I returned six months later. A scaffold had been put up in the middle of the nave; upon it an art critic was examining the paintings, and as the day was overcast he threw upon the walls the beams of a lamp with a reflector. Then you saw arms thrown out, faces grimacing, without unity, without harmony; the most exquisite figures took on something fantastic and grotesque.
He came down triumphant, with a portfolio stuffed with sketches; here a foot, there a muscle, farther on a bit of face, and I could not refrain from musing on the frescos as I had seen them bathed in sunlight.
The sun and the lamp are both deceivers; they transform what they show; but if the truth must be told I own to my preference for the falsehoods of the sun.
History is a landscape, and like those of nature it is continually changing. Two persons who look at it at the same time do not find in it the same charm, and you yourself, if you had it continually before your eyes, would never see it twice alike. The general lines are permanent, but it needs only a cloud to hide the most important ones, as it needs only a jet of light to bring out such or such a detail and give it a false value.
When I began this page the sun was disappearing behind the rains of the Castle of Crussol and the splendors of the sunset gave it a shining aureola; the light flooded everything, and you no longer saw anywhere the damage which wars have inflicted upon the old feudal manor. I looked, almost thinking I could perceive at the window the figure of the chatelaine ... Twilight has come, and now there is nothing up there but crumbling walls, a discrowned tower, nothing but ruins and rubbish, which seem to beg for pity.
It is the same with the landscapes of history. Narrow minds cannot accommodate themselves to these perpetual transformations: they want an objective history in which the author will study the people as a chemist studies a body. It is very possible that there may be laws for historic evolution and social transformations as exact as those of chemical combinations, and we must hope that in the end they will be discovered; but for the present there is no purely objective truth of history.
To write history we must think it, and to think it is to transform it.
Within a few years, it is true, men have believed they had found the secret of objectivity, in the publication of original doc.u.ments. This is a true progress which renders inestimable service, but here again we must not deceive ourselves as to its significance. All the doc.u.ments on an epoch or an event cannot usually be published, a selection must be made, and in it will necessarily appear the turn of mind of him who makes it. Let us admit that all that can be found is published; but alas, the most unusual movements have generally the fewest doc.u.ments.
Take, for instance, the religious history of the Middle Ages: it is already a pretty delicate task to collect official doc.u.ments, such as bulls, briefs, conciliary canons, monastic const.i.tutions, etc., but do these doc.u.ments contain all the life of the Church? Much is still wanting, and to my mind the movements which secretly agitated the ma.s.ses are much more important, although to testify to them we have only a few fragments.
Poor heretics, they were not only imprisoned and burned, but their books were destroyed and everything that spoke of them; and more than one historian, finding scarcely a trace of them in his heaps of doc.u.ments, forgets these prophets with their strange visions, these poet-monks who from the depths of their cells made the world to thrill and the papacy to tremble.
Objective history is then a utopia. We create G.o.d in our own image, and we impress the mark of our personality in places where we least expect to find it again.
But by dint of talking about the tribunal of history we have made most authors think that they owe to themselves and their readers definitive and irrevocable judgments.
It is always easier to p.r.o.nounce a sentence than to wait, to reserve one"s opinion, to re-examine. The crowd which has put itself out to be present at a trial is almost always furious with the judges when they reserve the case for further information; its mind is so made that it requires precision in things which will bear it the least; it puts questions right and left, as children do; if you appear to hesitate or to be embarra.s.sed you are lost in its estimation, you are evidently only an ignoramus.
But perhaps below the Areopagites, obliged by their functions to p.r.o.nounce sentence, there is place at the famous tribunal for a simple spectator who has come in by accident. He has made out a brief and would like very simply to tell his neighbors his opinion.
This, then, is not a history _ad probandum_, to use the ancient formula.
Is this to say that I have only desired to give the reader a moment of diversion? That would be to understand my thought very ill. In the grand spectacles of history as in those of nature there is something divine; from it our minds and hearts gain a virtue at once pacifying and encouraging, we experience the salutary sensation of littleness, and seeing the beauties and the sadnesses of the past we learn better how to judge the present hour.
In one of the frescos of the Upper Church of a.s.sisi, Giotto has represented St. Clara and her companions coming out from St. Damian all in tears, to kiss their spiritual father"s corpse as it is being carried to its last home. With an artist"s liberty he has made the chapel a rich church built of precious marbles.
Happily the real St. Damian is still there, nestled under some olive-trees like a lark under the heather; it still has its ill-made walls of irregular stones, like those which bound the neighboring fields. Which is the more beautiful, the ideal temple of the artist"s fancy, or the poor chapel of reality? No heart will be in doubt.
Francis"s official historians have done for his biography what Giotto did for his little sanctuary. In general they have done him ill-service.
Their embellishments have hidden the real St. Francis, who was, in fact, infinitely n.o.bler than they have made him to be. Ecclesiastical writers appear to make a great mistake in thus adorning the lives of their heroes, and only mentioning their edifying features. They thus give occasion, even to the most devout, to suspect their testimony. Besides, by thus surrounding their saints with light they make them superhuman creatures, having nothing in common with us; they are privileged characters, marked with the divine seal; they are, as the litanies say, vials of election, into which G.o.d has poured the sweetest perfumes; their sanct.i.ty is revealed almost in spite of themselves; they are born saints as others are born kings or slaves, their life is set out against the golden background of a tryptich, and not against the sombre background of reality.
By such means the saints, perhaps, gain something in the respect of the superst.i.tious; but their lives lose something of virtue and of communicable strength. Forgetting that they were men like ourselves, we no longer hear in our conscience the command, "Go and do likewise."
It is, then, a work of piety to seek behind the legend for the history.
Is it presumptuous to ask our readers to try to understand the thirteenth century and love St. Francis? They will be amply rewarded for the effort, and will soon find an unexpected charm in these too meagre landscapes, these incorporate souls, these sickly imaginations which will pa.s.s before their eyes. Love is the true key of history.
A book has always a great number of authors, and the following pages owe much to the researches of others; I have tried in the notes to show the whole value of these debts.
I have also had colaborers to whom it will be more difficult for me to express my grat.i.tude. I refer to the librarians of the libraries of Italy and their a.s.sistants; it is impossible to name them all, their faces are better known to me than their names, but I would here say that during long months pa.s.sed in the various collections of the Peninsula, all, even to the most humble employees, have shown a tireless helpfulness even at those periods of the year when the number of attendants was the smallest.
Professor Alessandro Leto, who, barely recovered from a grave attack of influenza, kindly served as my guide among the archives of a.s.sisi, deserves a very particular mention. To the Syndic and munic.i.p.ality of that city I desire also to express my grat.i.tude.
I cannot close without a warm remembrance to the spiritual sons of St.
Francis dispersed in the mountains of Umbria and Tuscany.
Dear dwellers in St. Damian, Portiuncula, the Carceri, the Verna, Monte Colombo, you perhaps remember the strange pilgrim who, though he wore neither the frock nor the cord, used to talk with you of the Seraphic Father with as much love as the most pious Franciscan; you used to be surprised at his eagerness to see everything, to look at everything, to thread all the unexplored paths. You often tried to restrain him by telling him that there was not the smallest relic, the most meagre indulgence in the far-away grottos to which he was dragging you, but you always ended by going with him, thinking that none but a Frenchman could be possessed by a devotion so fervent and so imprudent.
Thank you, pious anchorites of Greccio, thank you for the bread that you went out and begged when I arrived at your hermitage benumbed with cold and hunger. If you read these lines, read here my grat.i.tude and also a little admiration. You are not all saints, but nearly all of you have hours of saintliness, flights of pure love.
If some pages of this book give you pain, turn them over quickly; let me think that others of them will give you pleasure, and will make the name you bear, if possible, still more precious to you than it now is.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The mendicant orders were in their origin a true _International_. When in the spring of 1216 St. Dominic a.s.sembled his friars at Notre Dame de la Prouille, they were found to be sixteen in number, and among them Castilians, Navarese, Normans, French, Languedocians, and even English and Germans.
Heretics travelled all over Europe, and nowhere do we find them checked by the diversity of languages. Arnold of Brescia, for example, the famous Tribune of Rome, appeared in France and Switzerland and in the heart of Germany.
[2] The Reformation only subst.i.tuted the authority of the book for that of the priest; it is a change of dynasty and nothing more. As to the majority of those who to-day call themselves free-thinkers, they confuse religious freedom with irreligion; they choose not to see that in religion as in politics, between a royalty based on divine right and anarchy there is room for a government which may be as strong as the first and a better guarantee of freedom than the second. The spirit of the older time put G.o.d outside of the world; the sovereignty outside of the people; authority outside of the conscience. The spirit of the new times has the contrary tendency: it denies neither G.o.d nor sovereignty nor authority, but it sees them where they really are.
[3] _Nemo ostendebat mihi quod deberem facere, sed ipse Altissimus revelavit mihi quod deberem vivere secundem formam sancti Evangelii._ Testamentum Fr.
[4] The wealthiest monasteries of France are of the twelfth century or were enlarged at that time: Arles, S. Gilles, S.
Sernin, Cluny, Vezelay, Brioude, Issoire, Paray-le-Monial. The same was the case in Italy.
Down to the year 1000, 1,108 monasteries had been founded in France. The eleventh century saw the birth of 326 and the twelfth of 702. The convents of Mount Athos in their present state give us a very accurate notion of the great monasteries of Europe at the close of the twelfth century.
[5] St. Petrus Chrysologus, sermo viii., de jejunio et eleemosyna. _Da pauperi ut des tibi: da micam ut accipias totum panem; da tectum, accipe coelum._
[6] By what right did he begin to preach? By what right did he, a mere deacon, admit to profession and cut off the hair of a young girl of eighteen? That is an episcopal function, one which can only devolve even upon priests by an express commission.
[7] Isaiah i. 10-17. Cf. Joel 2, Psalm 50.
[8] The chronicles of Orvieto (_Archivio, storico italiano_, t.
i., of 1889, pp. 7 and following) are nothing more than a list, as melancholy as they are tedious of wars, which, during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, all the places of that region carried on, from the greatest to the smallest.
[9] Do not forget that in the thirteenth century Italy was not a mere geographical expression. It was of all the countries of Europe the one which, notwithstanding its part.i.tions, had the clearest consciousness of its unity. The expression _profectus et honor Italiae_ often appeared from the pen of Innocent III.
See, for instance, the bull of April 16, 1198, _Mirari cogimur_, addressed particularly to the a.s.sisans.
[10] Note what the Fioretti say of Brother Bernard: "_Stava solo sulle cime dei monti altissimi contemplando le cose celesti._"
Fior., 28. The learned historian of a.s.sisi, Mr. Cristofani, has used similar expressions; speaking of St. Francis, he says: "_Nuovo Christo in somma e pero degno d"essere riguardoto come la piu gigantesca, la piu splendida, la piu cara tra le grandi figure campeggianti nell" aere del medio evo_" (_Storia d"a.s.sisi_, t. i., p. 70, ed. of 1885).
[11] It remains open all night.
LIFE OF ST. FRANCIS