Saint Francis by Nikos Kazantzakis Read Free Book Online Page A

country--about Peter, the wild, barefooted monk." "Which Peter?"

    "The heresiarch of Lyons."

    "But that isn't a story, it's true!"

    "You used to tell it to me very often when I was a boy, and I always thought it was a story. I was just as afraid of that saintly monster as I was of the bogeyman. Whenever I did something wrong--don't you remember?--you used to threaten me by saying, 'Now the monk will come and get you!' and I would huddle under an armchair and not breathe a word, scared he might find me and carry me off."

    "You told stories about Peter of Lyons, the celebrated monk?" I interrupted at that point. "Did you know him, Lady Pica? So many things are said about him--incredible, amazing things. Madam, I pray of you, humble beggar that I am, tell us if you ever saw or met him? What was he like? I myself set out to find him once, but I arrived too late. He was dead."

    Francis smiled. "She threw away her sandals," he said to tease his mother. "Apparently she wanted to follow him, barefooted and all, but they didn't let her. Instead, they shut her in the house, married her off, and she had a son and forgot about everything. You see, she was looking for a son, and not for God."

    He laughed. But Lady Pica was annoyed.

    "I never forgot him; it's just that I have other worries now," she said with a sigh. "How can I forget him? I still dream about him often."

    "Tell us how you first met him, Mother," said Francis, leaning back against the pillows. He had slept the whole day and his body felt deliciously rested. He closed his eyes.

    "I'm listening. . . ."

    Lady Pica had turned red as fire. She remained silent for some time with her head inclined upon her breast, her eyelids fluttering like the wings of a wounded bird. It was evident that this monk was deep down within her, buried in the darkness of her heart, and that she neither dared nor desired to hoist him up into the light. At last she asked her son imploringly, "Wouldn't you like me to tell you a real story, my child?"

    Francis opened his eyes.

    "No! Tell us about Peter," he said with a frown. "I don't want anything else! How you first met him, when, where, and what he said to you, and how you escaped. I've heard a great many things about him, but I don't believe them. Now the time has come--I want to know the truth!"

    He turned to me.

    "Everyone has a hidden period in his life," he said. "This is my mother's."

    "Very well, son, I'll tell you everything," said Lady Pica in a voice which betrayed her agitation. "Quiet down now."

    She laid her hands in her lap. Her fingers, which were slender and graceful like her son's, began to fidget nervously with the white handkerchief she held between her palms.

    "It was evening, Saturday evening . . ." she began, speaking slowly, as though struggling to remember. "I had been strolling in the courtyard of our house watering the plants--the basil, marjoram, marigolds. A red geranium had blossomed that afternoon and I was standing in front of it and admiring it when suddenly someone gave a strong push to the street door and entered. I turned, frightened, and saw a wild-looking monk standing before me. His robe was patched and tattered, a thick rope served as his cincture, and he was barefooted.

    "I began to open my mouth to scream, but he placed his palm over my lips. 'Peace be to this house!' he said, lifting his hand and blessing the house. His voice was heavy, savage; but somewhere in its very center I felt an inexpressible tenderness. I tried to ask him who he was, what he wanted, why he was so out of breath, who was pursuing him, but my throat was pinched tight and no sound came out.

    " 'Yes, I'm being pursued,' he said--he had divined my question from the movements of my lips. 'I'm being pursued by the enemies of Christ. Haven't you heard of me? I am Peter the monk, the one who raised the tattered banner with the white lilies--Christ's banner; the one who goes the rounds of cities and villages, barefooted and