CHAPTER XXII

Queen Elizabeth (Carmen Sylva)--An early dilemma: no divorcees, no Court--A quaint divorce story--The true story of the meeting of Carol and Elizabeth--Did she love the country or its King?--Her dead child’s tomb--The Queen as a writer--Her passion for music--Pity the poor professional!--Cold soup for the King--The Queen’s personal appearance--Her asylum for the blind, and the German manager who failed--“My Sixtieth Birthday,” and how it was spent--The Queen and the _enfants terribles_--The orphans of the “Asyle Hélène”--Cotroceni and its unlucky palace.

On adopting the responsibility of a reigning Queen, Carmen Sylva was faced with the problem of who should be entitled to visit at Court. In talking the matter over with the Court Chamberlain, she expressed the wish that no lady should be invited to Court who had been divorced. Great was the amazement of the Chamberlain. “But your Majesty could never form a Court under those conditions,” was his quick reply. Finally, after much discussion, the decision was arrived at that no lady who had been divorced more than twice should be eligible for Court entertainments. I think this little fact (for it is a fact) sufficiently demonstrates how very lightly marriage ties were then thought of in Roumania; and I must confess that things are not very much better in these days, as divorces are still sought under the most trivial pretexts. Incompatibility of temperament is frequently accepted as a sufficient plea.

If a man divorce his wife or is divorced by her, the law allows him to marry again but not to marry the same woman. This very often gives rise to piquant situations. Sometimes a man after a few weeks’ separation realises the truth of the aphorism, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” and yearns to return to his first love. He is met, however, by the stern decree of the law, “Thou shalt not.” Being unable to alter the law, he frequently takes unto himself his former helpmeet, and lives with her without the sanction of Church or State.

A rather amusing case came under my own observation some years ago. A professor of one of the colleges was betrothed to a young girl whom I knew intimately. They seemed mutually attracted (not always the case in Roumanian marriages), and as the relatives on both sides seemed equally pleased, everything went as merrily as the proverbial wedding bell. The house was taken, furnished, and decorated. This is always the work of the bride, and is carried out at the expense of her parents, as the bridegroom-elect is not supposed to contribute anything towards setting up housekeeping. The marriage took place, and a great reception was given at which champagne flowed freely. All seemed to go well for some months, then the first little rift in the lute appeared. Vague stories were heard that all was not in harmony at the professor’s; then, later on, that the couple were going to seek a divorce. They not only sought it, but obtained it, the lady returning to her parents, and the gentleman resuming his former bachelor life.

All this may seem commonplace enough, but the sequel was a curious one. The summer holidays were approaching, Madame longed to travel, but to travel alone was not to be thought of. Her former husband was approached on the subject. He agreed to accompany her; the details of the journey were arranged, and they started off together. One might have thought that they would have been quite reconciled to remain together after that. Not at all. On their return, they calmly said “Good-bye” to each other, she once more returning to her parents, and he to his bachelor quarters.

The romantic story of how the Prince of Roumania met Princess Elizabeth of Neuwied at the palace in Berlin, and caught her in his arms as she was falling downstairs, has been so often denied by the late Queen, that it is unnecessary to refer further to it here.

The real meeting came about in this wise. Princess Elizabeth was staying at Cologne with her mother for a short time, and one evening arrangements were made to attend a concert. In the course of the afternoon the Prince of Roumania called on the two ladies, to the great delight of the Princess. She plied him with questions about the country and people, and listened eagerly to everything that he could tell her. So interested was she that concert and everything else were forgotten--she could only think and talk of Roumania.

On being told later that the Prince of Roumania sought her in marriage, she readily consented, not, I think, so much from love of the Prince as from interest in his country. One child was the result of the marriage, a little girl named Marie, who died at the age of five from an attack of scarlatina. This was a great grief to the parents, especially to the Queen, who was passionately fond of children. She had the child buried in the park of Cotroceni, a palace at a short distance from Bucarest. The tomb erected there is of white marble, and represents the child asleep in her little bed. The coverlet seems to have become disarranged, and one little foot is showing. It is a pretty idea, and has been remarkably well carried out by the artist. The tomb is surrounded by a high railing, and is always guarded by a policeman.

The late Queen of Roumania was an extremely gifted woman, an authoress, linguist, painter, and musician. She has been well known to the literary world under the pseudonym Carmen Sylva, derived from the Latin words for “song” and “forest.”

Her books, _Deficit_, _Letters from the Battlefield_, _Thoughts of a Queen_, are extremely interesting. But music was a passion with her. A violinist or pianist who decided to come and give a concert at Bucarest was sure of an enthusiastic welcome from the Queen. He would be summoned to the palace to play for her Majesty, but his difficulty would be to get away again.

She would be so entranced in the music, asking for one piece after another, that the poor tired musician would barely get away in time for the evening concert. Sometimes the performance at the palace was not quite private; the Queen would issue a number of invitations to a matinée. On one of these occasions a friend of mine was present, and she gave me a most amusing account of the affair. The matinée continued till far into the evening, the Queen, as usual, asking for “one more sonata,” till the King (who wisely absented himself from such frivolities), feeling the want of his dinner, lost patience. A lackey entered and announced to her Majesty in a low tone that dinner was served. She nodded smilingly but did not move. A second time the unlucky man was obliged to appear, but it was not till the King had sent three times to say that the soup was on the table that the Queen reluctantly decided to dismiss her guests.

The late Queen was also a poetess of no mean order, composing sonnets at odd moments--sometimes even during the night if she were in a wakeful mood. The King would then be awakened from a sound sleep to pass judgment upon the work.

After that, one will not be astonished to hear that the King of Roumania had a sweet temper.

As a young girl, the Queen, as her photographs show, was very pretty, with fair hair and rosy cheeks--the usual type of German beauty. In later life she became very stout, and with her extremely red face framed in perfectly white hair she presented a rather remarkable appearance. She never wore either hat or bonnet, simply a lace mantilla thrown carelessly over her head.

One never saw her without a smile on her face, so that one could not help wondering if it were still there during her sleep. She had very affable manners, and could be extremely charming.

Now, one must not think that the Queen was only artistic. That is not so; the practical side of her character was seen from time to time. At the time of the war against Turkey her Majesty did splendid work. Ladies were invited to the palace to help in making bandages, others in making garments; a regular scheme of practical aid for the soldiers was organised by the Queen.

She also founded an asylum for the blind. In former times blind persons were allowed to get their living as best they could, by begging or otherwise; but the Queen’s scheme provided them with food and lodging, and at the same time they were taught a useful trade. Subscriptions from abroad poured in (who could refuse a Queen?), and I believe Andrew Carnegie was a generous subscriber.

Unfortunately, as time went on, unpleasant rumours about this blind asylum were rife in town. When its affairs came to be examined, it was found that the superintendent (a German) had been guilty of gross mismanagement. It was a great shock to the Queen, as she had fully trusted the German. The King was very much annoyed about the affair, and insisted on the Queen giving up all active participation in the asylum.

One felt rather sorry for King Carol at times. He was so reticent, self-contained and controlled, that he must have found extremely galling the annoying affairs into which he was constantly drawn by the great activity or enthusiasm of the Queen.

She was, as the Germans so happily express it, a little _überspannt_. I shall never forget the time she attained her sixtieth year. On this occasion she penned an article entitled “My Sixtieth Birthday,” which was published in all the papers. In it she expressed her joy that she had now attained her sixtieth year, as all the storms and troubles of life were happily behind her. She then went on to relate how she had spent this happy day. In the evening she had gone to the theatre; on returning home her little deaf-and-dumb maid, whom she had brought with her from Germany, was hidden under the table, and from there discoursed sweet music from a musical box. All the Queen’s little kittens were decorated with new ribbons for the occasion; whilst on the table and chairs were the presents that had arrived during her absence. Much time was taken up examining all these treasures; then after another tune from the musical box, and a last kiss for the kitties, she prepared to go to rest in a small room adjoining her boudoir. She was anxious to tell us that she never disturbed the King when she came in late. This was very considerate of her, but probably he lost enough rest when she was seized with her fits of poetic inspiration.

As I have already remarked, the late Queen was very fond of children, and always happy when surrounded by them. But there were moments of anxiety for their elders, as the little mites could not be expected always to exercise discretion.

A lady whom I knew had been in Paris for a few years with her husband. On returning to Bucarest the Queen expressed a wish to see her little boys. The children were taken to the palace and presented to her Majesty, who caressed them and made a great fuss over them. In the course of conversation she inquired, “Now, children, what did you think about me when you knew you were coming to see a Queen? What did you think I should be like?” To the dismay of the mother, a clear treble voice piped out, “I didn’t think you would be so old.” The Queen, however, took it very well, merely remarking, “But grandmamma is also old.” “Oh no,” objected both children; “grandmamma is not old; she hasn’t white hair like you.” One may imagine the relief of the children’s mother when the audience was at an end.

Children loved the Queen. The present chargé-d’affaires, M. Boerescu, was a courtier even in his childhood. When quite a little chap the Queen kissed him one day. For nearly a week he would not let the spot be washed.

At one side of the park, Cotroceni, there stands a fine handsome building named “Asyle Hélène” after its foundress, Princess Hélène Cuza. It is a school for orphan girls, in which they receive instruction and are trained for domestic service. The girls are also taught embroidery and fine needlework, and the specimens they turn out are really very creditable to them. Should one of their number receive an offer of marriage and the young man prove to be a suitable _parti_, consent is willingly given and the necessary arrangements made by the authorities of the orphanage. The bride-elect is not only supplied with a complete trousseau, but is also the recipient of a certain number of articles for use in her house.

The late Queen took great interest in the girls of the “Asyle Hélène,” and arranged many little treats for them from time to time, in consequence of which she was greatly beloved. As I have already mentioned, the Queen’s little daughter, Princess Marie, lies buried in the park of Cotroceni, “placed,” as the Queen herself said, “in the care of the orphan girls of the Asyle Hélène.”

The park itself is of considerable extent, and contains some fine trees. The palace stands on an eminence commanding a good view of the town; indeed, from the windows of Queen Marie’s boudoir one can see straight up the Boulevard for a considerable distance.

The late King and Queen were very fond of Cotroceni, and frequently stayed there. In their time it was a simple country house, with long French windows opening out on the parterres of flowers in front.

On the marriage of Prince Ferdinand the old house was razed to the ground and a newer and more pretentious residence erected which was specially intended for the use of the young couple. Cotroceni, unfortunately, has never proved a very healthy site. Even at the time of the rebuilding of the palace the workmen were constantly being attacked by malaria. It was at Cotroceni that the present King was, many years ago, attacked by typhoid fever, when his life was despaired of. The latest tragic occurrence at the unlucky palace has been the lamented death of little Prince Mircea, when typhoid again made its dreaded presence manifest.