One could listen to her for hours without growing weary, and always there was some beautiful thought or word to carry away and think over.

Doubtless such knowledge would be more correct were it taken from some geological work.  But Carmen Sylva’s words invariably seemed to strike some poetic chord; that is what made her so attractive.

She loved to discourse on politics, which for her meant King Carol.  He was her all in all.  After his death, when it was said that all states in the world were losing in the terrible war, she remarked:  “Roumania has already lost her most precious possession.”  She never spoke of her own poems and writings.  In politics her one thought besides King Carol was Albania.  She was deeply attached to the Princess of Wied, and showed her strong interest in the country where she lived.  Talking about the Wieds one day afforded me an opportunity of seeing the King vexed with his wife; it was the only time I ever noticed it.  It was when we were at Sinaia, and I was, as often occurred, sitting with the King.  The Queen came into the room, which she was otherwise not in the habit of entering, bringing with her a telegram from the Princess of Wied in which she asked for something—­I cannot now remember what—­for Albania.  The King refused, but the Queen insisted, until he at last told her very crossly to leave him in peace, as he had other things to think of than Albania.

After King Carol’s death she lost all her vital energy, and the change in the political situation troubled her.  She was very fond of her nephew Ferdinand—­hers was a truly loving heart—­and she trembled lest he should commit some act of treachery.  I remember once how, through her tears, she said to me:  “Calm my fears.  Tell me that he will never be guilty of such an act.”  I was unable to reassure her, but a kind Fate spared her from hearing the declaration of war.

Later, not long before her death, the old Queen was threatened with total blindness.  She was anxious to put herself in the hands of a French oculist for an operation for cataract, who would naturally be obliged to travel through the Monarchy in order to reach Bucharest.  At her desire I mentioned the matter in Vienna, and the Emperor Francis Joseph at once gave the requisite permission for the journey.

After a successful operation, the Queen sent a short autograph poem to one of my children, adding that it was her first letter on recovering her sight.  At the same time she was again very uneasy concerning politics.

I wrote her the following letter: 

Your Majesty,—­My warmest thanks for the beautiful little poem you have sent to my boy.  That it was granted to me to contribute something towards the recovery of your sight is in itself a sufficient reward, and no thanks are needed.  That Your Majesty has addressed the first written lines to my children delights and touches me.

Meanwhile Your Majesty must not be troubled