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 Lavater1 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.

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.