There stands in the public place of Bucharest a statue representing the queen in the act of giving a draught of water to a wounded soldier. It was subscribed for by the wives of the officers of the Roumanian army, and intended as an enduring testimonial of their gratitude to her whom the popular voice names muma rantilor, that is, mother of the wounded. For what she did during the war of 1877-78 is unforgotten, unforgettable, by her subjects. She met every train of wounded that came from the battle-field, she organized hospitals and convalescent homes, she was present at operations, she comforted the dying and wept with the survivors. No wonder her people adore her, no wonder that it is greatly due to her that King Charles is a popular sovereign although he reigns over a people alien to him in blood and language. "You will have a noble mission," he said to her on the day of their betrothal; "you must comfort tenderly when I have been too harsh, and you may petition for all."
But even after her marriage Sorrow did not depart from Carmen Sylva's side. She was to know the joy of being a mother; but not for many years, as she says, was this high dignity to be hers. She had to see the grave close over her child's golden head, and no other has ever come to comfort her for this loss. Her greatest treasure, her greatest earthly happiness, and all her hopes were buried with this little girl. The sorrow that sprung thence made her truly a poet and an author. She translated and published the Roumanian nursery songs that had been beloved of her child, hoping that other children in her distant German home might love them too. She put into verse the delicate little sayings of her babe, but those have not been permitted to see the light of day; she poured into song the whole depth and agony of her grief. And after having years ago renounced all such hopes, she found that Sorrow had made her an artist, and that the world cared to listen to her speech.
Since 1878 the queen's pen has been most productive, although indeed what she has given to the public was not all written since that date. The stones here reproduced in English dress quickly gained for her warm friends upon the Continent, many of whom asked themselves, how comes it that a woman who occupies a throne beside a beloved husband; who is young, beautiful, and courted; who surely has beheld life only from its most brilliant side, can have looked so deep into the human soul, and learnt to know so well its woes and struggles? The answer lies in the brief sketch I have above given of her life. She has drunk deep from the cup of suffering, and therefore she could write the tales of "Pilgrim Sorrow."
H. Z.
London,
October, 1883.