CARMEN SYLVA.

Woodbury Compy.

ELIZABETH,
QUEEN OF ROUMANIA.

THE LIFE OF
Carmen Sylva
(QUEEN OF ROUMANIA)

Translated from the German
BY
BARONESS DEICHMANN

WITH
FOUR PORTRAITS, VIEW, AND FACSIMILE OF HANDWRITING

LONDON
KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRÜBNER, & CO.
LIMITED
1890
[All Rights reserved]

Ballantyne Press
BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.
EDINBURGH AND LONDON

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE.

The following pages are a translation of Baroness Stackelberg’s book, “Aus dem Leben Carmen Sylva’s.”

Having known “Monrepos” from my childhood, and “Segenhaus” since it was built, it was but a labour of love to me to render this account of “Carmen Sylva,” and the distinguished family to which Her Majesty belongs, in English.

I have also thought that many who do not read German might be interested thus to become acquainted with so gifted a writer, so noble a woman.

My thanks are due to Sir Edwin Arnold for kindly translating some of the poems, as well as to Professor Max Müller for his advice regarding the translation of the philosophical pages.

HILDA DEICHMANN,
née de BUNSEN.

London, 1890.

INTRODUCTION.

“Carmen, the song, Sylva, the forest wild,
Forth comes the sylvan song, the woodland’s child!
And had I not been born ’neath forest trees,
I never should have heard such songs as these.
I learned them from the birds, that sang aloft;
And from the greenwood’s murmurs sweet and soft
Up sprang with them the heart within my breast!
Song and the forest lull my soul to rest.”

Carmen Sylva’s volume of beautiful poetry, entitled “My Rest,” begins with the above poem. It explains the poetic reasons for the choice of the name under which the royal writer conceals herself. The title, “My Rest,” has to do with her early surroundings, for it means Monrepos, the beautiful country seat of the Princess of Wied, which is situated on a slope of the Westerwald, and in which the royal lady spent her early years. In these three words, Monrepos, Carmen, and Sylva, lie a part of the life, lie the germ and the motive-power of the poetic genius of Princess Elizabeth of Wied.

On making the acquaintance of so gifted a person as the Queen of Roumania, one involuntarily inquires what antecedents and what experiences have helped to form so distinguished a character. What was the home where she received her first impressions? What were her ancestors? What qualities of heart and mind, what talents has she inherited from them? All that we do and are depends on the impressions which we unconsciously receive. Consequently we can only fully comprehend the development of a character if we have learnt to know the circumstances and the early surroundings amidst which its spiritual and intellectual powers were gradually formed.

CONTENTS.

I.
The Counts and Princes of Wied.

“From high mountains floweth
Bright Wied to the Rhine;
On the banks of it rises
Princely castle so fine:
And the old hero-race—
Ne’er corrupted of ill—
Noble flames constant rise
From the roots of it still.”

—Ernst Moritz Arndt.

For many generations we find in the family of the Counts, who later became Princes of Wied, distinguished men and women. For centuries we can find their trace, ever striving for what is noble and ideal, and thus overcoming the monotony of daily life. Leaders of armies, high prelates, and learned men have sprung from that family. Noble women have influenced the rising generation by their educational powers. Intellectual pre-eminence can almost be called a heritage in the princely House of Wied.

In the year 1093 the Counts of Wied were already a mighty dynasty. Their possessions on the right and left banks of the Rhine extended to the heights of the Eifel and the Westerwald. The most ancient seat of the Counts of Wied was the Castle of Ober-Altwied, to which the Castle of Neider-Altwied was added later.

We find the earliest mention of the Rhenic branch of the dynasty of the Counts of Wied in a document-of-foundation of the year 1093. Amongst the witnesses stands the name of Meffrid, Count of Wied. His consort Osterlindis was a near relative of Henry the Lion, and the mother of the Archbishop Arnold of Cologne. This energetic and highly-gifted prince of the Church took a leading part in the election of a king at Frankfort after the death of Conrad III. It was he who accompanied Frederick Barbarossa to Aix and crowned him there.

Theodorick, Count of Wied, lived early in the thirteenth century. He was renowned for his piety and wisdom as a statesman when he was Archbishop of Treves. The Liebfrauen Church at Treves, that beautiful monument of Gothic architecture, owes its origin to him.

In the year 1243 the male line became extinct in the person of Count Lothar. The heritage of the Counts of Wied then fell to Bruno, Count of Isenburg, who was married to the heiress of the House of Wied and took the name. At the death of Count William in 1462 the inheritance fell, in default of a male heir, to Frederick of Runkel, of the House of Leiningen-Westerburg. His mother was Anastasia of Isenburg-Wied, a niece of Count William.

Count Frederick of Runkel-Wied then became the founder of the now flourishing dynasty of the Princes of Wied.

Amongst his descendants, let us first mention Herman of Wied, Elector and Archbishop of Cologne from 1515 to 1547. He was born on the 14th January 1477, and was the fourth son of Count Frederick of Wied-Runkel and the Countess Agnes of Virneburg: already in his sixth year he received a benefice in the Chapter of the Cologne Cathedral. At fifteen he became Canon of the Cathedral, and on the 15th of March 1515 he was elected Archbishop of Cologne. He reigned during the time of the most bitter religious strife. Although at first an implacable enemy of the Reformation, he was soon overcome by the power of the Gospel. Archbishop Herman declared himself a believer in the doctrines of Luther, sent for Protestant preachers, and corresponded actively with Luther and Melancthon. Martin Butzer, the Strasburg Reformer, was invited by him to Bonn, to work out a plan for the ordering of the doctrines of the Reformation. At Easter 1543 Archbishop Herman dispensed the Holy Communion according to the rites of the Lutheran Church. A few weeks later Melancthon came from Wittenburg, and Pistorius from Hesse to confer with the Archbishop. His rivals and enemies now denounced him to the Pope and to the Emperor. He, however, declared calmly and decidedly that “at his age, and with one foot in the grave, he had held it to be his Christian duty to study the Bible and religious works himself, and to seek the advice of the learned. He could by no means depart from the conclusions he had thus come to, nor deny his convictions, which were of the greatest importance to his salvation and that of all true seekers after God. Whether unjustifiable machinations should succeed in dethroning him he would leave in God’s hands. If the worst should befall him, he would close his life as he was born, a simple Count of Wied, but he would never cease to be the champion of the true faith.”

After this he was excommunicated by Paul III. In order to preserve the country committed to his charge from the misery of war, which must otherwise inevitably have arisen, Count Herman renounced the Archbishopric. For thirty-one years he had gloriously fulfilled the duties of his difficult office, and accomplished the arduous task with true German conscientiousness and Christian piety. He now returned to Altwied, the cradle of his race. In our days one can still see the extensive ruins of the old Castle, which crown a rocky summit, standing isolated in the valley of the Wiedbach, surrounded by mountains clothed with mighty forests. On the 15th of August 1552 Count Herman died there, and was buried in the neighbouring church of the village of Niederbiber. The fatherly solicitude with which he had ruled those committed to his care was treasured in the memory of the people for many years. Up to the end of the sixteenth century the saying was current among them:—

“When we had noble Herman of Wied,
God, gold and peace were ours indeed.”

Frederick, Count of Wied, 1618–1698, increased the well-being of his country under most difficult circumstances. The House of Wied had become Protestant. Count Frederick made up his mind to found a city of refuge for all Christians who were persecuted on account of their religion. The town of Neuwied was founded in the year 1649 upon the ruins of the village of Langendorf, which stood on the banks of the Rhine, and was destroyed during the Thirty Years’ War. The toleration displayed by the Count towards the most conflicting opinions was, at that time of ruthless persecution, a bright example of Christian charity.

His son Frederick William, 1706–1737, built the Palace of Neuwied, in which Princess Elizabeth was born. From the lofty windows of the saloons, which are decorated in the style of Louis XV., the view extends far over the flowing Rhine, and the many picturesquely situated towns and villages, and the wide chains of mountains which encircle the river on both sides. At sunset, when the last beams of the sun are reflected in a hazy mist, it is a picture of magical beauty.

The park lies close behind the Palace. For a long way it stretches along the Rhine to the mouth of the river Wied. Magnificent old trees form shady avenues and groves. They are so arranged as to heighten the effect of the beautiful landscape, which constantly develops new charms in the ever-changing light.

Frederick Alexander succeeded his father from 1737–1791. During his reign Neuwied became an asylum for religious sects of the most various views, who built churches and founded lasting congregations there. Thither came the Moravians, Mennonites, Jews, Catholics, members of reformed Churches, Lutherans, and the mystic sects of the Inspirationists. Frederick Alexander took them all under his immediate protection, and allowed them the free exercise of their religion.

In order to improve the condition of his country, he attracted foreign manufacturers and artists. Thus an industrial population was gradually formed at Neuwied, which has steadily increased. Frederick Alexander founded institutions for the good of the community, encouraged mining, built foundries, and interested himself in everything connected with the prosperity of the town of Neuwied. Practical reforms were carried out in the administration of the country and its agriculture. It was Frederick Alexander who erected the country-house of Monrepos, that “Paradise” of Queen Elizabeth, on a height of Westerwald.

On the 13th June 1784 the hereditary title of Prince of the Realm was conferred on Frederick Alexander by Joseph II. Three years later he celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of his accession. He and his consort, Countess Caroline of Hachenburg, also lived to see the celebration of their golden wedding, when they were surrounded by a large circle of grandchildren. His simple monument in the churchyard of Neuwied bears the inscription, “He was too great to be replaced, too good to be forgotten; his good works are his best memorial.”

Prince Frederick Charles, the only son of Frederick Alexander, married, in 1766, the Countess Marie Louise Wilhelmina of Sayn-Wittgenstein-Berleburg, and she became the mother of seven princes and three princesses. When Frederick Charles undertook the government of the country it was not for its welfare. In his anxiety to improve everything, he went so far as to destroy all that was good and beautiful; his generosity was extravagant, and he soon became involved in quarrels of all sorts. The Princes of Runkel and Berleburg, who were sureties for the House of Wied, were obliged to appeal to the law and to nominate a Curator.

But the storm of the French Revolution had gathered meanwhile, and soon spread to Neuwied. The wave of emigration came and brought its adventurers, and the Franko-Austrian war succeeded with its horrors. The Princess and her children repeatedly had to flee from Neuwied. The Prince had also left his home, and stood up for his lost rights in Vienna until the government of his country was accorded to him once more. A French emigrant accompanied him on his return, in whom he placed the utmost confidence, but whose influence over him was most pernicious. The Princess was obliged to leave the Castle, for the citizens of Neuwied rebelled against their Prince. Violent measures were resorted to, in consequence of which Prince Frederick Charles gave up the government and went to Freiburg in Breisgau. Here he lived in quiet retirement till his death in 1809.

Upon the abdication of the Prince a separation was arranged between him and his wife. Whilst her son was still a minor and serving in the Prussian army, Princess Marie Louise undertook the government of the country. This Princess preserved her unusually beautiful and graceful appearance to the last. Beloved by her people and children, she knew how to combine a sense of her dignity with great modesty. Wherever her services were required for the good of others she was ready to help with her clear judgment. For two years she presided over the affairs of the country with great circumspection and foresight. In her leisure hours she took great delight in translating the works of French, Italian, and English poets. She rendered Gellert’s odes into French. Many of the hymns she composed are found in hymn-books of that time, and she excelled in music, drawing, and miniature painting. She corresponded diligently with Wieland, and Ernst Moritz Arndt was her friend. Amidst the difficult circumstances of her life of trial, she never lost her calmness and self-control, for her firm faith in the love and mercy of God gave her strength to bear adversity and never to despair. On the 13th of July 1804 she gave up the government of the country to her son.

Prince Augustus was very simple in his tastes, just and active, a true German who was impervious to French influence. When the Princes of the south-west of Germany made a league under the protectorate of Napoleon in 1860, Prince Augustus of Wied remained true to his country. He refused to be incorporated in this alliance, which was hostile to the interests of Germany. In consequence of this he was deprived of his sovereignty and became subject to the House of Nassau. Later, when the difficult task of altering the state of things in Germany fell to the Congress of Vienna, it was decreed that the reigning Counts of the Empire should lose their independence. Consequently this fate befell the Princes of Wied also. A large part of their country came under Prussian rule, whilst a small part was given over to the House of Nassau.

Two brothers of Prince Augustus had fallen in the wars of independence, when Prince Victor also, a youth of seventeen, was to join the army. Before he left his mother the Princess Louise, that enthusiastic patriot, took him once more to the Church at Niederbiber. Upon the grave of Archbishop Herman, before the altar, she made him solemnly swear “that he would dedicate his whole life to the German cause, and not sheath his sword till the last enemy had left German soil.” He faithfully kept his oath, and gave up his life for it. Prince Victor fought against Napoleon in Germany and in Spain, where he died the death of a hero when he had just attained the age of twenty-six. In one of his last letters to his mother he writes:—“All my hopes and desires are centred in our beloved Germany, the welfare of which is my first and last object in all I undertake.” Ernst Moritz Arndt was his best friend, and immortalised his memory in a patriotic poem. He also published the Prince’s letters to his mother from Spain, and wrote an introduction containing a sketch of the life of the Prince.

Prince Maximilian of Wied, a younger brother of Prince Augustus, who was born in 1782, took an honourable place in the learned world as a traveller and natural philosopher. From his earliest youth he displayed a strong bent for the study of natural history. Captain Hofmann, who became famous for his antiquarian researches, was then at the Court of Wied as a tutor to the princely children. Under his guidance Prince Max, who was so eager for knowledge, was able to study with Professor Blumenbach in Göttingen, and became distinguished in natural history. During the wars of independence he saw much service with the Prussian army, from which he received his discharge, according to his request, after the peace of Paris.

Returned to Neuwied, he occupied himself with preparations for a journey to Brazil which he had planned for many years. Accompanied by the German naturalists Freisz and Sellow, he explored the central provinces of Brazil from 1815 to 1817, diligently seeking for specimens and collecting materials for his literary work. The first short account of his journey appeared in the “Isis” of Oken, and “A Journey to Brazil in the Years 1815–1817” followed later. The sketches of landscapes and figures which Prince Max had drawn from nature on the spot were beautifully etched on copperplate by his accomplished sister, Princess Louise, and his brother, Prince Charles, and heightened the value of this beautiful work. Some years after, the Prince published two other books and a Natural History of Brazil.

No sooner had the latter appeared in print than the indefatigable Prince started on a second scientific journey to America. This time the United States and North America were his object, but he extended his journey to the Rocky Mountains and the Upper Missouri. Amidst the wilds of the primeval forests he made the minutest researches into the conditions of nature in that country and the native tribes of Indians. Surrounded by great dangers, he lived amongst the Mandam Indians, the Monnitaris, the Arrihares, and other tribes. On his return home Prince Max wrote an account of his journey through North America, which was published by Hölzer in Coblentz between 1838 and 1841. It was in twelve volumes, and included an atlas which contained thirty-one copperplates. The drawings were made by the landscape-painter Bodmer, who had accompanied the Prince on his journey. It is a magnificent work, of great ethnographic importance. A museum was arranged for the rich collections, which remained for a long time an ornament to the town of Neuwied and a centre for the study of natural history. After the death of Prince Herman they were sold to America, where they are still kept together and bear the name of “The Prince Herman of Wied Collection.”

Until his death, in 1867, Prince Maximilian was an active member of the Leopoldine Academy. His merit has been fully acknowledged. Many learned societies elected him a member, and a beautiful creeper from the primeval forests of Brazil is called Neowedia Spezzoa after him. He was always the centre of life and cheerfulness in the family, and, in spite of his great intellectual powers, he was modest and retiring in the social circle and good and kind to all until the last.

But we must also particularly mention the Princess Louise here. She lived only for ideal interests, and is one of the most beautiful recollections of the childhood of the Princess Elizabeth. Her talents for music and painting were extraordinary. She painted many pictures which still adorn the Palace of Neuwied. Prince Augustus was also very musical, and as music was cultivated seriously and with artistic knowledge at the princely Court, its good influence was sure to be felt by the inhabitants of Neuwied. Princess Louise had started a class for singing, which performed admirably. She was also a poetess, and had not forgotten how to make “rhymes” even in her ninety-third year. The “Songs of Solitude” reveal a deeply religious and poetical mind.

Prince Augustus of Wied had married the Princess Sophia Augusta of Solms-Braun-Fels on the 11th July 1812. Her eldest son was Prince Herman, the father of the Queen of Roumania.

II.
The Parents of Princess Elizabeth.

We have caused a long series of pictures from life to pass before us, and yet we have learnt to know but a small proportion of the distinguished men and women who belonged to the House of Wied. Prince Herman, who was born in 1814, was also one of the most distinguished men of his time. After he had finished his studies in Göttingen, travelled in Germany and France, and served for some time in a regiment of Guards in Berlin, he undertook the management of his numerous estates. Of noble and aristocratic appearance, he was endowed with the finest qualities of the heart and was distinguished by his modesty, which virtue was ever to be found in the House of Wied. He was a man of deep learning and culture, and of great intellectual power. Being of a philosophic turn of mind which was of a speculative cast, the highest object of his life was a ceaseless endeavour to attain to a knowledge of the important questions which concern the physical and spiritual condition of man. His mind was constantly fixed on the mysterious problems of human nature. The results of his reflections are enshrined in a work which was anonymously published in 1859 and bore the title “The Unconscious Life of the Soul and the Manifestations of God.” Many experiences which took place in his own house or with which he had come in contact had convinced him of the reality and the efficiency of the superhuman elements in man. He did not doubt the fact of the magnetic powers of feeling, somnambulism, electric affinities, clairvoyance, &c. In order to elucidate these facts, the Prince sought to establish a theory which he himself only termed an hypothesis; that the essential conditions of human nature should be a body, soul, and spirit; the soul a personal and conscious principle, whilst the creative spirit is of God, ever present and working within man—an unconscious principle. The Prince named these “the three conditions of human nature,” and this theory was the foundation of his views of life. His work, therefore, has to do with the unconscious life of the soul. The spirit manifests itself, the soul is acted upon by the spirit. What the spirit creates awakes the consciousness in the soul. The unconscious life of the soul is, therefore, a revelation of godly power. What Mesmer denominated magnetic power is, according to the Prince, the power of God. It is a creative and life-giving power, which can heal the infirmities of the human body, restore organic life, and elevate spiritual life. Consequently the Prince regarded the so-called magnetic power as sacred, and magnetic healing as a religious work. We gather from this that the Prince acknowledges that these revelations are of God, but does not understand the idea in a dogmatic light. He does not regard the workings of this power as a miracle in the ordinary sense of the word, but as natural occurrences; still, he believes with Hamlet that nature possesses more and higher powers “than are dreamt of in our philosophy.”

As, according to the fundamental idea of his philosophy with regard to the threefold nature of man, soul and spirit may indeed act together, but at the same time they exist separate from one another, and, being by no means identical, the Prince could not assent to the dicta of the so-called Philosophers of Identity (Identitats Philosophen). The latter assert the identity of nature and spirit; they look upon the human mind as being evolved from the divine, and upon the soul as being evolved from the mind; he therefore rejected the Pantheistic as well as the philosophical systems of Schelling and Hegel, and classed himself with those philosophers whom Schelling called Reflections menschen, i.e., thinkers who, according to the ordinary view, retain the contrast between the inner and the outer worlds, between internal and external phenomena, between perceptions and things, thinking and being, but who consider any knowledge going beyond this, and endeavouring to overcome this contrast by comprehending the unity of all things, to be impossible. His views were similar to those of Kant. Prince Herman therefore felt himself specially attracted towards the Königsberg philosopher, who in his critical works had so accurately and carefully distinguished the intellectual or spiritual world from the sensuous, the essence of things or the things-in-themselves from the phenomena. Only with respect to the free will of man he felt unable to follow the teaching of Kant, who, while declaring the essence of man as well as of things in general to lie beyond the range of knowledge, asserted the same with regard to that moral freedom which (as the Prince thought) should reveal itself to us by means of moral self-examination and become practically intelligible. Here Prince Herman thought he perceived a contradiction which he set himself to remove. With that object he wrote and published an essay entitled “The Results of an Examination of Kant’s Doctrine of Free Will.” To refute the objections he encountered, he defended his point of view in a pamphlet published shortly before his death under the title “Replik und Duplik.” It had been his endeavour to give an explanation of human free will, and the objection had been made that his doctrine was “Determinism.” That doctrine, briefly expressed, was as follows. Free will, properly understood, consists in the liberty of will or choice, that is, in the power of choosing one among several possibilities or motives of action, which presupposes the power of reflection, of consideration, or of doubt. If man were omniscient, he would not have to reflect or to consider. Divine omniscience excludes free will, whereas human ignorance includes free will. Because the greater part of the conditions under which we act remains hidden to us, we act without knowing our dependence, and imagine a limited number of possibilities from among which we may choose. Consequently we cannot help imagining ourselves to be free, and this necessary imagination, the Prince thinks, is really freedom itself. The choice only is free, not the effect. According to the Prince’s view, therefore, there are no free causes. The notion of a free cause appears to him as an empty phantom—“a cloud, which Polonius at one time takes for a camel, at another for a weasel, and which yet remains nothing but vapour.”

With his usual modesty, Prince Herman never represents his views as infallible, but regards them as material for the solution of the difficult problems of the connection of man to the spiritual world. He regarded opinions which differed from his own with the toleration of a thoughtful man who honours all intellectual labour. In his personal principles he was truly German. That the unity of Germany could only be brought about by means of Prussia was his firm conviction. He hoped that the German Princes would be brought to renounce their sovereignty of their own free will, for the good of their country. He did not doubt that sooner or later circumstances would induce them to do so. In the Upper House Prince Herman represented Liberal opinions, but he soon retired from public life in order to live entirely for his family and his philosophic labours. He studied the historic works of Mommsen, Häusser, and Ranke with peculiar interest. Besides which he had a deep feeling for art, and was himself a painter of no mean merit. In consequence of a bath which he had imprudently taken at the camp of Kilish in 1835 the Prince contracted an illness which was a hindrance to him for the rest of his life, and was the cause of his early death.

In 1842 Prince Herman married the youthful Princess Marie of Nassau. She was eminently fitted to fulfil the duties which devolved upon her in her position of princess, wife, and mother. Of dignified appearance, she is distinguished by her personal beauty and her truly noble mind. She is a woman of great power of will, of clear judgment, wonderful devotion, and untiring energy; very severe in what she demands of herself, whilst her kindness and indulgence towards all with whom she comes in contact are unbounded. Having been much tried herself by sorrow and suffering, the Princess feels a true sympathy for the sufferings of others. To minister to the wants of the sick and poor, and to comfort them with her personal sympathy, is her greatest happiness. In the homes of the poor at Neuwied she is regarded as a beneficent angel, and a blessing enters with her. She possesses the happy gift of winning the love and sympathy of all classes of people. The Princess is beloved and honoured by all, and her wonderful charm delights all who approach her.

III.
Childhood.

On Friday, the 9th of December 1843, as the bells of Neuwied were, according to an ancient custom, ringing for prayer at twelve o’clock, whilst the chimes of the neighbouring villages joined in, the first child—a daughter—was born to the princely pair. After her godmothers, Queen Elizabeth of Prussia, wife of Frederick William IV., and the Grand Duchess Elizabeth of Prussia, then a bride of the Duke of Nassau, she received in baptism the name of

Elizabeth.

The bells welcomed a life which was to be like them in fulness of awakening power. Beyond the borders of the Rhine to the distant East has the prophetic meaning of the sound been accomplished in word and in deed.

A year and a half later, on the 22nd of August 1845, Prince William was born. During the baptismal service little Elizabeth stood near her mother’s chair, and followed the sacred proceedings with much interest, asking suddenly, with a loud voice, “What is the black man doing with the little brother?” The baptism over, she approached the assembled group of town councillors on the tips of her toes. They were the only people strange to her in the circle of relations and friends. She looked up at them with a smile, and gave each of them her little hand to kiss.

“It was my first drawing-room,” said the Queen, laughing, as this incident was told her.

Princess Elizabeth soon developed into a very peculiar child. She was of a passionate, unyielding, reserved character. Her education was confided to her mother alone, who discussed everything with the Prince, but, according to her arrangements, allowed no one to interfere. The recollections of the Queen of Roumania reached back to her third year. At that age the Princess of Wied took her to stay with her godmother, Queen Elizabeth, at Berlin. There the imaginative little girl fondled all the footstools, sofa-cushions, and bolsters with the greatest care, pretending they were her children. One day she ran up quickly, took hold of the feet of the Queen, which were resting on a footstool, placed them roughly on the ground, and with the angry exclamation, “You must not stand on my child!” she carried the footstool off. “Have you children?” was her question to people she saw for the first time. Those who answered in the negative ceased to interest her. From her earliest childhood nothing seemed so sad to her as a house without children. In order to quiet and control her a governess was appointed for her in her fourth year, and she had regular lessons. She was so lively that the necessity of sitting still was a trial to her. In her fifth year she was to sit with her brother William to Professor Sohn for her portrait. Severity and kindness were tried in vain to keep her quiet. At last she made up her mind not to move again. Hardly, however, had the little Princess sat motionless for two or three minutes when she fell fainting from her chair. Only Fräulein Lavater, her mother’s old governess, had a soothing influence over her. She told the young Princess many beautiful fairy tales and stories, and so found the right way of captivating the lively child. Fräulein Lavater[1] was a lady of a very independent spirit, and possessed great patience with clearness of perception. She was well versed in modern languages, and could remember the contents of half a volume and criticise sharply. During the life of the Prince of Wied she spent many months of the year at Monrepos. After his death Fräulein Lavater went to live with the Princess of Wied, where she ended her days as the beloved friend and member of the household. The great peculiarities of character of the Princess Elizabeth from earliest youth were pity, truthfulness, and great independence. Already in her childish years at her mother’s side she learnt to understand the troubles and misery of the poor people. Her heart was so much touched by all the distress she saw that she naturally gave everything away which she, in her childish mind, thought she could spare. Her mother let her act thus, but gave her one day a large piece of checked woollen stuff. The little Princess was beside herself with joy. “Now I can give away all my dresses!” she exclaimed. “Will you not rather carry the woollen stuff to the poor children?” asked the Princess of Wied; “your white dresses would be of less use to them than that coarse material.” “Yes,” said she, “that is true.” Then she called her little brother, and the tiny couple went down from the Castle to the town, carrying the beautiful gift to a house where many children were the only riches of their parents.

[1] And grand-niece of the famous philosopher Lavater.

The first great sorrow came to Princess Elizabeth when her youngest brother, Prince Otto, was born on the 22nd November 1850. For many weeks she was not allowed to see her much-loved mother, who was hanging between life and death. The little brother was a beautiful boy, but their joy over his happy birth was soon to be turned into the deepest anxiety. He was born with an organic disorder. No human art could remedy or alleviate the evil. The Princess of Wied was paralysed after his birth. In order to be near a clever doctor, the princely family moved to Bonn in the spring of 1851. At this time Ernst Moritz Arndt visited the Princess of Wied almost daily, and read to her his patriotic verses. The little Elizabeth sat on his knee meanwhile and listened, with flaming cheeks, to the inspired words, which unconsciously found an echo in the warm childish heart. Sometimes the venerable poet would place his hand in an attitude of blessing on her head and explain to her the beautiful name she bore. Elizabeth means “My God is rest;” and he may well have asked himself, “When will this whirlwind ever find its rest?”

During their stay in Bonn an ever-extending circle of artists and savants assembled at the house of the Prince of Wied, which increased and remained intimate with them afterwards as well at Neuwied as at Monrepos. Intellectual intercourse and exchange of thought was the delight of the princely pair. They were so cultivated themselves that they attracted men of art and science. We met, besides E. M. Arndt, Bunsen, Neuhomm, Clemens Perthes, Jakob Berneys, and later Lessing, Sohn, Anton Springe, &c. The present Crown Prince of Germany, the Prince of Waldeck, and the Dukes Frederick and Christian of Augustenburg, who were particular friends of the Crown Prince, were then studying at Bonn. These young Princes came almost daily to the Vinea Domini, the house inhabited by the Prince of Wied. Notwithstanding her delicate state, the young Princess of Wied arranged lectures and had evenings devoted to the study of Shakespeare and acting. She and her friends gave lectures and translated and wrote poetry. At Bonn, Princess Elizabeth saw the first Roumanians. They were the brothers Sturdza, who visited the University there. From them she learnt many a Roumanian word.

In the summer of this year came the departure of the Prince of Wied, who made a journey to North America and Cuba in 1852–53 for the sake of his health. His brother-in-law, Prince Nicolas of Nassau, accompanied him. The interesting letters, full of ideal feelings, which he wrote to his wife were published in Gelzer’s magazine. Dr. Gelzer says of them:—“The Prince here describes the imposing impressions of the New World with his brilliant wit, with the deep feeling of the historian and philosopher, and with the independent thought of a great thinker.” In May 1853 the Prince of Wied returned to Germany. Shortly before his arrival he wrote to his wife:—“The advantages of this journey are still of a doubtful nature, for one should be young and fresh and well in order to find any satisfaction in travelling. But my thoughts rest in the past; my future lies in the children and in the happiness of those whom I love. The contentment that nature affords me here is limited. The internal satisfaction that is impressed on the surroundings of home is wanting. Whether my journey has been of any definite use can only be judged with certainty hereafter. At any rate it was a great change in the ordinary course of my life, and that is a good effect.”

Meanwhile the health of the Princess of Wied had not improved. Immediately on his return home the Prince decided to leave for Paris with his whole family. He hoped that his wife would there find relief from her sufferings by a particular manner of treatment. For Princess Elizabeth this journey was a great event, and her happy excitement increased when she was allowed to join in “les cours de l’Abbé Gauthier” and learn with children. But the strange surroundings and many people had quite distracted the child of ten. It seemed impossible to surmount her timidity and shyness. She who was so ready and quick at answering now stood aghast at the most simple question which was addressed to her. As soon, however, as she felt herself once more under the protection of her parents, the spell was broken, and she became again the high-spirited girl whose thoughts never ceased to flow.

The princely children had received a doll’s theatre as a Christmas present. One morning Baron Bibra, the Chamberlain and friend of the Prince, found little Elizabeth busy with the dolls. With her brother William and the dolls for an audience, she made the little marionettes act a play. She had undertaken all the parts herself, and imitated the different voices with so much talent, that her mother, in her fright at these tastes in her little daughter, next day caused the theatre to be taken away. She was afraid of awakening the demon of the stage in her.

In June 1854 the family of the Prince of Wied were able to return from Paris to Monrepos. The Princess of Wied was quite restored to health, and had returned with the gift of healing, as she had been healed. Many of the sick and suffering came to her, to Neuwied and Monrepos. Her gentle hand and her deep sympathy have, by this mysterious healing power, always had a blessed influence over the sufferers.

The winter months were usually passed in Neuwied, and the summers at Monrepos. Here it had been for many years the most ardent wish of Princess Elizabeth to go to school with the village children. One morning she rushed excitedly into the room of her much-occupied mother and asked if she might accompany the children of the bailiff to school. The Princess of Wied did not hear the question, and nodded pleasantly to the child. She took this sign for an acquiescence, and rushed to the next farm, called the Hahnhof. Here she hears that the little girls of Frau Schanz are already gone to school. She darts after them, manages to catch them up, and enters the schoolroom with them whilst a singing lesson was going on. The schoolmaster felt much flattered when he saw the little Princess take her place before him on the bench and join in the singing with all her might. But the little daughter of the bailiff, already rather impressed with Court etiquette, did not think it proper that a daughter of a Prince should sing so loud with the village children. As soon as her voice sounded above those of the others her little neighbour laid her hand over her mouth, endeavouring thus to impress the Princess with the impropriety of her behaviour.

At the Castle, meanwhile, the disappearance of Princess Elizabeth caused a great commotion. Footmen were sent out in all directions. They searched the neighbouring birch forests and outlying villages in vain. At last they found the little Princess at the summit of happiness in the village school of Rodenbach. The lost madcap was brought back to the Castle and shut up in her room as a punishment for the rest of the day. A sad ending to a day begun with such rapture. “It was the only stroke of genius of my childhood!” she remarked later when Queen. “I was thoroughly ashamed of myself, and never ventured to speak of it.” Princess Elizabeth had to be brought up with great perseverance and earnestness. The danger was great that the extraordinary and powerful disposition of the talented child might influence her in the wrong direction. She took up everything passionately and impetuously, and when at play with children of her own age was always overexcited. Children that were strange to her, whether they were villagers or of good family, felt her authority immediately and obeyed her without a murmur. These little people were led by her into the wildest romps. But Princess Elizabeth did not merely play for fun. She was quite overpowered by the world of her imagination, and carried out the vivid thoughts of her fancy—a strong impulse to command and a craving for activity belonged to her natural disposition.

On Sunday, after breakfast, the three children of the Prince recited poems of their own choosing to their parents. When nine years old Princess Elizabeth declaimed Schiller’s “Battle with the Dragon.” Although her powers of memory were so good that she could immediately repeat a poem of four verses which the Prince had just read to her, she could never learn Alexandrines; they had for her neither rhyme nor chime, and were “a horror” to her. Later on she developed a taste for Béranger and Molière. When nine and ten years old she wrote verses. At twelve she tried to write a novel. As a girl of fourteen she arranged dramas and tragedies, and the more horrors were enacted in them the better was she pleased. Late of an evening and early in the morning she made up the most beautiful stories; her fancy only painted tragic horrors, and she lived in an atmosphere of powerful mental contrasts. From the highest spirits she fell into the lowest, and felt an entire want of self-confidence. Undue hilarity followed great depression and melancholy. Then she became possessed with the idea that she was disagreeable and unbearable to every one. “I could not help myself,” she confesses; “I could not be gentle, and was so passionately impulsive that I was heartily thankful to those who were patient with me. It became better, however, when a safety-valve opened for me,—that was writing poetry.”

Princess Elizabeth was often so overcome by her imagination that she could not distinguish reality from the fictions of her fancy. Thus it happened in her twelfth year that the sight of a wild cat that her great-uncle Max brought home as a booty from the chase quite upset her. On going to sleep she was vividly impressed with the description of this terrible race of animals, which, bloodthirsty and cunning as they are, spring upon their unsuspecting prey. Full of the terrible impression of the day before, she wrapped herself in her little grey cloak next morning in order to go to the schoolroom. Whilst going upstairs she considered what she would do if she were now attacked by a beast of prey. In a moment she seemed to see the wild beast before her, tore off and threw away her cloak, and rushed up the stairs again. Her maid was watching her and laughed. This restored her to consciousness, and she resumed her walk to the schoolroom. To calm this unboundedly impetuous nature, her mother took her with her wherever the sorrows of this life could touch her nearly. She often stood at the side of sick and dying beds. The trials of her tenderly-loved little brother formed her character early, and made her acquainted with all the sad sufferings which an afflicted body entails. The first death-bed to which her mother led her was that of her grandmother, the Duchess of Nassau. Her death made a lasting impression on the child, but the sight of the corpse did not frighten her. Her thoughts carried her beyond death, and only peaceful visions arose in the mind of the highly imaginative child.

It was the most beautiful time of roses. She hurried away to the garden, and returned laden with them into the chamber of death. She changed her grandmother’s death-bed into a flower-garden, she adorned the room and covered the corpse with sweet-scented flowers, thus taking from the lifeless form and its surroundings that dread appearance which impresses us so strangely when we enter the chamber of death. She regarded death in a poetical light, for her mother had always represented leaving this world as the greatest happiness to her. A consciousness of death runs through her life, for she has been called upon to go from one death-bed to another.

Brought up by her mother in the fear of God and in piety, it was a great event to her when she was, in her twelfth year, first allowed to go to church. From that time Sundays and holy days became bright spots in her young life. With a mind full of religious enthusiasm she followed the services, and the explanations of Holy Writ touched her deeply. She thought over what she had heard for many days, and often wrote down the sermon.

For six years Fräulein Jossé had been the governess of Princess Elizabeth. She had fulfilled the duties of her difficult profession with great faithfulness and unselfishness. When she left Neuwied no governess came again into the Prince’s household. From this time (1858–1860) a tutor supervised the studies of the Princess. When Herr Sauerwein came to the Castle for the first time, the Princess of Wied received him with the words, “You will have a little esprit de contradiction as a scholar; she does not believe in any authority. Her first words are ‘Why?’ and ‘Is it true?’” But master and scholar soon understood one another. Herr Sauerwein was a man of great learning, and a second Mezzofanti in languages. Princess Elizabeth was quite delighted at this, for she was passionately fond of learning foreign languages, and mastered them easily. Her tutor had lived for a long time in England, and was an enthusiastic admirer of that country, its history and laws. He gave all his lessons in English, and English history was the favourite study. Even Latin and Italian were translated into English. The Princess read Ovid with Herr Sauerwein, Horace, and a part of Cicero both in English and Italian, and diligently learnt arithmetic and geometry. Princess Elizabeth studied physical science in the house of Baron Bibra with his daughter Marie. She was her only playfellow and dearest friend, and her gentle manner had a good influence over the passionate nature of the Princess.

A Parisian lady taught the Princess French. Of an evening after tea she read with her; mostly the old chronicles and memoirs, Froissart, Joinville, Philippe de Comines, St. Simon, &c., and also the dramas of Molière, Racine, and Corneille. The Princess of Wied now began to read the most beautiful of the dramas of the German classical authors to her daughter, also Schiller’s “Thirty Years’ War,” and they read and re-read “Nathan the Wise” of Lessing. Princess Elizabeth studied Decker’s “Universal History” by herself in one summer, as also the historical works of Gibbon. Her wonderful memory helped her, too, in this, and she understood the reality of what she read. When fifteen years old she studied three newspapers daily and displayed a great interest in politics. Her greatest joy was to write essays, and she ever delighted in fairy tales and national songs. “For a little fairy tale,” she says, “I was capable of throwing aside the finest historical work, and even the comparisons of grammar which I studied with such passionate interest.” Once the “Wide Wide World,” by Mrs. Wetherall, fell into her hands. She read it over and over again, hiding it meanwhile under her translations of Ovid, that no one might know what so absorbed and excited her. She was not allowed to look into a novel till her nineteenth year. Then she was permitted to read out “Ivanhoe” and “Soll und haben” of Freitag after tea. Everything was avoided which could further excite the workings of her restless imagination. The spirit of duty and labour, of love and piety, which reigned in this princely house had, unknown to herself, exercised its strong spell over her. Much that is so beautifully and harmoniously developed in the character of the Princess Elizabeth is owing to the noble example of her parents and the refined atmosphere of her home.

IV.
Youth.

The sojourn of the family in Monrepos was constantly lengthened because of the increasing illness of the Prince of Wied. The surroundings seemed eminently fitted for the residence of a man who was happiest in the immediate circle of his own family, and who gladly gave himself up to the study of theology and philosophy.

The Castle of Monrepos is built on the ridge of a hill amongst mountains which belong to the Westerwald. The magnificent valley of Neuwied lies at one’s feet, and the Rhine winds itself in great circles through the historic ground where Romans, Teutons, Alemans, and Franks fought for power and sovereignty. On the right bank of the river extends the little town of Neuwied, with its beautiful Palace and park opposite the houses of Weissenthurm. The shining Rhine increases in width as it flows before our eyes. The slate-rocks and lines of the fortress of Ehrenbreitstein are visible in a good light, as also the houses and towers of Coblentz. Little villages are dotted about the valley as though they were embedded in green woodland shade. First comes Segendorf, then Niederbibra with its old church in Romanic style on Roman foundations, farther on Oberbibra, on the height the ruins of Braunsberg, &c. The little river Wied winds itself between these on its way to the Rhine.

The horizon is bounded on all sides by many chains of mountains. Towards the east are seen the heights of the Westerwald, to the south those of the Taunus, then the Hunderücken. Where the mountain chains seem to sink into one another they suggest the valley of the Moselle. To the left tower the volcanic peaks of the Maifeld and Eifel. Historic recollections are everywhere awakened. It is a landscape teeming with life, beauty, and variety.

The most magnificent beech-woods adjoin the Castle. Their mighty trees form halls of verdure with their crowns of foliage. They offer refreshing shade on hot summer days, for the sunshine is caught up by each leaf and sheds only a subdued light on the ground. Well-kept paths lead you for miles through splendid woods and shady valleys. Near the Castle, and easy of access, are beautiful views into the romantic Friedrichsthal, with its green meadows, upon which the deer roam at liberty, towards Altwied, which lies embedded in the Wiedbach valley, with its picturesque ruins of the ancient castle, or to the distant shooting-lodge now called the Maienhof.

The lower storey of Schloss Monrepos is like a vast hall, for the large saloon takes up the whole width. From its many windows one looks from one side into the wide valley of the Rhine surrounded by mountains; from the others into the deep shades of the forests. It is about a German mile from Neuwied, and can be reached by an easy carriage-road by Irlich and Rodenbach, or by Heddesdorf and Segendorf. The long light-coloured buildings of Schloss Monrepos are to be seen for a great distance.

Here Princess Elizabeth was in her element. Here was the forest and liberty! The greater the raging of the storm, the happier the young enthusiast felt herself. Amid the wildest gusts of wind and rain she hurried into the forests, and neither snow nor thunder growling overhead could stop her. In the house the world seemed too narrow for her, and she longed for the freedom of nature. Three magnificent St. Bernard dogs sprang romping and bounding after her; foremost of all Mentor, the favourite. When the storm broke mighty branches from the trees and drove the dry leaves whirling before her the young Princess was joyous, roaming through the pathless forests and listening to the howling and whistling of the wind and the creaking of the branches.

STORM IN THE FOREST.

There roars from the forest
A symphony wild;
The wind drives before it
The tempest-clouds piled.

With a crash the stems sunder,
The tossing trees moan;
The wind and the thunder
Hold revel alone;

’Tis a joust which they play at,
A contest of might
Shall adjudge which is stronger
To lash the waves white,

To ravage the woodland:—
But, ’midst their mad noises,
I go with firm footstep
And soul that rejoices.

A ray beams upon me
From heart to heart ranging;
For me there is sunshine
Unclouded, unchanging.

—Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold.

In the autumn, when the golden leaves lay thick on the ground, she would wander for hours in the rustling foliage and listen to the sound it made. It had a voice which spoke to her. Each ray of sunshine which lighted up the forest or the long sweeps of country before her, each blade of grass, light and air, birds and flowers, had a personal meaning for her. She returned with her head full of poetic thoughts, and wrote down what the forest, the storm, the sun, and the birds had confided to her.

“Thou forest-scent! Thou forest-song!
Sounds, perfumes, freshly borne along,
How sweet to me you are!
How glad grow heart and ear for you!
What joy you bring, and comfort too,
Unto our little Star!”

—Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold.

With such strains of poetry Princess Elizabeth calmed her excited fancy. But no one was to know that she secretly wrote these little verses. It was a deep secret which she “hid from the books on the shelf and even the air in the room.”

“So lived I in spirit,
Lonely, my own hidden life, by none to be known of;
Never a sound, nor cloud-picture, but brought to my fancy
Matter for thought without end, and a keen-edged emotion.”

—Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold.

It is possible that many people would have different ideas as to the freedom that should be accorded to a Princess’s daughter from those of the wise mother, who, looking deeper, had discovered the right way of calming this passionate and peculiar character. “We must let her go her own way and not disturb the working within,” she wrote to a friend at the time. The Prince met her great spirit of contradiction on the same principle. When his daughter insisted on having her way he used to say, “You cannot force people to their happiness, but must let them come to a sense of it.”

From her sixteenth year Princess Elizabeth began to write her poems regularly in a book. The gifted child, with her restless feelings, thoughtful and penetrating in her judgment of the world around her, now put all her ideas and emotions into the poems which she wrote almost involuntarily, and which now became her journal. In her fear not to be true, she never wrote them down first, and never altered what was written, “because she had originally thought it out in those words.”

Till her thirtieth year she had no technical knowledge of the art of writing poetry, and did not venture to learn it for fear of betraying herself. A time came when she thought she must despise poetry and turn it into ridicule. Then she threw all her power into the study of music. She played wildly on the piano! But the more she played and the louder she sang the less contented she seemed; for the inner fire which consumed her was not quieted; the ideal which she had before her was not reached. “The songs sounded so weak and small instead of sighing and rushing.” Music put her into such a state of nervous excitement that her mother forbade her to play the piano for two years. She now took to pencil and colours, and tried to draw and to paint. But here she did not find satisfaction, despaired of herself and of her powers, and thought she could never attain that which she sought with such fervent longing.

All who then knew Princess Elizabeth are still full of the impression of her grace and charm. Of slight figure, high colour, a quantity of dark-brown hair, which often defied restraint, and large blue eyes, which looked as if she were always trying to listen to and find out something in the depths of her own soul, without being really beautiful, her appearance was particularly attractive, because of the spiritual expression of her features. She was then called “the Princess of the Wild Rose” by those around her.

At this time came the long visit of Princess Sophie of Nassau, a younger sister of the Princess of Wied, and the Countess Thekla of Solms-Laubach, a niece of the Prince. These two young girls lived for a whole year at Neuwied and Monrepos like daughters of the house. Princess Sophie was engaged to be married whilst under the protection of the princely pair. Her marriage was celebrated at Biebrich in the summer of 1857 with the Duke of Ostgothland, the present reigning King of Sweden.

Tutors and governesses had now left the Castle. Pastor Harder, a clergyman from Neuwied, came daily to Princess Elizabeth to lecture upon logic, history, and Church history. Her intercourse with this esteemed master was very precious to her, not only on account of the teaching which she received, but also because she had the greatest confidence in him. When she felt herself slighted or misunderstood, she spoke of all that she otherwise anxiously concealed from every one with Pastor Harder during their walks. His sermons went to her heart. In her journals we find many notes and comments which were written down by the Princess after these sermons.

In the autumn of 1858 the princely pair made a journey of three months’ duration through Switzerland and the north of Italy. Prince Otto was well enough to be of the party. His interest and delight in all the beauties of nature and art were endless. The sensible questions of this boy of eight years soon turned the attention of the guides to him; they addressed their explanations mostly to the little Prince, who listened with glowing interest. He was quite overcome at the sight of the Falls of the Rhine, and began to recite “Der Taucher;” he was also enthusiastic for human greatness, and at Milan was enchanted by the life of Carlo Borromeo.

Prince Otto was also very witty, and often saw the comic aspect of things, and he noticed everything, despite his tender age. He was the pet of all who knew him. When he felt pretty well joy reigned in the house. “From his babyhood,” writes the Prince in one of his letters, “we have seen him growing up, that is, dying a hundred deaths, which he, being gifted with great vital power and richly endowed by nature, always overcame but to begin a new life of pain and distress. If one thinks of the poor child grown up to man’s estate and troubled with that dreadful infirmity, which he till then bore without complaint and accepted gladly as being sent from God, one’s heart could break from sorrow.” His mother was not only his unwearying nurse, but his nearest friend, who shared every thought with him, and with wonderful power and resignation comforted him with thoughts of his release.

On the 12th of March 1860 Professor Busch of Bonn had tried an operation, which had succeeded as far as circumstances would allow, but only brought renewed sufferings to the heroic boy. He was bound to his couch of suffering, but his wonderful gentleness and amiability and gloriously quiet mind never deserted him. The body of the boy was lacerated; but the mind, with its marvellous powers, remained. None of the sufferings of illness had been able to dull his clear judgment. His mind, which was even here ennobled and brought to wonderful perfection, held intercourse with those about him, as if the poor body did not concern it.

From a Letter of the Prince of Wied.

“A very touching and cordial friendship had existed between the children ever since their childhood. It was therefore a great sorrow to them when they had to separate from their eldest brother in 1879. His parents had sent Prince William to Basle, where he studied at the college and lived with Professor Gelzer as a child of the house, but amidst very different surroundings from those to which he had been accustomed.”

* * * * *

On the 29th of January Princess Elizabeth writes to her brother at Basle:—“My studies are now making great progress, and I have as many tasks as I can get through. Forty pages of Schlosser in a week, forty of Macaulay, twice arithmetic, and twice geometry. More history and literature instead of Latin and Italian, natural philosophy and Church history, and, last not least, religion with mamma. For all these things I have only two hours daily for preparation, of which one is taken up with the tasks set me by mamma. I do not learn from the Catechism usually employed. Mamma has made a Catechism of her own for me, and in the following manner:—During the lesson she has a note-book in her hand with more than a hundred questions in it. She puts these questions to me, and we talk them over together; then she writes one of the questions into my book, and I write an answer which takes up four to six pages before the next lesson. I am sure you can understand what I feel in having entered into the year in which I have to bind myself with a promise before the altar to become a responsible member of human society. I think of it with real apprehension, for I am not yet ripe for it. Pray think of me sometimes.”

“Monrepos, May 26th, 1860.—Those were wonderful days when Professor Gelzer was here. I cannot tell you how interesting they were. At last I shall become jealous of you, who have him always about you! What conversations those were after tea, more interesting than all those of the rest of the year put together! I was always wishing that my head were a wax tablet, that all he had said might remain engraven upon it.”

In the summer of 1860 Princess Elizabeth was confirmed. The Princess of Wied had already in the winter begun to prepare her child for this, and had spoken with the Prince about all the articles of belief. Forgetting her own sorrows, the faithful mother had often written down in the night, beside the bed of suffering of her beloved son, Prince Otto, the questions and comments which her daughter was to work out next morning. When the young girl felt particularly interested in writing these essays, it often happened that, having begun in prose, she, almost unwillingly, finished in beautiful verse. Kirchenrath Dilthey gave her religious instruction the last two months before her confirmation. This was done in the open air, whilst walking to and fro with her in the beautiful avenue of beeches. The sacred ceremony was performed at Monrepos, and, for the purpose, the gallery was converted into a chapel. All the sponsors of the Princess and the nearest relations of the Houses of Wied and Nassau, as also the Empress of Germany, then Princess of Prussia, had assembled in Monrepos for the occasion.

Her poetic journal of that time reveals a soul longing for God. In a poem of the 15th July, shortly before her confirmation therefore, she writes:—

“Praise ye the Lord who in mightiness wrought ye,
Praise Him who safely with blessings hath brought ye,
Praise Him, thou earth! and thou star of the sky!
Let what hath being the Lord glorify!

I will give thanks to Him, Father of Life,
I in His way will walk, faithful in strife;
I for His light will seek, guiding us all,
Him I will love, for without Him I fall.”

—Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold.

In September 1860 she writes in her journal, “Only the deepest and most absorbing thoughts give us clearness. Only a purely objective reflection can bring us knowledge. To delight in undefined feelings and dally with the images of poetry, draws our soul to the dust and hinders the stirrings of godly power.”

Now came days and years full of sorrow. Her father was always ill, her mother occupied in absorbing duties, the sufferings of her little brother meanwhile increasing. During the long agony of this beloved son, when the Princess had to give herself entirely up to nursing him, Princess Elizabeth passed many hours in her father’s study. That a man like the Prince of Wied, in whose mind and mode of thought, mysticism and naturalism, romantic and rationalistic ideas were united in a peculiar manner, should have a great influence over the mental progress of his daughter, was very natural. Sometimes she was allowed to work with him, to copy out for him, to read to him. Then the Prince would ask many questions of the child, which had been raised through reading his book “On the Unconscious Life of the Soul.” He wished to see if she understood what he had written, and was happy in the impression made on the mind and heart of his daughter. If she could catch his train of thought he often said, “So now it is clear! then so it can remain.”

Still it was but a quiet house for so lively a girl. “The bird has outgrown its cage,” said the anxious mother. So it was settled to accept the invitation of the Queen of Prussia, and to let Princess Elizabeth travel to Berlin with Fraülein Lavater. We hear from a letter to her brother what she thought of this plan.

“Neuwied, 24th December 1860.—Oh! it is hard, very hard! the first absence from home, the first separation from mamma. You can realise what it is, and can understand that it is not easy, and particularly in this case. The Princess says that she will replace mamma. But a mother’s love cannot be replaced even by the warmest and noblest heart! Still I know she will be all to me that she can be, and that is very much. I well know what it means to be constantly in the society of distinguished and clever people. But I also know what it is to take a position which does not in reality belong to you, and to assume the right tone and the right manner there! Oh! shall I be at all able to do it? You can imagine in what an anxious state of tension I am, and how all my thoughts are centred in that one point.”

Such a child of nature as this daughter of a princely house had never appeared in Berlin before. They were not a little astonished at her.

“And I had taken the greatest pains to remain within the bounds of etiquette in the drawing-room, and to make conversation in a sensible manner.”

She felt most at home in the family of the Princess Hohenzollern,[2] who was spending the winter at Berlin. When, looking back to this time in later years, as Princess of Roumania, she wrote: “Had I only had an idea of all this, when I so enthusiastically admired the mother at Berlin. Or did I have a presentiment when I made friends with no one there but with Marie, and was nowhere so happy as in her family.” She also then shared in the studies of Princess Marie of Hohenzollern, now Countess of Flanders. The lectures which Professor Haagen held for them in the Museum were of particularly lively and lasting interest to her.

[2] Mother of the present King of Roumania.

It was here in Berlin that Princess Elizabeth met Prince Charles of Hohenzollern[3] for the first time. They say that as she was, according to her habit, rapidly jumping downstairs, she slipped on the last step, and that Prince Charles was able to prevent her from falling by catching her in his arms.

[3] Present King of Roumania.

From a letter of Prince Herman to his Daughter at Berlin.

“Neuwied, 23rd February 1861.

“It appears to me that you have seen and experienced much that is interesting if you review the variety of pictures which have passed before you during these last days. You can only learn an easy and versatile intercourse with people by constantly meeting different ones, for each has to be taken in a different way, according to his peculiarities. Goethe regards it as a proof of dulness, not cleverness, if one is bored in the society of others. He declares that we can learn from the most commonplace people, were it only not to be like them! You are a recruit in aristocratic ranks, and not the slightest failing must be detected in you. At Court you must learn the balancing step so that you may not lose your balance and fall downstairs, or morally stumble and upset. In youth all this is learnt in play, whereas it is a martyrdom to elderly people. But where one is gifted, as you are, with an endless source of internal happiness, all disagreeables which one experiences are but as a fleeting shadow over the sunshine of life. Since you went away joy has departed from this house! The gay little bird has flown, and is now fluttering from flower to flower. Sometimes it pricks itself with their thorns, but it flies on, careless of what is behind it. Still it avoids the thorns in future. Now, good-bye; may God bless you, you dear little runaway.”

* * * * *

Notwithstanding all the kindness and amiability with which Queen Augusta and the Royal Family surrounded the charming girl, and the treasures of art of all kinds that Berlin offered to her, she longed to be back in her father’s house, in the quiet sick-room, in the freedom of the Forest and near the mighty Rhine. In her journal of this time are mainly poems which are full of these longings. The wild-rose could not feel at home in the large town, and on her return she fell into the arms of her mother with sobs of joy.

Prince William had already been for two years at Basle. During this whole time he had not come to Neuwied or seen any of his family. Princess Elizabeth thanks him for the letter she had received in Berlin, and writes as follows on her return to Neuwied:—

“Neuwied, 29th March 1861.—Your letter was, in many respects, a great pleasure to me. It gave me the feeling that we understand one another and do not lose the thread of each other’s lives notwithstanding the separation, which seems to me now very long and hard to bear. Yet we shall meet again this year. Just fancy! We shall meet again, and shall both be much changed, I should think? The same and yet much altered. I think we have developed and become more serious. A new life has sprung up in us, and each will meet the other conscious of his own peculiarities. We were children till now, and lived together and near one another without a thought of anything higher. We parted with heavy hearts, but we had no higher interests in common. Now we shall meet as a young man and woman! Serious thoughts have awakened in us, and we feel that the gay and careless life has ended, and a life of duty has begun. We have both become more serious—not sad, that is quite another thing—and have both had varied experiences this winter. I have realised that I must become quite different to what I am, notwithstanding my firm will and true faith, and that all trouble and care bestowed upon me only led to fresh difficulties. Those are sad experiences which rob one of one’s courage, especially if one is a weak girl. And I did lose courage, particularly when all in the house were ill again.

“Then came the journey to Berlin, and my stay there! Certainly these six weeks were not easy, often very difficult. Yet it was a wonderful time. Rich in all sorts of experiences. They were all very kind and amiable, every one helped me in my embarrassment, and understood that I must be homesick, and yet I felt lonely, dreadfully lonely! It is really a painful feeling which takes possession of one when one is away from home. A boy must feel it less, for he likes to see new places and to try his wings and see if they are strong. But a girl cannot stand alone. Often I was very cheerful. I was almost always the merriest of the girls, but when I had been the gayest, home-sickness overcame me most, for I then felt the void to be greater! Still it was very good for me. I have now realised what duties I have to perform, and have returned with the resolve to accomplish them unflinchingly—those are my reflections about Berlin!”

Soon after this, in the year 1861, Professor Busch came to Neuwied for a consultation. His decision was most affecting. Not only did the state of the little Prince seem hopeless, but the health of the Prince of Wied gave rise to the greatest anxiety. Neither could recover; it was only a question of time.

Princess Elizabeth to her Brother at Basle.

“Monrepos, 13th June 1861.

“It is not at all easy to keep physically and mentally fresh and bright, and yet it is my duty! It is my duty towards myself that I may not flag, and it is a duty towards our invalids to try and enliven them; it is also my duty towards mamma that everything may not weigh upon her. I have much that refreshes me now. My white pony, which I love and which loves me, and which I ride every day. I always say that it suits me particularly, for when it is fresh it kicks and often jumps with its four legs off the ground at once. It is a mad little thing! It has many names, ‘Schimmel, Selim, Minsmuns, Herr Consistorialrath, Garibaldi’—this reminds me of a real Garibaldi in Italy. I am sure you are glad Italy is free. But the death of Cavour is dreadful. It came upon us like a thunderclap. One cannot understand how the machine is to remain in motion without him, as no one appears so considerate, so clever, or so powerful as he. I think that even his enemies must admit what a wonderful man he was!

We live in a remarkable time, which must interest us. And yet it interests me more when Pastor Harder tells me of past history than as now of the years 1815–1820. My studies are a great refreshment to me.”

* * * * *

In June the family moved up to Monrepos. Prince Otto’s sufferings increased from month to month. For nearly a year he bore the acutest pain, fully realising that he must die soon. His mother had tried to make his approaching death easy by telling of the Redeemer and heavenly happiness. With all the powers of his loving nature and noble mind, this boy constantly endeavoured to prevent others suffering from his illness. “Till his last day he was unceasingly trying to improve his heart and mind.”

On the 17th of October 1861 Princess Elizabeth writes to Prince William at Basle:—“You should soon write to Ottoli, and send him your photograph if possible. What comes from you has ever a peculiar charm for him. All that you do and say is right in his eyes. We often say something against you in fun, just to see the eagerness with which he defends you. You are his ideal. We are for ever talking of you. We can never tire of this subject, for only now that you are absent we have discovered how we love you. Otto’s love to us is deeper and stronger than ever, such as I have never experienced in any one in good health. There is a marvellous charm in those great serious eyes which appear to triumph over the miseries of the body. I know that you have lived through all this time with us, and share the heavy burden as well as the rich blessing. It is a wonderful experience! All seems so trivial now. All that people say and do seems so small and of so little importance when God Himself speaks to us.”

“Monrepos, 7th November 1861.—This time of trial binds us closer to one another. It is remarkable that I love every one more than I did before. I love God more, and this makes my love to other people deeper. My heart seems so enlarged that it longs to enfold the whole world. You see that I must now keep all these feelings to myself in order to be outwardly calm, and, should all this boil within me, quietly and steadily fulfil all my duties.”

On the 18th of October 1861 we find a little poem written in the Princess’s journal, “The Sick-room” is its title:—

“Only sorrow, thou thinkest, we find in the place
Where the sick lie in pain.
Ah, no; there is often of sorrow no trace;
True peace there doth reign.”

“Monrepos, 14th December 1861.—God is now leading me by a way which I had not expected. The whole year, now soon to end, has been a sad one!

“But this Christmas is to be particularly celebrated, as it is the last which we shall have together! You cannot fancy how anxious papa makes us now. He is very weak and coughs almost incessantly. Pastor Harder remarked lately how good and gentle he was, as if he were for ever taking leave of us. The idea is so dreadful that I am always trying to get rid of it. I long to hold him in every glance and each embrace, for I love him as never before!

“I am with him from nine till one of a morning now. He gives me lessons in painting, which are an indescribable pleasure to me. My playing is also a great resource to him. Do you realise what a pleasure this is, though a melancholy pleasure! You really must feel and experience it with me. So my life now belongs entirely to my father. I am always about him, or occupied with him, reading, painting, playing, or walking up and down. All trivialities disappear before the imposing thought of having to minister to two dying people with the self-sacrificing power of love.”

“31st of December.—We do not know how early or how late papa and Otto may be taken from us, but we will be prepared that we may be able to sustain mamma with the strength of our youth, that she may really lean upon us, and that, after her dreadful trials, we may smooth and enlarge the way before her, that she may rest at last! Let us now wrestle and strive and pray with all our might, that we may give back to her all she did for us. I long to help mamma to bear the heavy burden, and I should love to give myself up to her entirely with all that I am and all that I have, and yet I cannot do it! I cannot measure her sorrow, but I hope that what I can and should do will be put into my heart, and then we will all be thankful for this time of trial! You can do this at a distance as well as here. Distance makes no difference, and God will show it you. You must ripen to manhood early, and be firm, energetic, and true. Then you will be very much to me, and the dream of my childhood that we should be all in all to one another will be fulfilled!

“Your little Sister.”

In January 1862 the Prince of Wied became so dangerously ill that he could not leave his bed. Princess Elizabeth nursed her father, whose sufferings were added to by increasing deafness. The mother sat day and night by the couch of her courageous son, who was so strong in faith, and saw her child slowly dying, under the most dreadful sufferings. Prince Otto had an ardent wish to see his beloved brother William once more. A telegram was sent to Basle. But the answer was that the Prince had the measles and could not travel. At first the Princess did not dare to communicate this answer to Prince Otto. But in the night he asked again after his brother, and had to learn the truth. He cried out: “My William! My William, is he to be taken from me too?” After that he was quiet and said, “If it is not to be, it is well.” And then he kept repeating, “Send him my blessing.”

On the 16th February 1862 Prince Otto was released from his life of suffering. “More than we can bear is not sent to us” he had often said, “and when we can bear no longer, the end comes and we are blessed in Heaven.” He died in full consciousness. An expression of rest and peace came over the beautiful countenance. The mouth had a sweet smile. Only the deep mark on the high forehead showed that he had obtained this peace through great suffering and strife. “Thank God, and God be praised for ever” were the words uttered by the agonised mother over the little body. “And God be praised” was the prayer repeated after her by the father, the brother and sister and friends and relations far and near. By all indeed who had loved and admired the gifted child. Kirchenrath Dilthey, from Neuwied, who had confirmed and married the Princess of Wied, and had confirmed Princess Elizabeth, undertook the ceremony of blessing the body, and preached from the following words in the Book of Wisdom iv. 13, 14: “He being made perfect in a short time, fulfilled a long time: for his soul pleased the Lord, therefore hasted He to take him away from among the wicked.”

Extract from a letter from the Prince of Wied.

“According to his wish, Prince Otto was buried on a hill not far from Monrepos, under the shade of high lime trees. His memory will be glorified in our recollections, and this holy memory, this communion with the dead, is all that remains to us. An incorruptible legacy, which makes us rich, notwithstanding our endless loss.”

* * * * *

The grief of the family at the death of this son was so deep that it was ever present and endless. It was not till fourteen years afterwards that Princess Elizabeth could try to write down the sad experience of this time. The Princess of Wied has not yet been able to read this little book which, written with the most touching simplicity, is privately printed, and bears the title, “Life of my brother, Otto Nicholas of Wied.”

V.
Travels.

The Palace at Neuwied now became lonely and dreary. Immediately after the funeral of Prince Otto, the princely pair had left for Baden-Baden with Princess Elizabeth. They did not return till the summer, and, as usual, went to live on the heights of Monrepos. The landscape lay stretched out before them in the full glory of summer; the birds chirped and sang in the beech-woods; on the hills, under the lime-trees, everything was awakened to new life, and pointed to a future where sorrows and partings are no more. Many months passed before a monument could be placed over the grave. But Princess Elizabeth took care that it was not without its adornment. Every morning before six she mounted the hill, and with the flowers which were sent from Neuwied to Monrepos every evening, she transformed the resting-place of her brother into a carpet of flowers. Often she knelt for hours under the dome formed by the limes in order to arrange the leaves and flowers very artistically. The silence about her was only disturbed by the hum of the bees and the solemn sound of the church bells, which reached her on the height from the valley below. For eleven years Prince Otto had been the centre of all love and care. After this season of sorrow and suffering it was necessary again to recover strength to begin life afresh by means of active work.

With all the powers of her eager nature Princess Elizabeth now threw herself into teaching. At that time a Baroness Bibra was living at a farm near, with her two little nieces. A lame boy, Rudolf Wackernagel, had been taken in at the Castle on account of his weak health. With these three children the young Princess had arranged a school. She displayed so much patience, perseverance, and talent for imparting knowledge, that her mother watched her work with quiet contentment. She brought the little Wackernagel on so well that he took a good place in the College at Basle. Her time was fully occupied. She gave lessons for three hours; for three hours she was allowed to read to her father and rejoice in his presence; for four or five hours she practised on the piano. This irresistible craving for occupation, which was to set free her inner feelings and lighten her sorrow for her brother, seemed too great a mental strain for so young a creature. But Princess Elizabeth bore up against it with great cheerfulness, and writes to her brother:—

“Monrepos, 29th January 1862.—I am so happy because the child loves me and likes to be with me. A short time ago I said that I had a vocation for teaching, and would willingly become a governess, and now this duty thrusts itself suddenly and unexpectedly upon me, with the anxious question, ‘Are you capable of teaching and training a child? Are you sufficiently in sympathy with him to understand his nature, and yet to treat him consistently?’ I regard this new duty in a very serious light, and take great pains with the lessons, which are a great pleasure to me, for the little boy is so very lively and intelligent.”

“Monrepos, 10th August 1862.—Generally ‘Rudi’ is very eager to learn, and when he is not I make a cross face; then he gets red and his thoughts are concentrated again. It is naturally my greatest wish to fulfil this arduous and yet to me so dear a duty in such a manner that I may build a good and firm foundation for coming years, for I know only too well how much harm can be done if the elements are badly taught. Oh! condition of a governess. You never found such a representative before. Respect comes of itself, learning goes like bread and butter, and the whole world is a bagpipe. Who can plague themselves for ever? It is good to be merry sometimes. All goes successfully; love is there too, and so one lives in Elysium. Joy, lovely spark of the gods—but here I remember the musical fête at Cologne. How heavenly it was! You cannot have the least idea of it! To hear the Ninth Symphony of Beethoven with a chorus at the end—

‘Spark from the fire that gods have fed,
Joy—thou Elysian child divine,
Fire-drunk, our airy footsteps tread,
O Holy One! thy holy shrine.’

Words cannot convey it, and I cannot describe it to you. Child of man, it was divine! When I think of it I seem to be lost in endless space, for melodies and harmonies rush upon me, which can make the most unfeeling tremble and raise the soul to God. I should like to fall on my knees and give thanks that some of us human beings have been chosen to divine God. Yes, we may often appear wretched and miserable, and might almost be ashamed to belong to that worm, mankind; still, there are moments in this life when we may feel ourselves great and blissfully exclaim, ‘Heavenly Father, we draw nigh to Thee; we are Thy children!’ Good-bye now, thou child of God, thou man, who, with the full strength of his youth, must be answerable for his actions, and is also to endeavour to attain to the god-head. Oh! be strong, feel the divine spark tremble within you, and strive to follow the flame with the full power of heavenly inspiration!—I remain firm at your side, with my warmest love,

“Your little Sister.”

The state of health of the Prince of Wied necessitated another sojourn in Baden-Baden. There the winter of 1862–1863 was passed. In order to introduce Princess Elizabeth to society their house was opened to a larger circle.

To her Brother.

“Baden, 23rd November 1862.

“We are now going to keep open house on Mondays; not regular soirees by invitations, which are always stiff, but we have once for all told the people we know that we are at home on Monday evenings from eight o’clock, so that whoever likes may come. I think that will be charming! At mamma’s side, and as daughter of the house, I shall learn how to associate with people, to entertain them, and to be amiable. I am looking forward to it very much.”

* * * * *

Princess Elizabeth’s first ball was at the Court of Carlsruhe, but she found no real pleasure in such amusements. Her beloved friend, Marie von Bibra, lay on her deathbed. “My heart seemed torn! My brother had died within the year; my friend was struggling with death. And then people were surprised at my being serious and philosophising.” At that time she drove twice a week to the Grand Duchess of Baden at Carlsruhe, to take lessons on the piano from Kalliwoda, and she learned flower-painting from Frau Schoedter. During this time in Baden-Baden there must have been a question of marriages for the Princess, for there is a poem in her journal which ends with these verses:—

A maiden wise would liever
Live free for evermore,
Since, once herself to promise
Brings pain and peril sore.

Only the love that’s deepest
Gives gladness, gives content;
When true love does not touch her
Her looks aside are bent.

And happy is that maiden
At home, unterrified;
With glances shy she gazes
On the great world outside.

Baden, 23rd December 1862.

Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold.

On the 20th of February 1863 Marie von Bibra had died, “quietly and gently as she had lived.” Elizabeth wrote many poems at that time entitled “On Sorrow,” her tears flowing fast the while.

To her Brother.

“Baden, 21st March 1863.

“It certainly is a good thing that we first learnt to know the serious side of life, for now we do not long for or expect anything of it, but only think of that which we have to do. I, for my part, expect much sorrow and many tears; they came to me early, and it probably will continue to be so. One loved one after the other is taken away. Each year demands its sacrifice! At how many graves shall I have to stand till I am old? I do not think that I shall die early. I feel much power in me and an intense longing for work. I only wish to fill my little place, to accomplish my humble duties, so that, when I die, I may not feel that I have lived in vain. The feeling of having work to do is so pleasant to me; I do not think I could be happy without it. To have stern duties which occupy one from morning till night is the greatest happiness.

“At my Confirmation I felt so strong that no struggle seemed too hard. I thought I could do everything. Since then I have done nothing, and have only had to suffer, which I did not at all expect. I have become much quieter now. I can sit still and think of the dear departed ones, whilst I never could rest for a moment before. Happily I have not much time for thinking. When I have taught for three hours and practised four hours, I have to entertain papa and mamma in the evening. We read after tea. Lately we read ‘Fiesco.’ Now I am reading ‘Tasso’ aloud, but I do not think it so beautiful as ‘Iphigenia.’ The language is beautiful—quite Goethe.”

* * * * *

Professor Geltzer with his family and Prince William were expected on a visit to the princely family at Baden-Baden, and Princess Elizabeth writes to her brother:—

“Baden, 10th April 1863.—Ten people who love one another together! What love will glow from every eye! Pray, dear, try to get them all to come. Mamma and I are talking about it all day. I am quite confused with joy! Only three more days and then we shall be together and all in all to each other. Oh! with my whole heart and with the deepest love I will hang about you, my pride, my joy, the support on which I will lean, when you are morally strong and firm. Only realise how I love you, so passionately, and yet my love is so deep and still in the holiest corner of my heart. Yes, there you are enshrined, my brother and my friend. The stronger and firmer you are, the deeper is my love.

“Your little Sister.”

When they returned to Monrepos in the spring, Marie’s gentle words could no longer quiet the restless spirit, and the want of this faithful friend lay heavy on the life and soul of the young Princess. The arrival of the Grand Duchess Hélène of Russia, who came to Monrepos on a visit this summer, seemed to her like a ray of sunshine. She was a near relation of the Princess of Wied, and sister of the Duchess Pauline of Nassau, the much-honoured stepmother of the Princess. The Grand Duchess was much attracted by the simple and natural manner of the Princess Elizabeth; she was also pleased with her thorough learning and her original thoughts. It was a wish of the Grand Duchess to take the charming girl with her on her travels, to which her parents did not object. Elizabeth rejoiced at the news, for a great love and admiration for her distinguished aunt had taken her heart by storm, and she was more than happy to see the world under the auspices of this remarkable woman.

So she travelled with the Grand Duchess Hélène to the Lake of Geneva in the autumn of 1863, where they lived in Ouchy, at the Hôtel Beaurivage. These were happy weeks; it was the first dolce far niente which the Princess had known, the first time that she was among utter strangers. Wherever the Grand Duchess settled, she was soon surrounded by a circle of interesting people. Our young Princess was quite carried away by this talented society, the magnificence of nature around her, and the excursions on the blue lake and in the surrounding valleys. Intense in her joys as in her sorrows, she felt herself, as she then said, “like a bird freed from its cage.”

On the 21st of October 1863 she writes to her mother from Beaurivage:—“I never thought that one could enjoy such a long time without a cloud to hide the sunshine for one day. I wish I could return with my pockets full of sunshine and warm you up. I am daily thrown with distinguished people—as if I did not have that at home too!—but their talent shows itself in a different manner, and I pay more attention to it. There is no stiffness in our society, but it is always aristocratic. The witty sayings of cultivated people are so pleasant to hear. I love my aunt more every day; I am happy to be near her, and when she is in the room I only think of her! And, do you know, I like to be grateful; it is a warm feeling.”

Princess Elizabeth had always exercised an irresistible fascination on all that came near her by the grace and charm of her mind. But her young niece became so beloved and so necessary to the Grand Duchess that she entreated her parents to allow her to accompany her to St. Petersburg for the winter. The Princess of Wied answered, “All the sacrifices which it costs her parents to be separated from so beloved a daughter must disappear before the advantages which such a time would offer our child.” A short stay was made at Wiesbaden on the way to St. Petersburg in order to take leave of her parents. Princess Elizabeth was not to see her father again! It was a separation for life! As the Prince was gazing after her, when she was gone, he remarked to his wife, “There she goes, in her simplicity, and I am quite sure she will return to us as simple as she leaves us.” These words were to be entirely realised. Professor Knauss sketched a portrait of her at Berlin; then they went north without stopping.

St. Petersburg as a town did not make a great impression on her. “The similarity and uniformity of the masses of houses destroy the proportions,” she writes to her mother. The agreeable young Princess was cordially welcomed by the Emperor Alexander II. and the whole Imperial family: “Tout le monde est sous son charme,” the Grand Duchess Alexandra Josephanna wrote to the Princess of Wied. She had found her nearest relations in the family of Prince Peter of Oldenburg, for his wife, Princess Thérèse, who was a Princess of Nassau, was her mother’s sister. She met the young Princesses of Oldenburg and Leuchtenberg almost daily. Yet with all this, an extraordinary shyness had taken hold of Princess Elizabeth. An expression of painful embarrassment overspread her expressive features. The unconstrained manner which had so delighted every one at Ouchy had disappeared. She felt strange in her new and brilliant surroundings. The grandeur of life at St. Petersburg, with its ceaseless dinners, balls, and other entertainments, tired and seemed to dazzle her. Her imagination was much excited by all these new impressions, but her nerves suffered under them. To calm this restless spirit, the Grand Duchess had arranged a regular plan for the day, and had instituted Shakespeare evenings with the Princesses of Oldenburg and Leuchtenberg, at which the parts were divided and read in the original English.

At that time the Grand Duchess Hélène wrote to the Princess of Wied:—“Elizabeth makes a sympathetic impression on all at St. Petersburg. Her open and cheerful glance refreshes those that are worn and weary, and youth becomes more joyous in her company. Her day is filled up with music, reading, the study of Russian, and the time she spends with me. I have also entreated her always to have a good book in reading. To heighten her interest and get her to work herself, I advised her to write out parts and make comments upon it for you. Be it here or in another centre of the great world, we must remember that we deteriorate, if we do not try to get away from the frivolity that surrounds us by serious thinking and reading.”

Let us hear Princess Elizabeth describe her life in the Northern capital in her own words:—

To her Brother.

“St. Petersburg, 2nd December 1863.

“After one has seen London and Paris, St. Petersburg does not make a great impression upon one. Palaces never impress me, and we also have carpets and silk furniture. Still, there are great dimensions in everything here, and that is agreeable. The only palace which I think pleasant to live in is the one I inhabit. I spend almost all my time in two dear rooms. Either in the library, where I read Ranke’s English History and the South German Newspaper till eleven o’clock every morning, or I am in my bedroom, which is hardly larger than our rooms in Monrepos. As I have a dressing-room next door, this is really my little sanctum and boudoir, in which I keep all my pictures and keepsakes. Next to this room is another, in which there is one of Erard’s grand pianos and a harmonium. There I practise for two hours every day. On Mondays and Thursdays I am in the Museum from one to three, and have drawing-lessons from models. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, from half-past twelve to half-past one, I learn Russian. On Sundays (but that will be altered) I have a music-lesson from—you will see I am a most fortunate being—from Rubinstein! Dinner is at six. The evenings vary much. On Mondays is the Opera. On Tuesdays, Eugenia von Leuchtenberg (a cousin of Uncle Oscar’s), Thecla (Princess of Oldenburg), and some other girls and I meet, and we read Shakespeare (a family Shakespeare naturally), each taking a character. Yesterday we read ‘King Lear.’ That is magnificent! To-day I went to a school to hear a most interesting lecture on Chateaubriand. I spend many evenings with my aunt, and often I have one lady or another to tea with me. Sometimes there is a concert on a Thursday. Oh! it really is wonderful how these people play! Lately I heard a piece from ‘Orpheus’ by Glück, and the Symphony in A Minor by Mendelssohn. I was in such raptures that I did not seem to belong to this world. Interesting people often come to dinner, but never more than three or four. You can fancy how pleasant it is. The other day the old natural historian, Baer, came—a very distinguished and amiable German. My heart seemed to beat loud when he spoke of Holstein and Prussia. I get quite excited when I think of it, for, you must know, I silently glow for Schleswig-Holstein here. My aunt is very good to me, and I am daily becoming more attached to Fräulein Rahden. She is quite a mother to me, and that is what I long for more and more, and often so deeply. Still, I am really happy here. I rest myself, and am really very well. I usually go to bed at midnight and get up at cock-crow, but that only takes place after eight o’clock.”

* * * * *

At the beginning of this time, Anton Rubinstein had undertaken her musical education. When the Princess was expecting him, a great excitement took possession of her, which almost took away her breath. She looked up to her master with such veneration that she lost all courage in the consciousness of her own small talent. She says about Rubinstein’s playing:—“It was as if the piano disappeared under his power; then again as if it were the music of the spheres, or a lovely fairy tale. His playing has a delicacy and a poetry which are really fascinating. His genius is displayed in the fact that the power and brilliancy of his playing seem but accessories, or are so grand that one is cowed before them as by a wonder of nature, and yet would like to sing in the intensity of joy. I never heard anything like it. His playing has a magic spell which seems to me like the bloom on a grape or the dew on the flowers. They render them twice as beautiful.”

Of all the enjoyments which were offered to her in St. Petersburg, the most deep and lasting impression was made upon her by the performance of the Court singers. She was quite overcome by the artistic rendering, and the wonderful harmony of their songs, in the celebrated concerts led by Livow, as well as during the service in the chapel of the Winter Palace.

Christmas-time brought unexpected happiness. Prince Nicholas of Nassau had arrived. He also lived in the Palais Michel as the guest of his aunt, the Grand Duchess Hélène. Part of her German home seemed to have arrived in St. Petersburg with the appearance of this beloved uncle, and in the daily intercourse with him, for he had often spent months in the house of her parents from her childhood upward.

Woodbury Compy.

ELIZABETH,
PRINCESS OF WIED.

She was proud of her German home on the German river. Because of these patriotic feelings she was always called “la petite Allemagne” in Ouchy by the octogenarian Count Kisseleff. In St. Petersburg also she openly and freely confessed her love for her Fatherland. Many a playful battle did she engage in with the young Grand Dukes. “For, you know,” she wrote to her mother, “my heart only glows for Germany!”

On the 25th of December 1863 she writes to her parents:—“When I thank you for the signs of your love, I really go much deeper and thank you for something else: something so high, so true, and so holy, that I cannot whisper it even, though it makes me so unboundedly happy. This beautiful feeling is that we love one another so much, so very much, that one can breathe peace to the other through his peace, joy through his joy.... It is the blessing of my life that God sends me so much love. My sympathies are ever widening, and my heart does not seem able to contain the fulness of the sunbeams! I can never requite you, but may perhaps impart my feelings to others, if God wills!”

The unwholesome climate of St. Petersburg and the over-straining of her nerves soon showed themselves to have a detrimental effect on the health of the till then so blooming Princess. She could take but little part in the festivities of Christmas-time, and on the 1st of January 1864 she became alarmingly ill of a nervous gastric fever. The Grand Duchess surrounded her with motherly love and care. The Grand Duchess Catherine and the lady-in-waiting, Baroness Edith von Rahden, nursed and watched her unceasingly. But weeks went by, and she still lay in bed. It was the first illness she had ever had. Till now, when she had reached her twentieth year, she had never tasted any medicine. As soon as she was released from pain and could occupy herself, she became absorbed in the book of “The Unconscious Life of the Soul,” which her father had sent her as a Christmas present. She writes from her bed:—“There is such great humility in the preface, combined with the power of assurance. Then I recognised my father in the first three pages by his manner of demonstrating his arguments. What a different sort of reading it is when the language is as familiar to us as our own, when we see the idea before us which we have absorbed as the very breath of our life! I am glad that papa has sent me the book just now. As I read, I see his face before me, and seem to be really talking to him.”

On the 16th of January 1864 she wrote to her father:—“How often a feeling of pride comes over me that I have my father’s writings in my hands, and then a glow of happiness, because every word has come from your pen and from your inmost heart! For your soul was prepared by the wonderful experiences of fifty years, and the mind could communicate to her unhindered, and tell her what it will about itself and its nature. It is such a beautiful idea, that the indwelling Spirit of God educates the soul and gives to it as much as it requires. Not a word more. It makes one very humble, and awakes in one a longing to keep the soul so pure (by withstanding its natural earthly temptations), that God may find it worthy of having many things revealed to it! But how is it with the mind and the soul of Christ? That is the mystery of His godly and yet human nature; His soul must have been so pure, so much above earthly things, that God could tell it all things.

“I am getting on well now, and enjoy these quiet days in which I can collect my thoughts. I think they will keep me out of the stream of society, for they see that it tires me. There will be between forty and fifty balls before the Carnival, when they will rush about for a week—the so-called ‘folles journées.’ But do not be anxious. That is not in my line. It is very odd, but I read ninety pages of philosophy yesterday, and felt so rested, that all were surprised to see me look so well. But if only two or three ladies begin to gossip about all the noise and bustle going on, I fall to pieces like a withered leaf. To my joy, I notice what a strong constitution I have, for real thinking refreshes me, while excitement of the nerves makes me ill. Yes, my beloved ones, I feel every day how wonderfully you have educated me, and what you have given me for life—a great treasure, the hoard of the Nibelungen, which also lies in the Rhine; but I know the spot, and draw from it every day.

Your Child.”

On the 18th of January 1864 she writes:—“I am becoming so philosophical now, so quiet and sensible, that it is a real pleasure. If only it remains thus! I really do not know why I should be so anxious, that I see the dark side of everything, and am convinced that everything must go wrong. And all goes right—and without my troubling.”

On the 20th of January:—“You cannot think what a sense of repose has come over me, and a power of work and concentration at the same time, which I have not had since last year. I can control my thoughts much better and keep them on the same track. But the book is too beautiful, and I absorb it. It has come to my quiet room and my peaceful heart at the right time. Here it can influence me strongly, and no one hinders it.”

On the 25th of January, for her mother’s birthday:—

“We are all there, you dear mother, with our love and our childish longings, and have our arms tightly round you, so that you may lead us, and we guide you. For in our weakness and dependence in you lies our strength. The feeling that we love you makes you strong. You must be strong, that we may not fall. Oh! my beloved mother, what strength is there in love! It overcomes time and space. In love lies the idea of eternity, and love alone can understand eternity, which we cannot grasp. I feel that we seem to become more and more intimate, and that is very natural. How anxiously I used to bar all the doors of my heart! Now I open them all wide, very wide, and, of course, you are at home everywhere! I feel more strongly than ever that if ever anything should separate me from you I should become as dry and colourless as a withered leaf in winter.”

Princess Elizabeth now felt stronger, and began her life with the Grand Duchess again. She was, however, suddenly seized by a relapse of the illness she had just had. It was a sad and anxious time for the Princess of Wied, and these days of trial were almost more than she could bear, for the Prince of Wied lay on his deathbed, and his strength was slowly ebbing away. She writes:—“My child is ill at a great distance from me, and, for the first time, I am not there to nurse her. I know she is in God’s care, and nursed by loving and faithful people. But that does not take the load of anxiety off my heart.”

When the mild spring weather came, on the 1st of March the young Princess was allowed to go out in the fresh air.

To her Brother.

“St. Petersburg, 2nd March 1864.

“I have been wonderfully dissipated this winter! I was at a little ball the Emperor gave before Christmas, and at a small dancing-party here at the end of January. Next week is the Carnival, at which my presence will be doubtful, and then everything, even the theatre, comes to an end. Is it not really quite wonderful that I have not become frivolous in all this whirl of society! And now I have been seventeen days in bed, ‘pour combler les plaisirs;’ it really is an anxious matter.

“But now I must leave off this jesting tone and tell you that I really like to be here, surrounded by the most touching affection and in the society of many amiable and talented people. And then the music that I can hear here!—this is the only thing for which I am for ever craving. I do not care for the balls, and my good time comes in Lent; then comes one concert after another—all splendid music. To crown it all, Frau Schumann arrived yesterday. I have seen her already. She was in Düsseldorf and Baden, and can tell me of all my dear friends. If Heaven but grants me a little health, I can now pick up again what I have missed, and blissfully breathe in music.

“This illness often seemed unbearable to me, because I never seemed to get better. It was so difficult to be patient,—and then the home-sickness! When I am well I can overcome it, but in illness I long for mamma as a little child. It was rather a difficult ordeal, but it must have been good for me, if only to teach me anew to be still. God wished to see whether I had not forgotten this lesson. Alas! I had done so, and that made it so hard to bear.”

It seemed as if Princess Elizabeth would now soon get strong. But the news of her father’s death reached her in a few days. The Prince of Wied had passed a winter of acute suffering at Baden. When free from pain he had dictated an essay “On the Mystery of Human Individualities.” He had written to his daughter for the last time shortly before his death, and answered some questions she had made about his book, “The Unconscious Life of the Soul.” His strength was waning slowly, and on the 5th of March 1864 he had ceased to suffer. The mortal remains were brought up to Monrepos, a large procession following, and lie under the lime-trees, beside those of his son, who died so early. The Princess of Wied wrote his epitaph in the following words:—

“Made perfect through Suffering, and patient in Hope,
Of a fearless Spirit and strong in Faith,
His mind turned towards Heavenly things,
He searched for truth and a knowledge of God.
What he humbly sought in Life
He, being set free, has now found in the Light.”

Princess Elizabeth had been passionately attached to her father, and owed much of her intellectual progress to him. Her sorrow at his loss was increased because she had not been able to be near him during his last days. Still, no complaint passed her lips. She bore her sorrow with great resignation and self-control, which made a deep and touching impression on all about her. She wished to be strong in order to support and comfort her mother, and this thought supported her—“We will fill the desolate rooms with our love, and find our happiness in each other.” She wrote to her: “As a tree that has been felled leaves a light space in the forest, so a light remains after the death of a great man!” And so her father, whom she had loved and admired with all her heart, appeared to her as a bright example. She tried to think and to act as he would have wished. She formed her opinions in the large-hearted manner that her father had done, and with his able and generous disposition towards all; never, therefore, immediately condemning the opinions of others, but first sifting them thoroughly. The following poem was written at this time:—

“They have carried him out, who was mine,
All so still!
And ’tis wrought—so I dare not repine—
By Thy will!

Must all the dear ones, then, on earth
That I have,
Like this whom I love so, go forth
To the grave?

Till I steal, in my heart’s agony,
All alone,
To the place where my dead treasures lie,
And make moan.”

—Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold.

Soon after this, on the 20th of April, the Princess Louise of Wied died. She had reached the age of ninety-two years, and was much loved and mourned at Neuwied, on account of her charity to the poor.

The presence of her uncle, Prince Nicholas of Nassau, was a great comfort to Princess Elizabeth in her sorrow; but he had to return home, and she could not go with him, though she had a great longing to be with her mother. The Grand Duchess Hélène intended to travel to Germany in the spring, and wished to bring back the young girl to her mother herself. So she had to wait patiently without murmuring.

Clara Schumann came to St. Petersburg early in March, and lived in the Michailow Palace. As Rubinstein could not continue her musical instruction, Princess Elizabeth took lessons of Clara Schumann, and writes:—“And I gazed meanwhile into the beautiful and sad eyes, and thought of all that this woman had suffered, and of the courage with which she had battled her way through life.... It must be very consoling to be old, for then a great feeling of repose comes over us, for which I often long. Every day, I strive for internal peace, which is so soothing, but I must obtain it by many storms and much strife.... Even my aunt said the other day, ‘One can see that you were not made for life in the grand monde.’ I am only myself in solitude; the bustle of the world makes me feel frightened and shy. You, my beloved mother, are the only being that has as much patience with me as God Himself, who is not surprised at anything I do or say, to whom I can tell everything, and who always understands me. And I think you can feel what great happiness still is mine, as I have such a mother!”

As Princess Elizabeth did not now join the large parties on account of her mourning, the highest intellectual interests became the favourite topics of the circle round the Grand Duchess Hélène. The famous member of the Academy, Baer, Count Keyserlingk, Privy Councillor Brevern, Henselt the musician, and many other of the learned and distinguished men were in and out of the Palais Michel, to the great joy of the young girl, who was so thirsty for knowledge.

The Grand Duchess Hélène had announced herself at Moscow for Easter. Her niece was allowed to accompany her, and saw Eastern magnificence and architecture for the first time there. On the 4th of May 1864 she writes from Moscow:—“We are in Moscow, that old patriotic town, with its houses of one or two stories, green roofs, and four hundred churches, which are all aglow with the brightest colours. The dimensions of the streets are so enormous that one does not know where the street ends and the open space begins. It is too curious! The town, with its one-storied houses and their surrounding gardens, is quite countrified, almost like a village, and yet it is beautiful. You only see little houses, which are very gay, and still gayer churches. These are bright blue, with light green roofs or domes, or red, green, and blue, all brightly mixed. I think Moscow is only beautiful in bright sunshine, when the hundreds of domes are glistening and throwing their rays on the green roofs. In the Kremlin I saw the treasures of the Church, as also the treasury and armoury in which all the crowns are kept. I am most interested by the antiquity of these things and their historical recollections. There is also kept the enormous silver caldron in which the holy oil is prepared and consecrated. Every three years it is made to simmer for three days and mixed with sweet-scented herbs, whilst prayers are unceasingly offered; then it is consecrated and blessed in the church, and is now called le saint crême. Forty to fifty pots are then filled with it. This oil is much prized far and near, as it is used for the consecration of churches, as well as at births and deaths. The many and different ways in which people try to make themselves holy touch me much; and even if we are inclined to ask what is the use of this oil and holy water, we must admit that it displays a childish craving to be purified, and a firm faith in the power of prayer, which can consecrate everything. I find so much cheerfulness and childish faith in the rites of the Greek Church, and less superstition than in the Roman Catholic, but none of the earnestness of ours. It strikes me, too, that our Church in her noblest form—as I speak of the others in their noblest form—is eminently suited to the German character. We have all a tendency to be absorbed in thought, to muse on our own nature, and to seek to attain to a knowledge of God through our own inmost hearts.”

After her return from a most interesting excursion to the monastery of St. Sergius, Princess Elizabeth says in a letter to her mother:—“The monastery is wide, low, and massive, like all Byzantine churches, and partly gloomy, or too bright for our taste. Everything in the Byzantine churches is bright and cheerful, and the religion is also a cheerful one. It is the religion of the Resurrection. Good Friday is hardly kept at all, whereas Easter is kept for a week. They are naturally cheerful, and even the monks look bright and uncultivated. They differ entirely from the hollow-cheeked ascetic monks of the West, nor have their monasteries the same influence as our monasteries.”

Princess Elizabeth was quite delighted with the expedition to Moscow. She was charmed with the palace of the Grand Duchess, with the large garden adjoining, and the daily life was more like that of a family party. Everything reminded her of Monrepos. She felt herself unrestrained, at home; her health was restored, and she fully enjoyed every pleasure. Attended by the ladies-in-waiting, she was sent by the Grand Duchess to visit the many charitable institutions, and behaved with so much assurance that it appeared as if she were in the habit of inspecting and examining. On getting into the train on her return journey she exclaimed, “Those were happy days,” as she gazed back at the old city of the Czars.

The time of her stay at St. Petersburg was coming to an end. For her future life it was to be a time of great importance. She had become accustomed to life at a great Court, had learnt to know the rites and ceremonies of the Greek Church, and her social and intellectual sphere had widened during her stay with the Grand Duchess Hélène. In a letter which she wrote as reigning Princess of Roumania six years later she dwells upon this as follows:—“I feel every day what a blessing my intercourse with my aunt and her circle of friends was for my whole life. In my present position it is of untold value to me.”

Early in June the Grand Duchess brought her niece back to Germany. The Princess of Wied awaited her daughter at Leipsic. What a sorrowful meeting it was! And the return to the desolate Monrepos was hardly to be borne. Her deep sorrow for the loss of her father, which she had had to keep back, now broke out with all its power. Wherever she looked she seemed to see him, and she thought she could not live without him. She longed for his words of teaching, which had brought her to think for herself; for the old habits, which always had him for their object and centre.

To her Brother.

“Monrepos, 20th August 1864.

“Alas! you will not receive this letter on your birthday. But it was quite impossible for me to write to you, as papa’s grave was being finished. Yesterday the stone was put up on his favourite place. Both are quite beautiful. When the wall of papa’s grave was finished, I filled it up myself, and during all those days mamma and I were there from early morning to evening. I helped to carry the stones and to shovel the earth, so that my arms are quite tired to-day. The stone, which marks his favourite view, bears the inscription—

‘On all the hill-tops
Is rest,
In all the tree-tops
Thou perceivest
Hardly a breath;
The birds are silent in the wood.
Wait but a little; soon
Thou, too, wilt be at rest.’

It is of grey marble, and surrounded by great pieces of rock. We built up these rocks very artistically yesterday. I worked till I was nearly dead. We planted ivy between the rock, and a heavy rain came to the help of the young plants in the night, so that they are fresh and green.”

* * * * *

Since the death of her husband, the Princess of Wied had spent summer and winter at Monrepos. Here she had arranged a very cosy room for her daughter, who soon loved it on account of its quiet and retirement. Photographs and engravings from great masters and portraits of those dearest to her adorned the walls. From the windows she gazed upon the wide valley, encircled by its mountains, the shining Rhine, and many towns and villages. On leaving her room she gazed into the depths of the mighty forest of beech-trees, which resounded with the song of birds. She spread crumbs and seeds before her door and window, and flocks of feathered guests assembled around her. Lost in thought, she watched the happy, careless ways of the birds, and lived in the world her fancy created, becoming quite apathetic after the terrible shocks she had lately gone through. Her anxious mother gladly allowed Princess Elizabeth to accompany the Grand Duchess to Ouchy in the autumn. A great change came over her there. She writes: “Unknown to me, a different spirit came over me and aroused me from my melancholy, into which, however, I relapsed all the deeper afterwards.”

From the autumn of 1864 to the New Year a young Swiss girl spent many months at Monrepos. Maria von Sulzer was a very amiable girl, and the depth of her mind and her ideal tenderness had soon won her the heart of the young Princess. They were like two sisters together, and shared all their interests. The intercourse with her young friend had put fresh life into Princess Elizabeth. A stay at Arolsen varied the winter. There, after the birth of five daughters, the princely house of Waldeck had welcomed their first son. Princess Elizabeth had the pleasure of carrying her little cousin, the hereditary Prince of Waldeck, at his baptism.

To her Brother.

“Monrepos, 10th March 1865.

“The Castle of Neuwied is so melancholy that I do not like to look at it any more. Each closed window reminds me of some one that is dead. It will be a good thing when it again echoes with youthful steps and the voices of children who know nothing of the old sorrows and sufferings, and think that their little feet are the first to tread the ground, and that it never was otherwise than they know it. If only the old walls could tell their histories! Your children shall once listen astonished when Aunt Elsa tells them how she lived there—laughed and wept; and that she once was just as small and had just the same thoughts as they, or perhaps different ones, but they were very beautiful. How she thought that a maiden was something very wonderful till she became one herself, and yet remained exactly what she was before!

“Uncle Max told me of his youth yesterday, and how six horses were often brought round to the door. He and his brothers swung themselves upon them, and they galloped away laughing and cheering. Then he gave a melancholy look at the desolate house, and tears came into his eyes. Our youth was different, more serious and sadder; but then our manhood and womanhood will be different, rich and blessed and full of power and love.”

To her Brother.

“Monrepos, 18th November 1865.

“For I must confess to you that I am, like papa, a most sociable person, and know nothing more charming than an agreeable salon where, besides, good music is being performed. My greatest wish is once to possess so much money that I can always have a circle of artists and savants about me, and make it as pleasant as possible for them in my house. I should not pretend to be clever myself, for I cannot do that at all, but only try to bring out the good qualities of every one, which makes all feel happy.”

* * * * *

Meanwhile the widowed Princess of Wied made use of her practical talents by attending to the affairs of her son, who had not yet attained his majority. Prince William had left the College at Basle, and was now to start on a journey to the East (1865–1866). His mother had asked the Crown Prince of Prussia to recommend a military gentleman to her to accompany the Prince on his travels. He named his friend and playfellow, General Mischke, who was then a captain. The architect, Professor Kachel, who afterwards became Director of the Schools of Art in Carlsruhe, was the Prince’s scientific companion. Accompanied by these two gentlemen the Prince travelled through Italy to Egypt. There he met Prince Anton of Hohenzollern, and they proceeded together on their journey through Syria and Palestine, Constantinople and Greece. In Athens, however, they received orders to join the army, and hurried back to Germany, where the Prince of Wied was attached to the staff of the Crown Prince. The war with Austria was soon over, but Prince Anton of Hohenzollern was not to see his country again. He died of his wounds soon after the battle of Königgratz.

During the months of February and March 1866 Princess Elizabeth was at Wiesbaden, on a visit to her uncle, the Duke of Nassau. Here she took singing lessons and learnt to play the zither, and was very happy. In May the Princess of Wied visited her relations at Braunfels, Laubach, and Schlitz, with Princess Elizabeth. The young Princess was charmed with the fine castles surrounded by the fresh green of the woods. She often said—“The mediatised Princes have the best of and lead the happiest lives. I should never wish for more than a castle in a wood, where I could do much good, and receive the friends I love. That is the most enviable fate.”

In the autumn of 1866 Princess Elizabeth again accompanied the Grand Duchess Hélène on her travels, and this time they went to Ragaz, and whilst there they saw much of General von Moltke, then at the height of his glorious career. He joined in their games of bowls in the morning, and various jeux d’esprit of an evening, with the utmost amiability and simplicity, and Princess Elizabeth became much attached to this so eminent and distinguished man. Whilst discussing the political situation they spoke of Prince Charles of Hohenzollern, who had been chosen as Sovereign Prince of Roumania shortly before the outbreak of the war between Prussia and Austria. A few years before this General von Moltke had made a scientific journey through Silesia with the Crown Prince and Prince Charles. “That young Prince of Hohenzollern will make his mark and become talked about” were then the prophetic words of the Field-Marshal.

The Grand Duchess had finished her cure. They were to leave Ragaz in a few days. Princess Elizabeth was to return to Monrepos, but a letter from her mother changed her plans. Her favourite cousin, Catherine of Oldenburg, had died at Venice. The sufferings of her mother, Princess Thérèse, increased after the death of her lovely daughter, and the doctors urged a sojourn in the south of Italy upon her. She besought her sister, the Princess of Wied, to allow Princess Elizabeth, for whom she had conceived a great affection in St. Petersburg, to accompany her. Although it was hard for the young Princess to extend the separation from her mother for many months, her resolution was soon taken. She hoped to find scope for her energies in this family circle. In September 1866 they travelled to Rome, where they remained a short time, and to Naples. At first Princess Thérèse had taken an apartment in an hotel for many months. But though they kept away from all society, it was noisy and uncomfortable on account of the traffic in the crowded streets. Princess Elizabeth, who was accustomed to a quiet room and quiet hours, felt it particularly. Her cousins too were always surrounding her, and did not leave her a moment’s peace. “I gave myself up to melancholy reflections,” she writes to her mother. But all changed for the better when they took a villa on the Pausilipp. Here she took up her regular occupations, and writes: “I have work, much work; for those that seek it, find it. The beauties of nature and the mild air constantly renew my strength.” She now gave her cousin, Thesa of Oldenburg, lessons in German, English, and arithmetic, and says: “My intentions are good and true, and a blessing may perhaps rest upon them. Nor shall I be melancholy any more, when I am in the treadmill of regular work.” Her poems written at this time are mostly grave and full of religious thoughts, but sometimes the brightness of youth overpowers her, and cheerful, happy songs flow from her pen.

To her Mother.

“Naples, Santa Brigitta, 19th January 1867.

“Yesterday we moved here. The sirocco has been blowing for some days, and the wild waves of the sea are foaming. The seagulls are skimming between the spray, which is thrown up to a great height, and last night the storm shook our house. The clouds are low, and cover the peaks of Vesuvius, while wind and rain beat through our windows and make weird music. The sea is green and grey, the white foam shines like phosphorus. It is just what I like. I should love to go out alone in the storm to let it rage about me, to sing a wild song to the waves, which nobody listens to or hears, and which remains my own, though I sing it loudly. Then I should come home as quiet as a lamb, and listen to the storm no more. Now the bank of clouds is rolled away, and a rosy light spreads itself quietly over the foaming, angry sea. It spreads itself further and further from the horizon to our feet, soothing and shining, and brings happy thoughts to my heart. If that would learn to be still it could also command the storm, and in its depths it is still. For through all, my quiet home is the anchor which holds me fast, the haven which receives me when my sails are rent. Man belongs to nature, and is her greatest and completest work, and therefore we love and have confidence in men, even when they are passionate and excited.”

* * * * *

“20th January.—As we woke to-day upon our hill, the sun shone upon the sea, which is like a sheet of glass. The doors and windows are wide open, and the soft air of May pervades me and our rooms, and brings in happy and cheerful thoughts. It has wakened all my pleasure in life and power of work. When I raise my head the mighty Vesuvius is spread before me, and its peaks lost in the clouds. To the left I look down to the town, which shines below me in the sun. The sea spreads itself to my right, with the sharp points of the Island of Capri. For the first time Naples appears to me magically beautiful, for the first time I can gaze undisturbed upon the grand beauty of nature here. Peace, which I have not felt for a long time, steals into my heart. I feel as if I could swing myself into the light air as if I had a hundred wings which drew me to the sun, as if new life came to me. It is worth battling with the storm to feel such heavenly peace. Even the waves of the sea are hushed as though they feared to break the stillness. Everything seems to me to call, ‘Peace, Peace.’ It is too beautiful for words, and the joy is too deep; it is like a song of thanksgiving, a golden dream from which we would not wake. My little cousin walks up and down in the next room and hums a tune. The beautiful world has had a good influence upon her also, for the clouds which lay upon her brow have vanished. I should like to write nothing more than the perpetual refrain, Peace has returned. A fly is buzzing at my window as though it were midsummer, and a bird is chirping in the distance. I allow nature to charm me and to caress me like her spoiled child. Do not fear my becoming dreamy and idle: I am only dreaming with you. The instant the pen leaves my hand the cares of daily life surround me with a thousand claims, which have all to be satisfied. I may not dream long, so grant me these few moments. I only draw myself up like a wave before it rushes onwards and gathers strength for the work which I have taken in hand. I never forget for a moment that I have two hours’ lessons to give to this spoilt child the day after to-morrow. I am quite prepared for it. I feel that though she may learn more from any schoolmaster than from me, I can perhaps influence her mode of thought by these lessons, which will be of more use to her than the deepest learning. I try to teach her, what you taught, to love people for whom you have no sympathy. If I do not marry, I shall pass my examination as a teacher. To that I have made up my mind. Tell Pastor Harder that I have never lost sight of this object, though I am driven hither and thither. For I must accomplish this, which has been in my mind for years. And though I sometimes feel that I am presumptuous and arrogant, I usually think the contrary. ‘Your vocation is what calls you’ is all that I have remembered of Brentano’s fairy tales, and what calls me is teaching. I wait in patience. If I have understood it wrongly, it will be made clear to me. Here I have that lot assigned to me. I teach for ten hours a week, and am present at all the lessons given. Tell the Pastor that I am constantly repeating his good maxims, and hope to prove myself his worthy scholar.”

We see that Princess Elizabeth is ambitious in the best sense of the word. “Thus she is impelled to teach, for in teaching lies great power.”

“Naples, 5th February 1867.—Aunt Thekla has died, and Uncle Max has died. It is worth while to have lived as he did, and he does not die unmourned. Indeed it was a beautiful death, which one might wish to have after so rich a life. I pray God that I may die mourned after a life of labour, even though I should have no children and grandchildren. The life of Uncle Max was rich and full of interest. I think it was beautiful.”

“Naples, 3rd April 1867.—Sometimes I feel so old, but not sorrowful—no! quite the contrary. I should like to be much, much older, to have the duties and the rights of an old maid. I often feel as if I had had a mist before my eyes lately. The happiness to have spent time and strength where they are most needed is too great. I am not at all afraid of that dreadful word ‘old maid.’ I share it with many whom I have often envied for their strong though quiet influence. Work is what I must and will have, and then all can say of me, ‘That is a happy girl.’ The time is soon over. It has gone by quickly, very quickly. God knows that I had the wish to do some good, to accomplish something, and have some influence. I see no results, but that I did not expect. Perhaps a little trace may be left behind. I am not so proud as to think that I can carry all before me like a mountain torrent. Perhaps I am but a little drop, but if Heaven has let me fall on the right place, I can joyfully become absorbed by the sunbeams!”

In May 1867 Princess Elizabeth was overjoyed to return to Monrepos. “She returned to her quiet home in the forest and became a child once more.” But it was not for long. The amiable niece had become necessary to the Grand Duchess Hélène, and she was constantly enticing her away from home. In August we find her again in Carlsbad with her aunt. The Grand Duchess was very unwell, and Princess Elizabeth had to receive the ladies and gentlemen who came to pay their respects. She writes as follows about her impressions and the people who frequented there:—

“Carlsbad, 2nd August 1867.—I have in these last days made the acquaintance of some people with whom I am so enchanted that I am constantly wishing you were here. First comes Frau Arnemann, a Norwegian lady, with bright black eyes, which fascinate one. She has always been with artists, and her life has been rich but sad. Her impressions of people are quite extraordinarily correct, and I have often seen astonishing proofs of her clairvoyance. She is quite magnetic. Frau Arnemann introduced the painter Piloty to us, a very amiable and refined person. We go into raptures over Italy together. Then we have got to know the great singer, Frau Unger-Sabatier, who is here with her pupil and niece, Fräulein Regan. Frau Unger-Sabatier is a perfect artist, wise and clear-headed, with the sacred fire and yet not too much of the fervour of the dilettanti. Her great pleasure is to train young singers. Her niece, Fräulein Regan, is twenty-three. Her voice is like a flute, and she sings to wonderful perfection. She is also a very cultivated girl, who speaks French and Italian not only well but beautifully, and understands and renders the songs perfectly. I feel myself drawn to her as to a magnet.”

Her intercourse with Edith von Rahden was also a great pleasure to the Princess. She says of her: “Edith has become more mild and gentle than ever, and esteems every one, irrespective of their position towards herself.” “I know how to be grateful for every happy hour, and what greater happiness is there than to be treated as a friend by a woman of experience.” Later the Princess Elizabeth writes to her mother: “If ever I made up my mind to a marriage, I should like to have a settled home, a house on my own property, and not to begin a wandering life, which never takes firm root anywhere. I do not now seek my vocation where it seems difficult and troublesome, and have no other wish than to live quietly and work where I can.”

Among the gentlemen who were about the Grand Duchess at that time was Walujeff, a Russian Minister, Tolstoi, Rouher, Piloty, Count Keyserlingk, the Curator of the University of Dorpat, and the Privy Councillor Von Brevern, “who is of a refined and very sensitive nature. His kindness brings thoughts to me which I should scarcely like to mention.”

Meanwhile Maria von Sulzer had married her cousin, and had come to Monrepos in the summer in a very suffering state. There her strength declined visibly. Feeling that her death was near, she had a great longing to return home. Shortly afterwards the Princess of Wied received news of her death. We read in the journal of Princess Elizabeth of the 4th of September:—“Maria Sulzer has died. Death is but an old friend to me, a serious friend, and yet kind, if one knows how to meet him. Heaven sends me countless blessings every day. Indeed I cannot repine. For my life is rich and full, which I constantly repeat to myself. And if all the loved ones were to be taken, it would still be blessed a thousandfold, for still all are mine. Even if the flowers fade, we do not forget that they once bloomed, and that we enjoyed their sweet perfume. Indeed my heart bleeds, but still I am abundantly blessed.”

We find the following poem on the death of this beloved friend:—

“Draw you nearer,
Let weeping cease;
In her chamber
All is peace.

Angels hovered
Softly o’er her;
In the night
Away they bore her.

Death o’er her senses
Did softly creep;
Saved her a parting,
Wrapped her in sleep.

Flowers of beauty
Wreathe her around;
Drowsily chiming
The sweet bells sound.

Draw you nearer,
Let weeping cease;
In her chamber
All is peace.”

From Carlsbad the Grand Duchess travelled with her great niece to the great Exhibition at Paris. There Princess Elizabeth had arrived unwell; she suffered from a bad throat and momentary deafness. Consequently she could not enjoy the great sights with her usual freshness. The reception at the Tuileries, visits to the Exhibition, to the Louvre and the neighbouring castles, seemed like a dream to her. Under the impression of this deafness, and inclining as ever to melancholy thoughts, she writes to her mother—“I have often thought in these last days that one can well do without occupation in old age. Then we can sit in our arm-chair, lost in thoughts, quite still, and without prejudice. One can think sweetly of the dead, and tell those around one of our past life as a curiosity. I fancy it very beautiful. I would not change now, for I would taste of life with all it brings, and hope to toil and endeavour. But all the time I shall look forward to the peace of old age.”