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—

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:—

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.

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:—

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:—

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—

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:—

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.”

The suffering state of the Grand Duchess HÉlÈne necessitated another sojourn in Ragaz, but she would not let her niece leave her side. It was the end of September before they arrived, and few visitors were there. This quiet they found very refreshing after the noisy bustle and moral tension of Paris. The young Princess became quite herself again. Her restless mind immediately undertook new work.

“Last night,” she writes on the 22nd September 1867, “I was telling FrÄulein von Rahden so much about our lost little brother (Prince Otto) that she exclaimed—‘His life must be written. It will be a great blessing for all who read it.’ She told me to write as fully as possible, and said that what was written in the greatest simplicity must, if it comes from the heart, find an echo in the hearts of others. I have wished to do this for years, and felt that I ought to do it, and found it too difficult. I really think that the moment has come now. I should like to add a detailed memoir to our archives.

“I have just come from the little church, in which I heard a beautiful sermon. Pfarrer Steiger preached from Jer. ix. 24, ‘For in these things I delight, saith the Lord.’ It was full of enthusiasm, and suitable to my state of mind, which was rather sad, as many memories awake here in Ragaz. And then this good man brought God’s healing, conquering, and inspiring love so near to us that I nearly wept for joy. It was too beautiful. I seemed to hear Maria Sulzer’s voice saying to me, ‘Lay yourself in the arms of God.’ I have already thought of writing prayers for our church, but I am not sufficiently advanced. Perhaps I shall be able to do so when I am writing Otto’s Memoirs.”

“Ragaz, 30th September.—Thinking of our little services, I have written the enclosed prayers. Perhaps you can use them. I have also begun Otto’s Memoirs, and have written to Nana (Prince Otto’s English nurse) and begged her to give me details of his earliest childhood, ‘If with all your hearts ye truly seek Me, ye shall ever surely find Me, saith the Lord.’ I should like to inscribe this text on every page. I should like to seek and find Him. I have never really loved Him. Frau Arnemann says: ‘God is drawing me to Him through all that I love, and whom He has taken to Himself.’ How gladly I will let myself be drawn! This winter I shall stay at home, and look forward to it much. I have my hands full of business too, for when I have finished my translation of Carlyle I have a new plan. Frau Arnemann always wished me to write a book for children. Only I cannot think of anything suitable. I can only write about what I have lived through and felt.”

After many fine days, during which walks of three or four hours were undertaken, a sudden and lasting fall of snow had induced the Grand Duchess to leave Ragaz. Princess Elizabeth now returned home. She spent the winter quietly and happily with her mother at Monrepos. “I look back upon this time with particular pleasure,” she writes; “I think of the dreamy hours spent in the little room, of the endless conversations on deep subjects with FrÄulein Lavater, and of the evenings when our spinning wheels hummed and my brother read aloud to us.” In the summer of 1868 she travelled to Sweden on a visit to her royal relations. She calls Sweden the land of poetry; and the magnificence of nature there, and the beautiful legends which are attached to every stone, inspired her fancy. She liked to be in the north, and delighted in Stockholm. The magnificent town is enthroned like a queen of the waters on her islands between the lake and the sea. It is surrounded by many oaks of a hundred years’ growth, which are the masts and pennons of the ships, and historical treasures of all sorts. “We made a wonderful expedition to the Malarsee. The Duke of Ostgothland, the present King Oscar II., had taken a ship, and we glided on the shining sea between a hundred emerald isles to the curious old castle of Grypsholm. What added immensely to the charm of our voyage were the songs of the Swedish officers, whom my uncle invited for our amusement. These gentlemen sing nearly the whole day, and songs varied according to the places we passed. Their voices were as clear as bells, whispering mysteriously or sounding loud in the uncontrollable joy of youth. My uncle had the tombs of the kings in the Riddersholmskirche open for us to see. Each dynasty has a separate vault. I laid my hand upon the coffins of Gustav Adolph and Karl XII., but could not help shuddering before these open graves. The drive through the country to Helsingborg was very fine. We passed more than a hundred seas. The red wooden houses and the castles built of red tiles are picturesquely situated between the huge blocks of stone of volcanic origin with which the whole country is strewn. These blocks are covered with beech and fir trees. We spent a night in Toncoping, and wandered through the bright wooden town, by the shining Wettersee, at five in the morning.”

With the facility peculiar to her, Princess Elizabeth learnt Swedish, and could soon read “Tegner’s Frithjofsage” and the beautiful poems of Runeberg in the original. The Princess of Wied had spent three months in Sweden with her daughter. On the way back they visited Copenhagen and Friedrichsborg, and stayed some days with their relations at Arolsen. There Princess Elizabeth was a peculiar favourite of her cousins of Waldeck, and her appearance at Arolsen gave the signal to endless rejoicings.

Princess Elizabeth had scarcely returned to Monrepos with her mother when the Grand Duchess HÉlÈne called her niece to her side at Heidelberg. In November of 1868 she spent three most enjoyable weeks there. The recollections of this time were so deep and lasting that Princess Elizabeth, then Princess of Roumania, mentions it nine years after with such life and freshness as if years and great changes had not come over her meanwhile. We will here give that part of a letter written from Bucharest in May 1877:—

“How beautiful it must now be in Heidelberg! Have I not spent almost the happiest three weeks of my life there with my aunt and so many distinguished people. A gathering of great thinkers, Kirchhoff, Friedreich, Bluntschli, Treitschke, Gervinus, and Helmholtz in one drawing-room! Besides which Joachim with his heavenly violin, and Frau Joachim with her voice like a mountain torrent. An evening for the gods! and then those walks with FrÄulein von Rahden, those dreams in the ruins. How they seemed to teem with life and flitting forms, with banquets and fair women. Indeed those were visions worthy of the gods! Of course we were often wet through, but I think the rain belongs to Heidelberg as the dew to flowers. You should read the ‘Trompeter’ together, that suits there, ‘Frau Aventiure,’ and ‘Gaudeamus.’ One must become as jolly as the students, drink wine and lounge, in order to be in the right spirit for Heidelberg: then it is a magic circle, a land of dreams, such as weary wayfarers may long for. You breathe so freely in the warm damp air.”

With these bright impressions the year 1868 closed. The next year was to be one of great importance for Princess Elizabeth. But although her immediate future shaped itself in an unexpected manner, it found her prepared for it as to an object towards which the genius of her life was tending. We have interwoven many extracts of Princess Elizabeth’s letters in the course of our narrative, because a natural and unsought for likeness of her is thus developed. Her words are a picture of her inner and outer life according to the impression made upon her mind at the time. She describes the effects of what she experienced more than the causes, but these effects are not problematic states of mind, but strong and lasting impressions, which take root in a nature rich in refined feelings, and increase its wealth. And there is one theme which traverses this inner life and shows itself even there, where it is not openly mentioned—an all pervading principle, which has the strength to avoid and to overcome the two dangers which beset the life of a daughter of a Prince. One danger is that she may give herself up to the enjoyment of her exalted rank; the other that intellectual pursuits are undertaken in a dilettanti spirit and become superficial. There is only one safeguard to these two dangers, and that is duty and labour. The duty of a Prince is to rule—that is the highest form of education. Now we read in the letters of Princess Elizabeth even there, where she does not say so in so many words: “I wish to have a profession.” She meant the profession of a teacher, and she received one of a Princess and a Queen!