The Catholic World Volume I Part 44

"NEW YORK, June 20, 1841.

"The climate of New York is very disagreeable. It was so cold yesterday that even with a woollen coverlid I had hard work to keep warm through the night. It is not cold two days in succession. The temperature varies even between morning and evening--that is, when it is not continually raining. I believe after all that the climate of St. Petersburg is the best. Oar summers at least are superb, and we have long days; but here it is hardly light, this time of year, at half after four in the morning, and by half after seven in the evening we need lamps. In fact, you must go to a cold climate if you want to keep warm and to see well!

"I have had an agreeable surprise here, and you would never guess what it is. It is to have _klioukva_ [Footnote 73 ] to eat nearly every day; it is the first time I have seen them since I left Russia. This is absurd, I know, but I cannot tell you what pleasure it gave me.

[Footnote 73: Cranberries. ]

"New York is an immense city; it has nearly 400,000 inhabitants, and is as noisy as Paris. There are some 80,000 Catholics and only eight churches, but religion is making progress. The next time I write to you, it will be from our house of the Sacred {312} Heart. I am burning with impatience to be in it; for though we are extremely comfortable with the good Sisters of Charity, who are truly sisters to us, we nevertheless long to be at home, where we can live in conformity to our rule and customs.

"What news of my brothers? How happy I shall be when you can tell me that all is well with them! I would give a thousand lives for that.

The day and hour of G.o.d will come; let us be patient and pray. Say a thousand affectionate things to them for me."

"NEW YORK, Aug. 2, 1841.

"I dare say you will be pleased to learn, dear mamma, that I have just opened a little mission among the Indian savages in Missouri, 300 miles beyond St. Louis. Four of our community have been established there. The population consists of 900 Indians, all converted by the Jesuits. Thanks be to G.o.d, his kingdom is extending itself, and what it loses on one side through the wiles of the enemy, it gains on another.

"I never let a month pa.s.s without writing to you, despite my many occupations, because I know your anxiety; but do not distress yourself. I am, if possible, but too well, in every respect. Our houses here are like those in Europe; while within doors we never could suspect that we had been transplanted into the new world (that used to be). Don't be afraid about crocodiles. The country abounds in them, as it does in snakes; but n.o.body thinks of them, and I have never even seen one. Several, however, have been pointed out to me; but as my eyes were cast down, I saw nothing."

"NEW YORK, Sept. 13, 1841.

"Our establishment is well under way; the house is finished, and we have already twelve pupils. I have no doubt their number will increase next month to twenty, and perhaps more, for there have been already at least forty applications. Beside this, I have just established a mission among the Potawatamie Indians in the Indian Territory. There is a population of 3,000 Indians in the place where our ladies are, 1,000 of whom are fervent Catholics; the others are pagans, but to some extent civilized. We have there already a school of fifty little girls, and a great many women come to learn from us how to work.

"I shall leave New York and pa.s.s the winter in Louisiana. I am quite well--better than in Europe; but I am over-burdened with work. You may readily believe it when I tell you that beside governing this house, and my province, which comprises seven houses, I have had to paint three large pictures for the chapel, and to finish them in six weeks. At last, thank G.o.d, they are done, and our chapel is really charming. What a pity that you cannot come and hear ma.s.s in it!"

"_En route_, between St. Michael and Grand Coteau, Dec. 4, 1841.

"From a tavern on the banks of the Mississippi I write to wish you and all the family a happy New Year! I pray devoutly that it may be fertile in graces and divine blessings; everything else is superfluous and valueless, and therefore unnecessary. I have travelled a good deal since I wrote you from Harrisburg, Penn. I am now going to our house at Grand Coteau, where I shall stay about five weeks; then I shall spend an equal time at St. Michael. This will bring me to the end of February; after which I shall start for St. Louis, and visit our other establishments in Missouri, including our new mission among the Potawatamie savages. Don't let the word 'savages' frighten you. They won't eat me; for they are more than civilized. One thousand of them are Catholics, in the place to which I have sent our sisters, who are only four in number, and have a school which succeeds admirably. Our good savages are so fervent that they come every day to church at half-past five in the morning.

They say their prayers, meditate for half an hour, and then hear ma.s.s, {313} during which they sing canticles in their savage fashion. After ma.s.s one of the Indians teaches the catechism to about thirty little boys and a like number of girls; that over, they go off to their respective employments, and about six in the evening they come back to the church to say their prayers together. It was the Jesuits who converted this tribe, and they are still doing a vast amount of good out there. I shall probably go there in April; it will be a three-weeks' journey. After that I mean to return to New York, and probably about the 1st of June I shall sail for Havre.

So there you have my route; you see that I lead the life of a regular courier more than ever. But fortunately, to one who has the happiness of being a religious, all things are indifferent, provided they are in accordance with holy obedience. I am very much afraid I shall miss some of your letters, for they must follow me at a gallopping pace or they will not overtake me.

"a.s.sure yourself, my dear mamma, that Russia is not the coldest country in the world. The so-called burning Louisiana is colder.

From the 25th to the 30th of November we had hard frosts which chilled us through and through. Perhaps I am mistaken, but I have a pleasant recollection that in November at St. Petersburg we have more rain than frost. In a word, now that I have tried, so to speak, all climates, I am firmly persuaded that there is not a warm country on the face of the earth, and I have resigned myself to look for pleasant and eternal warmth only in the next world.

"What news of my brothers and my sisters-in-law? Are they as great vagabonds as I? Ah, if their hearts and minds could only be composed and settled in G.o.d alone! It will come, some day or other; we must hope, even against all hope. Our Lord is the master of hearts, and he wills from all eternity that these hearts shall be wholly his. A touch of his grace will soften those of my brothers; the day of illusions will pa.s.s away, and we shall sing eternally with them that G.o.d is good and his mercies are unspeakable. A thousand kisses, dear mamma; bless your dutiful and grateful daughter ELIZABETH."

In 1842 Madame Elizabeth went to Rome to give an account of her fruitful mission to her superiors. I have before me a last letter of hers, written to her mother, whom she had just lost at St. Petersburg almost at the same hour in which her eldest brother died in Paris in the bosom of the Catholic Church.

"I confess to you," she says, "that for several months past, I have continually felt impelled to make a sacrifice of my life for my brothers. Perhaps you will think this presumptuous on my part, so I will explain myself. When I am making my preparation for death, according to custom, the thought often comes into my mind to offer the sacrifice of my life in advance, and to beseech our Lord to accept it, as well as all the sufferings I may have to undergo, especially at that terrible moment when the soul is separated from the body, in order that I may obtain the conversion of my brothers.

I have asked permission to transfer to them all the merit which, by G.o.d's grace, I may acquire through resignation or suffering--not only in my last sickness, but even during the period of life which yet remains to me--so that, acc.u.mulating no more merits by way of satisfaction for my own sins, I may have, for my part, purgatory without any alleviation; for in that place of propitiation and peace I can no longer be of any use to them. I hope our Lord will grant my request: all I know is that since that time my habitual gladness of heart is increased a hundred-fold, and that I think of death with unspeakable consolation."

This sacrifice, which reminds one of a similar incident in the life of St. Vincent de Paul, [Footnote 74] seems to have been {314} accepted by G.o.d. Returning to America in 1843, Madame Elizabeth had not time to enjoy the fruits of her labors. She was attacked at St. Michael by the yellow fever, and there fell asleep in the Lord on the feast of the Immaculate Conception, saying: "I do not fear death; I long for it, if it is G.o.d's will." [Footnote 75]

[Footnote 74: One day, moved with compa.s.sion at the state of an unfortunate priest, a doctor of theology, who had lost his faith, because he had ceased to study the science of divinity, St. Vincent de Paul besought G.o.d to restore to this man the liveliness of his faith, offering to take up himself, if necessary, the burden which this poor brother was unable to bear. His prayer was heard at once, and for four years this great saint remained as it were deprived of that faith which was nevertheless his life. "Do you know how he pa.s.sed through this trial?" says an admirable master of the spiritual life. "He pa.s.sed through it by becoming St. Vincent de Paul; that is to say, all that this name signifies."--GRATRY, _Les Sources_, p. 82.]

[Footnote 75: Writing from Lyons to Bishop Hughes in September, 1842, Madame Galitzm said: "I avail myself of this opportunity to write a few lines, although detained in my bed with the fever for upward of three weeks. My health is in a poor state, and if I go on as I did these two months, there is more prospect for me to go to heaven next year than to return to America." The letter is in English, which she wrote with apparent ease and considerable approach to purity. ED. CATH. WORLD. ]

"What more glorious t.i.tle of n.o.bility," says Monseigneur the Duke d'Aumale, "than to count saints and martyrs among one's ancestors?" My object is not so much to lay claim to this distinction, as to show, for the honor of my country, the part which some of her children have taken in the genesis of civilization and Catholicism in America. And this ambition will perhaps seem excusable to those who admit that every gift of G.o.d ought to be an object of our most religious care.

From The Month.

THE STOLEN SKETCH.

I was sitting in the National Gallery, copying one of Murillo's glorious little beggar-boys. A tube of color fell from my box and rolled out upon the floor. A gentleman pa.s.sing picked it up, and restored it to me. I thanked him; and then he lingered some minutes by my chair, watching my work and giving me some useful hints with the air of a person who thoroughly understands the art. I was striving to be an artist, struggling through difficult uphill labor. I was not acquainted with any one of the profession. I had no one to give me counsel. Those few friendly words of advice from a stranger fell on my ear like so many pearls, and I gathered them gratefully and stored them fast in memory's richest jewel-casket.

After that he seemed to take an interest in my progress, gave me valuable lessons, and occasionally lent me colors or brushes. I wondered at myself for conversing with him fearlessly, for I was usually shy of strangers; but his manner was so quiet and easy, his tone so deferential, and he spoke so well on the subjects which interested me most, that I forgot to be nervous, and listened and answered with delight. He was copying a picture quite near to me, and I felt humbled when returning to my own effort after glancing at his masterly work. But he cheered me with kind words of encouragement, which had a different effect upon me from my mother's fond admiration and Hessie's eloquent praises. It was so new to be told to expect success by one whose words might be hailed as a prophecy. I grew to look forward with increased interest to my long day's work in the gallery, and to think the place lonely when the kind artist {315} was not there. Before my picture was finished I felt that I had gained a friend.

One afternoon on leaving the gallery I was dismayed to find that it rained heavily. Quite unprepared for the wet, I yet shrank from the expense of a cab. While standing irresolute upon the steps, I presently saw my artist friend at my side. He shot open his umbrella, and remarked on the unpleasant change in the weather. Perhaps he saw my distress in my face, for he asked me how far I had to go. He also was going to Kensington, he said, and begged permission to shelter me.

I was obliged to accept his offer, for it was getting late. It was one of those evenings so dreaded by women who are forced to walk alone in London, when the light fades quickly out, and darkness drops suddenly upon the city.

Tying my thick veil over my face, and wondering at myself, I took his arm and walked by his side through the twilight streets. I thought of a time long ago when I used to get upon tiptoe to clasp my father's arm, he laughing at my childish pride, while we sauntered up and down the old garden at home, far away. Never, since that dear arm had been draped in the shroud, had my hand rested on a man's sleeve. Memory kept vexing me sorely; and I, who seldom cried, swallowed tears behind my veil and went along in silence. Still I liked the walk. As we pa.s.sed on, sliding easily through those rough crowds which at other times I dreaded so much, I felt keenly how good it is to be taken care of. I seemed to be moving along in a dream. Even when it began to thunder, and lightning flashed across our eyes, the storm could not rouse me from my reverie. I felt no fear, stoutly protected as I was.

II.

When we reached my home, a violent gust of rain made my friend step inside the open doorway. I asked him to come into the parlor till the shower should lighten; and he did so. My mother sat by the fender in her armchair, the fire burned blithely, the tea-things were on the table. The room looked very cosy after the stormy streets.

My mother received the unexpected visitor cordially. She had heard of his kindness to me before. Hessie came in with the bread and b.u.t.ter, in her brown housefrock, with her bright curls a little tossed, and her blue eyes wondering wide at sight of a stranger. My mother asked him to stay for tea, and I went upstairs to take off my bonnet.

Never before had I felt so anxious to have my hair neat, and to find an immaculate collar and cuffs. My hands trembled as I tied my ap.r.o.n and drew on my slippers. This was always to me a pleasant hour, when my return made Hessie and my mother glad, when I got refreshingly purified from the stains and odor of paint, and when we all had tea together. To-night a certain excitement mingled with my usual quiet thankful satisfaction.

I hurried down to the parlor. Hessie was filling the cups, and Edward Vance (our new friend) was talking pleasantly to my mother. He looked up as I came in, and when I reached my seat a sensation of gladness was tingling from my heart's core to my finger-ends. My mother took my hand and fondled it in hers, and thanked him for his kindness to her "good child." I felt that he could not but sympathize with my dear, sick, uncomplaining mother, and I somehow felt it sweet that she should give me that little word of praise while speaking to him. After tea Hessie played us dreamy melodies from Mozart in the firelight, and I sat by mother's side tracing pictures in the burning coals.

After that first evening Edward Vance often came to our house. At these times our conversation was chiefly upon art-subjects. Hessie and my mother were deeply interested in them for my sake; I, for their own, and for {316} the hopes which were entwined about them.

I thought him an ambitious man, one whose whole soul was bent upon success. I liked him for it. I thought, "The n.o.blest man is he who concentrates all his powers upon one worthy aim, and wins a laurel-crown from his fellow-men as the reward of his stead-fastness."

Yet he seemed often troubled when we asked him about his own works.

A remark I overheard one day in the gallery puzzled me. Some one said, "Vance? Oh, yes! he's a clever copyist--a determined plodder; but he originates nothing." I don't know that I had any right to be indignant; but I was. That very evening I asked him to show us some of his designs. His face got a dark troubled look upon it, and he evaded the promise.

Meantime he took a keen interest in my work. He taught me how to finish my etchings more delicately, and his remarks on my compositions were always most useful. His suggestions were peculiarly happy. The drawing was ever enhanced in strength or beauty by his advice. His ideas were just and true; his taste daintily critical. This convinced me that the remark overheard in the gallery was made either in ignorance or ill-nature; or perhaps that there were more artists called Vance than one.

He came often now, very often. I ceased to feel angry at myself for starting when his knock came. Many small things, too trivial to be mentioned, filled my life with a delicious calm, and breathed a rose-colored atmosphere around me. Everything in my inner and outer world had undergone a change. I grew subject to idle fits at my work; but then the suspended energy came back with such a rush of power, almost like inspiration, that I accomplished far more than I ever had done in the former quiet days when there was little sunshine to be had, and I thought I had been born to live contentedly under a cloud all my life. Art seemed glorified a thousandfold in my eyes. The galleries had looked to me before like dim treasuries of phantom beauty, shadowy regions of romance and perfection, through the gates of which I might peer, though the key was not mine. Now they teemed with a ripe meaning; the meaning which many glorious souls that once breathed and wrought on this earth have woven into their creations;--a meaning which unlocked for me the world of love, and gave me long bright visions of its beautiful vistas.

My mother looked from Edward Vance to me, and from me to him; and I knew her thought. It sweetened yet more that food of happiness on which I lived. Something said to me, "You may meet his eye fearlessly, place your hand frankly in his clasp, follow his feet gladly."

One evening after he had gone my mother stroked my head lying on her knee.