The present Crown Prince of Germany, then a student of Bonn, was also a frequent visitor.
It was at this time that the future Queen first saw Roumanians. They were the brothers Stourdza, who were then studying at the University.
Princess Elizabeth for a long time cherished the wish to sit on the form in the school with the village children. One morning, bursting into the room where her mother was much occupied, she asked if she might go with some farm children to the school. The Princess Maria did not hear the question, but nodded kindly to the child. Princess Elizabeth, taking this sign for permission, rushed off to the neighbouring farmhouse. There she heard that the children had already gone to school. She followed them quickly, and entered the schoolroom while the singing lesson was going on. The teacher was highly flattered when he saw the Princess standing at a form, and quite happily joining with full voice in the singing. The farmers’ little daughters, who had some notion of Court etiquette, regarded it as quite unseemly that the daughter of a Prince should join with such a very loud voice in singing with the village children! As soon as the Princess’s voice was heard above the voices of the other children, the girl next her put her hand on her mouth, and sought to impress upon her Serene Highness the impropriety of her position.
Meanwhile the greatest consternation was felt at the Castle on account of the disappearance of the Princess Elizabeth. Servants were sent out in all directions. For a long time they searched the neighbouring beechwoods and surrounding villages in vain. At last they found the little Princess, full of delight with her exploit, in the village school of Rodenbach. The missing child was carried back to the Castle, and confinement to her room for the rest of the day was the issue of the morning’s exploit.
She was a born ruler of others. In playing with children of her own age, whether of her own or of peasant rank, her ascendancy was at once acknowledged and yielded to. She was the ringleader in the wildest games. The fantastic ideas which came into her head, and on which she acted, overmastered her for the time. They were realities to her.
Her literary genius was early developed. She composed occasional pieces when she was nine and ten years old. At twelve years of age she attempted to write a novel. At fourteen she had invented dramas and tragedies. The more terrible the scenes were, the better was she pleased. Morning and night she was devising stories. She was subject to alternations of high spirits and depression, and total lack of self-confidence. She would be tormented by the idea that she was disagreeable and insupportable to everyone. “I could not help it,” she confesses; “I could not be gentle, I could only be impetuous. I was heartily thankful to all who had patience with me. I was better when the safety-valve of writing poetry was opened to me.”
In order to moderate the exuberance of her feelings, her mother took her at every opportunity to scenes where she might be deeply impressed by the realities of life. She was present at many a sick and death bed. Her brother’s case familiarised her with the sufferings that many have to endure. The first deathbed at which she was present was her grandmother’s, the Duchess of Nassau’s. It made an ineffaceable impression upon her. The sight of the body excited no terror in her mind. Her thoughts went beyond death. She hastened to the garden. The roses were in full bloom. She gathered the most beautiful, and returned with them to the chamber of death, and decorated the bed and the room with them. Her conception of death was poetical. Her mother had taught her to take a bright view of it.
Brought up by her mother in the fear of God, her first visit to church was a memorable occasion to her. Henceforward the Sundays and holydays were the bright spots in her life. With devout attention she followed the course of the service, and was deeply impressed by the exposition of Holy Scripture. She meditated on what she heard for days, and often wrote down the sermons.
At the end of six years her governess, Miss Jossé, who discharged her difficult duties with great fidelity and zeal, left Neuwied, and the Princess was placed under the care of a tutor, Mr. Sauerwein. On his arrival at the Castle the Princess Maria received him with the words: “You are getting a little spirit of contradiction for your pupil. She has no traditional faith. Her first questions always are, ‘why?’ and ‘is it true?’”
Mr. Sauerwein was a distinguished linguist; had resided a long time in England, and was an enthusiast for that country, its history and institutions. He gave all his lessons in the English language. Latin and Italian were translated into English. The Princess read Ovid, Horace, and parts of Cicero with him, and wrote Latin, English, and Italian exercises. She also learnt arithmetic and geometry. Lessons in physical science she took along with a companion and most intimate friend, Maria von Bibra. She was taught French by a Parisian lady, and in the evening after tea read the old chroniclers, as well as the dramatists. Schiller and other German classics were studied. At fifteen she took a keen interest in politics, and was a diligent reader of newspapers. From a very early period she had a great fondness for legends and folklore. “I would throw away,” she says, “the most beautiful history, or even comparative grammar, to the study of which I was passionately devoted, into a corner, for a little legend.”