WHEN I WAS CHAPLAIN at the Church of São Francisco de Paula (an elderly priest told me), the most extraordinary thing happened to me.
I lived right by the church, and one night, I retired to bed rather late. I would never, of course, go to bed without first checking to see that the church doors were properly locked. And so they were, but beneath them I could see a light. Frightened, I ran to fetch the night watchman, and when I couldn’t find him, I went back to the church steps and waited, not knowing what to do. The light wasn’t very bright, but still far too bright for thieves; besides, I noticed that it shone with a steady, even glow rather than wandering from side to side, as would be the case with the candles or lanterns of persons intent on stealing. The mystery intrigued me, and I went home to fetch the keys to the sacristy (the sacristan having gone to spend the night in Niterói), then, having made the sign of the cross, I unlocked the door and went inside.
The passageway lay in darkness. Holding my lantern, I edged slowly forward, trying to make as little noise as possible. The first and second doors leading into the church were shut, but under them I could see that same light; indeed, it seemed even more intense than when seen from the street. I carried on until I came to the third door, which stood open. I set the lantern down in one corner and covered it with my handkerchief so that I wouldn’t be noticed inside the church, and then I moved closer so as to find out what was going on.
Suddenly I stopped. It was only then that I realized I had come entirely unarmed, and that entering the church with only my two hands to defend myself could prove risky. Several more minutes raced by. The light from within remained unchanged—a steady, even milky glow, quite unlike candlelight. I could hear voices now, which I found still more troubling: they were neither whispering nor mumbling, but speaking in calm, clear, measured tones, as if they were conducting a normal conversation. At first I couldn’t understand what they were saying, and as I listened, I was struck by a thought that made me shudder. At the time, corpses were often laid to rest inside the church, and I suddenly imagined that it might be the dead talking to each other. I shrank back in terror, and it took me some time to pull myself together and return once more to the doorway, telling myself that such ideas were mere foolish nonsense. Reality, however, was about to show me something even more astonishing than a dialogue of the dead. I commended myself to God, again made the sign of the cross, and, keeping very close to the wall, crept gingerly forward and went in. What I saw was truly extraordinary.
Two of the three saints on the opposite side, Saint Joseph and Saint Michael (on the right as you enter the church though the main door), had stepped down from their niches and were sitting on their respective altars. They were smaller than their statues, more the size of ordinary men. They seemed to be addressing someone on my side of the church, where the altars of Saint John the Baptist and Saint Francis de Sales were located. I cannot begin to describe what went through my mind. For quite some time (I have no idea how long), I stood rooted to the spot, covered in goose bumps and trembling. I was teetering on the very edge of the abyss of madness, and it was only by divine mercy that I did not actually topple in. What I can, however, confirm is that I lost all consciousness of myself and of any other reality beyond the new and utterly unique reality before my eyes; only thus can I explain the boldness with which, only moments later, I advanced farther into the church, in order to see the other wall. And there the same sight greeted my eyes: Saint Francis de Sales and Saint John, having stepped down from their niches, were also sitting on their altars and conversing with the other saints.
I was so astonished that I believe they continued talking without me even hearing the sound of their voices. Little by little, however, my senses returned and I realized that they had not once interrupted their conversation; I could clearly hear and distinguish their words, but, initially, could make no sense of them. When one of the saints addressed the high altar, I turned my head in that direction and saw that Saint Francis of Paola, the church’s patron saint, had also stepped down from his niche and was joining in the conversation. They weren’t speaking particularly loudly, and yet they were perfectly audible, as if the sound waves had somehow been endowed with a greater power of transmission. But if all this was astonishing, then so was the light: it seemed to come from nowhere, for the chandeliers and candlesticks were all unlit. It was as if moonlight had somehow found its way into the building, but with the moon itself hidden from sight; the comparison is even more exact when you consider that, if it really had been moonlight, some places would have been left in darkness, as indeed was the case, for it was in one of those dark corners that I sought refuge.
By then I was acting purely on instinct, and what I experienced on that night bore no relation to my life before or after. Suffice it to say that, confronted by this strange spectacle, I felt absolutely no fear; I lost all power of thought and could do little more than listen and look.
After a few moments, I realized that they were cataloguing and commenting on all of the day’s prayers and petitions. Each of them had something to contribute. All of them, with terrifying psychological insight, had penetrated into the lives and souls of the faithful and picked apart the feelings of each and every one, just as anatomists dissect a corpse. Saint John the Baptist and Saint Francis of Paola, those harsh ascetics, were, by turns, angry and absolute. Unlike Saint Francis de Sales, who listened and gave his judgments with the same kindly indulgence to be found in his famous work Introduction to the Devout Life.
It was thus, each according to his own temperament, that they recounted and remarked on the day’s events. Examples of pure, sincere faith, of indifference, of dissembling and double-dealing, had already been laid bare; the two ascetics grew ever sadder, but Saint Francis de Sales reminded them of the words of the Scriptures: “Many are called but few are chosen,” by which he meant that not all who attended that church came with a pure heart. Saint John shook his head.
“I must tell you, Francis de Sales, I am developing a most unusual sentiment in a saint: I’m beginning to lose my faith in humankind.”
“Now, don’t exaggerate, John the Baptist,” replied the saintly bishop. “Let’s not get carried away. Look, something happened here today that made me smile, and yet the very same thing might well have filled you with indignation. Men are no worse now than they were in earlier centuries. Set aside all their bad qualities, and you’ll find there are many good qualities left. Believe this and you will surely smile when you hear the tale I have to tell you.”
“Me? Smile?”
“Yes, you, John the Baptist, and you as well, Francis of Paola; in fact, it will make all of you smile. And I can tell you about it now because I have already interceded with the Lord and obtained from Him the very thing for which this person was praying.”
“Which person?”
“Someone far more interesting than your notary, Joseph, or your storekeeper, Michael—”
“That may be so,” said Saint Joseph, breaking in. “But nothing could be more interesting than the adulteress who prostrated herself at my feet today, asking me to cleanse her heart of the leprosy of lust. Only yesterday she had argued with her lover, who vilely insulted her, and she had spent the whole night crying. In the morning, she resolved to leave him, and came here to seek the strength she needed to escape the demon’s grasp. She began by praying earnestly, fervently even, but little by little I could tell that her thoughts were drifting back to those earthly delights. Her words gradually lost their vigor. Her prayers became lukewarm, then cold, then mechanical; her lips, accustomed to prayer, continued praying, but her soul, on which I was spying from above, was no longer present; it was with that other man. Finally, she crossed herself, stood up, and left without asking for anything.”
“My story is better than that.”
“Better than mine?” asked Saint Joseph curiously.
“Much better,” replied Saint Francis de Sales, “and it isn’t sad like the one about that poor soul tormented by base earthly desires, and who may yet be saved by the grace of our Lord. For why would He not save her as well? Anyway, here goes.”
They all stopped talking and leaned forward attentively, waiting. Here I took fright, remembering how they, who see everything that goes on inside us as clearly as if we were made of glass—all our hidden thoughts, our devious intentions, our secret loathings—could easily have already spied within me some sin, or even the germ of a sin. But I had no time for further reflection; Saint Francis de Sales began to speak.
“My man is fifty years old,” he said, “his wife is in bed, suffering from a deadly skin infection in her left leg. He’s been beside himself with worry for the last five days, because the disease is getting worse and science has as yet failed to come up with a cure. See, however, how far public prejudice can go. Nobody believes in Sales’s anguish (yes, he bears my name), nobody believes he loves anything but money, for as soon as news of his unhappiness began to spread, the whole neighborhood was awash with scurrilous jokes and jests; there were even those who believed that what was really upsetting him was the thought of how much her funeral would cost.”
“That could well be true,” said Saint John.
“But it wasn’t. That he is usurious and miserly I do not deny; as usurious as life itself, and as miserly as death. Never has anyone so resolutely extracted gold, silver, paper, and copper from the pockets of others; never has anyone squirreled away money with more alacrity and zeal. A coin that falls into his hand rarely leaves it again, and anything that isn’t invested in property resides in an iron chest always kept firmly under lock and key. Sometimes, in the dead of night, he opens the chest and contemplates his money for a few minutes, then quickly closes it again; but on such nights, he sleeps either badly or not at all. He has no children. He leads a mean and niggardly life, eating little and badly, just enough to keep body and soul together. His family consists of his wife and a black slave woman, one of two he bought many years ago, secretly, from smugglers. They say he didn’t even pay for them, because the seller died shortly afterward and there was nothing written down. The other slave woman died a little while ago, and this is where you can decide whether or not this man is a genius when it comes to penny-pinching: he gave the corpse its freedom!”
And the saintly bishop paused to savor the reaction of his fellow saints.
“The corpse?”
“Yes, the corpse. He had the slave buried as a free pauper, so as not to incur any funeral expenses. Little enough, perhaps, but it was still something. And for him there is no such thing as little: it is with drops of water that whole streets are flooded. He’s not interested in outward appearances or in aping aristocratic tastes; all those things cost money and, as he says, money doesn’t grow on trees. He has no social life to speak of and no family amusements. He listens to and repeats tittle-tattle about other people’s lives, for such pleasures come free.”
“One can understand people’s skepticism,” said Saint Michael.
“I wouldn’t disagree there, because the world never looks below the surface of things. The world doesn’t see that, while Sales does indeed think of his wife as his carefully house-trained companion and confidante of twenty years, he really does love her. Don’t be shocked, Michael. Even on the most inhospitable of walls a flower may bloom, colorless and without scent, but a flower nonetheless. The botany of love is full of such anomalies. Sales loves his wife; he’s devastated at the thought of losing her. And so, in the early hours of this morning, not having slept for more than two hours, he began thinking about the impending catastrophe. Despairing of the Earth, he turned to God; he thought of us, and especially of me, since he bears my name. Only a miracle could save her, and so he resolved to come here. He lives nearby, and came running. When he entered, his eyes shone with hope; it could have been the light of faith, but, in fact, it was something quite specific, as I will explain. Now, here’s where you all need to pay even closer attention.”
I saw them lean even farther forward, and I myself could not resist the temptation to take another step closer. The saint’s account was so long and detailed, his analysis so complicated, that I won’t set it down here in full, but merely give the main points.
“When he thought of coming to ask me to intercede on behalf of his wife, Sales had an idea typical of a usurer: he would promise me a wax leg. It wasn’t the believer seeking a symbolic reminder of a favor granted, but, rather, the usurer trying to force the hand of divine grace with the expectation of profit. And it wasn’t only usury that spoke, but avarice too: by offering this vow he was showing that he truly wished to save his wife—a miser’s intuition. Payment is proof: parting with ready cash is the test of whether you truly want something, or so his conscience whispered darkly to him. Well, you all know that such thoughts are not formed as others are; they are born deep within the bowels of character and linger on in the shadows of conscience. But I read all this in his mind the moment he came into the church, looking agitated, his eyes ablaze with hope. I read all these things, and waited for him to finish crossing himself and praying.”
“At least he has some religious feeling,” muttered Saint Joseph.
“Some, yes, but only in a very vague and parsimonious way. He never became a member of any confraternities or lay orders, because they do nothing but steal what belongs to the Lord. Or so he says, trying to reconcile devotion with his pocket. But I suppose we can’t have everything; at least he fears God and believes in doctrine.”
“So he knelt and prayed.”
“Yes, he prayed, and while he was praying, I saw his poor suffering soul, although hope was already beginning to turn to instinctive certainty. God was sure to save the sick woman; He was bound to, thanks to my intervention, and I would intercede. That’s what he was thinking as his lips mouthed the words of the prayer. When he had finished praying, Sales stayed for a short time gazing upward, his hands still clasped together. Finally, he spoke: to confess his pain and to swear that no other hand, beyond that of the Lord Himself, could stay the blow. His wife was dying . . . dying . . . dying . . . And he repeated the word, unable to escape it. His wife was dying. He went no further. Ready to formulate his request and give his promise, he could find no appropriate or even vaguely approximate words; he could find nothing at all, so unaccustomed was he to giving anything away. Finally, he spluttered out his request; his wife was dying and he was begging me to save her, to plead with the Lord on her behalf. The promise, however, simply would not come out. As his mouth tried to articulate the first word, avarice tightened its grip about his guts and stopped that promise from escaping his lips. ‘Save her . . . Intercede for her . . .’ he begged.
“The wax leg appeared to him, hanging in midair before his eyes, followed shortly by the vision of the coin that it would cost him. The leg disappeared, but the coin remained; a disk of purest yellow gold—solid gold, far better than the candlesticks on my altar, which are merely gilt. Whichever way he looked, he could see the coin spinning, spinning, spinning. From afar, he caressed it with his eyes, feeling the cold sensation of the metal and even the texture of the raised relief stamped upon it. It was her, his old friend of many years, his companion by day and by night; it was her, hanging in the air before him, spinning giddily, descending from the ceiling, rising from the floor, rolling across the altar from the Epistle to the Gospel, tinkling against the chandelier’s crystal drops.
“By now the sadness and supplication in his eyes were more intense and entirely genuine. I watched his gaze reach up to me, full of contrition, humiliation, and pain. He mouthed some incoherent platitudes—God . . . the angel of the Lord . . . Christ’s holy wounds . . .—tearful, tremulous words, as if hoping they would convince me of the sincerity of his faith and the immensity of his sorrow. But still no promise of a leg. At times, like someone steeling himself before leaping a ditch, his soul dwelled at length upon his wife’s imminent demise and prepared to fling itself into the despair her death would bring him; but when he reached the edge of the ditch and the moment came to leap, he hung back. The coin rose up before him, and the promise stayed buried in his heart.
“Time was passing. The hallucination grew, because the coin, accelerating and multiplying its leaps and bounds, multiplied itself again and again until there appeared an infinite number of coins; his inner conflict reached tragic proportions. Suddenly the fear that his wife might be at death’s door froze the poor man’s blood and all he could think of was rushing off to be with her. She might be dying! Again he asked me to intercede for her, to save her . . .
“At this point, the demon of avarice suggested a new transaction—a change of currency, if you will—telling him that the value of prayer was of the highest rank and quality, far superior to that of mere earthly undertakings. And Sales, contrite, head bowed, hands pressed together, his gaze obedient, helpless and resigned, asked me once again to save his wife. And to save her he promised me three hundred—no less—three hundred Our Fathers and three hundred Hail Marys. He repeated this emphatically: three hundred, three hundred, three hundred . . . He went higher and higher: five hundred, then a thousand Our Fathers and a thousand Hail Marys. He could see this number written out in front of him, not in words but in numerals, as if this made the figure somehow more vivid and exact, the obligation greater, greater also its seductive power. One thousand Our Fathers, one thousand Hail Marys. And once again those tearful, tremulous words returned: the holy wounds, the angel of the Lord . . . 1,000, 1,000, 1,000. The four numerals had grown so tall that they now filled the church from top to bottom, and with them grew both the man’s efforts and his confidence. The word came out loud and clear, ever faster, ever more urgent: ‘thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand!’ Come, now,” said Saint Francis of Sales, “surely you can see the funny side. Go on, laugh! Laugh as much as you like.”
And the other saints did indeed laugh; not the great guffaws of Homer’s gods when they saw lame Vulcan serving at table, but a polite, pious, very Catholic laugh.
I heard nothing more after that. I fell to the floor in a dead faint. When I came to, it was broad daylight. I rushed to open the doors and windows of the church and sacristy, to let in the sun, that enemy of bad dreams.