[1] And grand-niece of the famous philosopher Lavater.
The first great sorrow came to Princess Elizabeth when her youngest brother, Prince Otto, was born on the 22nd November 1850. For many weeks she was not allowed to see her much-loved mother, who was hanging between life and death. The little brother was a beautiful boy, but their joy over his happy birth was soon to be turned into the deepest anxiety. He was born with an organic disorder. No human art could remedy or alleviate the evil. The Princess of Wied was paralysed after his birth. In order to be near a clever doctor, the princely family moved to Bonn in the spring of 1851. At this time Ernst Moritz Arndt visited the Princess of Wied almost daily, and read to her his patriotic verses. The little Elizabeth sat on his knee meanwhile and listened, with flaming cheeks, to the inspired words, which unconsciously found an echo in the warm childish heart. Sometimes the venerable poet would place his hand in an attitude of blessing on her head and explain to her the beautiful name she bore. Elizabeth means “My God is rest;” and he may well have asked himself, “When will this whirlwind ever find its rest?”
During their stay in Bonn an ever-extending circle of artists and savants assembled at the house of the Prince of Wied, which increased and remained intimate with them afterwards as well at Neuwied as at Monrepos. Intellectual intercourse and exchange of thought was the delight of the princely pair. They were so cultivated themselves that they attracted men of art and science. We met, besides E. M. Arndt, Bunsen, Neuhomm, Clemens Perthes, Jakob Berneys, and later Lessing, Sohn, Anton Springe, &c. The present Crown Prince of Germany, the Prince of Waldeck, and the Dukes Frederick and Christian of Augustenburg, who were particular friends of the Crown Prince, were then studying at Bonn. These young Princes came almost daily to the Vinea Domini, the house inhabited by the Prince of Wied. Notwithstanding her delicate state, the young Princess of Wied arranged lectures and had evenings devoted to the study of Shakespeare and acting. She and her friends gave lectures and translated and wrote poetry. At Bonn, Princess Elizabeth saw the first Roumanians. They were the brothers Sturdza, who visited the University there. From them she learnt many a Roumanian word.
In the summer of this year came the departure of the Prince of Wied, who made a journey to North America and Cuba in 1852–53 for the sake of his health. His brother-in-law, Prince Nicolas of Nassau, accompanied him. The interesting letters, full of ideal feelings, which he wrote to his wife were published in Gelzer’s magazine. Dr. Gelzer says of them:—“The Prince here describes the imposing impressions of the New World with his brilliant wit, with the deep feeling of the historian and philosopher, and with the independent thought of a great thinker.” In May 1853 the Prince of Wied returned to Germany. Shortly before his arrival he wrote to his wife:—“The advantages of this journey are still of a doubtful nature, for one should be young and fresh and well in order to find any satisfaction in travelling. But my thoughts rest in the past; my future lies in the children and in the happiness of those whom I love. The contentment that nature affords me here is limited. The internal satisfaction that is impressed on the surroundings of home is wanting. Whether my journey has been of any definite use can only be judged with certainty hereafter. At any rate it was a great change in the ordinary course of my life, and that is a good effect.”
Meanwhile the health of the Princess of Wied had not improved. Immediately on his return home the Prince decided to leave for Paris with his whole family. He hoped that his wife would there find relief from her sufferings by a particular manner of treatment. For Princess Elizabeth this journey was a great event, and her happy excitement increased when she was allowed to join in “les cours de l’Abbé Gauthier” and learn with children. But the strange surroundings and many people had quite distracted the child of ten. It seemed impossible to surmount her timidity and shyness. She who was so ready and quick at answering now stood aghast at the most simple question which was addressed to her. As soon, however, as she felt herself once more under the protection of her parents, the spell was broken, and she became again the high-spirited girl whose thoughts never ceased to flow.
The princely children had received a doll’s theatre as a Christmas present. One morning Baron Bibra, the Chamberlain and friend of the Prince, found little Elizabeth busy with the dolls. With her brother William and the dolls for an audience, she made the little marionettes act a play. She had undertaken all the parts herself, and imitated the different voices with so much talent, that her mother, in her fright at these tastes in her little daughter, next day caused the theatre to be taken away. She was afraid of awakening the demon of the stage in her.
In June 1854 the family of the Prince of Wied were able to return from Paris to Monrepos. The Princess of Wied was quite restored to health, and had returned with the gift of healing, as she had been healed. Many of the sick and suffering came to her, to Neuwied and Monrepos. Her gentle hand and her deep sympathy have, by this mysterious healing power, always had a blessed influence over the sufferers.
The winter months were usually passed in Neuwied, and the summers at Monrepos. Here it had been for many years the most ardent wish of Princess Elizabeth to go to school with the village children. One morning she rushed excitedly into the room of her much-occupied mother and asked if she might accompany the children of the bailiff to school. The Princess of Wied did not hear the question, and nodded pleasantly to the child. She took this sign for an acquiescence, and rushed to the next farm, called the Hahnhof. Here she hears that the little girls of Frau Schanz are already gone to school. She darts after them, manages to catch them up, and enters the schoolroom with them whilst a singing lesson was going on. The schoolmaster felt much flattered when he saw the little Princess take her place before him on the bench and join in the singing with all her might. But the little daughter of the bailiff, already rather impressed with Court etiquette, did not think it proper that a daughter of a Prince should sing so loud with the village children. As soon as her voice sounded above those of the others her little neighbour laid her hand over her mouth, endeavouring thus to impress the Princess with the impropriety of her behaviour.
At the Castle, meanwhile, the disappearance of Princess Elizabeth caused a great commotion. Footmen were sent out in all directions. They searched the neighbouring birch forests and outlying villages in vain. At last they found the little Princess at the summit of happiness in the village school of Rodenbach. The lost madcap was brought back to the Castle and shut up in her room as a punishment for the rest of the day. A sad ending to a day begun with such rapture. “It was the only stroke of genius of my childhood!” she remarked later when Queen. “I was thoroughly ashamed of myself, and never ventured to speak of it.” Princess Elizabeth had to be brought up with great perseverance and earnestness. The danger was great that the extraordinary and powerful disposition of the talented child might influence her in the wrong direction. She took up everything passionately and impetuously, and when at play with children of her own age was always overexcited. Children that were strange to her, whether they were villagers or of good family, felt her authority immediately and obeyed her without a murmur. These little people were led by her into the wildest romps. But Princess Elizabeth did not merely play for fun. She was quite overpowered by the world of her imagination, and carried out the vivid thoughts of her fancy—a strong impulse to command and a craving for activity belonged to her natural disposition.
On Sunday, after breakfast, the three children of the Prince recited poems of their own choosing to their parents. When nine years old Princess Elizabeth declaimed Schiller’s “Battle with the Dragon.” Although her powers of memory were so good that she could immediately repeat a poem of four verses which the Prince had just read to her, she could never learn Alexandrines; they had for her neither rhyme nor chime, and were “a horror” to her. Later on she developed a taste for Béranger and Molière. When nine and ten years old she wrote verses. At twelve she tried to write a novel. As a girl of fourteen she arranged dramas and tragedies, and the more horrors were enacted in them the better was she pleased. Late of an evening and early in the morning she made up the most beautiful stories; her fancy only painted tragic horrors, and she lived in an atmosphere of powerful mental contrasts. From the highest spirits she fell into the lowest, and felt an entire want of self-confidence. Undue hilarity followed great depression and melancholy. Then she became possessed with the idea that she was disagreeable and unbearable to every one. “I could not help myself,” she confesses; “I could not be gentle, and was so passionately impulsive that I was heartily thankful to those who were patient with me. It became better, however, when a safety-valve opened for me,—that was writing poetry.”