THE FAMILY VALETTE
It was on my governess, Fräulein Josse, that devolved the pleasing task
of bringing a little innocent amusement into our lives. She lent herself
the more willingly to this, I fancy, that she was often in her inmost
soul distressed to see us thus early initiated into so much sorrow and
suffering, such painful daily experiences naturally robbing us of the
healthy unthinking lightheartedness, befitting our age. Nor was she in
the least a partisan of the uncompromisingly matter-of-fact system of
education on which we were brought up. She actually read some _Mährchen_
aloud to us, and we absolutely revelled in the enchantments of that
delicious fairy-world, whose gates were thus thrown open to us. This was
the beginning of a quite new sort of game, in which even poor little
Otto could take part, these delightful stories being acted over and over
again by us, and we grew quite inventive in devising characters for him,
which he could impersonate sitting in his chair, and thus have the
illusion of playing his part. It was kind Fräulein Josse too, who gave
me the “Wide, Wide World,” the only book in the least resembling a novel
which I was allowed to read while in my teens. I was so fond of it, that
I used to hide it under a chair, whence I could fetch it out and devour
a few pages, in the hours when I ought, perhaps, to have been committing
lines of Horace or Ovid to memory, or writing an essay on some period
of Church history.
The “Wide, Wide World” thus became, with “Augustin,” the story I have
already mentioned, the favourite reading of my childhood, and those two
simple books were my inseparable companions all through my schooldays.
My own pleasure in them had been so great, I would have liked to share
it with others, and one of the very first things I did on arriving in
Roumania, was to have “Augustin” translated into the language of my new
country. Unfortunately, the translator’s knowledge of Roumanian was
insufficient, a circumstance of which I was then unable to judge, so my
plan did not succeed.
During my first stay in Paris, whither Fräulein Josse had accompanied
us, in 1853-54, I made the acquaintance of her best friends there, a
family called Valette. My governess and Madame Valette had known one
another as young girls, the latter being the daughter of the Pasteur
Affiat, pastor of the French Protestant community in Hanau, so that both
were delighted at thus meeting again. And now, Madame Valette’s husband
being pastor of the little Protestant chapel in the Marais, it became
our delight, Wilhelm’s and mine, to wander over there with our
governess, to spend our weekly half-holiday with the Valette children.
Every Thursday then, we set out on foot from our house in the Champs
Elysées, for the picturesque little dwelling in the Rue Pavée, that
quaint old-fashioned street, whose very name conjures up such pleasant
memories for
[Illustration: H. M. QUEEN ELISABETH OF ROUMANIA]
me after all these years. What happy hours we passed, playing in the
beautiful garden, which our friends shared in common with several other
families, whom we also learned to know. It was such a delicious new
sensation to us, of freedom from all restraint and supervision, our
elders always remaining together talking, leaving us children to race
unmolested through house and garden, exercising our active young limbs
and our sound young lungs, and clearing away the cobwebs from our tired
brains. Staircase, passages, basement, how well I remember it all, and
the pastor himself, whom we thought at first rather stiff, but who
occasionally unbent to joke with us. And his dear good wife, who let us
do just whatever came into our heads, never interfering with our wildest
play, as we tore through the rooms, springing down the stairs two or
three steps at a time, and hiding in dark corners, whence we could
spring out and frighten one another. On cold dull days we stayed
indoors, acting charades, or sitting contentedly round the big
dining-room table covered with oil-cloth, telling stories in turn,
laughing and chattering, so perfectly happy and at our ease in these
modest surroundings, and learning more French in half-an-hour than in a
whole week’s lessons.
The eldest daughter, Marie, was almost grown up, but I was especially
fond of her, she was the leader in all our games, and told us most
delightful stories. Her next sister, Minna, was more reserved, and did
not care to join in our play, but then came two, just of our own age,
Cècile and Charlotte. The last-named, who died quite young, was the
sweetest little creature, and I still see her flying to meet us, with
her long fair curls streaming behind her, and flinging her arms round us
both in her joy to welcome us. The only son, a gentle, dreamy lad, of a
serious turn of mind, afterwards became a pastor. Marie afterwards
married the son of the celebrated preacher, Adolphe Monod, whose sermons
were so much talked of, that it was a great disappointment to me not to
be taken to hear him, but my mother would not consent to our going to
church before we had attained our twelfth year.
The French Protestants gave me the impression at the time of being
rather stiff and formal people, austere and almost morose in their
religious views, though I really hardly know what it was made me think
so, as we never heard them discuss religious matters at all. We simply
came there to play, and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly, and if the gloomy
appearance of the parents was sometimes in striking contrast to the high
spirits of our little companions, that may of course have been due to
quite other causes than a depressing creed, and I have often thought
since that with the large family and very small means, there were
probably material cares whose existence we did not even suspect. Of
cares of that nature we knew nothing; we had others, in our own home
life, of which of course we never spoke to our little friends, and they
very likely used equal discretion concerning their family troubles
towards us. Children who have never been encouraged to chatter, nor had
the evil example of gossip before their eyes, are naturally discreet,
and very great reserve was always impressed on us by our parents.
The good custom of the weekly half-holiday, with which we became
acquainted in Paris, was found to be so beneficial, sending us back
refreshed and invigorated to our lessons next day, that, once
introduced, it was not given up on our return to Neuwied, but became
firmly established with us. The afternoon then was, however, no longer
entirely devoted to play, but a part of it employed for those delightful
lessons in book-binding--only another form of recreation, and perhaps,
of more lasting enjoyment than the running wild, good as that was at the
time.
Every Saturday I attended a class in the rue des Saints Pères, _le cours
de l’Abbé Gaultier_, it was called, and to this also I walked,
accompanied by Fräulein Josse. The professor, the Abbé Gaultier, sat at
a green table, round which all the young girls were ranged, behind each
one her mother or governess sitting, and then we were questioned on the
lessons done during the week and our written work was examined, and
fresh subjects given to prepare for the following week. It was rather an
ordeal for me, with my invincible shyness, and accustomed as I had
always been to learning alone, to have to speak out before all these
strangers, and in a language that after all was not my mother-tongue.
And some of the other little girls were so bright and clever, they
always had something to say and turned their answers so prettily, the
poor little German envied them their readiness and brilliancy, and felt
quite dull and awkward in their midst. Only once did I bear off the
honours, but that was not in the least by my cleverness or presence of
mind, but simply by sheer honest stupidity.
We had just been told in the grammar lesson to form a sentence in the
imperfect tense, to show that we understood the right use of the
imperfect. Here I was on my own ground, for I at once made a sentence
bringing in _two_ imperfects, and waited in burning impatience for it to
be my turn to reply, feeling this time sure of my _jeton_. These
“counters” or good-marks were given for every correct answer, and twenty
of them made up what was called a _présidence_, twenty of which again
entitled to a _brevet_, or certificate with a seal attached, the highest
honour of all. I was in two classes, for certain subjects with little
girls of my own age, but had been put into a higher one for history, in
order that I might learn French history very thoroughly, and this it was
that stood in my way, for history was my aversion and dates a
stumbling-block to me--I never could remember a single one!--My failures
in this field I however made up for in the grammar lesson, which was
already my passion, and my lips were quivering with impatience to bring
out my example of the imperfect tense. At last the Abbé Gaultier looked
in my direction. “Quand j’étais petite, je ne réfléchissais pas!” The
good priest came close up to me:--“Et maintenant?” I turned crimson, but
blurted out quite honestly: “Maintenant je ne réfléchis pas non
plus!”--The whole room burst out laughing, but the professor quietly
placed one of the much-coveted red counters before me with the words:
“Tenez, mon enfant; violà dix jetons, pour votre jolie phrase et pour
votre naïve réponse!” And thanks to this I really did get the brevet at
last, of which I had again nearly been deprived by the unlucky
history-lesson.
My painful timidity made the classes somewhat of a trial to me; I felt
ill beforehand at the thought of having to answer questions in public as
it were, I hated to have to play the piano before people, and as for an
examination, I should never have been able to pass even a very easy one!
I have been the same my whole life long, and I laughed heartily one day
at the perspicacity of one of our Ministers, who after accompanying me
on a visit to some school, told me with a smile, when the inspection,
speech-making, and prize-giving were all happily over, that he believed
there had been only one person who felt intimidated in the whole
assembly, and that was myself! It was quite true; I was afraid to put
any questions to the children lest they should answer wrong, and was
much too anxious on their behalf, to pay any attention to what they did
say. On such occasions I always remember my own troubles with those
wretched chronological tables, with which my poor memory was to be
burdened! And then the horrors of arithmetic! The cells, whose function
it should be to deal with numbers and calculations, must be altogether
lacking in my brain! Perhaps if such dreary subjects could have been
taught me in verse, I might have learnt something, for it is hard for me
to forget any little tag of verse I have ever heard, and I remember
every one of those that formed a summary of the chapters in our first
simple little books of history. If only they had thought of teaching me
dates in rhyme, I should not be so shockingly ignorant as I have
remained to this day!
It was I suppose, because of my intense love of poetry, and that I felt
so perfectly in my native element there, that my shyness always left me
directly I had to read aloud or recite. I felt sure of myself then, and
threw myself with passion into the verses I declaimed. We learned long
poems by heart, “The Prisoner of Chillon,” Schiller’s “Lay of the Bell,”
whatever we liked, and in whatever language we preferred, and recited
them every Sunday to our parents, to our own great delight. My mother
declaimed so admirably herself, that she was by no means easy to please,
she insisted on good elocution, and showed us how by modulation of the
voice to give the right expression to the words. We were all apt pupils,
I fancy; what delicious drollery poor little Otto put into Bürger’s
poem, “Emperor and Abbot,” when he was only five years old!
For all my shyness I had, before we left Paris, grown quite reconciled
to the lessons in a big class, feeling how much more easily one learns
together with companions of one’s own age, even if the incentive of
rivalry, perhaps too active with some of these, played a very small part
in my own case. This little taste of school-life made my lonely lessons
seem so dull to me afterwards, that I was always longing to have a peep
at a real school, not this time a fashionable _cours_, like that I had
attended in Paris, but a simple village school, full of little peasant
children. So one morning I actually managed to steal out of the house
unseen, and running away as hard as I could, I joined the children from
the home-farm on their way to school. Oh! how I enjoyed myself! I sat on
the bench between the farmer’s little boy and girl, and joined in the
singing with the whole strength of my lungs, though the small girl kept
trying to put her hand before my mouth, for she thought it highly
improper that a princess should be singing with peasant children! It was
a glorious day; but the most glorious day must come to an end, and this
one ended sadly for me, for when I was missed, my parents were
frightened to death, and the hue and cry was raised, and servants and
game-keepers sent out in all directions, till at last I was found,
seated in triumph in the midst of the village school, and putting my
whole heart and soul into the singing! I was shut up in my room for the
rest of the day, as a punishment for the alarm I had given, and I was in
such disgrace for some time afterwards, that I was terribly ashamed of
my escapade, and hardly liked to think of it any more, much less to plan
another; but now, when I look back, it is a satisfaction to me that for
once in my childhood I did break through my fetters and emancipate
myself so thoroughly!
That was the year after our return from Paris. The next year, Marie
Valette came on a visit to us, and we spent many pleasant hours
together, reading and working. I was very busy at needlework just then,
principally plain sewing, for our hospital, and very proud I was at my
contribution, all of useful things I had made myself, underclothing for
the poor people, which I was able to take them. While Marie and I sat at
work, Fräulein Jose read aloud to us, and that somewhat recalled the
pleasant days in Paris, when we met at her parents’ house, and all sat
round the big table, while one of the party told or read a story to the
rest. And these simple pleasures of my youth are still those I
prefer--beautiful needlework with agreeable conversation, or a good book
read aloud, in a sympathetic circle. I am still very fond of reading
aloud myself, and can do that to a very large audience. It is perhaps
the only time when I quite forget my shyness!
But I did forget it as a child too, at times, and above all in the
society of good, kind, simple people like the Valettes, who just left us
to ourselves, to amuse ourselves in our own way. For that reason, it
would have been ungrateful indeed, if I had not given a corner among my
Penates to Marie and her family. The whole remembrance is a pleasant
one, beginning with the long walk through the streets of Paris, which we
learned to know so well, we could almost have found our way through them
blindfold. And the merry party round the dinner-table, for we dined
there, and only returned home quite late in the evening. Our garden was
too small for the other children to come to play in it with us, and then
it would have disturbed the invalids, who had, of course, to be
considered first. Both for the sake of the sick people, and of my
father’s work, it was no place for noisy games and joyous laughter; we
had to creep about like little mice, and it was indeed a relief to us to
get away, to escape into a fresher atmosphere, and shake off all the
sadness that oppressed our young souls. To have been aided to this was
an inestimable boon, and I still think with affection and gratitude of
those, to whom we owed those happy hours.