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.