From Cortona they went through the mountain passes to Gubbio, another place of memories for Francis, and from thence to Nocera where the armed guard from Assisi met them. Francis journeyed now in a kingly manner, his litter carried in the midst of attendant and obsequious knights. He had dreamed in his boyhood of traveling just in this fashion, swords and shining helms about him, himself the center of adulation and honor, and he had dreamed too of coming home from the wars a triumphant hero to his native city. The dreams were coming true now but in a manner of which he had not dreamed. He laughed and joked with his bodyguard. At Satriano the knights were hungry but when they tried to buy food from the villagers they asked so peremptorily that they were refused. “You have not found because you confided in your pence and not in God,” said Francis. “But return now to the houses whither you went seeking to buy, and laying aside your shame ask alms there for the love of the Lord God.” So the proud knights went begging like Brothers Minor and the villagers gave them what they had and they ate at the table of the Lord.
3
IN THE BRILLIANT SUNSHINE and great heat of midsummer Francis came back to Assisi. As soon as the citizens, watching from the walls, saw the cavalcade of knights slowly approaching they came streaming out of the city in pride and joy to welcome their saint in his last homecoming. They would not let him go to his beloved Portiuncula, where they knew perfectly well that he always wanted to be, for in that undefended spot Perugia might still get him. They brought him into the city and lodged him in the bishop’s palace and set an armed guard about it. Celano says, “The city rejoiced over the arrival of the blessed father, and the mouths of all the people praised God, for the whole multitude hoped that the holy man might soon die.” If that statement shocks us it would not have shocked Francis. He knew human nature and its lively sense of favors to come.
Back in Assisi, no longer enduring the agonizing jolting of the litter and the weary useless pilgrimage from one place to another, allowed stillness and rest at last, Francis revived a little. He talked with those about him, speaking of the order and his hopes and fears for it, and he dictated his last letter to his sons. He greets them all, the minister general and all who shall follow him in that office, the ministers and priests and all the simple and obedient brothers, the first and the last. He exhorts them to discipline, obedience and courageous witness to the faith in word and deed, and he humbly confesses his own sin, but most of the long letter is concerned once more with the subject always so close to his heart, the reverence due to the Blessed Sacrament. In places the words pour out with something of his old impetuosity.
Let the entire man be seized with fear; let the whole world tremble; let heaven exult when Christ, the Son of the living God, is on the altar in the hands of the priest. O admirable height and stupendous condescension! O humble sublimity! O sublime humility, that the Lord of the universe, God, and the Son of God, so humbles himself that for our salvation he hides himself under a morsel of bread! Consider, brothers, the humility of God and pour out your hearts before him, and be ye humbled that ye may be exalted by him. Do not therefore keep back anything for yourselves that he may receive you entirely who gives himself up entirely to you.
The letter ends with the prayer of his whole life, the prayer that he and his sons may do the will of God as perfectly as they are able, and with his blessing, “May the Lord be with you forever. Amen.”
His devotion to the will of God remained unshaken. Saint Bonaventure tells us that one of the brothers found it hard to bear the sight of his suffering, and said to him, “Brother, pray the Lord that he deal more gently with thee, for me seemeth that his hand is laid more heavily on thee than is right.” But Francis had asked that he might share the redemptive suffering of Christ, and the answer to his prayer had been gathered within the will of God for him, and he would not rebel now against that adorable will. He “cast himself on the ground, jarring his frail bones in the hard fall. And, kissing the ground, he cried: ‘I give thee thanks, O Lord God, for all these my pains, and I beseech thee, my Lord, that if it please thee, thou wilt add unto them an hundredfold; for this will be most acceptable unto me if laying sorrow upon me thou dost not spare, since the fulfilling of thy holy will is unto me an overflowing solace.’”
There was another solace, that unity with his Lord that with the suffering had been granted to him at Alvernia. He spoke of it very simply, for it was beyond description, yet in a choice of words so perfect that they do convey some hint of the satisfied peace of his soul, that eternal satisfaction that can lie untroubled as deep water beneath the torment that belongs to this world only. One of the brothers asked him why he did not now do as he had always done, and seek comfort in the Bible. Francis answered, “I need no more, my son. I know Christ, the poor man crucified.”
He was sublime, yet through it all he remained endearingly human, much like all of us in illness, wanting comfort sometimes, afraid to be a nuisance, not really able to eat anything yet fancying that if something which did not happen to be there at the moment had been there he could have fancied that. Once during a feverish night he longed for the fresh wholesome taste of parsley, and asked the brother who was with him if he would get it for him. The brother was not wholly willing; how could he find parsley groping about in the garden in the pitch-dark in the middle of the night? But Francis begged him to try and assured him that he would find it. So the brother went out into the garden, grabbed at some sort of fresh cool greenness, brought it in and looked at it. It was parsley.
However devoted and loving the immortal spirit may be, the strain and labor of nursing can reduce the mortal part of a nurse to a state that falls very far behind the spirit’s intention, and the heartbreaking part of it is that the more the patient is loved the greater can be the fall from grace. The nursing brothers were tired out and their patience was wearing a little thin. Francis knew he was being an unconscionable long time dying and his sensitive spirit was pitifully aware of their weariness. He was quite helpless and suffering intensely, and now there was this added pain of knowing himself to be a burden upon those who looked after him. Yet there was no self-pity in him and no hurt pride. He was concerned only for the brothers, and in a way that was typical of him. He had never been overmuch concerned about the safety and comfort of the bodies of those he loved, it was their precious immortal souls that were of such concern to him, and so now The Mirror of Perfection tells us that “he began to fear lest from their too great labor on his account the friars should incur even the least offense before God on account of some impatience. Whence on a time he said with piety and compassion to his companions: ‘Dearest brethren, and my little sons, let it not weary you to labor for my infirmity; since the Lord will return to you all the fruit of your works for his humble servant in this world and in the future.’ ”
Yet in spite of his lack of concern for the body he did wonder in these last days if he had done wrong to be so hard upon his own. He was well aware that he was dying now because Brother Ass had been so broken by austerity that he had not been able to stand up against the onslaught of disease. He had tried to maintain all possible discipline throughout his illness, and whenever he had allowed his suffering body the minimum of comfort his conscience had rebuked him, but now he wondered if perhaps poor Brother Ass deserved a little kindness at the end. He discussed it half humorously with one of the brothers, asking his advice about it.
The brother said, “Tell me, father, if thou deignest to do so, with what diligence thy body, while it could, obeyed thy behests?” Francis replied, “It has shirked no toil, has refused no discomfort, if only it might do as it was bid. Herein have I and it been in perfect agreement, that we should serve Christ the Lord without any reluctance.”
The brother said, “Is it a worthy rewarding of faithful friends to accept a kindness gladly, and then in the time of his need not to requite a giver’s merit? . . . Be it far from thee, father, stay and staff of the afflicted: be this sin against the Lord far from thee.”
/> Francis said, “Rejoice, Brother Body, and forgive me, for behold now I gladly fulfill thy desires, and gladly hasten to attend to thy complaints.”
Like all courageous men when they are dying, he wanted to know how long he had to live, and when one of his doctors, Buongiovanni of Arezzo, a friend of his, came to see him, he said to him, “What thinkest thou of this my infirmity of dropsy?” Buongiovanni answered with the temporizing wariness of all doctors, “Brother, it shall be well with thee, by the grace of God.” But Francis was not to be put off with such nonsense, and using a popular saying of the country people he said, “I am not a cuckoo to be afraid of death. By the grace of the Holy Spirit I am so intimately united to God that I am equally content to live or die.” Then Buongiovanni told him straight out that he did not think he would live longer than the end of September or the beginning of October. It was good news. There was not much longer to wait now. Francis “spread his hands out to the Lord with very great devotion and reverence, and said with great joy of mind and body, ‘Welcome, Sister Death.’”
After the doctor had left him he passed through a period of such great pain that he could hardly maintain his cheerfulness. One of the brothers stayed with him through it, talking to him of heaven where he would see face to face the God whom he had loved so well in life, and he was comforted, and, when the pain had a little lessened, as utterly happy as he had been after the night of pain at San Damiano. He sent for Angelo and Leo and asked them to sing his Canticle of the Sun to him, and when they had sung it he added one more verse, the last.
Praised be my Lord for our sister, the death of the body, from which no man escapeth. Woe to him who dies in mortal sin!
Blessed are they who are found walking by thy most holy will, for the second death shall have no power to do them harm.
From that day until the end music took possession of his soul. He had all eternity in which to worship God but time was slipping from him, and the minutes and hours as they came and went must be offered up to his Lord in praise and thanksgiving. The brothers sang to him often and as he was able he sang with them. They sang the canticle and they sang psalms and laude. The sentries who kept guard, and paced backward and forward beneath the high window of the room where Francis lay, listened to the singing. They heard it by day, when the burning sun of late summer increased the fever and pain of those who suffered, and by night under the stars. They looked up in wonder and awe at the window from which it came. No groans or sighs of weariness came from that window, only singing.
Elias doubted if this was as it should be. He did not think Francis was dying with sufficient solemnity, and he feared for his reputation. He wondered what people were thinking. He was afraid they were saying, “Why does this man show such lightheartedness, who is near death? He ought to be thinking of death.” And so he went to Francis and as tactfully as he could asked that the singing should stop. Throughout his illness Francis had been so humbly obedient to the minister general that no doubt Elias thought he would be instantly obeyed. But in this thing only he was not obeyed. “Suffer me, brother, to rejoice in the Lord, both in his praises and in my infirmity,” said Francis, “since by the grace of the Holy Spirit helping me, I am so united to my Lord, that by his mercy may I well rejoice in the Most High.”
He had said the same thing to his doctor. “By the grace of the Holy Spirit I am so united to God.” The union of Alvernia was growing deeper still and he was marveling at it. The coasts of the country must have been clear to him now, as clear as the shore to the apostles when they came home in the dawn from the night of fishing on the lake of Galilee, and saw the gracious figure of Christ building a little fire on the beach to welcome them in.
Yet his pain was very great and he did not pretend it was not so. One day a pitying brother asked him which he would rather have, the cruel death of a martyr or this long-drawn-out agony. He said, “Son, that to me has been and is dearest and most acceptable, which it pleases my God to let happen to me; yet in regard to the distress of my suffering, this sickness, were it but to last three days, is more grievous than any martyrdom.”
One day it seemed that he could not live longer and the brothers gathered around him begging that he would bless them. Bernard was kneeling on his right and Elias on his left. Then followed an incident typical of the love and understanding of Francis. He was blind and near to death, yet his knowledge of the need of others was as strong as ever, and as he stretched out his wounded hands to bless his sons he was intuitively aware that Elias was kneeling on his left. Elias had hurt him almost unbearably yet Elias was now heartbroken. He crossed his arms so that his right hand rested on the head of the minister general. To be quite certain he asked if this was so and when they said yes he murmured, “That is as I wish.” Then raising his voice he blessed Elias. “My son, I bless thee in all things, and through all things, and as the Most High has multiplied my brothers and sons in thy hands, so upon thee and in thee do I bless them all. May God the king of all, bless them in heaven and on earth. I bless thee as far as I can and more than I can; and what I cannot do, may he do in thee, he who can do all things.”
The crossed arms are now the symbol of the Franciscan Order and the words “As far as I can and more than I can” its inspiration.
How could Elias refuse him anything after this? He could not, and when Francis begged that he might go home to the Portiuncula he acquiesced. It was just what they had hoped to avoid, for Perugia could so easily snatch their saint away from the unprotected little Portiuncula, but to his everlasting credit Elias took the risk. Francis loved the Portiuncula more than any spot on earth and if he wanted to die there Elias was determined that he should, and he obtained the consent of the city for his removal.
And so on a day late in September, in the year 1226, Francis was carried on his bed out of the bishop’s palace into the fresh air. It was a long time since he had had the blue sky over him and the warmth of the sun directly on his body. He was not fond of palaces and it must have felt to him like coming out of prison. The brothers carried him gently down through the narrow streets to the city gate called the Portaccia, and out into the country beyond, along the way that led from Assisi past San Damiano to the Portiuncula and on to Perugia. He had traveled this way so often that he must have known by heart every uneven paving stone in the street, every curve on the road. With the heightening of awareness that blindness had brought to his remaining senses the tramp of the feet about him, each voice speaking to him or of him with devoted love, would have had a great power and significance, as though the whole order from the beginning to the end of its earthly time were carrying him on his way to eternity. Each birdcall, each rustle of wind in the trees, the scent of the rosemary bushes and the growing things along the way, had a loveliness sharper and more intense than in his sighted days. He could take leave of the earth with a new sort of poignancy because he was blind.
They went on and a different sort of scent came to him, the stench of the leper hospital of the Crucigeri. Instantly to his inward sight they must have been all about him, the leper in whom he had seen the suffering Christ, the leper to whom his embrace had brought healing, the recalcitrant leper whose body he had washed in the hospital, all the multitude of sick men whom he had served with such devotion, and he took his leave of them with love. They had given him his bearings and in a moment or two he knew that they had reached the place where there was a clear view of Assisi. He asked his bearers to stop and turn around that he might face Assisi. They did so and he raised himself upon his bed as though gazing at the strong old walls that he had helped to rebuild when he was a boy, the terraces over whose ramparts he had leaned as a child, the houses climbing up one behind the other on the mountain slope. Then he raised his hand and blessed the city and its people. “Blessed be thou of the Lord, holy city faithful to God, for through thee shall many souls be saved and in thee shall dwell many servants of the Most High, and from thee shall many be chosen for the eternal kingdom.”
They
went down to the Portiuncula and through the gate in the quickset hedge to the enclosure, and Francis was put to bed in a cell close to Santa Maria degli Angeli. The last journey had ended.
Chapter 20
The Larks
Love, thou didst enter very softly in
To hold this heart of mine.
No sound, no stir, no sign!
How couldst thou cross my threshold all unseen?
O sweet and gentle love, thou art the key
Of heaven’s city and fort:
Steer thou my ship to port,
And from the tempest’s fury shelter me.
JACOPONE DA TODI
LAUDA LXXXI
FRANCIS WAS ONLY A FEW DAYS at the Portiuncula before his death, and reading the accounts of these days it would seem that for most of the time he had passed beyond pain into a peace of body as well as mind and spirit, what Shakespeare calls the “lightning before death.” They passed with a measured orderly beauty, as one by one he set his affairs in order before turning to the symbolic acts of his dying. He had always liked order, for love with its refusal to encroach or grab, its awareness of the utmost that is due, is always orderly. First, in this lucidity of mind between pain and death, he dictated his will. He had nothing to leave except his memories. They are written down with simplicity and beauty, interwoven with his deep pleading that these things may be remembered and the order held to its first obedience and its first holiness. This will is his confession of faith, affirming that he stands where he always did, determined to keep the rule of gospel poverty purely and simply until the end. There are some stern commands and warnings, yet he writes with a humility and gentleness that make this testament a very moving revelation of himself. It ends with a fatherly blessing and the words: “I, Brother Francis, your little one and servant, in so far as I can, confirm unto you within and without this most holy blessing. Amen.”