Catherine of Siena Read online

  It came to her as an inspiration from above that God did not wish her to be a hermit. He did not wish that she should chastise her fragile body to bear greater privations than were suitable for her age, and He did not wish her to leave her father’s house in this way. It was a long way home, and she was tired, and afraid that she might have frightened her parents terribly—perhaps they thought that she had left them altogether. Again she prayed earnestly, this time that she might come safely home. And once again the strange feeling that she was floating came over her. When it had passed she was standing in front of the city gate. She ran home as fast as she could. But no one in the Benincasa household had paid any particular attention to the fact that she was not there; they thought that she was safely with her sister. And no one heard of her attempt to be a hermit before Catherine herself divulged it to her confessor many years later.

  The visionary child saw how the grown-ups and other children round her were concerned with a whole lot of things in which she felt not the slightest interest. After a while she realised that it was these things which the Bible calls “the world”. Her world—a world into which she ceaselessly longed to penetrate deeper and deeper—seemed to spread itself out behind and over all the things which she perceived with her physical senses. It was a heavenly world which she had been allowed to catch sight of for a moment when she saw Our Lord sitting royally among the clouds above the roof of San Domenico. Prayer was the key to this world. But the child had already discovered that one could enter it by a spiritual road also, without seeing or hearing anything with the outer senses.

  Her mother and father, her sisters and brothers were all good Christians. But they were content to drink moderately of that spring which made Catherine more and more thirsty the more she drank of it. They prayed, went to Mass, were helpful and generous towards the poor and the servants of God, but at times they flung themselves head-first into those very acts which Catherine came more and more to consider as obstacles which prevented her from attaining the desire of her heart. And however carefully the Benincasa children had been sheltered from bad influences they could not help knowing something of the pride of the rich citizens, of the feuds and fights between hard and bloodthirsty men, of the vanity of worldly women. Catherine’s heart burned to see them saved, all these poor souls who had cut themselves off from the love of God which she had experienced in such a way as to give her a foretaste of the bliss of heaven. She wished that she could become one of those who work to save the souls of men—for example the Dominicans, for she knew that their order had been founded with just this end in view. Often when she saw the preaching friars go past their house she noted where they trod, and when they had gone, ran out and reverently kissed the spot touched by their feet.

  But if she were one day to be in a position to take part in the work of these friars and all the good people of the monasteries and convents, and escape being dragged from her secret life by the worries and pleasures which took up so much of the time and thoughts of her mother and her married sisters, she must remain a virgin always. This she understood. When she was seven years old Catherine begged the Virgin Mary to speak for her—she wanted so much to give herself to her Son, Jesus Christ, and be His bride. “I love Him with all my soul, I promise Him and you that I will never take another bridegroom.” And she prayed both her heavenly Bridegroom and His mother to help her, so that she could always keep herself pure and free from stain in body and soul.

  An Italian girl of seven in our own day is more mature than a child of the same age of the Nordic or Anglo-Saxon world, and in the Middle Ages children all over Europe grew up more quickly than they do now; even in Norway boys and girls of fifteen were considered ready for marriage. In Romeo and Juliet Lady Capulet reminds her daughter, who is not yet fourteen, that

  . . . younger than you

  Here in Verona, ladies of esteem

  Are made already mothers. . . .

  Nevertheless when Catherine made her vow of chastity she could not have known much of the instincts of the body and the soul which she swore never to follow. The temptations of the flesh as yet meant two things for her: the appetite—the wholesome appetite for food of a healthy young girl during the growing years, for although she had secretly begun to practise self-denial Catherine was a strong and healthy young creature: and secondly, her fear of physical pain. The latter she had begun to fight against by disciplining herself with penitential scourgings more often than before. In order to master her appetite she would not eat anything but bread and vegetables. The large helpings of meat she was given at the family meals she smuggled to Stefano, who sat beside her, or to the cats miauwing under the table. Both the boy and the cats gladly accepted these extra rations. And the large family who sat round Monna Lapa’s well laden table never seemed to notice what went on at the end where the youngest members sat.

  But they could not help noticing at home that Catherine became more and more patient and calm. Many years later she came to call patience the very marrow of piety, and in view of the fact that grace does not alter our inborn nature, but perfects it, one must believe that this young woman who was later, with such awe-inspiring energy and whole-heartedness, to do all that her visions told her was God’s will, must have been born with an unusual reserve of natural wilfulness. But she was always obedient to her parents, and received with patience her mother’s scoldings—for Lapa had so much to do in the house, so many people always round her, that she was easily worked into a rage, and she gave her tongue free rein when she was annoyed. But at this time her family were still well pleased with Catherine’s exemplary behaviour; they admired her because they thought her so much more sensible than one could expect at her age, and so pious and gentle.

  It was probably because she knew that it gave her favourite child great pleasure to be sent on such errands that Lapa one morning asked Catherine to go to the parish church and offer a certain amount of candles and money on the altar, and ask the priest to say a Mass in honour of St. Anthony. St. Anthony was the gentle saint who during his lifetime had shown such great understanding and sympathy for ordinary women’s troubles and sorrows that mothers and housewives had come to look on him as their special friend in heaven. Catherine went and did as her mother had told her. But she wanted so much to take part in this Mass that she remained in the church till it was over and came home much later than her mother expected—Lapa had intended the child to come home as soon as she had talked with the priest. Now she met her daughter with a proverb which was used in Siena when anyone was inexcusably late: “Damned be the evil tongues which said to me that you would never come back.” The girl said nothing at first, but then she took her mother aside and said to her seriously and humbly, “Dear mother, if I have done wrong or more than you meant me to do, beat me so that I remember to behave better another time; that is just. But I beg you not to let your tongue damn anyone, whether they be good or evil, for my sake. It is unseemly at your age, and it hurts my heart.” This made a deep impression on Lapa—she knew the child was right. But she tried to appear unmoved, and asked why Catherine had been away so long. She told her that she had remained in the church to hear their Mass. When Jacopo came home, however, Lapa told him what their daughter had done and said. Jacopo listened, silent and thoughtful, but in his heart he thanked God.

  In this way Catherine grew up until she became a young girl and discovered that she was different, and that the world around her was also different.

  II

  IT WAS THE CUSTOM in Italian towns that once a girl was twelve years old she could not go out unless accompanied by an older woman. She was considered more or less of an age to be married, and her parents must now begin to look around for a suitable husband. When Catherine had reached her twelfth year, therefore, there came an end to running errands for her mother or slipping out to visit her married sisters. Her parents and brothers hoped that they would be able to find a husband for her who would bring honour and advantages to the whole family. Lapa was es
pecially happy, sure that she would be able to find a really remarkable man for her darling, the charming and sensible youngest daughter.

  But when Lapa told the young girl that now the time was come to try to make the very best of her beautiful appearance, arrange her lovely hair in the way that suited her best, wash her face more often, and avoid anything which could spoil her delicate complexion and white throat, she was bitterly disappointed. Catherine was not in the least keen to make herself beautiful for the sake of young men: on the contrary, it seemed as though she shunned their company and did everything she could not to be seen by them. She fled even from the apprentices and assistants who lived in their house, “as though they were snakes”. She never stood at the front door or leaned out of the window to look at the passers-by and be seen by them.

  Lapa sought the help of Bonaventura to make Catherine more amenable. Lapa knew how extremely fond Catherine was of her elder sister, and for a while it really seemed that Bonaventura succeeded in making the child slightly more obedient to her mother, so that she began to take more care of her appearance. According to what Raimondo says, Catherine was never a startling beauty, but young and vivacious as she was, slim, with a fair skin, beautiful dark eyes and an abundance of that shining golden-brown hair which the Italians have always admired so much, she must have been an extraordinarily attractive young woman.

  However great or small were the concessions Catherine made to the fashions of the day under the influence of her favourite sister, she accused herself later with scalding tears and passionate grief for her fall from grace by giving herself up to sinful vanity. When her confessor Raimondo asked whether she had at any time wanted to break, or thought of breaking, her vow of chastity, Catherine answered No, she had never for a moment thought of it. Raimondo was a wise priest who had long years of experience as confessor among the nuns. He asked whether she had not perhaps decked herself out to make an impression on men in general or on one special man, in spite of the fact that she was determined to keep her vow: in other words, whether she had succumbed to the old Eve and flirted a little on the way from lesser to greater self-denial? But Catherine denied this too. Raimondo said then, that in that case she had committed no great sin in yielding to the wishes of her mother and elder sister, whereupon Catherine accused herself of exaggerated love towards this sister—it seemed to her that she had loved Bonaventura more than God. But still Raimondo refused to judge her as harshly as she judged herself: she had obeyed her sister without evil intent or excess of vanity, and it was surely not against the will of God that she should love her sister. But, complained Catherine, what sort of a spiritual director was this who excused her sins? “Oh, Father, how could this miserable creature, who without any struggle and without any merits has received so much grace from God, waste her time adorning this body which is condemned to rot away—adorning it so as to tempt other mortal creatures?” Then, as on so many other occasions, Raimondo the confessor bowed to Catherine the penitent because she had greater religious experience than he. What she said concerning absolute purity and undivided will must be right.

  In the meantime there came a sudden stop to Catherine’s little excursion into the vanities of this world, for Bonaventura died in childbirth. The younger sister was sure that her death was God’s punishment because she had tried to tempt another soul from the service of God. But God revealed to Catherine that Bonaventura, who otherwise had been in every way pious, chaste and righteous, had remained only a short while in purgatory before she was freed to enter the bliss of heaven. But her sister’s death made it even clearer to Catherine how futile were the vanities of the world. She turned with a new ardour to her beloved Master and begged His forgiveness. Oh, if only He would say the same words to her as He had said to Magdalen: “Thy sins are forgiven thee.” She felt that St. Mary Magdalen must be her particular patron saint and example.

  The death of Bonaventura made the question of Catherine’s marriage even more pressing for Jacopo and his sons. For people in the Middle Ages the family was still the most powerful protector of the rights and welfare of the individual. In a time so full of unrest and disturbance, the protection a man could expect of the community—whether state or town—was at the best uncertain. But a group consisting of father, sons and sons-in-law who held fast together and faithfully defended their common interests, at least promised a certain amount of security. Niccolo was still a young man, and now that Bonaventura was dead he would soon marry into another family group. It now became Catherine’s duty to obey her parents and let herself be married to a man who would be a substitute for the son-in-law they had lost.

  When they discovered how absolutely unwilling Catherine was to comply with their wishes their admiration of her wisdom and sweet shyness came to an end. They threw themselves upon the child with a fury which makes one believe that after all Shakespeare did not exaggerate when he described the bitterness of the Capulets—the father and mother who shriek and swear at Juliet because she does not show seemly gratitude when they tell her that they have arranged a match for her.

  It must be remembered that her family was completely ignorant of the vow she had made—Catherine had never dared to name it to them. If she had expressed a wish to go into a convent, Jacopo at least would have listened to her with understanding, even if he had not been willing to give his consent at once. But it seems that Catherine never said that she wanted to be a nun. Beyond the fantasies she had had when she was tiny—that she should become a hermit, or imitate the Blessed Euphrosyne and run away from home dressed as a boy to become a monk—we do not know that Catherine had at any time imagined a future other than that of a life of the deepest solitude—such a life as must be the lot of a virgin wedded to God, if she was to live at home in the midst of a large family whose other members were all engaged in the work and interests of the world. In the time of the apostles this had been the normal life for Christian women who had taken a vow of chastity. But the demands of practical life soon led to the foundation of convents where such dedicated women could live together under one rule. And an ordinary medieval dwelling house was not exactly suited to keeping, year in, year out, a daughter who refused to marry and did not think of changing home for a convent.

  It was perhaps Jacopo who had the idea of sending for a Dominican monk who was an old friend of the family, in order to see if he could persuade Catherine to comply with the family’s plans. It was Fra Tommaso della Fonte, who had once been brought up with Catherine. She confessed to him that she had already secretly promised Christ that she would be His alone as long as she lived. Fra Tommaso could only advise her to meet the hardness which her family showed her so resolutely that they would have at last to understand that she would never give in. And Fra Tommaso thought that if she were to cut off her hair, which was her greatest beauty, perhaps they would leave her in peace.

  Catherine accepted this advice as though it came from heaven. She immediately fetched a pair of scissors and cut off her lovely golden-brown plaits close to the head. Then she tied a little veil over her shorn head. It was against the custom of that time for an unmarried woman to cover her hair, so when Lapa saw her daughter with this extraordinary headdress she immediately rushed up to her and asked what it meant. The girl dared not tell her the truth and would not tell a lie, so she did not answer. Lapa tore off the veil, and when she saw her beautiful daughter standing there so disfigured she sobbed with sorrow and fury: “Child, child, how could you do such a thing to me?” Silently the girl put on the veil again. But when Jacopo and the boys came hurrying in, startled by Lapa’s shrieks and tears, and heard what had happened, they threw themselves upon Catherine in fury.

  To make matters worse for Catherine she had now a suitor, a young man whom the Benincasas were very intent on bringing into the family. So they abused her roundly. “You wicked girl, do you imagine that you can escape our authority by cutting off your hair? It will grow again, and you shall be married, even if it breaks your heart. You shall never have a
ny peace or quiet until you give in and do as we say.”

  Now there was to be an end of the silly notions the stupid girl had of hiding at all sorts of odd times to pray and hold exaggerated devotions. She was no longer allowed to have her own little bedroom—she was told she could share a room with one of the others in the house. Catherine chose to share the room of her brother Stefano, who was still unmarried. In the daytime while Stefano was working at the dye vats in the cellar she had the little room to herself, and at night he slept like a log and did not guess that his sister lay awake for long periods in prayer and contemplation.

  Lapa dismissed her housemaid and saw that Catherine had enough to do in the house the whole day long. She had to do all the washing, prepare the food, and wait at table. On top of this, the whole household teased and scolded her while they sent her running hither and thither. The idea must have been that the girl would be brought to see that it was better to be a housewife in one’s own home than be chased like a slave in a large family. But Catherine was enough of a child still to be able to bring her games into the depths of spiritual life. She told Raimondo later that she used to imagine that her father was Our Lord Jesus Christ, her mother was His mother, the Virgin Mary—this must have been rather difficult for Catherine when Lapa was in one of her furies—and her brothers and the apprentices were the apostles and disciples. Then she could serve them happily and conscientiously, without being tired or sulky, so that her family, against their will, were bound to admit that she really was astonishing. This game made the kitchen a sanctuary for Catherine, and it filled her soul with happiness and sweetness to wait at table, for it was her Lord and Master she was serving.