“In work, in constant and unwearied labour, we must look for comfort in sorrow,” says Carmen Sylva, in her tale, “The Pilgrimage of Sorrow.” This has been truly carried out in her life. Whilst composing those sorrowful poems in which her unutterable longing for her lost child is expressed in such touching words, the Princess could become quite cheerful for a few moments in the recollection of her lost happiness as a mother. But her health had suffered much from all she had gone through. The doctors urged a water cure in Franzensbad. Prince Charles escorted his consort thither in the summer of 1874. In Franzensbad her pen became more than ever her best friend, and her intellectual labours brought her comfort and strength. At first no one in Roumania guessed that Princess Elizabeth was a poetess. When the Roumanian poet Alexandri once waited upon her at Bucharest, the Princess said, whilst blushing deeply—“I should like to make a confession to you, but I have not the courage.” After much hesitation the Princess whispered shyly—“I also write poetry.” At Alexandri’s request she let him see some of her poems. He recognised her poetic talent at once, and encouraged her to go on with what was but a reflection of her thoughts and feelings. When a time of deep sorrow came to the Princess, Alexandri wrote many poems for her. He then sent her a thick volume of his poems to Franzensbad, and she began to translate the legends of the people of Roumania into German. “In Franzensbad,” writes the Princess, “the greatest change took place in my powers of writing poetry. Till then I had not known that poetry was an art, or that it could be learnt, if one were not a poet by nature. To learn to make verses seemed to me as if one would teach a bird to sing. Verses and rhymes flowed more easily from my pen than prose. I was afraid that if I were to bind myself to rules and regulations I should forfeit the power of writing verse as a punishment for my arrogance and conceit. But in the unutterable woe of the spring of 1874 writing poetry brought me no relief. Only consecutive hard work could soothe me. And so I took to translating. Alexandri’s ‘Rows of Pearls’ attracted me the most, because Kotzebue in his translation had completely changed the metre and altered much. Then I suddenly realised that I did not understand the very elements of the art of poetry. I was hampered for words and rhymes. This had never happened to me, and my work was very unsatisfactory. I wanted to ask a hundred questions at every word, and did not know of whom.”

Thereupon Wilhelm von Kotzebue also came to Franzensbad. He had long held a diplomatic post in Moldavia, and was well known to the literary world as a writer. He had also translated the national songs which Alexandri had collected into German. The Princess now discussed her translations with him. Kotzebue, an earnest and noble man, showed and explained to the Princess her faults in the construction of her verses. Now she had to work by rule and submit to certain laws—“But in that hour in which a man like Kotzebue thought it worth his while to criticise my work, I began to believe in my talent.” “I did not venture,” said the Princess, “to show him an original poem, but only my first translations of Roumanian poetry. They were very full of faults and clumsy, because I knew nothing of the science of poetry then, though I was thirty years old. I altered the ‘Rows of Pearls’ four times, and once more before it was printed. I never learnt so much as whilst I was translating. Even for many years after this I regarded my talent as a misfortune, for I thought it was not suited for my vocation. Like a child stealing sweetmeats, I always threw away my pen when some one came into my room.”

“Is it not wonderful?” the Princess writes to her mother. “If heaven takes my loved ones from me with one hand, it sheds the noblest and highest treasures upon me with the other, and in what more loving and attractive manner could I serve my country than in now translating the literary treasures of my German Fatherland into Roumanian! When I am not asleep my hands and my head do not rest for a moment, for I break down utterly otherwise. But constant activity keeps my mind fresh, and it is only at times that some sweet recollection overpowers me.

A great longing to see her beloved mother again took possession of the Princess. The Princess of Wied had been prevented by illness from being with her daughter during her time of deepest sorrow. When they had last met, the happy childish voice of the little Princess Marie had been heard above the others. Now they could only meet in sobs and tears! The princely pair were to join the Princess of Wied at Cologne, and then to remain some weeks with her at St. Leonard’s on the English coast.

The Princess writes to the Princess of Wied from Franzensbad on the 19th of July:—“It is good to fill one’s mind with great impressions. One returns full of thought. I am looking forward to England like a child. I know what it will be to sit on the shore with you and listen to the sound of the waves. To see London is also a great attraction.”

“Looking back on this time,” the Princess writes, “it was a great refreshment to disappear in that vast London. We had never seen Max MÜller till then, but had been often in communication with him, and we telegraphed to him that we were coming to Oxford. He received us at the station, and invited us to stay at his house. The two days spent in the peaceful atmosphere of his home, in that charming family circle which had not then been broken, soothed and cheered me. This happiness could not weigh upon the unhappy; it could but do one good and allay the storm. It was the happiness of a wise man. We also made the acquaintance of Jane Stanley. I had then finished a little book in the form of a missal for my mother, which I called ‘My Journey through the World’—all sorts of verses and rhymes, dedicated to my mother. Charles Kingsley was present when I surprised my mother with this present. I showed him the poem—

MY ONLY ONE.

His shining blue eyes filled with tears, and sobs heaved in his breast. My mother wept for sorrow and joy, and only I was tearless. This little book contained poems written from the time of my confirmation to my thirtieth year, of which my mother had seen hardly any, for they had, except on very exceptional occasions, been hidden from those nearest and dearest to me.”

Amongst them were the two following poems written in English:—

SERVE THE LORD WITH GLADNESS.

MY SUNNY HOME.

After her return to Bucharest, Princess Elizabeth began to illuminate in water-colours in the style of a missal. These works of art were quickly completed by her clever hands. On the 23rd of November she writes in a letter from Bucharest—“Art in all its forms is but a prayer. Consequently, when it is inspired, it brings peace and joy into the hearts of others. Art places us on the Virful-cu-Dor (the Heights of Longing), and whilst she shows us the world at our feet, still she directs our longing gaze upwards. Then peace, perfect peace returns to us.”

“Bucharest, December 26, 1874.—To-morrow at eight o’clock the poor receive their Christmas gifts. Wood and clothes are distributed to a thousand poor people. Tuesday is a festival and day of rest, on which I shall not say, ‘Oh, were I never born!’ For I am glad that I live, and can have manifold experiences, and think and hope. I think life is a blessing which has given me more than enough, for instance this translating and this painting, which comes into my life as something new and eventful. I think I must have taken some of the woodland soil of my German home away with me, and unexpected streams well up from under my feet. I am thankful to you, my earthly gods, for this, for your endless love, earnestness, and wealth of thought have made me the heiress of these your hardly-won treasures. If I have a good idea, I ask myself, ‘From which of my parents does it come, to whom am I beholden for it?’”

“January 7, 1875.—I do not translate now, as I am writing so much myself. As soon as I take up my pen, original thoughts flow into my mind, and then it is difficult for me to transcribe the thoughts of others. What we create ourselves is the most beautiful, translating the most useful. I am always under the immediate impression of what I am reading, and so the thoughts of Bernstein, and particularly a description of the Atlantic cable, inspired my ‘Songs of the Sea.’

“Paul Keyse’s ‘Balder’ set me making verses of the same metre, which are so pleasant to compose. I have arranged a Choral Society with Lubitz, the new musician, with whom we sing in chorus. He is delighted with the Roumanian songs, melodies, and words, and will arrange them as a chorus. Our Choral Society makes good progress. Our working classes are extending, and with them the interest for the good cause. Herr Hoetsch has given us a house for the Infant School and the meetings of our Society. Three times a week 160 to 170 women fetch their work from thence. Enough flowers grow on my thorny path to refresh me.”

On the 7th of May the princely pair had moved up to Cotroceni. “The nightingales are singing, and the damp earth has an agreeable scent. It is absolutely still. The first thing I did was to set free thirty nightingales which I had bought in the market for sixty francs. Perhaps they will stay here. You should have seen how the poor little birds, still quite stiff from their fetters, at first remained on my hand, then slowly stretched their necks, and then it was but one beat of their wings and they were free! I rejoiced each time! Here I shall set to work again. What hinders me most is the want of interest of those who know too little German and too little Roumanian to be able to help me to understand. Perhaps I shall take drawing lessons from the new directress of the Asyle, Madame Pinel, a scholar of Horace Vernet, and thereby entice one young lady after the other. In this way I should be able to found a school of drawing in the same manner as the Choral Society by mixing with the scholars.”

On the 19th of July 1875 the Princess writes from Sinaia:—“How I have longed for the forest! Yesterday I told it to the Pelesch, whose rushing and foaming waterfall seemed to make moan, the leaves of the beech trees whispered and trembled and the sunbeams came flying to me. All promised me new songs, and said that if they were eternal and unceasing my poetry must be so too.”

Finding it impossible to make a fixed residence in the uncomfortable apartments which were all that the convent at Sinaia could offer, the Prince began to build a castle of his own in the woods. At the place which had been the favourite haunt of the little Princess Marie, the foundation stone of Castle Pelesch was laid on the 22nd of August 1875. The wishes of the Princess as to the spirit which should reign in this new home are laid in the foundation-stone with the archives and the coins. They are expressed as follows:—

“The quiet valley of Sinaia has quite changed its character, and is now like a colony in the back woods, with wooden huts and wigwams. Twelve to fourteen languages are spoken on the place where the castle is building. The overseer of the works is the Court sculptor, Martin Stohr. His wood-carvings adorn the Castle and the Palace in Bucharest, and remind one of the first period of the Renaissance by their wonderful finish. Upon a great height among the gigantic forests, and on soil belonging to the Prince, is a magnificent stone quarry which furnishes all the stone required for the building of the castle. A small railway leads up to it, and there the Italian workmen have taken up their abode. The building of the line of railway through the Prahova Valley was begun at the same time as that of the castle.”

But the footsteps of the Princess became weary and weak again, till illness once more completely prostrated her. As she lay in bed for months, unable to put her foot to the ground, the Princess, as has already been mentioned, found courage to write down a complete account of the life of her remarkable brother, Prince Otto. Princess Elizabeth was content, in spite of her sufferings, and wrote to her mother on the 28th of November:—“You cannot fancy how grateful I am for the quiet that this winter brings. I have so often said to God in the course of the summer—‘I can no more’—that He has shown that my strength is at an end, and that I must concentrate and recover my powers. No turbulent wave swells into my boudoir, and the restlessness without only feeds the world of thought in my quiet room.”

“4th December.—This quiet is more than a blessing to me. During the last year my mind and body have been craving for rest. Now I have at last attained to it, and am very thankful. Why are there so many commonplace people and so few that are interesting? They all keep a firm hold on me, like so many leeches, and do not understand that quiet peace is the ideal of life, the highest aim of the Epicureans.”

“13th December.—I have finished another story, but it is a very sad one. The pictures my fancy paints are seldom bright; indeed they never were. My childish stories even were always sad and dreadful. I think that laughter dwells outside, and not within me, and is but hung about me like a bright garment. Or is it the wonderful brightness of your nature and my father’s which is struggling within me, or is it life and its sorrows? Are our sad experiences alone worth dwelling upon? Who can tell?”

Prince Charles was ill, and Princess Elizabeth still unable to walk. She longed for some of her family to visit her, but none of them could come to her. This increased her melancholy state of mind. “And during this long illness I tasted all the bitterness of life, the very depths of hopelessness and despair which could abide in the heart of man. But comfort is sent to all. I have my pen, which is given to me for drawing, and poetry, and which make up to me for everything! It flies ever quicker, for the stream of my thoughts flows continuously, and the scene of my labours enlarges and increases with my anxiety for the well-being of others.”

At last the Princess of Wied was expected. Her Highness arrived in May, and stayed till August with her children in Cotroceni and Sinaia, to the great delight of Princess Elizabeth, who had now quite recovered her health. This meeting, which she had so long anxiously looked forward to, found an echo in the following poem—

After her mother had left, she writes to her in September:—“Sinaia looks the same as of old, it is so full of merriment, of life and joy. People stream in and out, and then I am quite well again. We make voyages of discovery and start on climbing excursions every day. In all states of life it is pleasanter to be the stronger one who can impart to others some of his trop plein than the weak one who goes a-begging. What an enjoyment it is not to depend on others! For the first time since many years I feel as if I were carried by the air when I am walking, and yet I am no sylph. We now live in the house in the wood from half-past eight in the morning till half-past seven in the evening. It is quite ideal, like a nest amidst the green, and really a little paradise, so cosy and so warm among the fir-trees.”

When autumn comes in, Bucharest becomes once more the centre of ever-renewing duties. Then the Princess resumes her life of hard work. She rises at five in the morning, and lighting her little lamp herself, she works till eight in a room artistically adorned with paintings, palms, and towering ferns. Thick carpets hush the sound of footsteps. The walls are hung with deep-toned colours. Cosy little nooks and corners to sit in are arranged under tropical plants. The silence which surrounds the Princess is only broken by the murmur of the little fountain and the chirping of the birds. In these early morning hours the Princess works at her poetic creations, and gains strength for the cares and duties of the day.

After breakfasting alone with the Prince, businesses and audiences begin. The reception-rooms of Prince and Princess are often not empty for nine or ten hours with but short interruptions. At a particular hour the former ladies-in-waiting who have been married since then, may see the Princess without being announced. Every Thursday a concert takes place. Foreigners and natives are invited to take part on these occasions. Some times Roumanian gentlemen read aloud either a scientific French book or the works of modern Roumanian poets. Princess Elizabeth wishes to be thoroughly well-informed, and every talent finds a patroness in her. “I have arranged something very pleasant,” she writes to her mother. “Twice a week I get Vacaresco to read ancient Roumanian Chronicles to me. He is as well up in them as a professor, and holds explanatory lectures between whiles, which are open to all. Imagine my ideal room with its fountains and lamps and abatjours, the pretty girls with their work under the spreading palms, and I, pen in hand, noting down every new word. And then the curious past which is unrolled before us, in a magnificent classical Latin style, or in the primitive forms of the old books of the Bible. I hope to find subjects to work up in poetry. I am also arranging an Academy of Painting. There is to be much singing and more reading aloud. Everything that approaches me must be at work. Nobody and nothing may rest.”

“It is a peculiarity of mine to like to be surrounded by many workers. I do not at all like a tÊte-À-tÊte: it always wants three people to make up a pleasant conversation. In a tÊte-À-tÊte one usually touches on one’s little miseries about which it is much better to be silent. I always live with open doors, so that people may come to me at any time. This is a slight alleviation to my childlessness. I only reserve the first hours from five to eight for my own work. After that I let any one disturb me, and begin with my household affairs and the menu. Consequently I often have people from ten in the morning till seven at night.”

“The Prince likes to find me at every free moment he has, and so I am always at home. He must never notice that I am at work. When he calls or I hear his footsteps, pen and paint brush are thrown away till he does not want me any more. For as he has much work to do, and sees many people, we must make use of and prize the quarters of an hour which belong to us alone. If I were to hesitate for a moment the time would be gone and could not be reclaimed. Also I think that I am first a wife, then the mother of my country, and then a poetess. But, thank God, the genius of poetry goes secretly with me to the audiences, to the forests, and to the schools, to dinners too, &c. Anything and everything gives occasion to endless studies, and I gather treasures in my memory which has ever been a trusty companion to me.”

“In politics the Prince is my oracle, and I avoid discussing them with any one else. He gives me lectures on political economy, finances, railways, and the army—everything in fact which concerns him. He has a very decided turn for organisation. All his talents are exactly the contrary of mine. Demeter Stourdza said lately that he had never seen two people so complete in one another, and yet we could not be more different, said I. ‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘the ways differ, but the idea is ever the same.’” (From letters of the Queen in May and June 1884.)

But the quiet life of the royal pair was soon interrupted by the beginning of a devastating war. The development of the fatal Eastern Question was to introduce a new epoch, which not only converted Roumania into a theatre of war, but also induced her to take an active part in it herself. This decision was crowned with many and brilliant successes.