But the incident has another and much less important place in this rough and limited outline. It is the natural occasion for considering {154}briefly6 and collectively all the facts or fables7 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 testimony10 and tradition that concerns his miraculous11 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 narration12 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 tenacious13 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 remains14 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 cosmos15 like the works of a clock, of so very simple a clock that {155}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 monk16 or hermit17 had dropped his fish-bones there; possibly in order to effect another monkish18 fraud. Everybody knows by this time that science has had its revenge on scepticism. The border between the credible19 and the incredible has not only become once more as vague as in any barbaric twilight20; 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 virtues21 from the miracles of the saints—even in those days I could not help feeling vaguely22 puzzled about how this method could be applied23 to history. Even then I did not quite understand, and even now I do not quite understand, on what {156}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 notably24 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 corroborated25. 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 truthfulness26 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 liars27; but in that case the only inference is that the chronicle was written by liars or lunatics. They will write for instance: "Monkish fanaticism28 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 slander29 that four knights30 from King Henry's court had assassinated31 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 {157}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 ferocious33 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 incapable34 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 undoubtedly35 a reductio ad absurdum; but it is a reductio ad absurdum of the view which thought all miracles absurd.
And in abstract logic1 this method of selection would lead to the wildest absurdities36. 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 {158}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 affidavit37 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 mythological39 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 {159}bleeding wounds in Tuscany the sunset in the West. I could expound40 this theory at considerable length; only, as so often happens to such fine theorists, another and more promising41 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 swarms42 with totems. The Franciscan woods are as full of them as any Red Indian fable8. Francis is made to call himself an ass9, 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 infancy44 in which we do really believe that a cow talked or a fox made a tar45 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 {160}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 differentiation46 between them. I shall not do so for a practical reason affecting the utility of the proceeding47; 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 fixed48 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 doom49 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 atheist50 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 materialism51. But these fixed points of faith and philosophy are things for a theoretical work and have no particular place here. And in the matter {161}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 superstition52. 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 materialist53 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 analogous54 to the tales of Christ "perceiving men's thoughts." What is the use of censoring55 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 relics56 and fragmentary possessions. What is the use of dismissing all that as inconceivable, when even these common psychical57 parlour tricks turn perpetually upon touching58 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 {162}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 hesitation59, I have here chosen between them. The best and boldest course would be to tell the whole story in a straightforward60 way, miracles and all, as the original historians told it. And to this sane38 and simple course the new historians will probably have to return. But it must be remembered that this book is avowedly61 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 perfectly62 legitimate63 so to arrange the order of the facts that the familiar come before the unfamiliar64 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 sketch66 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 {163}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 climax67 of the saint's life with the fancies or rumours68 that were really only the fringes of his reputation.
There is so immense a mass of legends and anecdotes70 about St. Francis of Assisi, and there are so many admirable compilations71 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 anecdote69 here or there because it illustrates72 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 {164}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 propounding73 a religious doctrine74 to be received or rejected, but only rounding off a story in the most symmetrical way, according to that sort of decorative75 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 legendary76 accretion77 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 conspiracy78; indeed there has been some disposition79 to put {165}the fraud upon the unfortunate Elias, whom so many parties have been disposed to treat as a useful universal villain80. 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 conclusive81; because it only arises out of the very nature of the narrative82. 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 impersonal83 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 abrupt84 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 {166}mentioned; the question of why these chronicles should be credited at all, if they are credited with abounding85 in the incredible. But that again will probably be found to revert86, in the last resort, to the mere43 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 dismal87 or dehumanised; for it was the whole meaning of his message that such mysticism makes a man cheerful and humane88. 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 {167}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 pageant89 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 spire32; 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 {168}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 mighty90 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 forth91 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 isolation92, was face to face with nothing less than God Incarnate93 and Christ Crucified. But for the men standing65 around him there must have been other thoughts mingling94 with these; and many memories must have gathered like ghosts in the twilight, as that day wore on and that great darkness descended95 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 {169}of democratic discipline by which others could organise96 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 upwards97 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, {170}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 savages98 did that. Anyhow he stood among the rest as the hours passed and the shadows lengthened99 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 controversies100 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, scattered101 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 augury102 across the sky. Hidden in the woods perhaps were little cowering103 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 outlaws104, to tell them what had happened to him who never knew the nature of {171}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.
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1
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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cosmos
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| n.宇宙；秩序，和谐 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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applied
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notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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corroborated
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| v.证实，支持（某种说法、信仰、理论等）( corroborate的过去式 ) | |
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truthfulness
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liars
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fanaticism
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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assassinated
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| v.暗杀( assassinate的过去式和过去分词 )；中伤；诋毁；破坏 | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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affidavit
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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mythological
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expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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differentiation
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| n.区别，区分 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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materialist
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| n. 唯物主义者 | |
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analogous
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| adj.相似的；类似的 | |
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censoring
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| 删剪（书籍、电影等中被认为犯忌、违反道德或政治上危险的内容）( censor的现在分词 ) | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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psychical
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| adj.有关特异功能现象的；有关特异功能官能的；灵魂的；心灵的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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avowedly
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| adv.公然地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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compilations
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| n.编辑，编写( compilation的名词复数 )；编辑物 | |
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illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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propounding
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的现在分词 ) | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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accretion
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| n.自然的增长，增加物 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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incarnate
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| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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organise
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| vt.组织，安排，筹办 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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controversies
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| 争论 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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augury
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| n.预言，征兆，占卦 | |
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cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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outlaws
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| 歹徒，亡命之徒( outlaw的名词复数 )； 逃犯 | |
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