Being St. Francis - 00.08 (Sidebar)

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Return to "Being Saint Francis" (August 2000), by Valerie Martin

An excerpt from Salvation: Scenes from the Life of St. Francis, by Valerie Martin, forthcoming from Knopf in the spring of 2001

"Canticum creatorum"
Listen to a recording of "Canticum creatorum" ("The Canticle of the Creatures"), from the CD Saint Francis and the Minstrels of God (1996), featuring the Altramar medieval music ensemble (requires the RealAudio RealPlayer). The CD, on the Dorian Discovery label (catalogue number DIS-80143), may be ordered directly from Dorian Recordings (tel: 1-800-DORIAN-6).

The Canticle of the Creatures
An introductory note by Valerie Martin.

These four, Masseo, Angelo, Leone, Rufino -- Francesco's companions in the early days when they were driven from the town by outraged shopkeepers, when they took shelter in the woods and lived like resourceful animals with spirits as high as the treetops -- now are tired, middle-aged men, trudging along in the sultry morning air with hearts full of suspicion. They cross the bare patch of ground that borders the convent, then go single file between the cypress trees and the cool stone wall. Just ahead is the dark lump of the lean-to, jutting out from the smooth, pale stone like a black wart on a fair complexion. Leone arrives first at the doorway, but he does not go in. Instead he looks back at his companions with a smile of surprising sweetness, surprising in a face as rough and coarse as his. He nods toward the door. They know why; they hear it too. Francesco has a strong, clear voice, and he is singing at full volume. They do not recognize the tune or the words: "For she is useful, humble, precious and pure." They gather close, exchanging amused, indulgent looks. "Be praised, my Lord, for Brother Fire, by whom you light up the night, for he is fair and merry, mighty and strong."

So he is happy here, in the place they have made for him. Despite his illness, his blindness, the constant pain in his head, he is singing as cheerfully as a morning lark. Masseo steps forward and pushes the curtain aside. Light floods the dark hovel. He lets out a soft cry of dismay and backs away, holding the cloth so that the others looking past him can see what he has seen. Francesco lies upon his back, his arms folded over his chest, his hands partly hidden in his beard. His eyes are open, and though he cannot see, he appears to be looking right at them. He has not stopped singing; his beautiful voice pours out to them, framing the praises he has passed the night in composing. The mice are everywhere. They cover the floor, squirm into the cracks in the walls, leap frantically from the table, trying to escape the light. Two dive into the sleeves of the singer, one jumps from his chest to his forehead, then rushes out the door past the four horrified friars, who step gingerly out of his path. "Francesco," Angelo exclaims.

Francesco breaks off his singing and with difficulty raises himself onto his elbows. A mouse darts across his hand. "Angelo," he calls out cheerfully. "At last you are here. I want to send for Brother Pacifico at once. I have composed a wonderful new song and I want him to write it down for us all."

Return to "Being Saint Francis" (August 2000)

Valerie Martin is the author of two collections of short fiction and six novels, including Italian Fever (1999). Her article in this issue is taken from her biography Salvation: Scenes From the Life of St. Francis, to be published by Knopf next spring.