CHAPTER XVIII.
Last Days.
Sin can never taint thee now,
Nor doubt thy faith assail,
Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ
And the Holy Spirit fail;
And there thou'rt sure to meet the good,
Whom on earth thou lovedst best,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest."
Slowly, but surely, the time came when Francis was compelled to drop all attempt at work. We do not read that he suffered or grieved over this—not even when the blindness which had been gradually creeping upon him suddenly climaxed, and he was plunged into almost total darkness. In the midst of all, his faith shone brighter and brighter, and his love for God grew in intensity. His confidence in God was such, that when he found himself, in what ought to have been the prime of life, a broken-down, pain-tortured wreck, not the faintest shadow of a regret for the golden years that "might have been," had his path been a less stormy one, ruffled the interior calm of his soul. His life had been lived, and was being lived in the will of God, and nothing outside that will could possibly happen to him. So, in the serene confidence that all things—no matter how disastrous they might appear to human understanding—would surely work together for good, he lay down in his narrow cell at the Portiuncula, to suffer the Divine will with the same glad, ready obedience with which he had heretofore hastened to perform it. In no instance do we read of his faith failing him. Not for the smallest fraction of a second. The story of his last days is one of the most vivid pictures of the triumph of a soul over every earthly hindrance. It has its parallel in the story of Gethsemane and Calvary.
"Thy Will be Done."
Before we continue our narrative, let us for a moment take a realizing view of Francis, his condition and circumstances. As we have said before, his health was utterly undermined. We are told that "the stomach could ill bear food, the internal organs were the seat of constant sufferings, and all the members were weakened and painful." Add to this almost total blindness, and we have a state of body that would in itself be sufficient excuse for any phase of soul-difficulty, darkness, or depression, had such assailed him. But how much worse than his bodily pains must have been the heart-agony he suffered through the insidious, elusive disease that was sapping the vitality of the vast organization of which he was the tender Father. To the very dregs Francis drained that cup of failure and defeat, which all who are called to lead the vanguard of Christ's conquering host, have at some time or another to drink more or less deeply. That is the time when the cry, "If it be possible, let this cup pass from me," is wrung from the tortured soul, and thrice happy are those who, out of an intimate knowledge of God, can add, "Not my will, but Thine be done," assured that it is best simply because it is His. But it is only those who know God and enjoy Him, who have confidence enough in Him not to demand His reasons—those whose lives have not been mere service alone—who can triumphantly and victoriously cry, "Thy will be done." Such was Francis. Such were those of the whitest of God's saints, and a like eternal, triumphant victory is ours, if we, too, are willing to pay the full price—a life of utter self-renunciation.
An Operation.
But to return. Up to the time when Francis became blind, he had steadily refused to see any doctor or take any medicine; but after much persuasion, on the part of the brethren and Ugolino, who firmly believed that the Order would suffer collapse if Francis died, he gave in to their request, and tried every remedy the Assisian doctors presented. But he became no better, and from Assisi he was taken to Rieti, to consult an oculist there. He suffered everything from the rude, barbarous surgical treatment of the times, which knew little beyond cauterization, bleeding, and drawing-plasters. But, as he became rather worse than better, the Rieti oculist, who had learned to love him, took him on to Siena, to see an old, celebrated oculist who lived in that town. This man said that there was nothing for it but an operation—a very painful one, too, for he would have to cauterize his patient from the eyebrows to the ears. Francis said he was ready to undergo it. He thought to himself that this was a glorious chance to show that Christ's soldiers could be as brave as any others. One moment only he shuddered. This was when the doctors were heating their instruments in the fire, and he knew that soon he would have to endure them. In those days only the very stoutest-hearted submitted to operations, the majority preferring to die untortured. One can hardly blame them, as there were no means known by which the faculties could be deadened.
Before the hot irons touched him, Francis prayed, and then addressed the fire thus: