of which he had been—shall I say—the idol, for more than two hundred years.
I did not share her predilection. My own particular saint was St Nicholas, even then when I was beginning to take pride in my critical attitude toward religion. Looking back, and raising the veil from my once ardent devotion, I must admit that my partiality originated in a life-size icon, painted by a celebrated Russian, and presented by the Russian church to the monastery of St Nicholas, where I used to go for my devotions. I was only four years old when the icon was sent, but I fell an immediate victim to its beauty. Had it represented St Gregory or St Aloysius, my devotion would have been the same. It is always thus with us: scratch a Greek and you will find a pagan.
However, when my mother told me that she was going to send for St George of the Bells, I raised no objection. I knew enough of his deeds to have a respectful fear of him. Among the orthodox Greeks, especially among those who, like us, lived on the sea of Marmora, to send for a saint is an awe-inspiring act. One does not have recourse to it except as a last resort. It is, moreover, an expense that few can afford, though I have known poor Greek families to sell even their household effects to have the saint brought to them.
From the moment that it was decided the saint
