Among the gentlemen who were about the Grand Duchess at that time was Walujeff, a Russian Minister, Tolstoi, Rouher, Piloty, Count Keyserlingk, the Curator of the University of Dorpat, and the Privy Councillor Von Brevern, “who is of a refined and very sensitive nature. His kindness brings thoughts to me which I should scarcely like to mention.”
Meanwhile Maria von Sulzer had married her cousin, and had come to Monrepos in the summer in a very suffering state. There her strength declined visibly. Feeling that her death was near, she had a great longing to return home. Shortly afterwards the Princess of Wied received news of her death. We read in the journal of Princess Elizabeth of the 4th of September:—“Maria Sulzer has died. Death is but an old friend to me, a serious friend, and yet kind, if one knows how to meet him. Heaven sends me countless blessings every day. Indeed I cannot repine. For my life is rich and full, which I constantly repeat to myself. And if all the loved ones were to be taken, it would still be blessed a thousandfold, for still all are mine. Even if the flowers fade, we do not forget that they once bloomed, and that we enjoyed their sweet perfume. Indeed my heart bleeds, but still I am abundantly blessed.”
We find the following poem on the death of this beloved friend:—
“Draw you nearer,
Let weeping cease;
In her chamber
All is peace.
Angels hovered
Softly o’er her;
In the night
Away they bore her.
Death o’er her senses
Did softly creep;
Saved her a parting,
Wrapped her in sleep.
Flowers of beauty
Wreathe her around;
Drowsily chiming
The sweet bells sound.
Draw you nearer,
Let weeping cease;
In her chamber
All is peace.”
From Carlsbad the Grand Duchess travelled with her great niece to the great Exhibition at Paris. There Princess Elizabeth had arrived unwell; she suffered from a bad throat and momentary deafness. Consequently she could not enjoy the great sights with her usual freshness. The reception at the Tuileries, visits to the Exhibition, to the Louvre and the neighbouring castles, seemed like a dream to her. Under the impression of this deafness, and inclining as ever to melancholy thoughts, she writes to her mother—“I have often thought in these last days that one can well do without occupation in old age. Then we can sit in our arm-chair, lost in thoughts, quite still, and without prejudice. One can think sweetly of the dead, and tell those around one of our past life as a curiosity. I fancy it very beautiful. I would not change now, for I would taste of life with all it brings, and hope to toil and endeavour. But all the time I shall look forward to the peace of old age.”