The Princess of Celle

‘Mirror, Mirror on the Wall’

SOPHIA DOROTHEA WAS surprised how quickly she became reconciled to her new life. It was not that she fell romantically in love with her husband – far from it. She found him quite crude and coarse; but the rough awakening to the knowledge that she could not have all her own way had strengthened her, had made her realize a toughness in her character which no one – least of all herself – had expected.

Hanover was very different from Celle – less elegant, but more extravagant. The morals at Celle had been set by the Duke and his Duchess – the faithful husband and wife who had lived in perfect harmony until George William had suddenly decided it was time he exerted his authority in the important matter of his daughter’s marriage. Fidelity in marriage had been the custom. It was natural that the court of Hanover should in the same way reflect the morals of its ruler. Ernest Augustus, the sensualist, with his maîtresse en titre and the minor members of his seraglio, set the fashion at Hanover as George William and his Duchess did at Celle. This was the shock Sophia Dorothea had to face.

It was amazing to her that the Duchess Sophia could tolerate her husband’s infidelity with such unconcern; she did not hide this amazement which naturally irritated the Duchess who was always delighted to point out Sophia Dorothea’s lack of knowledge of Hanoverian court custom. Life at Celle had been simple with George William and Elénore living so constantly en famille. It was very different at Hanover where precedence had to be observed and where it seemed to Sophia Dorothea it was a greater crime to bow to someone who was only considered worthy of a nod than to seduce someone’s wife or husband.

The Duchess Sophia could not forget that this young girl was the daughter of her old enemy; and she did all she could to discomfit her.

But in spite of this animosity there were compensations, the chief of which were the young people whom she discovered to be her cousins.

There was Frederick Augustus, about four years older than herself, who told her that he wished he had been the eldest son that he might have married her; he certainly had more grace of manner than his brother George Lewis – but then he could scarcely have had less. There was Maximilian William, about her own age – a boy of charm and mischief who showed her very clearly right from the beginning that he was ready to be her friend. The girl cousin Sophia Charlotte was some two years younger and very interested in the clothes her new sister-in-law had brought with her. Charles Philip was friendly, too, and so were the young ones, Christian and Ernest Augustus.

So after having been an only child Sophia Dorothea had the experience of finding herself a member of a large family – and this was agreeable.

There were times though when she was homesick and wanted to cry herself to sleep – and would have done but for the presence of George Lewis. Sometimes when she was alone with Eléonore von Knesebeck she would shed a few tears and they would talk of Celle where everything was so much simpler and yet more beautiful; then Sophia Dorothea would write a letter to her mother and tell her that she was getting along better than she expected yet how she longed to be with her!

But each week brought a softening of the pain as the life of Hanover became imposed on that of Celle. She would find herself laughing over Maximilian’s tricks, or enjoying the envy of Sophia Charlotte.

There were days when nothing special happened. Then she would write letters or in her journal for her two favourite pastimes were writing and dressing up. She would lie late in bed and, after George Lewis had left, Eléonore von Knesebeck would come in and they would talk together often of Celle. They would work on their embroidery together, read a little; and of course the task of getting Sophia Dorothea dressed took a long time. She was learning to fit in with the ceremonious behaviour; she would go down to dinner with Eléonore von Knesebeck to accompany her and a page to lead the way, and would take her place at the head of the table in accordance with her rank and often earn the stern looks of her mother-in-law because she had smiled at someone who was not of high enough rank to deserve a smile from the wife of the Prince of Hanover.

But the little mistakes she made – usually by being too friendly to the humble – endeared her to most members of the court. And after the great midday meal when she often took an airing in her coach she would smile prettily at the people who came out of their houses to see her go by, and if the Duchess Sophia was shocked by her friendliness, the people were not.

They cheered her; and they were growing fond of her. She was the prettiest creature to come out of the court – and none of the paint and powder so lavishly used by the so-called beauties could compare with her natural charms. She was young and fresh; she was elegant and charming. It raised her spirits to know that she could charm these people as she had her father’s subjects at Celle.

When she rejoined the company in the great hall for supper she would behave in a manner with which even the Duchess Sophia could not find fault; she danced exquisitely and even took a turn at playing the card games which were so popular.

Everyone was saying that George Lewis could not have found a more charming or more suitable wife.

Sometimes the court moved to Herrenhausen which was a little schloss in the country set in the midst of a charming park. The Duchess Sophia loved Herrenhausen and went there whenever she could; here the French custom of performing pastorales and fêtes champêtres was in vogue; and as the winter passed Sophia Dorothea took her part in these entertainments.

Opposite the Alte Palais was the Leine Schloss where the most important functions were held, as this old castle was more imposing than the Palais. Here Sophia Dorothea had her own apartments and it was while she was there with the coming of that new year, a few months after her marriage, that she believed herself to be pregnant.

Looking out at the limes and acacias, which made the banks of the river Leine so lovely in the spring, she thought that her child would bud and blossom with them; and that when the child was born she could be happy again.

Thus Sophia Dorothea began to be reconciled to her new life.

There was one who watched the progress of Sophia Dorothea with suppressed fury. Clara, now Baroness von Platen, had had a shock. In the beginning she had believed that she would have no difficulty in dealing with the newcomer. A foolish frivolous young girl, she had called her; a silly child who thought of nothing but pretty clothes and admiration; who hadn’t the wits to placate her husband, the heir of Hanover.

I will soon put her in her place, Clara had promised herself. Marie shall come back and we shall be as we were.

But the girl was not as she seemed. For one thing she had been well educated under the supervision of her mother and was far more knowledgeable in languages and the arts than Clara could ever be.

And what use are they? asked Clara. I could show her things she had never dreamed existed.

Clara laughed at her own thoughts. She was a witch, said Ernest Augustus. She was skilled in the art of eroticism as no other woman he had ever known – not in France or in Italy. She could always surprise him. Thus she kept her hold on him.

If he accused her of infidelity she would retort: ‘Well, how am I to practise that I may appear perfect with you if I cannot make use of others?’

And that amused him. Ernest Augustus could forgive anyone who amused him. Besides, he was too much of a man of the world to expect fidelity from such a skilled woman as Clara.

Clara had the court in her hands. Clara could command and rule. At least so she had believed.

She had said: ‘Marie pines to be back at court. It is unfair to keep her away.’

‘It was in the agreement that she should be banished.’

‘Well, she was. Let her return now.’

‘Impossible, my dear. Besides, it would scarcely be fair to the Princess.’

Fair to the Princess! What had that to do with it! She wanted it and it had to be denied her because it would not be fair to the Princess!

‘She’ll fight her own battles.’

‘Later yes, but she’s a charming creature and I think beginning to settle.’

‘Poor George Lewis. He wants Marie back. After all, you have Marie’s sister. Should you deny him his fun.’

‘To tell you the truth, Clara, I think he is beginning to enjoy his wife.’

‘But Marie amused him! Marie knows how to please a man. Surely you don’t think Madame Prudery’s daughter was brought up to do that.’

‘No, I don’t. But I like to see her happier. She’s a pretty creature.’

He was smiling almost tenderly. That was what had sent up the danger signals.

So he too was a little taken with the fresh charm of the young bride! Clara would have to be very careful. She knew it was no use attempting to talk of bringing back Marie just yet.

She was a rich woman now, for her new title had brought estates with it and Ernest Augustus had been generous to one who had helped bring about the Celle marriage. The Baron von Platen was a useful man; not only was he an absolutely complacent husband but knew how to do as he was told – which was what Clara and Ernest Augustus told him. Such a minister was to be cherished. It was also pleasant to reward Clara so respectably through her husband. Clara naturally had the spending of the newly acquired fortune and she bought a house between Hanover and Herrenhausen which she called Monplaisir. She had added to it and entertained there so lavishly that she lured many worldly people to it from the court itself.

Ernest Augustus had looked on with amusement, and was often a guest at Monplaisir.

It was while she was staying at Monplaisir that she first realized what progress Sophia Dorothea was making. She had encouraged her attendant at Monplaisir, a girl named Ilse, to talk freely with her, for thus she learned trends and secrets it would not have been easy to discover otherwise although she had her spies everywhere.

Ilse herself was a good-looking young woman and enjoyed her position, and often she had been rewarded for her frankness.

But Ilse made her mistake.

There had been a ball at the Leine Schloss at which both Clara and Sophia Dorothea had been present. Sophia Dorothea representing Spring at this ball, had worn a plain clinging gown of green silk with flowers instead of jewels in her hair. Clara had been magnificent as the goddess of Plenty, jewels agleam, pearls sewn into a gown of great splendour.

She wanted to hear what had been said of the ball and what comments had been made about the magnificence of her gown.

Ilse told her she had heard that never had such a dress been seen before in Hanover. It was the most splendid gown of the ball.

And what had they said of Sophia Dorothea?

Oh, they had said of her that she was the loveliest of all the women and that was it not marvellous that she could be so in nothing but flowers and a piece of green silk.

Clara read the implication behind the words. She brought up her hand and gave the astonished Ilse a stinging blow at the side of her face which sent her reeling.

‘But Baroness, you said … to tell the truth …’

‘The truth. Are you going to tell me that that child in her silly green silk was more beautiful than I in my gown? Do you know what that gown cost, girl?’

‘Yes, Baroness, I know … but you asked what they said and they said she was so fresh and young and that Spring was more beautiful than … than …’

‘Than what?’

‘I do not remember, Baroness … only that Spring was more beautiful.’

‘Get away from me before I flay the skin off you!’ cried Clara.

When the girl had gone she stood in front of her mirror biting her lips. What was the use of pretending? Look at that sagging line … look at those crowsfeet round the eyes – look how sallow she was without her rouge! One could not live the life she lived and remain fresh as spring. The girl was only seventeen in any case. How could she hope to compete?

Narrowing her eyes she saw the features of Ernest Augustus, relaxed, almost tender. ‘I like to see her happier. She’s a pretty creature …’

And he would not let Clara bring Marie back.

There was a time when no one at a court ball had had eyes for anyone but her. She had been the queen in those days – and she would not give up her place to anyone. To think that this girl … this child … who knew nothing of the ways of men and women, should come in and usurp her place just because she had a fresh and pretty face and a few Frenchified manners!

Well, she would see.

At the moment Sophia Dorothea was pregnant. Soon she would be unable to dance at the balls. She would have to stay in her apartments and think of the child. Then Baroness Clara would regain her old position. But that could only be a temporary victory.

She must be watchful; she would have to make plans for Madame Sophia Dorothea if she continued after the birth of her child to try to be the queen of Hanover.

In the meantime she could relax a little. But she must be careful. No one must know how she hated that young woman.

It was Clara’s obsession now to outshine Sophia Dorothea. The entertainments she gave at Monplaisir had become more lavish than ever; if she discovered that certain people greatly admired Sophia Dorothea she endeavoured to invite them to Monplaisir when she knew Sophia Dorothea would be giving an entertainment in her apartments. Many had learned that it was unwise to offend Clara and that Sophia Dorothea would not blame them if they had a previous engagement; Sophia Dorothea, they had noticed, was sweet natured; she was not continually trying to remind them how important she was; on her her rank sat gracefully. It was not as it was with Clara.

Clara’s gowns became more startling. She would spend hours with her women before her mirror and would emerge at least the most colourful woman at court.

She studied herself for signs of age. Her body had always been a greater asset than her face. It was still beautiful, even after childbearing; and she had had two children. Secretly she was not sure who their father was. It might have been Ernest Augustus or one of the pages whom she had momentarily desired one afternoon and had summoned to her bedchamber. It was of little importance, for Baron von Platen, that most complacent of husbands, obligingly accepted paternity. But the point was that childbearing did not improve the figure, and Clara had always been inclined to be sallow.

She bathed each day in milk and because she wished to earn a reputation for generosity and good deeds among the people, she allowed the milk in which she had bathed to be distributed to the poor – with bread to accompany it.

She liked to linger in her bath of milk for she felt that the longer she remained there the whiter her skin would become and one day as she lay planning what dress she would wear to put Sophia Dorothea into the shade, she called Ilse, but the girl did not come and Clara rose, put a wrap about herself and went into the adjoining chamber. The door was open on to the garden and what she saw horrified her. Ernest Augustus was leaning over Ilse, who was seated under a tree, and he was talking to her most confidentially, his hand resting on her shoulder; he was smiling – so was Ilse.

By God! thought Clara. My own maid!

She stepped into the garden, curbing her fury as she went.

‘I trust I have not kept Your Highness waiting?’

Ernest Augustus turned to smile at her. He was not quick enough though. She saw the lust in his eyes. For Ilse! What had that little slut to offer? Youth! That was the answer. Youth! She was obsessed by youth ever since she had been so blatantly reminded of it by the creature from Celle.

Small wonder that Ilse had been so insolent lately, telling her how people had thought the simply clad Sophia Dorothea more beautiful than the glorious Platen.

So … Ilse was trying to take her place was she? She would show her!

Coolly she told the girl to go and bring refreshment for His Highness; Ilse obeyed as though in a dream. Then Clara took Ernest Augustus to her bedchamber and made savage love with him, to remind him that he would never find anyone as skilled as she was.

She made sure that Ilse brought the refreshment to them while they were in bed – that was a warning to Ilse.

When he had left she sent for the girl who might have been deceiving herself that her mistress had not noticed her duplicity.

‘Come here, slut,’ said Clara.

Then she took the trembling Ilse by the hair, threw her across the bed and beat her until the girl cried out for mercy.

‘Mercy!’ cried Clara. ‘What mercy do you expect? How far has it gone? You had better tell the truth.’

‘There is nothing, Baroness. Nothing. He noticed me for the first time this afternoon and spoke to me. It was because he was waiting for you.’

‘And you did not come to tell me he was here?’

‘He told me to wait a while.’

‘I see, and during that while …’

‘You came out, Baroness.’

‘In time!’ laughed Clara. ‘You go to your room, girl and stay there. Don’t dare move from it until I say you may.’

Ilse lost no time in running away. She tried to assure herself that the incident was not important. It was merely that the Baroness’s rages were more frequent and more violent now that she was no longer considered to be the most beautiful lady of the court. Ernest Augustus had implied that he liked her. That was well. It would doubtless only be for a short time, but one did very well even so. Look at Esther! Although she had gone back again and again. Why not Ilse?

The Baroness’s rage would pass. But she knew very well that Ernest Augustus took girls now and then; it did not alter his relationship with the Baroness.

While Ilse was thus musing a guard appeared at her door.

‘What is it?’ she cried.

‘Fraulein,’ he told her, ‘I have orders to arrest you. You will follow me.’

On the orders of the Baroness, Ilse was conveyed to prison.

The guard was sorry for a pretty girl like Ilse. The poor girl seemed quite stunned; it was such a sudden transition from the splendours of Monplaisir to the spinning house of a prison.

She kept saying: ‘I’m innocent … innocent… .’ And he wanted to do something to comfort her.

He took an opportunity of speaking to her the day after she had been admitted, while he was guarding the women at their spinning.

‘What have you done?’ he asked.

‘I’ve done nothing … nothing… . The Duke stopped and spoke to me in the garden, that was all. And she saw us… .’

The guard nodded. He had heard stories of the ruthless Baroness von Platen.

‘He liked you, eh? Well, you could send a message to him telling him where his little chat has landed you. He’s out of Hanover for a few weeks … but when he comes back …’

‘A few weeks!’ cried Ilse. ‘Must I endure this for a few weeks … when I’ve done nothing … when I’ve had no trial … just because the Baroness hates anyone younger than herself.’

‘I don’t reckon she’d want him to know she’d had you put here.’

He looked at her; she was a pretty girl; but she wouldn’t be for long if she stayed here, and he’d like to serve the girl a turn.

‘Leave it to me,’ he said; and winked. He strutted away; he liked to feel he was engaged in intrigue.

It came to Clara’s ears that her serving girl Ilse was going to petition Ernest Augustus explaining that she had been wrongfully imprisoned.

Clara was thoughtful. So far she had been able to manage Ernest Augustus, but he had refused to allow Marie to come back, and was showing a certain fondness for Sophia Dorothea. Undoubtedly he was getting fonder of younger women as he grew older – a natural habit, she supposed; but it did mean she would have to be more careful. As far as Ilse was concerned she realized she had been a little hasty. She should have kept her temper and quietly rid herself of the girl, sending her somewhere where Ernest Augustus would not have seen her again, and that would have been an end of the matter. It was all the fault of Sophia Dorothea whose coming had made a difference and set up this worship of youth in susceptible Ernest Augustus. Well, now she must settle this Ilse matter finally and she did not want the girl petitioning Ernest Augustus, who must quickly forget that he had ever seen the creature.

Immediate action was necessary.

That day she ordered that Ilse, as a disreputable woman, be drummed out of Hanover, and as a result the unfortunate girl was taken from prison, marched through the streets to the sound of discordant music, right out of the town – never to return, in accordance with that custom which had persisted for many years.

Ilse could not believe this was happening to her; she was bewildered and frightened, having nowhere to go. She realized as she stumbled along what a fool she had been to incur the wrath of the Baroness von Platen.

Exhausted, disillusioned and almost wishing for death, at length she came to a farmhouse where she begged food and shelter. This was given in exchange for work; and there she stayed a while, wondering what to do next.

October had come and Dorothea waited in her apartments for the birth of her child; it was a year and a month since that birthday when her life had changed so drastically and now, if she could have a child – a healthy child to whom she could devote herself – she would regret little.

Eléonore von Knesebeck was with her; the Duchess of Celle was on her way to Hanover; Duke Ernest Augustus had sent gifts and told her that he was awaiting the happy event with great eagerness; even the stern Duchess Sophia, riding back to Hanover from Herrenhausen, had expressed approval of such a prompt promise of the heir’s delivery.

‘Oh, Knesebeck,’ she said, ‘one grows used to Hanover.’

‘Then one can grow used to anything.’

‘My mother should be here soon.’

‘If she had her way she’d be here all the time.’

‘Except when I pay my visits to Celle. Oh, Eléonore, I am a little frightened. Is it very painful, do you think?’

‘But it’ll soon be over and imagine you … with a baby of your own.’

They laughed together and Sophia Dorothea walked to the mirror, leaning on Fraulein von Knesebeck, and they compared her present state with the sylph who had arisen on that birthday morning to learn she was to be a bride of Hanover.

It no longer seemed a tragedy and they talked of it until Sophia Dorothea thought the pains were starting and a flustered Fraulein von Knesebeck hurried to call in the women.

Sophia Dorothea lay back exhausted but she was aware of the excitement in the bedchamber.

‘A boy,’ they were saying. ‘A healthy boy.’

‘My darling!’ It was her mother at her bedside.

‘Maman, you are here then?’

‘Yes, my darling. I have been here all the time. And you have come through well and you have a lovely boy.’

‘I want to see him.’

‘And so you shall.’

Sophia Dorothea held him in her arms and the Duchess Eléonore thought she was like a child with a doll – her precious daughter, a mother. It seemed incredible and yet it made her so happy. The match with Hanover was not so tragic after all; George William was constantly telling her so; they had become reconciled, but she would never forget his harshness to their daughter and could not completely return to the old happy ways. Her whole life now was centred round her daughter.

There were others coming into the bedchamber. Ernest Augustus was there with Duchess Sophia and of course the chief minister Platen and his wife. The stories one heard of that woman were hard to believe on occasions like this when the Baroness remained at a discreet distance from the Duchess Sophia and behaved as if she were merely her efficient lady-in-waiting. A clever woman. Eléonore would have been very disturbed if she had been the mistress of George Lewis instead of his father. But George Lewis had been behaving like a good husband. Doubtless there were minor infidelities – a serving girl here and there (they would be very much to his taste, doubtless) but at least Sophia Dorothea was not asked to submit to the indignity of seeing a woman set up over her. But George Lewis was as crude as ever; his manners were appalling and apart from his love of music – which seemed inherent in all Germans – he had no appreciation of the finer things of life. Still, he was behaving in a manner they had dared not hope for; and of course it had had its effect on Sophia Dorothea.

Ernest Augustus seemed really fond of his daughter-in-law and George Lewis was strutting with pride in his new importance.

George William was delighted with this state of affairs and his affectionate eyes constantly informed his wife: I told you so.

The christening was a splendid occasion and it seemed a happy choice that the new baby should be christened George Augustus, after George William and Ernest Augustus – his two grandfathers.

The Duchess Eléonore remained with her daughter until after the christening and, before she left, a visit to Celle had been arranged.

Ernest Augustus was surprised when one of his servants asked permission to put a paper into his hands. This was not the channel through which documents usually reached him, and before he touched it he asked whence it had come.

‘It was given to one of the servants by a poor woman, Your Highness. She said you would remember her and help her if you knew of her plight.’

‘I’ll look at it some time.’

When he opened the letter he found that it was from a woman who had once been a servant of Clara’s. He could scarcely remember what she looked like, but his memory was faintly stirred. He had seen her in Clara’s garden at Monplaisir once and spoken to her. Yes, he had had plans for her, for she had been a pretty creature. Then Clara had come out and found them together. Very vaguely he remembered.

So Clara had dismissed the girl from her service because of this; moreover she had imprisoned her for a while and later had her drummed out of Hanover. Rather drastic treatment for a little speculative conversation. What was the matter with Clara? She had never before minded a little waywardness because she knew he was well aware that there was not another woman like her in Hanover – possibly not in the world. However, she had treated this girl rather badly. He wondered why? Was there something very special about her?

He considered the plea. She was crying for help. She was penniless; at the moment she was working as a drudge in a farmhouse. Would he give her permission to return to Hanover and perhaps find her some humble position in the palace?

He considered.

She must have been pretty or he would not have noticed her in the first place but try as he might he could not remember what she looked like. There were many attactive girls at hand – and what would Clara say if he brought this one back? There would be trouble.

He had no desire for trouble – nor for a girl whose face he couldn’t remember.

He made up his mind; she should have a small gift of money.

This he arranged to be sent to her with a warning that she would be wise not to return to Hanover.

After the birth of the baby George Lewis grew closer to his wife. The child was a bond between them; they were both so proud of him. Ernest Augustus, too, was a frequent visitor to the nursery; and when he found his daughter-in-law there he would stop and chat to her about the child’s future.

He was growing more and more fond of her. Her beauty was so appealing. His wife could rant as much as she liked about ‘that of piece of dirt’ as she called the Duchess Eléonore, but George William’s wife knew how to bring up a girl and, moreover, this one had inherited her mother’s beauty. As a connoisseur of female charms Ernest Augustus could not fail to be impressed by those of Sophia Dorothea; and the fact that his relationship to her put her out of range of amatory adventure enhanced rather than diminished his admiration.

The growing respect and affection the Duke had for his daughter-in-law was noticed – and of course Clara was aware of it.

In her daily milk baths, at her dressing table, she considered her own charms and the fear that they were diminishing did not increase her good temper; she made vicious plans for the downfall of Sophia Dorothea but was unable to put them into practice. The most infuriating aspect of the situation was not so much Ernest Augustus’s regard for the girl but George Lewis’s, and her inability to bring Marie back to court. If she could have provided George Lewis with a mistress whom she could have commanded, Sophia Dorothea could be so humiliated that she would be running back to Celle to Maman in a very short time.

But George Lewis remained the almost faithful husband whose minor infidelities were of no importance; and with each day Ernest Augustus grew more fond of his charming daughter-in-law. She had heard though that the Ilse creature had written to him and although he had given her some small gift he had advised her not to come to Hanover. A victory, though a small one. But enough to show her that Ernest Augustus still had some regard for her, and if she were careful she could continue to hold her place. But she must be careful.

She had done her best to poison the mind of Sophia Charlotte, George Lewis’s only sister, against Sophia Dorothea. It had not been difficult, for it was as galling for a young girl as for a woman to see herself continually compared with another to her own disadvantage. Sophia Charlotte had been prepared to be quite unpleasant to her sister-in-law since she had become so jealous of her. Sophia Dorothea, who was very impulsive, Clara noted with glee, had shown quite clearly that she disliked her sister-in-law; and the animosity between them grew.

Another enemy, thought Clara. Very soon I shall bring Marie back and then we shall see. One by one they shall turn against her and then she will commit some indiscretion – for she is indiscreet. That was easy enough to see.

But then Sophia Charlotte was married to the Elector of Brandenburg – a brilliant marriage which delighted her parents more than it did Sophia Charlotte; and that meant that after the brilliant festivities she left Hanover.

One enemy the less. George Lewis went away to the army and a new pattern was set at Hanover. Sophia Dorothea spent a great deal of time with her son, living quietly, occasionally visiting Celle or receiving her parents in her home.

Ernest Augustus, who had always loved to travel, and since the marriage with Celle when he had command of Sophia Dorothea’s large fortune was able to do so, decided that he would like to visit Italy again. The Duchess Sophia was perfectly capable of governing in his absence; and she was very pleased to have the opportunity.

So Ernest Augustus left Hanover for Venice, accompanied by the Platens and other friends and a few ministers, while the Duchess Sophia remained behind at Herrenhausen to govern from there. Sophia Dorothea reigned supreme in the Alte Palais or, when she gave entertainments, in the Leine Schloss. Visits to Celle were more frequent than ever; and life was very tolerable indeed.

Sophia Dorothea was in her apartments one day writing to her mother when Eléonore von Knesebeck ran into the room to tell her that messengers from Venice had arrived.

‘Well,’ said Sophia Dorothea placidly, ‘I doubt that will concern us.’

‘I believe some high personage is among them.’

‘Who?’ asked Sophia Dorothea anxiously.

‘Not the Duke … nor the Platen woman. You can be sure one would not be here without the other.’

‘The Duchess is receiving them?’

‘Yes, but she will expect you to put in an appearance.’

At that moment there was scratching at the door and one of the pages announced that General and Madame Ilten had arrived at Hanover from Venice and the Duchess Sophia knew that the Crown Princess would wish to welcome them.

‘Well,’ said Sophia Dorothea, when the page had left, ‘now perhaps we shall have a little gaiety in the Leine Schloss or even at Herrenhausen.’

And she went down to greet the General and his lady.

When she heard what news they brought she was at first astonished and then delighted.

Duke Ernest Augustus thought that she must be feeling a little lonely at Hanover with so much of the court absent and that she must be in need of a little holiday. He wished her to prepare at once to leave Hanover in the company of the General and his wife and come to Italy where he would be most happy to see her. There was another reason why he wished her to be there: George Lewis had arrived from the army and would naturally be eager to see his wife.

She had never before been very far from Celle or Hanover, and the prospect of visiting a foreign city and one reputed to be as beautiful and romantic as Venice was exciting.

She turned and hugged Eléonore von Knesebeck. ‘What are you looking so glum about? Of course you’ll come with me!’

She threw herself into a fever of preparation. The dresses she would need! The jewels!

But after the first excitement had worn off a little she thought of the less pleasant side of this adventure. She would leave her baby in Hanover, she would be far from her mother, and there would be reunion with George Lewis; she remembered it was almost a year since she had last seen him.

Sophia Dorothea was discovering herself as well as Venice. She was meant to be gay. How different was this city – a group of islands rising from the sea – compared with Hanover. The weather was clement; every day she awoke to see the sun bathing the buildings in a golden light – usually at midday, for she retired late after the balls and banquets which her father-in-law gave in his palazzo on the Grand Canal.

How excited she was by all the exotic sights! She would gaze in rapture at the marble palaces on the water’s edge, at the gondolas gliding past on the Grand Canal, at the Rialto where on more than one occasion, masked and wrapped in a concealing cloak, she and Eléonore von Knesebeck had wandered together.

Ernest Augustus was delighted with her excitement.

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘I feel I am seeing it for the first time through fresh young eyes. I did not know how jaded I had become.’

He would have her with him as much as possible – his honoured little guest.

Clara was watching carefully. She would soon have to take action against Madame Sophia Dorothea. She had been enjoying Venice until the girl had come, for Venice was a city for adventure. She had had her Venetian lovers and would have others. Each day brought new promise of excitement; and now here was this girl to delight Ernest Augustus with her naïve pleasure in foreign places!

She gleefully noticed that the resumed relationship between husband and wife was an uneasy one. It had never been one of passionate devotion, certainly, rather of compromise – and now they were both a little older (Sophia Dorothea must be nineteen) and compromise was not good enough. George Lewis had returned from the army where doubtless he had indulged in many a ribald adventure and was even more coarse than when he had been away; as for Sophia Dorothea she had had a year free from his unwanted embraces and was showing even less inclination for them than before. She had not become less fastidious – but more so.

George Lewis often looked sullen when his eyes rested on his wife. She was undoubtedly lovely, but he was unappreciative of her sort of beauty. The beautiful paintings in the palaces here and the architecture meant little to him. They were just pictures and buildings; and the charm of the Piazza San Marco was solely the opportunity of finding a willing woman there.

Sophia Dorothea was different. What could be expected of one brought up by the cultured Duchess of Celle? She was deeply aware of the beauty of Venice, but at the same time she was willing to throw herself, with all her newly awakened youthful zest, into the enjoyment of a life hitherto unknown to her.

The carnival was in full progress. Sophia Dorothea blossomed in the thrill of it all. Ernest Augustus bought her a Venetian gown and Venetian jewels because he wanted everyone to appreciate the beauty of his daughter-in-law. Why not, thought Clara, it was her money he was spending, though no one would have thought it, so magnanimously did he bestow his gifts, so charmingly and gratefully did Sophia Dorothea receive them.

Clara observed that Sophia Dorothea was something of a coquette. And why not? The Venetians were well versed in the arts of flattery – something of which George Lewis had never heard. This intricate preamble of flirtation and invitation was unknown to him, and Sophia Dorothea would naturally find it as exciting as all the novelties she was experiencing.

Perhaps, mused Clara, it would be possible to bring about the downfall of Sophia Dorothea through a lover.

While she was pondering this George Lewis had to leave for Naples and Ernest Augustus decided that before he himself returned to Hanover, which state matters demanded he should before long, he would like to show his daughter-in-law Rome.

Thus while George Lewis travelled to Naples, Ernest Augustus and his party went to Rome.

Sophia Dorothea found Rome as enthralling as Venice and it was Ernest Augustus’s great pleasure to show her this city. Clara looked on with disgust. He was like a boy, riding in his magnificent carriage through the streets with his excited daughter-in-law beside him. Of course this role was a minor one in the days of Ernest Augustus. He must entertain lavishly wherever he went – and since the Celle marriage he had money to spend. He had come to Italy on state affairs naturally and had arranged that troops of his soldiers should work for the Venetians; he had charged a high price, for the Hanoverian armies had a good reputation; and now he felt affluent and he had always been a man who, having money, liked to spend it.

So the entertainments he gave in Rome were every bit as splendid as those he had given in Venice, and Clara had ample opportunity of trying out a little experiment she had planned for the downfall of the girl who was in her thoughts too often for her peace of mind.

There could be no doubt that the most admired woman in the party from Hanover was the Crown Princess Sophia Dorothea, and all Clara’s splendid jewel-decked gowns and cosmetics could not alter this.

There was a man – not particularly young for he must be approaching forty – in Rome at this time who was noted for the gay life he led; he was tremendously wealthy and spent his life going from one adventure – mostly amatory – to another. But at the same time his wit and his bravery were a legend.

Clara, dancing with him at one of Ernest Augustus’s balls, noticed with inward anger that although he paid her delicate compliments and might be prepared to spend a few hours of the night with her if she pressed the matter, his attention was not with her. He might deceive others by his burning looks and flattering compliments but she was as skilled in this art as he was and she could not be deluded.

There was someone else on whom attention was directed and she could guess who it was.

‘You have noticed out little beauty,’ she said.

He answered: ‘How happy you must be to have such an enchanting creature at your court.’

‘But naturally,’ answered Clara. ‘It gives us all great pleasure merely to look at the pretty creature.’

‘So fresh … so vestal.’

‘Oh, she is a mother, so she scarcely qualifies for that description. Did you ever see anyone so abandonedly joyful?’

‘Rarely.’

‘You have not met her?’

‘It is a pleasure I am storing up for myself.’

‘You should not leave it too long. The Duke might decide that we return to Hanover.’

‘That would be calamitous. To be deprived of your society …’

‘And not having discovered the delights of that of the Princess.’

‘You alarm me. I have never been so conscious of the passing of time.’

‘Come, I will present you to her.’

‘Why are you so good to me?’

His eyes, crinkled attractively with the first signs of too-good-living, smiled into hers. They understood each other. She who had been the fairest was so no longer; she could not hide from him the fact that she hated her rival. What did she want? The fresh young beauty defiled! He was sure – his infinite knowledge helping him in this deduction – that Sophia Dorothea had never had a lover before. The husband could scarcely be called that. The enchanting Princess was unawakened … physically; and when awakened she would be more enchanting than ever.

Jealous Clara was offering him the exquisite task of bringing understanding of the ways of love to the delightful creature. He was always a man to accept a challenge.

‘How delightfully you dance! I could swear you learned in France.’

‘My mother was French.’

‘So you are partly French. No wonder I felt drawn towards you.’

‘Perhaps my mother knows you. She knew most of the noble families of her country.’

‘Heaven forbid.’

He raised his eyes to the ceiling and Sophia Dorothea laughed as she danced a few steps from him, returning as the dance ordained, to put her hand into his. ‘Have you such a shocking reputation then?’

‘Completely shocking. If your mother knew that your hand was in mine at the moment she would send out the guards of Celle to arrest me.’

‘She would do no such thing. She would invite you to Celle to discover whether you were as wicked as your reputation.’

‘Then I should be able to tell her that having met her beautiful daughter I was set on the path to reformation.’

‘So I have that effect on you?’

‘In the subtlest of ways.’

‘Pray explain.’

‘All my life I have flitted from one adventure to another, seeking … I now know always seeking.’

‘Seeking what?’

‘What was the object of every knight’s search: the Holy Grail.’

Again she laughed, gaily, youthfully – innocently he thought; and innocence was a quality so attractive because one longed to destroy it. ‘Monsieur de Lassaye,’ she said, ‘it surprises me that you should be in search of the Holy Grail.’

‘It was symbolic,’ he said. ‘It means Perfection. That is what I seek and mon Dieu, I believe I have found it. I never heard anyone laugh as you do, nor saw such beauty in a face.’

‘And I have heard of your adventures … in love and in war.’

‘They were the adventures of the seeker.’

‘What a dull life he will have when he reaches his goal!’

‘Madame la Princesse, I assure you that his life will only then begin.’

No one had ever spoken to her thus before; she was excited; the ball, the carnivals, the admiration in the eyes of men and particularly this man who attracted her, had alarmed her a little. He had the air of having lived through a thousand adventures such as she, with her limited experience, could only guess at.

‘I … I don’t know how you can be sure of that,’ she said.

‘I could assure you … by proving to you.’

‘But, Monsieur le Marquis, what have I to do with this?’

‘Everything, Madame la Princesse, everything!’

She was faintly alarmed; he came too close; she thought his eyes were like those of a satyr and she was conscious of a great urge to know more of him, to understand something of the world of romance and passion of which he was a habitué. Lust as practised by George Lewis had shocked her; the Marquis de Lassaye would give it a different name, a different aspect. She felt as though she were standing at the edge of an inviting lake, the waters of which were lapping about her feet. She longed to plunge in and float effortlessly, lightly supported by the exciting Marquis; but she greatly feared that one as inexperienced as she was would quickly be submerged.

But while she stood at the edge, gently dabbling with her toes, she was safe.

So she listened to his talk and the more she listened the more excited she became; and that night as she lay in her bed she could not sleep for thinking of him and the possibility of sharing his adventures.

He was always at her side. His conversation was stimulating to her senses and her mind. He told her about his estates in France and life at the court of Versailles. There was nowhere else in the world like it. She should come to Paris. He was sure Louis would be delighted with her; he was addicted to beauty and such as hers would startle even the Court of France.

It was all so pleasant to listen to. Her mother had talked so often of France and never had she met anyone who knew that country so well; even her mother had been long exiled from it. But all this conversation was leading towards that inevitable end. She contemplated it and shivered, for once it had been reached there was no turning back. She thought of her mother who believed that husbands and wives must be faithful to each other and had brought her up to believe the same. But then her mother had married a good and charming man who had loved her deeply; theirs had been as romantic a story as any could be. It had been easy for her mother. But how would she have fared married to a man like George Lewis who, in Naples, was no doubt playing the usual role of unfaithful husband.

But his affairs had no bearing on hers. She was excited by this man; and although she drew back from taking the plunge, it was very pleasant to stand on the brink contemplating it.

‘A letter,’ said Eléonore von Knesebeck, giggling happily. ‘No need to ask whence that came.’

‘He has dared to write to me!’

‘He would dare anything,’ cried Eléonore sighing.

‘I believe you are in love with him.’

‘It would be easy to fall in love with such a man.’

‘If my mother could hear you, Fraulein von Knesebeck.’

‘If she could see you, Madame la Princesse …’

They laughed together. Eléonore von Knesebeck was a good companion, a good friend, they had grown up together and she could not imagine her life without her, but was she wise, was she discreet? She was the sort who would go along with her mistress in an affair like this, urging her on to recklessness. Such a thought sobered Sophia Dorothea.

‘Sometimes,’ she said, rather breathlessly, ‘I am a little frightened. Where is this leading?’

‘Why should you not enjoy your life? Others do. Look at Baroness von Platen. She has a good time.’

‘I should not care to be like her,’ said Sophia Dorothea.

‘Oh she is wicked they say. Do you know what they call her in Hanover: Die Böse Platen. They know it. There was that poor girl Ilse.’

‘Yes, I heard about Ilse. No, I should not care to be like the Baroness von Platen.’

‘Are you going to read this letter?’

Sophia Dorothea took it. It was written in flowery terms, and was both eager and hopeful.

She thought: If we progress at this rate in a week he will be my lover.

Before Fraulein von Knesebeck’s astonished eyes she tore up the letter.

She was aware that Clara was watching her … hopefully. Did Clara want her to become the mistress of the Marquis de Lassaye? Why? Was it because she wanted to bring her down to her level? Was it because she hated her so much that she wanted to make trouble?

Sophia Dorothea was frightened. Die Böse Platen indeed! Was it not Clara who had presented the Marquis to her?

She was cool to him when he approached her. He was wounded, but she could not explain to him – nor had she any wish to. She wanted to leave Rome, and was suddenly filled with a desire to see her son.

Perhaps she had been too long away.

The Marquis was more than hurt; he was angry. He was not accustomed to being so slighted, and he had wagered with Clara that the Princess would be his mistress in a matter of weeks.

That girl is sly, thought Clara. Too cautious to take a lover. Well, we shall see what happens when the right one comes along.

Meanwhile Ernest Augustus was restless. State matters called him back to Hanover and he could not stay away indefinitely.

He told Clara to make ready for the journey home and apologised to Sophia Dorothea for taking her away from her pleasures.

‘I have a fondness for Hanover,’ she told him; ‘and I long to see little George Augustus.’

Not George Lewis, Ernest Augustus noticed; for his son should be back in Hanover by the time they returned. Well, who could blame her for that? She would be more dissatisfied with her husband than ever now she had seen how charmingly and gracefully some people behaved.

But she had her son. He hoped she would soon have more. He told her that it had been a pleasant sojourn and her company had given him pleasure.

It delighted him to have a beautiful daughter-in-law whose dowry had made him so rich.

So back they came to Hanover and life went on as though there had been no interruption.

Very soon Sophia Dorothea became pregnant and in due course her daughter was born.

A daughter was a great disappointment and there was not the ceremony that attended the birth of George Augustus, but Sophia Dorothea was delighted with the child.

She was named after her mother who gave herself up entirely to the care of little George Augustus and Sophia Dorothea.

George Lewis found no pleasure in his wife’s society, nor she in his. After their separation she seemed more remote than ever and he to her more coarse.

She was less docile than she had been and often did not hide the repulsion he aroused in her. She allowed it to be known that she found him coarse and uneducated. Clara saw that her comments always reached him.

Thus during the months which followed the birth of little Sophia Dorothea relations between the Crown Prince and Princess of Hanover became very strained.