another detail -about the poets of the Gay Science. A jongleur -was not the same thing as a troubadour, even if -the same man were both a troubadour and a -jongleur. More often, I believe, they were separate -men as well as separate trades. In many cases -apparently the two men would walk the world -together like companions in arms, or rather -companions in arts. The jongleur was properly -a joculator or jester; sometimes he was what we -should call a juggler. This is the point, I imagine, -of the tale about Taillefer the Jongleur at the -battle of Hastings, who sang of the death of Roland -while he tossed up his sword and caught it, as a -juggler catches balls. Sometimes he may have -been even a tumbler; like that acrobat in the -beautiful legend who was called "The Tumbler of -Our Lady," because he turned head over heels and -stood on his head before the image of the Blessed -Virgin, for which he was nobly thanked and -comforted by her and the whole company of -heaven. In the ordinary way, we may imagine, -the troubadour would exalt the company with -earnest and solemn strains of love and then the -jongleur would do his turn as a sort of comic -relief. A glorious medieval romance remains to -be written about two such companions wandering -through the world. At any rate, if there is one -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">{78}</a></span> -place in which the true Franciscan spirit can be -found outside the true Franciscan story, it is in -that tale of the Tumbler of Our Lady. And when -St. Francis called his followers the Jongleurs de -Dieu, he meant something very like the Tumblers -of Our Lord.</p> - -<p>Somewhere in that transition from the ambition -of the Troubadour to the antics of the Tumbler is -hidden, as under a parable, the truth of St. Francis. -Of the two minstrels or entertainers, the jester -was presumably the servant or at least the secondary -figure. St. Francis really meant what he -said when he said he had found the secret of life -in being the servant and the secondary figure. -There was to be found ultimately in such service -a freedom almost amounting to frivolity. It was -comparable to the condition of the jongleur -because it almost amounted to frivolity. The -jester could be free when the knight was rigid; -and it was possible to be a jester in the service -which is perfect freedom. This parallel of the two -poets or minstrels is perhaps the best preliminary -and external statement of the Franciscan change -of heart, being conceived under an image with -which the imagination of the modern world has a -certain sympathy. There was, of course, a great -deal more than this involved; and we must endeavour -however insufficiently to penetrate past the -image to the idea. It is so far like the tumblers -that it is really to many people a topsy-turvy idea.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">{79}</a></span> -Francis, at the time or somewhere about the -time when he disappeared into the prison or the -dark cavern, underwent a reversal of a certain -psychological kind; which was really like the -reversal of a complete somersault, in that by -coming full circle it came back, or apparently -came back, to the same normal posture. It is -necessary to use the grotesque simile of an -acrobatic antic, because there is hardly any other -figure that will make the fact clear. But in the -inward sense it was a profound spiritual revolution. -The man who went into the cave was not -the man who came out again; in that sense he -was almost as different as if he were dead, as if -he were a ghost or a blessed spirit. And the -effects of this on his attitude towards the actual -world were really as extravagant as any parallel -can make them. He looked at the world as -differently from other men as if he had come out -of that dark hole walking on his hands.</p> - -<p>If we apply this parable of Our Lady's Tumbler -to the case, we shall come very near to the point -of it. Now it really is a fact that any scene such -as a landscape can sometimes be more clearly -and freshly seen if it is seen upside down. There -have been landscape-painters who adopted the -most startling and pantomimic postures in order -to look at it for a moment in that fashion. Thus -that inverted vision, so much more bright and -quaint and arresting, does bear a certain resemblance -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">{80}</a></span> -to the world which a mystic like St. Francis -sees every day. But herein is the essential part -of the parable. Our Lady's Tumbler did not -stand on his head <i>in order</i> to see flowers and trees -as a clearer or quainter vision. He did not do so; -and it would never have occurred to him to do so. -Our Lady's Tumbler stood on his head to please -Our Lady. If St. Francis had done the same -thing, as he was quite capable of doing, it would -originally have been from the same motive; a -motive of a purely supernatural thought. It -would be <i>after</i> this that his enthusiasm would -extend itself and give a sort of halo to the edges -of all earthly things. This is why it is not true -to represent St. Francis as a mere romantic forerunner -of the Renaissance and a revival of natural -pleasures for their own sake. The whole point -of him was that the secret of recovering the natural -pleasures lay in regarding them in the light of -a supernatural pleasure. In other words, he -repeated in his own person that historic process -noted in the introductory chapter; the vigil of -asceticism which ends in the vision of a natural -world made new. But in the personal case there -was even more than this; there were elements -that make the parallel of the Jongleur or Tumbler -even more appropriate than this.</p> - -<p>It may be suspected that in that black cell or -cave Francis passed the blackest hours of his life. -By nature he was the sort of man who has that -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">{81}</a></span> -vanity which is the opposite of pride; that vanity -which is very near to humility. He never -despised his fellow creatures and therefore he -never despised the opinion of his fellow creatures; -including the admiration of his fellow creatures. -All that part of his human nature had suffered the -heaviest and most crushing blows. It is possible -that after his humiliating return from his frustrated -military campaign he was called a coward. It is -certain that after his quarrel with his father about -the bales of cloth he was called a thief. And even -those who had sympathised most with him, the -priest whose church he had restored, the bishop -whose blessing he had received, had evidently -treated him with an almost humorous amiability -which left only too clear the ultimate conclusion -of the matter. He had made a fool of himself. -Any man who has been young, who has ridden -horses or thought himself ready for a fight, who -has fancied himself as a troubadour and accepted -the conventions of comradeship, will appreciate -the ponderous and crushing weight of that simple -phrase. The conversion of St. Francis, like the -conversion of St. Paul, involved his being in -some sense flung suddenly from a horse; but in a -sense it was an even worse fall; for it was a war-horse. -Anyhow, there was not a rag of him left -that was not ridiculous. Everybody knew that -at the best he had made a fool of himself. It was -a solid objective fact, like the stones in the road, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">{82}</a></span> -that he had made a fool of himself. He saw himself -as an object, very small and distinct like a fly -walking on a clear window pane; and it was unmistakably -a fool. And as he stared at the word -"fool" written in luminous letters before him, -the word itself began to shine and change.</p> - -<p>We used to be told in the nursery that if a man -were to bore a hole through the centre of the earth -and climb continually down and down, there -would come a moment at the centre when he -would seem to be climbing up and up. I do not -know whether this is true. The reason I do not -know whether it is true is that I never happened to -bore a hole through the centre of the earth, still -less to crawl through it. If I do not know what -this reversal or inversion feels like, it is because -I have never been there. And this also is an -allegory. It is certain that the writer, it is even -possible that the reader, is an ordinary person -who has never been there. We cannot follow -St. Francis to that final spiritual overturn in -which complete humiliation becomes complete -holiness or happiness, because we have never been -there. I for one do not profess to follow it any -further than that first breaking down of the -romantic barricades of boyish vanity, which I have -suggested in the last paragraph. And even that -paragraph, of course, is merely conjectural, an -individual guess at what he may have felt; but -he may have felt something quite different. But -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">{83}</a></span> -whatever else it was, it was so far analogous to -the story of the man making a tunnel through the -earth that it did mean a man going down and -down until at some mysterious moment he begins -to go up and up. We have never gone up like -that because we have never gone down like that; -we are obviously incapable of saying that it does -not happen; and the more candidly and calmly -we read human history, and especially the history -of the wisest men, the more we shall come to the -conclusion that it does happen. Of the intrinsic -internal essence of the experience I make no -pretence of writing at all. But the external effect -of it, for the purpose of this narrative, may be -expressed by saying that when Francis came forth -from his cave of vision, he was wearing the same -word "fool" as a feather in his cap; as a crest -or even a crown. He would go on being a fool; -he would become more and more of a fool; he -would be the court fool of the King of Paradise.</p> - -<p>This state can only be represented in symbol; -but the symbol of inversion is true in another way. -If a man saw the world upside down, with all the -trees and towers hanging head downwards as in -a pool, one effect would be to emphasise the idea -of <i>dependence</i>. There is a Latin and literal connection; -for the very word dependence only means -hanging. It would make vivid the Scriptural -text which says that God has hanged the world -upon nothing. If St. Francis had seen, in one of -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">{84}</a></span> -his strange dreams, the town of Assisi upside down, -it need not have differed in a single detail from -itself except in being entirely the other way round. -But the point is this: that whereas to the normal -eye the large masonry of its walls or the massive -foundations of its watchtowers and its high citadel -would make it seem safer and more permanent, -the moment it was turned over the very same -weight would make it seem more helpless and -more in peril. It is but a symbol; but it happens -to fit the psychological fact. St. Francis might -love his little town as much as before, or more -than before; but the nature of the love would be -altered even in being increased. He might see -and love every tile on the steep roofs or every -bird on the battlements; but he would see them -all in a new and divine light of eternal danger and -dependence. Instead of being merely proud of -his strong city because it could not be moved, he -would be thankful to God Almighty that it had -not been dropped; he would be thankful to God -for not dropping the whole cosmos like a vast -crystal to be shattered into falling stars. Perhaps -St. Peter saw the world so, when he was crucified -head-downwards.</p> - -<p>It is commonly in a somewhat cynical sense that -men have said, "Blessed is he that expecteth -nothing, for he shall not be disappointed." It -was in a wholly happy and enthusiastic sense that -St. Francis said, "Blessed is he who expecteth -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">{85}</a></span> -nothing, for he shall enjoy everything." It was -by this deliberate idea of starting from zero, from -the dark nothingness of his own deserts, that he -did come to enjoy even earthly things as few -people have enjoyed them; and they are in themselves -the best working example of the idea. For -there is no way in which a man can earn a star or -deserve a sunset. But there is more than this -involved, and more indeed than is easily to be -expressed in words. It is not only true that the -less a man thinks of himself, the more he thinks -of his good luck and of all the gifts of God. It is -also true that he sees more of the things themselves -when he sees more of their origin; for their origin -is a part of them and indeed the most important -part of them. Thus they become more extraordinary -by being explained. He has more wonder -at them but less fear of them; for a thing is -really wonderful when it is significant and not -when it is insignificant; and a monster, shapeless -or dumb or merely destructive, may be larger -than the mountains, but is still in a literal sense -insignificant. For a mystic like St. Francis the -monsters had a meaning; that is, they had -delivered their message. They spoke no longer -in an unknown tongue. That is the meaning -of all those stories, whether legendary or historical, -in which he appears as a magician -speaking the language of beasts and birds. -The mystic will have nothing to do with mere -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">{86}</a></span> -mystery; mere mystery is generally a mystery -of iniquity.</p> - -<p>The transition from the good man to the saint -is a sort of revolution; by which one for whom all -things illustrate and illuminate God becomes one -for whom God illustrates and illuminates all -things. It is rather like the reversal whereby a -lover might say at first sight that a lady looked -like a flower, and say afterwards that all flowers -reminded him of his lady. A saint and a poet -standing by the same flower might seem to say -the same thing; but indeed though they would -both be telling the truth, they would be telling -different truths. For one the joy of life is a cause -of faith, for the other rather a result of faith. -But one effect of the difference is that the sense -of a divine dependence, which for the artist is -like the brilliant levin-blaze, for the saint is like -the broad daylight. Being in some mystical -sense on the other side of things, he sees things -go forth from the divine as children going forth -from a familiar and accepted home, instead of -meeting them as they come out, as most of us do, -upon the roads of the world. And it is the paradox -that by this privilege he is more familiar, more -free and fraternal, more carelessly hospitable than -we. For us the elements are like heralds who tell -us with trumpet and tabard that we are drawing -near the city of a great king; but he hails them -with an old familiarity that is almost an old -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">{87}</a></span> -frivolity. He calls them his Brother Fire and his -Sister Water.</p> - -<p>So arises out of this almost nihilistic abyss -the noble thing that is called Praise; which no -one will ever understand while he identifies it -with nature-worship or pantheistic optimism. -When we say that a poet praises the whole creation, -we commonly mean only that he praises the whole -cosmos. But this sort of poet does really praise -creation, in the sense of the act of creation. He -praises the passage or transition from nonentity -to entity; there falls here also the shadow of that -archetypal image of the bridge, which has given -to the priest his archaic and mysterious name. -The mystic who passes through the moment when -there is nothing but God does in some sense -behold the beginningless beginnings in which -there was really nothing else. He not only -appreciates everything but the nothing of which -everything was made. In a fashion he endures -and answers even the earthquake irony of the -Book of Job; in some sense he is there when the -foundations of the world are laid, with the morning -stars singing together and the sons of God shouting -for joy. That is but a distant adumbration -of the reason why the Franciscan, ragged, penniless, -homeless and apparently hopeless, did indeed -come forth singing such songs as might come from -the stars of morning; and shouting, a son of God.</p> - -<p>This sense of the great gratitude and the sublime -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">{88}</a></span> -dependence was not a phrase or even a sentiment; -it is the whole point that this was the very rock -of reality. It was not a fancy but a fact; rather -it is true that beside it all facts are fancies. That -we all depend in every detail, at every instant, -as a Christian would say upon God, as even an -agnostic would say upon existence and the nature -of things, is not an illusion of imagination; on -the contrary, it is the fundamental fact which we -cover up, as with curtains, with the illusion of -ordinary life. That ordinary life is an admirable -thing in itself, just as imagination is an -admirable thing in itself. But it is much more -the ordinary life that is made of imagination than -the contemplative life. He who has seen the whole -world hanging on a hair of the mercy of God has -seen the truth; we might almost say the cold -truth. He who has seen the vision of his city -upside down has seen it the right way up.</p> - -<p>Rossetti makes the remark somewhere, bitterly -but with great truth, that the worst moment for -the atheist is when he is really thankful and has -nobody to thank. The converse of this proposition -is also true; and it is certain that this gratitude -produced, in such men as we are here considering, -the most purely joyful moments that -have been known to man. The great painter -boasted that he mixed all his colours with brains, -and the great saint may be said to mix all his -thoughts with thanks. All goods look better -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">{89}</a></span> -when they look like gifts. In this sense it is -certain that the mystical method establishes a -very healthy external relation to everything else. -But it must always be remembered that everything -else has for ever fallen into a second place, -in comparison with this simple fact of dependence -on the divine reality. In so far as ordinary social -relations have in them something that seems solid -and self-supporting, some sense of being at once -buttressed and cushioned; in so far as they establish -sanity in the sense of security and security in -the sense of self-sufficiency, the man who has -seen the world hanging on a hair does have some -difficulty in taking them so seriously as that. -In so far as even the secular authorities and -hierarchies, even the most natural superiorities -and the most necessary subordinations, tend at -once to put a man in his place, and to make him -sure of his position, the man who has seen the -human hierarchy upside down will always have -something of a smile for its superiorities. In this -sense the direct vision of divine reality does disturb -solemnities that are sane enough in themselves. -The mystic may have added a cubit to -his stature; but he generally loses something of -his status. He can no longer take himself for -granted, merely because he can verify his own -existence in a parish register or a family Bible. -Such a man may have something of the appearance -of the lunatic who has lost his name while preserving -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">{90}</a></span> -his nature; who straightway forgets what -manner of man he was. "Hitherto I have called -Pietro Bernardone father; but now I am the -servant of God."</p> - -<p>All these profound matters must be suggested -in short and imperfect phrases; and the shortest -statement of one aspect of this illumination is to -say that it is the discovery of an infinite debt. -It may seem a paradox to say that a man may -be transported with joy to discover that he is in -debt. But this is only because in commercial -cases the creditor does not generally share the -transports of joy; especially when the debt is by -hypothesis infinite and therefore unrecoverable. -But here again the parallel of a natural love-story -of the nobler sort disposes of the difficulty in a -flash. There the infinite creditor does share the -joy of the infinite debtor; for indeed they are both -debtors and both creditors. In other words debt -and dependence do become pleasures in the -presence of unspoilt love; the word is used too -loosely and luxuriously in popular simplifications -like the present; but here the word is really the -key. It is the key of all the problems of Franciscan -morality which puzzle the merely modern mind; -but above all it is the key of asceticism. It is the -highest and holiest of the paradoxes that the man -who really knows he cannot pay his debt will be -for ever paying it. He will be for ever giving back -what he cannot give back, and cannot be expected -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">{91}</a></span> -to give back. He will be always throwing things -away into a bottomless pit of unfathomable -thanks. Men who think they are too modern to -understand this are in fact too mean to understand -it; we are most of us too mean to practise -it. We are not generous enough to be ascetics; -one might almost say not genial enough to be -ascetics. A man must have magnanimity of -surrender, of which he commonly only catches a -glimpse in first love, like a glimpse of our lost -Eden. But whether he sees it or not, the truth -is in that riddle; that the whole world has, or is, -only one good thing; and it is a bad debt.</p> - -<p>If ever that rarer sort of romantic love, which -was the truth that sustained the Troubadours, -falls out of fashion and is treated as fiction, we -may see some such misunderstanding as that of -the modern world about asceticism. For it seems -conceivable that some barbarians might try to -destroy chivalry in love, as the barbarians ruling -in Berlin destroyed chivalry in war. If that were -ever so, we should have the same sort of unintelligent -sneers and unimaginative questions. Men -will ask what selfish sort of woman it must have -been who ruthlessly exacted tribute in the form -of flowers, or what an avaricious creature she can -have been to demand solid gold in the form of a -ring; just as they ask what cruel kind of God can -have demanded sacrifice and self-denial. They will -have lost the clue to all that lovers have meant -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">{92}</a></span> -by love; and will not understand that it was -because the thing was not demanded that it was -done. But whether or no any such lesser things -will throw a light on the greater, it is utterly -useless to study a great thing like the Franciscan -movement while remaining in the modern mood -that murmurs against gloomy asceticism. The -whole point about St. Francis of Assisi is that he -certainly was ascetical and he certainly was not -gloomy. As soon as ever he had been unhorsed -by the glorious humiliation of his vision of dependence -on the divine love, he flung himself -into fasting and vigil exactly as he had flung -himself furiously into battle. He had wheeled -his charger clean round, but there was no halt -or check in the thundering impetuosity of his -charge. There was nothing negative about it; it -was not a regimen or a stoical simplicity of life. -It was not self-denial merely in the sense of self-control. -It was as positive as a passion; it had -all the air of being as positive as a pleasure. He -devoured fasting as a man devours food. He -plunged after poverty as men have dug madly for -gold. And it is precisely the positive and passionate -quality of this part of his personality that is -a challenge to the modern mind in the whole problem -of the pursuit of pleasure. There undeniably -is the historical fact; and there attached to it is -another moral fact almost as undeniable. It is -certain that he held on this heroic or unnatural -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">{93}</a></span> -course from the moment when he went forth in his -hair-shirt into the winter woods to the moment -when he desired even in his death agony to lie bare -upon the bare ground, to prove that he had and -that he was nothing. And we can say, with -almost as deep a certainty, that the stars which -passed above that gaunt and wasted corpse stark -upon the rocky floor had for once, in all their -shining cycles round the world of labouring -humanity, looked down upon a happy man.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">{94}</a></span> - - <h2><i>Chapter VI</i><br /> - <small><i>The Little Poor Man</i></small></h2> - -</div> - -<p><span class="smc">From</span> that cavern, that was a furnace of glowing -gratitude and humility, there came forth one of -the strongest and strangest and most original -personalities that human history has known. -He was, among other things, emphatically what -we call a character; almost as we speak of a -character in a good novel or play. He was not -only a humanist but a humorist; a humorist -especially in the old English sense of a man always -in his humour, going his own way and doing what -nobody else would have done. The anecdotes -about him have a certain biographical quality of -which the most familiar example is Dr. Johnson; -which belongs in another way to William Blake or -to Charles Lamb. The atmosphere can only be -defined by a sort of antithesis; the act is always -unexpected and never inappropriate. Before the -thing is said or done it cannot even be conjectured; -but after it is said or done it is felt to be merely -characteristic. It is surprisingly and yet inevitably -individual. This quality of abrupt fitness -and bewildering consistency belongs to St. Francis -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">{95}</a></span> -in a way that marks him out from most men of -his time. Men are learning more and more of -the solid social virtues of medieval civilisation; -but those impressions are still social rather than -individual. The medieval world was far ahead of -the modern world in its sense of the things in -which all men are at one: death and the daylight -of reason and the common conscience that holds -communities together. Its generalisations were -saner and sounder than the mad materialistic -theories of to-day; nobody would have tolerated -a Schopenhauer scorning life or a Nietzsche living -only for scorn. But the modern world is more -subtle in its sense of the things in which men are -not at one; in the temperamental varieties and -differentiations that make up the personal problems -of life. All men who can think themselves -now realise that the great schoolmen had a type of -thought that was wonderfully clear; but it was -as it were deliberately colourless. All are now -agreed that the greatest art of the age was the -art of public buildings; the popular and communal -art of architecture. But it was not an age for -the art of portrait-painting. Yet the friends of -St. Francis have really contrived to leave behind -a portrait; something almost resembling a devout -and affectionate caricature. There are lines and -colours in it that are personal almost to the extent -of being perverse, if one can use the word perversity -of an inversion that was also a conversion. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">{96}</a></span> -Even among the saints he has the air of a sort of -eccentric, if one may use the word of one whose -eccentricity consisted in always turning towards -the centre.</p> - -<p>Before resuming the narrative of his first -adventures, and the building of the great brotherhood -which was the beginning of so merciful a -revolution, I think it well to complete this imperfect -personal portrait here; and having attempted -in the last chapter a tentative description of the -process, to add in this chapter a few touches to -describe the result. I mean by the result the real -man as he was after his first formative experiences; -the man whom men met walking about on the -Italian roads in his brown tunic tied with a rope. -For that man, saving the grace of God, is the -explanation of all that followed; men acted quite -differently according to whether they had met -him or not. If we see afterwards a vast tumult, -an appeal to the Pope, mobs of men in brown -habits besieging the seats of authority, Papal -pronouncements, heretical sessions, trial and -triumphant survival, the world full of a new -movement, the friar a household word in every -corner of Europe, and if we ask <i>why</i> all this -happened, we can only approximate to any answer -to our own question if we can, in some faint and -indirect imaginative fashion, hear one human -voice or see one human face under a hood. There -is no answer except that Francis Bernardone had -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">{97}</a></span> -happened; and we must try in some sense to see -what we should have seen if he had happened to -us. In other words, after some groping suggestions -about his life from the inside, we must -again consider it from the outside; as if he were a -stranger coming up the road towards us, along -the hills of Umbria, between the olives or the -vines.</p> - -<p>Francis of Assisi was slight in figure with that -sort of slightness which, combined with so much -vivacity, gives the impression of smallness. He -was probably taller than he looked; middle-sized, -his biographers say; he was certainly very -active and, considering what he went through, -must have been tolerably tough. He was of the -brownish Southern colouring, with a dark beard -thin and pointed such as appears in pictures under -the hoods of elves; and his eyes glowed with the -fire that fretted him night and day. There is -something about the description of all he said and -did which suggests that, even more than most -Italians, he turned naturally to a passionate -pantomime of gestures. If this was so it is -equally certain that with him, even more than with -most Italians, the gestures were all gestures of -politeness or hospitality. And both these facts, -the vivacity and the courtesy, are the outward -signs of something that mark him out very distinctively -from many who might appear to be more -of his kind than they really are. It is truly said -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">{98}</a></span> -that Francis of Assisi was one of the founders of -the medieval drama, and therefore of the modern -drama. He was the very reverse of a theatrical -person in the selfish sense; but for all that he was -pre-eminently a dramatic person. This side -of him can best be suggested by taking what is -commonly regarded as a reposeful quality; what -is commonly described as a love of nature. We -are compelled to use the term; and it is entirely -the wrong term.</p> - -<p>St. Francis was not a lover of nature. Properly -understood, a lover of nature was precisely what -he was not. The phrase implies accepting the -material universe as a vague environment, a sort -of sentimental pantheism. In the romantic -period of literature, in the age of Byron and Scott, -it was easy enough to imagine that a hermit in -the ruins of a chapel (preferably by moonlight) -might find peace and a mild pleasure in the -harmony of solemn forests and silent stars, while -he pondered over some scroll or illuminated -volume, about the liturgical nature of which the -author was a little vague. In short, the hermit -might love nature as a background. Now for -St. Francis nothing was ever in the background. -We might say that his mind had no background, -except perhaps that divine darkness out of which -the divine love had called up every coloured -creature one by one. He saw everything as -dramatic, distinct from its setting, not all of a -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">{99}</a></span> -piece like a picture but in action like a play. A -bird went by him like an arrow; something with -a story and a purpose, though it was a purpose of -life and not a purpose of death. A bush could -stop him like a brigand; and indeed he was as -ready to welcome the brigand as the bush.</p> - -<p>In a word, we talk about a man who cannot see -the wood for the trees. St. Francis was a man -who did not want to see the wood for the trees. -He wanted to see each tree as a separate and -almost a sacred thing, being a child of God and -therefore a brother or sister of man. But he did -not want to stand against a piece of stage scenery -used merely as a background, and inscribed in a -general fashion: "Scene; a wood." In this sense -we might say that he was too dramatic for the -drama. The scenery would have come to life -in his comedies; the walls would really have -spoken like Snout the Tinker and the trees would -really have come walking to Dunsinane. Everything -would have been in the foreground; and in -that sense in the footlights. Everything would -be in every sense a character. This is the quality -in which, as a poet, he is the very opposite of a -pantheist. He did not call nature his mother; he -called a particular donkey his brother or a particular -sparrow his sister. If he had called a pelican -his aunt or an elephant his uncle, as he might -possibly have done, he would still have meant that -they were particular creatures assigned by their -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">{100}</a></span> -Creator to particular places; not mere expressions -of the evolutionary energy of things. That is -where his mysticism is so close to the common -sense of the child. A child has no difficulty about -understanding that God made the dog and the -cat; though he is well aware that the making of -dogs and cats out of nothing is a mysterious -process beyond his own imagination. But no -child would understand what you meant if you -mixed up the dog and the cat and everything -else into one monster with a myriad legs and called -it nature. The child would resolutely refuse to -make head or tail of any such animal. St. Francis -was a mystic, but he believed in mysticism -and not in mystification. As a mystic he was the -mortal enemy of all those mystics who melt away -the edges of things and dissolve an entity into its -environment. He was a mystic of the daylight -and the darkness; but not a mystic of the twilight. -He was the very contrary of that sort of oriental -visionary who is only a mystic because he is -too much of a sceptic to be a materialist. St. Francis -was emphatically a realist, using the -word realist in its much more real medieval sense. -In this matter he really was akin to the best spirit -of his age, which had just won its victory over the -nominalism of the twelfth century. In this indeed -there was something symbolic in the contemporary -art and decoration of his period; as in the art -of heraldry. The Franciscan birds and beasts -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">{101}</a></span> -were really rather like heraldic birds and beasts; -not in the sense of being fabulous animals but in -the sense of being treated as if they were facts, -clear and positive and unaffected by the illusions -of atmosphere and perspective. In that sense -he did see a bird sable on a field azure or a sheep -argent on a field vert. But the heraldry of -humility was richer than the heraldry of pride; -for it saw all these things that God had given as -something more precious and unique than the -blazonry that princes and peers had only given -to themselves. Indeed out of the depths of that -surrender it rose higher than the highest titles -of the feudal age; than the laurel of Cæsar or the -Iron Crown of Lombardy. It is an example of -extremes that meet, that the Little Poor Man, -who had stripped himself of everything and named -himself as nothing, took the same title that has -been the wild vaunt of the vanity of the gorgeous -Asiatic autocrat, and called himself the Brother of -the Sun and Moon.</p> - -<p>This quality, of something outstanding and even -startling in things as St. Francis saw them, is here -important as illustrating a character in his own -life. As he saw all things dramatically, so he -himself was always dramatic. We have to assume -throughout, needless to say, that he was a poet -and can only be understood as a poet. But he had -one poetic privilege denied to most poets. In that -respect indeed he might be called the one happy -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">{102}</a></span> -poet among all the unhappy poets of the world. -He was a poet whose whole life was a poem. He -was not so much a minstrel merely singing his -own songs as a dramatist capable of acting the -whole of his own play. The things he said were -more imaginative than the things he wrote. The -things he did were more imaginative than the -things he said. His whole course through life -was a series of scenes in which he had a sort of -perpetual luck in bringing things to a beautiful -crisis. To talk about the art of living has come -to sound rather artificial than artistic. But St. Francis -did in a definite sense make the very act -of living an art, though it was an unpremeditated -art. Many of his acts will seem grotesque and -puzzling to a rationalistic taste. But they were -always acts and not explanations; and they -always meant what he meant them to mean. The -amazing vividness with which he stamped himself -on the memory and imagination of mankind is -very largely due to the fact that he was seen again -and again under such dramatic conditions. From -the moment when he rent his robes and flung them -at his father's feet to the moment when he -stretched himself in death on the bare earth in the -pattern of the cross, his life was made up of these -unconscious attitudes and unhesitating gestures. -It would be easy to fill page after page with -examples; but I will here pursue the method found -convenient everywhere in this short sketch, and -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">{103}</a></span> -take one typical example, dwelling on it with a -little more detail than would be possible in a -catalogue, in the hope of making the meaning -more clear. The example taken here occurred -in the last days of his life, but it refers back in a -rather curious fashion to the first; and rounds off -the remarkable unity of that romance of religion.</p> - -<p>The phrase about his brotherhood with the sun -and moon, and with the water and the fire, occurs -of course in his famous poem called the Canticle -of the Creatures or the Canticle of the Sun. He -sang it wandering in the meadows in the sunnier -season of his own career, when he was pouring -upwards into the sky all the passions of a poet. -It is a supremely characteristic work, and much of -St. Francis could be reconstructed from that work -alone. Though in some ways the thing is as -simple and straightforward as a ballad, there is -a delicate instinct of differentiation in it. Notice, -for instance, the sense of sex in inanimate things, -which goes far beyond the arbitrary genders of a -grammar. It was not for nothing that he called -fire his brother, fierce and gay and strong, and -water his sister, pure and clear and inviolate. -Remember that St. Francis was neither encumbered -nor assisted by all that Greek and Roman -polytheism turned into allegory, which has been -to European poetry often an inspiration, too often -a convention. Whether he gained or lost by his -contempt of learning, it never occurred to him -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">{104}</a></span> -to connect Neptune and the nymphs with the -water or Vulcan and the Cyclops with the flame. -This point exactly illustrates what has already -been suggested; that, so far from being a revival -of paganism, the Franciscan renascence was a sort -of fresh start and first awakening after a forgetfulness -of paganism. Certainly it is responsible -for a certain freshness in the thing itself. Anyhow -St. Francis was, as it were, the founder of a new -folk-lore; but he could distinguish his mermaids -from his mermen and his witches from his wizards. -In short, he had to make his own mythology; but -he knew at a glance the goddesses from the gods. -This fanciful instinct for the sexes is not the only -example of an imaginative instinct of the kind. -There is just the same quaint felicity in the fact -that he singles out the sun with a slightly more -courtly title besides that of brother; a phrase that -one king might use of another, corresponding to -"Monsieur notre frère." It is like a faint half -ironic shadow of the shining primacy that it had -held in the pagan heavens. A bishop is said to -have complained of a Nonconformist saying Paul -instead of Saint Paul; and to have added "He -might at least have called him Mr. Paul." So -St. Francis is free of all obligation to cry out in -praise or terror on the Lord God Apollo, but in -his new nursery heavens, he salutes him as Mr. -Sun. Those are the things in which he has a sort -of inspired infancy, only to be paralleled in nursery -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">{105}</a></span> -tales. Something of the same hazy but healthy -awe makes the story of Brer Fox and Brer Rabbit -refer respectfully to Mr. Man.</p> - -<p>This poem, full of the mirth of youth and the -memories of childhood, runs through his whole -life like a refrain, and scraps of it turn up continually -in the ordinary habit of his talk. Perhaps -the last appearance of its special language was in -an incident that has always seemed to me intensely -impressive, and is at any rate very illustrative of -the great manner and gesture of which I speak. -Impressions of that kind are a matter of imagination -and in that sense of taste. It is idle to argue -about them; for it is the whole point of them -that they have passed beyond words; and even -when they use words, seem to be completed by some -ritual movement like a blessing or a blow. So, in a -supreme example, there is something far past all -exposition, something like the sweeping movement -and mighty shadow of a hand, darkening -even the darkness of Gethsemane; "Sleep on -now, and take your rest...." Yet there are -people who have started to paraphrase and -expand the story of the Passion.</p> - -<p>St. Francis was a dying man. We might say -he was an old man, at the time this typical incident -occurred; but in fact he was only prematurely -old; for he was not fifty when he died, worn out -with his fighting and fasting life. But when he -came down from the awful asceticism and more -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">{106}</a></span> -awful revelation of Alverno, he was a broken man. -As will be apparent when these events are touched -on in their turn, it was not only sickness and bodily -decay that may well have darkened his life; he -had been recently disappointed in his main mission -to end the Crusades by the conversion of Islam; -he had been still more disappointed by the signs -of compromise and a more political or practical -spirit in his own order; he had spent his last -energies in protest. At this point he was told -that he was going blind. If the faintest hint has -been given here of what St. Francis felt about the -glory and pageantry of earth and sky, about the -heraldic shape and colour and symbolism of birds -and beasts and flowers, some notion may be -formed of what it meant to him to go blind. Yet -the remedy might well have seemed worse than -the disease. The remedy, admittedly an uncertain -remedy, was to cauterise the eye, and that without -any anæsthetic. In other words it was to burn -his living eyeballs with a red-hot iron. Many of -the tortures of martyrdom, which he envied in -martyrology and sought vainly in Syria, can have -been no worse. When they took the brand from -the furnace, he rose as with an urbane gesture and -spoke as to an invisible presence: "Brother -Fire, God made you beautiful and strong and -useful; I pray you be courteous with me."</p> - -<p>If there be any such thing as the art of life, it -seems to me that such a moment was one of its -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">{107}</a></span> -masterpieces. Not to many poets has it been -given to remember their own poetry at such a -moment, still less to live one of their own poems. -Even William Blake would have been disconcerted -if, while he was re-reading the noble lines "Tiger, -tiger, burning bright," a real large live Bengal tiger -had put his head in at the window of the cottage -in Felpham, evidently with every intention of -biting his head off. He might have wavered -before politely saluting it, above all by calmly -completing the recitation of the poem to the -quadruped to whom it was dedicated. Shelley, -when he wished to be a cloud or a leaf carried -before the wind, might have been mildly surprised -to find himself turning slowly head over heels in -mid air a thousand feet above the sea. Even -Keats, knowing that his hold on life was a frail -one, might have been disturbed to discover that -the true, the blushful Hippocrene of which he -had just partaken freely had indeed contained a -drug, which really ensured that he should cease -upon the midnight with no pain. For Francis -there was no drug; and for Francis there was -plenty of pain. But his first thought was one of -his first fancies from the songs of his youth. He -remembered the time when a flame was a flower, -only the most glorious and gaily coloured of the -flowers in the garden of God; and when that -shining thing returned to him in the shape of an -instrument of torture, he hailed it from afar like -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">{108}</a></span> -an old friend, calling it by the nickname which -might most truly be called its Christian name.</p> - -<p>That is only one incident out of a life of such -incidents; and I have selected it partly because -it shows what is meant here by that shadow of -gesture there is in all his words, the dramatic -gesture of the south; and partly because its -special reference to courtesy covers the next fact -to be noted. The popular instinct of St. Francis, -and his perpetual preoccupation with the idea of -brotherhood, will be entirely misunderstood if it -is understood in the sense of what is often called -camaraderie; the back-slapping sort of brotherhood. -Frequently from the enemies and too -frequently from the friends of the democratic -ideal, there has come a notion that this note is -necessary to that ideal. It is assumed that -equality means all men being equally uncivil, -whereas it obviously ought to mean all men being -equally civil. Such people have forgotten the -very meaning and derivation of the word civility, -if they do not see that to be uncivil is to be -uncivic. But anyhow that was not the equality -which Francis of Assisi encouraged; but an -equality of the opposite kind; it was a camaraderie -actually founded on courtesy.</p> - -<p>Even in that fairy borderland of his mere -fancies about flowers and animals and even -inanimate things, he retained this permanent -posture of a sort of deference. A friend of mine -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">{109}</a></span> -said that somebody was the sort of man who -apologises to the cat. St. Francis really would -have apologised to the cat. When he was about -to preach in a wood full of the chatter of birds, -he said, with a gentle gesture "Little sisters, if -you have now had your say, it is time that I also -should be heard." And all the birds were silent; -as I for one can very easily believe. In deference -to my special design of making matters intelligible -to average modernity, I have treated separately -the subject of the miraculous powers that St. Francis -most certainly possessed. But even apart -from any miraculous powers, men of that magnetic -sort, with that intense interest in animals, often -have an extraordinary power over them. St. Francis's power was always exercised with this -elaborate politeness. Much of it was doubtless a -sort of symbolic joke, a pious pantomime intended -to convey the vital distinction in his divine -mission, that he not only loved but reverenced -God in all his creatures. In this sense he had the -air not only of apologising to the cat or to the -birds, but of apologising to a chair for sitting -on it or to a table for sitting down at it. Anyone -who had followed him through life merely to laugh -at him, as a sort of lovable lunatic, might easily -have had an impression as of a lunatic who bowed -to every post or took off his hat to every tree. -This was all a part of his instinct for imaginative -gesture. He taught the world a large part of -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">{110}</a></span> -its lesson by a sort of divine dumb alphabet. But -if there was this ceremonial element even in lighter -or lesser matters, its significance became far more -serious in the serious work of his life, which was -an appeal to humanity, or rather to human -beings.</p> - -<p>I have said that St. Francis deliberately did -not see the wood for the trees. It is even more -true that he deliberately did not see the mob for -the men. What distinguishes this very genuine -democrat from any mere demagogue is that he -never either deceived or was deceived by the -illusion of mass-suggestion. Whatever his taste -in monsters, he never saw before him a many-headed -beast. He only saw the image of God -multiplied but never monotonous. To him a man -was always a man and did not disappear in a dense -crowd any more than in a desert. He honoured -all men; that is, he not only loved but respected -them all. What gave him his extraordinary -personal power was this; that from the Pope to -the beggar, from the sultan of Syria in his -pavilion to the ragged robbers crawling out of the -wood, there was never a man who looked into -those brown burning eyes without being certain -that Francis Bernardone was really interested in -<i>him</i>; in his own inner individual life from the -cradle to the grave; that he himself was being -valued and taken seriously, and not merely added -to the spoils of some social policy or the names in -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">{111}</a></span> -some clerical document. Now for this particular -moral and religious idea there is no external -expression except courtesy. Exhortation does not -express it, for it is not mere abstract enthusiasm; -beneficence does not express it, for it is not mere -pity. It can only be conveyed by a certain grand -manner which may be called good manners. We -may say if we like that St. Francis, in the bare -and barren simplicity of his life, had clung to one -rag of luxury; the manners of a court. But -whereas in a court there is one king and a hundred -courtiers, in this story there was one courtier, -moving among a hundred kings. For he treated -the whole mob of men as a mob of kings. And -this was really and truly the only attitude that -will appeal to that part of man to which he wished -to appeal. It cannot be done by giving gold or -even bread; for it is a proverb that any reveller -may fling largesse in mere scorn. It cannot even -be done by giving time and attention; for -any number of philanthropists and benevolent -bureaucrats do such work with a scorn far more -cold and horrible in their hearts. No plans or -proposals or efficient rearrangements will give -back to a broken man his self-respect and sense -of speaking with an equal. One gesture will do it.</p> - -<p>With that gesture Francis of Assisi moved -among men; and it was soon found to have something -in it of magic and to act, in a double sense, -like a charm. But it must always be conceived -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">{112}</a></span> -as a completely natural gesture; for indeed it -was almost a gesture of apology. He must be -imagined as moving thus swiftly through the -world with a sort of impetuous politeness; almost -like the movement of a man who stumbles on one -knee half in haste and half in obeisance. The -eager face under the brown hood was that of a -man always going somewhere, as if he followed as -well as watched the flight of the birds. And this -sense of motion is indeed the meaning of the whole -revolution that he made; for the work that has -now to be described was of the nature of an earthquake -or a volcano, an explosion that drove -outwards with dynamic energy the forces stored -up by ten centuries in the monastic fortress or -arsenal and scattered all its riches recklessly to -the ends of the earth. In a better sense than the -antithesis commonly conveys, it is true to say -that what St. Benedict had stored St. Francis -scattered; but in the world of spiritual things -what had been stored into the barns like grain -was scattered over the world as seed. The -servants of God who had been a besieged garrison -became a marching army; the ways of the world -were filled as with thunder with the trampling -of their feet and far ahead of that ever swelling -host went a man singing; as simply he had sung -that morning in the winter woods, where he walked -alone.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">{113}</a></span> - - <h2><i>Chapter VII</i><br /> - <small><i>The Three Orders</i></small></h2> - -</div> - -<p><span class="smc">There</span> is undoubtedly a sense in which two is -company and three is none; there is also another -sense in which three is company and four is none, -as is proved by the procession of historic and -fictitious figures moving three deep, the famous -trios like the Three Musketeers or the Three -Soldiers of Kipling. But there is yet another -and a different sense in which four is company and -three is none; if we use the word company in -the vaguer sense of a crowd or a mass. With the -fourth man enters the shadow of a mob; the -group is no longer one of three individuals only -conceived individually. That shadow of the -fourth man fell across the little hermitage of the -Portiuncula when a man named Egidio, apparently -a poor workman, was invited by St. Francis to -enter. He mingled without difficulty with the -merchant and the canon who had already become -the companions of Francis; but with his coming -an invisible line was crossed; for it must have been -felt by this time that the growth of that small -group had become potentially infinite, or at least -that its outline had become permanently indefinite. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">{114}</a></span> -It may have been in the time of that -transition that Francis had another of his dreams -full of voices; but now the voices were a clamour -of the tongues of all nations, Frenchmen and -Italians and English and Spanish and Germans, -telling of the glory of God each in his own tongue; -a new Pentecost and a happier Babel.</p> - -<p>Before describing the first steps he took to regularise -the growing group, it is well to have a rough -grasp of what he conceived that group to be. He -did not call his followers monks; and it is not -clear, at this time at least, that he even thought -of them as monks. He called them by a name -which is generally rendered in English as the -Friars Minor; but we shall be much closer to the -atmosphere of his own mind if we render it almost -literally as The Little Brothers. Presumably he -was already resolved, indeed, that they should -take the three vows of poverty, chastity and -obedience which had always been the mark of a -monk. But it would seem that he was not so -much afraid of the idea of a monk as of the idea -of an abbot. He was afraid that the great -spiritual magistracies which had given even to -their holiest possessors at least a sort of impersonal -and corporate pride, would import an element of -pomposity that would spoil his extremely and -almost extravagantly simple version of the life of -humility. But the supreme difference between -his discipline and the discipline of the old monastic -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">{115}</a></span> -system was concerned, of course, with the idea -that the monks were to become migratory and -almost nomadic instead of stationary. They were -to mingle with the world; and to this the more -old-fashioned monk would naturally reply by -asking how they were to mingle with the world -without becoming entangled with the world. It -was a much more real question than a loose religiosity -is likely to realise; but St. Francis had his -answer to it, of his own individual sort; and the -interest of the problem is in that highly individual -answer.</p> - -<p>The good Bishop of Assisi expressed a sort of -horror at the hard life which the Little Brothers -lived at the Portiuncula, without comforts, without -possessions, eating anything they could get -and sleeping anyhow on the ground. St. Francis -answered him with that curious and almost -stunning shrewdness which the unworldly can -sometimes wield like a club of stone. He said, -"If we had any possessions, we should need -weapons and laws to defend them." That -sentence is the clue to the whole policy that he -pursued. It rested upon a real piece of logic; -and about that he was never anything but logical. -He was ready to own himself wrong about anything -else; but he was quite certain he was right -about this particular rule. He was only once seen -angry; and that was when there was talk of an -exception to the rule.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">{116}</a></span> -His argument was this: that the dedicated -man might go anywhere among any kind of men, -even the worst kind of men, so long as there was -nothing by which they could hold him. If he had -any ties or needs like ordinary men, he would -become like ordinary men. St. Francis was the -last man in the world to think any the worse of -ordinary men for being ordinary. They had more -affection and admiration from him than they are -ever likely to have again. But for his own -particular purpose of stirring up the world to a -new spiritual enthusiasm, he saw with a logical -clarity that was quite reverse of fanatical or -sentimental, that friars must not become like -ordinary men; that the salt must not lose its -savour even to turn into human nature's daily -food. And the difference between a friar and -an ordinary man was really that a friar was freer -than an ordinary man. It was necessary that he -should be free from the cloister; but it was even -more important that he should be free from the -world. It is perfectly sound common sense to say -that there is a sense in which the ordinary man -cannot be free from the world; or rather ought -not to be free from the world. The feudal world -in particular was one labyrinthine system of -dependence; but it was not only the feudal world -that went to make up the medieval world nor the -medieval world that went to make up the whole -world; and the whole world is full of this fact. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">{117}</a></span> -Family life as much as feudal life is in its nature -a system of dependence. Modern trade unions -as much as medieval guilds are interdependent -among themselves even in order to be independent -of others. In medieval as in modern life, even -where these limitations do exist for the sake of -liberty, they have in them a considerable element -of luck. They are partly the result of circumstances; -sometimes the almost unavoidable result -of circumstances. So the twelfth century had -been the age of vows; and there was something -of relative freedom in that feudal gesture of the -vow; for no man asks vows from slaves any more -than from spades. Still, in practice, a man rode -to war in support of the ancient house of the -Column or behind the Great Dog of the Stairway -largely because he had been born in a certain city -or countryside. But no man need obey little -Francis in the old brown coat unless he chose. -Even in his relations with his chosen leader he -was in one sense relatively free, compared with -the world around him. He was obedient but not -dependent. And he was as free as the wind, he -was almost wildly free, in his relation to that -world around him. The world around him was, -as has been noted, a network of feudal and family -and other forms of dependence. The whole idea -of St. Francis was that the Little Brothers should -be like little fishes who could go freely in and out -of that net. They could do so precisely because -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">{118}</a></span> -they were small fishes and in that sense even -slippery fishes. There was nothing that the world -could hold them by; for the world catches us -mostly by the fringes of our garments, the futile -externals of our lives. One of the Franciscans -says later, "A monk should own nothing but his -harp"; meaning, I suppose, that he should value -nothing but his song, the song with which it was -his business as a minstrel to serenade every castle -and cottage, the song of the joy of the Creator -in his creation and the beauty of the brotherhood -of men. In imagining the life of this sort of -visionary vagabond, we may already get a glimpse -also of the practical side of that asceticism which -puzzles those who think themselves practical. -A man had to be thin to pass always through the -bars and out of the cage; he had to travel light -in order to ride so fast and so far. It was the -whole calculation, so to speak, of that innocent -cunning, that the world was to be outflanked and -outwitted by him, and be embarrassed about what -to do with him. You could not threaten to starve -a man who was ever striving to fast. You could -not ruin him and reduce him to beggary, for he -was already a beggar. There was a very lukewarm -satisfaction even in beating him with a -stick, when he only indulged in little leaps -and cries of joy because indignity was his only -dignity. You could not put his head in a halter -without the risk of putting it in a halo.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">{119}</a></span> -But one distinction between the old monks and -the new friars counted especially in the matter of -practicality and especially of promptitude. The -old fraternities with their fixed habitations and -enclosed existence had the limitations of ordinary -householders. However simply they lived there -must be a certain number of cells or a certain -number of beds or at least a certain cubic space -for a certain number of brothers; their numbers -therefore depended on their land and building -material. But since a man could become a -Franciscan by merely promising to take his chance -of eating berries in a lane or begging a crust from -a kitchen, of sleeping under a hedge or sitting -patiently on a doorstep, there was no economic -reason why there should not be any number of -such eccentric enthusiasts within any short period -of time. It must also be remembered that the -whole of this rapid development was full of -a certain kind of democratic optimism that really -was part of the personal character of St. Francis. -His very asceticism was in one sense the height of -optimism. He demanded a great deal of human -nature not because he despised it but rather -because he trusted it. He was expecting a very -great deal from the extraordinary men who -followed him; but he was also expecting a good -deal from the ordinary men to whom he sent -them. He asked the laity for food as confidently -as he asked the fraternity for fasting. But he -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">{120}</a></span> -counted on the hospitality of humanity because he -really did regard every house as the house of a -friend. He really did love and honour ordinary -men and ordinary things; indeed we may say -that he only sent out the extraordinary men to -encourage men to be ordinary.</p> - -<p>This paradox may be more exactly stated or -explained when we come to deal with the very -interesting matter of the Third Order, which was -designed to assist ordinary men to be ordinary -with an extraordinary exultation. The point at -issue at present is the audacity and simplicity of -the Franciscan plan for quartering its spiritual -soldiery upon the population; not by force but -by persuasion, and even by the persuasion of -impotence. It was an act of confidence and -therefore a compliment. It was completely -successful. It was an example of something that -clung about St. Francis always; a kind of tact that -looked like luck because it was as simple and direct -as a thunderbolt. There are many examples in -his private relations of this sort of tactless tact; -this surprise effected by striking at the heart of the -matter. It is said that a young friar was suffering -from a sort of sulks between morbidity and -humility, common enough in youth and hero-worship, -in which he had got it into his head that -his hero hated or despised him. We can imagine -how tactfully social diplomatists would steer clear -of scenes and excitements, how cautiously psychologists -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">{121}</a></span> -would watch and handle such delicate -cases. Francis suddenly walked up to the young -man, who was of course secretive and silent as the -grave, and said, "Be not troubled in your thoughts -for you are dear to me, and even among the number -of those who are most dear. You know that you -are worthy of my friendship and society; therefore -come to me, in confidence, whensoever you -will, and from friendship learn faith." Exactly -as he spoke to that morbid boy he spoke to all -mankind. He always went to the point; he -always seemed at once more right and more simple -than the person he was speaking to. He seemed -at once to be laying open his guard and yet lunging -at the heart. Something in this attitude disarmed -the world as it has never been disarmed -again. He was better than other men; he was -a benefactor of other men; and yet he was not -hated. The world came into church by a newer -and nearer door; and by friendship it learnt -faith.</p> - -<p>It was while the little knot of people at the -Portiuncula was still small enough to gather in a -small room that St. Francis resolved on his first -important and even sensational stroke. It is -said that there were only twelve Franciscans in -the whole world when he decided to march, as -it were, on Rome and found a Franciscan order. -It would seem that this appeal to remote headquarters -was not generally regarded as necessary; -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">{122}</a></span> -possibly something could have been done in a -secondary way under the Bishop of Assisi and the -local clergy. It would seem even more probable -that people thought it somewhat unnecessary to -trouble the supreme tribunal of Christendom about -what a dozen chance men chose to call themselves. -But Francis was obstinate and as it were blind -on this point; and his brilliant blindness is exceedingly -characteristic of him. A man satisfied with -small things, or even in love with small things, -he yet never felt quite as we do about the disproportion -between small things and large. He never -saw things to scale in our sense, but with a dizzy -disproportion which makes the mind reel. Sometimes -it seems merely out of drawing like a gaily -coloured medieval map; and then again it seems -to have escaped from everything like a short cut -in the fourth dimension. He is said to have made -a journey to interview the Emperor, throned -among his armies under the eagle of the Holy -Roman Empire, to intercede for the lives of -certain little birds. He was quite capable of -facing fifty emperors to intercede for one bird. -He started out with two companions to convert -the Mahomedan world. He started out with -eleven companions to ask the Pope to make a new -monastic world.</p> - -<p>Innocent III., the great Pope, according to -Bonaventura, was walking on the terrace of St. John Lateran, doubtless revolving the great -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">{123}</a></span> -political questions which troubled his reign, when -there appeared abruptly before him a person in -peasant costume whom he took to be some sort -of shepherd. He appears to have got rid of the -shepherd with all convenient speed; possibly he -formed the opinion that the shepherd was mad. -Anyhow he thought no more about it until, says -the great Franciscan biographer, he dreamed that -night a strange dream. He fancied that he saw -the whole huge ancient temple of St. John Lateran, -on whose high terraces he had walked so securely, -leaning horribly and crooked against the sky as -if all its domes and turrets were stooping before an -earthquake. Then he looked again and saw -that a human figure was holding it up like a -living caryatid; and the figure was that of the -ragged shepherd or peasant from whom he had -turned away on the terrace. Whether this be a -fact or a figure it is a very true figure of the abrupt -simplicity with which Francis won the attention -and the favour of Rome. His first friend seems -to have been the Cardinal Giovanni di San Paolo -who pleaded for the Franciscan idea before a -conclave of Cardinals summoned for the purpose. -It is interesting to note that the doubts thrown -upon it seem to have been chiefly doubts about -whether the rule was not too hard for humanity, -for the Catholic Church is always on the watch -against excessive asceticism and its evils. -Probably they meant, especially when they said -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">{124}</a></span> -it was unduly hard, that it was unduly dangerous. -For a certain element that can only be called -danger is what marks the innovation as compared -with older institutions of the kind. In one sense -indeed the friar was almost the opposite of the -monk. The value of the old monasticism had -been that there was not only an ethical but an -economic repose. Out of that repose had come -the works for which the world will never be sufficiently -grateful, the preservation of the classics, -the beginning of the Gothic, the schemes of science -and philosophies, the illuminated manuscripts and -the coloured glass. The whole point of a monk -was that his economic affairs were settled for good; -he knew where he would get his supper, though it -was a very plain supper. But the whole point -of a friar was that he did not know where he -would get his supper. There was always a possibility -that he might get no supper. There was an -element of what would be called romance, as of -the gipsy or adventurer. But there was also an -element of potential tragedy, as of the tramp or -the casual labourer. So the Cardinals of the -thirteenth century were filled with compassion, -seeing a few men entering of their own free will -that estate to which the poor of the twentieth -century are daily driven by cold coercion and -moved on by the police.</p> - -<p>Cardinal San Paolo seems to have argued more -or less in this manner: it may be a hard life, but -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">{125}</a></span> -after all it is the life apparently described as -ideal in the Gospel; make what compromises you -think wise or humane about that ideal; but do not -commit yourselves to saying that men shall <i>not</i> -fulfil that ideal if they can. We shall see the -importance of this argument when we come to -the whole of that higher aspect of the life of -St. Francis which may be called the Imitation of -Christ. The upshot of the discussion was that the -Pope gave his verbal approval to the project and -promised a more definite endorsement, if the -movement should grow to more considerable -proportions. It is probable that Innocent, who -was himself a man of no ordinary mentality, had -very little doubt that it would do so; anyhow he -was not left long in doubt before it did do so. -The next passage in the history of the order is -simply the story of more and more people flocking -to its standard; and as has already been -remarked, once it had begun to grow, it could in -its nature grow much more quickly than any -ordinary society requiring ordinary funds and -public buildings. Even the return of the twelve -pioneers from their papal audience seems to have -been a sort of triumphal procession. In one place -in particular, it is said, the whole population of -a town, men, women and children, turned out, -leaving their work and wealth and homes exactly -as they stood and begging to be taken into the -army of God on the spot. According to the story, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">{126}</a></span> -it was on this occasion that St. Francis first foreshadowed -his idea of the Third Order which -enabled men to share in the movement without -leaving the homes and habits of normal humanity. -For the moment it is most important to regard -this story as one example of the riot of conversion -with which he was already filling all the roads of -Italy. It was a world of wandering; friars perpetually -coming and going in all the highways and -byways, seeking to ensure that any man who met -one of them by chance should have a spiritual -adventure. The First Order of St. Francis had -entered history.</p> - -<p>This rough outline can only be rounded off here -with some description of the Second and Third -Orders, though they were founded later and at -separate times. The former was an order for -women and owed its existence, of course, to the -beautiful friendship of St. Francis and St. Clare. -There is no story about which even the most -sympathetic critics of another creed have been -more bewildered and misleading. For there is no -story that more clearly turns on that simple test -which I have taken as crucial throughout this -criticism. I mean that what is the matter with -these critics is that they will not believe that a -heavenly love can be as real as an earthly love. -The moment it is treated as real, like an earthly -love, their whole riddle is easily resolved. A girl -of seventeen, named Clare and belonging to one -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">{127}</a></span> -of the noble families of Assisi, was filled with an -enthusiasm for the conventual life; and Francis -helped her to escape from her home and to take -up the conventual life. If we like to put it so, -he helped her to elope into the cloister, defying -her parents as he had defied his father. Indeed -the scene had many of the elements of a regular -romantic elopement; for she escaped through a -hole in the wall, fled through a wood and was -received at midnight by the light of torches. -Even Mrs. Oliphant, in her fine and delicate study -of St. Francis, calls it "an incident which we can -hardly record with satisfaction."</p> - -<p>Now about that incident I will here only say -this. If it had really been a romantic elopement -and the girl had become a bride instead of a nun, -practically the whole modern world would have -made her a heroine. If the action of the Friar -towards Clare had been the action of the Friar -towards Juliet, everybody would be sympathising -with her exactly as they sympathise with Juliet. -It is not conclusive to say that Clare was only -seventeen. Juliet was only fourteen. Girls -married and boys fought in battles at such early -ages in medieval times; and a girl of seventeen -in the thirteenth century was certainly old enough -to know her own mind. There cannot be the -shadow of a doubt, for any sane person considering -subsequent events, that St. Clare did know her -own mind. But the point for the moment is that -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">{128}</a></span> -modern romanticism entirely encourages such -defiance of parents when it is done in the name of -romantic love. For it knows that romantic love is -a reality, but it does not know that divine love is -a reality. There may have been something to be -said for the parents of Clare; there may have been -something to be said for Peter Bernardone. So -there may have been a great deal to be said for the -Montagues or the Capulets; but the modern world -does not want it said; and does not say it. The -fact is that as soon as we assume for a moment as -a hypothesis, what St. Francis and St. Clare -assumed all the time as an absolute, that there is -a direct divine relation more glorious than any -romance, the story of St. Clare's elopement is -simply a romance with a happy ending; and St. Francis -is the St. George or knight-errant who -gave it a happy ending. And seeing that some -millions of men and women have lived and died -treating this relation as a reality, a man is not -much of a philosopher if he cannot even treat it -as a hypothesis.</p> - -<p>For the rest, we may at least assume that no -friend of what is called the emancipation of women -will regret the revolt of St. Clare. She did most -truly, in the modern jargon, live her own life, -the life that she herself wanted to lead, as distinct -from the life into which parental commands and -conventional arrangements would have forced her. -She became the foundress of a great feminine -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">{129}</a></span> -movement which still profoundly affects the world; -and her place is with the powerful women of -history. It is not clear that she would have been -so great or so useful if she had made a runaway -match, or even stopped at home and made a -<i>mariage de convenance</i>. So much any sensible -man may well say considering the matter merely -from the outside; and I have no intention of -attempting to consider it from the inside. If a -man may well doubt whether he is worthy to -write a word about St. Francis, he will certainly -want words better than his own to speak of the -friendship of St. Francis and St. Clare. I have -often remarked that the mysteries of this story -are best expressed symbolically in certain silent -attitudes and actions. And I know no better -symbol than that found by the felicity of popular -legend, which says that one night the people of -Assisi thought the trees and the holy house were -on fire, and rushed up to extinguish the conflagration. -But they found all quiet within, where -St. Francis broke bread with St. Clare at one of -their rare meetings, and talked of the love of God. -It would be hard to find a more imaginative -image, for some sort of utterly pure and disembodied -passion, than that red halo round the -unconscious figures on the hill; a flame feeding on -nothing and setting the very air on fire.</p> - -<p>But if the Second Order was the memorial of -such an unearthly love, the Third Order was as -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">{130}</a></span> -solid a memorial of a very solid sympathy with -earthly loves and earthly lives. The whole of this -feature in Catholic life, the lay orders in touch -with clerical orders, is very little understood in -Protestant countries and very little allowed for in -Protestant history. The vision which has been -so faintly suggested in these pages has never been -confined to monks or even to friars. It has been -an inspiration to innumerable crowds of ordinary -married men and women; living lives like our -own, only entirely different. That morning glory -which St. Francis spread over earth and sky has -lingered as a secret sunshine under a multitude of -roofs and in a multitude of rooms. In societies -like ours nothing is known of such a Franciscan -following. Nothing is known of such obscure -followers; and if possible less is known of the well-known -followers. If we imagine passing us in the -street a pageant of the Third Order of St. Francis, -the famous figures would surprise us more than -the strange ones. For us it would be like the -unmasking of some mighty secret society. There -rides St. Louis, the great king, lord of the higher -justice whose scales hang crooked in favour of the -poor. There is Dante crowned with laurel, the -poet who in his life of passions sang the praises of -the Lady Poverty, whose grey garment is lined -with purple and all glorious within. All sorts of -great names from the most recent and rationalistic -centuries would stand revealed; the great -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">{131}</a></span> -Galvani, for instance, the father of all electricity, -the magician who has made so many modern -systems of stars and sounds. So various a following -would alone be enough to prove that St. Francis -had no lack of sympathy with normal men, -if the whole of his own life did not prove it.</p> - -<p>But in fact his life did prove it, and that -possibly in a more subtle sense. There is, I -fancy, some truth in the hint of one of his modern -biographers, that even his natural passions were -singularly normal and even noble, in the sense of -turning towards things not unlawful in themselves -but only unlawful for him. Nobody ever -lived of whom we could less fitly use the word -"regret" than Francis of Assisi. Though there -was much that was romantic, there was nothing -in the least sentimental about his mood. It was -not melancholy enough for that. He was of far -too swift and rushing a temper to be troubled with -doubts and reconsiderations about the race he -ran; though he had any amount of self-reproach -about not running faster. But it is true, one -suspects, that when he wrestled with the devil, -as every man must to be worth calling a man, the -whispers referred mostly to those healthy instincts -that he would have approved for others; they -bore no resemblance to that ghastly painted -paganism which sent its demoniac courtesans to -plague St. Anthony in the desert. If St. Francis -had only pleased himself, it would have been with -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">{132}</a></span> -simpler pleasures. He was moved to love rather -than lust, and by nothing wilder than wedding-bells. -It is suggested in that strange story of how -he defied the devil by making images in the snow, -and crying out that these sufficed him for a wife -and family. It is suggested in the saying he used -when disclaiming any security from sin, "I may yet -have children"; almost as if it was of the children -rather than the woman that he dreamed. And -this, if it be true, gives a final touch to the truth -about his character. There was so much about -him of the spirit of the morning, so much that was -curiously young and clean, that even what was -bad in him was good. As it was said of others -that the light in their body was darkness, so it -may be said of this luminous spirit that the very -shadows in his soul were of light. Evil itself -could not come to him save in the form of a forbidden -good; and he could only be tempted by a -sacrament.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">{133}</a></span> - - <h2><i>Chapter VIII</i><br /> - <small><i>The Mirror of Christ</i></small></h2> - -</div> - -<p><span class="smc">No</span> man who has been given the freedom of -the Faith is likely to fall into those hole-and-corner -extravagances in which later degenerate -Franciscans, or rather Fraticelli, sought to concentrate -entirely on St. Francis as a second -Christ, the creator of a new gospel. In fact -any such notion makes nonsense of every motive -in the man's life; for no man would reverently -magnify what he was meant to rival, or only -profess to follow what he existed to supplant. -On the contrary, as will appear later, this little -study would rather specially insist that it was -really the papal sagacity that saved the great -Franciscan movement for the whole world and -the universal Church, and prevented it from -petering out as that sort of stale and second-rate -sect that is called a new religion. Everything -that is written here must be understood not only -as distinct from but diametrically opposed to -the idolatry of the Fraticelli. The difference -between Christ and St. Francis was the difference -between the Creator and the creature; -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">{134}</a></span> -and certainly no creature was ever so conscious -of that colossal contrast as St. Francis -himself. But subject to this understanding, -it is perfectly true and it is vitally important -that Christ was the pattern on which St. Francis -sought to fashion himself; and that at many -points their human and historical lives were even -curiously coincident; and above all, that compared -to most of us at least St. Francis is a most -sublime approximation to his Master, and, -even in being an intermediary and a reflection, -is a splendid and yet a merciful Mirror of -Christ. And this truth suggests another, which -I think has hardly been noticed; but which -happens to be a highly forcible argument for -the authority of Christ being continuous in the -Catholic Church.</p> - -<p>Cardinal Newman wrote in his liveliest controversial -work a sentence that might be a model -of what we mean by saying that his creed tends -to lucidity and logical courage. In speaking of -the ease with which truth may be made to look -like its own shadow or sham, he said, "And if -Antichrist is like Christ, Christ I suppose is -like Antichrist." Mere religious sentiment might -well be shocked at the end of the sentence; -but nobody could object to it except the logician -who said that Cæsar and Pompey were very -much alike, especially Pompey. It may give a -much milder shock if I say here, what most of -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">{135}</a></span> -us have forgotten, that if St. Francis was like -Christ, Christ was to that extent like St. Francis. -And my present point is that it is really very -enlightening to realise that Christ was like -St. Francis. What I mean is this; that if men -find certain riddles and hard sayings in the story -of Galilee, and if they find the answers to those -riddles in the story of Assisi, it really does show -that a secret has been handed down in one -religious tradition and no other. It shows that -the casket that was locked in Palestine can be -unlocked in Umbria; for the Church is the -keeper of the keys.</p> - -<p>Now in truth while it has always seemed -natural to explain St. Francis in the light of -Christ, it has not occurred to many people to -explain Christ in the light of St. Francis. Perhaps -the word "light" is not here the proper -metaphor; but the same truth is admitted in -the accepted metaphor of the mirror. St. Francis -is the mirror of Christ rather as the moon is the -mirror of the sun. The moon is much smaller -than the sun, but it is also much nearer to us; -and being less vivid it is more visible. Exactly -in the same sense St. Francis is nearer to us, and -being a mere man like ourselves is in that sense -more imaginable. Being necessarily less of a -mystery, he does not, for us, so much open his -mouth in mysteries. Yet as a matter of fact, -many minor things that seem mysteries in the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">{136}</a></span> -mouth of Christ would seem merely characteristic -paradoxes in the mouth of St. Francis. -It seems natural to re-read the more remote -incidents with the help of the more recent ones. -It is a truism to say that Christ lived before -Christianity; and it follows that as an historical -figure He is a figure in heathen history. I mean -that the medium in which He moved was not the -medium of Christendom but of the old pagan -empire; and from that alone, not to mention -the distance of time, it follows that His circumstances -are more alien to us than those of an -Italian monk such as we might meet even to-day. -I suppose the most authoritative commentary -can hardly be certain of the current or conventional -weight of all His words or phrases; of -which of them would then have seemed a common -allusion and which a strange fancy. This archaic -setting has left many of the sayings standing -like hieroglyphics and subject to many and -peculiar individual interpretations. Yet it is -true of almost any of them that if we simply -translate them into the Umbrian dialect of the -first Franciscans, they would seem like any -other part of the Franciscan story; doubtless -in one sense fantastic, but quite familiar. All -sorts of critical controversies have revolved -round the passage which bids men consider the -lilies of the field and copy them in taking no -thought for the morrow. The sceptic has alternated -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">{137}</a></span> -between telling us to be true Christians -and do it, and explaining that it is impossible -to do. When he is a communist as well as an -atheist, he is generally doubtful whether to -blame us for preaching what is impracticable -or for not instantly putting it into practice. I -am not going to discuss here the point of ethics -and economics; I merely remark that even -those who are puzzled at the saying of Christ -would hardly pause in accepting it as a saying -of St. Francis. Nobody would be surprised to -find that he had said, "I beseech you, little -brothers, that you be as wise as Brother Daisy -and Brother Dandelion; for never do they lie -awake thinking of to-morrow, yet they have -gold crowns like kings and emperors or like -Charlemagne in all his glory." Even more -bitterness and bewilderment has arisen about -the command to turn the other cheek and to -give the coat to the robber who has taken the -cloak. It is widely held to imply the wickedness -of war among nations; about which, in itself, -not a word seems to have been said. Taken thus -literally and universally, it much more clearly -implies the wickedness of all law and government. -Yet there are many prosperous peacemakers who -are much more shocked at the idea of using the -brute force of soldiers against a powerful foreigner -than they are at using the brute force of policemen -against a poor fellow-citizen. Here again I -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">{138}</a></span> -am content to point out that the paradox becomes -perfectly human and probable if addressed by -Francis to Franciscans. Nobody would be surprised -to read that Brother Juniper did then -run after the thief that had stolen his hood, -beseeching him to take his gown also; for so -St. Francis had commanded him. Nobody would -be surprised if St. Francis told a young noble, -about to be admitted to his company, that so -far from pursuing a brigand to recover his shoes, -he ought to pursue him to make him a present -of his stockings. We may like or not the atmosphere -these things imply; but we know what -atmosphere they do imply. We recognise a -certain note as natural and clear as the note of -a bird; the note of St. Francis. There is in it -something of gentle mockery of the very idea of -possessions; something of a hope of disarming -the enemy by generosity; something of a humorous -sense of bewildering the worldly with the -unexpected; something of the joy of carrying -an enthusiastic conviction to a logical extreme. -But anyhow we have no difficulty in recognising -it, if we have read any of the literature of the -Little Brothers and the movement that began -in Assisi. It seems reasonable to infer that if -it was this spirit that made such strange things -possible in Umbria, it was the same spirit that -made them possible in Palestine. If we hear -the same unmistakable note and sense the same -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">{139}</a></span> -indescribable savour in two things at such a -distance from each other, it seems natural to -suppose that the case that is more remote from -our experience was like the case that is closer -to our experience. As the thing is explicable -on the assumption that Francis was speaking -to Franciscans, it is not an irrational explanation -to suggest that Christ also was speaking to some -dedicated band that had much the same function -as Franciscans. In other words, it seems only -natural to hold, as the Catholic Church has held, -that these counsels of perfection were part of -a particular vocation to astonish and awaken -the world. But in any case it is important to -note that when we do find these particular -features, with their seemingly fantastic fitness, -reappearing after more than a thousand years, -we find them produced by the same religious -system which claims continuity and authority -from the scenes in which they first appeared. -Any number of philosophies will repeat the -platitudes of Christianity. But it is the ancient -Church that can again startle the world with -the paradoxes of Christianity. <i>Ubi Petrus ibi -Franciscus.</i></p> - -<p>But if we understand that it was truly under -the inspiration of his divine Master that St. Francis -did these merely quaint or eccentric -acts of charity, we must understand that it was -under the same inspiration that he did acts of -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">{140}</a></span> -self-denial and austerity. It is clear that these -more or less playful parables of the love of men -were conceived after a close study of the Sermon -on the Mount. But it is evident that he made -an even closer study of the silent sermon on that -other mountain; the mountain that was called -Golgotha. Here again he was speaking the -strict historical truth, when he said that in fasting -or suffering humiliation he was but trying to do -something of what Christ did; and here again -it seems probable that as the same truth appears -at the two ends of a chain of tradition, the tradition -has preserved the truth. But the import of -this fact at the moment affects the next phase -in the personal history of the man himself.</p> - -<p>For as it becomes clearer that his great -communal scheme is an accomplished fact and -past the peril of an early collapse, as it becomes -evident that there already is such a thing as an -Order of the Friars Minor, this more individual -and intense ambition of St. Francis emerges -more and more. So soon as he certainly has -followers, he does not compare himself with his -followers, towards whom he might appear as a -master; he compares himself more and more -with his Master, towards whom he appears -only as a servant. This, it may be said in passing, -is one of the moral and even practical conveniences -of the ascetical privilege. Every other -sort of superiority may be superciliousness. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">{141}</a></span> -But the saint is never supercilious, for he is -always by hypothesis in the presence of a superior. -The objection to an aristocracy is that it is a -priesthood without a god. But in any case the -service to which St. Francis had committed -himself was one which, about this time, he conceived -more and more in terms of sacrifice and -crucifixion. He was full of the sentiment that -he had not suffered enough to be worthy even -to be a distant follower of his suffering God. -And this passage in his history may really be -roughly summarised as the Search for Martyrdom.</p> - -<p>This was the ultimate idea in the remarkable -business of his expedition among the Saracens -in Syria. There were indeed other elements -in his conception, which are worthy of more -intelligent understanding than they have often -received. His idea, of course, was to bring the -Crusades in a double sense to their end; that is, -to reach their conclusion and to achieve their -purpose. Only he wished to do it by conversion -and not by conquest; that is, by intellectual -and not material means. The modern mind is -hard to please; and it generally calls the way of -Godfrey ferocious and the way of Francis fanatical. -That is, it calls any moral method unpractical, -when it has just called any practical -method immoral. But the idea of St. Francis -was far from being a fanatical or necessarily -even an unpractical idea; though perhaps he -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">{142}</a></span> -saw the problem as rather too simple, lacking -the learning of his great inheritor Raymond -Lully, who understood more but has been quite -as little understood. The way he approached -the matter was indeed highly personal and -peculiar; but that was true of almost everything -he did. It was in one way a simple idea, as most -of his ideas were simple ideas. But it was not -a silly idea; there was a great deal to be said for -it and it might have succeeded. It was, of course, -simply the idea that it is better to create Christians -than to destroy Moslems. If Islam had been -converted, the world would have been immeasurably -more united and happy; for one thing, -three quarters of the wars of modern history -would never have taken place. It was not -absurd to suppose that this might be effected, -without military force, by missionaries who -were also martyrs. The Church had conquered -Europe in that way and may yet conquer Asia -or Africa in that way. But when all this is -allowed for, there is still another sense in which -St. Francis was not thinking of Martyrdom as a -means to an end, but almost as an end in itself; -in the sense that to him the supreme end was to -come closer to the example of Christ. Through -all his plunging and restless days ran the refrain: -I have not suffered enough; I have not sacrificed -enough; I am not yet worthy even of the shadow -of the crown of thorns. He wandered about the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">{143}</a></span> -valleys of the world looking for the hill that -has the outline of a skull.</p> - -<p>A little while before his final departure for the -East a vast and triumphant assembly of the -whole order had been held near the Portiuncula; -and called The Assembly of the Straw Huts, -from the manner in which that mighty army -encamped in the field. Tradition says that it -was on this occasion that St. Francis met St. Dominic -for the first and last time. It also says, -what is probable enough, that the practical -spirit of the Spaniard was almost appalled at -the devout irresponsibility of the Italian, who -had assembled such a crowd without organising -a commissariat. Dominic the Spaniard was, -like nearly every Spaniard, a man with the mind -of a soldier. His charity took the practical -form of provision and preparation. But, apart -from the disputes about faith which such incidents -open, he probably did not understand in this -case the power of mere popularity produced -by mere personality. In all his leaps in the -dark, Francis had an extraordinary faculty of -falling on his feet. The whole countryside -came down like a landslide to provide food and -drink for this sort of pious picnic. Peasants -brought waggons of wine and game; great -nobles walked about doing the work of footmen. -It was a very real victory for the Franciscan -spirit of a reckless faith not only in God but in -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">{144}</a></span> -man. Of course there is much doubt and dispute -about the whole story and the whole relation -of Francis and Dominic; and the story of the -Assembly of the Straw Huts is told from the -Franciscan side. But the alleged meeting is -worth mentioning, precisely because it was -immediately before St. Francis set forth on his -bloodless crusade that he is said to have met -St. Dominic, who has been so much criticised for -lending himself to a more bloody one. There -is no space in this little book to explain how -St. Francis, as much as St. Dominic, would -ultimately have defended the defence of Christian -unity by arms. Indeed it would need a large -book instead of a little book to develop that -point alone from its first principles. For the -modern mind is merely a blank about the philosophy -of toleration; and the average agnostic -of recent times has really had no notion of what -he meant by religious liberty and equality. -He took his own ethics as self-evident and enforced -them; such as decency or the error of the Adamite -heresy. Then he was horribly shocked if he heard -of anybody else, Moslem or Christian, taking -<i>his</i> ethics as self-evident and enforcing <i>them</i>; -such as reverence or the error of the Atheist -heresy. And then he wound up by taking all -this lop-sided illogical deadlock, of the unconscious -meeting the unfamiliar, and called it -the liberality of his own mind. Medieval men -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">{145}</a></span> -thought that if a social system was founded -on a certain idea it must fight for that idea, -whether it was as simple as Islam or as carefully -balanced as Catholicism. Modern men really -think the same thing, as is clear when communists -attack their ideas of property. Only -they do not think it so clearly, because they -have not really thought out their idea of property. -But while it is probable that St. Francis would -have reluctantly agreed with St. Dominic that -war for the truth was right in the last resort, -it is certain that St. Dominic did enthusiastically -agree with St. Francis that it was far better -to prevail by persuasion and enlightenment -if it were possible. St. Dominic devoted himself -much more to persuading than to persecuting; -but there was a difference in the methods simply -because there was a difference in the men. -About everything St. Francis did there was -something that was in a good sense childish, -and even in a good sense wilful. He threw -himself into things abruptly, as if they had -just occurred to him. He made a dash for his -Mediterranean enterprise with something of the -air of a schoolboy running away to sea.</p> - -<p>In the first act of that attempt he characteristically -distinguished himself by becoming the -Patron Saint of Stowaways. He never thought -of waiting for introductions or bargains or any -of the considerable backing that he already had -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">{146}</a></span> -from rich and responsible people. He simply -saw a boat and threw himself into it, as he threw -himself into everything else. It has all that -air of running a race which makes his whole life -read like an escapade or even literally an escape. -He lay like lumber among the cargo, with one -companion whom he had swept with him in -his rush; but the voyage was apparently unfortunate -and erratic and ended in an enforced -return to Italy. Apparently it was after this -first false start that the great re-union took -place at the Portiuncula, and between this and -the final Syrian journey there was also an attempt -to meet the Moslem menace by preaching to -the Moors in Spain. In Spain indeed several of -the first Franciscans had already succeeded -gloriously in being martyred. But the great -Francis still went about stretching out his arms -for such torments and desiring that agony in -vain. No one would have said more readily -than he that he was probably less like Christ -than those others who had already found their -Calvary; but the thing remained with him -like a secret; the strangest of the sorrows of -man.</p> - -<p>His later voyage was more successful, so far -as arriving at the scene of operations was concerned. -He arrived at the headquarters of -the Crusade which was in front of the besieged -city of Damietta, and went on in his rapid and -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">{147}</a></span> -solitary fashion to seek the headquarters of the -Saracens. He succeeded in obtaining an interview -with the Sultan; and it was at that interview -that he evidently offered, and as some say proceeded, -to fling himself into the fire as a divine -ordeal, defying the Moslem religious teachers -to do the same. It is quite certain that he would -have done so at a moment's notice. Indeed -throwing himself into the fire was hardly more -desperate, in any case, than throwing himself -among the weapons and tools of torture of a -horde of fanatical Mahomedans and asking them -to renounce Mahomet. It is said further that -the Mahomedan muftis showed some coldness -towards the proposed competition, and that one -of them quietly withdrew while it was under -discussion; which would also appear credible. -But for whatever reason Francis evidently -returned as freely as he came. There may be -something in the story of the individual impression -produced on the Sultan, which the narrator -represents as a sort of secret conversion. There -may be something in the suggestion that the -holy man was unconsciously protected among -half-barbarous orientals by the halo of sanctity -that is supposed in such places to surround an -idiot. There is probably as much or more in -the more generous explanation of that graceful -though capricious courtesy and compassion which -mingled with wilder things in the stately Soldans -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">{148}</a></span> -of the type and tradition of Saladin. Finally, -there is perhaps something in the suggestion -that the tale of St. Francis might be told as a -sort of ironic tragedy and comedy called The -Man Who Could Not Get Killed. Men liked -him too much for himself to let him die for his -faith; and the man was received instead of the -message. But all these are only converging -guesses at a great effort that is hard to judge, -because it broke off short like the beginnings of -a great bridge that might have united East and -West, and remains one of the great might-have-beens -of history.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile the great movement in Italy was -making giant strides. Backed now by papal -authority as well as popular enthusiasm, and -creating a kind of comradeship among all classes, -it had started a riot of reconstruction on all -sides of religious and social life; and especially -began to express itself in that enthusiasm for -building which is the mark of all the resurrections -of Western Europe. There had notably -been established at Bologna a magnificent mission -house of the Friars Minor; and a vast body of -them and their sympathisers surrounded it with -a chorus of acclamation. Their unanimity had -a strange interruption. One man alone in that -crowd was seen to turn and suddenly denounce -the building as if it had been a Babylonian temple; -demanding indignantly since when the Lady -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">{149}</a></span> -Poverty had thus been insulted with the luxury -of palaces. It was Francis, a wild figure, returned -from his Eastern Crusade; and it was the first -and last time that he spoke in wrath to his -children.</p> - -<p>A word must be said later about this serious -division of sentiment and policy, about which -many Franciscans, and to some extent Francis -himself, parted company with the more moderate -policy which ultimately prevailed. At this point -we need only note it as another shadow fallen -upon his spirit after his disappointment in the -desert; and as in some sense the prelude to the -next phase of his career, which is the most isolated -and the most mysterious. It is true that everything -about this episode seems to be covered -with some cloud of dispute, even including its -date; some writers putting it much earlier in -the narrative than this. But whether or no it -was chronologically it was certainly logically -the culmination of the story, and may best be -indicated here. I say indicated for it must be a -matter of little more than indication; the thing -being a mystery both in the higher moral and the -more trivial historical sense. Anyhow the conditions -of the affair seem to have been these. -Francis and a young companion, in the course -of their common wandering, came past a great -castle all lighted up with the festivities attending -a son of the house receiving the honour of knighthood. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">{150}</a></span> -This aristocratic mansion, which took its -name from Monte Feltro, they entered in their -beautiful and casual fashion and began to give -their own sort of good news. There were some at -least who listened to the saint "as if he had been -an angel of God"; among them a gentleman -named Orlando of Chiusi, who had great lands in -Tuscany, and who proceeded to do St. Francis a -singular and somewhat picturesque act of courtesy. -He gave him a mountain; a thing somewhat -unique among the gifts of the world. Presumably -the Franciscan rule which forbade a man to accept -money had made no detailed provision about -accepting mountains. Nor indeed did St. Francis -accept it save as he accepted everything, as a -temporary convenience rather than a personal -possession; but he turned it into a sort of refuge -for the eremitical rather than the monastic life; -he retired there when he wished for a life of prayer -and fasting which he did not ask even his closest -friends to follow. This was Alverno of the -Apennines, and upon its peak there rests for ever -a dark cloud that has a rim or halo of glory.</p> - -<p>What it was exactly that happened there may -never be known. The matter has been, I believe, -a subject of dispute among the most devout -students of the saintly life as well as between -such students and others of the more secular sort. -It may be that St. Francis never spoke to a soul -on the subject; it would be highly characteristic, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">{151}</a></span> -and it is certain in any case that he said very -little; I think he is only alleged to have spoken -of it to one man. Subject however to such truly -sacred doubts, I will confess that to me personally -this one solitary and indirect report that has -come down to us reads very like the report of -something real; of some of those things that -are more real than what we call daily realities. -Even something as it were double and bewildering -about the image seems to carry the impression -of an experience shaking the senses; as does the -passage in Revelations about the supernatural -creatures full of eyes. It would seem that St. Francis -beheld the heavens above him occupied -by a vast winged being like a seraph spread out -like a cross. There seems some mystery about -whether the winged figure was itself crucified -or in the posture of crucifixion, or whether it -merely enclosed in its frame of wings some -colossal crucifix. But it seems clear that there -was some question of the former impression; -for St. Bonaventura distinctly says that St. Francis -doubted how a seraph could be crucified, -since those awful and ancient principalities -were without the infirmity of the Passion. St. Bonaventura -suggests that the seeming contradiction -may have meant that St. Francis -was to be crucified as a spirit since he could not -be crucified as a man; but whatever the meaning -of the vision, the general idea of it is very vivid -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">{152}</a></span> -and overwhelming. St. Francis saw above him, -filling the whole heavens, some vast immemorial -unthinkable power, ancient like the Ancient of -Days, whose calm men had conceived under the -forms of winged bulls or monstrous cherubim, -and all that winged wonder was in pain like a -wounded bird. This seraphic suffering, it is said, -pierced his soul with a sword of grief and pity; -it may be inferred that some sort of mounting -agony accompanied the ecstasy. Finally after -some fashion the apocalypse faded from the -sky and the agony within subsided; and silence -and the natural air filled the morning twilight -and settled slowly in the purple chasms and -cleft abysses of the Apennines.</p> - -<p>The head of the solitary sank, amid all that -relaxation and quiet in which time can drift by -with the sense of something ended and complete; -and as he stared downwards, he saw the marks -of nails in his own hands.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">{153}</a></span> - - <h2><i>Chapter IX</i><br /> - <small><i>Miracles and Death</i></small></h2> - -</div> - -<p><span class="smc">The</span> tremendous story of the Stigmata of St. Francis, which was the end of the last chapter, -was in some sense the end of his life. In a logical -sense, it would have been the end even if it had -happened at the beginning. But truer traditions -refer it to a later date and suggest that his -remaining days on the earth had something -about them of the fingering of a shadow. Whether -St. Bonaventura was right in his hint that St. Francis -saw in that seraphic vision something -almost like a vast mirror of his own soul, that -could at least suffer like an angel though not -like a god, or whether it expressed under an -imagery more primitive and colossal than common -Christian art the primary paradox of the -death of God, it is evident from its traditional -consequences that it was meant for a crown and -for a seal. It seems to have been after seeing -this vision that he began to go blind.</p> - -<p>But the incident has another and much less -important place in this rough and limited outline. -It is the natural occasion for considering -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">{154}</a></span> -briefly and collectively all the facts or fables of -another aspect of the life of St. Francis; an aspect -which is, I will not say more disputable, but -certainly more disputed. I mean all that mass -of testimony and tradition that concerns his -miraculous powers and supernatural experiences, -with which it would have been easy to stud and -bejewel every page of the story; only that -certain circumstances necessary to the conditions -of this narration make it better to gather, somewhat -hastily, all such jewels into a heap.</p> - -<p>I have here adopted this course in order to -make allowance for a prejudice. It is indeed to -a great extent a prejudice of the past; a prejudice -that is plainly disappearing in days of greater -enlightenment, and especially of a greater range -of scientific experiment and knowledge. But it -is a prejudice that is still tenacious in many of -an older generation and still traditional in many -of the younger. I mean, of course, what used -to be called the belief "that miracles do not -happen," as I think Matthew Arnold expressed -it, in expressing the standpoint of so many of -our Victorian uncles and great-uncles. In other -words it was the remains of that sceptical simplification -by which some of the philosophers of the -early eighteenth century had popularised the -impression (for a very short time) that we had -discovered the regulations of the cosmos like the -works of a clock, of so very simple a clock that -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">{155}</a></span> -it was possible to distinguish almost at a glance -what could or could not have happened in human -experience. It should be remembered that these -real sceptics, of the golden age of scepticism, -were quite as scornful of the first fancies of science -as of the lingering legends of religion. Voltaire, -when he was told that a fossil fish had been -found on the peaks of the Alps, laughed openly -at the tale and said that some fasting monk or -hermit had dropped his fish-bones there; possibly -in order to effect another monkish fraud. Everybody -knows by this time that science has had its -revenge on scepticism. The border between the -credible and the incredible has not only become -once more as vague as in any barbaric twilight; -but the credible is obviously increasing and the -incredible shrinking. A man in Voltaire's time -did not know what miracle he would next have -to throw up. A man in our time does not know -what miracle he will next have to swallow.</p> - -<p>But long before these things had happened, in -those days of my boyhood when I first saw the -figure of St. Francis far away in the distance -and drawing me even at that distance, in those -Victorian days which did seriously separate the -virtues from the miracles of the saints—even in -those days I could not help feeling vaguely -puzzled about how this method could be applied -to history. Even then I did not quite understand, -and even now I do not quite understand, on what -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">{156}</a></span> -principle one is to pick and choose in the -chronicles of the past which seem to be all of -a piece. All our knowledge of certain historical -periods, and notably of the whole medieval period, -rests on certain connected chronicles written by -people who are some of them nameless and all -of them dead, who cannot in any case be cross-examined -and cannot in some cases be corroborated. -I have never been quite clear about -the nature of the right by which historians -accepted masses of detail from them as definitely -true, and suddenly denied their truthfulness when -one detail was preternatural. I do not complain -of their being sceptics; I am puzzled about why -the sceptics are not more sceptical. I can understand -their saying that these details would never -have been included in a chronicle except by -lunatics or liars; but in that case the only inference -is that the chronicle was written by liars -or lunatics. They will write for instance: -"Monkish fanaticism found it easy to spread -the report that miracles were already being -worked at the tomb of Thomas Becket." Why -should they not say equally well, "Monkish -fanaticism found it easy to spread the slander -that four knights from King Henry's court had -assassinated Thomas Becket in the cathedral"? -They would write something like this: "The -credulity of the age readily believed that Joan -of Arc had been inspired to point out the Dauphin -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">{157}</a></span> -although he was in disguise." Why should they -not write on the same principle: "The credulity -of the age was such as to suppose that an obscure -peasant girl could get an audience at the court -of the Dauphin"? And so, in the present case, -when they tell us there is a wild story that St. Francis -flung himself into the fire and emerged -scathless, upon what precise principle are they -forbidden to tell us of a wild story that St. Francis -flung himself into the camp of the -ferocious Moslems and returned safe? I only -ask for information; for I do not see the rationale -of the thing myself. I will undertake to say -there was not a word written of St. Francis by -any contemporary who was himself incapable of -believing and telling a miraculous story. Perhaps -it is all monkish fables and there never was -any St. Francis or any St. Thomas Becket or -any Joan of Arc. This is undoubtedly a <i>reductio -ad absurdum</i>; but it is a <i>reductio ad absurdum</i> -of the view which thought all miracles absurd.</p> - -<p>And in abstract logic this method of selection -would lead to the wildest absurdities. An -intrinsically incredible story could only mean -that the authority was unworthy of credit. -It could not mean that other parts of his story -must be received with complete credulity. If -somebody said he had met a man in yellow -trousers, who proceeded to jump down his own -throat, we should not exactly take our Bible oath -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">{158}</a></span> -or be burned at the stake for the statement that -he wore yellow trousers. If somebody claimed -to have gone up in a blue balloon and found that -the moon was made of green cheese, we should -not exactly take an affidavit that the balloon -was blue any more than that the moon was -green. And the really logical conclusion from -throwing doubts on all tales like the miracles of -St. Francis was to throw doubts on the existence -of men like St. Francis. And there really was a -modern moment, a sort of high-water mark of -insane scepticism, when this sort of thing was -really said or done. People used to go about -saying that there was no such person as St. Patrick; which is every bit as much of a human -and historical howler as saying there was no such -person as St. Francis. There was a time, for -instance, when the madness of mythological -explanation had dissolved a large part of solid -history under the universal and luxuriant warmth -and radiance of the Sun-Myth. I believe that -that particular sun has already set, but there -have been any number of moons and meteors -to take its place.</p> - -<p>St. Francis, of course, would make a magnificent -Sun-Myth. How could anybody miss the -chance of being a Sun-Myth when he is actually -best known by a song called The Canticle of -the Sun? It is needless to point out that the -fire in Syria was the dawn in the East and the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">{159}</a></span> -bleeding wounds in Tuscany the sunset in the -West. I could expound this theory at considerable -length; only, as so often happens to -such fine theorists, another and more promising -theory occurs to me. I cannot think how everybody, -including myself, can have overlooked the -fact that the whole tale of St. Francis is of -Totemistic origin. It is unquestionably a tale -that simply swarms with totems. The Franciscan -woods are as full of them as any Red Indian -fable. Francis is made to call himself an ass, -because in the original mythos Francis was -merely the name given to the real four-footed -donkey, afterwards vaguely evolved into a half-human -god or hero. And that, no doubt, is why -I used to feel that the Brother Wolf and Sister -Bird of St. Francis were somehow like the Brer -Fox and Sis Cow of Uncle Remus. Some say -there is an innocent stage of infancy in which -we do really believe that a cow talked or a fox -made a tar baby. Anyhow there is an innocent -period of intellectual growth in which we do -sometimes really believe that St. Patrick was a -Sun-Myth or St. Francis a Totem. But for the -most of us both those phases of paradise are -past.</p> - -<p>As I shall suggest in a moment, there is one -sense in which we can for practical purposes -distinguish between probable and improbable -things in such a story. It is not so much a -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">{160}</a></span> -question of cosmic criticism about the nature of -the event as of literary criticism about the nature -of the story. Some stories are told much more -seriously than others. But apart from this, I -shall not attempt here any definite differentiation -between them. I shall not do so for a practical -reason affecting the utility of the proceeding; I -mean the fact that in a practical sense the whole -of this matter is again in the melting pot, from -which many things may emerge moulded into -what rationalism would have called monsters. -The fixed points of faith and philosophy do -indeed remain always the same. Whether a man -believes that fire in one case could fail to burn, -depends on why he thinks it generally does burn. -If it burns nine sticks out of ten because it is -its nature or doom to do so, then it will burn -the tenth stick as well. If it burns nine sticks -because it is the will of God that it should, then -it might be the will of God that the tenth should -be unburned. Nobody can get behind that -fundamental difference about the reason of -things; and it is as rational for a theist to -believe in miracles as for an atheist to disbelieve -in them. In other words there is only one -intelligent reason why a man does not believe in -miracles and that is that he does believe in -materialism. But these fixed points of faith and -philosophy are things for a theoretical work and -have no particular place here. And in the matter -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">{161}</a></span> -of history and biography, which have their place -here, nothing is fixed at all. The world is in a -welter of the possible and impossible, and nobody -knows what will be the next scientific hypothesis -to support some ancient superstition. Three quarters -of the miracles attributed to St. Francis -would already be explained by psychologists, -not indeed as a Catholic explains them, but as -a materialist must necessarily refuse to explain -them. There is one whole department of the -miracles of St. Francis; the miracles of healing. -What is the good of a superior sceptic throwing -them away as unthinkable, at the moment when -faith-healing is already a big booming Yankee -business like Barnum's Show? There is another -whole department analogous to the tales of -Christ "perceiving men's thoughts." What is -the use of censoring them and blacking them out -because they are marked "miracles," when -thought-reading is already a parlour game like -musical chairs? There is another whole department, -to be studied separately if such scientific -study were possible, of the well-attested wonders -worked from his relics and fragmentary possessions. -What is the use of dismissing all that as inconceivable, -when even these common psychical -parlour tricks turn perpetually upon touching -some familiar object or holding in the hand -some personal possession? I do not believe, of -course, that these tricks are of the same type -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">{162}</a></span> -as the good works of the saint; save perhaps in -the sense of <i>Diabolus simius Dei</i>. But it is not -a question of what I believe and why, but of what -the sceptic disbelieves and why. And the moral -for the practical biographer and historian is that -he must wait till things settle down a little more, -before he claims to disbelieve anything.</p> - -<p>This being so he can choose between two -courses; and not without some hesitation, I -have here chosen between them. The best and -boldest course would be to tell the whole story -in a straightforward way, miracles and all, as -the original historians told it. And to this sane -and simple course the new historians will probably -have to return. But it must be remembered -that this book is avowedly only an introduction -to St. Francis or the study of St. Francis. Those -who need an introduction are in their nature -strangers. With them the object is to get them -to listen to St. Francis at all; and in doing so -it is perfectly legitimate so to arrange the order -of the facts that the familiar come before the -unfamiliar and those they can at once understand -before those they have a difficulty in -understanding. I should only be too thankful if -this thin and scratchy sketch contains a line or -two that attracts men to study St. Francis for -themselves; and if they do study him for themselves, -they will soon find that the supernatural -part of the story seems quite as natural as the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">{163}</a></span> -rest. But it was necessary that my outline -should be a merely human one, since I was only -presenting his claim on all humanity, including -sceptical humanity. I therefore adopted the -alternative course, of showing first that nobody -but a born fool could fail to realise that Francis -of Assisi was a very real historical human being; -and then summarising briefly in this chapter the -superhuman powers that were certainly a part -of that history and humanity. It only remains -to say a few words about some distinctions that -may reasonably be observed in the matter by -any man of any views; that he may not confuse -the point and climax of the saint's life with the -fancies or rumours that were really only the -fringes of his reputation.</p> - -<p>There is so immense a mass of legends and -anecdotes about St. Francis of Assisi, and there -are so many admirable compilations that cover -nearly all of them, that I have been compelled -within these narrow limits to pursue a somewhat -narrow policy; that of following one line of -explanation and only mentioning one anecdote -here or there because it illustrates that explanation. -If this is true about all the legends and -stories, it is especially true about the miraculous -legends and the supernatural stories. If we were -to take some stories as they stand, we should -receive a rather bewildered impression that the -biography contains more supernatural events than -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">{164}</a></span> -natural ones. Now it is clean against Catholic -tradition, co-incident in so many points with -common sense, to suppose that this is really the -proportion of these things in practical human -life. Moreover, even considered as supernatural -or preternatural stories, they obviously fall into -certain different classes, not so much by our -experience of miracles as by our experience of -stories. Some of them have the character of -fairy stories, in their form even more than their -incident. They are obviously tales told by the -fire to peasants or the children of peasants, under -conditions in which nobody thinks he is propounding -a religious doctrine to be received or rejected, -but only rounding off a story in the most symmetrical -way, according to that sort of decorative -scheme or pattern that runs through all fairy -stories. Others are obviously in their form most -emphatically evidence; that is they are testimony -that is truth or lies; and it will be very -hard for any judge of human nature to think -they are lies.</p> - -<p>It is admitted that the story of the Stigmata -is not a legend but can only be a lie. I mean -that it is certainly not a late legendary accretion -added afterwards to the fame of St. Francis; -but is something that started almost immediately -with his earliest biographers. It is practically -necessary to suggest that it was a conspiracy; -indeed there has been some disposition to put -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">{165}</a></span> -the fraud upon the unfortunate Elias, whom so -many parties have been disposed to treat as a -useful universal villain. It has been said, indeed, -that these early biographers, St. Bonaventura -and Celano and the Three Companions, though -they declare that St. Francis received the mystical -wounds, do not say that they themselves saw -those wounds. I do not think this argument -conclusive; because it only arises out of the very -nature of the narrative. The Three Companions -are not in any case making an affidavit; and -therefore none of the admitted parts of their -story are in the form of an affidavit. They are -writing a chronicle of a comparatively impersonal -and very objective description. They do not say, -"I saw St. Francis's wounds"; they say, "St. Francis -received wounds." But neither do they -say, "I saw St. Francis go into the Portiuncula"; -they say, "St. Francis went into the Portiuncula." -But I still cannot understand why they should be -trusted as eye-witnesses about the one fact and -not trusted as eye-witnesses about the other. It -is all of a piece; it would be a most abrupt and -abnormal interruption in their way of telling the -story if they suddenly began to curse and to -swear, and give their names and addresses, and -take their oath that they themselves saw and -verified the physical facts in question. It seems -to me, therefore, that this particular discussion -goes back to the general question I have already -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">{166}</a></span> -mentioned; the question of why these chronicles -should be credited at all, if they are credited -with abounding in the incredible. But that again -will probably be found to revert, in the last -resort, to the mere fact that some men cannot -believe in miracles because they are materialists. -That is logical enough; but they are bound to -deny the preternatural as much in the testimony -of a modern scientific professor as in that of a -medieval monkish chronicler. And there are -plenty of professors for them to contradict by -this time.</p> - -<p>But whatever may be thought of such supernaturalism -in the comparatively material and -popular sense of supernatural acts, we shall miss -the whole point of St. Francis, especially of -St. Francis after Alverno, if we do not realise -that he was living a supernatural life. And -there is more and more of such supernaturalism -in his life as he approaches towards his death. -This element of the supernatural did not separate -him from the natural; for it was the whole point -of his position that it united him more perfectly -to the natural. It did not make him dismal or -dehumanised; for it was the whole meaning of -his message that such mysticism makes a man -cheerful and humane. But it was the whole -point of his position, and it was the whole meaning -of his message, that the power that did it -was a supernatural power. If this simple distinction -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">{167}</a></span> -were not apparent from the whole of -his life, it would be difficult for anyone to miss -it in reading the account of his death.</p> - -<p>In a sense he may be said to have wandered -as a dying man, just as he had wandered as a -living one. As it became more and more apparent -that his health was failing, he seems to have -been carried from place to place like a pageant -of sickness or almost like a pageant of mortality. -He went to Rieti, to Nursia, perhaps to Naples, -certainly to Cortona by the lake of Perugia. -But there is something profoundly pathetic, and -full of great problems, in the fact that at last, -as it would seem, his flame of life leapt up and -his heart rejoiced when they saw afar off on the -Assisian hill the solemn pillars of the Portiuncula. -He who had become a vagabond for the sake of -a vision, he who had denied himself all sense of -place and possession, he whose whole gospel and -glory it was to be homeless, received like a -Parthian shot from nature, the sting of the sense -of home. He also had his <i>maladie du clocher</i>, -his sickness of the spire; though his spire was -higher than ours. "Never," he cried with the -sudden energy of strong spirits in death, "never -give up this place. If you would go anywhere -or make any pilgrimage, return always to your -home; for this is the holy house of God." And -the procession passed under the arches of his -home; and he laid down on his bed and his -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">{168}</a></span> -brethren gathered round him for the last long -vigil. It seems to me no moment for entering -into the subsequent disputes about which successors -he blessed or in what form and with -what significance. In that one mighty moment -he blessed us all.</p> - -<p>After he had taken farewell of some of his -nearest and especially some of his oldest friends, -he was lifted at his own request off his own rude -bed and laid on the bare ground; as some say -clad only in a hair-shirt, as he had first gone -forth into the wintry woods from the presence of -his father. It was the final assertion of his great -fixed idea; of praise and thanks springing to -their most towering height out of nakedness and -nothing. As he lay there we may be certain -that his seared and blinded eyes saw nothing -but their object and their origin. We may be -sure that the soul, in its last inconceivable isolation, -was face to face with nothing less than -God Incarnate and Christ Crucified. But for the -men standing around him there must have been -other thoughts mingling with these; and many -memories must have gathered like ghosts in the -twilight, as that day wore on and that great -darkness descended in which we all lost a friend.</p> - -<p>For what lay dying there was not Dominic of -the Dogs of God, a leader in logical and controversial -wars that could be reduced to a plan -and handed on like a plan; a master of a machine -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">{169}</a></span> -of democratic discipline by which others could -organise themselves. What was passing from -the world was a person; a poet; an outlook on -life like a light that was never after on sea or -land; a thing not to be replaced or repeated -while the earth endures. It has been said that -there was only one Christian, who died on the -cross; it is truer to say in this sense that there -was only one Franciscan, whose name was Francis. -Huge and happy as was the popular work he -left behind him, there was something that he -could not leave behind, any more than a landscape -painter can leave his eyes in his will. It -was an artist in life who was here called to be -an artist in death; and he had a better right -than Nero, his anti-type, to say <i>Qualis artifex -pereo</i>. For Nero's life was full of posing for the -occasion like that of an actor; while the Umbrian's -had a natural and continuous grace like that of -an athlete. But St. Francis had better things -to say and better things to think about, and -his thoughts were caught upwards where we -cannot follow them, in divine and dizzy heights -to which death alone can lift us up.</p> - -<p>Round about him stood the brethren in their -brown habits, those that had loved him even if -they afterwards disputed with each other. There -was Bernard his first friend and Angelo who had -served as his secretary and Elias his successor, -whom tradition tried to turn into a sort of Judas, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">{170}</a></span> -but who seems to have been little worse than an -official in the wrong place. His tragedy was -that he had a Franciscan habit without a Franciscan -heart, or at any rate with a very un-Franciscan -head. But though he made a bad Franciscan, -he might have made a decent Dominican. -Anyhow, there is no reason to doubt that he -loved Francis, for ruffians and savages did that. -Anyhow he stood among the rest as the hours -passed and the shadows lengthened in the house -of the Portiuncula; and nobody need think so -ill of him as to suppose that his thoughts were -then in the tumultuous future, in the ambitions -and controversies of his later years.</p> - -<p>A man might fancy that the birds must have -known when it happened; and made some -motion in the evening sky. As they had once, -according to the tale, scattered to the four -winds of heaven in the pattern of a cross at his -signal of dispersion, they might now have written -in such dotted lines a more awful augury across -the sky. Hidden in the woods perhaps were -little cowering creatures never again to be so -much noticed and understood; and it has been -said that animals are sometimes conscious of -things to which man their spiritual superior is -for the moment blind. We do not know whether -any shiver passed through all the thieves and the -outcasts and the outlaws, to tell them what had -happened to him who never knew the nature of -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">{171}</a></span> -scorn. But at least in the passages and porches -of the Portiuncula there was a sudden stillness, -where all the brown figures stood like bronze -statues; for the stopping of the great heart that -had not broken till it held the world.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">{172}</a></span> - - <h2><i>Chapter X</i><br /> - <small><i>The Testament of St. Francis</i></small></h2> - -</div> - -<p><span class="smc">In</span> one sense doubtless it is a sad irony that -St. Francis, who all his life had desired all men -to agree, should have died amid increasing disagreements. -But we must not exaggerate this -discord, as some have done, so as to turn it into -a mere defeat of all his ideals. There are some -who represent his work as having been merely -ruined by the wickedness of the world, or what -they always assume to be the even greater wickedness -of the Church.</p> - -<p>This little book is an essay on St. Francis and -not on the Franciscan Order, still less on the -Catholic Church or the Papacy or the policy -pursued towards the extreme Franciscans or the -Fraticelli. It is therefore only necessary to note -in a very few words what was the general nature -of the controversy that raged after the great -saint's death, and to some extent troubled the -last days of his life. The dominant detail was -the interpretation of the vow of poverty, or the -refusal of all possessions. Nobody so far as I -know ever proposed to interfere with the vow -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">{173}</a></span> -of the individual friar that he would have no -individual possessions. Nobody, that is, proposed -to interfere with his negation of private -property. But some Franciscans, invoking the -authority of Francis on their side, went further -than this and further I think than anybody else -has ever gone. They proposed to abolish not -only private property but property. That is, -they refused to be corporately responsible for -anything at all; for any buildings or stores or -tools; they refused to own them collectively -even when they used them collectively. It is -perfectly true that many, especially among the -first supporters of this view, were men of a splendid -and selfless spirit, wholly devoted to the great -saint's ideal. It is also perfectly true that the -Pope and the authorities of the Church did not -think this conception was a workable arrangement, -and went so far in modifying it as to set -aside certain clauses in the great saint's will. -But it is not at all easy to see that it <i>was</i> a workable -arrangement or even an arrangement at all; -for it was really a refusal to arrange anything. -Everybody knew of course that Franciscans were -communists; but this was not so much being a -communist as being an anarchist. Surely upon -any argument somebody or something must be -answerable for what happened to or in or concerning -a number of historic edifices and ordinary -goods and chattels. Many idealists of a socialistic -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">{174}</a></span> -sort, notably of the school of Mr. Shaw or -Mr. Wells, have treated this dispute as if it were -merely a case of the tyranny of wealthy and wicked -pontiffs crushing the true Christianity of Christian -Socialists. But in truth this extreme ideal was -in a sense the very reverse of Socialist, or even -social. Precisely the thing which these enthusiasts -refused was that social ownership on which -Socialism is built; what they primarily refused -to do was what Socialists primarily exist to do; -to own legally in their corporate capacity. Nor -is it true that the tone of the Popes towards the -enthusiasts was merely harsh and hostile. The -Pope maintained for a long time a compromise -which he had specially designed to meet their -own conscientious objections; a compromise -by which the Papacy itself held the property -in a kind of trust for the owners who refused -to touch it. The truth is that this incident -shows two things which are common enough -in Catholic history, but very little understood -by the journalistic history of industrial civilisation. -It shows that the Saints were sometimes -great men when the Popes were small men. But -it also shows that great men are sometimes -wrong when small men are right. And it will be -found, after all, very difficult for any candid -and clear-headed outsider to deny that the Pope -was right, when he insisted that the world was -not made only for Franciscans.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">{175}</a></span> -For that was what was behind the quarrel. -At the back of this particular practical question -there was something much larger and more -momentous, the stir and wind of which we can -feel as we read the controversy. We might go so -far as to put the ultimate truth thus. St. Francis -was so great and original a man that he had -something in him of what makes the founder -of a religion. Many of his followers were more -or less ready, in their hearts, to treat him as the -founder of a religion. They were willing to let -the Franciscan spirit escape from Christendom -as the Christian spirit had escaped from Israel. -They were willing to let it eclipse Christendom -as the Christian spirit had eclipsed Israel. Francis, -the fire that ran through the roads of Italy, was -to be the beginning of a conflagration in which -the old Christian civilisation was to be consumed. -That was the point the Pope had to settle; whether -Christendom should absorb Francis or Francis -Christendom. And he decided rightly, apart -from the duties of his place; for the Church could -include all that was good in the Franciscans and -the Franciscans could not include all that was -good in the Church.</p> - -<p>There is one consideration which, though -sufficiently clear in the whole story, has not perhaps -been sufficiently noted, especially by those who -cannot see the case for a certain Catholic common -sense larger even than Franciscan enthusiasm. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">{176}</a></span> -Yet it arises out of the very merits of the man -whom they so rightly admire. Francis of Assisi, -as has been said again and again, was a poet; -that is, he was a person who could express his -personality. Now it is everywhere the mark -of this sort of man that his very limitations make -him larger. He is what he is, not only by what -he has, but in some degree by what he has not. -But the limits that make the lines of such a -personal portrait cannot be made the limits of -all humanity. St. Francis is a very strong -example of this quality in the man of genius, -that in him even what is negative is positive, -because it is part of a character. An excellent -example of what I mean may be found in his -attitude towards learning and scholarship. He -ignored and in some degree discouraged books -and book-learning; and from his own point of -view and that of his own work in the world he -was absolutely right. The whole point of his -message was to be so simple that the village idiot -could understand it. The whole point of his -point of view was that it looked out freshly upon -a fresh world, that might have been made that -morning. Save for the great primal things, -the Creation and the Story of Eden, the first -Christmas and the first Easter, the world had no -history. But is it desired or desirable that the -whole Catholic Church should have no history?</p> - -<p>It is perhaps the chief suggestion of this book -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">{177}</a></span> -that St. Francis walked the world like the Pardon -of God. I mean that his appearance marked -the moment when men could be reconciled not -only to God but to nature and, most difficult of -all, to themselves. For it marked the moment -when all the stale paganism that had poisoned -the ancient world was at last worked out of the -social system. He opened the gates of the Dark -Ages as of a prison of purgatory, where men had -cleansed themselves as hermits in the desert -or heroes in the barbarian wars. It was in fact -his whole function to tell men to start afresh -and, in that sense, to tell them to forget. If -they were to turn over a new leaf and begin -a fresh page with the first large letters of the -alphabet, simply drawn and brilliantly coloured -in the early medieval manner, it was clearly -a part of that particular childlike cheerfulness -that they should paste down the old page that -was all black and bloody with horrid things. -For instance, I have already noted that there -is not a trace in the poetry of this first Italian -poet of all that pagan mythology which lingered -long after paganism. The first Italian poet -seems the only man in the world who has never -even heard of Virgil. This was exactly right for -the special sense in which he is the first Italian -poet. It is quite right that he should call a -nightingale a nightingale, and not have its song -spoilt or saddened by the terrible tales of Itylus -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">{178}</a></span> -or Procne. In short, it is really quite right and -quite desirable that St. Francis should never -have heard of Virgil. But do we really desire -that Dante should never have heard of Virgil? -Do we really desire that Dante should never have -read any pagan mythology? It has been truly -said that the use that Dante makes of such fables -is altogether part of a deeper orthodoxy; that -his huge heathen fragments, his gigantic figures -of Minos or of Charon, only give a hint of some -enormous natural religion behind all history -and from the first foreshadowing the Faith. It -is well to have the Sybil as well as David in the -Dies Irae. That St. Francis would have burned all -the leaves of all the books of the Sybil, in exchange -for one fresh leaf from the nearest tree, is perfectly -true; and perfectly proper to St. Francis. But -it is good to have the Dies Irae as well as the -Canticle of the Sun.</p> - -<p>By this thesis, in short, the coming of St. Francis -was like the birth of a child in a dark -house, lifting its doom; a child that grows up -unconscious of the tragedy and triumphs over it -by his innocence. In him it is necessarily not -only innocence but ignorance. It is the essence -of the story that <i>he</i> should pluck at the green -grass without knowing it grows over a murdered -man or climb the apple-tree without knowing -it was the gibbet of a suicide. It was such an -amnesty and reconciliation that the freshness -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">{179}</a></span> -of the Franciscan spirit brought to all the world. -But it does not follow that it ought to impose -its ignorance on all the world. And I think it -would have tried to impose it on all the world. -For some Franciscans it would have seemed -right that Franciscan poetry should expel Benedictine -prose. For the symbolic child it was -quite rational. It was right enough that for -such a child the world should be a large new -nursery with blank white-washed walls, on which -he could draw his own pictures in chalk in the -childish fashion, crude in outline and gay in -colour; the beginnings of all our art. It was -right enough that to him such a nursery should -seem the most magnificent mansion of the imagination -of man. But in the Church of God are many -mansions.</p> - -<p>Every heresy has been an effort to narrow the -Church. If the Franciscan movement had turned -into a new religion, it would after all have been -a narrow religion. In so far as it did turn here -and there into a heresy, it was a narrow heresy. -It did what heresy always does; it set the mood -against the mind. The mood was indeed originally -the good and glorious mood of the great -St. Francis, but it was not the whole mind of -God or even of man. And it is a fact that the -mood itself degenerated, as the mood turned into -a monomania. A sect that came to be called -the Fraticelli declared themselves the true sons -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">{180}</a></span> -of St. Francis and broke away from the compromises -of Rome in favour of what they would -have called the complete programme of Assisi. -In a very little while these loose Franciscans -began to look as ferocious as Flagellants. They -launched new and violent vetoes; they denounced -marriage; that is, they denounced mankind. -In the name of the most human of saints they -declared war upon humanity. They did not -perish particularly through being persecuted; -many of them were eventually persuaded; and -the unpersuadable rump of them that remained -remained without producing anything in the least -calculated to remind anybody of the real St. Francis. What was the matter with these people -was that they were mystics; mystics and nothing -else but mystics; mystics and not Catholics; -mystics and not Christians; mystics and not men. -They rotted away because, in the most exact -sense, they would not listen to reason. And St. Francis, however wild and romantic his gyrations -might appear to many, always hung on to reason -by one invisible and indestructible hair.</p> - -<p>The great saint was sane; and with the very -sound of the word sanity, as at a deeper chord struck -upon a harp, we come back to something that was -indeed deeper than everything about him that -seemed an almost elvish eccentricity. He was -not a mere eccentric because he was always -turning towards the centre and heart of the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">{181}</a></span> -maze; he took the queerest and most zigzag -short cuts through the wood, but he was always -going home. He was not only far too humble -to be an heresiarch, but he was far too human to -desire to be an extremist, in the sense of an exile -at the ends of the earth. The sense of humour -which salts all the stories of his escapades alone -prevented him from ever hardening into the -solemnity of sectarian self-righteousness. He -was by nature ready to admit that he was wrong; -and if his followers had on some practical points -to admit that he was wrong, they only admitted -that he was wrong in order to prove that he was -right. For it is they, his real followers, who -have really proved that he was right and even -in transcending some of his negations have -triumphantly extended and interpreted his truth. -The Franciscan order did not fossilise or break -off short like something of which the true purpose -has been frustrated by official tyranny or internal -treason. It was this, the central and orthodox -trunk of it, that afterwards bore fruit for the -world. It counted among its sons Bonaventura -the great mystic and Bernardino the popular -preacher, who filled Italy with the very beatific -buffooneries of a Jongleur de Dieu. It counted -Raymond Lully with his strange learning and -his large and daring plans for the conversion -of the world; a man intensely individual exactly -as St. Francis was intensely individual. It -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">{182}</a></span> -counted Roger Bacon, the first naturalist whose -experiments with light and water had all the -luminous quaintness that belongs to the beginnings -of natural history; and whom even the most -material scientists have hailed as a father of -science. It is not merely true that these were -great men who did great work for the world; -it is also true that they were a certain kind of -men keeping the spirit and savour of a certain -kind of man, that we can recognise in them a -taste and tang of audacity and simplicity, and -know them for the sons of St. Francis.</p> - -<p>For that is the full and final spirit in which -we should turn to St. Francis; in the spirit of -thanks for what he has done. He was above all -things a great giver; and he cared chiefly for -the best kind of giving which is called thanksgiving. -If another great man wrote a grammar -of assent, he may well be said to have written -a grammar of acceptance; a grammar of gratitude. -He understood down to its very depths the theory -of thanks; and its depths are a bottomless abyss. -He knew that the praise of God stands on its -strongest ground when it stands on nothing. He -knew that we can best measure the towering -miracle of the mere fact of existence if we realise -that but for some strange mercy we should not -even exist. And something of that larger truth -is repeated in a lesser form in our own relations -with so mighty a maker of history. He also -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">{183}</a></span> -is a giver of things we could not have even thought -of for ourselves; he also is too great for anything -but gratitude. From him came a whole awakening -of the world and a dawn in which all shapes -and colours could be seen anew. The mighty -men of genius who made the Christian civilisation -that we know appear in history almost as his -servants and imitators. Before Dante was, -he had given poetry to Italy; before St. Louis -ruled, he had risen as the tribune of the poor; -and before Giotto had painted the pictures, -he had enacted the scenes. That great painter -who began the whole human inspiration of European -painting had himself gone to St. Francis to -be inspired. It is said that when St. Francis -staged in his own simple fashion a Nativity Play -of Bethlehem, with kings and angels in the stiff -and gay medieval garments and the golden wigs -that stood for haloes, a miracle was wrought full -of the Franciscan glory. The Holy Child was -a wooden doll or bambino, and it was said that -he embraced it and that the image came to life -in his arms. He assuredly was not thinking of -lesser things; but we may at least say that one -thing came to life in his arms; and that was the -thing that we call the drama. Save for his intense -individual love of song, he did not perhaps himself -embody this spirit in any of these arts. He -was the spirit that was embodied. He was the -spiritual essence and substance that walked the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">{184}</a></span> -world, before anyone had seen these things in -visible forms derived from it: a wandering fire -as if from nowhere, at which men more material -could light both torches and tapers. He was the -soul of medieval civilisation before it even found -a body. Another and quite different stream -of spiritual inspiration derives largely from him; -all that reforming energy of medieval and modern -times that goes to the burden of <i>Deus est Deus -Pauperum</i>. His abstract ardour for human -beings was in a multitude of just medieval laws -against the pride and cruelty of riches; it is -to-day behind much that is loosely called Christian -Socialist and can more correctly be called Catholic -Democrat. Neither on the artistic nor the social -side would anybody pretend that these things -would not have existed without him; yet it is -strictly true to say that we cannot now imagine -them without him; since he has lived and changed -the world.</p> - -<p>And something of that sense of impotence -which was more than half his power will descend -on anyone who knows what that inspiration -has been in history, and can only record it in a -series of straggling and meagre sentences. He -will know something of what St. Francis meant -by the great and good debt that cannot be paid. -He will feel at once the desire to have done -infinitely more and the futility of having done -anything. He will know what it is to stand under -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">{185}</a></span> -such a deluge of a dead man's marvels, and have -nothing in return to establish against it; to have -nothing to set up under the overhanging, overwhelming -arches of such a temple of time and -eternity, but this brief candle burnt out so quickly -before his shrine.</p> - -<div class="books"> - - <h2>HODDER AND STOUGHTON'S<br /> - PEOPLE'S LIBRARY</h2> - -<p class="smc">General Editor: SIDNEY DARK</p> - -<p>2/6 net each volume</p> - -<p class="smc">St. Paul's House, Warwick Square, E.C.4</p> - -<ul> - <li>ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI. By <span class="smc">Gilbert K. Chesterton</span>.</li> - <li>VICTORIAN POETRY. By <span class="smc">John Drinkwater</span>.</li> - <li>EVERYDAY BIOLOGY. By <span class="smc">J. Arthur Thomson</span>.</li> - <li>THE POETRY OF ARCHITECTURE. By <span class="smc">Frank Rutter</span>.</li> - <li>THE STORY OF THE RENAISSANCE. By <span class="smc">Sidney Dark</span>.</li> - <li>ATOMS AND ELECTRONS. By <span class="smc">J. W. N. Sullivan</span>.</li> - <li>HOW TO READ HISTORY. By <span class="smc">W. Watkin Davies</span>.</li> - <li>OUR DEBT TO GREECE AND ROME. By <span class="smc">E. B. Osborn</span>.</li> - <li>HOW TO ENJOY THE COUNTRYSIDE. By <span class="smc">Marcus Woodward</span>.</li> - <li>HOW TO ENJOY LIFE. By <span class="smc">Sidney Dark</span>.</li> - <li>HOW TO ENJOY THE BIBLE. By <span class="smc">Canon Anthony C. Deane</span>, M.A.</li> -</ul> - -</div> - -<p class="center"><i>General Preface</i></p> - -<p>The object of <span class="smc">Hodder and Stoughton's -People's Library</span> is to supply in brief form -simply written introductions to the study of -History, Literature, Biography and Science; -in some degree to satisfy that ever-increasing -demand for knowledge which is one of the -happiest characteristics of our time. The -names of the authors of the first volumes of -the Library are sufficient evidence of the fact -that each subject will be dealt with authoritatively, -while the authority will not be of the -"dry-as-dust" order. Not only is it possible -to have learning without tears, but it is also -possible to make the acquiring of knowledge -a thrilling and entertaining adventure. -<span class="smc">Hodder and Stoughton's People's Library</span> -will, it is hoped, supply this adventure.</p> - -<p class="gap-above2 center small"><i>Printed in Great Britain. R. Clay & Sons, Ltd., Printers, Bungay.</i></p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's St. Francis of Assisi, by G. K. Chesterton - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ST. 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