of Elvio Lunghi
History - as we know - is always written by the winners; there is never a case of history being written by the losers in their favour. The belated afterthoughts of many pedantic researchers, in search of still virgin terrain to plough, are sons of a hypocritical agreement reached at Yalta by Roosevelt and Stalin, which has taught us - I would say forced us - to review history from the viewpoint of the latter, because it is politically correct to do so. We know that history cannot be rewritten, not even with the photographic touch-ups so favoured by the Russia of the gulag, nor with the computerised graphics of Internet. History is cynical, it justifies the most unpopular choices, accepts no ifs or buts. It is the province of poets and madmen to give voice to the hopes of the defeated, to cast light on the human aspect and disappointed expectations; like perfect simpletons, they do not know or pretend not to know that this world is destined to perish, not on account of the cabala of an executioner God but on account of the imminent end of the fuel that feeds our solar system. Other worlds, other galaxies will come. I recommend you read a short book by Simone Weil entitled "Cinque lettere a uno studente", ed. La locusta, Vicenza 1990 (II edition 1997), that gathers together the French writer's experiences on her first trip to Italy in 1936. The 3rd letter tells of a train journey to Assisi: "…When I got to Assisi, Milan, Florence, Rome and all the rest completely disappeared from my memory, so fascinated was I by the gentle mountains, so miraculously evangelical and Franciscan, by the enchanting churches, by so many happy memories and by those noble examples of the human species - the Umbrian country folk, a race rich in beauty, physical strength, joy and kindness. I had never dreamed of such a marvellous place. But there is a problem; everything in Assisi and around is Franciscan, everything except that which has been built in honour of St. Francis (with the exception of Giotto's beautiful frescoes). Everything that preceded St. Francis is Franciscan. Providence seems to have created merry companies, humble and enchanting little churches especially to prepare for his arrival. Have you noticed that the chapel where Francis prayed to St. Mary of the Angels (a curse on the basilica that encloses it!) is a small miracle of architecture? So superior to the works of most famous architects, just as a popular song is to most of the music of famous musicians. It wouldn't take much for me to spend the rest of my life - if women were admitted - in that minuscule convent of the Carceri, 1 hour and 14 minutes from Assisi. There is no more comforting, more heavenly sight than Umbria viewed from up there. St. Francis was good at choosing the most delightful places to live in poverty. He had nothing of the ascetic about him… The study of history has taught me to be suspicious of such simplifications: the churches built by popes Gregory IX and Alexander IV in honour of St. Francis and Saint Clare, the gigantic dome commissioned by Pius V to hold in its bosom the relic of the Porziuncola, represent history as written by the winners. It is the concrete utopia of Francis that has triumphed, from his ashes a vigorous tree has grown, his tomb has become the cornerstone of a new house. I am not interested in knowing what would have become of Assisi if Francis had not obtained the approval of Innocent III, if bishop Guido had not supported his young friend, if the citizens who met in Lateran in 1215 had not accepted his form of life among those that were permitted… It would probably have looked like Spello, or Spoleto: rich in glorious ruins of pagan antiquity, suffocated by the vulgar grip of importunate public housing. Instead of its beautiful dome - belonging to all except Vignola - the Porziuncola would now have as companions the cement factory and the railway junction that debase the Maddalena - an ancient leper hospital in S. Lazzaro dell'Arce frequented by Francis when he returned to sleep in the hut in Rivotorto - and the "colle dell'inferno" would be playing host to a funfair or a fastfood restaurant. With a snap of the fingers let us wipe out the basilica of brother Elias, S. Chiara, the dome by Galeazzo Alessi: what is left? S. Pietro, entirely built of white stone, with a portal of modest aspect, stones engraved by the monks, three large concentric rose windows, a dome that looks like a mushroom squashed beneath its pantile covering. The interior is bare, doubly so since the SBAAAS decided to abolish the Baroque altars, but constructed with so much stone that it looks as though the builders hoped it would last until the end of time. Who knows how often Francis - barefoot and wearing a patched peasant's sackcloth - must have knocked at the door of the monastery; to meet with a shrug of the shoulders in answer to his request for a rural chapel, to hear that it would take a lot of money to buy the stones necessary for the completion of the abbey, and that the Lord had not spared the crops from hail, the olives from frost or the vineyards from blight. Was not the name of the abbot who in 1268 began the upper part of the facade Rustico? Rustic like his ploughmen monks from the north of France, like the peasants of the country estates. The peasants whom Simone Weil liked so much, who to her eyes, sick with tuberculosis, seemed to have such a healthy look about them. On the walls of his church, Giotto - this was his name, he might equally well have been called Pietro or Palmerino or who knows what else - painted a Francis who talked to popes or received the homage of the communal magistrates. The bare walls of S. Pietro preserve meagre traces of the original decoration. We can make out a hirsute St. John, with a starving look about him from having eaten too many locusts. Below is a hunting scene; a hunter is running after his dogs, keeping them tied to a rope to stop them from stealing the prey; hunter and dogs follow a crow in flight. This was the rustic Assisi of Francis' time: run, brother, run.