Catherine of Siena, Letters

In more grievous ways than any yet noted, Catherine was to be wounded in the house of her friends. The letters already given have shown us how tenderly intimate, on the human as well as on the spiritual side, were her relations with the father of her soul, "given her by that sweet mother, Mary." One shares her affection for good Father Raimondo as one reads the legend. His figure might well have belonged to the trecento rather than to the more strenuous age that followed. He was the simplest, the most modest of men--albeit by no means lacking in homely shrewdness; he was also one of the least heroic. Catherine, like most uplifted natures, demanded heroism from those dear to her, as a matter of course. Others wish for their beloved ease, delights, the gratification of ambition and desire; Catherine sought for them sorrow, hardships, the opportunity to offer their lives in exalted sacrifice for the sins of the Church and the world. She craved for them only less passionately than for herself, the crowning grace of martyrdom. Now Fra Raimondo had no affinity whatever for martyrdom. His chance at it came, in the fortunes of those stern times, and was promptly rejected. Urban, perhaps at Catherine's instigation, had despatched him to the King of France, and Raimondo had bidden his spiritual daughter and mother a solemn farewell, surmising doubtless that he was to see her face no more. He proceeded to the port of Genoa, planning thence to set sail for France. But the galleys of the antipope sought to debar the passage; and Raimondo, accepting the obstacle (one imagines with much ease), allowed himself to give up the expedition.

Catherine wrote him two letters on the matter. The first is brief, and half-playful in tone: "Oh my naughty father" (_cativello padre mio_) she says, "How blessed your soul and mine would have been could you have sealed with your blood a stone in Holy Church! I do wish I could see you risen above your childishness--see you shed your milk teeth and eat bread, the mustier the better!" Evidently Raimondo had answered this letter, writing, one imagines, in a deprecating tone, fearing lest Catherine may love him the less for his failure, yet after all assuming--so strong is our expectation of finding our own attitude in our friends--that she will rejoice in his escape. In this her reply she tells her whole heart. Surely, few more pathetic revelations of disappointed yet faithful affection have drifted to us on the tide of the ages. Catherine was at this time far advanced upon her own Via Dolorosa. One of the stations of her sorrow had been the parting with her friend: "And you have left me here, and have gone away with God." Here was another station, marked by a deeper pain: "Faithful obedience would have done more in the sight of God and men than all human prudence; my sins have prevented me from seeing it in you." With a glad suffering she had given Raimondo up to the service of God; with a suffering that was bitterly shamed, she saw him false to his calling. She utters no vain reproaches. In her own way she begins with earnest self-accusations, and proceeds to comfort the weakness of the man who should have been her guide with tender and subtly-reasoned assurances of her unchanged affection. At the same time she does not flinch from uncondoning, scathing statement of his sin and of her disillusion. Considerate, delicate, even courteous to a degree, the letter yet reveals in every line the sense of solitude which the action of Raimondo had caused her. There is no rebellion in her spirit: "I hold me none the less in peace, because I am certain that nothing happens without mystery," she sighs. But we grieve with a new, awestruck perception of the loneliness of her great soul, as we realize that to Raimondo was to be given perforce her deepest confidence in the passion upon which she was even now entering.

In the Name of Jesus Christ crucified and of sweet Mary:

Dearest father in Christ sweet Jesus: I Catherine, servant and slave of the servants of Jesus Christ, write to you in His precious Blood: with desire to see in you the light of most holy faith. This is a light which shows us the way of truth, and without it no activity, or desire, or work of ours would come to fruition, or to the end for which we began it; but everything would become imperfect--slow we should be in the love of God and of our neighbour. This is the reason: seemingly love is as great as faith, and faith is as great as love. He who loves is always faithful to him whom he loves, and faithfully serves him till death. By this I perceive that in truth I do not love God, nor the creatures through God: for if in truth I loved Him, I should be faithful in such wise that I should give myself to death a thousand times a day, were it needful and possible, for the glory and praise of His Name, and faith would not fail me, since for the love of God and of virtue and of Holy Church I should set myself to endure. So I should believe that God was my help and my defender, as He was of those glorious martyrs who went with gladness to the place of martyrdom. Were I faithful I should not fear, but I should hold for sure that the same God is for me who was for them; and His power to provide for my necessities is not weakened as to capacity, knowledge, or will. But because I do not love, I do not really trust myself to Him, but the sensuous fear in me shows me that love is lukewarm, and the light of faith is darkened by faithlessness toward my Creator, and by trusting in myself. I confess and deny not that this root of evil is not yet uprooted from my soul, and therefore those works are hindered which God wants to do or puts in my way, so that they do not reach the lucid and fruitful end for which God had them begun. Ah me, ah me, my Lord! Woe to me miserable! And shall I find myself thus every time, in every place, and in every state? Shall I always close with my faithlessness the way to Thy providence? Yes, truly, if indeed Thou by Thy mercy do not unmake me, and make me anew. Then, Lord, unmake me, and break the hardness of my heart, that I be not a tool which spoils Thy works!

And I beg you, dearest father, to pray earnestly that I and you both together may drown ourselves in the Blood of the humble Lamb, which will make us strong and faithful. We shall feel the fire of the divine charity: we shall be co-workers with His grace, and not undoers or spoilers of it. So we shall show that we are faithful to God, and trust in His help, and not in our knowledge nor in that of men.

With this same faith we shall love the creature; for as love of the neighbour proceeds from love of God, so with faith, in general and in particular; as there is a general faith corresponding to the love which we ought to feel in general to every creature, so there is a special faith belonging to those who love one another more intimately: like this, which beyond the common love has established between us two a close particular love, a love which faith manifests. So much love does it manifest that it cannot believe nor imagine that one of us wishes anything else than the other's good; and it believes earnestly, for it seeks this with great insistence in the sight of God and men, seeking ever in the other the glory of the name of God and the profit of his soul; constraining Divine Help, that as it adds burdens it may add fortitude and long perseverance. Such faith bears he who loves, and never lessens it for any reason, neither for speech of man nor illusion of the devil, nor change of place. If anyone does otherwise, it is a sign that he loves God and his neighbour imperfectly.

Apparently, as I understood by your letter, many diverse battles befell you, and troubled reflections, through the deceit of the devil and through your own sensuous passion, it seeming to you that a burden was imposed on you greater than you can bear. You did not seem to yourself strong enough for me to measure you with my measure, and on this account you were in doubt lest my affection and love to you were diminished. But you did not see aright, and it was you who showed that I had grown to love more, and you less; for with the love with which I love myself, with that I love you, in the lively faith that all which is lacking on your part, God will complete by His goodness. But this is not done yet, for you have known how to find ways to throw your load down to earth. You present us many scraps of excuses to cover up your faithless frailty, but not in such wise that I do not see it quite enough now, and good it will seem to me if it is not perceived by anyone but me. Yes, yes, I show you a love increased in me toward you, and not waning. But what shall I say? How could your ignorance give place to one of the least of those thoughts? Could you ever believe that I wished anything else than the life of your soul? Where is the faith that you always used to have and ought to have, and the certainty that you have had, that before a thing is done, it is seen and determined in the sight of God--not only this, which is so great a deed, but every least thing? Had you been faithful, you would not have gone about vacillating so, nor fallen into fear toward God and toward me; but like a faithful son, ready for obedience, you would have gone and done what you could. And if you could not have gone upright, you would have gone on all fours; if you could not have gone as a Frate, you would have gone as a pilgrim; if there is no money for us, one would have gone begging. This faithful obedience would have accomplished more in the sight of God and in the hearts of men than all human prudences. My sins have prevented me from seeing it in you.

Nevertheless I am quite sure, that although selfish passion was there, you yet had and have holy and good regard to fulfil better the will of God and that of Christ on earth, Pope Urban VI. Not that I would have had you stay, though; nay, but take to the road at once, in whatever fashion and by whatever way had been open to you. Day and night I was constrained by God concerning many other things also; which, through the carelessness of him who has to do them, but chiefly through my sins which hinder every good, are all coming to nothing. And thus, ah me! we see ourselves drowning, and offences against God increasing, with many torments; and I live in an agony of delay. May God, in His mercy, soon take me from this life of shadows!

We see in the kingdom of Naples that this last disaster is worse than the first; and so many evils are likely to happen there, that may God remedy them! But He in His pity showed the disaster, and the remedies that ought to be applied. But, as I said, the abundance of my faults hinders all good. I shall have a great deal to say to you about these matters, should I not receive the greatest grace, that of release from earth before I see you again.

Yes, as I say, I do entirely wish that you had gone. Nevertheless I hold me in peace, because I am certain that nothing happens without mystery; and also because I unburdened my conscience, doing what I could that a messenger should be sent to the King of France. May the clemency of the Holy Spirit achieve it! For we by ourselves are bad workmen.

As for going quickly to the King of Hungary, it is clear that the Holy Father would be well enough pleased, and he had planned that you should go with other companions. Now, I do not know why, he has changed his mind, and wishes you to stay where you are, and do what good you can. I beg you to be zealous about it.

Abandon yourself, and every personal pleasure and consolation; and let turfs be thrown upon those who are dead, and with the cords of humble desire and holy prayer let the hands of divine justice be bound, the devil, and fleshly appetite. We are offered dead in the garden of Holy Church, and to Christ on earth, the lord of that garden. Then let us do the works of the dead. The dead man does not see nor hear nor feel. Be strong to slay yourself with the knife of hate and love, that you may not hear the derision, the insults, the reproaches of the world, which the persecutors of Holy Church would offer you. Let not your eyes see things as impossible to do, nor the torment that may follow; but let them see with the light of faith that through Christ crucified you can do all things, and that God will not impose a greater burden than can be borne. Why, we are to rejoice in great burdens, because then God gives us the gift of fortitude. With the love of endurance, fleshly sensitiveness is lost; and thus dead, dead, we may nourish ourselves in this garden. When I see this, I shall account my soul as blessed. I tell you, sweetest father, that whether we will or no, the times to-day summon us to die. Then be no more alive! End pains in pain, and increase the joy of holy desire in the pain; that our life may pass no otherwise than in crucified desire, and that we may give our bodies willingly to be eaten by beasts; that is, for the love of virtue let us willingly fling ourselves upon the tongues and hands of bestial men, as did those others who have worked, dead, in this sweet garden, and watered it with their blood, but first with their tears and sweats. And I--(grievous my life!)--because I have not given enough water to it, was refused permission to give it my blood. I will it to be no more thus, but be our life renewed and the fire of desire increased!

You ask me to pray the Divine Goodness to give you the fire of Vincent, of Lawrence, and of sweet Paul, and that of the charming John--saying that then you will do great things. And so I shall be glad. Surely I say the truth, that without this fire you would not do anything, neither little nor big, nor should I be glad in you.

Therefore, considering that it is so, and that I have seen it proved, an impulse has grown in me, with great zeal in the sweet sight of God. Were you near me in the body, truly I would show you that it is so, and would give you other than words. I rejoice, and I want you to rejoice; for, since this desire grows, He will fulfil it in you and me, because He accepts holy and true desires; provided that you open the eye of your mind in the light of holiest faith, that you may know the truth of the will of God. Knowing it you will love it, and loving it you will be faithful, and your heart will not be overshadowed by any wile of the devil. Being faithful, you will do every great thing in God: what He puts into your hands will be fulfilled perfectly; that is, it will not be hindered on your part from coming to perfection. With this light you will be cautious, modest, and weighty in speech and conversation and in all your works and way; but without it you would do quite the contrary in your ways and habits, and everything else would turn out contrary for you.

So, knowing that this is the case, I desired to see in you the light of most holy faith; and so I want you to have it. And because I want this, and love you immeasurably for your salvation, and desire with great desire to see you in the state of the perfect, therefore I pray you with many words--but I would do so more willingly in deed; and I use reproaches with you, in order that you may return continually to yourself. I have done my best, and I shall do so, to make you assume the burden of the perfect for the honour of God, and ask His goodness to make you reach the last state of perfection; that is, to shed your blood for Holy Church, whether your servant the flesh will it or no. Lose you in the Blood of Christ crucified, and bear my faults and words with good patience. And whenever your faults may be shown you, rejoice, and thank the Divine Goodness, which has assigned someone to labour over you, who watches for you in His sight.

As to what you write me, that antichrist and his members seek diligently to have you, do not fear; for God is strong to take away their light and their force, that they may not fulfil their desires. Beside, you ought to think that you are not worthy of so great a good, and so you need not fear. Take confidence; for sweet Mary and the Truth will be for you always.

I, vile slave, who am placed in the Field, where blood was shed for the love of Blood--(and you have left me here, and gone away with God)--shall never pause from working for you. I beg you so to do that you give me no matter for mourning, nor for shaming me in the sight of God. As you are a man in promising the will to do and bear for the honour of God, do not then turn into a woman when we come to the shutting of the lock; for I should appeal against you to Christ crucified and to Mary. Beware lest it happen later to you as to the abbot of St. Antimo, who, through fear and under colour of not tempting God, left Siena and came to Rome, supposing that he had escaped his prison and was safe; and he was thrown into prison, with the punishment that you know. So are pusillanimous hearts cured. Be, then, be all a man: that death may be granted you.

I beg you to pardon me whatever I might have said that was not honour to God and due reverence to yourself: let love excuse it. I say no more to you. Remain in the holy and sweet grace of God. I ask your benediction. Sweet Jesus, Jesus Love!