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
