The Life of Carmen Sylva (Queen of Roumania)

VIII.
Maternal Joy and Sorrow.

The Princess had begun her new life in her new home with illness. Only her wonderful energy had enabled her to bear the fatigues of her public reception whilst labouring under great physical discomfort. On the third day after her public entrance the Princess was attacked by the measles, though fortunately only slightly, and the illness was not of long duration. After the great excitement of the last weeks the enforced quiet could only be desirable. How happy the Princess felt in her new surroundings a little poem shows which she inscribed in her Journal on the 12th of December 1869:—

After her recovery the first expedition the Princess made was to Cotroceni, which is situated on a height at ten minutes’ distance from Bucharest. It is an old monastery, surrounded by a thickly wooded park, which the Prince had arranged as a country house for the summer. Not far off, beyond the green trees, the shining domes of the Asyle Hélène, an educational establishment for young orphan girls, are seen. From this height the view of Bucharest is also very fine. This is nearer to the town than the station, and the coming and going in the wood-paved streets can be distinctly perceived. Women in their dazzlingly white linen and embroidered garments are seen busily painting their cottages white and their windows red and blue. These cottages are roofed with wooden tiles, and lie scattered between the gorgeous palaces of the Boyards. Under the willows and alders on the banks of the Dimbovitza lie magnificent buffaloes, idly resting, and half lost to view in the deep mud and the green foliage. Only their expressive faces with their immense horns are still visible. Carriages drawn by eight and sometimes twelve little horses rush by at full gallop. A boy guides them with one hand. His fiery glances and his fur cap placed on one side of his head lead one to gather that he is not of a sort to stop at any danger. Carmen Sylva has drawn a lively picture of these characteristics of the Roumanian coachman in her poem called “The Post.” Here artistic ideas meet one at every turn, for amidst such surroundings everything groups itself into a picture, especially during the oriental sunsets, the glowing colours of which blend harmoniously.

Now the life of duty which her exalted station imposed upon her began for the Princess—“It is only in Roumania that something remains to be done,” she had exclaimed in fun. And now she stood face to face with her coveted sphere. A large field of labour, till now uncultivated, lay before her. The first thing was to become acquainted with the soil and its resources. In this the large Court receptions could not help her. Consequently Princess Elizabeth had arranged that each lady who wished to pay her respects at Court was to be separately received by her. Being exceptionally free from prejudice, she now learnt to understand the true worth of people, and to realise what they thought and felt. “It was too disagreeable to me,” she said, “to have to say things during the State receptions which I did not really mean. In order not to be false, I endeavoured to feel the interest which I expressed. Every human being is in want of sympathy. And now every one interests me, and I find them all interesting. Consequently I do not now find the audiences tiresome; on the contrary, I look forward to them. The smallest thing I do must be done with my whole heart if it is to succeed, and the least thing I am will require all my power if I am to be anything.”

The beginning of the year 1870 brought with it many tears. There were many conflicts and confusions in the Administration. The Franco-German War having been declared, her brother, Prince William of Wied, had responded to the call of his country, and received an officer’s commission in the general staff of the army corps. His mother, his bride, and his sister trembled for his life. But he passed through the field of battle unscathed, and was decorated with the iron cross as a reward of his valour. On the 7th of September Princess Elizabeth received a letter from Prince William, written from Sedan, with the news of victory. At noon on the following day, the 8th of September, twenty-one salvos of artillery announced to the inhabitants of Bucharest that a daughter was born to their princely house. A few hours later the Metropolitan appeared in full dress. He held the sacred Ikon over the mother and the child in its cradle, blessed them with holy water, and repeated the customary prayers.

The new-born Princess was baptized into the orthodox Greek Church, and received the name of “Marie.” The news of the event was received with great joy through the country—“God bless the new citizen of Roumania, and may she grow up to be the joy of her parents and a blessing to her country.” This was the devout wish of many thousands of people. The tiny Princess became forthwith almost the most important personage in the whole of Roumania. Every one was interested in her welfare, and she seemed to belong to all, for she was born in the country.

Princess Elizabeth was intensely devoted to her beloved child. She was filled with the sacred feeling of happy motherhood. The radiant eyes of her child changed the face of the world to her. She had a still deeper sympathy for the sorrows of others, and their happiness became but a reflection of her own. As a recollection of this time she wrote in her Journal at a later date the following poem, entitled

MOTHER.

There is also another poem with the title—

MY OLD AND NEW HOME.

When the little Princess, who called herself “Itty,” first called her “mother,” the Princess wrote—

A WORD.

But whilst this treasure of the princely house flourished and grew in its nurseries, there was much trouble in the country. The Strousberg railway affairs became a great difficulty to the Prince. He employed every means in his power to arrange the matter according to the best interests of Roumania. A crisis in the ministry necessitated a change of Cabinet. A revolution broke out in Bucharest. The Prince would have resigned, but his steadfast calmness impressed the passionate and excitable people of Roumania; the stormy political waves were gradually subdued, and the work for the country proceeded quietly once more.

Meanwhile Princess Elizabeth diligently studied the Roumanian language. Her knowledge of Latin and Italian were a good foundation for the idiom of the country, and she soon overcame all difficulties. She is now entirely mistress of the Roumanian language, and the Roumanians proudly declare that their Queen speaks it better than themselves, as she forms her sentences with peculiar exactness. In the year 1871 the first society for the relief of the poor was founded by Princess Elizabeth, and soon after a society for the translation of children’s books. “There are absolutely no Roumanian books for the schools and the people,” Princess Elizabeth wrote to her mother. “I will undertake this. I have already divided my best French children’s books amongst the young ladies, and have gained the interest of some gentlemen. The poet Alexandri will criticise and correct the translations, which are then to be quickly and cheaply printed. In this manner the language itself will become more fixed, and the young people, who do not speak their own language correctly, will learn it to perfection. It is curious how zealously the people take up this idea. They regard it as a safeguard against the revolutionary ideas of the young people, who now discuss nothing but politics. Politics excite the people here to such an extent that men, women, and even children have no other interests. General Florescu is the most eager in furthering my plans, and thinks that if I interest more people in this movement it would have a good influence on society. Private theatricals and concerts also awake more noble ambitions. Societies for relieving the poor, for translating and teaching, everything is arranging itself by degrees.”

In April 1871 the Prince travelled with his consort through Moldavia to Jassy, that she might also learn to know this part of her country. The journey resembled a triumphal procession, and their reception was brilliant and hearty everywhere. At all the greater places deputations and petitions were received, the customary bread and salt presented, and a Te Deum heard in the church. The Princess writes—“It is impossible to imagine such enthusiasm and the cheers given by thousands. Our time in Jassy was filled up with audiences, visits to churches and schools, expeditions to the neighbouring monasteries, &c. Joyful enthusiasm prevailed among all the people.”

On her return the Princess wrote to her mother—“How shall I describe to you the magnificent country through which we drove, our eight horses with postillions cracking their whips and shouting, the three or four hundred peasants who accompanied ventre à terra, their mantles of white goat’s hair streaming in the wind, and their high, white fur caps on their heads! What shall I say about the nice people in Moldavia, and of the proud feeling it was to hear on every railway line, on every bridge and highroad, that my husband had had it made, and then to gallop onward! And then returning here, after thousands had greeted us, again to clasp the best beloved amongst all those thousands, healthy and blooming, in my arms!” Does not untold happiness resound in these words? And now the Princess of Wied was soon expected, a pleasure which Princess Elizabeth and her husband were eagerly looking forward to. In July 1871 the wedding of Prince William of Wied had been celebrated at the Hague. A few weeks later the Princess of Wied first visited her children at Bucharest, and held her first grandchild in her arms. Bright happiness filled their hearts and their home.

For the health of the little Princess it became desirable to spend the summer with her in mountain and forest air. It is the only remedy against the attacks of fever to which every one is subjected soon or later in the Roumanian plains. From this time the Prince resided in the Carpathians in the summer. There in the valley of the Prahova, two thousand nine hundred feet high, upon a precipitous rocky mountain, stands the monastery of Sinaia. A Prince Cantacuzéne had built and named it after the Temple on Mount Sinai. It had been used till then as a Hospice for the many caravans of ox-carts which, laden with maize, proceed day and night almost uninterruptedly over the mountain paths to Transylvania. The peaks of the Carpathians tower in fantastic forms behind the monastery. Carmen Sylva has enriched them with poetic legends in her poems. First comes Virful-cu-Dor (the Heights of Longing), then Furnica, Piatre Arsa, the two Jipi which arise like the teeth of a giant. The deafening waterfall Urlatoare (the Howling One) rushes down to the Prahova valley, and the Omul and Caraiman, eight thousand nine hundred feet in height, stand dark and threatening with their mighty rocks.

These are all names which we have learnt to know and love through the “little book” from Carmen Sylva’s “Kingdom.” Huge mountains crowned with verdure stretch into the plain. Their feet are clothed with forests of beech and oak, whilst their heights are covered with fir-trees. From the monastery you attain the deep solitude of a forest which is here as beautiful as a dream. Gigantic old trees rear their branches to heaven. If one falls, oppressed with the weight of years, it is allowed to remain there till, covered with creepers and moss, it completes the woodland scenery, and young trees grow out of the mouldering trunk. Ferns and orchids of endless varieties and unusual height delight the friend of nature. In this magnificent vegetation every foot of land is covered with multitudes of botanic species, one might say the history of the forest. The most beautiful flowers of the Alps, Edelweiss and Almenrausch, are found on the heights of the foremost mountains. Not far from the monastery the Pelesch casts itself down from Bucegi to the valley below in a foaming waterfall, “wildly escaping from its bounds as if it would take the world by storm.” Its seething waves flow down endlessly, and the river winds hither and thither, and has often devastated the country in its course. It is a beautiful and ever varying picture of steep mountains, shady valleys, and running brooks.

The white walls of the monastery welcome the wanderer from afar. The one-storied building is of very humble dimensions, and surrounds the square court of the monastery, which is devoid of any ornament, and in the centre of which a church stands. The inhabited part is ornamented with wooden arcades, and old Byzantine paintings still adorn the outside walls. Thirty monks, types of the eastern clergy, here enjoy in peaceful repose the blessings of this pious institution. Half of this humble habitation had been allotted to the Prince. Lightly built additions in fir wood had been made to the principal building in order to make it at all habitable. If the banner of Roumania had not waved over the entrance, and sentries paced up and down the verandahs, one could easier imagine that an artist had made his home here than that this was the residence of a Prince. We can scarcely conceive with what simplicity and content the princely pair here bore the greatest discomfort for many years. The Princess, for instance, heard the ticking of the clock in the neighbouring cell of an old monk in her dressing-room. The monks dined in the refectory; the Prince in a passage which had been arranged as a dining-room. At first provisions arrived from Kronstadt only twice in the week. But no deprivations seemed worth mentioning here, for in Sinaia as in Monrepos was forest air and liberty in which the Princess delighted.

Higher up in the valley, under the shade of high trees, the Prince had built a shooting-box, and surrounded it with a simple garden. Under its roof the Princess arranged a tiny room very artistically. One gazes through coloured windows upon the groups of fir trees of a hundred years’ growth. A simple desk covered with cloth, a pair of chairs, and a low table laden with books, paint brushes, and colours are all its furniture. It is the sanctum of the Princess, to which she retires when the stream of visitors who unceasingly come out to Sinaia have fatigued her. Here she can write, paint, and compose poetry undisturbed.

Scientific men, musicians, and painters are constantly invited to Sinaia, and are often for weeks the guests of the princely pair. Here they lead an ideal life. Intercourse with distinguished people, be they artists or learned or otherwise clever men, is the great delight of the Prince and Princess. They love to gaze, as it were, into the workshop whence thought has sprung, and have a deep regard for the earnestness of labour in art or science. Gaiety and cheerfulness reign in these circles. Often the Princess will read to the assembled company at breakfast a poem she has just completed, that treats of their conversations or the events of the day, with youthful cheerfulness. By noon the winged words have already been set to music by one of the musicians, and presented to the Princess as a duet, trio, or quartette, according to the voices of those present. In the evening these new compositions are performed, and the young people end the day with dances and games.

Long walks and climbing parties are undertaken during the fine weather. Accompanied by the sound of the waves of the restless Pelesch, one climbs along grassy walks into the steep beech woods. In a convenient costume for mountaineering, the Princess, hat in hand, leads the way for the joyous company. She feels at home in the woods or in the mountains: they are her kingdom, and there her fancy is free. The following poem was composed on the 12th of September 1873, under the trees near the shooting-box:—

MY COMRADES.

Here in Sinaia Princess Elizabeth came into direct communication with the people, winning hearts and showering blessings everywhere. In order to encourage native industry she made up her mind to wear the Roumanian national costume during their summer residence in the Carpathians. All the ladies of the Court soon followed her example, and carried out the wish of their sovereign. One could imagine oneself transported into the middle of a fairy tale whilst a troop of lovely ladies, in glittering garments which glow with bright colours, suddenly appear on a hill-side or beside a mountain stream under mighty beech and fir-trees. There are dainty embroideries in gold and silver, golden head-dresses and long flowing veils which are picturesquely bound round the head and neck. The whole of this oriental costume has its charms enhanced by the lively southern temperament of the Roumanian ladies.

Princess Elizabeth has a motherly love and care for her ladies of honour, and leads quite a patriarchal family life with them. She is particularly fond of surrounding herself with young people. Young girls are constantly invited to spend some weeks at Sinaia, where they are allowed to share the laborious life of their mistress, who cannot bear to see any one sitting idle near her. Every one around the Princess must be in a state of constant activity. The pet name of “Whirlwind,” given to her in fun in her childhood, was also applied to her later by a relation. The Princess and her ladies write and read, make music, write poetry, work and paint together. She endeavours to awaken a love of nature in the minds of the young, and to enliven their walks with interesting conversations. The Princess is constant in her endeavours to awaken intellectual interests in her people, and hopes by this serious foundation to overcome the frivolous tone of society, and to train the mothers of the coming generation to a more ideal life. It is a lovely sight to see the Princess, in the becoming dress of the country, sitting under the trees with a circle of young girls around her, some of whom are closely pressed to her. The Princess either reads to them or discusses a charitable institution for the country, and sometimes a plan for a future poem. Then one sees beautiful brown eyes looking up at “Dòamna Elisabeta” with love and admiration. All freely express their thoughts and feelings. The Princess has been compared to the women of the Middle Ages, and called “Anne de Bretagne.” She is indeed a bright example of deep culture and feminine virtues to all women.

The little Princess Marie flourished and grew in this happy circle, and was a charming and peculiarly thoughtful child, as her mother had been. She was, as she is described in Carmen Sylva’s fairy tale, a “sunny child, full of grace and charm.” Happiness and love had been given to her as companions and playfellows. Joy and bliss, which no pen could describe or brush depict, then rained upon her. It was an endless May-day. “The mother watched her daughter’s happy games from a distance, and blessed the earth upon which her child was so radiantly happy.”

The happy time spent amid the solitudes of woods and mountains and in that fine air passed only too quickly. Life in the capital, with its many claims, had to be taken up again, but happiness remained. This feeling is expressed in the month of January 1872, in which the Princess writes to her mother:—“They talk of a costume ball: it amuses me immensely, for I have never seen anything of the sort, and think it must be like a charming fairy tale. We insist upon being young again, and having childish amusements! I am particularly pleased to be able to show that I am no Puritan, and can discuss ‘Chiffons,’ when something pretty is to be arranged. A great many people come to me for advice, as they know that Charles has treasures in the shape of old books and engravings. My quiet reading in the morning consoles me for the cutting up of the day. So I do not give my time to my correspondence, as I must prepare myself in order to help others with good advice, bad Roumanian, studies of costumes, and conversation.”

Meanwhile much illness and constant fever had by degrees so weakened the Princess that a change of air became necessary. In the middle of March she had to start alone for Italy without her husband or child, and attended only by her suite. In Rome she was to meet some relations. Thousands had called after her “Intorceti sanatose” (Return in good health) when she left her country. In May the Princess returned, blooming in recovered health. The Prince had travelled to meet her, and welcomed her on the Danube. “That was a romantic meeting,” she writes. “I was on the Stephen, Charles on the Romania, gay with flags and pennons. We flew towards one another in brilliant sunshine. Both of us were standing on deck watching to see when the other eagerly expected ship should appear. I saw the child two days later in Comana; she is indeed charming. You cannot imagine what a sweet and affectionate little being she is. If she embraces any one she says at once, ‘Make all happy,’ and kisses all present. She is easy to educate, for she is so unhappy when she has done something silly that one has to comfort her. As soon as her heart is appealed to, all obstinacy and contrariness disappear. She is also such a sensible and patient child, and her blue eyes have such a deep gaze. What thoughts dwell behind that high forehead, I wonder, which looks so promising? I think that the love and joy of a mother will remain the same as long as the world stands, and make up to one for all the trials and troubles of life. But earthly happiness must be very delicately handled: it is very easily shattered.”

The Princess of Wied no longer lived at Monrepos with Fräulein Lavater. The Prince of Wied and his bride had made their home there. Only ten minutes’ distance from there, and nearly on the same height, the Princess had had a house built for herself. It is surrounded by woods, and has a beautiful view on the Rhine, the mountains, towns, and villages. After the village of Segendorf, which lies at the foot of the hill, the house of the Princess was called Segen House. By means of the silent, all-pervading spirit of love that reigns there, and the loving and active sympathy of the Princess for all suffering and those who were in need of help, the house soon became a real “Segenhaus” (House of blessing) to all who cross its hospitable threshold. The current of intellectual life has also accompanied the Princess of Wied to her new home.

In the summer of 1873 Princess Elizabeth travelled thither with her little daughter. It was the first time since her marriage that she had seen her German home. The happiness of those weeks which she spent with her mother, her brother and sister-in-law, and the dear old friends in town and country, was unclouded. “Monrepos! Monrepos! the laughing, rustling, and sweet-scenting forest welcomes me, and happy faces peer at me through it. Yes, Monrepos was my Paradise!” She seemed to live through her childhood and youth again with their deep joys and sorrows, inward struggles and ultimate peace. Yes, happiness is not to be found in an eternally blue sky, but in infinitesimally small things out of which we shape our life ourselves.

THE HOME OF MY FATHERS.

With justified maternal pride the mother could gaze on her fair-haired and only little daughter, who became again here the centre of all love and care. On the journey between Mayence and Neuwied the child had repeatedly asked, “Is that mamma’s Rhine?” But the little Princess Marie had, notwithstanding her tender age, an irresistible longing for the country in which she had first seen the light. She was constantly craving to be back again in her distant home, and became nearly ill from home sickness. During the whole journey she kept repeating—“Home, home, let us go home!” When the Roumanian students came to meet them at the station at Vienna, she called out to them in Roumanian, “I am going home to Bucharest with eight horses.”

On the return of the Princess to Roumania, they once more took up their abode in the romantic old monastery of Sinaia. Typhus and scarlet fever were raging in Bucharest. The Princess writes full of anxiety—“Bucharest is in such an unhealthy state that I shall return to it with fear and trembling. Typhus fever and angina reign there supreme. Diphtheria has carried off many of the children. They die in a few hours. I often become as unsettled and melancholy as a dark day in the autumn. Then an interesting person or piece of news comes in, and one brightens up like the dew in the sunshine.”

“22nd November.—It is four years to-day since I arrived in Turnu Severin. Now I see the world here in a different light. The tranquillity which habit brings has come over me, instead of all my fear and trembling. And I feel safer here, and more in my right place, than anywhere else in the world.”

To her Brother.

“Bucharest, 1873.

“People now often come to me to discuss their own affairs and seek for advice, comfort, and help. This makes me very happy, and as I wrote to some one lately: I am beginning to grow to my ideal, which is to become the confidential adviser of the Roumanian State, house, and family. This is a very grateful office, and only in this manner can I become really happy in my intercourse with so many people.

“Yes, my life here is very rich and full. I could not have imagined or wished it otherwise! It had to be attained by great sacrifices, and my endeavour is to make it worthy of them.”

“24th November 1873.—Itty now begins to say such pretty little things. Seeing the bust of her father lately, she exclaimed—‘Oh, look how Jack Frost has fallen on papa.’ She has made great progress in Roumanian this autumn, and sings three Roumanian songs, also a German ditty. All the games of the Kindergarten go very well already.”

“24th March 1874.—Itty has not forgotten any part of her stay in ‘Segenhaus’—no place and no name; and likes to talk of it all. She is a little Will-o’-the-Wisp, in all corners at once, which is a great trial for Mentor, the favourite dog. She makes him nervous, and he struggles to free himself from her embraces. He is not demonstrative, and likes to be left in peace. It is too funny to see them!”

“February 1874.—Diphtheria and scarlet fever are raging in Bucharest. A great many children die. When we mothers meet we ask each other, ‘Are your children still well?’”

The little Princess also had a slight attack of diphtheria, which was soon overcome by speedy remedies. In the course of the winter she asked her mother—“Will the frost come down from the little stars where God lives and make Itty cold?” On Palm Sunday, the 5th of April, she was seized with scarlet fever of very serious symptoms. Diphtheria was soon added to it, and the danger increased every hour. It was impossible to persuade the child to allow herself to be put into her crib. “Oh! no, no!” she sobbed; “if I lie down, I shall go to sleep and never wake again.” During the night of Maunday Thursday, whilst burning with fever, the sweet child repeatedly called out—“I will drive to Sinaia and drink of the water of the Pelesch.” When a cooling drink was offered to her she shook her little head and said—“All is finished!” It was on Maunday Thursday, the 9th of April; the child lay on the lap of its English nurse. Her mother knelt before her, holding her little hands. After violent attacks of suffocation, she breathed once more—then a great silence followed—no breath stirred again.

Till the last moment the Princess had not realised that the bright life of her child was nearing its close. But when all was still, and she grasped the dreadful certainty, she bent with humble resignation before the holy will of God. She herself closed the loved blue eyes of her precious child, then rose quite calm and collected, and thanked the doctors for their faithful care. No words of complaint passed her lips! Her strength remained firm till they placed the body of the child in its little bed.

The tender care of the Prince for his beloved wife was very touching. He was utterly prostrated by the unexpected blow, and earnestly sought for comfort and composure. “God loved my child more than ever I did, and so He has taken it to Himself!” exclaimed the poor mother with wonderful calmness. When the little body was placed in the coffin, and it had been closed over her, the Princess put her hand on it and spoke as in prayer—“God bless my child.” The Prince himself helped to bear the coffin to the staircase of the palace. A troop of young girls from the Asyle Hélène opened the procession, singing the funeral hymn with hushed voices. In their white dresses, long white veils, and wreaths of white flowers, they seemed spirits of light preceding the sunny child to its last resting-place. Not four years had passed since the little Princess had been baptized in the Church of Cotroceni, and now the little coffin stood on the same place covered with flowers. Multitudes of people from the town and the country joined the procession.

Upon the slope of a hill between the Asyle Hélène and the park of Cotroceni lies the little grave, hidden in a wood, near the Church of Elisabeta Dòamna. A low mound with a simple stone marks the place where the princely pair had laid to rest their little daughter who was so passionately loved! On the stone is engraved the consoling words of St. Luke viii. 53: “Weep not, for she is not dead, but sleepeth.” Trees, firs and pines, as well as all sorts of roses and flowers, surround this little sanctum, which is entrusted to the care and protection of the orphan child of the Asyle Hélène. Beside it stands the simple seat as a resting-place.

The sorrow of the parents for the loss of their only child can never be lightened, and will only end with their last breath. But the hope of a heavenly life beyond the grave is the comfort of these bereaved ones!

For many months hundreds of people made pilgrimages to this spot, for the whole country mourned with the afflicted parents. During her short life the little Princess Marie had become the idol of the people, and the Roumanians had looked up to her with pride as being their own possession! All who were allowed to approach the bereaved parents during this time of bitter sorrow were much impressed by their unselfish resignation to the mysterious will of God. When the Princess was given to understand this, she answered—“Dites à leur tous, que je tâche de suivre l’example de ma mère. Je l’ai vue souffrir! Elle était plus forte que moi!”

On the 12th of April 1874, after the death of her child, Princess Elizabeth wrote to her mother:—“God has drawn my child to Himself in His love! May He eternally be praised for the great happiness which was mine! I would rather become a weeping rock like Niobe than never have been a mother! Yes, it is too much joy for one little human heart! My child is so happy, my love is stronger than the grave, and I can rejoice in its joy! There is so much to say about the little one, because she already had such marked characteristics, and was so independent, original, and charming. Still she is mine for all eternity! I have not lost the high dignity of a mother because my child is separated from me. The great happiness which I enjoy is not too dearly bought with this great sorrow! The pain is a thousand times outweighed by the joy, for it was joy without a pang, and now it is joyful pain!

“Yes, God has given me much, very much. Such a father, such a mother, such a brother, such a husband, and such a child. Too much indeed! and though He removes them from my sight He does not take away His heavenly gifts, for they dwell for ever in my memory. I feel that after such great blessings I have no right to complain, and even to-day the joy is so great in retrospection that the sorrow cannot crush me. I often say that a mother’s love is deeper than the grave, and I rejoice in the bliss of my child. But that the world cannot be otherwise than dark and gloomy to me is not to be altered, and must be borne.

“The people here regard it as a great happiness to die on Thursday in holy week, for on that day, they say, Heaven is open, and one flies in. Consequently they regard me as a happy mother, to whom God has granted that for which they ever pray, which is that if He sees fit to take a child, it may die on this Thursday. What a curious coincidence! Even this brings us nearer to the people, for they regard us as so richly blessed. The whole country shows us the greatest sympathy. Our little grave is always covered with wreaths and flowers which are placed there by unknown hands. The girls from the Asyle come singly to the grave in the early morning, say their prayer, bring a little flower, and see that the lamp is still burning. It is a great help to me that I came into a country where so much is done in memory of the dead. Consequently that which lies nearest my heart is all arranged for me. ‘Dimbovitza apa dulce! Cine o bea nu se mai due!’

Shortly before the child had been taken ill, the Princess had suffered much from her eyes, and could now hardly occupy herself at all. It was a great affliction to her to whom work was life! During these sad, dark days she framed the sweet expressions of her child in verses which one cannot read without emotion. The following poem is on the poetical desire of the little Princess to kiss the sunbeams:—