The Mice of Assisi

There’s a painting of Saint Francis, still young, but already worn out by illness, sitting on a rock in San Damiano’s vegetable garden with his eyes half-closed, seemingly lost in thought.

According to the legend, it was precisely in this garden one morning in 1224, after a night of great physical suffering spent in a cell curiously overrun with mice, that Francis jotted down the verses of one of the most beautiful poems of our literature:

Be praised, my Lord, with all Your creatures,
especially Sir Brother Sun,
who is the day and through whom You give us light.

 I was struck by the detail about the mice. And I tried to imagine what happened that night.

Francis, worn by fever and bone pain, is lying on his cot in his small, bare cell. Suddenly, he hears a light rustling. He turns his head and notices dozens of small black bodies silently emerging from a hole in the wall and scattering across the room.

That there are mice in the convent is common knowledge. But what are the chances they all would agree to meet in his cell? When he sees them, black and fat, crouching on the floor, indifferent to his presence, Francis winces with revulsion. Not only are they ignoring him, but they also seem completely absorbed in their business, nonchalantly squeaking, bumping into each other, hopping about and twitching their long black tails without paying the slightest attention to his body contracted with pain on the cot.

Francis closes his eyes and murmurs a prayer, then opens his eyes again, hoping it was just a dream. But no, the mice are still there, in fact, they have multiplied in the meantime. The floor is covered with furry little creatures that seem to have gathered for an assembly.

Francis is startled. What if they climb on the bed and attack me? he asks himself, frightened. But surely his fever is making him delirious. I’m seeing things that are not there, he tells himself, it’s all my imagination. And, to reassure himself, he pinches his arm. But he has to admit that no, he’s not dreaming or raving. The mice are there, and they continue to stream in from a hole in the back of the cell. Rather than a hole, it looks like a barely visible crack between the floor and the wall. They’re coming in twos and threes to join the others. What do you want from me? Francis cries out, frightened, as the pain in his bones grows sharper at the sight.

But then his gentle, contemplative soul takes over. He props himself up on one side and, leaning his throbbing head on his elbow, begins to look at them closely. They are creatures too, he tells himself, they are God’s creatures. As he watches them intently, he gradually realizes that the little animals are divided into families: a chubby father and a slightly smaller mother are using their teeth and tails to pull their newborns into the cell: little gray mice with pink tails.

But why his cell of all places?

His gentle lips widen into a tender smile: maybe these creatures have heard about him, about his friendship towards animals. Don’t they say that he spoke at length with a wolf? That he preached to birds perched on tree branches? Then what safer place than his cell to hold a big family meeting? Mice, it’s known, breed fast, and every little mouse that is born has at least three hundred male cousins and three hundred female cousins. And then there are uncles, grandfathers, aunts, grandmothers. It doesn’t take much to make a hundred creatures. But why have they gathered today? To celebrate or depredate?

Francis watches them with keen interest and notices that little by little they have formed a circle, and in the middle of the circle they have placed a bundle the size of an apple. When all the mice have sat down, one of them goes to pull off the cloth wrapped around the bundle with its teeth and little feet. The other mice keep their gaze fixed on these rapid, nimble movements. Finally the cloth falls away, and in the middle of the circle appears a large piece of cheese, with barely a trace of mold, its sides tinged with a hue between blue and rose reminiscent of a spring dawn. What a lovely bit of cheese!

At the order of one who seems to be the leader, the first row of mice draws close to the food, and with their sharp teeth they gnaw off some. The others watch and observe in absolute silence. Even the youngest ones sit still, staring spellbound at the mouthwatering piece of cheese. As soon as the first row is done, it returns to its place, forming another circle away from the others. Now it’s the second row’s turn, which draws close, in an orderly fashion, to nibble its due. And so on, until the fifth, the sixth row. Without any of the mice, neither big nor small, behaving like bullies and gnawing off more cheese than they are allowed.

Finally, when everyone is done gnawing and chewing, they retreat in good order to the opening in the wall, and patiently, without pushing, disappear into the darkness beyond, making themselves smaller to squeeze through the crack.

Only one mouse is left in the cell and he now comes to sit next to the sick man’s bed with a gentle, sagelike demeanor. He lifts up his small head with the long whiskers slightly trembling on his wet snout, and gazes at the saint with a pensive expression. Just as the wolf had once looked at him. With friendship and gratitude. There’s no need for words. Those small, wide eyes, shining with a zest for life, are saying to him that nature is beautiful, that the sun is our brother, in the same way that the stars and the moon are our sisters, that water and fire are not only  friends to men, but also to mice.

Then, after a slight, courteous bow in his direction, the mouse withdraws beyond the wall. There’s nothing left on the floor, not even a crumb of food. Even the cloth the cheese was wrapped in is gone. Only a slight feral scent lingers in the air.

Francis smiles, and notices that the pain has mysteriously left his feverish body. He gets up from his bed and goes out to the small garden of San Damiano, where, sitting on a rock in the warm sun of the new spring, he will soon write those clear and gentle, beautiful and fresh words that still today convey a sense of brotherhood with nature.

Should we be thanking the mice of Assisi?