IV.ii. Earthquakes in Assisi

"He who works with his hands is a labourer. He who works with his hands and his head is a craftsman. He who works with his hands and his head and his heart is an artist."
- Francis of Assisi

Two short hours from Rome on a regionale is the station of Assisi-Santa Maria Degli Angeli. A small municipal bus then ferries tourists, the modern day pilgrims, to the place where Francis' bones rest. Of course, the irony of having a Saint who threw away the clothes and wealth of his family to live in the wilderness and preach to the birds sepulchered in one of the most magnificent structures the Middle Ages ever built is overlooked by most of these visitors. Christianity constantly inters the humblest of people in the most lavish of shrines, whether they like it or not. Francis was a simple man who had an uncanny spiritual connection, who wrote achingly beautiful verses about the wonders of nature, who loved poverty but hated nothing. A second Christ, they called him. Now he lies below two superimposed churches entirely covered in frescoes, with skies painted in lapis lazuli, a pigment more expensive than gold.
    The city of Francis, hung atop a long rocky crag like a huge marble ship, was mostly invisible to us in the rain and fog that afternoon. In clearer times a giant castle, the Rocca Maggiore, commands the scene like a crow's nest, while the steeples of the dozen or so churches form the bristling masts. The figurehead, the prow, is Saint Francis' Basilica, probably one of the greatest treasure houses in Italy. Inside are frescoes four times larger in surface area than those of the Sistine Chapel, and a great deal more beautiful. Yet, somewhat emblematic of Francis himself, the brilliant soul of this place is belied by a gruff, unpolished exterior. Despite its outward appearance of fortitude, it is quite a fragile thing. In 1997 an earthquake shook the region and brought down two of the upper church's vaults. Incredible scenes by Cimabue, the father of Italian art, crumbled into dust. A poor friar was crushed to death. A tourist caught it all from the inside on video camera. Half crumbled, the place was a reminder of Francis' famous vision of a crucifix that spoke to him; "repair my house", it commanded. He obeyed, at first in the literal sense, and rebuilt a small chapel with his own hands. After the earthquake, scholars were called to do the same. Last time I was here, on that formative trip in 1998, the upper basilica was still closed, and a team of patient art historians were piecing together thousands of fragments of plaster like a giant puzzle. Now the shattered scenes have been reconstructed. They are not their former selves, but at least they still exist. We spent a good few hours admiring these and the other incredible frescoes, all by the greatest painters of the age; Giotto, Cimabue, Martini, Lorenzetti. By the time we left the basilica the Umbrian mist had surrounded the place and, in all senses, given it an atmospheric air. We strolled through the city, which was not altogether empty but neither bustling as well. The many empty tourist shops seemed to be intended for the summer.
    Back at the station we had a thirty minute wait for our train. The cabin fever I anticipated having on the four hour journey back prompted me to explore the lower town of Assisi, one that lacks the history and beauty of the upper town, but is all the more bustling for it. I headed towards a huge, incongruous looking basilica that loomed over the railroad sidings of the station. I entered and found it full of people, warm, and well lit. In the crossing of this huge baroque church there was a tiny stone chapel. It looked ridiculous, but then I remembered a lecture by a Franciscan scholar I had attended years ago on the very topic; this was the porziuncola, the church Francis had repaired with his own hands. It survived the earthquake unscathed.