Читать книгу The Mystery of the Chamberlain - Gonzalo Ríos Araneda - Страница 7

Giotto di Bondone

Saint Francis preaching to the birds, 1298

The young Giotto di Bondone has received the assignment of painting the gallery of the Upper Basilica of Assisi with scenes from the life of its founder. That day, amidst a deep satisfaction stemming from the public recognition of his work, he sensed that he faced an arduous task, one that filled him with ceaseless worry over the enormous responsibility he had taken upon his shoulders. He was aware of the fact that Saint Francis’ pious works compelled him to trace the origins of a life and a personality that, mysteriously, continued to captivate Christianity. Thus inspired, he thought it prudent to concentrate his ambitions on the hermit’s most intimate thoughts, because, in keeping with his interest in investigating human nature, he aspired to represent him with full knowledge of his emotions.

Saint Francis had died four decades before Giotto was born and was honored as if his miracles had occurred yesterday, a temporal proximity that would be the painter’s greatest ally. Brimming with advice from his master, the venerable Cimabue, the young man proceeded to review all the archives that the order’s priests placed at his disposal, including Saint Bonaventure’s Life of Saint Francis, the official Church account written only 36 years before. His reading led, as one would expect, to some surprising discoveries, taking into consideration his layman’s standing in matters ecclesiastical. He understood that the hermit represented the open side of the emotions, in deep harmony with Nature; and that he had foreseen, without intending to do so, mankind’s desire to recognize itself in the world. Even with all that, and when he believed he had come to the end of his inquiries, he had the unexpected good fortune to find himself rewarded with the chance to meet someone who had lived in body and soul at the saint’s side. An eyewitness to some of the events that shook all of Christendom!

Giotto, loath to let this fortunate happenstance go to waste, worked things out with the congregation such that it would favor him with an appointment with Brother Anselmo, an old man who, according to the abbey’s brother porter, was more than 100 years old, and had belonged to Saint Francis’ flock back around 1210. “Despite his age, he’s as lucid as a strapping youth,” said the priest as the artist prepared to cross the abbey’s threshold.

“They say he’s getting on a hundred and four,” he added, satisfied, “but watch out for his tantrums” he ended, as he watched the visitor from the corner of his eye, who learned, also, that the old man was practically bedridden, and that he only rarely got up to take little jaunts about the vicinity, vital to keeping himself in good spirits.

Grateful, Giotto learned that the friar had put up no resistance when the Abbot spoke to him of the matter; and that, quite the opposite, he had seemed more indulgent than annoyed.

Crossing the patio of that place of prayer accompanied by a young monk wearing an elegant razor-drawn tonsure on his pate was a novelty for Giotto. He had never been inside of a monastery, much less the cell of mendicant friar. He knew nothing of monastic things beyond the routine matters of a simple man of faith, nor those of lay brothers and hermits. And now here he was, in the heart of an abbey.

During the journey under the archways that followed one after another, he sensed that the atmosphere within the place was having an effect on him. The long red-tiled hallway bordered on a spacious and well-tended garden, while at the back a bare stone masonry wall displayed, at a glance, the buttresses revealing from behind the presence of the principal nave’s apse. A few paltry windows enclosed by iron gratings heralded the building’s serene and impenetrable cloister. All around it smelled of lilies in flower and dead narcissus, while, in scattered stretches, the gardens displayed budding wallflowers here and there. Despite the young painter’s attempts to strike up a conversation with his companion, the latter told him simply that Brother Anselmo suffered from gout, had weak bones, and didn’t get out of bed much.

As they neared the corner of the great courtyard, they met with a brother of shorn head and rough woolen habit, from whose raw cotton belt hung a spoon and two small rakes for working in the garden; and signor di Bondone saw how both monks spoke to each other using signs, until the one recently arrived stretched his right arm out and touched his wrist with his left thumb. The two men then retraced their steps, while the gardener, with a bow, moved off as silently as when he had turned up. The friar who had come with Giotto turned and informed him that Brother Anselmo had a slight fever, but that he nevertheless had decided not to postpone the meeting.

“Brother Cándido who is prohibited from speaking told me that,” said his guide.

Brother Anselmo awaited him sitting on the side of his bed, wrapped in an old, unwashed cassock, whose color resembled that of pottery clay. The painter marveled at the scene and at the venerable old man’s disposition. The semi-dark room, no wider than four paces in each cardinal direction, smelled of confinement and a strange mix of sulfur and incense; and the sun set dimly through a narrow skylight window set high in the wall. On an old nightstand, next to a Bible, could be seen a small milk-glass flask whose attached label read in Latin lettering: sulfur dioxide, a salve used as a diuretic and for gout pain. Next to the holy book, a pair of pince-nez glasses, crudely set in a wooden frame and with handles each ending in an index-finger sized circle necessary for setting them upon the nose, revealed the old man’s noticeable far-sightedness.

A wooden crucifix with a mother-of-pearl figure of the Redeemer presided over the monk’s ancient bed covered by a dark-gray quilt. Close by, a rough wooden table and two chairs bespoke a long-running burden of chat and reflection. Perhaps encouraged by those memories, the priest received his young visitor with interest, and surprisingly, a bridge of affection appeared to stretch out between them.

Despite his precarious state, the old man was easily able to manage the long conversation with young Giotto and answered every question he asked him about the saint. He noted that the old man was transfigured when speaking of him, and half-closed his eyes as if prejudging whether the young man was worthy of hearing about his miracles. He was deeply moved by the story of the stigmata of Christ on the dead body of Saint Francis, which according to the old man, caused a commotion never before seen in Assisi.

The old man spared no effort in recalling details that astonished the painter, not only for the clarity with which he expounded them, but also for the control he appeared to have over his memory. But there was a moment when the priest broke down, and it was when he recalled the details of his death. “Lord, the presence of Christ dwelled in him…in his wounds, in his blood. Oh, my God!” the monk exclaimed.

“Cesco used to tell us that he had, in his life, only two roads to travel in this world: the one rising up to God in order to adore him, and the other descending to his fellow man in order to serve him” the old man told him, eyes dewy from a few scant tears.

While the holy man reminded him of the sermon that Saint Francis delivered to the birds in the orchard of Porziuncola, Giotto pondered the issue of the immutability of sacred images and the unavoidable link between the sacred and nature. For him, those birds represented drawing out the spirit of piety from the temple, free from any interference by power or imposition. Thankful for his good fortune, the maestro left that afternoon with the sensation of having entered into an intense and moving friendship with Cesco. After noticing a decline in the priest’s strength, Giotto decided to bring his first day’s visit to an end; and the old man himself concurred, promising him that they would see each other again the following day.

As he walked along the corridors toward the way out, the painter thought that the porter had been correct, because the old man overcame by a wide margin any doubts as to his lucidity.

The maestro di Bondone returned for the following day’s appointment with renewed enthusiasm. When he entered the Franciscan’s cell, he saw with satisfaction that all was as it had been the previous afternoon. He hadn’t noticed the presence of a youth whom the old man, somewhat awkwardly, hastened to introduce to him. Without allowing his emotions to be revealed, Giotto believed he recognized him as one of the politicians who in the past used to visit his master’s studio. The same one who, during his childhood, he crossed paths with on the playground.

“I’m going to introduce you to someone whom, surely, you know through his work, but perhaps not personally. I’m talking about signor Alighieri, author of an odd book that has been making the rounds about here, La Vita Nuova” he said, looking at the visitor mockingly. In any case, aware of your visit, he took it upon himself to come in order to meet with you. You’ll have to ask him the reason yourself.

Young Giotto felt that fate obliged him to partake in an experience he would otherwise have gladly avoided, not out of selfishness, but due rather to his abject fear at seeing his conversation time with the priest reduced. The interloper is signor Alighieri, known as Dante, who, knowing the assignment the painter has received, has used his connections in order to get to the Abbey and be present at the interview. The monastery head’s stern face seemed to fade in Giotto’s mind, but he pursed his lips, as he often did when something annoyed him. Meanwhile, the old man appeared somewhat nervous, aware of how uncomfortable the younger man’s presence must be. Then, moving toward both men, he explained that signor Alighieri had presented his request for several noble reasons, to which he could not object, such as revealing the life and deeds of his revered friend Saint Francis. The young poet, seeing that his presence produced such tension in both men’s spirits, and that he was clearly embarrassing the old man, tried to calm the situation by pointing out that he had stayed away the previous day in order to not hinder the painter, whom he had known of for many years, in his nascent research.

Giotto knew that the young man belonged to the Council that elected the members of the Priory, because, for some reason, he had always kept an eye on his progress. Nevertheless, his investiture struck him as impressive, given that he himself was a distant and withdrawn man, far removed from the pomposity that tends to surround politicians. He realized that the monk was well aware of the recent arrival’s titles, because his manner of speaking appeared much more serious and affected than it had been with him the day before. He was thinking of that when again the visitor broke the silence to explain that the fact of the friar’s existence languished within the abbey undiscoverable to the world such that “if this confluence of events had not come about, we would never have come to know of Brother Anselmo, may God bless him.” He added that his actions were consistent with a commitment that tied him to the saint’s secrets; and claimed he had feared that the long-lived elder —due to his advanced age and precarious state of health— might never leave his cell again. Therefore, he had begged to be given this opportunity, through the good offices of the Father Abbot.

“But sir, you are keeping us in suspense still about the nature of your interest in talking with Father Anselmo” Giotto dared to object.

“Well,” answered the poet, “seeing as extraordinary events come together in the saint’s life, the existence of this witness within the abbey aroused my deepest desires.”

Immediately thereafter, he made the point that, as the matter had to do with his research into the fate of the human soul, he had felt the need to insist upon privilege, although he knew that his gesture could be deemed unfortunate and alien to the most minimal obligations of courtesy. These words sufficed for the atmosphere to ease among the three men. The first to offer an invitation to share the bread of knowledge so urgently sought was the painter, whom the unexpected visitor had ended up winning over, the former not knowing whether to attribute this to the deliberateness of the poet’s speech or to the mysterious attraction his presence radiated. In no time, he surprised them with his knowledge of Saint Francis. He remembered, for example, his vision of the chariot of fire in Rivo Torto which, carrying the saint, flew back and forth above the eleven monks who awaited him in prayer. It was a feat known throughout the region and made it even as far as the city of Rome, where the marvel was seen as a sign of divine acquiescence of the new Franciscan brotherhood.

At one point, Dante turned toward the old man and begged him to search his memory. That he try to recall details of the miracle. He asked him if there had been any sort of music that accompanied the phenomenon, or some message that could be deduced from the events that occurred among them following the appearance. To the astonishment of his interlocutors, he added that he had information unknown to the Christian world, of other related situations that took place that same evening in the vicinity of Rivo Torto. Giotto was engrossed, his gaze fixed upon the poet, wondering if the author of La Vita Nuova was really being serious. He was surprised by the tenor of the questions and his insistence upon requiring details that he himself would have catalogued straightforwardly as metaphysical digressions.

Impressed by the poet’s talkativeness, and goaded on by it, the old man returned to his memories going deeper into the same topics he had touched on the day before, and as the conversation progressed, so grew his fervor. Regarding the Rivo Torto incident, he claimed he remembered it as if it had happened yesterday. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I can swear to you that the miracle I had the good fortune of witnessing was a wonder of divine light that took possession of the heavens with emerald fires and diamond-like flashes. All of it,” he added, “with a humming of angelic bees that lulled our ears until it vanished from in front of us.” Giotto appeared impressed, while the poet turned toward the old man.

“Seeing as the world is a sphere, clearly you have witnessed a marvel of biblical design,” exclaimed Dante, convinced that he was flattering the priest. But the latter turned his speech back on him.

“You think so?” the aged priest asked heatedly, to which young Alighieri, not realizing the point of the question, agreed with a nod.

“You too think that the Earth is round, master?” the old man asked again, resolutely.

“Ah, that’s what you were saying!” exclaimed Dante. “Perhaps you think the opposite, as do the common folk?”

Not taking the mention of common folk personally, for like Cesco, his sainted friend, he always loved humble people, he bent dolefully over the Bible which he had open to a particular page and muttered something about the flat sailing of the Earth through space, while at the same time, with his right hand, tracing a cross on his chest.

Dante, a bit uneasy at the direction the conversation could be heading, jumped in ahead of Giotto who was about to intercede.

“Father, well you must know the sayings of a certain Sacrobosco, which I have indeed heard from the mouth of a scholar of matters of Nature. This Sacrobosco maintains that the Earth is the central point of the heavens, and that it is enfolded completely by water and, in turn, that surrounding this water is air. And more, that all around that life-giving air is fire in its pure and undisturbed state. These three elements, each in its heavenly place, shape the Earth into a spherical form. Have you heard of it? It’s as if the man’s view, in harmony with God, encompassed everything in all three dimensions. Everything contained inexplicably in a sphere. However, don’t ask me how we remain standing upon it, as if we were ants, because I can’t imagine it.”

“Oh, brave unbeliever! You speak like a poet, with your fantasy up your sleeve,” said the friar. “Stand something upright on the surface of the Earth, of whatever length you like, and you will see that your words are futile. The Earth is flat wherever you measure it. Really, the fallacy is deducing that it is round, like the other heavenly bodies, and denying that God recognizes us as his privileged children, placing all of the celestial lights at our disposal for our enchantment, or at the very least, in order to bring us day and night.”

“Dearest Father,” said the poet, “in this matter, you plainly do not wish to see” reminding him straight away that Aristotle’s writings were clearly there on the subject of the Earth’s sphericity, but the other argued that those were the arguments of a pagan, to which Dante replied cautiously:

“I can assure you, nevertheless, that despite my doctrinal helplessness…and I say it respectfully, I support my statements with the Bible itself…and with certain knowledgeable opinions of the Universal Church” he said, lowering his voice and reciting from memory Chapter 40, Verse 22 of the Book of Isaiah.

Ignoring the bard’s words, Father Anselmo, somewhat weary, said to him sternly:

“Don’t bother with modesty here among us, as I know well that yours is but pride. Those are the tall tales of reprobates who long only for the decline of the Church. What is it that you don’t see? Do you perhaps not feel the support of the only world you possess beneath your feet? Thanks to it, you don’t fall into the fiery void that consumes the unbelievers!” immediately after which he fell into a silence, sufficient for both young men to exchange a knowing glance and agree to an unspoken retreat.

“But, let us not detour from our purpose, which is that I am interested in the events you experienced,” said Giotto. “What do you say we look into the personality of Saint Francis? It’s about time that we learn how he interacted with his monastic brothers.”

Questions of this type put an immediate end to the tension generated by the flat Earth issue; and the friar himself, now recovered from his tantrum, helped to ease the atmosphere by recounting divers details of the saint’s life. During a break in the priest’s account, Dante explained with a certain solemnity that he “arrived motivated by the mystery that the man embodied.” “For me, being here with you is like being in a state of grace difficult to explain, if you will permit me,” he contended. Next, turned toward Giotto, he maintained that “it appeared the saint opened our reasoning and inundated it with light.” “You yourself must feel something similar when you behold the external factors of his life.” Faced with these words, which to Giotto seemed so just, the painter maintained that Saint Francis furnished him with a freedom that he had not glimpsed before; akin to bringing the sacred back to the understanding of the lowly, in open repudiation of any ostentation that might make the divine into an unattainable possession.

“It is time to humanize the message of Christ,” Dante concluded.

“But that is heresy,” the old man interjected, as if stung by a dart. “Without fail, the divine should be represented with respect and with the distance that separates God from man,” he added.

Here, the young men remained in admiration of the wisdom in his observation.

“Nevertheless, Father, it’s not good for the spreading of the faith to distance man from Nature, given that the latter also emanates from God” weighed in Giotto, not imagining that his words would encourage the poet to express his respect outwardly: “I can naught but admire the naturalness of your expressivity, dear friend, and I must confess that I am enchanted at discovering the profundity of those spaces that you are able to depict; both Nature and the interior of the human soul.” It was evident that the poet followed the work of Giotto closely, since he declared himself impressed by his ability to endow the sacred figures with realistic, human traits. “With your art, you prepare us to penetrate into what is true,” he said.

At all of this, Father Anselmo had fallen back into silence and focused on the two young men’s conversation. Perhaps readying an argument that might put them in their place, convinced as he was that it was only a matter of time before their youthful brains would see reason. “They’re too young to understand God’s plan.” It didn’t surprise him when the poet returned to the topic of the winged chariot of Rivo Torto; and as he maintained his memories of his brother Cesco with fervent devotion, he had no fear of the poet’s questions nor the painter’s observations; so he craned his neck toward the poet and cupped a hand around his right ear the better to hear him.

“It’s plausible that such a contraption could transmit some sort of message that must necessarily have reached you,” stated Dante. “However, you spoke of that humming of bees. “Could it have been some sort of musical harmony?” he insisted.

“Now that you mention it, I’m experiencing the same sensation that overcame me that night. Yes,” said the friar, as if talking to himself.

Did any of you think for a moment that it could have been the work of the devil?” Dante asked. “Did you consider it a possibility?”

“Where are you headed with this”, interrupted Giotto, dismayed by the poet’s interrogation.

Without answering Giotto’s question, the young Alighieri insisted upon pestering the old man, who, with his cheeks tightening over his old eyeballs looked again at Dante.

“Have you not read the Legenda Maior?”

“Yes, but Saint Bonaventure purged a large portion of the popular sources from the life of Saint Francis,” charged the poet.

“Start at the beginning. Don’t get ahead of yourself and mix up the facts, as haste makes bad counsel…and don’t try to look clever. And don’t forget that I was present and saw what I saw,” said the old man, his face gaunt with fatigue, and ignoring the issue of Saint Bonaventure. Then, taking a brief pause to catch his breath, he added with obvious signs of exhaustion, “Both of you defy the sacred order. For less, more than one wise man has burned at the stake, my fine young friends.” Then he returned to his memories of that long-ago scene; and suddenly, after batting the air painfully with his fingers, he said that he had remembered a situation that, perhaps, was of some importance.

“In fact, there was something that night that seemed out of place with the complete serenity of that miracle, and which contrasted with the atmosphere of profound peace that filled everyone,” said Friar Anselmo.

“And what was that?” asked Dante.

But it was now very late and Father Anselmo felt his strength waning, such that he asked them to return the following day. “Earlier this time,” he told them.

“Does it have to do with some message?” Dante insisted.

“No, son, no…No, without a doubt, but, Oh!, what I can tell you is that the hand of God was vividly manifest that night, but…better to discuss that with you tomorrow…leave me be,” the old man pleaded. “I can assure you that the devil has nothing to do with this…my old bones don’t support me. You’ll have to excuse me,” he managed to stammer, and stood up with the painter’s help, who did his best to get him to the side of his bed; meanwhile Dante looked out the cell’s door in search of a monk who might be of assistance.

After a somewhat difficult farewell, the painter departed satisfied, having stored away features of the saint’s life in his mind, an outcome unthinkable through mere reading. He left the place with a feeling of fullness, albeit of things unfinished as well. He also realized with satisfaction that, far from feeling harmed by the presence of the odd poet, he had learned much from his bounteous spiritual nature. Even now, impressions crossed his mind that Giotto found to be of great import to his own outpourings of imagination.

“I am a longtime admirer of your work,” said Dante, as if wanting the painter not to forget their meeting. “Perhaps you simply forgot that I was in your master Cimabue’s studio some years back. I am quite familiar with your art’s virtues, just as I know your master, to whom you no longer have any ties that hold you back. Even though only the two of you are uniquely capable of illustrating the transitory nature of earthly glory, it is you that moves me more deeply.”

Giotto, with his usual humble demeanor, remained silent. He understood that the world of the past masters had been torn to shreds, and that his friend Dante was right to describe the nature of the world as he had implied today; moreover, it seemed to him that the poet’s opinions were somehow secret, at odds with his own character.

Exiting the front door, Giotto noted that the porter monk was excessively chummy with Dante, which seemed to him, unaccustomed as he was to the world of politics, an extravagance on the bard’s part. He understood, however, that a thread ran through politics and the sacristy; and, here, the Abbot’s role became clearer to him. “A cleric, friend of a politician,” but, as befits a healthy spirit free of malice, he rejected any reasoning supported by the superficiality of the circumstantial point of view. Not without pleasure, he felt that with the poet, he was solidifying knowledge coming quite from afar.

A while had passed since a sun barely starting to heat up had broken through the morning fog, and the day appeared to unfold clear and promising above the abbey. When the bells had already announced the Third Hour, a monk opened the monastery’s peep hatch onto the street and through its grille offered a quick gesture by way of greeting to the two visitors rubbing their hands outside the building. Both men passed obliquely through the half-opened door. Discreetly, although with no uncertain difficulty, the porter monk closed it behind them. Giotto noted that the peace within the grounds was more penetrating than in the previous days; and when the poet tried to speak to their guide, the latter offered no sign of reciprocation, and restricted himself to leading them to the opposite end of the passageway they had walked down previously. He took them to a small, austere room already receiving warm rays of sunlight atop the scant pieces of furniture standing aggressively amidst the faint morning mist. There stood the Abbot, a man of stern appearance and questioning eyes. He was accompanied by a young friar barely able to hide his lack of sleep. After greeting them with a movement of his head, the Abbot announced:

“Brother Anselmo has gone to meet Our Lord. He died at four in the morning attended by his brothers, who watched over him until his last breath, in the name of the Father.”

“He died in the peace of the Lord,” assured the friar, and after making a bow while crossing himself at the same time, he left the room.

Signor di Bondone and signor Alighieri found themselves overcome by complete bewilderment and barely managed to take the hands of the Abbot and kiss them. Later, they took their leave and upon reaching the exit, watched as the porter monk struggled to open the door which, swollen by the humidity, resisted, dragging its thick wooden base on the ground. In the street at last, the two men walked together without saying a single word, until Giotto stopped under a tree and, tearfully, started a prayer that the poet followed in a murmur. Their praying blended with the birds’ choral ruckus. Some circled round the treetops, others perched on the shady branches. The chirping lasted as long as the prayer. Amen.