The Princess of Celle

Banishment from Celle

ERNEST AUGUSTUS HAD at last attained his heart’s desire. Hanover was created an Electorate and he its Elector. All the scheming of years had borne fruit. He could not have done it, he knew, without the help of his brother George William’s wealth and without the aid they had been able to give to the Emperor. But the glory was his; he was richer, more powerful than he had dared hope. And for a time he forgot his worries. He did not wonder what Maximilian was doing in Wolfenbüttel; how far his brother Christian was with him; he suppressed his disappointment in Sophia Dorothea for whom he had always had a tender spot. He gave himself up to the joy of celebrating his great achievement. Clara was only too happy to help him.

Königsmarck was uneasy. He was no coward, but the Mölcke affair had shaken him. He knew that he was living dangerously as Sophia Dorothea’s lover. He continually cursed himself for having made an enemy of Clara von Platen. There were times when he was sure that he would willingly die for Sophia Dorothea and others when he was unsure. If he could have married her, willingly would he have done so, and he was sure that he could have been a faithful husband. When he was with her he was the chivalrous and single-minded lover she believed him to be. There were times when he was not with her, when he was unsure.

He was an adventurer, an opportunist; he could not change his character because he was in love. How he fluctuated! There were times when he planned to run away with her; others when he planned to run away without her.

Because she was romantic and he was calculating, because she in her simplicity loved him for that ideal manhood with which she alone had endowed him, she could not truly know him. But he knew himself; and because she meant more to him than any other living person ever had, desperately he tried to live up to her ideal.

Creeping into her apartments by night, romantically scrambling from her window in the early morning … all this was romance. But he was always aware of the dangers he ran and wondered whether this or that night’s adventure would be the last. Sometimes he told himself he was a fool.

Thus it was with Königsmarck – torn between the wisdom of flight from danger and the ecstasy of living with it.

Hildebrand, Königsmarck’s secretary and confidant, was waiting for him when the Count entered the house. There was a messenger, he told his master, from Saxony.

Königsmarck said he would see the man at once and when he came to him and handed him letters he took them to his private apartments to read at once.

One of the letters was from his friend Frederick Augustus, heir to the Electorate of Saxony; but as Königsmarck read the letter he realized that his friend had come into his inheritance.

His brother George Frederick had died of smallpox and Frederick Augustus had succeeded him. He needed his friends about him and there would be a welcome for Königsmarck in Dresden.

This was unexpected. The Elector George Frederick had been in his prime – a lusty man who had at this time been ruled by his beautiful mistress the Countess von Röohlitz, an imperious young woman of twenty-one who had haughtily declared that she would not live at the same court as her lover’s wife; as a result the Electress had been asked to leave. She had seemed invincible until an enemy had confronted her whom she could not vanquish. The smallpox had killed her, and in his devotion to her, for he would not leave her side, her lover had caught the disease, and died less than a fortnight after her.

‘I should be with my friend Frederick Augustus at such a time,’ said Königsmarck.

An absence from Hanover, he believed, would give him time to decide how he should shape his life, for he could not go on for ever in this unsatisfactory state. Sophia Dorothea would be ready to elope with him, he believed, and he wanted to go away for a while to explore this exciting but highly dangerous possibility.

Within a few weeks of receiving those letters, Königsmarck was on his way to Dresden.

Sophia Dorothea missed him sadly. Life was empty without him, she told Eléonore von Knesebeck.

‘Sometimes I think he will never return,’ she said. ‘He will see the wisdom of staying away now that he has put some distance between us.’

‘He’ll come back.’

‘If you loved me you would pray he never would.’

‘When you yourself will pray that he will?’

‘Have done! I want to get away from the palace. Let us go for a walk in the gardens.’

It was pleasant walking in the gardens which, although not so tastefully arranged as they were at Celle, were more colourful.

People curtsied as she passed, and among them was one woman who had been in great poverty and to whom she had ordered that food and clothes should be sent. She recognized the woman, looking affluent now, and paused to express her pleasure. The woman dropped a deep curtsey and murmured that she would never forget the service done to her by the Princess. She was a midwife who had recently improved her fortunes when she delivered a very important child.

‘I am pleased to hear it,’ said Sophia Dorothea.

‘But,’ declared the woman, ‘I should never forget my true benefactress and if there was aught I could do for Your Highness I should first wish to serve you.’

Eléonore von Knesebeck could not allow this enigmatic remark to pass and later went to see the woman to discover what she meant. She was told that the woman had recently delivered Fraulein von Schulenburg of a daughter whose father was George Lewis. It was kept a secret, but if it was to the good of the Princess to know it, the woman had no intention of keeping it from her.

Eléonore von Knesebeck could not keep such a piece of information to herself and went back to tell the Princess what she had discovered.

Sophia Dorothea listened with a stony expression, and when she considered how she and Königsmarck had considered it wise to part while George Lewis flaunted his mistress at court and in secret she gave birth to his child, she was suddenly very angry, and without stopping to think she went to her husband’s apartments.

She found George Lewis alone and said impulsively, ‘I have just discovered that your Schulenburg friend has presented you with a daughter.’

‘It surprises you?’ he asked.

‘No, but it shocks me.’

‘You are a fool.’

‘And you are a lecher.’

George Lewis did not answer. He yawned and kept his mouth open.

‘You have the manners of a stable boy and the morals of a cockerel. You are crude, uncouth … and I cannot understand why even that foolish creature can pretend to have some affection for you. She has not, of course. She thinks it clever, I suppose, to have the whole court laughing at your antics. She likes the rewards … and of course if you pay highly enough …’

George Lewis had lumbered towards her.

‘Shut your mouth.’

‘I will speak if I have a mind to. Someone should tell you what everyone says about you behind your back. Your place is not in a court. It’s … Oh!’ He had brought up his hand and slapped her face.

She recoiled while the red mark appeared on her cheek. Then she said: ‘How like you. You cannot speak reasonably. You can only brawl. You belong in a tavern … you and your silly Schulenburg… .’

George Lewis was really angry. She could defeat him in a battle of words but physically he was the master and he would show her. He caught her by the throat; she screamed as she saw what he was about to do; she was on her knees; his hands were squeezing her throat and she was gasping for breath.

He was killing her; she saw the hatred in his bulging eyes. She tried to catch at his hands but there was nothing she could do; she was fainting. This, she thought, is the end. He is murdering me.

Somone had burst in from the ante-room. There were cries of dismay. George Lewis released her; she fell fainting to the floor and lay there unconscious.

What a scandal! A quarrel between the Crown Prince and Princess which had almost led to his murdering her!

‘She is such a violent creature!’ Clara told Ernest Augustus. ‘It is her French blood.’

‘It seems that the violence came from George Lewis,’ Ernest Augustus pointed out.

‘He happened to be the stronger, naturally. I’m afraid we brought trouble to the court when we brought that creature into it.’

Although Ernest Augustus was inclined to be lenient, the Duchess Sophia blamed Sophia Dorothea. ‘It seems that she was making a scene because of her husband’s mistress,’ said Sophia. ‘Does she not realize that this trivial matter is of no importance? She is failing in her duty as a wife when she acts so foolishly.’

Sophia Dorothea herself lay listlessly in her bedchamber where George Lewis was advised by his father to visit her, and this he did. He asked her how she was, as though he were repeating an unpleasant lesson, paid scarcely any attention to the reply and then sat in silence by her bed for ten minutes – presumably the time he was told he should – after which he leaped up with obvious relief and left.

Sophia Dorothea was weeping quietly when her mother-in-law came to her bedside.

‘Please, do be calm,’ said the Duchess Sophia. ‘We know where that other bout of temper led you. I have come to tell you that as soon as you are fit to travel – which the doctors tell me will be in a day or so – you are coming with me to Herrenhausen for a rest. I am sure that is what you need.’

Herrenhausen! And with the Duchess Sophia!

If she were not so listless that she did not much care what became of her she would have laughed with bitterness or wept with despair.

Herrenhausen – that little schloss surrounded by parkland and approached by avenues of limes – was greatly loved by the Duchess Sophia, and since there had been more money to spare she had enlarged it and beautified it to some extent, although she had by no means done all she intended to. She was happier at Herrenhausen than anywhere else; there she could lead a life which appealed to her; there she could invite men and women whom she admired for their intellectual attainments and who would have no place at Hanover where, it might be said, Clara von Platen ruled. Here she could read the literature of many countries, for she was a skilled linguist and besides German spoke Dutch, French and Italian – and of course – and best of all – English. She liked to discuss art, philosophy and literature and it was always at Herrenhausen that she had an opportunity of doing this.

To Herrenhausen she came with Sophia Dorothea. Perhaps, she thought, I could make something of the girl. She is intelligent, more so than George Lewis ever could be; and she has been brought up to have an appreciation of art. But the girl was what Sophia called hysterical, which she believed was due to her upbringing at Celle. The Duchess Eléonore of Celle might be much admired for her culture, but she had brought up her only child in a sheltered atmosphere leading her to believe that life was much simpler than it was. Sophia Dorothea was expecting every marriage to be like that of her parents. In the days when Sophia Dorothea had lived at Celle her father had doted on her mother and there was complete accord between them. It had taken years of hard work and careful planning to smash that harmony and it was being done, but Sophia Dorothea was not there to see it and she still looked for that perfection in her own marriage which she had seen in her parents’.

The Duchess Sophia did not invite guests to Herrenhausen at this time. She wanted to talk very seriously to her daughter-in-law, to imbue her with a sense of her position not only in regard to George Lewis but as the future Electress of Hanover.

They talked as they did their needlework, for the Duchess believed in sewing for the poor and that no time should be wasted.

‘You have been very foolish,’ she told Sophia Dorothea. ‘George Lewis might have harmed you.’

‘He has already done so.’

‘Nonsense, you’ll soon recover from a few bruises.’

‘The indignity … the humiliation!’

‘Nonsense. We shall order that the incident is forgotten and so it shall be.’

‘His behaviour with Fraulein von Schulenburg will not be easily forgotten.’

‘There you are foolish. I cannot understand how wives become dissatisfied with their husbands. No amount of infidelity on the part of my husband would disturb me. It is not bad taste for a man to associate with mistresses – particularly if he be in a high position.’

Sophia Dorothea stared at her mother-in-law. ‘I have never heard such views expressed, nor did I ever expect to.’

‘That is because you have not been brought up in accordance with the rank which is now yours.’

‘I had a very happy childhood. I love my parents dearly and they love me. What could be a better upbringing than that?’

‘To be given an understanding of reality and what actually goes on in the world. Now you have been handicapped by your home life, but you have learned your lesson. I should like you to understand that I will not tolerate your quarrelling with your husband on the trifling matter of his keeping mistresses. It shows obstinacy and bad temper and is most unbecoming.’

‘And what of George Lewis? Was his behaviour becoming?’

‘He is a man, and not to be judged by his wife. You acted foolishly and I must beg of you not to do so again.’

‘I want to go and see my parents. I believe I should quickly be well again if I could.’

‘We shall see about that. I shall ask the Duke if he will allow it.’

‘Let me go back to Hanover and speak to the Duke.’

‘There is no need for that. I will tell him of your wish and we will ask for his consent. Now I beg of you, continue with your work. These garments are taking far too long. We will beguile the time in conversation, and I will tell you what is happening in England now.’

Sophia Dorothea was thinking: Yes, that is the answer. I will go home to Celle. I will take the children with me and I will tell them everything that has taken place. Then they will not let me return. Oh, yes, I shall go home to Celle.

‘And is it not an extraordinary state of affairs,’ the Duchess was saying. ‘James fled … and William … the man to whom he married his daughter … now on the throne. Of course if Charles had had a legitimate son, this would never have happened. I knew there would be trouble when Charles died. Now, listen carefully: If William and Mary are without children and Anne is. too … do you know what that would mean to you?’

If I told dearest Maman and Papa everything they would not refuse to let me go back, Sophia Dorothea was thinking. When they know that he came near to murdering me …

‘Are you listening? Or is it too much for you to contemplate? I admit it could be quite bewildering when it is first presented to you. I am next in line of succession, for James’s boy doesn’t count. After Anne, I should be Queen of England. I can think of no greater honour. And the point is that when I die George Lewis would be King and that would make you Queen of England.’

‘Queen of England,’ repeated Sophia Dorothea, scarcely knowing what she said. That was the answer – home to Celle and once she had reached that sanctuary never to return, to stay there forever.

Ernest Augustus was sorry for his daughter-in-law. He would be sorry for anyone married to George Lewis and she was such a pretty creature. If she wanted to go home and visit her family so she should – and take the children with her.

When she heard that her daughter was coming, the Duchess of Celle made delighted preparations; but Sophia Dorothea’s attitude had betrayed her real intentions and Clara’s spies had kept her well informed, so she hastened to inform Bernstorff that he must prepare Duke William.

Clara and Bernstorff met between Hanover and Celle, and Clara explained that the haughty young Sophia Dorothea, after showing that she herself had no love for her husband, had made a disgraceful scene with him because he had taken a mistress. She was now coming home to tell Maman and Papa all about it.

‘You owe a great deal to Hanover,’ Clara reminded Bernstorff, who was ready to concede that point. He was now a landowner and could, if he wished, end his career at Celle and settle in an estate of his own. Clara had however pointed out that Ernest Augustus would frown on such an action. Bernstorff had been well paid for his part in arranging the marriage and it was his duty now to remain at his post to serve his patron for the sake of honour … and further financial reward.

So instead of living on his estates he contented himself with adding to them and making sure that Ernest Augustus’s wishes were remembered at Celle. It was Bernstorff’s task constantly to make friction between the Duke and Duchess, always to be ready to point out when the Duchess appeared to assume control. He had been successful, for George William now scarcely ever discussed state business with his wife and almost childishly insisted on having his own way even to his detriment.

Eléonore was saddened by this rift between them and turned more and more to her daughter and grandchildren whom she saw as often as possible. But of course these visits were not frequent enough. The Duchess Sophia had never liked her and she consequently never felt welcome at the Alte Palais or Herrenhausen; and although Sophia Dorothea came to Celle with the children as often as she could, naturally her duties as Crown Princess of Hanover prevented those visits being very frequent.

‘You must tell George William that his daughter is behaving in a recklessly foolish manner,’ insisted Clara. ‘She has alienated Ernest Augustus by plotting with the younger sons – even against her own husband. She shows her dislike of her husband and then becomes hysterical because he takes a mistress. It would be as well, you might tell George William, that when his daughter pays this visit he takes her to task for her behaviour.’

Bernstorff assured Clara that she need have no fear. He would prepare George William; so they parted and Bernstorff rode back to Celle, planning the complaints he would lay before his master while Clara made her way back to Hanover.

The Duchess of Celle was delighted to have her daughter with her. She waited impatiently for the trumpeter on the tower to announce the arrival and before the party from Hanover had reached the drawbridge she was running out to embrace her daughter.

‘My dearest! And how are you? You look pale! Is it just the journey?’

The Duchess knew it was not just the journey and anger momentarily choked her joy – anger against those who had dared make her darling unhappy.

‘And the children!’ Tears filled the Duchess’s eyes. ‘What a little man George Augustus is! And where is my darling little Sophia Dorothea?’

She kissed the little girl. ‘So like you, my love, when you were a baby. No, Master George Augustus, I have not forgotten you!’

The children were well. She need not concern herself with them. It was her daughter who puzzled her. The nurses took the children to the apartment prepared for them and Eléonore herself led Sophia Dorothea to that suite of rooms, so familiar to her, and watching her daughter sit on the bed in the alcove and look round the room, her eyes resting on the four cupids, Eléonore knew that Sophia Dorothea was wishing that this was not merely a visit.

She sat on the bed beside her daughter. ‘It is wonderful to have you back, dearest.’

Sophia Dorothea was crying quietly. ‘I was so happy here …’ she murmured. ‘Never so happy … anywhere else.’

‘My darling.’

‘Oh, Maman, if you had not been so good to me, if you had loved me less, if I had not had the perfect mother perhaps I should be able to bear all this more easily.’

‘Tell me everything.’

‘I want to come home,’ sobbed Dorothea. ‘I want never to go away but to stay with you for the rest of my life.’

While Eléonore rocked her daughter to and fro as though she were a child, she was making plans for the future.

The three of them were together in the room which used to be the schoolroom. There at the table Sophia Dorothea and Eléonore von Knesebeck had worked at their lessons; they had sat in the window looking out over the moat, ecstatically sniffing the scent of limes in flower or watching the branches dip and sway in the winter wind. The same schoolroom, everything so familiar, thought Sophia Dorothea but she was a lifetime away from those days of peace and pleasure.

There was her mother, bewildered as though she was wondering what could have brought the change, no longer omnipotent, or omniscient, a frightened woman, ready to plead for her daughter. It was her father who had changed from the benevolent figure of her childhood. His smile was guarded; the warmth had gone from his expression. Sometimes when he spoke it was as though he were repeating a lesson.

Her mother was saying: ‘But surely you have no wish that our daughter should submit to these insults… . And more than that! George Lewis might have killed her.’

‘You take these matters too seriously, my dear. Sophia Dorothea has only to behave with dignity … take the example of her mother-in-law.’

‘Clara von Platen has never taken precedence over the Duchess Sophia,’ put in Sophia Dorothea.

‘And has this woman over you?’

‘George Lewis ignores me and is constantly with her.’

‘You are too impulsive. Keep out of their way.’

‘But,’ said the Duchess Eléonore, ‘our daughter is being insulted by George Lewis and this woman.’

‘I tell you, you are making trouble where it does not exist. And I have not heard very good reports from Hanover of your conduct, daughter. It would appear that you have been indulging in conspiracies – dangerous conspiracies – with your brothers-in-law.’

‘That is lies … made up by my enemies.’

‘Still, it is unfortunate that you should have been suspected. You must have been indiscreet.’

‘You take their side against me!’ cried Sophia Dorothea incredulously.

‘My dear child, you have been behaving rather foolishly. You cannot leave your husband just because you decide you would rather live in your own home.’

Sophia Dorothea saw the horror in her mother’s face and she thought: I am not to stay here then. It is no longer my home.

She was frightened. She needed to be taken under their protection. She could not explain to them: I am afraid … afraid of the future when Königsmarck returns. I do not know what will happen then … but if you would let me stay here … protect me from my husband’s insults … from my own folly … I can perhaps work out a life for myself. I need my mother as never before … I need you both.

‘You cannot stay here,’ went on George William. ‘This must be a short visit … nothing more. Even a long stay would result in gossip.’

Her mother had risen; there was anger in her eyes; but Sophia Dorothea caught her hand. She felt that the decision had been made. There was no going back now. Whatever was to happen in the future had been decided in this moment.

‘Do not plead for me, Maman,’ she said. ‘I should not wish to stay where I am not wanted.’

Eléonore cried: ‘George William, this is our own beloved daughter… .’

He did not look at them; he was afraid that if he did he would become weak, for he loved them, and like his daughter he would have been happy to go back to the old days of peace and contentment. But they had governed him then. He had been lazy, giving way to everything, a laughing-stock of his brother’s court and of his own. He had to play the man, the head of the house whose word was law.

‘I have told you,’ he said. ‘This is a short visit. Next week Sophia Dorothea must return to Hanover and her husband. And if he takes a mistress …’ George William shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is a common habit. And she must look to her own shortcomings and not run to Celle to complain to us.’

With that he left them.

They did not speak; they merely looked at each other. Then Sophia threw herself into her mother’s arms. Eléonore did her best to comfort her daughter. She suffered with her – the same torment and desolation.

Deserted by my own family! thought Sophia Dorothea. That was something she could never have believed possible. The familiar rooms had lost their charm. They were no longer that haven she had always believed them to be. There was a sinister atmosphere in what had once seemed so dear to her. She hated them, she told herself, even more than her apartments at Hanover. At least there she had not expected to find peace and comfort.

Her mother did her best to comfort her. She must go back to Hanover, she pointed out. She must try to be happy.

Try to be happy? How could one … married to George Lewis. Oh, it was not that her mother did not understand, only that she, like Sophia Dorothea, knew herself to be defeated.

She would have given her life for her daughter but what could she give but advice? She was no less hurt and bewildered by George William’s conduct than her daughter was.

‘We must leave here,’ Sophia Dorothea told Eléonore von Kneseback, ‘and the sooner the better. It was a mistake to come. I have only found fresh unhappiness here.’

Eléonore von Knesebeck made her preparations. Sophia Dorothea took a cool farewell of her father and a warm one of her mother and holding her head proudly high stepped into her coach with the children, Eléonore von Knesebeck and the few servants she had brought with her.

The Duchess of Celle watched the coach until she could no longer see it and then went to her apartments and remained there. In his study George William buried his face in his hands. He too was unhappy; but he was right, he insisted. The alliance with Hanover could not be broken for the whim of a spoilt child.

The distance between Hanover and Celle was not great and during it the travellers must pass Herrenhausen. As the castle came in sight the guards pulled up the carriage and told Sophia Dorothea that the Duke and Duchess were obviously in residence there and that the trumpeter was already announcing their arrival.

Sophia Dorothea lay back against the upholstered coach and closed her eyes. They would know that she had appealed to her parents to let her stay with them; and they would know that she had been refused. She pictured the sly looks of Clara von Platen, the stern ones of the Duchess Sophia, and she knew that in her present heartbroken state she could not face them.

‘Drive on,’ she cried. ‘Straight on to Hanover.’

The driver whipped up the horses. On they went. Sophia Dorothea closed her eyes and did not look at Herrenhausen as they passed.

‘It’s an insult!’ cried Clara. ‘She is deliberately flouting you.’

Ernest Augustus frowned. He had been inclined to favour the girl because she was so pretty, but his feelings had changed towards her since the Mölcke affair.

He did not in his heart believe she would be guilty of conspiracy to murder him; but she had been a friend of Mölcke and Maximilian. And now she was making trouble with George Lewis. George Lewis had all but murdered her, but she must have provoked the attack. And then she must run home to her parents and ask them to shelter her.

She was troublesome, that girl, and he did not care for trouble.

He shrugged his shoulders, but Clara, watching him closely and knowing him so well, followed his line of thought.

Rejected by her parents. Out of favour with Ernest Augustus. Disliked by her husband. Königsmarck far away. Sophia Dorothea had never been so vulnerable as she was now.

Was this the time to strike?

Given the opportunity, Clara would be ready.