The Catholic World Volume I Part 43

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. Guidee's _Vie du P. Rozaven_ and the Rev. J. Gagarin's notice of Madame Galitzin in his _Etudes de theologie, 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 G.o.d 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 grat.i.tude, 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.

"In the meanwhile we went to pa.s.s the summer away from home. In this retirement our good Lord vouchsafed to speak to my heart and inspire me with such a lively sorrow for my sins that I often pa.s.sed part of the night in weeping. I watered my couch with tears, and judging myself unworthy to sleep on a bed, I cast myself on the ground, and used to lie there until fatigue obliged me to return to my pillow. At the end of three months we went back to St. Petersburg, and I there learned that a cousin of mine [Footnote 71] had become a convert. I was deeply pained. I accused the Jesuits of being the cause of the step, and had hard work not to yield to my old hatred of them. I avoided speaking with my cousin alone, because I did not want to receive the confidence which I knew she was anxious to give me. But at last, to my great regret, I had to listen to her. When she had told me what I was so unwilling to know, I burst into tears, and replied:

[Footnote 71: The lady here mentioned was the mother of Monseigneur de Segur. ]

"'If you believe that the Catholic religion is the true one, you were right to embrace it; but I do not understand how you could believe it.'

"'Oh,' said she, 'if you would only read something that my mother [Footnote 72] has written on the Greek schism and the truth of the Catholic Church, you would be persuaded as I was.'

[Footnote 72: The Countess Rostopchine, whom Madame de Stael mentions with so much praise in her _Dix annees d'exil_. ]

"'You may send me whatever you wish,' I answered, 'but you may be certain that it will not affect me. I am too firmly convinced that truth lives in the Greek Church.'

"I went home in great distress of mind. For the first time in four years I omitted to repeat my vow before going to bed; it seemed to me rash. I retired, but G.o.d would not let me sleep; he filled my mind with salutary thoughts. 'I must examine this matter,' said I, 'it is certainly worth the {308} trouble; it is something of too much consequence to be deceived about.' I thought over all that I knew about the Catholic faith, and at that moment G.o.d opened my eyes. I saw as clear as day that hitherto I had been in the wrong, and the truth was to be found only in the Catholic Church. 'It is our pride,' I exclaimed, 'which prevents our acknowledging the supremacy of the Pope: to-morrow I will embrace the truth. Yet how can I? And my vow?

Ah, but the vow is null; it can be no obstacle to the fulfilment of my resolution. If I had taken an oath to commit a murder, the oath would have been a sin, and to fulfil it would be another. I will not commit the second sin. I will not put off being a Catholic beyond to-morrow.'

"I waited impatiently for day that I might read my aunt's little treatise,--not because I needed arguments to convince me, but I wanted to have it to say that I had read something. At day-break I wrote to my cousin these words: 'Send me the ma.n.u.script, pray for me, and hope.' I read it quickly; it consisted of not more than thirty pages. I found in it all that I had said to myself during the night. I hesitated no longer, but hastened to my mother, declared myself a Catholic, and begged her to send for Father Rozaven. He came the same morning. He was not a little surprised at the unexpected intelligence, and asked me if I was ready to suffer persecution, even death itself, if need were, for the love of the religion which I was going to embrace. My blood froze in my veins, but I answered: 'I hope everything from the grace of G.o.d.' The good father doubted no longer the sincerity of my conversion, and promised to hear my confession the next day but one, that is, the 18th of October. It was during the night of the 15th and 16th of October, 1815, that G.o.d spoke for me the words _fiat lux._"

After she had been received into the Church, Father Rozaven said to her: "I wish to establish in your heart a great love of G.o.d which shall manifest itself not by fine sentiments but by practical results, and shall lead you to fulfil with zeal and courage all your duties without exception. I want you to strive ardently to acquire the solid virtues of humility, love of your neighbor, patience and conformity to the will of G.o.d. I want to see in you a grandeur, an elevation, and a firmness of soul, and to teach you to seek and find your consolation in G.o.d."

The princess became all that her wise director wished her to be; and the constant practice of the fundamental Christian virtues soon led her to aim at a still more perfect life. Even her mother for a long time opposed her design. Her friends ridiculed her for wanting to lead what they called a "useless" life. Sensitive to this reproach, so constantly made by people who themselves do nothing at all, she begged the learned Jesuit to furnish her with weapons to repel it. Her request called forth the following excellent reply, which may be read with especial profit just now, when so much is said about the uselessness of nuns:

"Tell me, my child, have you read the catechism? One of the first questions is, Why has G.o.d created us and placed us in this world? To know him, love him, and serve him, and by this means to obtain everlasting life. It does not say, to be 'useful.' Even when a nun is of no use to others, she is useful to herself, and to be so is her first duty; she labors to sanctify herself and to save her soul. Is not this the motive which led St. Paul, St. Anthony, and so many thousands of anch.o.r.ets into the desert? These saints were certainly not fools. Beside, is it true that nuns are useless? Was it not the story of the virtues of St. Anthony which determined the conversion of St. Augustine? and certainly this conversion was something far greater than all that St. Anthony could have done by remaining in the world.

But to say nothing of the example of the saints, are not nuns useful to each {309} other? Do you see no advantage in the union of twenty or thirty persons, more or less, who incite each other to the acquisition of virtue, and take each other by the hand in their journey to the same goal, the salvation of their souls? And then again, many religious communities devote themselves to the education of youth; and surely there are few occupations more useful than bringing up in the knowledge and practice of religion young girls who are destined to become mothers of families, and to fulfil all the duties of society that belong to their s.e.x."

A devotion of this sort commended itself especially to our young convert. She made choice of the new order of the Sacred Heart, and after eleven years' delay finally entered it at Metz in 1826. She made her vows in 1828 at Rome, and remained there until she was ordered to France in 1834 and made general secretary of the congregation. In 1839 she was chosen a.s.sistant mother, and appointed to visit the houses of the Sacred Heart in America, and to found some new ones. Her correspondence during this period with her mother is now before me, and will show, far better than any words of mine, not only her piety, but the serenity of her soul and that love of country and kindred, which religion, far from extinguishing, can alone purify by carrying it beyond the narrow boundaries of this life. Like those austere Christians whose lives Count de Montalembert has written, she kept a large place in her heart for love and friendship, and clung ardently to those natural ties which she did not feel called upon to break when she gave herself to G.o.d.

I shall then leave Madame Elizabeth to speak in her own words; and in so doing, it seems to me that I am fulfilling the wish of Madame Swetchine, who wrote thus to Father Gagarin (ii. 360): "There are many details respecting her life which might be found and authenticated, and I am convinced that many interesting particulars might be obtained from her correspondence during her two journeys in America."

NEW YORK, Sept. 1, 1840.

MY DEAREST MAMMA,--I arrived at New York a few hours ago, after a voyage of forty-five days. Our voyage, thank G.o.d, was a good one, despite thirty-two days of contrary winds. We had neither storms nor rough weather; the trip was a long one, that is all. Having two priests with us, we had ma.s.s often; you may imagine what a consolation it was to us. I was sea-sick only one week; after that, so well that I pa.s.sed a great part of my time in drawing.

"I am here for only four days; at least I trust that the business which I have to transact with the bishop will not keep me longer.

Then I shall go with my seven companions and a worthy priest who has us in charge, to St. Louis in the state of Missouri, 2,000 versts from New York. They say that we shall reach there in twelve days; by this reckoning we shall arrive at our first house about the 20th of September. I believe that I shall die of joy when I get there; for here in the midst of the world, though surrounded by excellent people, who show us a thousand attentions, I am like a fish out of water. I will write to you as soon as I reach St. Louis. I cannot remain with our family of the Sacred Heart there more than a fortnight, for I must then visit two other establishments not far distant. I shall return to St. Louis, and leave there about the middle of November for our house at St. Michael, near New Orleans, which is 1,500 versts from St. Louis. After a few days' rest I shall then go to our house at Grand Coteau, also in Louisiana; and after staying there three weeks I shall return to pa.s.s the winter at St.

Michael. I hope to do well there, for the climate is warmer than that of Rome. In the spring I shall make another visitation of the houses in Missouri, and then go back to New York to begin the foundation {310} of a new establishment there. So you see I shall not be very long in any one place.

"What a consolation it will be for me if I find a letter from you at St. Louis! I am impatient for news of you and my brothers. How did they take the news of my departure for America? With indifference perhaps; but they are far from being indifferent to me. G.o.d knows what wishes I form for them, and how sweet it is to me to be able to offer up for them the fatigues and petty sufferings which divine Providence sends us. When you write to my brothers do not fail to remember me to them, for, they are dearer to me than ever in our Lord.

"I was in hopes of finding our relative in America; but he is dead.

He died universally regretted. Everybody looked upon him as a saint.

I will make it a point to obtain his works and send them to you."

"St. Louis, Nov. 9, 1840.

"I have had the consolation of receiving your letter dated the 15th of July. Write to me now at St. Louis, at the _Academy_ of the Ladies of the Sacred Heart, for so they call here those religious houses which receive pupils as boarders. For my part, I am determined to send you this letter at once, because I am afraid that Paris will be turned topsy-turvy by the remains of Bonaparte, which are to be removed thither in the month of November.

"It is too true that our 'American uncle' is dead. You may suppose how deeply I regret it. He was not a bishop; only a simple missionary. He invariably refused all dignities, and devoted himself for more than forty years to the missions, in which he displayed a zeal worthy of an apostle. He died at the age of seventy-two, like a saint as he had lived, having given himself to G.o.d since his seventeenth year. The whole country in which he preached the gospel weeps for him as for a father. His memory is revered in America among Protestants as well as Catholics. I have been shown an article about him in the _Gazette_: it gives his whole history, and it would be impossible to write a more touching eulogy of him. I have some of his works; they are excellent.

"I expected that my departure for America would have but little effect upon my brothers. Our good Lord permits it to be so, and we must wish whatever he wishes. A day will come, I trust, when their hearts will be touched. Let us wait and pray, and suffer with more fervor than ever. Remember me to them and to my aunts. Beg for me the light of the Holy Ghost: I need it sorely, for my post is a very difficult one."

"ST. MICHAEL, Dec. 6, 1840.,

"Here I am, near New Orleans; but I shall soon start on another journey, and not be at rest again before the month of June. I am now in the land of the sugar-cane; it is very nice to eat, or rather to suck. As if I brought the cold with me in all my travels, I had scarcely arrived here when bitter cold weather set in, and the ice was as thick as a good fat finger. The weather has moderated since then--to my great satisfaction, for I have not enough of the spirit of mortification to bear cold very well. I begin to believe that there is not a single warm country under the sun, and that the reputation of those lands that are called so is not well-founded.

"I send you only these few words, that you may not be uneasy about me; for I have no leisure. Remember me to my brothers. Bless me, and believe, dear mamma, in my tender and respectful attachment."

"ST. MICHAEL, Feb. 28, 1841.

"I leave this place on the 15th of March, and shall be in St. Louis for the feast of the Annunciation. I shall remain three weeks at three of our houses in Missouri, and then go to Cincinnati and Philadelphia; so I hope to be in New York by the beginning of May.

Do not fear on my {311} account the dangers of railroads and steamboats. Those who are sent on a mission are under the special protection of divine Providence. I have never met with the slightest accident; and this constant journeying about has moreover rid me of my fever. I am perfectly well. I rise every morning at twenty minutes after four; I fast and abstain; and nothing hurts me. So don't be uneasy about me. I think I shall stay in New York until November, if G.o.d opposes no obstacle to my doing so; I shall then make a last visit to our houses in Louisiana and Missouri, and sail for Europe probably during the summer of 1842. In fifteen months I shall be afloat again on the great ocean. I hope Alexander will not be off again before that, so that I may have the consolation of seeing him once more. He is the only one of my brothers whom I may never see again, and he was my Benjamin. Tell them I do not forget them in my prayers, and I wish they would also remember me before G.o.d: that will come some day, I hope. Pray have some ma.s.ses said for me; I have great need of them. If you only knew what it was to hold such an office as mine! The responsibility is enough to make one tremble."

"LOUISIANA, March 29, 1841.

"Before starting on my journey I must send you a few lines. It is a little before my accustomed time for writing; but I shall be nearly two months on the route before reaching New York, and I am afraid I shall have no opportunity of writing except on my arrival in that city, and after my return here. So do not be anxious on account of my future silence: it will not be a sign of anything bad. I am better than ever. Make your mind at rest about my health. Our Lord gives me astonishing strength. Fatigue has no effect upon me."

"NEW YORK, May 15, 1841.

"I arrived here without accident, and take comfort in thinking that I shall be stationary now until October. Since I left Rome I have not been six weeks at a time in any one place. I am about founding an establishment here, and the task is no easy one, in any point of view. The expenses to be incurred are enormous, and our resources, to say the best of them, are very moderate. So I have begged our mother-general to allow the 200 francs which you were so good as to send us for postage, to be devoted to the first expenses of the chapel.

"You have no idea how deeply our 'relative' is regretted here. He was universally loved and respected. People look upon me with favor, because I bear the same name."