A royal son and mother

by freiherrin von Pauline Hügel

I.—GERMANY.

It is rather strange that no times should have differed from one another more widely than the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. We feel more in sympathy with, say the fourth or fifth century, that produced a Jerome, an Augustine, and a John Chrysostom—an age of decadence, no doubt; and yet one of intense intellectual activity, of deep heart-searching, of vehement thirst after truth,—than with those days so comparatively close to our own, when all seemed so cold, so colorless, so shallow; when the very first need of man—his need of God—was as though it had died away.

Then came the French Revolution, succeeded by the terrible Napoleonic days, when apathy and indolence had perforce to be shaken off, and men were roused to the consciousness that there was still such a thing as patriotism in the world; that noble enthusiasms needed but the strong winds of adversity to fan them into flame. And yet how deep-seated were the nervelessness and indolence of the children of an effete civilization! Had the Corsican tyrant worn his laurels with one degree less of insolence, had his despotism been a little less brutal, German princes and Russian statesmen and Italian diplomatists might have gone on obligingly handing him over crown after crown.

An age barren in patriots is also an age barren in saints. The man who can not be fired to a lofty enthusiasm, to heroic self-sacrifice for his country, is not made of the same stuff as those blessedly violent ones who carry the kingdom of heaven by storm. Hence we see a lamentable dead level in the religious life of the eighteenth century. The gentle Anna Emmerich was almost persecuted by good men for having the stigmata; anything abnormal, anything like direct interference on the part of Heaven with the ordinary jog-trot of human existence, aroused suspicion, even resentment. There was indeed faith, beautiful and deep-rooted, among the Catholic poor; but the wise of this world had not only lost faith, but lost all respect for faith; it was looked upon as something obsolete, useless, no longer capable of exercising any power over the lives of men. Bound, as they said, to die out among the lower orders of society, the upper classes had already flung it aside, as soon as the fashionable French philosophy had won the day.

It was at this period of spiritual darkness, as yet showing no signs of the grand revival to come, that Amalie von Schmettau was born in Berlin, in the year 1748. Field-Marshal Count von Schmettau, her father, was a Protestant; but, as her mother was a nominal Catholic, Amalie was to be brought up in the old faith. She was sent at a very early age to a convent school in Breslau, from whence at fourteen she returned good and innocent but with a very imperfect education. "I felt," she wrote in later years, "as though I had dropped from the skies, to find myself abruptly removed from the atmosphere of an enclosed convent to that of my mother's house, one of those most frequented by the gay world of Berlin."

Frederick the Great had received Voltaire with open arms at his court, and the French infidel had taught fashionable German society to sneer in the most approved style at all things great and holy. The grand old language of their fathers was no longer tolerated; in polished circles only French was to be spoken and written; and with the old language the old beliefs were to go too; and, if possible, that which has been well called the glory of the Teutonic race—its hunger and thirst after God.

Amalie von Schmettau, whose rare abilities fitted her to shine so brilliantly in her mother's salon was now sent to an educational establishment in Berlin, conducted by an avowed French atheist. The girl remained there about eighteen months, to return home once more, still innocent and in one sense unspoiled, but with no faith whatever left. Her beauty, her great talents, her musical accomplishments, and a certain innate refinement and distinction, quickly made her a great favorite at court.

In 1768 she went to Aix-la-Chapelle as lady in waiting to one of the German princesses. Here she met Prince Gallitzin, the Russian Ambassador to France. He was a man considerably older than the interesting young girl, but perhaps all the quicker to discern and appreciate her superior qualities. After a short acquaintance he made her an offer of marriage, that was accepted both by Amalie herself and her relatives, though for very different reasons. It was a brilliant marriage; this recommended the Prince to her family. With Amalie this side of the question had not the least weight. In after years she wrote to an intimate friend: "My heart did not feel the need of what is generally called love. But an affection that would lead one to desire and seek the perfection of the person one cared for—this I felt myself strongly capable of; it was an idea that had taken deep root within me and had become necessary to my happiness. Such an ideal was quite independent of externals. I believed the Prince could be everything to me, if he but shared these views."

Alas! so far from sharing them, he was not even capable of comprehending them. He proved himself in many ways a kind husband and father; but he was a disciple of the new school, which owned Voltaire, Diderot, D'Alembert and the other Encyclopedists for its leaders; and in their philosophy poor Amalie's idealism had no place. Indeed, proof does not seem wanting that the evil tree—French philosophy—brought forth evil fruit in the moral conduct of Amalie's husband, which explains the long years of their separation. But over this the high-souled wife has thrown a veil, which it would be useless and ungenerous now to draw aside. At the time of their marriage the young wife was almost as little of a Christian as her elderly husband; but while she was groping toward the light in a darkness that oppressed her, he was content with his own shallow views of life.

Shortly after their marriage Prince Gallitzin took his beautiful bride to St. Petersburg. She was presented to the famous Empress Catherine, who soon after appointed Prince Gallitzin Minister to the Hague. In Berlin, on their way to Holland, Marie Anna (Mimi), their only daughter was born; and a year later, in December, 1770, at the Hague, their only son, Demetrius.