Queen Elizabeth (Carmen Sylva)--An early dilemma: no divorcees, no
Court--A quaint divorce story--The true story of the meeting of
Carol and Elizabeth--Did she love the country or its King?--Her
dead child’s tomb--The Queen as a writer--Her passion for
music--Pity the poor professional!--Cold soup for the King--The
Queen’s personal appearance--Her asylum for the blind, and the
German manager who failed--“My Sixtieth Birthday,” and how it was
spent--The Queen and the _enfants terribles_--The orphans of the
“Asyle Hélène”--Cotroceni and its unlucky palace.
On adopting the responsibility of a reigning Queen, Carmen Sylva was
faced with the problem of who should be entitled to visit at Court. In
talking the matter over with the Court Chamberlain, she expressed the
wish that no lady should be invited to Court who had been divorced.
Great was the amazement of the Chamberlain. “But your Majesty could
never form a Court under those conditions,” was his quick reply.
Finally, after much discussion, the decision was arrived at that no
lady who had been divorced more than twice should be eligible for
Court entertainments. I think this little fact (for it is a fact)
sufficiently demonstrates how very lightly marriage ties were then
thought of in Roumania; and I must confess that things are not very
much better in these days, as divorces are still sought under the most
trivial pretexts. Incompatibility of temperament is frequently accepted
as a sufficient plea.
If a man divorce his wife or is divorced by her, the law allows him to
marry again but not to marry the same woman. This very often gives rise
to piquant situations. Sometimes a man after a few weeks’ separation
realises the truth of the aphorism, “Absence makes the heart grow
fonder,” and yearns to return to his first love. He is met, however, by
the stern decree of the law, “Thou shalt not.” Being unable to alter
the law, he frequently takes unto himself his former helpmeet, and
lives with her without the sanction of Church or State.
A rather amusing case came under my own observation some years ago. A
professor of one of the colleges was betrothed to a young girl whom I
knew intimately. They seemed mutually attracted (not always the case in
Roumanian marriages), and as the relatives on both sides seemed equally
pleased, everything went as merrily as the proverbial wedding bell.
The house was taken, furnished, and decorated. This is always the work
of the bride, and is carried out at the expense of her parents, as the
bridegroom-elect is not supposed to contribute anything towards setting
up housekeeping. The marriage took place, and a great reception was
given at which champagne flowed freely. All seemed to go well for some
months, then the first little rift in the lute appeared. Vague stories
were heard that all was not in harmony at the professor’s; then,
later on, that the couple were going to seek a divorce. They not only
sought it, but obtained it, the lady returning to her parents, and the
gentleman resuming his former bachelor life.
All this may seem commonplace enough, but the sequel was a curious
one. The summer holidays were approaching, Madame longed to travel,
but to travel alone was not to be thought of. Her former husband was
approached on the subject. He agreed to accompany her; the details of
the journey were arranged, and they started off together. One might
have thought that they would have been quite reconciled to remain
together after that. Not at all. On their return, they calmly said
“Good-bye” to each other, she once more returning to her parents, and
he to his bachelor quarters.
The romantic story of how the Prince of Roumania met Princess Elizabeth
of Neuwied at the palace in Berlin, and caught her in his arms as she
was falling downstairs, has been so often denied by the late Queen,
that it is unnecessary to refer further to it here.
The real meeting came about in this wise. Princess Elizabeth was
staying at Cologne with her mother for a short time, and one evening
arrangements were made to attend a concert. In the course of the
afternoon the Prince of Roumania called on the two ladies, to the
great delight of the Princess. She plied him with questions about the
country and people, and listened eagerly to everything that he could
tell her. So interested was she that concert and everything else were
forgotten--she could only think and talk of Roumania.
On being told later that the Prince of Roumania sought her in marriage,
she readily consented, not, I think, so much from love of the Prince as
from interest in his country. One child was the result of the marriage,
a little girl named Marie, who died at the age of five from an attack
of scarlatina. This was a great grief to the parents, especially to
the Queen, who was passionately fond of children. She had the child
buried in the park of Cotroceni, a palace at a short distance from
Bucarest. The tomb erected there is of white marble, and represents
the child asleep in her little bed. The coverlet seems to have become
disarranged, and one little foot is showing. It is a pretty idea,
and has been remarkably well carried out by the artist. The tomb is
surrounded by a high railing, and is always guarded by a policeman.
The late Queen of Roumania was an extremely gifted woman, an authoress,
linguist, painter, and musician. She has been well known to the
literary world under the pseudonym Carmen Sylva, derived from the Latin
words for “song” and “forest.”
Her books, _Deficit_, _Letters from the Battlefield_, _Thoughts of
a Queen_, are extremely interesting. But music was a passion with
her. A violinist or pianist who decided to come and give a concert at
Bucarest was sure of an enthusiastic welcome from the Queen. He would
be summoned to the palace to play for her Majesty, but his difficulty
would be to get away again.
She would be so entranced in the music, asking for one piece after
another, that the poor tired musician would barely get away in time
for the evening concert. Sometimes the performance at the palace was
not quite private; the Queen would issue a number of invitations to
a matinée. On one of these occasions a friend of mine was present,
and she gave me a most amusing account of the affair. The matinée
continued till far into the evening, the Queen, as usual, asking for
“one more sonata,” till the King (who wisely absented himself from
such frivolities), feeling the want of his dinner, lost patience. A
lackey entered and announced to her Majesty in a low tone that dinner
was served. She nodded smilingly but did not move. A second time the
unlucky man was obliged to appear, but it was not till the King had
sent three times to say that the soup was on the table that the Queen
reluctantly decided to dismiss her guests.
The late Queen was also a poetess of no mean order, composing sonnets
at odd moments--sometimes even during the night if she were in a
wakeful mood. The King would then be awakened from a sound sleep to
pass judgment upon the work.
After that, one will not be astonished to hear that the King of
Roumania had a sweet temper.
As a young girl, the Queen, as her photographs show, was very pretty,
with fair hair and rosy cheeks--the usual type of German beauty. In
later life she became very stout, and with her extremely red face
framed in perfectly white hair she presented a rather remarkable
appearance. She never wore either hat or bonnet, simply a lace mantilla
thrown carelessly over her head.
One never saw her without a smile on her face, so that one could not
help wondering if it were still there during her sleep. She had very
affable manners, and could be extremely charming.
Now, one must not think that the Queen was only artistic. That is not
so; the practical side of her character was seen from time to time.
At the time of the war against Turkey her Majesty did splendid work.
Ladies were invited to the palace to help in making bandages, others in
making garments; a regular scheme of practical aid for the soldiers
was organised by the Queen.
She also founded an asylum for the blind. In former times blind persons
were allowed to get their living as best they could, by begging or
otherwise; but the Queen’s scheme provided them with food and lodging,
and at the same time they were taught a useful trade. Subscriptions
from abroad poured in (who could refuse a Queen?), and I believe Andrew
Carnegie was a generous subscriber.
Unfortunately, as time went on, unpleasant rumours about this blind
asylum were rife in town. When its affairs came to be examined, it
was found that the superintendent (a German) had been guilty of gross
mismanagement. It was a great shock to the Queen, as she had fully
trusted the German. The King was very much annoyed about the affair,
and insisted on the Queen giving up all active participation in the
asylum.
One felt rather sorry for King Carol at times. He was so reticent,
self-contained and controlled, that he must have found extremely
galling the annoying affairs into which he was constantly drawn by the
great activity or enthusiasm of the Queen.
She was, as the Germans so happily express it, a little _überspannt_.
I shall never forget the time she attained her sixtieth year. On this
occasion she penned an article entitled “My Sixtieth Birthday,” which
was published in all the papers. In it she expressed her joy that she
had now attained her sixtieth year, as all the storms and troubles of
life were happily behind her. She then went on to relate how she had
spent this happy day. In the evening she had gone to the theatre; on
returning home her little deaf-and-dumb maid, whom she had brought
with her from Germany, was hidden under the table, and from there
discoursed sweet music from a musical box. All the Queen’s little
kittens were decorated with new ribbons for the occasion; whilst on the
table and chairs were the presents that had arrived during her absence.
Much time was taken up examining all these treasures; then after
another tune from the musical box, and a last kiss for the kitties,
she prepared to go to rest in a small room adjoining her boudoir. She
was anxious to tell us that she never disturbed the King when she came
in late. This was very considerate of her, but probably he lost enough
rest when she was seized with her fits of poetic inspiration.
As I have already remarked, the late Queen was very fond of children,
and always happy when surrounded by them. But there were moments of
anxiety for their elders, as the little mites could not be expected
always to exercise discretion.
A lady whom I knew had been in Paris for a few years with her husband.
On returning to Bucarest the Queen expressed a wish to see her little
boys. The children were taken to the palace and presented to her
Majesty, who caressed them and made a great fuss over them. In the
course of conversation she inquired, “Now, children, what did you think
about me when you knew you were coming to see a Queen? What did you
think I should be like?” To the dismay of the mother, a clear treble
voice piped out, “I didn’t think you would be so old.” The Queen,
however, took it very well, merely remarking, “But grandmamma is
also old.” “Oh no,” objected both children; “grandmamma is not old;
she hasn’t white hair like you.” One may imagine the relief of the
children’s mother when the audience was at an end.
Children loved the Queen. The present chargé-d’affaires, M. Boerescu,
was a courtier even in his childhood. When quite a little chap the
Queen kissed him one day. For nearly a week he would not let the spot
be washed.
At one side of the park, Cotroceni, there stands a fine handsome
building named “Asyle Hélène” after its foundress, Princess Hélène
Cuza. It is a school for orphan girls, in which they receive
instruction and are trained for domestic service. The girls are also
taught embroidery and fine needlework, and the specimens they turn out
are really very creditable to them. Should one of their number receive
an offer of marriage and the young man prove to be a suitable _parti_,
consent is willingly given and the necessary arrangements made by the
authorities of the orphanage. The bride-elect is not only supplied with
a complete trousseau, but is also the recipient of a certain number of
articles for use in her house.
The late Queen took great interest in the girls of the “Asyle
Hélène,” and arranged many little treats for them from time to time,
in consequence of which she was greatly beloved. As I have already
mentioned, the Queen’s little daughter, Princess Marie, lies buried in
the park of Cotroceni, “placed,” as the Queen herself said, “in the
care of the orphan girls of the Asyle Hélène.”
The park itself is of considerable extent, and contains some fine
trees. The palace stands on an eminence commanding a good view of the
town; indeed, from the windows of Queen Marie’s boudoir one can see
straight up the Boulevard for a considerable distance.
The late King and Queen were very fond of Cotroceni, and frequently
stayed there. In their time it was a simple country house, with long
French windows opening out on the parterres of flowers in front.
On the marriage of Prince Ferdinand the old house was razed to the
ground and a newer and more pretentious residence erected which
was specially intended for the use of the young couple. Cotroceni,
unfortunately, has never proved a very healthy site. Even at the time
of the rebuilding of the palace the workmen were constantly being
attacked by malaria. It was at Cotroceni that the present King was,
many years ago, attacked by typhoid fever, when his life was despaired
of. The latest tragic occurrence at the unlucky palace has been the
lamented death of little Prince Mircea, when typhoid again made its
dreaded presence manifest.