Quiet Life.
“In work, in constant and unwearied labour, we must look for comfort in
sorrow,” says Carmen Sylva, in her tale, “The Pilgrimage of Sorrow.”
This has been truly carried out in her life. Whilst composing those
sorrowful poems in which her unutterable longing for her lost child
is expressed in such touching words, the Princess could become quite
cheerful for a few moments in the recollection of her lost happiness
as a mother. But her health had suffered much from all she had gone
through. The doctors urged a water cure in Franzensbad. Prince Charles
escorted his consort thither in the summer of 1874. In Franzensbad her
pen became more than ever her best friend, and her intellectual labours
brought her comfort and strength.
At first no one in Roumania guessed that Princess Elizabeth was a
poetess. When the Roumanian poet Alexandri once waited upon her at
Bucharest, the Princess said, whilst blushing deeply--“I should like
to make a confession to you, but I have not the courage.” After much
hesitation the Princess whispered shyly--“I also write poetry.” At
Alexandri’s request she let him see some of her poems. He recognised
her poetic talent at once, and encouraged her to go on with what was
but a reflection of her thoughts and feelings. When a time of deep
sorrow came to the Princess, Alexandri wrote many poems for her. He
then sent her a thick volume of his poems to Franzensbad, and she began
to translate the legends of the people of Roumania into German. “In
Franzensbad,” writes the Princess, “the greatest change took place in
my powers of writing poetry. Till then I had not known that poetry was
an art, or that it could be learnt, if one were not a poet by nature.
To learn to make verses seemed to me as if one would teach a bird to
sing. Verses and rhymes flowed more easily from my pen than prose.
I was afraid that if I were to bind myself to rules and regulations
I should forfeit the power of writing verse as a punishment for my
arrogance and conceit. But in the unutterable woe of the spring of
1874 writing poetry brought me no relief. Only consecutive hard work
could soothe me. And so I took to translating. Alexandri’s ‘Rows of
Pearls’ attracted me the most, because Kotzebue in his translation had
completely changed the metre and altered much. Then I suddenly realised
that I did not understand the very elements of the art of poetry. I was
hampered for words and rhymes. This had never happened to me, and my
work was very unsatisfactory. I wanted to ask a hundred questions at
every word, and did not know of whom.”
Thereupon Wilhelm von Kotzebue also came to Franzensbad. He had long
held a diplomatic post in Moldavia, and was well known to the literary
world as a writer. He had also translated the national songs which
Alexandri had collected into German. The Princess now discussed her
translations with him. Kotzebue, an earnest and noble man, showed
and explained to the Princess her faults in the construction of her
verses. Now she had to work by rule and submit to certain laws--“But
in that hour in which a man like Kotzebue thought it worth his while
to criticise my work, I began to believe in my talent.” “I did not
venture,” said the Princess, “to show him an original poem, but only my
first translations of Roumanian poetry. They were very full of faults
and clumsy, because I knew nothing of the science of poetry then,
though I was thirty years old. I altered the ‘Rows of Pearls’ four
times, and once more before it was printed. I never learnt so much as
whilst I was translating. Even for many years after this I regarded
my talent as a misfortune, for I thought it was not suited for my
vocation. Like a child stealing sweetmeats, I always threw away my pen
when some one came into my room.”
“Is it not wonderful?” the Princess writes to her mother. “If heaven
takes my loved ones from me with one hand, it sheds the noblest and
highest treasures upon me with the other, and in what more loving and
attractive manner could I serve my country than in now translating the
literary treasures of my German Fatherland into Roumanian! When I am
not asleep my hands and my head do not rest for a moment, for I break
down utterly otherwise. But constant activity keeps my mind fresh, and
it is only at times that some sweet recollection overpowers me.
“O think not, since my heart is stricken,
All vanished are the joys that quicken!
There yet remains a boundless store--
Though, bereavèd, I may never
Hear a mother’s name for ever,
Thou’rt still ‘my mother’ as before.”
A great longing to see her beloved mother again took possession of the
Princess. The Princess of Wied had been prevented by illness from being
with her daughter during her time of deepest sorrow. When they had last
met, the happy childish voice of the little Princess Marie had been
heard above the others. Now they could only meet in sobs and tears! The
princely pair were to join the Princess of Wied at Cologne, and then to
remain some weeks with her at St. Leonard’s on the English coast.
The Princess writes to the Princess of Wied from Franzensbad on the
19th of July:--“It is good to fill one’s mind with great impressions.
One returns full of thought. I am looking forward to England like a
child. I know what it will be to sit on the shore with you and listen
to the sound of the waves. To see London is also a great attraction.”
“Looking back on this time,” the Princess writes, “it was a great
refreshment to disappear in that vast London. We had never seen Max
Müller till then, but had been often in communication with him, and we
telegraphed to him that we were coming to Oxford. He received us at
the station, and invited us to stay at his house. The two days spent
in the peaceful atmosphere of his home, in that charming family circle
which had not then been broken, soothed and cheered me. This happiness
could not weigh upon the unhappy; it could but do one good and allay
the storm. It was the happiness of a wise man. We also made the
acquaintance of Jane Stanley. I had then finished a little book in the
form of a missal for my mother, which I called ‘My Journey through the
World’--all sorts of verses and rhymes, dedicated to my mother. Charles
Kingsley was present when I surprised my mother with this present. I
showed him the poem--