Translated from Le Correspondant.
A RUSSIAN RELIGIOUS.
BY PRINCE AUGUSTIN GALITZIN.
On the 6th of May, 1840, in a little hut upon the slope of that chain of mountains which separates the northern from the southern states of the American Union, died an old man who had spent his life in spreading the faith through those distant regions. A crowd of persons surrounded his bed in tears; for during half a century he had been the depositary of public misfortunes, domestic troubles, and spiritual distress. Though known by the humble name of Father Smith, this priest was not a native of the land which received his last breath: he was a Russian by birth, and his name was Galitzin.
On the 1st of September in the same year eight women landed at New York, clad all in black, and wearing no ornament but a cross on the breast. They came to educate new generations in the New World. The eldest of them was not, like her sisters, a Frenchwoman; the same blood ran in her veins as in those of the missionary just dead, and her heart beat with the same love. She too was a Russian, and her name was Madame Elizabeth Galitzin.
Born at St. Petersburg in 1795, the Princess Elizabeth was the daughter of a woman of whom it is praise enough to say that she was the worthiest and most intimate friend of Madame Swetchine, who called her "her second conscience." [Footnote 69] On the day when Elizabeth reached her fifteenth year, her mother confided to her the secret that she had become a Catholic, and told the reasons which had induced her not, as is still supposed in Russia, to abandon the faith of her fathers, but to return to it in all its integrity. Elizabeth thus describes the emotion which she felt in listening to this disclosure, and the influence which it had upon her own future. [Footnote 70]
[Footnote 69: Lettres de Mme. Swetchine, I. 321. ]
[Footnote 70: This extract and the details that follow are taken from or confirmed by the Rev. A. Guidée's Vie du P. Rozaven and the Rev. J. Gagarin's notice of Madame Galitzin in his Etudes de théologie, de philosophie et d'histoire, vol. ii.]
"The secret which my mother confided to me filled me with despair; I burst into tears, without uttering a word. For several days I wept bitterly whenever I was alone, and during the night. I believed that my mother had committed a great sin, because the government punished so severely those who forsook the religion of the country. The reasons which she gave made no impression on me; I did not even understand them: the moment of the fiat lux was not yet come. From that day I felt an implacable hatred of the Catholic religion and its ministers, especially of the Jesuits, who, as I supposed, had effected my mother's conversion. One night, as I was lamenting my isolated condition, separated from my mother by this division of sentiments, I was struck by the sudden thought, 'If the Jesuits have gained over so excellent a woman as mamma,—a woman so reasonable, so well-informed, and of so much experience, what will they not do with an ignorant, unsophisticated girl like me? I must protect myself against their persecutions. I firmly believe that the Greek Church is the true church; I am resolved to be faithful to it unto death. To withdraw myself effectually from the seductions of the Jesuits, I will write down a vow that I will never change my religion.' No sooner said than [{307}] done. I rose at once, and despite the darkness wrote out my vow in due form, invoking the wrath of God if I ever broke it. Then I went back to bed, feeling much more composed, and believing that I had gained a great victory over the devil. Alas! it was he that guided my pen. For four years I repeated that vow every day when I said my prayers; I never omitted it. I gloried in my obstinacy, and took every opportunity to show my aversion to the Catholic religion, and above all to the Jesuits. In this I was encouraged by my confessor. He asked me one day if I had any leaning toward Catholicism.
"'I, father! I detest the Catholic religion and the Jesuits!'
"'Good, good!' said he; 'that is as it should be.'
"I let slip no occasion of defaming these holy men. I delighted in repeating all the absurd stories that I heard against them, and believed them as much as if they were articles of faith. But about the middle of the fourth year an excellent Italian priest, who had given me lessons, died. My mother sometimes requested me to go to the Catholic church on days of great ceremony, and I durst not refuse, though I used to go with rage in my heart. When she invited me, however, to go with her to the funeral of the poor priest, I consented willingly, out of gratitude, and respect for the memory of the deceased. As soon as I entered the church a voice within me seemed to say, 'You hate this church, but you will one day belong to it yourself.' The words sank into my heart. I was deeply moved, and shed abundance of tears all the while I remained in the church—I could not tell why. A thought all at once occurred to me: 'You hate the Jesuits,' said I to myself; 'is not hatred a sin? When did you learn to consider this feeling a virtue? If it is a sin, I must not commit it again: I will not hate the Jesuits then; I will pray for them.' And so, in fact, I did, every day from that moment. I struggled against my dislike for them.