CHAPTER III A CHAT WITH THE QUEEN OF ROUMANIA

The royal drawing-room—Her Majesty’s greeting—Her kind words of welcome—Roumania not in the Balkan States—We talk politics—The name of “Carmen Sylva”—The Queen’s deep interest in the blind—She shows me some photographs—Public interest in the new institution—I visit it next day.

I was standing one Sunday evening in the great drawing-room of the royal palace at Bucharest, chatting with Madame Zoe Bengesco, lady-in-waiting to the Queen of Roumania.

Madame Maurojeni, grande-maîtresse of Her Majesty’s Court, had appointed my audience for half-past six, and as the bowing liveried servants had conducted me through the great entrance and up the large red-carpeted horse-shoe staircase, I was struck with the old-fashioned comfort, combined with taste, everywhere displayed.

While chatting with Madame Bengesco, who was inquiring after some mutual friends in Belgrade, I glanced around the great salon or salons—for there are two of equal proportions, the one running at right angles with the other. Splendid old brocade-covered furniture, tables with interesting knick-knacks, a grand piano, the fine organ upon which Her Majesty so often plays, beautiful hangings, magnificent paintings upon the walls and old Persian rugs upon the polished floor, all combined, under the soft electric light, to produce a harmony of quiet taste and luxury.

The salons were huge, high-ceilinged, and splendid, yet there was an air of homeliness about them, and indeed about the whole palace, that I have not found in other royal palaces of Europe wherein I have been received. The great quiet room bore traces of the artistic hand of Her Majesty herself.

I had asked for audience not without some misgiving, for His Majesty the King was lying very ill, and the Queen—the “Carmen Sylva” of European literary fame—was at his bedside always, administering to her sick husband’s wants, nursing him, and reading aloud to him for hours each day. For weeks she had given audience to no one, therefore it was a pleasant surprise when Madame Maurojeni told me that the Queen was going to make an exception in my case.

I was chatting with Madame Bengesco, and suddenly turned to find Her Majesty—a tall, fine figure en décolletée, a sweet smile of welcome upon her face—standing before me. She wore a very handsome gown of pale dove-grey crêpe-de-chine, but no jewellery save a single gold bracelet and one or two very fine rings.

“So you have come to see our country, Mr. N——?” Her Majesty exclaimed in English, smiling pleasantly, after I had made my obeisance, and she had shaken hands with me. “Come, let us sit over in that corner. It is more cosy.” And she conducted me to a luxurious little corner of the salon, while the lady-in-waiting retired.

I began by thanking Her Majesty for giving me audience at such a time of anxiety.

“I have just left the King to come to you,” she answered. “He is very much better, I am thankful to say, and yesterday took a little nourishment. Ah yes, it has been a most anxious time for me. You will forgive me if I am a little tired, won’t you? When I heard you were in Bucharest I determined to meet you. I have heard of you, long ago, you know! Now, tell me, what brings you to Roumania?”

I explained that my confidential mission was to inquire into the future of the Balkans, whereupon she interrupted me with that sweet laugh that is one of her characteristics, saying—

“Ah, you must never include us in the Balkan States, recollect! We Roumanians speak another language; the Danube separates us from the Balkans, and we have nothing in common with the races on the other side of the river. The reason why we are not taking part in this year’s Exhibition at your Earl’s Court is because they have called it ‘The Balkan Exhibition.’”

I laughingly promised to be very careful on the point in future. As she sat before me, the handsome, thoughtful countenance, the white hair brushed straight back, and the soft and very becoming head-dress, Her Majesty was surely the most picturesque, the most interesting, and perhaps the most accomplished and intelligent of the Queens of Europe.

I told her of my journey through Northern Albania, in which she was deeply interested, and asked me lots of questions. Then I explained how I was on my way to Constantinople and through Macedonia, whereupon she made a quick gesture with her hands, and exclaimed—

“Then you are studying Macedonia! Ah, what a very difficult task you have! We have Roumanians in Macedonia, as you know—and, poor people, they are being treated very badly. What the outcome of it all is to be, who can tell? There are so many conflicting peoples, so many conflicting interests, so much jealousy among the Powers.”

“Ah! I see that your Majesty takes an interest in politics!” I exclaimed.

“No. You are mistaken,” she answered. “I, of course, know the general outlines of most of the subjects, but I am a woman, and am not expected to be a politician. My sphere lies in endeavouring to do good to the people, to ameliorate their sufferings, and to look after my various charitable institutions.”

Surely the name of Carmen Sylva—that sweet-faced, womanly woman who, though a queen, is so charming and unassuming—is synonymous with all that is good and charitable. For Roumania, she has done what no other woman has done. Nearly all the charity of the country has been initiated, and partly supported, by her efforts. She lives her life for the poor and needy, and has worked hard for years on their behalf.

In society in Bucharest I had heard some talk of her great interest in the blind, and that one of her protégés, himself a blind man, had invented a machine by which the Braille type for blind-books could be printed by type, instead of, as hitherto, being embossed by hand. This subject I referred to, when at once her eyes shone with enthusiasm and she said—

“Then if you would like to know all about it, Mr. N——, I’ll tell you. It all came about in this way. Some years ago I had, as copyist, a servant, quite a poor man. His young wife and his children had died, and, poor fellow, he was in the greatest depths of despair when I took him into my service. So I gave him very hard work to do, in order that his mind should be occupied and he should forget. Well, time went on, and I was always much interested in the welfare of the blind, when one day this servant came to me and told me that a certain blind man named Theodorescu, whom we had rescued, was making experiments whereby the Braille books could be multiplied by printing, and thus place reading and instruction in the hands of every blind person in the world. This, I saw, would mean light in the darkness of the afflicted, so we provided the poor fellow with means to perfect his invention, with the result that he produced a rough and somewhat incomplete process. This was then taken over by Mr. Monske, an old servant of mine, who worked here in a room in the palace for over a year trying to perfect the machine. We made no mention of it to a soul, but kept it a dead secret, until at last success came, and now it is patented over the whole world—the first complete machine for printing books for the blind!”

“Have you many blind in Roumania?” I asked.

“They say we have twenty thousand. But I believe we have many more, because already in Bucharest the police have discovered for me many more than were shown upon their statistics. But let me tell you what the outcome of this invention is, and what it will be,” the Queen went on. “I have recently started a small blind institution, where the books will eventually be printed. I might tell you that some time ago, before the invention was perfected, we sent for an American machine, a cumbersome affair, which cost three thousand francs. Our machine will cost only three hundred francs. A Vienna firm wished to manufacture them, but I preferred that they should be made here, in Roumania. Well, our small institution—which is under the direction of Mr. Monske and his wife—is already in working order. See”—and she rose and took me across the salon, where there were a number of photographs arranged in a big frame surmounted by the royal crown and cipher, copies of which are reproduced in these pages.

The Queen of Roumania’s Blind Institute in Bucharest.

“Here, you see, are some pictures which the photographer very kindly sent me. Aren’t they interesting? Here is the first child we found. He’s an intelligent little chap, with musical instincts evidently, for I was told a few days ago that he had been found trying to play four instruments at once! Here you see them basket-making—here they are having a concert—and here is a group—and so on. Aren’t they interesting?” she asked enthusiastically. “And to think that they were nearly all found as beggars. Some are men who have been in good positions. That man was an officer, for instance!”

Then Her Majesty went back to her seat, and I reseated myself with her.

“The present institution is only the beginning,” she said. “I have a scheme for establishing a city for the blind—a model town, to which the blind of every nation may come and work, and support themselves. Now I will tell you something about it. When it was known that I intended to do this, people came forward on every hand to give me assistance. One gentleman gave me 100,000 francs, while a lady has given me the site for the city near Sinaia, a beautiful place where, close by, we have a castle. The site is an ideal one, and very shortly we shall lay it out with model houses built in modern style, in which two families can live. We do not wish to separate a blind man from his family, but the kitchens will be in common, so that the wife may be relieved of much of her household duties and afforded time to work and earn money.”

“We have several model villages in England, your Majesty,” I remarked. “The one called Port Sunlight might interest you. I could perhaps get photographs from Mr. Lever, who built it.”

“Oh, do. It would be so kind of you. Will you ask him?” she said. “I might get some excellent ideas from Mr. Lever’s scheme. Of course we must have a working men’s club, a concert hall, a church, and recreation room.”

“And what does your Majesty call your present institution?”

“In Roumanian it is ‘The Hearth of Light,’ but in English it would be better translated as ‘The Home of Light.’ Would you like to visit it?”

“I should be delighted,” I replied.

“Then Monske shall call for you and show you everything. Remember that the people are not paupers. From the first day they come to us they receive one franc a day, which is increased according to the skill they show in chair-making, basket-making, rope-making, and other such industries. As regards the blind city scheme, Mrs. Fern, wife of a former American Minister here, is starting for the United States in a few days, and is taking one of the new machines with her, and is going to hold conferences and explain the scheme in the principal cities of America. You see now, for the first time, education is fully open to the blind. The books will be printed as easily as other books, and will be within the reach of all. It is a splendid thing—and I am happy to say that I am receiving donations from every side. I have worked for years, and now the people are, I am gratified to think, appreciating my efforts in the cause of humanity. Yesterday Monske came to me and showed me 500 francs he had that day received. I held up notes for 7000 francs, which I had also received. One firm has sent me a magnificent organ, and I have even poor families subscribing a franc a month towards the blind. Does not that show that in the hearts of the people there is a corner for the poor afflicted? But remember that the blind colony is to be open to all nationalities. It is a big undertaking, I admit; for I have in Roumania twenty thousand people and their families. Yet the scheme will work, I am confident. And while they are now in penury, they will soon be educated, and be able to place themselves, by their work, in a position of independence.”

For over an hour we chatted together, until, after promising to send me a signed photograph of herself and of the King, she rose, saying—

“I am so delighted to have had a chat with you, Mr. N——. I will send Mr. Monske to you in the morning. But the King is alone, and will want me to read again to him, so I must go.” And Her Majesty, smiling graciously, gave me her hand, saying, “Au revoir.”

I bowed over it, thanked her for the audience, and retired, charmed by her marvellous personality, her sweet silver voice, her kindly manner, and her queenly bearing, all of which combined to create an impression which will always remain with me—an hour spent with a woman who is unique in the whole world.

Next day Her Majesty sent me the autographed photograph which appears on another page, together with a very charming note of thanks for a slight service I had been able to render her.

One morning a few days later, by the Queen’s order, I was shown over her Blind Institute, which is called the “Vatra Luminoasa Regina Elizaveta,” and is in the Boulevardul Carol, in Bucharest.

A large comfortable house, standing back from the road in its own grounds, it is the first institution to be founded under the new scheme, and the nucleus of what will most certainly become a great and important charitable work. Mr. Monske, the Director, a pleasant-faced, youngish man, with a bright, open expression, received me, in the business-like office, where a blind typist was busy with correspondence, using a Remington machine with celluloid caps on each third key.

“Ah!” exclaimed the poor afflicted typist in French, “you do not know what this place means to us! Take myself, for example. I was a clerk in an office here, in Bucharest, and eight years ago I went totally blind. My life after my misfortune was one of misery. I was in the depths of despair, for the blind are not wanted on the earth. And then came the good Queen, and saved me. My story is the same as all of us here—lifted out of despair and placed in a position of comfort and independence, for all of us are paid for our work.”

The poor clerk seemed thankful from the very bottom of his heart. He was full of praise of Her Majesty’s great goodness, and the kindness of the private persons helping her. Of Mr. Monske he sang praises, and then when he was told who and what I was, he asked me in the name of his fellow-inmates of the Institute to tell the English what a grand and noble work “Carmen Sylva” was doing.

Mr. Monske then took me to the music-room, a large bright apartment with a fine organ,—the gift of a blind Austrian gentleman,—two pianos, and other musical instruments. On the walls were the portraits of the King and Queen, while the floor was of polished oak. Here, one afternoon each week, Her Majesty comes, accompanied by her ladies-in-waiting and some friends, and gives the blind inmates and their families a musical entertainment. Thus the Queen keeps the Institute under her own personal supervision.

In another room—a play-room—I saw a homely-looking woman playing with a little blind child of four years, while the oldest inmate I saw was about sixty. The dormitories for the thirty-two inmates that were there at the time of my visit were scrupulously clean and very airy. Each man had his bed, his washstand, his lock-up wardrobe, while the floors everywhere were covered with linoleum.

I was taken to a long new building, just erected in the grounds, which is being fitted as a rope-works. There is room for thirty men to work with ease. Close beside it is about to be erected a private chapel, given by a gentleman in Bucharest, while on the other side of the house I was shown the chair-making workshops, the overseer of which was a blind man himself. Here, while some were expert menders of cane chairs, others were being taught the trade. The Director explained that he had just signed a big contract with a firm of chair-makers, and showed me the hundreds upon hundreds of frames ready to go into the hands of the blind.

Blind Inmates at Work.

The last department I was shown was that in which the new Theodorescu machine was being used to emboss blind-books. It is an interesting and ingenious method by which the type, consisting of small blunt pins, is set in a brass frame very similar to ordinary type, and is set indeed by the blind themselves. Then, when a frame is full, it is put into a special press, and any number of impressions can be taken from the embossing-pins.

Mr. Monske first reduces the printed book to embossed Braille characters, and these are set up by the blind compositors, and impressions taken very rapidly. I was shown bulky volumes of well-known works that have already been printed in this manner and now, for the first time, given to the blind. Recently Mr. Monske made a tour to the various blind institutions in France, Austria, and Germany, and without any prospectus, sold 140 of the machines. It certainly is a simple but most ingenious invention, which in the future will bring great profits to the Queen’s blind colony.

As regards private subscriptions, I was shown the list. They range from 50 centimes to £4000. On the day previous to my visit it was shown by the list that Her Majesty had received over 5000 francs in donations. Funds are coming in, it is true, but for the development of the scheme a large sum is required. It is for that reason that Her Majesty is making an earnest appeal all over the world to those interested in the welfare of the blind. Her great institution—of which this is only the nucleus—is an international one, and men and their families of all creeds and nationalities are eligible. Her Majesty has asked me to say that subscriptions, however small, can be sent either to Madame Zoe Bengesco, Dame d’Honneur to the Queen of Roumania, Bucharest, or to Mr. R. Monske, Director “Vatra Luminoasa Regina Elizaveta,” Boulevardul Carol 31, Bucharest, and would be duly acknowledged.