Saint Francis Read Free

and we tread upon it, but heaven is within us."

    The moon had begun to set; a few stars hung in the sky; the sound of impassioned serenades came thinly from the distant neighborhoods; down below, the square was buzzing. The air of this summer night was filled with aromas and with love.

    "Heaven is within us, my young lord," I repeated. "How do you know?" he asked, giving me a startled look.

    "I suffered, went hungry, thirsty--and learned." He took me by the arm. "Come home with me. I'll feed you and give you a bed to sleep on. But don't talk to me about heaven--it may be within you, but it's not within me."

    His eyes flashed with anguish; his voice had grown hoarse.

    We went down to the market place, where the taverns were still roaring. Drunken young men were streaming in and out of one of the low houses, in front of which was a small red lantern. Donkeys laden with vegetables and fruit had begun to arrive from the villages. Men were setting up tables and arranging bottles of wine, brandy, and rum on them. Two tightrope walkers had started to drive in poles and stretch their string. The preparations for the Sunday bazaar had already begun.

    Two drunks spied Francis in the moonlight and began to laugh clandestinely. One of them removed his guitar from his shoulder. Glaring at Francis derisively, he started to sing:

    You build your nest so high in vain:

    The bough will break,

    You'll lose the bird,

    And be left with only the pain.

    Francis listened, motionless, his head bowed.

    "He's right," he murmured, "he's right."

    Courtesy demanded I remain quiet, but, bumpkin that I am, I opened my mouth and asked: "What bird?"

    Francis turned and looked at me. So much suffering was in that gaze, I could not keep myself from clasping his hand and kissing it. "Forgive me," I said.

    His expression sweetened. "What bird? Is it possible I know?" He sighed deeply.

    "No, I don't, I don't know," he groaned. "Stop asking me questions! Come!"

    And he grasped my hand tightly, as though afraid I might leave him.

    But I, how could I leave him? Where could I go? From that moment on, I was constantly at his side. Father Francis, was it you I had been seeking year after year? Was that why I had been born: to follow you and listen to you? I had ears, but no tongue--so I listened. You told me what you told no one else. You took me by the hand, we went into the forests, scrambled up mountains, and you spoke.

    You used to say to me, "Brother Leo, if you weren't with me I would tell it all to a stone, an ant, a tender olive leaf-- because my heart is overflowing, and if it does not open and spill forth, it may break into a thousand pieces."

    I know things about you, therefore, that no other person knows. You committed many more sins than people imagine; you performed many more miracles than people believe. In order to mount to heaven, you used the floor of the Inferno to give you your momentum. "The further down you gain your momentum," you often used to tell me, "the higher you shall be able to reach. The militant Christian's greatest worth is not his virtue, but his struggle to transform into virtue the impudence, dishonor, unfaithfulness, and malice within him. One day Lucifer will be the most glorious archangel standing next to God; not Michael, Gabriel, or Raphael--but Lucifer, after he has finally transubstantiated his terrible darkness into light."

    I listened to you, mouth agape, thinking what sweet words these were and asking myself if this meant that sin, even sin, could become a path to lead us to God; if even the sinner, therefore, could have hopes of salvation.

    I am the only one, also, who knows about your carnal love for Count Favorini Scifi's daughter Clara. All the others, because they are afraid of their own shadows, think you loved only her soul. But it was her body that you loved earliest of all; it was from there that you set out, got your start. Then, after struggle, struggle against the devil's snares, you were