Catherine's beloved sister Daniella is in trouble. As happened to many others leading the dedicated life in the middle ages, she has carried her scorn of the body past all bounds of reason, has fallen ill and been obliged to care for her poor physical nature. Catherine, who is perpetually trying to raise Fra Raimondo and others in her spiritual family to more heroic heights, recognizes the different needs of this over-eager soul. She writes her friend, therefore, a long and tender letter, one of the most elaborate among her many analyses of the means that lead to perfection, urging upon her discretion and a sense of proportion in spiritual things. It is noteworthy that Catherine's exhortations to impassioned sacrifice are almost always delivered in connection with the claims of active service, to the Church or fellow-men. When writing to "contemplatives" absorbed in the ecstasies and trials of the interior life, her habitual warnings are against excess, her constant plea, as here, for a perception of relative values. She ranks, herself, alike as a great "contemplative" and as a great woman of action: both phases of experience relate to something deeper. Her soul was athirst for the Infinite, and well she knew that neither in deeds nor in ascetic ecstasy, but only in "holy desire," in the life of ceaseless aspiration "which prays for ever in the presence of God," can our mortality attain to untrammelled union with Infinite Being.

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

Dearest daughter and sister in Christ sweet Jesus: I Catherine, servant and slave of the servants of Jesus Christ, write to thee in His precious Blood, with desire to see in thee the holy virtue of discretion, which it is necessary for us to have if we wish to be saved. Why is it so necessary? Because it proceeds from the knowledge of ourselves and of God; in this house its roots are planted. It is really an offspring of charity, which, properly speaking, is discretion -- an illumined knowledge which the soul has, as I said, of God and itself. The chief thing it does is this: having seen, in a reasonable light, what it ought to render and to whom, it renders this with perfect discretion at once. So it renders glory to God and praise to His Name; the soul achieves all its works by this light and to this end. It renders to God His due of honour -- not like an indiscreet robber, who wants to give honour to himself, and, seeking his own honour and pleasure, does not mind insulting God and harming his neighbour. When the roots of inclination in the soul are rotted by indiscretion, all its works, relating to others or to itself, are rotten. All relating to others, I say: for it imposes burdens indiscreetly, and lays down the law to other people, seculars or spiritual, or of whatever rank they may be. If such a person admonishes or advises, he does it indiscreetly, and wants to load everyone else with the burden which he carries himself. The discreet soul, that sees its own need and that of others reasonably, does just the opposite. When it has rendered to God His due of honour, it gives its own due to itself -- that is, hatred of sin and of its own fleshliness. What is the reason? The love of virtue, which it loves in itself. It renders its due to the neighbour with the same light as to itself, and therefore I said, in relation to itself and to others. So it gives goodwill to its neighbour, as it is bound to do, loving virtue in him and hating sin. It loves him as a being created by the Highest Eternal Father. And it gives him loving charity more or less perfectly, according as it has this in itself. Yes, this is the principal result which the virtue of discretion achieves in the soul: it has seen clearly what due it ought to render, and to whom.

These are three chief branches of that glorious discretion which springs from the tree of charity. From this tree spring infinite fruits, all mellow and very sweet, which nourish the soul in the life of grace, when it plucks them with the hand of free will, and eats them with holy eager desire. Whatever condition a person may be in, he tastes these fruits, if he has the light of discretion, in diverse ways, according to his state. He who is placed in the world, and has this light, gathers the fruit of obedience to the commands of God, and distaste for the world, of which he divests himself in mind, although he may be clothed with it in fact. If he has children, he plucks the fruit of the fear of God, and nourishes them with this holy fear. If he is a nobleman, he plucks the fruit of justice, discreetly wishing to render to everyone his due -- so he punishes the unjust man rigorously, and rewards the just, tasting the fruit of reason, and for no flatteries or servile fear deserts this way. If he is a subject, he gathers the fruit of obedience and reverence toward his lord, avoiding any cause or means by which he might offend him. Had he not seen these things by the light, he would not have avoided them. If men are monks or prelates, they get from the tree the sweet and pleasing fruit of observing their Rule, enduring one another's faults, embracing shames and annoyances, placing on their shoulders the yoke of obedience. The prelate takes desire for the honour of God and the salvation of souls, seeking to win them by doctrine and exemplary life. In what different ways and by what different people these fruits are gathered! It would take too long to tell them the tongue could not express it.

But let us see, dearest daughter (now we will speak in particular, and so we shall be speaking in general too), what rule that virtue of discretion imposes on the soul. That rule seems to me to apply both to the soul and body of people who wish to live spiritually, in deed and thought. To be sure, it regulates every person in his rank and place: but let us now talk to ourselves. The first rule it gives to the soul is that we have mentioned -- to render honour to God, goodwill to one's neighbour, and to oneself, hatred of sin and of one's own fleshliness. It regulates this charity toward the neighbour; for it is not willing to sacrifice the soul to him, since, in order to do him good or pleasure, it is not willing to offend God; but it flees from guilt discreetly, yet holds its body ready for every pain and torment, even to death, to rescue a soul, and as many souls as it can, from the hands of the devil. Also, it is ready to give up all its temporal possessions to help and rescue the body of its neighbour. Charity does this, when enlightened with discretion; for discretion should regulate one's charity to one's neighbour. The indiscreet man does just the contrary, who does not mind offending God, or sacrificing his soul, to serve or please his neighbour -- sometimes by keeping him company in wicked places, sometimes by bearing false witness, or in many other ways, as happens every day. This is the rule of indiscretion, which proceeds from pride and perverse self-love and the blindness of not having known oneself or God.

And when measure and rule have been found in regard to charity to the neighbour, discretion regulates also the matter which keeps the soul in that charity, and makes it grow -- that is, in faithful, humble, and continual prayer; robing the soul in the cloak of desire for virtue, that it may not be injured by lukewarmness, negligence, or self-love, spiritual or temporal: therefore it inspires the soul with this desire for virtue, that its desire may not be placed on anything by which it might be deceived.

Also, it rules and orders the creature physically, in this way: the soul which is prepared to wish for God makes its beginning as we have said; but because it has the vessel of its body, enlightened discretion must impose a rule on this, as it has done upon the soul, since the body ought to be a means for the increase of virtue. The rule withdraws it from the indulgences and luxuries of the world, and the conversation of worldlings; gives it conversation with the servants of God; takes it from dissolute places, and keeps it in places that stimulate devotion. It imposes restraint on all the members of the body, that they be modest and temperate: let the eye not look where it should not, but hold before itself earth, and heaven; let the tongue flee idle and vain speech, and be disciplined to proclaim the word of God for the salvation of the neighbour, and to confess its sins: let the ear flee agreeable, flattering, dissolute words, and any words of detraction that might be said to it; and let it hearken for the word of God, and the need of the neighbour, willingly listening to his necessity. So let the hand be swift in touching and working, and the feet in going: to all, discretion gives a rule. And that the perverse law of the flesh that fights against the spirit may not throw these tools into disorder, it imposes a rule upon the body, mortifying it with vigil, fast, and the other exercises which are all meant to bridle our body.

But note, that all this is done, not indiscreetly, but with enlightened discretion. How is this shown? In this: that the soul does not place its chief desire in any act of penance. That it may not fall into such a fault as to take penance for its chief desire, enlightened discretion takes pains to robe the soul in the desire for virtue. Penance to be sure must be used as a tool, in due times and places, as need may be. If the flesh, being too strong, kicks against the spirit, penance takes the rod of discipline, and fast, and the cilice of many buds, and mighty vigils; and places burdens enough on the flesh, that it may be more subdued. But if the body is weak, fallen into illness, the rule of discretion does not approve of such a method. Nay, not only should fasting be abandoned, but flesh be eaten; if once a day is not enough, then four times. If one cannot stand up, let him stay on his bed; if he cannot kneel, let him sit or lie down, as he needs. This discretion demands. Therefore it insists that penance be treated as a means and not as a chief desire.

Dost thou know why it must not be chief? That the soul may not serve God with a thing that can be taken from it and that is finite: but with holy desire, which is infinite, through its union with the infinite desire of God; and with the virtues which neither devil nor fellow-creature nor weakness can take from us, unless we choose. Herein must we make our foundation, and not in penance. Nay, in weakness the virtue of patience may be tested; in vexing conflicts with devils, fortitude and long perseverance; and in adversities suffered from our fellow-beings, humility, patience, and charity. So as to all other virtues -- God lets them be tested by many contraries, but never taken from us, unless we choose. Herein must we make our foundation, and not in penance. The soul cannot have two foundations: either the one or the other must be overthrown. Let the thing which is not the chief, be used as a means. If I find my chief principle in bodily penance, I build the city of my soul upon the sand, so that each little breeze throws it to the earth, and no building can be erected on it. But if I build upon the virtues, founded upon the Living Stone, Christ sweet Jesus, there is no building so great that it will not stand firmly, nor wind so contrary that it can ever blow it down.

From these and many other difficulties that arise, it has not been meant that penance should be used otherwise than as a means. I have already seen many penitents who have been neither patient nor obedient, because they have studied to kill their bodies, but not their wills. The rule of indiscretion has wrought this. Dost thou know the result? All their consolations and desires centre in carrying out their penance to suit themselves, and not to suit anyone else. Therein they nourish their will. While they can fulfil their penance, they have consolation and gladness, and seem to themselves full of God, as if they had accomplished everything; and they do not perceive that they fall into a mere personal estimate, and into a judicial attitude. For if all people do not walk in the same way, they seem to them in a state of damnation, an imperfect state. They indiscreetly want to measure all bodies by one same measure, by that with which they measure themselves. And if one wants to withdraw them from this, either to break their will or from some necessity of theirs, they hold their will harder than a diamond; living in such wise, that at the time of test by a temptation or injury, they find themselves, from indulgence in this wrong will, weaker than straw.

Indiscretion taught them that penance bridled wrath, impatience, and the other sinful impulses that come into the heart; it is not so. This glorious light teaches thee that thou shalt kill sin in thy soul, and draw out its roots, with hatred and displeasure against thyself, loading thy fault with rebuke, with the consideration of who God is whom thou wrongest, and who thou art who wrongest Him, with the memory of death and the longing for virtue. Penance cuts off, yet thou wilt always find the root in thee, ready to sprout again; but virtue pulls up. Earth in which sins have been planted is always ready to receive them again if self-will puts them there with free choice; not otherwise, when once the root is pulled up.

It may happen that a sick body is obliged perforce to give up its habits of life; then it falls at once into weariness and confusion of mind, deprived of all gladness: it thinks itself condemned and confounded, and finds no sweetness in prayer, such as it seemed to have in the time of its penance. And whither is this sweetness gone? Lost, with the personal will on which it was built! This cannot be gratified, and so the soul suffers. And why art thou fallen into such confusion and almost despair? And where is the hope which thou hadst in the Kingdom of God? All lost, by means of that very penance through which the soul hoped to have eternal life! Capable of this no more, it thinks itself deprived of the other.

These are the fruits of indiscretion. Had the soul the light of discretion, it would see that nothing but being without virtues deprived it of God; and it has eternal life through virtue, by the Blood of Christ. Then let us rise above all imperfection, and set our heart, as I said, on true virtues, which are of such joy and gladsomeness as tongue could not tell. There is none who can give pain to the soul founded on virtue, or take from it the hope of heaven; for it has put its self-will to death in spiritual things as in temporal, and its affections are not set on penance, or private consolations or revelations, but on endurance through Christ crucified and the love of virtue. So it is patient, faithful, hopes in God and not in itself or its works: is humble and obedient, believing others rather than itself, because it does not presume. It stretches wide the arms of mercy, and thereby drives forth confusion of mind. In shadows and conflicts it uplifts the light of faith, labouring manfully, with true and profound humility; and in gladness it enters into itself, that the heart may not fall into vain glee. It is strong and persevering, because it has put to death its own will, which made it weak and inconstant. All times are the right time for it; all places the right place. If it is in a season of penance, this is a time of gladness and consolation to it, using penance as a means; and if, by necessity or obedience, penance has to be abandoned, it rejoices; because its chief foundation, in the love of virtue, cannot be and is not taken from it; and because it sees the contradiction of its own will, which it has been enlightened to perceive must always be resisted with great diligence and zeal.

It finds prayer in every place, for it bears ever with it the place wherein God lives by grace, and where we ought to pray -- that is, the house of our soul wherein holy desire prays constantly. This desire is uplifted by the light of the mind to be reflected in itself and in the immeasurable flame of divine love, which it finds in the Blood shed for us, which by largess of love it finds in the vase of the soul. This it cares and should care to know, that it may drink deep of the Blood, and therein consume its self-will -- and not simply to accomplish the count of many paternosters. So we shall make our prayer continuous and faithful; because in the fire of His love we know that He is powerful to give us what we ask. He is Highest Wisdom, who knows how to give and discern what we need; He is a most piteous and gracious Father, who wishes to give us more than we desire, and more than we know how to ask for our need. The soul is humble, for it has recognized its own defects and that in itself it is not. This is the kind of prayer through which we attain virtue, and preserve in our souls the longing for it.

What is the beginning of so great good? Discretion, the daughter of charity, as I said. And it presents straightway to its neighbour the good which it has itself. So it seeks to present to its fellow-creature the foundation it has found, and the love and the teaching it has received, and shows these by example of life and doctrine, advising when it sees need or when advice were asked of it. It comforts the soul of its neighbour, and does not confound him by leading him into despair when he has fallen into some fault; but tenderly it makes itself ill with that soul, giving him what healing it can, and enlarging in him hope in the Blood of Christ crucified.

The virtue of discretion gives this and infinitely many other fruits to the neighbour. Then, since it is so useful and necessary, dearest and most beloved daughter and sister mine in Christ sweet Jesus, I summon thee and me to do what in past time I confess not to have done with that perfection which I should. It has not happened to thee as to me, to have been and to be very faulty, or over-lax and easy-going in my life, instead of strict, through my fault; but thou, as one who has wished to subdue her youthful body that it be not rebel to the soul, hast chosen a life so extremely strict that apparently it is out of all bounds of discretion; in so much that it seems to me that indiscretion is trying to make thee feel some of its results, and is quickening thy self-will in this. And now that thou art leaving what thou art accustomed to do, the devil apparently is trying to make it seem to thee that thou art damned. I am very much distressed at this, and I believe that it is a great offence against God. Therefore I will and I beg thee that our beginning and foundation be in the love of virtue, as I said. Kill thy self-will, and do what thou art made to do; pay attention rather to how things look to others than to thyself. Thou dost feel thy body weak and ill; take every day the food that is needed to restore nature. And if thy illness and weakness are relieved, undertake a regular life in moderation, and not intemperately. Do not consent to let the little good of penance hinder the greater; nor array thyself therein as thy chief affection -- for thou wouldst find thyself deceived: but wish that we may haste in sincerity upon the beaten road of virtue, and that we may guide others on this same road, breaking and shattering our own wills. If we have the virtue of discretion in us, we shall do it; otherwise, not.

Therefore I said that I desired to see in thee the holy virtue of discretion. I say no more. Remain in the holy and sweet grace of God. Forgive me should I have talked too presumptuously; the love of thy salvation, through the honour of God, is my reason. Sweet Jesus, Jesus Love.