The poetical talents of Queen Elizabeth, which she was so anxious to hide from public view, have proved beneficial to her vocation as mother of her country. A critic might perhaps object to the absence of strict rules in her poetry, but we rejoice to find such originality in thought and feeling. The royal lady writes of what she has thought and felt in a vivid and life-like manner. A desire to communicate her feelings to others induces her to write poetry. She says,—“When a thought takes possession of me, it is not that I will, but I must put it into words, and insert it in a poem, or it leaves me no peace. How often have I bitterly bewailed my poetic talent, and rebelled against Providence for placing such a burden upon my shoulders; and now I know that it is my greatest happiness, and a blessing to me which can also give pleasure to others. My greatest wish is to write in such a manner that all may think they have written it themselves. I do not wish to be anything more than the voice which clothes the truth in acceptable forms and takes all its harshness from it. Thus I can ease many a heart of its burden, and what happiness it is to show the beauties of truth, to realise and represent the beautiful.

“The outer forms of what one writes have only to do with what one has learnt. The ideas have to be lived through, and can only be based on the past experiences which formed one’s character. This is my comfort when I tremble lest my talent should come to an end. It is not at an end, for I yet live and learn. How often I have struggled against writing anything down for weeks and months. But it holds me as a spell till it is written down. Then I forget it, and so utterly and entirely that I often do not even recognise my own thoughts. After all, writing is only a discharge of electricity. But the battery cannot be properly replenished when the body is weakened. Every carefully finished work is a step upon which one can set one’s foot firmly and safely in order to rise higher. This can only be, of course, if one’s whole powers, one’s best self is put into the work. As one cannot give to one’s labour more than one has, every intellectual power we have attained to should tell in our work and make itself felt. People have said that sorrow made me a poetess. But that is not so. Poetry is quite independent of the outer world, of sickness or trial. I never know what I shall write a week hence. I like to be surprised. But when an idea takes hold of me, I do not get rid of it even for years until it is written down. I have never had time, and if all my ideas were not clear in my head before I take up my pen, they would never see the light.”

The Princess has called the little volume in which she has rendered the treasures of National Roumanian poetry in German “Roumanian Poetry,” and has thus introduced it to her Fatherland. A collection of the poems of O. Alecsandri, Bolintenu, Candianu, Popescu, Cretzanu, Eminescu, Konaki, Negruzzi, Scherbanescu, and Torceanu are here rendered in their own metre, and treated in a manner which brings out the characteristics of each poet.

“I did not think of publishing my translations of Roumanian poetry when I wrote them. It was Frau Mite Kremnitz who took them from me by force years after. They appeared in a paper under the pseudonym of E. Wedi, and later, in 1878, also in the magazine of Foreign Literature. Still I cannot get over the dreadful feeling of being dragged before the world even under the disguise of E. Wedi. That is the only thing that spoils my pleasure.”

A ballad, “Virful cu Dor” (The Heights of Longing), was set to music in 1876, and was performed on the stage of the National Theatre at Bucharest, and afterwards at various other places. The Queen wrote to her mother from Sinaia in September 1875:—

“I have written a libretto from the old legend of “Virful cu Dor,” for which Lubitz has composed the music. It is a little ballad, which is very effective with its choruses, solos, and duets, and it could be represented with tableaux vivants as well. It gives the songs of the Spirits of the Mists in the third canto—the rushing of wind announces the coming of Spring. The trees and the brooks awake from their slumbers. Yesterday we finished arranging the “Song of the Wind” for a bass voice, and it is so poetical that the poem is placed in a new light. I write the words out for you, as they are a poem by themselves. I have given the most beautiful ideas to my friend the West Wind—

Whilst still a Princess, Carmen Sylva had written a French comedy, “Revenans et Revenus,” for the society of Bucharest. She also put down many very deep and often very philosophical aphorisms in French at that time. These were not intended for publication at first. When the Queen was induced to put these pages in the hands of Herr Ulbach she hesitated at first. But he kept looking up at her whilst he was reading and repeated—“Oh! mais c’est trÈs fort, mais c’est vraiment trÈs fort, celÁ!” and begged for a copy. Later they were published at Paris with the title “PensÉes d’une Reine,” with an introduction by Ulbach. In the spring of 1888 a new, improved, and enlarged edition was published there, to which the Academy accorded a prize. This consists of a gold, a silver, and a bronze coin which bear the title of the work thus crowned, “Les PensÉes d’une Reine,” with the date of 1888. They contain rich treasures of deep thought, as for instance—

“Les comÈtes et les grands hommes laissent une trainÉe de lumiÈre dans laquelle s’agite une foule d’atÔmes.”

“Beaucoup de gens ne critiquent que pour ne pas paraÎtre ignorans. Ils ignorent que l’indulgence est la marque de la plus haute culture.”

“La souffrance est une lourde charrue, conduite par une main de fer. Plus le sol est ingrat et rebelle, plus elle le dÉchire, plus il est riche, plus elle s’enfonce.”

“La nuit tout est de feu, les Étoiles, les pensÉes et les larmes.”

On an occasion in Bucharest during which there was a display of fireworks, this aphorism suddenly appeared in letters of flame, to the great surprise of the Queen.

In years of deep sorrow the first chapters of “The Pilgrimage of Sorrow,” “Sappho,” “Hammerstein,” “Over the Waters,” and “Shipwreck” appeared. The four last mentioned poems were published together, and called “Storms.” Carmen Sylva dedicates this work “To the unseen heroism of women,” with the following poem—

“I was much hurried whilst writing ‘Hammerstein’ and ‘Sappho,’ for I always thought that death would overtake me before their completion. I wrote ‘Sappho’ because I was angry with Grillparzer, for I thought that a noble and elevated feeling should act upon so grand a character as that of Sappho. Instead of making a noble and elevated character out of this struggling and suffering woman, the poet thought he had a right to desecrate her. It seemed to me unworthy of her to throw herself into the sea because she had been deceived. It was more natural and poetical to sacrifice herself for her child. It is characteristic of me that I cannot regard what is termed ‘Love’ as the motive power of all actions.

“Sappho lived in Sicily, surrounded by young girls, to whom she taught the art of poetry. I have amused myself in making portraits of my maids of honour.”

Carmen Sylva read the poem, in which she had depicted the sad trials of the life of Sappho, to the young friends around her.

LaÏs, the daughter of Sappho, loves Memnon, the man to whom Sappho has given her heart. This tragic circumstance hastens her end. The death of her daughter puts an end to Sappho’s love to Memnon. By moonshine she wanders to the sea, and raising her lyre high above her head, breaks it, and throws the pieces into the foaming waters. Memnon calls to her—

Sappho leaves Sicily. In Lesbos, where Memnon reigns, she intends to throw herself into the sea.

The poetic narrative ends with this poem.

The story of Hammerstein lies in Germany, in the Middle Ages, during the war between Henry IV. and his son Henry.

Since her earliest youth the Queen had carried about with her the idea of a poem about Hammerstein. “Many hours,” she writes, “have I spent dreaming amongst the ruins and gazing over the Rhine. Then I seem to hear the old Kaiser knocking at the door, and see the gloomy Count who cursed his beautiful daughters.” Some lovely songs, such as the following, for instance, are interwoven in the narrative:—

“To publish my own writings,” says the Queen, “would never have entered into my head, had they not passed from one to another and been copied endlessly. So I came to the conclusion at last that if they are worth such tedious work as copying, they were worthy of being printed. Whether my writings are praised or criticised in the world is of as little moment to me as if it did not concern myself. But when I read my poems to others, I am pleased if they produce the impression I desire. This is also a very safe criterion as to their truth and clearness. I should be delighted if my poems were sung without any one knowing whose composition they are.”

The Queen now made up her mind to give way to the entreaties of those around her, and to let her poems “Sappho” and “Hammerstein” be privately printed. In 1882 “The Enchantress” appeared, to which a statue of Carl Caner had inspired her. “My fundamental idea,” writes the Queen, “is that purity overcomes passion or the demon, but it costs her her life. It is death to fight against the forces of nature!” The poetess, with her rich fancy, has made the statue seem alive.

He sings the song which has so often been set to music:—

DÄmona, the enchantress, is gifted with a beauty which kills and destroys. A youth beholds her suddenly as she appears on a lonely height, and falls desperately in love with her. Lightning flashes from her shining golden hair, but the idea of being loved by an innocent being charms her fancy. The hunter has tracked her to her winter palace of ice by the sea. She is overcome by his passionate love for her, and sinks into his arms. At that moment the icy building gives way and falls to pieces, and they are buried in the deep.

In “Jehovah” Carmen Sylva has endeavoured to represent the doubt, Does God exist or not? which is for ever struggling in the mind of man. Ahasuerus desires to trace all things to their origin. He regards eternal life as a curse. His vocation is accomplished if he can attain to knowledge.

He seeks God in art, in his own restless activity, in the passion of love, in the desire of possession, &c. But everywhere the answer comes, “God is not here.” At last he realises God in the eternal laws of nature. Then death comes and releases the believer.

“Jehovah” was translated into French verse in 1887 by HÉlÈne Vacaresco, a youthful poetess.

“The Pilgrimage of Sorrow,” a cycle of fairy tales, also appeared in 1882. The poetic fancy of Carmen Sylva has here treated the question, “Whence and for what reason do sorrow and suffering come?” symbolically, and placed it in fairy tales. “To live is to suffer, but two faithful comforters remain at your side during the fight and help you to endure. They are termed Patience and Labour.” This is the leading idea of this poem. The royal lady possesses a wonderful power of representing the deepest feelings of the heart, which only those can do who have gone through all phases of suffering. She has a fellow-feeling for all who strive and struggle, and can realise and deeply sympathise with the sufferings of humanity.

When Queen Elizabeth began to write the “Fairy Tales of the Pelesch,” she wrote the following poem in her journal:—

These “Fairy Tales” were published in 1883, entitled “From Carmen Sylva’s Kingdom,” and were given to the school children as a prize book in their Roumanian translation.

In the introduction the authoress addresses the people of her Roumanian kingdom in her character of mother of her country, and says to her children—

“Through the Centuries” is the name of the second volume of “From Carmen Sylva’s Kingdom” (1887). They are fairy tales and ballads told in prose, and taken from the Roumanian national poetry. “They are history, legends, ballads, and novels (but all true ones) together,” writes the Queen. “It begins with the fall of Decebal, and ends with the taking of Widdin.”

Heroes and heroic deeds are here brought before us in disconnected tales. We read of the fall of the Datian Prince Decebal, of times when the Roman influence was also felt in Roumania, which still lives among the Roumanian people in songs and traditions. We gaze into the Middle Ages and hear of Stephen the Great, as well as the Legend of Manole, the architect of the Cathedral of Curtea de Arges, which is told with such marvellous simplicity, and others. We meet with figures of heroic women, such as the Mother of Stephen the Great, Decebal’s daughter, Andrada, Fausta, Neaga. The ballads also describe later episodes, which, being on elevating or touching subjects, have been taken up by the people.

“When I let all my characters die,” writes the Queen, “I am only like nature, in which everything ends with death. There is nothing in this world which has any other ending than death. It is such a peaceful feeling when they have ceased to struggle, and the poor soul is at rest. Decebal’s end is as historically true as most histories.

“The third volume will contain legends of birds or flowers, amongst which ‘Jochen Spatz’ belongs to Roumania. I was asked to write a page in the album which is dedicated to the memory of Fritz Reuter, and sent this fairy tale of the people.”

Later the royal lady composed a highly poetical libretto for the opera. It treats of an episode in the life of the Roumanian people, and is called Neaga. The Swedish composer HallstrÖm has set it to music. The subject of the poem, “A Prayer,” was also taken from life, having occurred to a priest.

The Queen writes French poetry with ease. In the spring of 1883 the “FÉlibres,” an alliance of authors and learned men in the South of France which had in view the resuscitation of Provence and its poetry, induced the Queen to answer in the same strain. The royal pair were spending a few weeks at Sestri Ponente at that time. Thither the FÉlibres de Lar sent her Majesty a sonnet in the old language of Provence, containing the poetic invitation to visit them in the sunny land of the Troubadours. Without much reflection Queen Elizabeth answered them in the following poem, which we give here as a proof of the wide range of her talent:—

RÉPONSE DE S. M. LA REINE ELISABETH DE ROUMANIE AU CAPISCOL.

MONSIEUR J. B. GANT, POUR LES FÉLIBRES DE LAR.

We will also mention the two newest works of Carmen Sylva that were published at Christmas 1883. First we will tell of a little book of novelettes, termed “Etchings.” It contains sketches and pictures from life, which bear the technical titles of the work of the artist, such as Engravings, Chalk Drawings, Wood Engravings, &c. “In my eyes,” says the royal lady, “novelettes are for the poet what studies of heads are for the artist, and the aphorisms are the slight sketches in the sketch-book.” Almost at the same time the large collection of poems termed ‘My Rest’ appeared.

Amongst them are poetic idylls reverting to the twelve months of the year. A collection of poems belong to each of these, some of which are written in the form of epic poems or romances, others in lyric, epigrammatic, or didactic form. Most of the ballads are taken from life. In these forms the poetic genius and intellectual power of Carmen Sylva appear to their greatest advantage, and we find many cheerful songs in this rich collection. “The Post,” a Roumanian picture, vivid with life and colour, is particularly charming. It runs thus:—

And also this poem—

BETRAYED.

We have only been able to give a few leaves from the forest of Carmen Sylva’s songs. We will now close the picture of the surprising creative power of our authoress with the last verses of her poem “Carmen.” She here addresses her readers and says—

In the second edition “My Rest” appeared in small single volumes, i.e.—1. “Heights and Depths;” 2. “Worldly Wisdom;” 3. “Mother and Child;” 4. “Ballads and Romances.”

“My Rhine” was new poetry. Under this title Carmen Sylva brought out in 1884 a poetical description of the towns and castles of her native Rhine. Artistic illustrations and etchings of the landscapes adorn each poem.

“It Knocks.” “Between whiles I have written a little novel of 100 pages,” writes the Queen, “because a poor boy came to beg me to give his father some editing to do. They were so badly off, he said, and he wished to surprise his parents with a manuscript of mine. I think it is the best thing I have written, all the more as it is quite true, and I have only created the framework. If one is not too discreet, real life offers more than the creatures of one’s imagination.

“I do not think it makes a difference in the work if the donnÉe is true or not. All is true which is true inwardly, for all has happened, and the novelist has only to disentangle the thread and show why it has happened. It is tremendously hard work for body and mind.”

“My Book.” An Egyptian picture-book with drawings from Egypt round the borders, and facsimile poems of Carmen Sylva (1885).

“From Two Worlds.” A novel by Carmen Sylva, written in joint authorship with Frau Mite Kemnitz, nÉe Bardeleben, and brought out in 1885 under the pseudonym of “Ditto” and “Idem.” In the form of letters and journals a love story is here developed between two persons of different social standing. The young Princess Ulrike von Grosreichenstein takes a fancy to a Professor of History in Greifswald, whose principal work she has read. She writes to him of her passionate admiration. The correspondence leads to a personal meeting and deep love. Thereupon follows a scene, a love match, a terrible catastrophe, and at last the noble family, so proud of its descent, is conciliated to the unalterable facts. It is not the description of real life, but the different manner of thinking and looking at things, in which the interest of “In Two Worlds” is centred. The letters of Princess Ulrike are by “Ditto” (Carmen Sylva), while “Idem” (Mite Kremnitz) originated the Professor.

“Astra,” a novel by Ditto and Idem (1886). The places described in this novel are in the immediate neighbourhood of Roumania. The habits of the people and the country are here described with great exactness and in a lively manner. Astra goes on a visit to her sister, who is married to a country gentleman of the province of Bukowina. Sandor becomes enamoured of the “Will o’ the Wisp,” his graceful sister-in-law. This leads to a conflict which ends tragically. Here also the epistolary form is chosen. While the dramatis personÆ let us see the innermost thoughts of their hearts, the development of their characters is clearly unfolded. Carmen Sylva gave the following answer to some ladies who had written to inquire if the unhappy being depicted in Astra had really lived, and whether the novel was based on truth.

“21st July 1836.—A good novel must, according to my convictions, never be anything but an imaginary biography. You have only to put together the contrasts of which every life really consists. You would hardly believe of how many thousands of prisms a human being is made up. He is a regular kaleidoscope. As you turn him, he assumes a different aspect. The motive power of the experience and impressions is the principal thing. Words spring out of this of themselves.

“Astra is perhaps a vague recollection of a charming creature whom I always called my Will o’ the Wisp, and who to my eternal sorrow had the same fate as them all, though this is not in any way like the little Astra. Margot is the creation of my fellow-worker, Frau Mite Kremnitz, who had the death-scenes plainly before her mind, though every one was against it. As to Sandor, we are afraid that he really exists, though, of course, he is not quite the same. We may not be so indiscreet as to paint portraits, but the brain is too good a photographic plate not to take hold of what we have experienced and to reproduce it to a certain extent, whilst we are thinking that we are working from imagination alone.

“Our working together is certainly charming. What talks and what sharp encounters we have when we separate of an evening, and during the night a new solution has appeared to every one. This then must be the right one! Still we surprise one another in its execution. Our first book was called ‘From Two Worlds.’ Since ‘Astra’ we have written a novel, ‘It was a Mistake.’ It appeared in 1886, first in “Nord und SÜd,” when we often took the pen out of each other’s hands and let the other write on.

“There is another book in print, ‘The Century,’ which is very good. It is a novel by Ditto and Idem, describing the time of the French War of 1870. We have already a new book on the brain which is to be called “Brother and Sister,” and to which we look forward with the joy of children, and whose tragical moments we dread already, before the first word is written, for we must pay dearly for it when we dive into the depths of the heart. We cannot do this without suffering great pain. And with what anxiety does one ask oneself at every line, ‘Is that true?’ As if one stood before a judge and bore a tremendous responsibility! For nothing can give authors more pleasure than that that which comes from the heart should touch the hearts of others. A book of 300 pages has already lain by for four years, because I have not the courage to bear all the trials which my characters have to suffer, and yet I cannot but write what I know to be true.”

“Mistaken”—tales of Ditto and Idem of which most of the circumstances were taken from life. Amongst other things the story of the funeral during the snowstorm is most touching. The pathetic and yet so simple a story of love and death, as well as the description of the terrible storm, are here recounted with marvellous artistic power.

“Seventeen Songs of the Artisans,” by J.E. Bowen, were translated into English, and appeared in the Prize Number of the Independent in New York in 1887. There they will also appear as a small book.

“The Fishers of Iceland,” by Pierre Loti, translated into German by Carmen Sylva. From a letter of the Queen, 5th September 1887:—

“I should like to do all I can to bring the two nations together, and make use of everything and everybody for that purpose, for I have a sort of fixed idea that the Germanic and Latin races should complete one another. I am now doing something that is to further this object: I am translating the most beautiful book of modern times, ‘Les PÊcheurs d’Islande,’ by Pierre Loti, into German. This is quite a new sort of work, which gives me infinite pleasure. It seems to flow from my pen. I began it on the 26th of August, and hope to have finished it in five days, for I have already translated two hundred sheets, and have only one hundred more to do. It is so wonderfully beautiful that I rejoice or weep during my work, and enjoy every sentence. It is an epic poem in prose, simple, grand, and true. In translating I enjoy the pleasure of producing something, and feel no despair, only pleasure. How wonderfully beautiful this book is! I feel as if I had made great progress by reading Pierre Loti. A good book is better for one than the most severe criticisms, for one can see for oneself what is beautiful and what is badly written.

“The fishers of Iceland are a part of the people of the coast of Bretagne who have fished in the Arctic Seas for generations. This dangerous but remunerative business descends from father to son. It demands great sacrifices from the ranks of the Bretagne fishermen year by year. The heroes of the novel, as well as the other characters, are all types of people, strong and natural characters, which are not spoilt by the disturbing influences of civilisation. With the eyes of an artist Pierre Loti has observed the natural phenomena and the changing lights of those northern regions, and has represented them to us with the soul of an artist.”

The Queen has translated this book with the same feelings as though it were her own creation. The descriptions of nature, the storm on the sea, the simple life of a fisherman, each separate picture in miniature is rendered word for word in the short and precise style of Pierre Loti. The touching story reads like a German poem. Carmen Sylva has artistically accomplished the task of giving the individuality of the author with a breath of his feelings in another language.

To Augustus Bungert.

“I am always being preached at to keep quiet and cool while I am at work, but this is of no use—the fury is there! The next day I look upon what is finished so coldly, and as if it were the greatest horror, whilst I cannot take my eyes off when I am at work. If only each work were not a piece of one’s life, as Daudet so beautifully describes it in ‘L’homme a la cervelle d’or,’ in the ‘Lettres de mon moulin.’”

Two fairy tales are in preparation, “The Labours of the Pelesch,” a sort of allegory; “The Strange Adventures of the Gipsy Didica;” and “Songs of the Artisans.”

From letters of the Queen to Augustus Bungert, 18th February 1888:—

“‘The Songs of the Artisans’ are a splendid work for me. I have the idea, and call the whole story ‘Waldvogel’s Songs,’ while the fairy tale of Prince Waldvogel, which I have had in my head for years, appears at the same time, as if he had sung all the songs. It must be brought down to modern times, or I shall not be up to the Artisans. It will be called ‘Love Songs of the Artisans in Wood and Field.’ One hundred and thirty songs are already composed, and there are about twenty more to arrange. But the electric current is broken sometimes, and I do not so easily find it again. If I can keep to my work, one thought leads to another, and I cannot write them down as fast as they come. But the object of laying by what is written is that what is not good is eradicated later. But I should be able to talk over all these things, for I have no judgment as to what is good or bad. What is gone is gone! When I have painted something I turn its face to the wall so as not to see it again. I never open what is once printed, but go on, and on.

“This winter I have also made a plot for a tragedy, ‘Meister Manole.’ But I want a quiet time to write it in. I have also a long poem, ‘Nemesis,’ in my head, and the beginning of four novels. But what appears to me the best does not strike others so. It is lucky that amongst ten persons each one thinks a different poem the best.

“As to the great poem which I have still to write, I often have the feeling that it will come one day, but not by doing nothing. A day of rest is nearly a misfortune to me. I have at once the feeling of being unable to work. It is quite childish! I feel as if I were drifting into the sea, into infinite space in deepest melancholy, and could not find any firm footing! Just try how you feel when you have not written anything for two days. Certainly I have not yet composed a Nausikaa, and cannot rest on my laurels, but am constantly incited by the feeling of not having done anything yet.”

Most of the works of the Queen are already translated into various languages, or are being translated. Many of her poems have also been set to music.

Augustus Bungert, the poet and composer of Tetralogy, the World of Homer, Nausikaa, the Return of Odysseus, &c., has edited the finest poems from “The Witch,” “My Rest,” and “Songs of the Artisans,” and called them “Poems of a Queen;” as well as “My Rhine,” “Dramas in Songs,” “Kalafat,” &c. HallstrÖm, Reinecke, Gounod, and Madame Augusta HolmÈs in Paris have arranged Carmen Sylva’s poems as songs.

Before the year comes to an end the ever-restlessly working imagination of the royal poetess will have created new works which we are unable to mention here.