St. Catherine of Siena

TOWARD the south of Tuscany, enthroned on her three hills, her quaint old towers soaring into the blue Italian sky, stands Siena, the city of the Virgin. Few of the cities of Italy have changed so little in the course of the centuries as she. The frowning walls of a medieval stronghold still surround her, broken here and there by great gates on whose brick arches the blue and crimson and gold of the fourteenth century painters yet linger. Her old palaces, her gorgeous cathedral, her noble churches, her steep and narrow streets have changed but little in the last six hundred years. 


The very name of Siena seems to bring with it a fragrance of lilies. It is the city of the Virgin Mother of God, solemnly dedicated to her in the year 1260, on the eve of the great battle of Montaperti, when the citizens of Siena won a glorious victory over the rival republic of Florence. 


“Follow me now,” cried the leader of the Sienese army, fitly named Buonaguida, “let us surrender ourselves, our city, with all our rights, to the Queen of Eternal Life, to Our Lady and Mother, the Virgin Mary. Follow me, all of you, with purity of faith and freedom of will to make this offering.” Three days of thanksgiving followed on the victory, and for centuries after the favorite subject of the painters of Siena was that “Lady and Mother” who had helped their city in her need. 


Not quite a hundred years after the battle of Montaperti, in the year 1347, there was born to Jacomo Benincasa, a well-to-do dyer of Siena, and his wife Lapa, a little daughter who was destined to be the glory of her native city and one of the most remarkable women of her time. The child, who was the youngest of a large family of sisters and brothers, was christened Catherine; but the little maid was so sweet and lovable, her winning ways and innocent baby talk had such power to comfort and cheer those who were sad or in trouble, that the neighbors called her “Eufrosina” or “Joy.” Monna Lapa would often miss her little daughter and find that she had been carried off by someone who was feeling lonely or sorrowful, and loud would be the outcries when the mother appeared to take possession of her baby. The sunshine that played round the golden head of the little Catherine seemed to have found its way into her heart, so happy was she, so innocently wise her childish sayings and so gentle the touch of her tiny hand.