The pious fortitude and courage of a poor girl, who, towards the end of the reign of the Emperor Paul, wandered from Siberia to St. Petersburg to obtain the liberty of her exiled parents, attracted sufficient public attention, to induce a celebrated authoress to transform her into the heroine of a novel. But those who knew her personally, are apt to regret, that adventures and ideas of a romantic nature had been ascribed to a generous but sober-minded girl, who never felt any other passion than the most exalted fondness for her parents, and who derived from that exclusive feeling, the first impulse for attempting a most adventurous undertaking, and the strength to carry it into execution.

The simple and unadorned narrative of her toils, is perhaps not fitted to produce the breathless interest, which we feel sometimes for imaginary vicissitudes, and for beings of unreal existence; but we believe that her story, though possessing only the merit of truth, will be read by many with some pleasure.

Her name was Prascovia Lopouloff. Her father belonged to a noble family of Ukraine, was born in Hungary, whither accidents conducted his parents, and served for some time in the Black-Hussars; but went early in life to Russia, married, and engaged in the military service of that country, which was in fact his own. He made several campaigns against the Turks, and was at the storming of Ismail and Otchakoff. His gallant conduct won him the esteem of his regiment. The cause of his exile to Siberia is not known, his trial, and the reexamination of it in latter times, having remained a secret. Some persons pretended to know that he had been accused of insubordination by his commanding officer, who was unfriendly to him. Whatever may have been the cause of it, he had been in Siberia fourteen years, when his daughter undertook her journey to St. Petersburgh. The place of his banishment was Ischim,23 a village on the frontiers of the government of Tobolsk: he lived there with his wife and daughter, up on the small allowance of ten kopecks a day, which is paid to the prisoners who are not condemned to hard labour.

Young Prascovia contributed by her industry to the subsistence of her parents. She lent her services to the laundresses of the village, or made herself useful, at harvest time, in the fields, and worked as hard as her strength permitted. Rye, eggs, and vegetables, were the reward of her exertions. She was a child when she arrived in Siberia; and having never known a more comfortable life, she gave herself up most cheerfully to continual labour, though it often exceeded her physical strength. Her delicate hands seemed destined for different occupations. Her mother, whose whole time was occupied in the management of her poor household, seemed to bear patiently her deplorable situation: but her father, who had been from his youth accustomed to the active life of a soldier, had never learnt to resign himself to his fate, and often yielded to a despondency and despair, which no misfortune, however great, can excuse. Although he endeavoured to conceal from Prascovia, the grief which preyed upon his mind, she had been too often, either by accident or through her attention to all that concerned him, a secret witness of his dejection, not to reflect on the cruel situation of her parents, long before they imagined that she was aware of their sufferings.

The Governor of Siberia had never replied to the supplications which Lopouloff had addressed to him from time to time: an officer, however, having passed, with despatches, through Ischim, and having promised him, not only to deliver to the Governor his letters, but to second his requests, the unfortunate exile entertained for a while, some hopes of liberty or relief. But the few travellers and messengers that arrived from Tobolsk, added only disappointments to actual and increased sufferings.

It was in one of these distressing moments that Prascovia, on her return from her labours in the fields, found her mother bathed in tears, and was alarmed by the mortal paleness and the bewildered looks of her father, “There you see,” exclaimed he, when she entered this abode of sorrow, “the object of my greatest grief: this is the child whom Providence has given me in its wrath, to increase my sufferings by hers, to make me witness of her gradual decay, when wasted by incessant toil, so that the name of father, which is a blessing to all others, is to me the strongest proof of Heaven’s malediction.” Poor Prascovia, frightened to death, clung to his knees, and, with the assistance of her mother and by their united entreaties, Lopouloff recovered gradually his self-possession: but this scene had made a strong impression upon her mind. Her parents had, for the first time, openly spoken in her presence of their hopeless situation, and for the first time she had been permitted to sympathise in their sorrows. She was then only fifteen years of age, and at that time, the idea of endeavouring to obtain her father’s pardon, entered her mind; or, according to her own account, one day when she had been praying, “it crossed her like lightning, and caused in her an unspeakable emotion.” She was persuaded that it was an inspiration of Providence, and this belief supported her under the most trying circumstances.

The hope of pardon and of liberty had never before cheered her heart. It filled her now with delight. She threw herself anew on her knees and prayed with fervour: but her imagination was so disquieted, that she knew not exactly what she should implore from the Divine mercy, all the ordinary train of her ideas being lost, in the nameless joy she experienced. Soon, however, the resolution of going to St. Petersburg, with the purpose of throwing herself at the Emperor’s feet, to obtain her father’s liberty, grew more and more distinct in her mind, and became the prevailirg subject of her thoughts.

She had long since resorted to a favourite place, on the skirts of a neighbouring wood, where she loved to pray; but now she visited it oftener than ever. Occupied exclusively with her great project, she implored Heaven with all the ardour of her soul, to favour, to protect it, and to give her sufficient fortitude and means to accomplish it. She was, therefore, often somewhat negligent in her usual occupations, and was upbraided by her parents. For a long time she did not dare to disclose to them the enterprise she meditated. Her courage failed her, whenever she attempted an explanation, in which she could discern little probability of success. But when she became convinced that she had sufficiently matured her design, she fixed a day when she should disclose it to her parents, firmly resolved to overcome, on that occasion, her natural timidity.

On that day, Prascovia went, early in the morning, to the forest, to implore from heaven that courage and eloquence which she deemed necessary to convince her parents. She returned home afterwards, with no other uncertainty, but to which of her parents she was about to reveal her project. The first she should meet, was to be her confidant: she rather hoped to meet her mother, on whose indulgence she trusted the most. But when she approached the house, she saw her father seated on a bench before the door, smoking his pipe. She addressed him with great courage, explained, in part, her views, and solicited, with all the eloquence which she could command, permission to depart for the metropolis. When she had concluded, her father, who had not interrupted her speech, took her hand with great gravity, and entering with her into the room, where his wife was preparing dinner, he exclaimed: “My wife, good news! we have a powerful protector! Prascovia is on her way to St. Petersburg, and is good enough to promise to intercede in our behalf with the Emperor!” Lopouloff repeated, in a tone of irony, his whole conversation with his daughter.

“She would do better,” said her mother, “to mind her business, instead of dreaming of such follies.” The poor girl had mustered courage against the anger of her parents, but she was unprepared to see her hopes brought to the test of ridicule and irony. She wept bitterly. The gay humour which her father had indulged for a moment, gave way to his usual austerity; but, while he reproved her for weeping, her mother caught her to her bosom, smiled, and, reaching a towel, said to her, in a coaxing tone: “Come, come, child, clean the table for dinner, and thou canst afterwards think more at leisure, of thy journey to St. Petersburg.”

Such treatment was more apt to dissuade Prascovia from her projects, than the severest upbraiding, and the worst usage. The humiliation of seeing herself treated like a child, did not, however, long oppress her, or prevail, for a moment, over her natural consistency. The difficulty of the first step was surmounted: she touched afterwards, repeatedly, on the subject, and her entreaties were so frequent and urgent, that her father became angry, reproved her most seriously, and commanded her never more to speak of her plans of deliverance. Her mother proceeded with somewhat more gentleness to convince her, that she was yet too young to meddle with such serious business.

This result of her first endeavours prevented Prascovia for three years from renewing her entreaties with her parents. In that interval of time, she was obliged to attend her mother in an obstinate illness, which alone would have obliged her to postpone her journey; but never did she permit a day to pass, without including in her ordinary prayers, a fervent petition, that she might obtain from her father the desired permission; and the more she prayed, the more she became persuaded that God would grant her request.

Such a religious disposition and confidence, in a girl of her age, is so much the more surprising, as they were not the fruit of her education. Though her father was not irreligious, but, on the contrary, read the Bible every day, he did not set her an example of fervent and real piety; and even her mother, who was more attentive to these higher duties, was too little informed, to awaken piety in hearts that were unprepared for religious culture. But Prascovia needed neither encouragement nor advice. To an exquisite sensibility, she united an excellent judgment, which, in the last three years, had acquired so much strength, that her parents began to listen, in their debates and domestic concerns, to her remarks, and she obtained insensibly a sufficient ascendency over them, to propose again, and to support with less hesitation, her great project. Yet her parents, in losing the advantage they had over her, in laughing at her presumption, did not render their resistance and objections less painful to her, by representing how much her absence would increase their difficulties. With tears, and a thousand endearments, they told her that they had neither friends, nor resources of any kind in Russia, and that upon her depended all their comfort, and in part their subsistence. “Could she leave her parents in a desert,” they asked her, “to under take a distant journey, which might prove fatal to herself, and embitter the rest of their lives, instead of procuring them their liberty?” Prascovia could only answer with tears such reasoning; but, far from wavering in her determination, she grew every day more resolute and confident.

The opposition of her parents was not the only nor the greatest obstacle, she had to overcome. She could not set out on her pilgrimage, nor even leave her village, without a passport. In not answering the letters of her father, the Governor of Tobolsk had given no encouragement to the hope, that he would favour her plan.

Fortunately for her, there was in the village another prisoner, born in Russia, and son of a German tailor. This man had been servant to a student at the university of Moscow, and had, on the strength of that connection, assumed the reputation of a freethinker, amongst the rude villagers and prisoners, to whom he rendered himself besides useful, by his exertions in the useful art of his father. He some times visited Lopouloff, and, we are sorry to say, was permitted to laugh at his daughter, and to nickname her “St. Prascovia.” She did not much care for it; but supposing that an unbeliever must, at least, know how to write, she hoped he would prepare for her a petition to the Governor, which she thought her father would readily consent to send, if he had no other trouble than to sign it.

It happened that one evening, when she was about to pack up the linen, which she had washed in the river, and was turning her steps homeward, Neyler (for that was the name of the freethinker) met her, while she was making the sign of the cross; an usual accompaniment to prayers in her religion. Neyler said to the poor girl, “had you made some more gesticulations of that sort, your linen, by a miracle, would have returned home, without your being at the trouble of carrying it on your back; but I will do as much for you without entreaties, and show you that infidels, whom you hate so much, are glad to help their neighbours.” He did not give her time to make any objection; but taking the parcel, he went along with her, towards the village. As they proceeded, it occurred to Prascovia, that the “philosopher” might be in a mood of extending farther his services to her, and write the petition to the Governor; but his science did not go so far. He pretended that, since he had begun his handicraft, he had bidden adieu to all literary pursuits, but he fortunately knew a man who could render her the service she desired. Prascovia felt obliged for the information he gave her, about that individual, and rejoiced in the thought that she should, not later than the next day, make a decisive step towards the execution of her great project. When she entered the habitation of her parents, she found them in company with some of their acquaintance, to whom Neyler immediately imparted the service he had rendered her, in sparing her the trouble of working miracles by her prayers. He was not a little disconcerted, when Prascovia said, in answer to this and some other silly jests of the same sort, “Why should I not put my whole confidence in the Divine goodness, when I remember that, after a short prayer, a professed infidel voluntarily rendered me his services: was not that a miracle?” The whole company laughed heartily at the discomfited tailor, who, instead of waiting for better success on a new attack, silently strutted off.

The next day, Prascovia called on the person whom Neyler had mentioned to her, and who promised to write the petition, in the requisite form, but informed her that she, and not her father, ought to sign it. After some new difficulties, her father at last yielded, and forwarded the petition, with a letter of his own, relative to his personal situation.

From that moment, Prascovia ceased to feel unhappy, her health improved rapidly, and her parents wondered and rejoiced to see her suddenly recover her former gaiety. This change had no other source than a strong conviction, that she should obtain the desired passport, and an unlimited confidence in the protection of her Creator. She often extended her walks far on the road of Tobolsk, in the hope of meeting a state messenger. For some time, she regularly called on the old soldier, who distributed the letters, at the place where the post horses were kept; but she was soon discouraged from repeating her inquiries, by the rudeness with which the man in office received her, and by the jests in which he indulged on her projected pilgrimage.

Nearly six months had already elapsed, since Lopouloff had forwarded the petition, when a person came to inform him that a messenger, just arrived at the post-house, had brought several letters. Prascovia ran in all haste, and was followed by her parents. When Lopouloff had reached the place and told his name, the messenger delivered to him a sealed packet, containing a passport for his daughter, and asked for a receipt. This was a moment of great joy for the whole family. In the entire abandonment, in which they had been left for many years, the granted passport seemed to them a great mark of protection. Yet there was no answer to the requests which Lopouloff had addressed to the Governor, on his own affairs. His daughter, being neither slave nor prisoner, could not be retained in Siberia, against her will, and the passport was therefore, in fact, but an act of strict justice. The silence of the Governor as to what might be considered a reliance on the Emperor’s mercy and forgiveness, seemed on the contrary, to prove that he did not in any way feel himself authorized to mitigate his sufferings.

Inferences and reflections of such a nature, soon damped the first joyous emotions of his heart. Lopouloff took the passport, and, in a fit of disappointment and ill-humour, protested that he had petitioned for it, in the expectation that it would be refused, like his other requests, and only to free himself from the importunities of his daughter.

Prascovia followed her parents to their habitation, without uttering a single word, but full of hope, and thanking God for having heard her prayers. Her father enveloped her passport in a handkerchief, and laid it between his clothes. Prascovia was glad to observe that he took so much care of it, for she had feared he would tear it into pieces, and she ascribed that behaviour to a particular design of Providence, who judged probably that the propitious moment for executing her plan, was not yet arrived. She hastened to her ordinary retreat in the grove, where she passed two hours in fervent devotion. Her prayers were rather thanksgivings than new petitions. Her heart beat with joyous presentiments; all her anxieties were at an end, and her piety increased her transports.

These details may at first seem too minute: but when we shall have shown how the enterprise of this poor girl was successful beyond her own hopes, against all probability, and notwithstanding the numberless difficulties which she had to encounter, our readers will be convinced, that no human agency could have lent her the necessary strength, and that she could owe it only to that “Faith which overcomes the world.” Prascovia saw the will of heaven in every event: “My confidence in God,” said she often afterwards, “has been frequently put to severe trials, but was never deceived.” An incident which occurred, a few days after the arrival of the messenger, would have strengthened her courage, if it had not been still more calculated to diminish the resistance of her parents. Her mother could not be called a superstitious woman, but she endeavoured often to beguile her actual cares, by endeavouring to explain certain incidents of her monotonous life, as prognostics of better times; and, without believing in good or evil days, she carefully avoided beginning anything on a Sunday; and, when salt was dropped on the table, regarded it as an accident, if not absolutely ominous, at least not perfectly indifferent. She sometimes opened the Bible, to find in the first passage that should present itself, something that might bear on her situation, or furnish a lucky omen, a practice quite common in Russia, for investigating the secrets of futurity. If the passage in Scripture is insignificant, the book is closed and consulted again, and, by a “liberal construction,” an ingenious mind is not long without finding what it desires. Those who are under the pressure of misfortune, readily believe all that can mitigate their sorrows; and, without giving implicit faith to such presages, experience some relief, never probably remembering their fallacy, when wanting and seeking new consolation.

Lopouloff ordinarily read to his family, every evening, a chapter of Scripture, and explained the Sclavonish words which his wife and daughter did not understand; the latter waited always anxiously for such instruction. At the close of a melancholy evening, they were sitting silently at the table, the Bible before them, after the usual lecture, when Prascovia, without any other view than to reanimate the conversation, begged her mother to read the eleventh line of the right page, wherever she should open the book. The mother took it speedily, opened it with a pin, and counting the lines, she read aloud the eleventh, containing these words: “And the angel of God called to Hagar out of Heaven, and said unto her: what aileth thee, Hagar? fear not.” This passage seemed to have a striking application to the journey she meditated. With enthusiastic joy, she seized the Bible, and kissed several times the auspicious page. “This is truly remarkable,” said the mother, fixing her eyes on her husband. But he was not prone to favour their opinions, and declaimed violently against these superstitions: “Do you imagine,” said he, “that a human creature can interrogate the Almighty, by opening a book at random with a pin, and that He would condescend to indulge your foolish whims?⁠—no doubt,” added he, addressing himself to his daughter, “no doubt an angel will be ready to accompany you in your peregrination, and minister to all your wants. Do you not see the folly of indulging such ridiculous fancies?”

Prascovia replied, that she was far from expecting that an angel would appear to assist her in her undertaking; “but,” said she, “I believe firmly, that my guardian angel will not forsake me, and that the object of my hopes will be ultimately accomplished, though I should even abandon it.” Lopouloff felt his resolution shaken by this strange perseverance; yet another month passed, without any further discourse about Prascovia’s departure. She became silent and pensive; courted solitude; spent more time than ever in the place where she prayed, and seemed to have forgotten her usual tenderness for her parents. They began to fear that she was serious, when she threatened to depart without the passport, and their anxiety increased whenever she returned later than usual. One day they had already given up the hope of seeing her again. Prascovia, on returning from church, whither she had gone alone, had accompanied a few peasant girls to a hamlet in the neighbourhood, and had spent several hours there. When she came home, her mother took her in her arms, and said to her, with a faltering voice: “Thou hast been very late, Prascovia; we feared that thou hadst gone forever.”

“You will soon have that mortification,” replied her daughter, “if you do not give me the passport, and you will then regret having refused it, and parted with me, without giving me your blessings.”

In saying these words, she did not return the caresses of her mother, whom her melancholy and altered voice affected deeply. Anxious to tranquillize her, the poor mother promised not to combat in future her determination, but to let it depend entirely on herself and her father. Prascovia did not urge her, but her profound distress was more persuasive than the liveliest entreaties, and her father also felt sadly her alteration. One morning, his wife begged him to bring some potatoes from the small garden which they cultivated. Lost in a train of gloomy reflections, he seemed at first not to listen to her; but recovering suddenly, he roused himself and said: “Come, help thyself, and I will help thee.” When he had finished these words, he took a hoe and went into the garden; his daughter followed him: “Yes, father, we must help ourselves, when we labour under misfortunes, and I hope that God will graciously aid me in the entreaties I come to make you, and that He will move your heart. Give me the passport, dear and unfortunate father! believe, oh believe, it is the will of the Almighty! can you wish to force your daughter to disobey you?” All the while she addressed her father, she embraced his knees, and endeavoured, by that mixture of firmness and humility, to inspire him with the hopes which filled her own heart. Her mother having joined them, she begged her to help her to convince her father, but the good woman could not be persuaded to do it. She could master her feelings sufficiently to consent to her daughter’s departure, but she had not courage to advise her husband to follow her example. However, Lopouloff could no longer resist such affecting entreaties, and he saw, besides, too clearly, the decided character of his daughter: “How dissuade this child?” exclaimed he; “we must let her do her will.”

Enraptured with these words, Prascovia threw herself on his neck. “Be sure, dear, dear father,” said she, covering him with kisses, “be sure that you will not repent having complied with my wishes. I will go, yes, I will go to St. Petersburg; I will kneel before the Emperor; and Providence, who inspired the thought and touched my heart, will move also that of our good Sovereign in your favour.”

“Dost thou think, poor child, that it is possible to address an Emperor, as thou speakest to thy father? Sentinels watch at every entry of his palace, and thou wilt never find means to pass its threshold. A poor beggar girl, without clothes and without recommendation, how couldst thou dare to appear before him; or who would present thee or befriend thee?”

Prascovia could not gainsay the ordinary probability of a failure, but did not yield to it. A secret presentiment triumphed in her bosom over the ordinary suggestions of reason. “I too feel the fears with which your kindness for me fills you,” she replied, “but what are they in comparison with my hopes? Think only, dear father; remember how many unexpected favours God has already granted me, because I had put my trust in Him! When I had not the least hope of obtaining a passport, He sent an infidel to point out to me the means of obtaining it. The Almighty softened the heart of the inexorable Governor of Tobolsk. Lastly, has He not overcome your reluctance, and obliged you to consent to my departure? Be, therefore, certain, my dear father, that Providence, who alone could have enabled me to triumph over so many obstacles, and who has protected me until now, will know how to carry me safely to the feet of our Sovereign. Providence will put in my mouth convincing words, and your liberty shall reward you for the permission you have given me.”

From that day, her journey was decided upon, but the time of her departure was not yet fixed. Lopouloff hoped to receive some assistance from his friends. Several of the prisoners had sufficient means to befriend him, and some of them had made him, on other occasions, offers which he was too prudent to accept. But now he thought he might claim their aid. He wished also to find a traveller, in whose society his daughter might, at least, begin her pilgrimage. But he was disappointed in his expectations. Yet, Prascovia was impatient to depart. The whole fortune of the family consisted in one rouble of silver. After having in vain endeavoured to increase their mite, they fixed the day of the cruel separation, according to the wishes of the noble girl, on the eighth of September, the day of nativity of the Virgin. When this determination was known in the village, all their friends came to see her, led rather by curiosity than by real interest. Instead of lending her assistance, or of cheering her mind, they generally disapproved of her father’s having consented to her departure. Those who could have given her money, pleaded unfortunate circumstances, which they said “often prevent our rendering services to our best friends;” but not to be altogether niggardly, they were profuse in woeful predictions. Two of the poorest and most obscure prisoners, took up, however, the defence of Prascovia, and encouraged her parents. “Things more desperate,” said they, “have succeeded beyond all hope. If she cannot speak herself to the Emperor, she may find protectors who will speak in her behalf, when they shall know and love her as know and love her.” On the eighth of September, the two men came again to take leave of her, and to witness her departure. They found her ready for her long journey, unencumbered except with a small bag. She refused to accept the rouble which her father had destined to her use, because such a trifle could not carry her to St. Petersburg, but might be important to him. An express command of her father could alone determine her to accept his small assistance. The two poor exiles wished also to contribute to the scanty resources, with which she set out on her long pilgrimage: the one offered thirty kopecks, and the other a piece of twenty kopecks in silver, their means of subsistence for several days. Prascovia refused to accept their generous offers, though she valued them highly. “If Providence,” said she, “grant its protection to my parents, you will, I hope, profit by it.”

At this moment, the first rays of the sun illuminated the room. “The hour is come,” said Prascovia: “we must part.” She, as well as her parents, and the two friends, sat down for a little while; for in Russia, the custom is, for the traveller who sets out on a long journey, to partake as it were, with his friends, of a last social pleasure. They talk about the weather and indifferent things, for a few minutes, and then at once rise and give free scope to their feelings.

Prascovia received on her knees, the benedictions of her parents; and having made a last effort of firmness, in disengaging herself from their arms, she quitted their poor dwelling forever. The two exiles accompanied her for a verst, while her parents, immoveable at the door of their house, followed her with their eyes, to send her, from afar, a last farewell; but she did not look back, and soon was out of sight.

Lopouloff and his wife entered their habitation, now to them more gloomy than ever. Few visited them, because most of the gossips of Ischim blamed the father, for having encouraged his daughter to venture on so imprudent an enterprise, and ridiculed his presumptuous hopes. They derided still more the two prisoners, who had the simplicity to repeat the promise which Prascovia had made them to interest herself in their favour, and congratulated them on their good fortune.

We must now leave this scene of distress, to follow our interesting traveller on her journey. When the two friends who had accompanied her for a short distance, left her, she met with a few country lasses, who were on their way to the next village, at about twenty five versts from Ischim. During their journey, they encountered a number of young peasants, some of whom were half drunk, and who alighted from their horses, wishing to accompany the female travellers. The scene of this piece of clownish gallantry, was at the entrance of a thick forest. The terrified maidens, pretending to be fatigued, said they wished to refresh themselves: they sat down at the side of the road, opened their handkerchiefs, which contained some provisions, and begged the intruders to continue on their way. But, like other “travelled gallants,” they repeated their offer, and seemed resolute not to be denied. Prascovia, in order to rid herself of them, thought she might use a little deceit. “We would gladly go with you,” she said, “if we were not obliged to wait for our brothers, who are coming to carry us in their wagons.” Two wagons were indeed approaching, but they were yet at a considerable distance, and the lads had not seen them until Prascovia pointed in the direction in which they were seen, slowly advancing up the road. Her little stratagem was successful, for the men mounted their horses immediately and went off. “This was an untruth,” said she, when speaking of her first adventure; “but I was not the worse for it.” She reached the village in safety, and was hospitably received by a peasant of her acquaintance.

On awaking the next morning, she felt the effects of the fatigues of the preceding day. They were indeed new to her, and on leaving the village, where she had past the night, and finding herself again on the road left to herself, she was for a moment terrified with the dangers which might await her. But the story of Hagar in the desert, occurred soon to her mind, and revived her courage. She made the sign of the cross, and pursued her journey, recommending herself to her guardian angel. After having passed several houses, she discovered, by the eagle painted over a tavern, before which she had passed on the preceding evening, that instead of taking the road of St. Petersburg, she had gone in the opposite direction. She stopped to look around her, and turning towards the house of her hospitable friend, she saw him advancing towards her, and, mildly reproaching her, he said: “My dear, if you travel in this way, you must not expect to go far, and you would indeed do better to return to your parents.”

She made the same mistake several times, during her journey, and when she inquired for the road to St. Petersburg, although yet at an immense distance from that capital, the people, to her great confusion, laughed at her. Without the least geographical information about the country through which she was to travel, she imagined that Kiev, which is famous in the religious history of Russia, and of which her mother had often spoken to her, was on her way to St. Petersburg. She intended to pay her devotions in that city, and resolved to take the veil in one of its convents, if her enterprise should succeed. But observing that everybody laughed at her inquiries after St. Petersburg, she begged to be directed to Kiev, and excited still more mirth.

Being once more than ever uncertain which of several roads, that crossed each other before her, she should choose, she determined to await the arrival of a kibitk, which was approaching, and requested the travellers to direct her to Kiev. They thought she was jesting, and answered good-humouredly: “In whatever direction you go, you may reach Kiev, Paris, and Rome.” She took the middle road, which was fortunately the right one. In the narrative of her journey, she was unable to give any exact detail of the provinces through which she had travelled, or to name the villages through which she had passed, the names even which she remembered often proving her ignorance or inattention. When she arrived at a small village, she was generally received with kindness, at any house where she asked for hospitality, but obtained it with difficulty in larger places, and those which were remarkable for good dwellings; the refusal was sometimes rendered more painful, by the suspicion which was shown respecting her character.

In the vicinity of Kamouïcheff, and on her longest day’s journey, she was overtaken by a violent storm, upon which she hastened, as much as her failing strength would permit, to reach some house that she hoped could not be far off; but a sudden blast of wind having thrown down a large tree before her, she ran in great terror into the thickest part of the forest, to seek for shelter, in the underwood among the pines. The storm did not abate during the whole night, and the poor girl was but ill protected from the rain, which fell in torrents, and did not cease until daybreak. She then continued her journey, as well as she could, chilled by the cold, and exhausted by inanition. Fortunately a peasant, who passed her on the skirts of the wood, took pity upon her, and offered to take her into his cart. Towards eight o’clock they arrived at a great village, where the driver left her, in the middle of the street, being himself obliged to continue on his way. The good appearance of many of the houses, made poor Prascovia fear an ill reception. Forced, however, by fatigue and hunger, to solicit relief, she advanced towards an elderly woman, who was standing at a low window, engaged in some business of the kitchen, and begged her to give her shelter. But the woman, looking at her contemptuously for a moment, roughly bade her go her way.

In alighting from the cart, Prascovia had fallen into the mud, of which her bespattered attire bore strong evidence. She was, moreover, much disfigured and wasted by the sufferings of the preceding night, and the want of aliment. The unfortunate girl could nowhere find admittance. An old waspish woman, at whose door she stopped in the last degree of dismay, sent her off, with vociferations against thieves and prostitutes. A few steps farther was a church. Prascovia thought that there, at least, she should find a refuge; but the door being shut, she seated herself on the steps. Mischievous boys, who had followed her through the street, and had been witnesses of the ill-treatment she had received, continued calling her thief and insulting her. She remained for two hours in this deplorable situation, almost dying of hunger and cold, yet continually beseeching God, to permit her to survive this severe trial.

A woman approached, at last, with a show of compassion. Prascovia told her what she had suffered the preceding night; and while they conversed together, other persons joined them. The Starost, or Mayor of the village, examined the passport, and having testified to it, the charitable woman offered to take her to her house: but Prascovia was not able to rise; her limbs were stiffened; she had lost one of her shoes, and her naked foot was much swollen. A general compassion succeeded soon, to the uncharitable suspicions which had been manifested. She was put in a cart, and the same boys, who had a little before insulted her, exerted all their strength to carry her to the house of the person, who was the author of this happy change. She remained with this good woman several days, and was treated with uncommon kindness. A benevolent peasant made and presented her with a pair of half-boots. When sufficiently restored to health, she took leave of her benefactress, and continued her journey, remaining more or less time in the villages through which she passed, according as she might need repose or meet with hospitality: this, however, she did not always accept, without endeavouring to make herself useful to her benefactors, by washing, or assisting in other domestic labours. She disclosed the purpose of her journey, only when she was already received into a house; for she had remarked, that when she did it immediately on begging assistance, she was distrusted, and misconceived. —Most men, indeed, are less disposed to become interested in those, who manifest an intention of moving their compassion, than when they are left to the natural impulses of their generosity. They are, perhaps, rather willing to show their compassion, than to grant marks of esteem. Prascovia asked ordinarily for bread, said how exhausted she was, and how much she needed a little rest; and when she was admitted into a house, she mentioned her name, and made her host acquainted with her history. The way in which she performed her journey, gave her many opportunities of looking deeply into the human heart.

Oftentimes, those who had refused her a shelter, recalled her, when they saw her depart with big tears in her eyes, and became kind to her. Beggars accustomed to be refused, are little distressed at it; but Prascovia, although reduced to a similar situation, was probably too new to the feelings which it creates, to go without anguish through these trials of resignation and fortitude.

The advantage which she had derived from exhibiting her passport, in which the military rank of her father was mentioned, led her to show it, whenever she was in need of more than immediate assistance. In her intercourse with the numerous persons, to whom she addressed herself, she had, upon the whole, met with infinitely more instances of benevolence and humanity, than of unkind treatment. “My journey was not,” said she often, “as painful as some imagine, while they hearken with more eager attention to the few sufferings I have endured, than to the innumerable proofs of hospitality and benevolence, with which I was favoured.”

Among her most serious adventures, the following is remarkable, as well for its singularity, as for the dangers which perhaps threatened her life.

She was one evening walking on the side of a row of houses, to beg for a night’s lodging, and had just been very rudely refused at the door of one of the villagers, when she heard the steps of a person behind her, and saw the same man calling her back. He had an ill favoured countenance. Prascovia hesitated at first to accept the invitations of the keen-looking old man, but followed him, fearing she might not obtain shelter elsewhere. She found in the hut, an old female, of still less prepossessing mien than the man, who, as he entered, bolted the door, and barred the window shutters. She was scarcely attended to by her hosts, who, besides, promised so little good by all that she could observe in their features and appearance, that she became alarmed, and regretted having accepted their hospitality. The room was lighted by a few chips of pine, thrust into a hole of the wall, whose place, when they were burnt, was supplied with more. By that dim light, she found the eyes of her hosts fixed upon herself, when first she durst look up. At last, the woman interrupted the silence, which had continued since Prascovia had been motioned to take a seat, by asking her from whence she came. “I come from Ischim,” replied she, “and am going to St. Petersburg.”

“Ho! ho! you must needs have a good deal of money, for such a long journey.”

“I have but eighty kopecks in copper,” stammered the trembling girl.

“Thou liest,” returned the hag, “thou liest; no one goes on so long a journey, with so little money.” The poor girl vainly protested that she had no more. The woman, addressing her husband, in a scoffing tone, said: “What thinkest thou? With eighty kopecks, from Tobolsk to St. Petersburg! Indeed! indeed!” Affronted by the distrust of her veracity, and terrified by the dangers which she began to apprehend, Prascovia prayed inwardly to God, to assist her, and strove to repress her tears. She had for her supper, a few potatoes; and when she had eaten them, the woman advised her to go to sleep. Having begun to suspect the honesty of her hosts, she would gladly have given them all her money, if she could have left their house. She threw off a part of her garment, before she ascended the stove, where she was to spend the night, and left at the disposal of her roommates her sack and pockets, expecting that they would count her money, without farther affronting her personally. When they supposed that she was asleep, they proceeded to the examination of her things. Prascovia could hear their half articulate conversation. “She has surely more money about her,” said they⁠—“perhaps banknotes.”⁠—“I saw,” answered the woman, “a ribbon on her neck, supporting a small bag, where she probably keeps her money.” This bag of gummed silk, contained her passport, which she never parted with. The conversation between the hosts, continued in a lower tone, and the few words which Prascovia could hear, were ill calculated to lull her into sleep. “No one saw her come into the house.”⁠—“Nobody knows even that she entered the village.” The voices became then less audible, and soon they were entirely silent. Prascovia anticipating all the horrors which her alarmed imagination brought before her mind, felt, on a sudden, the head of the wretched old creature, who was mounting the stove. With anguish she prayed aloud for her life; she protested anew, gaspingly, that she had no money; but the hostess, instead of replying, examined her clothes, and took off her boots. The man brought a light: both searched the bag containing the passport; they obliged her to open her hands, and when they found all fruitless, they descended and left the poor girl more dead than alive.

This terrifying scene, and the dread of what might follow, prevented her for some time from closing her eyes: but when she became assured by the snoring of her hosts, that they were asleep, she recovered by degrees her usual tranquillity of mind, and her lassitude being probably greater than the fears which still agitated her, she fell at last into a tranquil sleep. It was late in the morning when the hostess awoke her. Prascovia left the stove, and could not help being astonished at the composure and seeming benevolence of both her hosts. Yet she would gladly have left them immediately; but they begged her to eat something, before she continued her journey. The woman set herself to work, and showed far more activity than on the preceding evening. She took out of the oven a pot of soup, with salt meat and cabbage, of which she presented to Prascovia a plentiful portion: her husband was not less prompt, and descending into a sort of cellar, beneath the floor, and covered with a trap-door, brought up a bucket of kvass (a liquor made of wheat-flour), and offered her a full pitcher. Somewhat tranquillized by these attentions, she replied readily to their inquiries, and told them a part of her story. They seemed to take interest in her situation; and, anxious to apologise for their previous behaviour, they protested that they had no other reason for inquiring whether she had money, than because they suspected that she was a thief. She would see, added they, by examining her bag, that, as to themselves, there was no cause to doubt their honesty. Prascovia, on taking leave, was not quite sure what to think of them, but was glad to bid them farewell.

When she had got a few miles, on her way from the village, she counted her money; and the reader will conceive her astonishment, when she found it increased. Her hosts had added forty kopecks.

Prascovia was fain to mention this example of God’s power, to touch the heart of the wicked with charity and compassion.

Shortly afterwards, she met with another accident, which alarmed her not a little. Having one day a long distance to walk, before she could reach any inhabited place, she set out at two o’clock in the morning. When she arrived at the outskirts of the village, a number of curs attacked her, and became more and more infuriated against her, as she ran to escape from them, and endeavoured to defend herself with her staff. One dog seized her garment and tore it; another flew at her face, while she was kneeling and praying. “I thought,” said she, “that He who had saved me from tempest and human wickedness, would not abandon me, in this new danger: and my reliance on His protection was rewarded; for a villager came and frightened away the dogs.”

The winter was fast setting in, and Prascovia was detained for a week in a village by the snow, which fell in such quantities that it was impossible to travel on foot: and when the road became fit for sledges, she got ready to continue her journey; but the good people, who had received her under their roof, represented the fatigues of it to be such as the most robust men would be unable to support; for when the wind blows up the snow, the beaten paths become invisible, and the traveller is lost in a frozen wilderness. Happily for our pilgrim, a caravan of sleds, carrying provisions to Yekaterinburg24 for Christmas-day, arrived at the village. She obtained a seat in one of these vehicles. Yet, notwithstanding the care which the kindhearted drivers took of her, she was ill-protected by her clothes against the severe cold, though she enveloped herself in one of the mats appropriated to the cover of the wares. The cold became so intense, on the fourth day, that when the caravan halted, the poor girl could not rise from the sled. She was carried to a sort of inn, at thirty versts distant from any village, and where the relays for messengers and travellers were kept. One of her cheeks was frostbitten. A fellow-traveller hastened to rub it with snow, and all of them were anxious to assist her; but they refused to convey her farther, because they considered it too dangerous for her to travel in such severe cold, which might yet increase, without better clothing than she was provided with. The poor girl wept bitterly, when she reflected that she probably could not meet again with such a good opportunity, and such kind people. The innkeeper seemed, besides, not at all inclined to receive her, and advised her to continue with the company with whom she had arrived. The drivers, seeing her distress, resolved to buy her a pelisse of sheepskin, which, in that part of Russia, costs but five roubles; and each one offered to contribute his mite for that purpose. But unfortunately there was no merchant to sell a pelisse, and none of the inmates of the kharstma (the inn) was willing to part with his own, for fear he should be obliged to wait too long for an opportunity of procuring another. In this perplexity, one among the youngest of the drivers, proposed that they should alternately lend her their pelisses, or that he would give her his own, if his comrades would each, by turns, part with his for a given time. The suggestion was received with loud applause; and a calculation was quickly made of the distance, and the number of times that the pelisses were to be changed. A Russian peasant likes to know what is expected from him, and is not easily cheated. When the arrangement was completed, the girl was put, well wrapped in her pelisse, on a sled; and the lad, who had given her his fur coat, covered himself with the mat, which she had used before, and seating himself upon her feet, began a merry song, and opened the march of the caravan. At every milestone, one of the drivers gave up his pelisse; and in this way the company reached without accident Yekaterinburg, in good spirits, and in less time than usual.

During that whole journey, Prascovia did not cease to pray to God, that the generous action of her companions might not prove injurious to their health.

Prascovia alighted in the town, at the same inn or caravansary where her fellow-travellers stopped. The hostess having been partly in formed, by the latter, of Prascovia’s history, and inferring that she was without money, went to her and took occasion to mention some of the inhabitants, most noted for charity, and advised her to solicit their assistance, and the means of continuing her journey. She mentioned with particular commendation, a lady by the name of Milin, who, she said, was an angel of benevolence, and the mother of the poor of the city. All the persons present agreed in this encomium. Had not Prascovia had worldly wisdom enough, to guess at the meaning of mine hostess, she would more expressly have been invited to seek another shelter. The house where she was then, was what the Russians call a postoïaleroi-dvor or “place of rest,” a sort of large stable, covered only at the top, and in an angle of which is a warm room, the fourth of its whole size. The travellers accommodate themselves as well as they can, in this chamber, and those who cannot find room on the stove, sleep on the floor. The day after her arrival, Prascovia went out early in the morning, to inquire after the generous lady whom her hostess had mentioned to her; but, according to her usual custom, she sought first a church. It was Sunday, and the church contained a larger number of people than she had ever yet seen together in one place. The fervour with which she said her prayers, called the attention of some; and her bag and her attire that of others. When she left the church, a lady asked her who she was. Prascovia answered her briefly; and remembering the call she was to make, inquired of her for the house of Mrs. Milin, who, she added, had been represented to her as a generous and benevolent lady. Probably Mrs. Milin had seldom heard of her reputation, in so unsuspicious a way. She had, however, her portion of human frailty; and instead of saying who she was, she replied to Prascovia: “Mrs. Milin, who has been so much praised to you, is not by any means so charitable as you imagine. If you would come with me, I can perhaps procure you a better shelter.”

After all she had heard of Mrs. Milin’s virtues, Prascovia could not help forming an unfavourable opinion of her new acquaintance, and she accompanied her, without either accepting or refusing her proposal. Observing that she seemed to follow with reluctance, Mrs. Milin said to her: “However, if you have such a great desire to speak to that lady, her house is close by: I will accompany you, and you shall see what sort of reception she will give you. But promise me before, my child, that if she does not urge you to remain, you will go with me.” Without answering, Prascovia entered the house with her, and addressing the first female servant she met, she asked if Mrs. Milin was at home. Astonished to hear such a question from a person who came in company with her mistress, she did not immediately reply.

“Can I see Mrs. Milin?” repeated Prascovia.

“Do you not see her?” said the maid.

Turning back, she saw her acquaintance, who extended her arms to embrace her. “Ah! my heart told me that Mrs. Milin was kind and compassionate,” cried our traveller, kissing the lady’s hands.

Mrs. Milin, greatly amused with this little scene, immediately sent for a friend who lived with her, Mrs. G., a person no less benevolent and generous than herself, to consult with her on the means of becoming most serviceable to the young girl. After breakfast, and when Prascovia had become a little better acquainted with her benefactress and her friend, she related to them all that she knew of the misfortunes of her parents, and mentioned, at last, the resolution she had formed, of imploring of the Emperor her father’s liberty.

Though Mrs. Milin did not trust much in Prascovia’s success, she did not immediately endeavour to dissuade her from her enterprise, but she and Mrs. G. resolved to engage her to remain, at all events, with them until the spring. She was herself reluctant to continue her journey at that rude season, the cold having lately much increased. The two ladies, with a view of determining her to remain, did not tell her what they intended to do in her favour, and what they performed afterwards, to aid her in her noble exertions.

Prascovia felt herself very happy, in the company of her new friends. Their affability, their polished manners, and unaffected kindness, afforded her a delight which was before unknown to her. She loved to remember each little incident of that fortunate time, and she never pronounced the name of her principal benefactress, without deep emotion.

Her health was, however, not so good as might have been expected from the comforts which she now enjoyed. The cold she had caught, in the night she passed in the forest, had been increased by the fatigues and the inclement weather, during her subsequent journey. She was, nevertheless, very industrious in learning to read and write. Her parents might be thought very blameable, for having so much neglected her education, had not their situation been such as to make them fear, that their child, who was, in all probability, to spend her life in the lowest occupations, might become rather miserable than happy through the cultivation of her mind. Her heroism was more interesting for that very neglect of her education. The little practice of reading she had acquired in her childhood, she forgot when afterwards obliged to aid her mother in her domestic employment. Now, however, that, for the first time, she enjoyed leisure, she applied herself with all her natural ardour and perseverance to reading, and, in a few months, was able to peruse the prayerbook, presented to her by her benefactress, who was often obliged to restrain her zeal. Her exertions were so much the more endeared to her, she said, as she found, in the prayerbook, the natural impulses of her heart, explained in the clearest and most affecting language. “How happy are the rich!” she once exclaimed: “how they must pray with all their soul, having so many means of studying and understanding their religion, of expressing their gratitude to their Divine benefactor, and of appreciating his gifts!”

Mrs. Milin smiled at these reflections of the enthusiastic girl, thinking that nothing could be impossible for so devoted a heart, and so ardent a piety as hers: and she determined, in common with her friend, to encourage Prascovia in her undertaking, and to leave it to the care of Providence, to enable her to surmount those difficulties, in which their aid could be of no avail. Before they knew her as well as they now did, they had, as we have already observed, tried to dissuade her, and made her the most flattering offers to induce her to remain with them. But nothing could alter her determination. She reproached herself, sometimes, for the comforts and the happiness she enjoyed. “How does my poor father do, in the desert, while his daughter forgets herself so much, in her unexpected good fortune?” She often upbraided herself in this way: and her benefactress thought, at last, that it would be better for her to continue her journey, as soon as the weather should permit. In the spring, Mrs. Milin, after having provided for her wants, put her on board of a boat, under the care of a man who was going to Niejeni,25 and who was accustomed to make that difficult voyage. Before leaving the Ural Mountains, which separate Yekaterinburg from Niejeni, the traveller embarks on the rivers, which run from these highlands and flow towards the north. He continues in the boat until he reaches the Tobol, where he lands to cross the mountains. The road is neither very high nor very rugged; and when the mountains have been passed, the traveller embarks anew on the rivers which fall into the Volga. Prascovia went on board of one of the numerous craft, which are employed to carry iron and salt into Russia, along the Tchousova and Khama.

The person to whose care she was entrusted, spared her many troubles, during this long journey, which she could hardly have performed without such assistance; but, unfortunately for her, he became ill in passing the defiles, and was obliged to remain in a small village, on the banks of the Khama. Deprived again of all protection, she travelled, nevertheless, without any ill accident, till she reached the confluence of the Khama and the Volga. From that place, the boats going up the river are drawn by horses. During that passage, our traveller met with an unfortunate accident. One those violent storms, which are so frequent in that country, had suddenly arisen, and the steersmen, endeavouring to put off the boat, pushed with all their strength a large oar, that supplied the place of the rudder, on the side where several persons were sitting. They had not time to turn it off, and three of the passengers, Prascovia included, were thrown into the river. She was immediately taken out of the water, and, happily, without any injury; but, reluctant to dress herself in the presence of so many persons, she retained her wet apparel, and took a violent cold, which, in the end, proved fatal to her existence.

The ladies of Yekaterinburg, having commissioned the person into whose care they had put their young friend, to make the necessary arrangements for the continuation of her journey from Niejeni, had not recommended her to anyone in that city, where in fact she did not intend to stop: but now, in consequence of the accident which had befallen her companion, she found herself in Niejeni, without any acquaintance or support.

Opposite the landing place, on the bank of the Volga, are situated on the top of a hill, a church and a convent. Prascovia immediately directed her steps towards the former, in tending to seek, after her prayers, a shelter somewhere in the city.

When she entered the solitary church, she heard from behind the grate, female voices, chanting the concluding part of the evening prayers. She considered this as a happy omen. “At some future day,” she thought, “if Heaven prospers my enterprise, I shall also be invisible to the world, and have no other calling than to worship and thank my Creator.”

On leaving the church, she stopped a while on the steps, to enjoy the splendid sight which meets the eye at that place, and which was then mellowed by the soft light of the setting sun. Niejeni Novogorod is built on the confluence of the rivers Oca and Volga, and seen from the spot where Prascovia stood, presents one of the most beautiful landscapes: our poor girl had no idea of so large a town, and she clasped her hands with admiration and amazement.

In setting out on her pilgrimage, she was prepared to meet, with resignation, all the sufferings and dangers, which, in her ignorance of the world, she could represent to herself; the inclemency of winter, oppressive heat, hunger, nakedness, diseases, death: but since she had become a little more acquainted with larger collections of men, than in her village of Ischim, she feared her courage would be insufficient. In the wilderness, she had no conception of the mournful and chilling solitude, that awaits the poor in populous cities: she did not imagine, that thousands of fellow-beings would walk by her, without seeing her, and without listening to her prayers, as if they had no eyes for misery, nor ears for sighs and lamentations.

Besides, since her acquaintance with Mrs. Milin and her friend, a sense of propriety, self respect, and perhaps a little pride, rendered the humiliations, to which her situation exposed her, more painful than ever. “When shall I find,” said she to herself, “friends like those I have left! I am now at more than a thousand versts from them: and how shall I be able to approach the palace of the Emperor, when I tremble to ask shelter at the poorest inn!”

For the first time, her courage was shaken, and with mournful dejection and bitter tears, she dwelt on the thought, that she had, perhaps, been wrong to leave her parents, on so adventurous an errand. But her natural strength soon got the better of this momentary weakness. Her confidence in God reviving in her bosom, she became ashamed of her despondency, sought forgiveness of her guardian angel, and hurried again into the church, to implore the Almighty for new fortitude to support her sufferings. Her steps towards the altar were precipitate; her prayers were fervent. A nun who was about to shut the church, and had seen her enter, and witnessed her devotion, interrupted her, by observing that it was time to retire, and by addressing some questions to her. Prascovia, yet agitated, told the cause of her re-entrance into the church, and, confessing her reluctance to seek for a shelter in an inn, she declared how infinitely she would prefer spending the night in the poorest corner of the convent. The nun replied that it was not permitted to lodge strangers, but that the Abbess would perhaps succour her. “I want no other assistance than a night’s lodging,” returned Prascovia; and showing her little purse, she added, “this gift of two charitable ladies, places me above the necessity of asking alms for the present, and all I now long for, is to be permitted to pass the night under this roof: tomorrow I shall continue my journey.”

The sister offered to present her to the Abbess. At the entrance of her closet, they found her on her knees, engaged in prayer. The nun stopped and kneeled. Prascovia following the example, breathed ardent supplications to God, to dispose the heart of the Abbess in her favour. After a little while, this lady rose, and, advancing towards Prascovia, kindly offered her hand to raise her. Our traveller related her story, showed her passport, and begged for hospitality. Her request was immediately granted. The company was soon increased by the arrival of several nuns, whom curiosity had brought into the room of the Abbess. In answering their various inquiries, Prascovia was insensibly led to mention the many incidents of her journey: and such were the affecting simplicity and natural eloquence of her narrative, that her hearers could not restrain their tears, and vied with each other, in showing the interest with which she had inspired them. She was loaded with kindness and caresses; the Abbess lodged her in her own apartment, and was glad to think that she might become one of her novices.

We have already mentioned, that Prascovia had formed the resolution of spending the rest of her life in a convent, if she should succeed in her endeavours to procure the liberty of her father. Better acquainted with the religious establishments of Kiev, than with those of Niejeni, she had determined to take the veil in one of the convents of the former city, because she wished to visit the famous Catacombs,26 which she had heard belonged to its Cathedral, and was desirous to be near the many holy relics which those tombs enclose. However, since she had learned that Kiev was not on the road of St. Petersburg, she was not disinclined to choose the convent of Niejeni for her future retreat. The nuns pressed her to make her vows, but she would only give a qualified promise. “Do I know,” said she, “what God may yet require from me? I wish, I long to finish my days here, and if it is also the will of Heaven, who shall oppose it?”

She readily consented to spend a few days at Niejeni, to rest herself, and prepare for her journey to Moscow;27 but, instead of profiting by it, she began to feel the effects of her extraordinary exertions, and became dangerously ill. Since her accident on the Volga, she had suffered much from a troublesome cough, and she fell now into an inflammatory fever, which alarmed her physicians for her life. She, herself, felt no apprehensions. “I cannot believe,” said she, “that my time has come, and I hope that God will permit me to perform my task.” She mended, indeed, gradually, and spent the rest of the autumn in the convent. But, feeble as she was, she could not continue her journey on foot, and still less support the jolting of post-wagons. For want of means to procure a more comfortable mode of conveyance, she was obliged to wait until the season for travelling in sledges had begun. In the meantime, she observed and practised the rules and the duties of the convent, perhaps retarding by it her recovery, but improving in her studies. By her conduct, she won more and more the esteem and affection of the nuns, who had no longer any doubt, that she would, at some future time, return to them and become a permanent member of their society.

When, at last, the roads were fit for travelling, she departed, in a covered sled, with some other travellers, for Moscow. The Abbess gave her a letter for one of her friends in that capital, and promised her that she should find a refuge in her convent, and be received at it as a favourite child, whatever might be the result of her pilgrimage.

Prascovia arrived safely at Moscow. The friend of the Abbess received her with great kindness, and kept her in her house, while she was endeavouring to find her a fellow-traveller, for the journey to St. Petersburg.

The person, to whom she determined to entrust her, was a merchant who travelled with his own horses, and consequently at a moderate rate. In addition to the letters, which the ladies of Yekaterinburg had given her, she had now one for the Princess T., an aged and highly respected lady. Under these auspices, she arrived at St. Petersburg, towards the middle of February, twenty days after having left Moscow, and eighteen months after her departure from Siberia. Her courage was unabated, and her confidence as unshaken, as on the first day of her journey.

She lodged at the merchant’s house on the Yekaterina-canal, and for some time she was at a loss in that vast capital, how to enter on her business, and how she should deliver her letters of introduction.

The merchant was too much engrossed by his own affairs, to care much for his lodger. He had promised her to find out the house of the Princess T.: but before he could do so, he was obliged to depart for Riga, and left Prascovia to the care of his wife, who was very kind to her, but wholly unable to afford her any advice, upon the subject which alone interested her.

The letter which the lady of Moscow had given her, was addressed to a person living on the opposite bank of the Neva. As the direction was very explicit, Prascovia thought that she could find the house, and accompanied by her hostess set out for Vasili-Ostrov;28 but the river was opening, and the passage was prohibited by the police, as long as there was any danger from the floating ice. She returned home, painfully disappointed. In the midst of her perplexity, a friend of her hostess advised her unfortunately, to address a petition to the Senate, to request the revision of her father’s trial, and offered to procure a person who would draw up the paper. The success of that which she had addressed to the Governor of Tobolsk, encouraged her hopes, and she was thus induced to copy an ill-conceived and worse written supplication. Nor could anyone give her the least direction how to present it. She neglected to deliver her letters of recommendation, and in this way lost the opportunity of obtaining timely assistance.

With the petition in her hand, she went one morning to the palace of the Senate, ascended a long staircase, and entered one of the public offices. She was much embarrassed at the sight of the number of persons, who were seated or moving in this large room, not knowing to which of them she should deliver her paper. The clerks, to whom she whispered her request, looked up to her, and then continued to write, without taking any farther notice of her. Some other persons, whom she was about to address, turned aside to avoid her, as they would a pillar which obstructed their way. At last an old soldier, who served as doorkeeper and sergeant-at-arms, and who was hurrying with rapid steps through the saloon, met her, and passing to the right to get out of her way, while she turned to the same side, to make room for him, they came violently against each other. The provoked soldier asked her what was her business. Prascovia, rather pleased with the question, presented him her paper, and desired him to deliver it to the Senate. But he, taking her for a common beggar, seized her by the arm, and dragged her out of the room. She durst not reenter, and remained the whole morning on the staircase, intending to present her petition to the first Senator whom she should meet. She saw several persons alighting from their carriages, some decorated with stars, some with epaulets, and all in uniforms, in boots, and with swords. She thought that they were all Generals, or officers of the army; and waiting all the time for a Senator, who, from the idea she had conceived of these magistrates, was to be distinguished by something extraordinary, she had no opportunity of delivering her paper. Towards three o’clock, the palace emptied, and Prascovia finding herself alone, left the Senate, in great amazement at not having met with a Senator, among the crowd she had seen that morning. Her hostess, to whom she made that remark, had great difficulty in making her understand, that a Senator was made like any other man, and that the gentlemen she had seen were probably for the most part persons, to any one of whom she might safely have presented her petition.

On the next day, at the hour when the Senate meets, she again took her seat on the staircase, and offered her paper to every person that passed near her; hoping, by this means, to avoid her error of the preceding day, and that she should at last meet with some one of those great personages, of whom she still found it difficult to form any definite idea; but nobody cared to take her paper. She saw, at last, a corpulent gentleman with a red ribbon, and stars on each side of his red uniform coat, and a sword. “If this is not a Senator,” she whispered to herself, “surely I shall never meet with one, in my life.” She advanced towards him, praying him to take charge of her petition; but a liveried servant stepped suddenly forward, and gently turned her aside, while the starred gentleman, who thought she asked alms, murmured a “God help you,” and proceeded on his way.

Prascovia went thus to the Senate for two whole weeks, without any better success than on the first day: often, wasted with the fatigue of standing on a cold and wet staircase, she seated herself upon one of the steps, and endeavoured to read in the countenances of those who passed, some sign of compassion and benevolence. But probably nobody imagined what she wanted. This is inevitable in large cities. Opulence and misery, happiness and distress, elbow each other, and yet remain forever separate, unless benevolence and pity, or the exertions of charitable persons, bring them into closer connection than accidental meetings.

One day, however, one of the clerks, who probably had already become accustomed to her face, stopped beside her, accepted the petition, and took from his pocket a packet of papers. The unfortunate girl began to feel some hope; but the packet contained only banknotes, from which the stranger took one of five roubles, put it in Prascovia’s paper, and, returning it, quickly disappeared. The disappointed girl rose from her seat, and left the palace. “I am sure,” said she to her hostess, “that if Mrs. Milin had a brother, who was a Senator, he would have attended to my request, without knowing anything of me.”

The Senate not being in session during the Easter holy-days, Prascovia, contrary to her inclination, had some rest. She employed it in devotion. During her pious exercises, she repeated her prayers for the happy issue of her enterprise, and such was the sincerity of her faith, that after having partaken of the communion, she felt assured that her petition would be accepted, the next time she should present herself at the Senate, and told her hostess so when she returned from church. But the hostess was less confident, and advised her to try some other means. Still, on the day when the Senate was to open its session, she had some business on the “English quay,” and Prascovia being ready to go to the Senatorial palace, she offered to carry her in her droshky. “I wonder,” said she on the way, “that you do not become discouraged. Were I in your situation, I would not trouble myself further with the Senate and Senators, who will never do anything for you: you might as well present your petition to this statue,” added she, in pointing to the noble monument of Peter the Great.

“I am sure,” answered Prascovia, “that my faith will not be in vain. But I will try today for the last time, my fortune at the Senate; and I am confident that my supplication will be received. God is almighty⁠—yes, He is almighty,” repeated she, alighting from the vehicle, “and if He willed it, even this figure of bronze would move from his seat, and hearken to my request.”

The matron burst out into a laugh, and Prascovia, soon awaking from her enthusiasm, smiled herself: yet this was but the habitual current of her thoughts and expressions.

While she gazed on the monument, her hostess, looking round her, remarked that the bridge over the Neva was replaced: numberless vehicles were coming to and fro, in the direction of Vasili-Ostrov.⁠—“Have you your letter for Mrs. L.?” asked the good woman; “I am in no hurry, and could carry you to her house.” It being yet early in the morning, Prascovia accepted her offer. The river which, some time before, was meandering around masses of floating ice, was now thawed and covered with vessels and boats of every description. Prascovia was delighted with this sight; the weather was beautiful, and with redoubled courage, she felt assured that her visit would be successful. Embracing her companion, she said: “It seems to me as if God guided me, and I trust He will not forsake me.”

Mrs. L., who had received from her friends in Yekaterinburg, some account of Prascovia, reproached her kindly for not having sooner presented herself. The affectionate manner with which she was received, reminded her strongly of the time she had passed with Mrs. Milin. Prascovia explained the plan she had formed for the recall of her father from his exile, and mentioned the unsuccessful endeavours she had made, until then, at the Senate. On a perusal of her petition, Mrs. L. soon found that it was not worded according to the official form. “Few could be more serviceable to you than myself,” she said to Prascovia, “for one of my relations fills an important station in the Senate; but I must confess to you, as I would to an older acquaintance, and to a friend, that for a short time past I have not been on good terms with him. However,” she added, after a little reflection, “the occasion is so good, and our quarrel so trifling, that I should be willing to make propositions of reconciliation, of which you may be the immediate cause: besides, is it not Easter?”

Prascovia was to dine with her new friend, and in company with several persons who were invited, and who showed her the greatest kindness. When they were taking their seats at the table, a gentleman entered, and addressing Mrs. L., made the salutations usual on these festival days: “Christos voscres;” and without more words, they embraced each other in the most affectionate manner. This person was the relative mentioned by Mrs. L. The custom in Russia is, for friends and acquaintances, when they first meet in Easter, to greet each other by such marks of love and affection. The one says: “Christos voscres,” (“Christ is risen,”) and the other answers: “Voistino voscres,” (“in truth, He is risen.”) Between friends, these expressions are, as it were, a new covenant; and, between persons who have quarrelled, the first words are an express wish for reconciliation. Mrs. L. finding her relation so well disposed, presented to him the young pilgrim from Siberia. Her affair was canvassed during the dinner, and the whole company agreed, that her application to the Senate was an ill-advised step. A formal revision of her father’s trial would have required much time; and it was thought at once a surer and shorter way, to apply immediately to the Emperor. A little time, however, was necessary to determine by what means this could be done. Meanwhile, Prascovia was advised not to continue her application to the Senate, the narrative of which greatly diverted the company. Towards evening, Mrs. L. sent her little protégée home, accompanied by a servant. As soon as she could revert to the different incidents of that day, Prascovia, according to the ordinary bent of her mind, reflected on the wonderful ways, by which Providence disposes events in favour of those whom it designs to protect. How fortunate was it for her, she thought, to have presented her letter to Mrs. L., on the same day that her relative sought to make his peace with her! In passing before the Senate, she remembered her prayer not to be obliged to reenter that palace, more than once. “God, in his great mercy, has done more than I requested, for I shall not be under the necessity of going into it again;⁠—and that bronze monument,” added she, looking at the statue of Peter the Great, “was the instrument which the Almighty used to direct my steps.”

Notwithstanding the lively interest of her new friends, she was destined to attain her end by other assistance than theirs.

The merchant, who had returned from Riga a few days before, was astonished to find Prascovia still in his house, and had begun to inquire for that of the Princess T. This lady, who already expected Prascovia, ordered him to bring her immediately. Though she regretted to leave the good people with whom she had lived for two months, she was too intent on her great purpose, not to be anxious to be introduced, as early as possible, to a protectress, from whom she might derive the most important services.

A Swiss in showy livery opened the door. Prascovia taking him for a Senator, dropped a low courtesy. “It is only the doorkeeper, child,” whispered her host.⁠—When they had reached the first story, the Swiss rang twice. Prascovia did not know the meaning of it; but having remarked, that the doors of some shops were provided with bells, she imagined that it was a precaution against thieves. In the saloon, everything she saw and heard, was calculated to fill her with admiration and amazement. Never had she seen so much splendour; never had she entered a room lighted like this; never had she imagined that a large company could move with so little noise, converse in almost inaudible voices, and bear the same air of dignity and state. The company was dispersed in small groups: the youngest among them, were round card-tables, in one corner of the saloon. Many persons were standing near one of these tables, where the Princess was playing whist with three other persons. As soon as she saw Prascovia, she motioned her to approach. “Good evening, my dear: have you not a letter for me?” Unluckily she had not yet taken it from her little bag, and was rather awkward in getting it from under her tucker, which caused some whispering and tittering among the younger part of the company. The Princess read the letter attentively. Her partner, who was not much pleased with this interruption of the game, drummed on the table, and fixed an ill humoured look on the new guest. Prascovia thought she recognized in him the corpulent gentleman, who had refused to receive her petition. While the Princess was folding the letter, the gentleman bolted out with his “trumps!” Prascovia, already greatly disconcerted, observing that he continued to stare at her, thought probably he had said something to her, and asked with trepidation, “What do you say, Sir?” the laughers did not lose the occasion to be merry at her expense. The Princess greatly commended her conduct and filial piety, and promised to assist her. Turning then towards a lady who was sitting next her, she addressed a few words to her, in French, whereupon the latter took Prascovia politely by the arm, and conducted her to the room which was prepared for her.

During the first days of her abode in the Princess’s palace, Prascovia, finding herself almost always alone, was low-spirited, and regretted not only the company of her friends at Vasili-Ostrov, but even the house of the merchant. Insensibly she became more familiar with her new acquaintances, and, to the humblest servant, every person in the house endeavoured to imitate the kindness with which the Princess distinguished her. Though she eat at the table of this lady, she never had an opportunity of speaking with her, and her protectress was often prevented, by the infirmities of age, from dining with her. The persons of her retinue soon became so much accustomed to Prascovia’s face, that they forgot she was a stranger, and what her business was. When she begged one of them to mention her affair to their mistress, her entreaties were fruitless, whether because they neglected to speak to the Princess, or because the latter found it impossible to fulfil her intentions. She visited sometimes her less illustrious friends in Vasili-Ostrov, and put all her hopes on their assistance.

During the time she lived at the merchant’s, a clerk of the Empress-mother’s Cabinet Secretary, Mr. Violier, had advised her to solicit her Majesty for succour, and had offered to take charge of her petition. The Secretary, believing that she needed only the ordinary relief of the poor, set apart fifty roubles for her, and sent her word to call on him. The next morning she went to his house: he was absent, but Mrs. Violier, received Prascovia, talked with her, and heard her story with as much surprise as interest. The acquaintance between charitable persons and the afflicted, is like the meeting of old friends, long separated by travels or difference of fortune. In the first hour that Prascovia passed with Mrs. Violier, she felt for her as much gratitude as for an old benefactress.

The lady desired her to wait for Mr. Violier, and when this gentleman, on his return home, saw her and heard her tale, instead of offering alms, he promised to speak, on the same day, to the Empress in her behalf. He begged her to remain to dinner, hoping that, at his return from the Palace, whither at that moment his official duties obliged him to go, he should be able to give her some news.

The Empress directed her Secretary to present Prascovia to her, on the same evening, at six o’clock. The astonished girl almost fainted, when Mr. Violier brought her this news: instead of thanking him, she raised her eyes to heaven, and said in a trembling voice: “Thus, oh God! have I not in vain put my trust in thee.” In her extreme agitation, she seized the hands of Mrs. Violier, covered them with her kisses, and begged her to express her gratitude to the generous man, to whom her father would be indebted for his liberty.

Towards evening, making a very trifling change in her simple dress, she accompanied Mr. Violier to the Imperial Palace. Remembering what her father had told her, of the difficulty of being admitted into it, she said to Mr. Violier: “Oh! if he could now see me, and know in the presence of whom I shall soon find myself, how happy would he feel!”

Without any preparation for what she had to say, or any direction of what she was to do, she entered the cabinet of the Empress, perfectly self-possessed. The Empress received her with her characteristic benevolence, and put several questions to her, with a desire to have farther details of her history, than the Secretary had been able to give. Prascovia answered with as much respect and composure, as the best educated person could have shown, on such an occasion. Persuaded that her father was innocent, she did not solicit his pardon, but the revision of his trial. The Empress praised her for her courage and filial virtue, offered to recommend her to the Emperor, and ordered that three hundred roubles should be given to her, as an earnest of farther interest and protection.

Prascovia left the palace with such a sense of these favours, that when Mrs. Violier asked her, if she was pleased with her reception, she could answer only with her tears.

A lady of the Princess’s retinue, remembering that she had not met with Prascovia, since she had walked out in the morning, was, on inquiring, informed by the servant, who had accompanied her, that he had seen her go with Mr. Violier in a carriage to the palace, and she quickly inferred that she must have been presented at court. When she entered the Princess’s mansion, towards the close of the evening, she was, for the first time since her first visit, ushered into the assembly room, where her recent fortune had already produced a happy revolution in her favour. The persons who had shown her friendship, were less profuse in congratulations, than those who had treated her with indifference. Some of the latter discovered that she had fine eyes and was well made. When she said that she was now certain of her father’s liberty, nobody thought that it could be otherwise; and several persons, less hasty in encouraging her confidence, offered to recommend her to the ministers. The amateur of whist congratulated her, as soon as he rose from his game.

When she awoke next morning, she asked herself: “Is it not all a dream? have I indeed, seen the Empress? has she, indeed, deigned to speak to me with so much goodness?”⁠—She rose hastily to look in a drawer, to convince her self, by the sight of the present she had received, that her imagination did not deceive her.

A few days afterwards, the Empress-mother assigned her a pension, and introduced her, herself, to the Emperor and his august consort, who both received her with the most gracious kindness and benevolence, and presented her with five thousand roubles. But what gave her the greatest happiness, was his Imperial Majesty’s command, that the trial of her father should immediately be revised.

The lively interest with which she inspired Count Kotchoubey, then Minister of the Interior, and all his family, removed many difficulties which might yet have retarded the accomplishment of her dearest wishes. That estimable statesman united in his person two things, which are not often found together: the inclination, and the means of doing good; and many afflicted families had cause to thank him, before they imagined that he knew of their misfortunes.

The revision of Lopouloff’s trial fell happily, under the jurisdiction of this Minister, and from that moment Prascovia was certain of success. Known to the Imperial family, and protected by the Minister, she soon became the object of universal interest. The Representatives of foreign Courts vied with the most distinguished inhabitants of the capital, in giving her marks of esteem and affection. Some ladies settled on her an annual pension. Yet these seductive favours did not alter the simplicity of her character, nor the modesty of her manners; and if anything distinguished her from any other demure and humble country girl, it was but the fearlessness of perfect innocence. After a most laborious study of society, a sagacious mind will feel convinced, that perfect artlessness, and an unassuming demeanour, are the most captivating qualities; and thus learn that, after all, nature is our best and unerring guide. The unsophisticated Prascovia could, without effort, display the winning graces of simplicity, and mingle, without the least disparagement, in the best society, her good sense and sound judgment supplying the place of education. Her quick and happy repartees discountenanced many, who had been more favoured in this latter respect.

Being once interrupted in her narrative, in the presence of a numerous company, by a person, who asked her for what crime her father had been banished, she answered indignantly, and in a tone of cold reproof: “Sir, a father is never culpable in the eyes of his children, and mine is innocent.”

Though she could not but observe the enthusiasm she inspired, in the unconscious display of the noble qualities of her soul, it had no influence on her behaviour or language; and, when she touched upon her history, she seemed but to answer queries, and never betrayed an intention of exciting the sympathy of her hearers. She wondered that her conduct should be praised, and she could not conceal her displeasure, when she was commended in exaggerated terms.

She spent the time she was obliged to remain in the capital, in the expectation of the final sentence of her father’s trial, very happily. Every enjoyment was new to her and delicious. The manner in which she expressed her emotions, on these occasions, was often very striking.

Accompanying, one day, the Countess W. through the interior of the Imperial palace, she exclaimed, on seeing the throne: “Is this the throne of the Emperor? oh! how I once dreaded to appear before it!” and, crossing her hands and turning pale, she whispered in a faltering voice: “Is this really the throne of the Emperor?” The awe, the fear, the reverence, with which this image of sovereign power had once filled her, were now blended with feelings of love and gratitude for the Monarch. She asked permission to approach the Imperial seat. With a trembling step she advanced towards it; and, throwing herself at the foot of it, she burst into tears, exclaiming: “Oh! my father, see where the omnipotence of God has conducted me. God, merciful God, bless this seat and him who occupies it! May he, through his whole life, be as happy as I now am.” She could with difficulty be induced to leave this room, and such was her emotion, that her friends found it necessary to defer showing her the rest of the palace, to some other day. She did not recognise the rooms where she had been presented to the Imperial family. When she entered the splendid assembly room of the Knights of St. George, she thought she was in a chapel, and crossed herself.

On the day her friends accompanied her through the Hermitage, she seemed to take great pleasure in looking at the pictures, with which this splendid palace is decorated, and she explained readily the religious subjects of some of them. But seeing a drunken Silenus supported by Bacchantes and Satyrs⁠—a picture of Luca Giordano⁠—she said: “What an ugly thing! what does this represent?” Having never heard of mythology, it was difficult to make her understand the subject of the picture. But when she was told, that it was a fable, she said: “I thought that there was no truth in it: men with goats’ feet! what folly to paint things that never have existed, as if there were a want of true ones.” Poor Prascovia was doomed to learn, at the age of twenty-one, what commonly is taught to children. However, her curiosity was never indiscreet; she seldom asked a question, and endeavoured, by her own efforts, to satisfy herself, about whatever fell under her observation, that was new or that she did not understand.

Nothing gave her more pleasure than to be with well-informed persons, who conversed among themselves, without thinking of her. Her eyes wandered then from one speaker to another; and the attention with which she listened was so intense, that she could remember every remark, which the limited extent of her acquirements enabled her to comprehend.

In the company of her intimate friends, she loved to dwell on the benevolent reception of the two Empresses, and to repeat every word they had honoured her with. Her emotion could not but increase, on hearing many other examples of the magnanimity and goodness of her sovereigns, and she wondered that they were not the usual topic of conversation.

The ukaze for the recall of her father was delayed, however, longer than she had expected. Pascovia had not forgotten the two prisoners, who had offered to assist her. But when she mentioned them to her protectors, they advised her not to embarrass the success of her principal request, by asking this additional favour; and for fear of injuring the interests of her parents, she was obliged to yield. But her good intentions prevailed at last; for on the day that the ukaze for the pardon of her father was to be despatched to the Governor of Siberia, the Emperor, in ordering his minister to congratulate Prascovia, directed him to ask her, at the same time, if she had no favour to solicit for herself. She answered immediately, that the only additional boon she desired, was the liberty of two of her father’s fellow sufferers. Her wish was complied with, and together with the ukaze, which set her father at liberty, was sent that for the recall of her two friends, who thus obtained their liberty, in return for the offer of a few kopecks.

Nothing now prevented Prascovia from making her long intended pilgrimage to the cathedral of Kiev; and in meditating on the last incidents of her life, she determined definitively to give herself up entirely to her religious duties. While she prepared herself for her new career, and went through the preparations for the monastic vow, her father enjoyed the liberty she had procured him. He received the joyful tidings twenty months after her departure. By an inexplicable mishap, he had heard nothing of her during that whole time. The Emperor Alexander had, in that interval, ascended the imperial throne, and on that occasion many prisoners were liberated, but none of those exiled at Ischim. Lopouloff and his wife felt so much the more discouraged. The separation from their only child had brought them to the brink of despair, when suddenly a messenger from the Governor of Tobolsk arrived with the ukaze of their liberty, a passport for their journey to Russia, and a sum of money.

This event, and the manner in which it was brought about, produced a great sensation in Siberia. Many of the inhabitants and prisoners of Ischim, were anxious to see the happy parents. Those who had ridiculed Prascovia’s enterprise, and chiefly those who had refused to assist her, now deeply regretted their error. Nothing was wanting to complete Lopouloff’s happiness, but the liberty of his two compassionate friends, for he was yet ignorant that they also had obtained their pardon.

These two men, who were both at an advanced age, had been exiled to Siberia since the rebellion of Pougatcheff, in which their youthful passions had engaged them. Lopouloff’s closer acquaintance with them, was dated only from the time that his daughter entered on her pilgrimage. Of all his acquaintance, they alone had manifested a sincere interest for her. Afterwards, they often conversed together of Prascovia, and formed conjectures on the issue of her enterprise. Hope and fear succeeded each other upon these occasions. Lopouloff finding himself now in a situation to show them his friendship, offered to divide with them the money he had received; but they refused to accept anything. “I need nothing,” said one of them, “for I have yet the piece of money I offered to your daughter.”

Dejection bordering on despair, was probably the cause of their refusal. They were about parting with their only friend. They remembered that Prascovia had promised them, to interest herself in their favour: and believing the exaggerated accounts which reached Ischim, of the reception she had met with at court, they were unwilling to let her father know the extent of their disappointment.

In order to avoid the pain of witnessing his departure, they went the evening before to take their leave of him, and they returned home with feelings of the deepest anguish.

When they had gone, Lopouloff and his wife lamented the fate of their unfortunate friends. “Prascovia surely has not forgotten them,” said they.⁠—“Perhaps she may yet obtain their freedom.”⁠—“We will beg her to renew her intercession in their favour.” After some farther observations of this sort, they retired, to be ready, early the next morning, for their departure.

They had scarcely closed their eyes, when they heard a noise at their door. Lopouloff rose, and met the messenger with the despatches for the two prisoners. He had searched in vain for the Captain-Ispravnik or head commissary, to whom he intended to deliver the despatch; and returned now to learn from Lopouloff, the lodging of the two exiles. They had gone home, in deep silence, and seated themselves on a bench, neglecting in their feeling of despair, even to light a candle: of what could they converse in these mournful moments? what consolation could they find in each other’s countenance? all hope for them, as they thought, had vanished, and an eternal exile seemed now their only and certain prospect.

They thus sat brooding for two hours, over their present misery, and their woeful futurity, when the glimmering of a lantern suddenly threw light into the room, through its little lattice. They heard steps near the door; one knocks;⁠—and the well-known voice of a friend cries: “Open, open! your pardon! your pardon! open.”

It would be vain to attempt to describe the scene that now occurred. At first, some broken expressions could alone be heard: “Pardon!”⁠—“The Emperor: God bless him! God bless him!”⁠—“Thousand benedictions to Prascovia! no, no, she has not forgotten us!” Seldom had the transition from profound despair to the greatest earthly bliss, been so sudden and so unexpected: never, perhaps, had a good turn of fortune been more deeply felt.

The Captain-Ispravnik, having been informed that a messenger was searching for him, ran after him, and in the presence of the two prisoners, opened the packet, which contained a passport for each of them, and a letter from Prascovia to her father. Among other things, she mentioned, that she would have solicited a pecuniary assistance for her two friends, had not God given her the means to make them herself a present, in return for the generous offer they had made her, at her departure from Siberia. The present consisted of two hundred roubles.

Prascovia anxiously waited for an answer from her parents. In taking the veil at Kiev, she was, nevertheless, determined to fulfil the promise she had given to the Abbess at Niejeni.29 She wrote to her, after having finished her devotions, and shortly afterwards determined to depart for Niejeni.

The Abbess, in the expectation of seeing her soon, did not write to inform her of the arrival of her parents at Niejeni. She went to meet Prascovia at the gate of the convent, with all the nuns. Prascovia threw herself at the Abbess’s feet, and her first enquiry was for news from her parents. “Come, my child,” said the old lady, “into my room, we have good tidings for you;” and she conducted her through the galleries and aisles of the monastery. The silence of the nuns might have awakened her fears, had their countenances not been expressive of joy.

In entering the Abbess’s closet, she saw her parents. They had heard nothing of her arrival; they knew not that she had taken the veil, and they threw themselves at her feet, overwhelmed by mingled feelings of gratitude, admiration, and grief. “What are you doing?” shrieked Prascovia, and gasping with her emotions, and falling on her knees, she added: “to God, to God alone we owe our felicity. Let us thank Him for His miraculous interposition.” The nuns, deeply moved by this affecting scene, joined in the thanksgiving of the happy family, who, after this first burst of gratitude to their merciful Creator, exchanged demonstrations of love and tenderness, in the midst of which the mother, pointing to Prascovia’s veil, gave way to her feelings and sobbed aloud.

The pleasure they found in their meeting, they knew, would be of short duration, and was therefore not unmingled with regret. Prascovia, in taking the veil, deprived her parents of the happiness they would have found in her company; and the new separation for which they were obliged to prepare themselves, seemed to them more painful than the former, because they could not flatter themselves, as then, to spend, perhaps, the rest of their lives with her. Their means did not permit them to establish themselves at Niejeni. Mrs. Lopouloff had relations at Vladimir, who invited her to live with them; and necessity obliged both parents to accept this invitation. After having passed a week with their daughter, in a quick succession of alternately delicious and agonizing feelings, they determined to depart. The mother was deeply distressed. “What have we gained,” said she, “by this liberty, after which we longed so much! all the toils, and even the success of my poor child, have but ended in her eternal separation from us! I wish rather we had remained in Siberia with her forever!”

Such complaints may be forgiven to the aged mother of a daughter like Prascovia.⁠—“She was her only child; beside her, she had neither son nor daughter.”30

Prascovia, in taking leave of her parents, in presence of the Abbess, promised to pay them a visit at Vladimir, in the course of the year. The whole family, accompanied by the nuns, went then to the church. Prascovia, though more profoundly affected than her parents, encouraged them, and seemed anxious to give them an example of resignation and fortitude. Yet, she found it difficult to guard herself against the overpowering movements of nature; she glided, after a short prayer, into the choir, where the other nuns were assembled, and showing herself through the grate, she said to her parents, with a ghastly effort at cheerfulness: “Farewell, my beloved: your daughter belongs to God, but she will not forget you. Dear father, my dearest mother, resign yourself to the sacrifice prescribed by Providence, and may the blessings of the Almighty accompany you wherever you go.” Her overwhelming emotion obliged her to lean against the grate, and to give a free course to her tears. The poor mother, overcome by grief, rushed towards her, with inarticulate cries of anguish. At a signal given by the Abbess, a black veil fell, and prevented a useless renewal of so distressing a scene. At the same moment, the nuns broke forth into the Psalm⁠—

“The good man’s way is God’s delight;
He orders all the steps aright
Of him that moves by his command;
Though he may sometimes be distress’d,
Yet shall he ne’er be quite oppress’d;
For God upholds him with his hand.”

Lopouloff and his wife had seen their daughter for the last time. A few minutes after wards, they departed from Niejeni.

Prascovia submitted herself with perfect resignation to the severe rules of the convent, showed the greatest zeal in the fulfilment of her several duties, and won every day more and more the affection and esteem of her new companions. But her health declined rapidly, and the mountainous situation of the convent was no way calculated to retard the development of the malady which preyed upon her. After a year, a change of residence was recommended to her by her physicians.

The Abbess, being at that time obliged to go to St. Petersburg, determined to take Prascovia with her. In this she was actuated, not only by a hope that the change of place might have a good effect on Prascovia’s health, but by a wish also, that the interests of her convent might be served, by the friends she had in the capital. Prascovia was now again a petitioner, but a more disinterested one than before; and instead of partaking in the pleasures of society, as she did then, she visited only those persons whose acquaintance she was bound by gratitude and friendship, to cultivate.

Her features were already much altered, by her wasting disease, the consumption; but even in her decayed state, her countenance was one of the most agreeable and interesting that could be seen. She was rather of a low stature, but well made; her black veil, though it excluded all ornament of her hair, showed to advantage the fine shape of her face; her eyes were of a deep black, her forehead was large, and her look and smile had a remarkable expression of sweet pensiveness.

She was aware of the nature and the danger of her disease, and all her thoughts were fixed on that future existence, for which she waited without fear, but yet without impatience.

The, Abbess, having despatched all the business which had caused her visit to the capital, prepared to return with Prascovia to Niejeni. On the day before their departure, Prascovia, on entering the house of some friends, of whom she wished to take leave, found a young girl lying at the foot of the staircase, reduced to the most abject state of misery. Seeing a lady followed by a liveried servant, the unfortunate creature raised herself to beg alms; and presenting a paper, she added, that her father was palsied, and lived only by the assistance which she was able to obtain, from charitable persons; but that she herself was so ill, that she had not strength enough to beg. Prascovia seized the paper with a trembling hand: it was a certificate of good character and poverty, signed by a parochial priest. She remembered the time, when she also was sitting on the staircase of the Senate, in hope of relief from her suffering, and when she solicited in vain for compassion. She hastened to give to the poor girl all the money she had about her, and promised her farther assistance. On her recommendation, the friends, whom she went to visit, became the protectors of this poor girl and her father.

She had hoped to obtain, before her departure from St. Petersburg, a dispensation from the law, by which, in Russia, novices are prohibited from making their final vows, before attaining the age of forty; but in this her hopes were disappointed.

On their return to Niejeni, the Abbess and Prascovia passed a few days in a convent at Novogorod,31 where the discipline was less severe than in their own, and the situation of which was more favourable to the health of the novice, who besides had the pleasure to meet here, with a sister of one of her companions at Niejeni. The young nun seemed extremely solicitous to possess her friendship, and informing her of the permission her sister had obtained, to change her residence at Niejeni for that of Novogorod, she urged her to follow her example and to come with her. The Abbess, who hoped that such a change might be beneficial to her health, consented, though she extremely regretted parting with her, and soon after their return to their convent, she made the necessary application for her transfer to Novogorod.

Prascovia shortly afterwards left the latter place, followed by the good wishes and regrets of all her acquaintance and companions. She was obliged to wait two months at her new residence, before she could be put in possession of a small wooden house of two cells, which she had caused to be constructed for herself and her friend, for want of such accommodation in the convent. Yet, she was considered as belonging to it, and all the sisters, who were already acquainted with her, looked upon her arrival as a great happiness, and gladly performed those duties for her, which were beyond her strength.

She lived in this way, until the close of 1809; and, like most persons afflicted with consumption, Prascovia, though resigned to an early death, did not think that her end was near. On the evening before her death, she walked with less fatigue than she had for some time before, through the convent, and, wrapped in a pelisse, sat down at the steps to enjoy the exhilarating influence of the sun, on a wintry day. She mused pensively on the events of her life, and remembered the more vividly those of her infancy, as the aspect of nature contributed to carry her back to Siberia. Observing some travellers glide rapidly before her in a sledge, her heart began to beat as if kindled by some cheering recollections. “Next spring,” she said to her friend, “if I am well enough, I will pay a visit to my parents at Vladimir, and you shall go with me.” Her eyes beamed with joy, while death already discoloured her lips. Her companion could not without difficulty assume a composed countenance and contain her tears.

On the next day, the eighth of December, 1809, the festival of St. Barbara, she had still strength to go into the church to partake of the communion, but at three o’clock she was so reduced, that she laid herself undressed on her bed, to take, as she thought, a little repose. Several of her companions were in the cell, and, not aware of her situation, talked gaily and laughed, in the hope of amusing her. But their presence became soon too fatiguing for her, and when the vesper bell was rung, she desired them to join their sisters in the chapel, and recommended herself to their prayers. “You may yet today,” she said, “pray for my recovery, but in a few weeks you will mention me, in the prayers for the dead.” Her friend alone remained, and she begged her to read to her the evening service as she was accustomed to do. The young nun, kneeling at the foot of the bed, began to sing in a low voice. But after the first verses, the dying Prascovia having made her a sign with her hand, accompanied by a faint smile on her lips, she rose, bent over her, and could with difficulty catch these words: “My dear friend, do not sing, it prevents me from praying; read only.”

The nun kneeled again, and while she recited the orisons, her expiring friend made, from time to time, the sign of the cross. The room was now becoming dark.

When the nuns reentered with candles, Prascovia was dead. Her right hand was extended over her breast, as when she crossed herself for the last time.